In every club, on any given night, you will find at least (1) slightly overweight girl dancing like there is a lit candle up her ass.  I’m talking about vigorous, crisp dance moves strung out in continuum.  A full on booty shaking, belly popping, arm flailing dance fever – and no one has the cure.

I have nothing against this modern form of self-mutilation, because it provides me with glimpses of entertainment within an otherwise endless sea of mundane conversation.  But whenever I stop and stare at their show, I start to wonder, “Why isn’t this girl thinner?”  These girls don’t stop moving all night.  A rough estimate would say that they are burning six thousand calories whenever they hit the club.  Fuck Zumba, give these chicks a shot of tequila and throw on the Party Rock Anthem.  Am I missing something?

To makeup for the picture of the fat chick, I will provide you with (1) picture of a puppy eating ice cream.  I hope this is an adequate counter-balance:

I purchased a new tee-shirt the other day, and as I’m ripping off the tags I see a label on the inside that says “DO NOT DRY CLEAN”.  Designers need to understand that they don’t have to tell people NOT to dry clean their shit.  No one is ever looking to dry clean anything.  People are forced to dry clean, and that’s a fact.  Getting something dry cleaned is your stereotypical chore, and it costs money.

It’s the same reason you don’t see Kraft putting a warning on Easy Mac pouches that says: “DO NOT OVEN”.  You’ve never seen it because baking Easy Mac in the oven would be a chore, and it would take a lot longer than just throwing it in the microwave.  These things usually go without saying.

New York Post – Three Connecticut money managers yesterday were accused of lying about winning the $254 million Powerball lottery jackpot, but denied the claim.  Station manager Ranjit Singh confirmed to the New York Post that: “I sold him the ticket.’’

Well thank god gas-station manager Ranjit Singh was there to clear this up.  I was reading the NY Post earlier when this story fell into my lap.  I could care less about who owns the ticket, however I literally choked on my bagel when I saw this picture.  Just look at the in-your-face pose Ranjit Singh dropped all over the New York Post cameraman.  One hand on the Helium tank, one in the pocket.  There is no doubt in my mind that the NY Post on-scene reporter wanted him to pose next to the Powerball machine, because that’s what their story is about.  But Ranjit must have insisted on coming out from behind the counter, and establishing hearty position next to the helium tank.  In his mind he must associate the opening of the helium valve with a high level of technical skill.  Yeah, he’s a great gas-station manager, but did you also know that he is the guy who works the helium tank?

Ranjit’s pose is beautifully complimented by his managerial-henchman who must have slide into frame the second before the picture was taken.  This guy met the camera lens with only a blank gaze and a subtle turtle-head building beneath his Bugle Boys.  He definitely admires Ranjit, and after today that admiration is only going to grow deeper.

Conrad Murray, Michael Jackson’s doctor who fed Jackson the drugs which killed him, was given the maximum sentence possible yesterday for his role in the death of Michael Jackson: four years in state prison.

Anders Breivik, the shooter from Norway, was diagnosed by two psychiatrists yesterday whom concluded that he is a paranoid schizophrenic who had been in a state of psychosis at the time of the attacks.  For killing 77 people he will have to spend life in a psychiatric ward.

Since Anders is now institutionalized, the tax payers in Norway are going to have to pay for his life long stay there.  I have an idea: why don’t they just have Conrad Murray administer Breivik’s psych drugs.  He will be off the tax payers books in no longer than a few months.

Victoria’s Secret is not much of a secret, is it?  Her secret is parading 10s around in lingerie on national television right before the holidays.  These girls are fucking mesmerizing.  The show freezes people in their tracks as if they just tuned into Riddler TV.  So I’m standing in a restaurant yesterday, staring up at the show on a small TV while looking like a fucking moron, when a girl approaches me.  She sarcastically says, “Oh my God Chris, you must have the biggest boner right now.”  The funny thing is, I don’t get boners during the show.  My dick is a little bit frightened by what is going on.  To be honest, I think if I got into bed with one of those things I would have a big, floppy limp one.   The same thing would happen if anyone every got a chance to screw Zoe Saldana’s avatar in real life.  I feel like my dick would know what he needs to do, but he would be confused.  Is this a trap?  He she going to hurt us?  Is this one of Dr. Evil’s fembots?

And then there's this

When you are walking in the rain, don’t squint.  It doesn’t keep water out of your eyes and just makes you look like a pussy.

Sometimes I wish I had a shitty car.  It would be fun to cut people off to within an inch of their life and not have to worry about scratching the paint.  But that’s not where I would have the real fun.  If you spend $300 on a car you simultaneously buy yourself the option of leaving it parked somewhere for good and never going back to get it – something you can’t do with a Mercedes.

For instance, you know those open landscaping trailers, where the back door opens down to form an open ramp with the road?  When they’re mowing the lawn I always wanted to just drive my car up in there, kill the engine, and then watch confusion ensue from a distance.  I would leave a note on the dash that says “Ship To: Mexico“.

