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The Three Most Idiotic Phrases Women Can Quote Online

admin — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 19:11:17 +0000

The greatest Internet mack of them all.

In retrospect, I wasted a shocking number of hours in my early 20s trolling for ass on websites like MySpace and the now-defunct Dilly. I was an expert at being able to look at a woman’s profile and, within five seconds, deduce if she was a respectable girl, a raging trollop or a stone-cold moron. (Don’t even get me started on the fatties who’d sucker you in with nothing but photos taken from the tits up. They’re an article unto themselves.)

The biggest indicator that a girl fell into the aforementioned moron category was catching one of the following lines displayed in her profile. Now that I’m older and everyone in the world has white flighted there way over to Facebook from MySpace, I don’t encounter juvenile crap like this nearly as much. Still, like they said about such tragedies as Pearl Harbor and The Godfather III, never forget. Behold the three most idiotic phrases women can quote online.

“3. You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on, the drinks you mix and the friends you roll with.”
I suppose this line is supposed to evoke a scene of you and your friends out having a night to remember, all the boys in the club with their mouths agog as you dance tantalizingly out of reach. You know who else drunkenly dances on tables, full of a misplaced sense of sisterhood? A stripper. By quoting this line, what you’re actually saying is “I love being the whoreish, inebriated center of attention and I need the friends I roll with to be strong because they’ll be dragging my .2 BAL carcass the four miles back to my apartment.” Can’t you just picture this one coming out of Snooki’s mouth? Especially that part about tables that can take a large weight.

2. “The one who makes you cry isn’t worth your tears.”
I couldn’t find a picture of this line, so instead you get an equally-maudlin photo of a kitten whose eyes look like they’re welling up as it waves goodbye. Ladies, the belief that the guy you’re meant to be with won’t make you cry is bullshit. If anything, he’s going to make you cry more than anyone else. My parents, God bless them, had a marriage that lasted 25 years, up until my dad bought the farm. And you know the one thing I can remember them doing together? Fighting. Horrible fights in their cursed Greek tongue which I couldn’t understand a single word of that culminated in my mother running away crying. It was as bloodcurdling as waking up in the middle of the night to the sounds of a cats fighting. Yet they always made up and never once did I doubt that they loved each other. So shut your stupid mouth, buy a box of tissues, and be thankful you have someone in this life that makes you feel anything. Twat.

1. “Live. Laugh. Love.”
Pretty much the inspiration for this article, “Live. Laugh. Love” belongs in a category of its own. The idiocy of its simplicity is unparalleled. I mean, who fails to do any of these things in the course of their life, especially the living part, which is typically inherent to living? If you’re going to give me three words to lead my life by, at least make them useful. “Cut. Chew. Swallow.” “Squat. Wipe. Flush.” “Inhale. Pause. Exhale.” People find alliteration entirely too clever. You know who love really loved alliteration? The Nazis. Schutzstaffel. Heil Hitler. Goebbels probably told der Führer to “Live. Laugh. Love” on multiple occasions in the bunker.

Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide: Part 2

admin — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 18:42:30 +0000

(Note: Part 1 of this series is located here.)

The Baltiwhore

The next episode in the “Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide” saga takes place in Baltimore, which is why I went with a picture of Omar Little of The Wire fame. (The only thing that’d better represent Baltimore than a scary-looking, shotgun-wielding black man would be a video of Cal Ripken drinking a Natty Boh and calling into 98 Rock demanding they “Play some Metallica, hon!” Man I love to hate that city.) The woman I dubbed “Baltiwhore” was a cute, blue-eyed blonde who was intelligent, charming and a few years older than me. She was even in the middle of a messy divorce, which you’d think would make her the ideal girlfriend (there is no woman more afraid of things getting serious than a fresh divorcee), but things never went in that direction. Instead, I’d drive up to Baltimore every few months, drink for free at the dive where she’d bartend, take her to a nearby motel (which she sprung for. Man, I must have a diamond dick), banged her for a few hours and then drove home the instant she fell asleep. In retrospect, it was the most perfect relationship I have ever known. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Here is the story of my final trip to visit the Baltiwhore.

(Before we continue, I’d like to clarify that the term “Baltiwhore” is in no way pejorative: I just like substituting “whore” and its derivatives in wherever I can. I’ve also dated a lovely girl I nicknamed the Ohi-ho, would one day like to visit Whoreonto and root for the Baltimore Whorioles. Got it? Good.)

Just how I remember them. Look at those colors. It was like banging someone with a balloon animal.

