Does this cock ring make me look fat?

I was looking through some old snapshots and polaroids of my days at Wartburg the other night...good times. God, how I remember the panty raids, the ambiguity of the budding sexuality that was spread out before me like a potluck full of fresh hot dish...the crest of my manhood cleaving through the unexplored waters of Northern-European fertility.

...That's when I first started playing Fireman...you know, "House on fire! Put it out! Put it out!"




And no, I certainly wasn't hard on the Beaver last night.

Taxi drivers have different brains

...as if we didn't know already.

From backword.me.uk:

I’m not certain why the London Taxi Driver study received an Ig Nobel. It was a beautifully done study. For those who don’t know, people who want to be black cab taxi drivers in London take a 3 year course (3/4 drop out) to pass an exam. They have to memorize essentially every street in a 6 mile radius (street names sometimes change block by block) and significant landmarks along those streets. All this information they refer to simply as “the knowledge.” It was shown that the hippocampi of these taxi drivers are larger than normal and are larger in drivers who have been driving longer. This study helped change medical opinion on the ‘plasticity’ of the adult brain and has important implications for brain damage and diseases like Parkinson’s.

Of course, with me everything is larger than normal.

And I just wanted to get this off of my chest: homosexual necrophiliac ducks are either totally sick fucks or totally cool, I can't decide which.

Some bands kind of suck...

Now, I'm not the kind of guy who sits around drinking cases of beer and watching videos on MTV. I'm the kind of guy who likes to drink beer while watching Men Play Football. We all know what I'm talking about. But every once in a while you flip through the channels and see something so wrong that you have to say something...

So, Coheed and Cambria - you've been served! Your lead singer has possibly the worst look ever what with that scraggly, pubic goatee and the double-pierced lower lip. Besides that,

• Band name totally sucks. Like, what the fuck, we're losers!
  
• Writing a song called "The Crowing" is lame ass bullshit. How about writing one called "The Dumping"? I might be interested in that.
  
• Look at this picture of them shouting out "Fuck me! I'll suck you! Blumpkin? Yeah, I love that! Where do I sign?":

In the video, you get to see Pube Face (the singer) hanging up his panties to dry. This is the high point of the video, since, like a metaphor such as Texas, wet panties are irreproachable. But then he/she (usually androgyny lends some interest, but with unfortunately hideous pudenda-like visages, what can you do?) starts singing like a girl, and it all goes to hell.

Just to make sure you've understood the lesson - "Coheed and Cambria sucks ass!"

I don't care whether Spongebob is gay. What matters to me is: how gay is he?

As if outing Spongebob, Barney, or Winnie the Pooh was news to anyone.

I mean, really, who hasn't taken a bath with a friend, or a room-mate, or a taxicab customer...or someone they met at the bus station, or grocery store, or that clerk at the video rental store...or your landlord, or that guy that mows the lawn, or that webelo selling candy bars...

Fran Tarkenton Unbound

If you know me, you know that I'm a sucker for the Vikings, and there's a soft spot in my heart for that paragon of quarterbacks, the lovely Miss Fran Tarkenton. And if you know me even better, you know I'm a sucker for a motivational speaker. One of the best orgasms of my life was in the back of a Holiday Inn conference room while the Dale Carnegie spokesperson motivated me to ever greater heights of pleasure. So the combination of the two leads me to "What Losing Taught Me About Winning". Almost up there with Fran's lovely attempt at a novel.

I'm off to retro crush to read more about Gay Football.

Death to the fascist insect that preys upon the life of the people

Some people give the Symbionese Liberation Army a bum rap despite the fact that both retro 70's culture and terrorism are so hip now. So instead of dwelling on the downside, let's try to look on the sunny one. Why be a Negative Nancy when you can be a Frivolous Fran?

So in the spirit of the revolution, here is my favorite SLA recipe - rumored to be a favorite of Che Guevara's! (Plus, it helps keep you regular)

Patty Hearst's Oatmeal Pie
1 cup rolled oats
1 cup corn syrup
1/4 cup butter
3 eggs
1 cup sugar
cinnamon
cloves
nutmeg
pinch salt
pie crust

Cream butter and sugar together. Add eggs, and seasoning (to taste), corn syrup, and then the oatmeal. Stir well, place in pie crust. Bake at 350 for about an hour. Serve while warm with ice cream if you can.

I would have done Rosa Luxemburg. Wouldn't you?

Sure, Germany has lots of Kultur. That's no surprise, and one of the reasons why we like them better than the French these days—unless I'm mistaken and we're back to calling Sauerkraut "liberty cabbage" again (oh for those sweet, sweet yesterdays when my colon could tolerate delicacies like cabbage...)

It's hard to keep up with such an active president - keeping track of world events is like being Smokey the Bear racing through the forest trying to identify and squelch the forest fires that have been started by a pyromaniac frat boy on a Texas-style spree.

But what you really need to hear, if you want to see the teleological resting place of Wagner, Nietzsche, and Goethe, is the following. You need go no further than Schnappi das kleine Krokodil (currently no. 1 in Germany, de-throning the luscious Hasselhoff).

Announcing the Beginning of my Fashion Empire

Fashion is a harsh mistress. A tough, fickle, got-your-balls-in-a-vise-grip femme fatale. (Not that I'm against having my balls in a vise grip sometimes under the supervision of the correct dominatrix, but I digress...)

Those of you who know me well know that my style veers towards the European, somewhere between a metallic silver Eurotrash racing jacket, a Speedo two sizes too small, and the certainty of the French Transvestite.

Anyway, here in this podunk college town with a non-working river—I guess it's there for ambience, and for Thunder-McGuire to pluck idiots out of every now and then, fashion has been just about non-existent since the untimely demise of Moda Americana. I am correcting this by donning the new hat of fashion designer, and would like to introduce my first product:

The Roger Bradley Fantasy Messenger Bag




I got my intern Brad to model it for you—don't you think he has a nice ass?

During these assassination fantasies...

...I strive to keep things real—you know, moving it, doing it, staying on the scene. Sometimes after a particularly harrowing day in the cab, the only thing that can help squelch the white hot pain that is my ass is a nice, long bath.

On the news front, I've noticed that a book I served on as a consultant has been getting pretty positive reviews over at Amazon. The one thing I really had to be a stickler about was the chapter on rough, unprotected anal sex—lesbians love it, and it's one of the biggest and most eye-opening surprises for the uninitiated few.