Or you could park it in a handicapped spot in the front of the mall, open all the doors and the trunk, and leave it running.  The assumption would be that there is a very curious, and possibly dangerous cripple on the prowl.  Where is he?  Who knows?  And nobody wants to tow a car out of a handicapped spot, even if its been running with all the doors open for a week.  Those spots are governed by the same laws as Indian Reservations.  If you have the blue badge, once you pull into that spot you’re on international waters.  You could gamble, smoke dope, fuck whores.  It’s the one thing society has left for the handicapped.

Or you could park it with a valet, and when you hand him the keys whisper, “Tonight just might get ugly.”  At first he would casually brush-off the comment.  But when it’s closing time and those ’85 Geo Metro keys are the lone soldiers on the key rack, his mind is going to start wandering to very dark places.

I was huffing down mugs of coffee in a diner when the waitress goes, “Oh, so you like your coffee black?”  I don’t know about you, but I don’t like my coffee any way.  I like my coffee with energies in it and that is all I care about.  It’s not like coffee is some delicious beverage that I sip for flavor.  I wrestle down cups of mozer when I’m looking to get gassed up.  How do I like my fucking coffee?  It’s not even worth the conversation.  I’d like it sooner than later.  Some people even prefer Sweet & Low to Splenda.  Or cream to 2%.  Who fucking cares?  If you’re in it for taste then buy a Gatorade.  I guarantee that in a blind taste test these assholes wouldn’t know the difference between jack, and shit.  It’s the same group on lopsided goons who claim to differentiate between different qualities on wine.  In my book there are (2) types of wine: shitty wine, and not so shitty wine.  The day I have a preference on how I take my coffee is the day I care about what flavor 5-Hour-Energy I get.  It’s a fucking shot down the pipe.  Kim K’s had weddings last longer than the time it takes me to suck one back.  We do it for the rush, not for the taste.  It’s not like anyone enjoys Jamison.  They just enjoy it better than other booze.  All liquor tastes like toxic hell; but it fucks you up – just like coffee fires you up.  Stop pretending to enjoy the process.

I don’t like the third Friday of every November – that off-beat day after Thanksgiving but before the weekend.  I’m freaked out by leftovers, especially leftover bird.  How is everyone OK with the gravy turning into gelatin overnight?  I’m not cool with that.  I don’t care about the science behind it, it’s fucking weird and I don’t want it near my mouth.  On the day after Thanksgiving the only thing available to eat is leftover bird.  Everyone around is happily scooping this foul goo onto their plate while I sit back starving.  Nobody wants to go out to get something to eat with me, and if I go to Subway I get shunned for not eating the “delicious” leftovers.  People get angry, then gang up on me and say, “Chris, what’s wrong with you?  Look at all these wonderful leftovers you’re not eating.”  What’s wrong with me?  You’re shoveling giggly-fat onto your plate like your scooping margarine into a pot of mac-n-cheese.

It is possibly that most people secretly hate leftover gravy – kind of like how I imagine most people hate the musical numbers in Family Guy but don’t want to admit it.  It’s just too bizarre to be universally accepted.  It’s right up there with blue cheese.  IT’S ROTTEN CHEESE.  Am I missing something?  Why don’t we just start taking down glasses of boiled sour milk?  First world problems are my problems, and they’re real problems to me.

Everyone knows the tell tale signs of a redneck - They think “loading the dishwasher” means getting their wife drunk; Their family tree has no branches; and so on.  However, a redneck also has a red neck because they get sun.  Undeniably, getting color is not a bad thing.  Whitenecks on the other hand do not get sun.  They are a foul group of suburban dudes who would rather watch porn than fuck a pornstar.  So are you a whiteneck?

You might be a whiteneck if you have more empty bottles of shampoo in the corner of your shower than you do cue tips in the vanity.

You might be a whiteneck if you consider watching a complete six season TV series a 48 hour activity.

You might be a whiteneck if a three peice suit consists of a rec baseball tee shirt, a pair of And 1 gym shorts, and clean socks.

You might be a whiteneck if you have wiped your ass with tissues.

You might be a whiteneck if you iron your clothes by running the shower hot.

You might be a whiteneck if you wash your sheets annually and wash your underwear never because you are always commando.

You might be a whiteneck if you’ve read more information off the back of toothpaste rolls while shitting than you did out of every book all through college.

You might be a whiteneck if thoroughly cleaning the living room involves six pumps of Febreeze and 1 Swiffer pad.

You might be a whiteneck if “I wasn’t that drunk” means eight beers.

You might be a whiteneck if your favorite word is moist.

You might be a whiteneck if you can name anyone within six degrees of Kevin Bacon but forgot how many degrees are in a triangle.

You might be a whiteneck if you’ve sucked the tap out of your bathroom sink while mumbling “so good”.

You might be a whiteneck if you kill condiment bottles and put them back in the fridge for someone else to throw out.

You might be a whiteneck if you sleep in your contacts and blue jeans on Friday nights.

You might be a whiteneck if you jerk off not because you’re horny, but because no one else is around.

You might be a whiteneck if five hours is a great night’s sleep.

You might be a whiteneck if you spit once in the urinal before pissing.