The night began like any of my other trips to Charm City: A shower, some cologne, laughing at the unopened box of condoms left idling in my drawer as I slid it shut. Although I typically abhorred driving an hour-and-a-half up I-95, America’s cocaine and herpes corridor, I had scored a copy of the Robert Evans book The Kid Stays in the Picture on tape (solely because Patton Oswalt did this amazing bit about it. Please continue reading only after clicking that link) and was blissfully listening along as I tore up the highway in my mom’s 2000 Ford Taurus. (Ladies, try not to get too moist imagining me picking you up in a late model fleet car as the whiskey-ravaged voice of a ’70s movie producer reading his memoirs poured out of its tinny, baseline package sound system. I know it’s impossible, but try.) 90 minutes of tales of debauched cocaine orgies later, I was at m’lady’s cantina and ready to get my drink on.

Given I was about 22 when this took place, the fact I was good friends with a hot bartender who would let me run up $75 tabs and then pay her back by the inch later that night blew my mind. Actually, as I type this, I’m still pretty baffled I ever managed such an arrangement. Just goes to show that Amazon isn’t the only source of bargains on the Internet. (Badabing!) I entered the establishment and immediately greeted the Baltiwhore with a hug and a kiss, which drew a raised eyebrow from every other guy in the place who had been eying her up the entire night. The next few hours were spent pounding Natty Bohs and pouring down whatever shots were shoved in front of me and sneaking a kiss across the bar whenever I could. Before I knew it (because liquor makes you time travel), BW’s shift was over and it was time for us to hit the motel for premarital intercourse, as the kids call it.

I make more Scarface references than Raekwon.

Words cannot convey how seedy the motel that BW and I used for our games of mommy-daddy wrestling was, but I’m certain on at least one occasion I heard Hector the Toad put a chainsaw through Angel Fernández’s head as Tony Montana spat curses en espanol at him from the next room. I couldn’t care less, though: I was drunk, happy and about to undress a girl I’d been staring for hours at harder than Gabourey Sidibe would a Red Lobster commercial. We ran up to the room, I ripped off her clothes, threw her down on the bed, tossed her legs over my shoulders and, right as I was about to plunge in…she farted on it.

We’re not talking a brief fart, either: It was like my dick was hot soup and she was blowing on it to cool it down. My first reaction was to scream like Jack Nicholson in that bathtub scene from The Shining, which scared the holy hell out of BW. As soon as she figured out I was panicking about the fart, however, she immediately grew angry and told me to shrug it off and stop being a baby. At that point I knew my choices were to either grab my clothes and leave with my pride and a shred of my urge to ever have sex again, or, like so many before me, take my lumps and put out because it was “the right thing to do.” Not wanting word to get around school that I was a cocktease, lest none of the boys ask me to prom, I gritted my teeth gave it up with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old Thai girl mounted by a German octogenarian on a sex tour of her homeland.

I say without hyperbole that my innocence died that day. Before The Fart, nothing really gross had ever happened to me during sex. It had all been so porno film sterile and nice. Afterward, though, my entire belief system lay shattered. It took countless readings of The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank to slowly restore my faith in humanity, countless viewings of the earnest work churned out by those good, Christian boys over at Bang Bros. to resuscitate my crushed libido. People say they’ll never forget where they were when JFK was shot, where they were on 9/11. Well, I’ll never forget where I was the day the Baltiwhore farted on me.

Papa’s Basement 6-9-10-I’m Officially a Twitter Junkie

admin — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 04:35:19 +0000

Do I hear a new Tweet coming in?

It took a while, but, like Facebook and MySpace before it, Twitter has devoured my life. I bitch about how my favorite new toy was down for most of the day and, within five minutes, I was picking at invisible bugs under my skin and offering to suck the Internet’s cock if it’d just give me more Twitter. I also cover a casual Craigslist encounter I participated in that involved an exchange of money and left me extremely satisfied and Rachael goes into depth about the two guys that hit on her today. (Hint: They resembled Erik B. and Rakim, if you catch my drift.)

Papa’s Basement 6-9-10 (To download this file, right-click this link and select “Save Link/Target As.”)

Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide: Part 1

admin — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 20:57:34 +0000

Before MySpace, people could be deceptive online regarding their looks...

There isn’t much I ask to be given credit for in this world, but any time anyone logs on to Match.com or picks up a friend of a friend on Facebook, they should bow down and kiss my feet like I’m Christ on the cross. All of their online romantic success can be traced back to progenitors like me, socially-inept guys who were flirting with girls on AOL instant messenger, enduring endless streams of “A/S/L? Pic? Want to cyber?” from our fellow online predators as we sought women who even vaguely resembled the mildly attractive denizens of the scanned, blurry photos they sent us. I’ll say it: I’m the Christopher Columbus of online ass.

