Category Archives: Thoughts You Should be Having

A Man’s Guide to Texting, Volume I: The Opener

By Anthony (with a few interjections by Zach)

So it’s Friday night and you have nothing to do. Maybe you’re desperate. Maybe you’re just bored. Your greatest tool on any night like this is usually in your pocket. Your cell phone.

In your hands, though, it’s also a dagger, and you have a propensity to use it for self-infliction. Were this Romeo and Juliet, that image might be romantic. Instead, it’s the year 2012, romance is dead, you’re looking for a hookup and the only poison you’ll be consuming is intentional. Your tool / dagger isn’t between your legs. Well, maybe it is, but that’s a totally different post. It’s your cell phone, with an unlimited text messaging plan, of course.

Go ahead, text that rando from the bar last weekend. Or maybe your old hookup from college who posted on Facebook that she’d be around this weekend, even though it wasn’t even remotely directed at you. You can even try that one girl you met who also happens to live across the hall but obviously has better plans that probably involve a yacht, Kanye, or a helicopter. Let’s face it, nine times out of ten beautiful girls have way better things to do than shoot pool with you down at Joe’s Pub for Fine Hops and Spirits. But it’s worth it to try and lure em’ anyways. Here’s a couple notes to live by when attempting a Trojan-style siege of some female nether regions.

Note from Zach: Having witnessed Anthony’s texting game firsthand, I thought it’d be only fair to offer some supplementary advice for any of our impressionable young male readers, so as to not leave them sweaty-palming their mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalog upon their lonely return home. 

Nothing matters. The most important thing is to remember is that not trying won’t get you anywhere and most guys out there aren’t trying nearly hard enough. So go ahead young pilgrim, text away. Score something for the little guy. Or the big guy. Or whatever it is you call yourself when you step on the scale in the morning. Lesson one is simple — just do it.

Zach’s take: Absolutely correct in this instance – there’s nothing young Griselda looks forward to more than a wax-sealed manuscript from her handsome Smedley. The only amendment I’d make to Anthony’s texting constitution (thus far) is to make sure you’re spreading your seed far and wide. Figuratively. The first time I met my girlfriend, even as I was talking to her I was texting a baker’s dozen other lasses, ranging from sorority queens to a chick I met at the local dump. Spread those tentacles while you can, gents. Before long these nubile specimens will be pregnant or carted off to a nunnery.

How do I make the first text pop? Remember, the first text is always the most important. It’s your opener. You never get a second chance to send the first text again. I always try simple stuff, but nothing too basic like, “Hey.” That’ll get ya nothing but a “hey” back and a lonely night playing Call of Duty and trying to find porn on Netflix, which, FYI, is nearly impossible. Instead, try something like, “Hi there.” It works well because it’s simple, casual AND friendly all at the same time. It’s not intimidating or standoffish and it’s not like you’re trying to be ‘too cool’ either. It really hits the trifecta. But this is important: don’t pigeonhole yourself here. While the classics work well, you need to be prepared with a carefully rehearsed arsenal to greet any potential babe (or mystery girl if you prefer.) You never know where your texts are headed, or at least never precisely. Once they’re out, they’re out.

Zach’s take: “Hi there” works; it’s a bit more playful than the Texan “Howdy” or faux-urban “Yo.” But it’s on the unoriginal side. I usually skip the greetings and just go straight to “Wanna frolick?” or “Mating would be fun.” But I understand that these aren’t always solid first-time opening lines.

Sometimes you’ve got to open with something exotic like, “Hola amiga.” This shows that you’re obviously brilliant because you possess deep working knowledge of the Spanish language. It also throws em off. Sometimes, in mid-summer, girls don’t know if you’re Spanish or not because you’ve been at the beach every weekend drinking Coronas with your boys while playing shirtless Frisbee. This kind of stuff keeps ’em guessing, interested and, most importantly, coming back for another text message.

Zach’s take: C’mon Anthony. They know you don’t speak Spanish.

Try starting with simplicity and class by using a compliment to lighten the mood and get her ready for some serious finger banging … on her flip out keyboard! Your mom might tell you to start by saying something about her shoes, like, “Hey, I really liked those shoes you had on at the mall today. Were those Hush Puppies or Skechers?” Screw that, you’re not trying to pick up your mom. Turn that shit on its head by still giving a nod to first vagina you ever penetrated (in reverse fashion.) Again, the tempo here is surprise so I recommend something edgy. You have a beautiful name. It was my mother’s name, too.” You can lie here, it’s okay. The likelihood of this runaway ever meeting your mother are about as good as your mother ever acknowledging your existence at her weekly bridge games.  (Bonus tip: if you’re shooting to leap the age demographic, tell them it was Granny’s name. Trust me)

Zach’s take: Yikes on that vagina penetration line. And I daresay Freud would have issues with the entire preceding paragraph. But the real issue here, ignoring the irony of preaching about class and using the words “finger banging” in the same paragraph, is that girls don’t necessarily like classy dudes. Look at you: you’re successful with women, and you hang out at Brighton Beach on weekends sipping spritzers of grape juice and codeine you selected out of a guy’s shopping cart in an alley. Girls like a little grit. 