Though I’ve since moved on from my online dating ways (believe it or not, I’m in a happy, committed relationship…with a Japanese body pillow), I felt it time to share two of the particularly troubling tales of my former digital conquests. Just think of them as hilarious reminders of a long-passed chapter in our country’s history, like Negro leagues or the middle class.

Horsie

Before I begin, may I just say that it is literally impossible to search “fat girl with horse” on Google Images and find a non-pornographic result. What the hell is wrong with this world? This story involves a fat girl and a horse. It would have been nice to have both in the picture. Instead, because people must love to watch fat chicks fellate equines, you just get a morbidly obese horse. Thanks, democracy.

My tale starts with a meeting off of a now-defunct site called the Dilly. The Dilly, as I’ve previously mentioned on this page, was a MySpace precursor that was peppered with insecure women (the very best kind). The Dilly’s profiles consisted of the usual: Contact information, a list of crappy music the user liked to listen to, a mention of the fact that Dodgeball made them “lol” and few deceptively-angled or cropped images that could make Nell Carter look like Tyra Banks. (God help me if I ever see one more picture of a girl with a decent face and big boobs snapped from directly above, only her lid and cleavage showing. We all know you’re shooting at that angle to conceal a gut like King Hippo‘s, you gorgon!)

I came across the profile of the woman I’ll refer to henceforth as “Horsie” one night in between compulsive viewings of Casino and Conan the Barbarian (there’s a reason I was meeting girls online). She seemed cute in pictures (oh John…will you ever heed your own wisdom?), was bright enough to understand half of my prosaic dick jokes and was located only 30 miles away. Typically, after meeting someone through the Dilly, I would instant message them for a while, working up the nerve to ask them to see their goodies after a few weeks. Meetings would be requested months, if not years after the fact. But no, not with Horsie. After about 20 minutes of talk, she conveyed an interest in hanging out that night.

I had never had a one-nighter before, and I figured this might be my shot at the geek’s version of just that. Plus, she was part Native American and part Latina. I don’t know if it’s because my dad was a sailor and banged every people under God’s sun, but I’ve always been down with the idea of having a United Nations of sexual partners (at this point, all that’s left on the checklist is an Eskimo, and I’m not sure it’s worth the frostbitten taint from igloo sex), so I was definitely intrigued. In spite of my desire to quote Pesci’s “you Jew motherfucker” scene back to the tv for the hundredth time, I thought it might be nice for me to get out for once and decided to make my way to the home of Horsie.

For those of you that aren’t my real-life friends who are reading this (all four of you), I live in a rather developed suburb of Washington, D.C. That said, it doesn’t take too many miles before you’re surrounded by Confederate flags, Skoal cans and stickers of #3 with angel wings on it. Horsie lived out in these boonies, and, having just seen House of 1,000 Corpses a few weeks earlier, I’m not embarrassed to admit I was scared shitless driving around the country at night, especially in those days before GPS. I finally arrived at her parents’ house (more of a farm, honestly) and, while definitely disappointed with how she looked in person, I was just relieved she wasn’t wearing a dead-skin mask and burying a chainsaw in my crotch. We quickly retreated to her back yard to “talk.”

For those of you curious, the nickame “Horsie” isn’t derived from the girl’s appearance (she would be more of a “head of a lemur on the body of an overfed baby circus bear” if that were the case), but the fact that she had a horse in her backyard. And the horse fucking hated me. It wasn’t long before Horsie and I were hooking up on lawn furniture in a gazebo located about 20 feet from the horse’s boarding pen (I’m all class). I swear to god, the horse must have wanted to make a centaur with this broad, because every time things moved toward sex, it would go apeshit, making enough noise to wake up her parents. After my fifth attempt at doing the mommy-daddy dance getting cockblocked by a horse, I decided to cut my losses and bid Horsie adieu, leaving enough time in the night for at least one viewing of Casino.

The coda to this story is a good one. I woke up the next day relieved that I wasn’t in a tub of ice with my kidneys missing. As I began to drink a glass of milk with breakfast, I thought, “Wow, this milk reeks, it must be spoiled” and threw out the glass. I sniffed the carton itself, but it was not the offender. A few moments later, while eating a sandwich, I thought, “Wow, this sandwich reeks, the meat must be spoiled,” though, now curious about the odor I was encountering, I didn’t throw it out. It took me a few moments before I had my Dr. House “ah ha” moment and realized the common denominator between these two foods was my right hand…which had been used between Horsie’s haunches in the quest for amour the night before.

I’m not one of those asses who will maintain that women smell bad down there (nine out of ten times, everything is perfect, and I’ll go to town like the Snuggle bear in a blanket). But this was, without a doubt, the most potent, lingering stench I had ever encountered. It failed to come off after repeated washings. I felt like a bank robber who had an ink pack blow up on them. I finally resorted to using Palmolive, reasoning that if it could cut through steak grease, it could get the job done. It did, but only after I resorted to making a mock vagina with my left hand, filling it with the soap and repeatedly fingering it with my right hand’s besmirched digits. (Palmolive, if you ever use this story as the centerpiece of a new ad campaign, I’m coming for you.)

In part two of “Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide” I will bring you the tale of…THE BALTI-WHORE!

The High School Reunion – Part Two (The Ugly)

admin — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 07:09:36 +0000

“So, how do I look?”

“Well,” she paused, taking stock of the man standing before her, “you look chubby.”

And, with those encouraging words, I was off to my 10-year reunion.

original 'Welcome to Arlington' sign." title="whites2" width="198" height="176" class="size-full wp-image-431" />

The original 'Welcome to Arlington' sign.

The venue for the 10-year Chantilly High School Class of 1999 was the Caribbean Breeze Restaurant in Arlington, VA. For those of you unfamiliar with the Washington, D.C., area, Arlington is a little scrap of land just outside the city whose “welcome to our city” sign reads, “Arlington: Where white kids from Northern Virginia go to live after college so they can drink like they’re still in college and avoid the the brown citizens of D.C. that scare them, eventually meet someone just like them but with the opposite genitalia and move with said person back to the suburbs from whence they came.” Which doesn’t make it a bad place. You just need to know what you’re in store for.

Trust me, it's from an actual episode.

I was all dolled up for the night in the finest top that Turkish craftsmanship, $7 and a trip to H&M circa 2007 had to offer and a pair of pants I refer to as my “Krusties.” The Krusties are not so named for a lack of washing, but in reference to an episode of “The Simpsons” (who knew I was into that show?) where Homer goes to Krusty’s clown school and is given a pair of clown pants that are supposed to be comically big and baggy. Instead, after trying them on, he exclaims, “I’ve never had a pair of pants that fit this well in my life!” Similarly, I got the Krusties from a guy I met at a Virginia Tech party circa 2004 who was drunkenly waving them about screaming, “I just got these 38-waist pants from a thrift store. What the hell am I going to do with 38-waist pants? Anybody want these baggy, baggy pants?” Everyone erupted in laughter, myself included. Five minutes later, I approached him, quietly nodded, took the pants and went back to eating a bag of pork rinds in the corner of the room.

So this was the big night. I had no compelling reason for attending the reunion. No long-lost flames I hoped to seduce, no acne that had finally cleared up, no million-dollar job I could belittle others with. I just figured it would be nice to get out of the house and talk to a lot of people in a setting where, if the conversation got bad, I could always bail with a convenient, “Nice talking to you. We’ll have to chat on Facebook sometime!” And things went according to plan, more or less.

I'm pretty sure the back of this shirt read 'I never, ever want to touch a breast.'

I won’t get into the nitty-gritty of the night because it was, in general, a continuous joy. For a guy that spent his teenage years ignoring everyone, wearing Metallica t-shirts and walking around with an expression on his face like he’d just bitten into a turd, I had somehow managed to make a ton of friends. Or at least people that liked me enough to give a shit about pretending that we’d been friends. Hell, at this age, I’m really happy with either. Sure, no one shoved their tongue down my throat (okay, just the cabbie who took me home. But in his defense, I had my top two buttons undone and was asking for it.) And no one got loaded and acted uber-slutty (okay, one person. I won’t post their name here, but if we’re ever out for drinks, I’ll let you try to guess their name via a game of Hangman on a napkin). Sometimes, though, a night is better served without anything too wild going down. Just ask the folks on the Titanic.

Disney cartoons. At age 16. So much I wish I could change.

On the way home, I got to thinking about my time in high school and the regrets I had. I probably should have engaged in some sort of after-school activity instead of running home each day to smoke cigarettes, watch “Gargoyles” and then lock myself in my room for hours on end to do that which high school boys do (which is work on their homework. What did you think I meant?). Finding some subjects I liked and focusing on them instead of trying to live as an amalgam of Jeff Spicoli, John Bender and Randal from Clerks would have also been worth a shot.