Or go with something super affectionate if it’s a long shot and you’ve got nothing to lose. “Hey there beautiful angel,” or “Hi [name] baby,” are both good examples of making the first text a pleasant surprise. The only thing to remember here: go for broke but keep it classy and funny. If they get the wrong idea, you’re toast. This is best left for the most self-confident. You want whoever is at the other end of the invisible / digital / magic post office to understand what you’re saying. Which is: I like you and am attracted to you enough to make a move like this, but you’re not the only person who I’m texting right now.

Zach’s take: I wouldn’t go the angelic route, and I always thought it was creepy that guys call girls “baby.” But yeah, some flattery doesn’t hurt. I often send my girlfriend texts calling her things like “My saucy little pork dumpling” or “you freaky, nasty, God-estranged mynx.” Usually elicits a positive reaction. Get creative here, men. If there’s one thing girls enjoy, it’s being compared to Chinese appetizers.

Lastly, pitch a Hail Mary. Tell ’em the basics. Remember in fifth grade when you started “analyzing” chapter books? You’d need to do a book report on the ol’ five-finger-overview. Well now you can use those five fingers for something else (if you know what I mean) and  just give them the Who, What, Where, When and HowJust make sure your address is baller, like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, that your name is ambiguously famous (say, Sir Anthony West), and that you have a good excuse ready for why the limo didn’t show up outside her apartment.

Zach’s take: Couldn’t agree more. Details are important. Most of my texts to girls just say things like “Your place. Bacon bits,” or “that underpass in Prospect Park. Bath salts.” An informative invitation with alluring undertones: that’s what every text you send to a girl should be. 

Okay, gents, with these tested, tried-and-true one line magic makers, you can’t go wrong. You’re ready to start making some first moves and dipping your toes in the water. Just remember, this texting game is a wild ride and as dangerous as it exciting. Be sure to catch the next installment, Volume II: Emoticons and You, When to Use Em and When to Lose Em.

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I Ran a Newsroom Once

By Anthony

For a brief time, I had a back office with shutters that rattled if the door was ever slammed shut and a desk where I could pound my fist if I were ever angry. But none of these things ever happened. I was never as much of a blowhard as the anchorman leading the new show about news (He was formerly  a dog groomer with intellectual shortcomings and later a cop who Keanu Reeves just couldn’t save, remember?)

More like “The Boozeroom”

I’m speaking about Jeff Daniels, the actor and principle character in Aaron Sorkin’s new show, Newsroom on HBO. You’ll know Sorkin  from the West Wing and more recently The Social Network as well as several other successful and well-written movies and shows. He’s a prolific screenwriter with several accolades to his name but I’ll let you look him up on your own.

This is about the Newsroom and all the dramatic yelling and big words peppered in to make the commentary seem witty and intelligent even as it accuses us, the viewer, of being dull and ignorant.

Jeff Daniels, or Will McAvoy (his character) or Sorkin (the writer) begins the show by telling us that America is not the greatest nation in the world anymore. However, after their inspiring diatribe (Is that an oxymoron?), they offer that it can be again. The program forges onward to beat us over the head with pragmatic calls to morality and good old-fashioned calls to the American ego.

The dialogue favors quick wit, literary and political references, and point vs. counterpoint fencing-style dramatics. Conversations essentially become chess matches. All this is set over an impossible amount of inner office romance. We’ve seen enough of that already and it was only one episode.

The show can be exciting, particularly when one is swept up in the first big news story that the crack news team slowly uncovers. You’ll feel empowered because if you weren’t occupied clubbing baby seals in Alaska, you already witnessed the event firsthand. Think recent man-made natural disasters. The show apparently takes place in the recent past, covering all sorts of large news events that actually happened.

McAvoy, in one of his verbal sword fights, actually accuses the American populace of being uninformed. Perhaps the show tackles these “major” events to ensure that we didn’t miss anything the first time. I hear calls to returning journalism to its once formal glory, too. Names like Cronkite, Woodward and Bernstein, who once delivered great justices, are now impossible aspirations for McAvoy. And we’re supposed to believe all this while brooding and budding romances fuel fencing matches between producers.  This has all the makings of mixing my senior honors project in journalism (now wasting away in my memory) with a night at the local watering hole. My professors would shake their heads.