And, most importantly, I should have been more social. At that age, in my mind, anyone that didn’t dress like they were one detention away from taking out the lunchroom with semi-automatic weaponry lived a charmed life and couldn’t possibly understand me. Simultaneously, I was so self-conscious and afraid of being judged by people that any time someone did talk to me, I would do anything I could to end the conversation as quickly as possible short of shitting my pants on the spot.

Only years later did I realize that, nice clothes or not, we are all living our lives on the same spinning dirt ball, and it only happens once. So you might as well go for whatever it is you want in life, be it talking to the cute girl across the hall or trying to land that dream job. I’m glad I finally got the chance to say hi to so many people that I spent the better part of four years not talking to as much as I should have. Believe me when I say it was fun, even if I’ll probably stop talking to you via Facebook within the week. [Cue Simple Minds' "Don't You Forget About Me."] Back then, I saw too many of my classmates as I wanted to see them: In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what I found out at my reunion was that each one of us was a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Sincerely yours, John Papageorgiou.

Dun, dun...hey, hey, hey, hey...

The High School Reunion – Part One (The Good & The Bad)

admin — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 08:15:57 +0000

My 10-year high school reunion will take place today, and I’ll more than likely be going. The reaction from most of my friends that didn’t attend high school with me is, “What the hell? Why?” which makes me think that either my life appears in such a shambles now that they assume that my time in high school was also a living hell, or they attended the school from Carrie.

Metallica alum Jason Newsted sporting 'The Papageorgiou.' No wonder I lost my cherry at 12.

The truth is, my time in high school wasn’t that bad. Sure, I had a constant erection and wore a haircut that doomed me to chastity, but I had friends I liked, parents who loved me, was rail-thin from a Dexedrine prescription and spent every Friday colossally fucked up. Though my popularity wasn’t off the charts, I was well known for scoring a popular column in the school paper (where I used big words and made dick jokes for no pay, preparing me for a life of exactly that) and scoring a perfect 1600 on the SATs (the College Board has since changed the top score to 2400, rendering 1600 a tard’s score, Deliverance-ing my life’s one accomplishment). That combined with a pretty solid GPA meant that, senior year, I had every reason to believe I would get the world by the tail and wrap it around, pull it down and put it in my pocket. Oh, young John…there’s just so much I need to warn you about. And yet, tragically, I cannot.

The twin pillars of so many weekends that I can't remember. I'm joking, of course. I just had a two year cough.

While the scenario of being drunk in a room with a bunch of people I barely talked to 10 years ago and haven’t talked to since is somewhat fascinating to me, Facebook has taken a lot of the thrill out of the prospect. Previously, I would have attended my reunion just to see which guys got fat and/or went bald and which women that I used to think were so hot that they walked on water and shat Twinkies blossomed into overweight alcoholics trapped in loveless marriages. Now I can just look at their Facebook profiles to satisfy my curiosity. And while a lot of people have gotten bald and fat, God help me, I can’t bring myself to gloat. If anything, Facebook does nothing but depress me further as people post status messages like “In Rio for work for two weeks…I LOVE MY JOB!” I know there is a “like” button on Facebook that allows you show your approval of the self-important drivel your asshat buddies post, but I’m still waiting for a Facebook application with an “infect with full-blown AIDS” button. Maybe I’ll get lucky and some pretty gal will show up with a massive shiner, claim she “fell down the stairs” and give the whole room someone to point at. But I don’t like my odds.

Probably the only time Lisa KUDrow gave me a WOODrow. And that was a long way for a short laugh.

Yep, the more I roll it around my head, the more I think my game plan will be to find my friends, grab a beer, hide behind it and Romy and Michelle (aka make up outrageous lies about the level of success I’ve enjoyed) the whole evening. Then, I will just wait for an ugly duckling that blossomed into a perfect 10 (though I can settle for a 9.5) with a well-paying job to march up to me, declare that she’s never stopped loving me ever since reading one of my witty school newspaper columns rife with self-deprecating humor and state that, if I want to spend my life mooching off her fortune as I play Mr. Mom to the half-Greek mongrels I sire with her, it’s cool.

Yeah, I’d be cool with that going down. It’d make for a really romantic scene, actually. As long as I don’t blurt out then and there that I’d leave her for someone with bigger breasts.

Part Two, a summary of the reunion, to come next week.

with my mom." title="mattFoley" width="533" height="305" class="size-full wp-image-331" />

Chris, you forgot to mention that I'd be living in a van down by the river with my mom.