The New Yorker review put it aptly when it described Sorkin’s work:  “His shows are the type that people who never watch TV are always claiming are better than anything else on TV.”

The intelligent banter is artificial and the context is wrong. The stands these characters make are too high and too mighty, and the subtext is also probably too old. But maybe, just maybe at the very least, it will offer us ignorant Americans some new insights on the major events this time around. Or maybe they’ll just beat us over the head some more and feed us a constant stream of sexual tension layered with wordy speeches and slamming office doors.

Look for me comparing my newsroom with Sorkin’s — they’re both similarly fictionalized.

More as the story develops.

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Gator’s Unofficial Season Two Premier

By Anthony

Spurred to action, kind of like Rob Stark* when his father’s head was forcibly removed from his shoulders, I ride back into the interwebs wielding my almighty pen and preaching stories about things that I do drunk, observations that I’ve had the pleasure of observing and run-on sentences that I’ve had the pleasure of concocting. I bring to you now the first official Season Two Premier of Gator’s No Shit Playing.**

It’s tough to start a post with an asterisk at the end of the first sentence. It’s a bad sign when one must declare something with one of those mysterious grammar functions you only see in textbooks and prescription drug ads.

But anyway, like so many posts here on Gator, I’ve begun by digressing. Has anyone else noticed a common theme, in at least my own ramblings, that it’s easier to start somewhere completely different and then abruptly shift back into the intended post with an eye jarring fragment like: “but I digress.”

Just a thought, but I digress.

Seriously though, if you’re keeping score at home and holding us to the promises we make in our posts, you’re likely going to be let down 9 times out of then. Which are at least better odds then a lion fighting a tuna in the mid-Atlantic. However, I’m happy to report on one small victory today. I’d like to say this is the reason for radio silence, but that’s not true. Our writers went on strike when they realized we were serious when we told them they would be paid in wheat grass seeds. What? I thought everyone knew holistic anything seeds were an accepted form of currency in Williamsburg and Bushwick these days? Didn’t you?

Now if you’ll harken back to the olden days, when Gator was just a young startup, full of spit and vigor, hustling on the street corner of the internet known as – and not the multibillion dollar IPO it is today – then you’ll remember four odd months ago when I mentioned the 500lb motorcycle I had in my apartment.

It wasn’t very hard to get it in there and even easier getting it out, especially in pieces. But we’ve taken all those pieces to a shop – along with Cindy’s Christmas tree to try and get that goddam light to finally light up. A little bit of elbow grease, some sandpaper, several hundred kilowatts of grinding metal and least a thousand or so PSI of sandblasting has turned a corroded, rusted old hull of a former hulk into something not quite so hideous.

To bring back the luster of a fresh start. To reuse, recycle, rebuild. To give credibility you can’t buy with all the flax seeds in Green Point. I love the effect of a surface half finished. Here’s the latest:

*Yeah, I’ve been watching a lot of Game of Thrones. It’s brilliant.
**While this is not the official Season Two Premiere, Zach beat me by a day or two, I already had the working graph and didn’t want to change it. Too bad. Temporal intelligence is an afterthought here at Gator. Obviously Gator don’t play that.

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A Fittingly Desultory Return to Posting

By Zach

I’m feeling short on creativity tonight but I wanted to post something, so here’s some jumbled thoughts:


Twitter is really growing on me. I like how you can tailor it to your interests, which for me is an intersection of news, humor and sports. It’s also far more intellectual platform than Facebook, which strikes me as a tad vapid. OK, they’re both extremely vapid, but Twitter’s a bit more centered around the quality and conciseness of your writing. Needless to say, I need practice. Sign up, follow me, and it’ll be a learning experience for all involved parties.


– Euro 2012 has been fantastic so far. It’s been the one thing that makes me appreciative that I’m in a cubicle with a high-speed internet connection all summer. Simply put, the inspiration these players give me is profound. To be a bit clearer, they give me a lot of ideas for stuff I shouldn’t be doing. Andrea Pirlo has convinced me that I, too, can launch a 50-yard inch-perfect crossfield pass and hit a winger in stride. Andres Iniesta is the reason I embark on ill-fated dribbles out of triple teams. Still they’re brilliant, and still I believe.

This actually leads me to the crux of these two paragraphs: my theory that soccer on TV has decreased the team play at your everyday pickup game. I play a lot of pickup in New York, and you constantly see average players forgo the easy pass to try to dribble past five guys. Failed nutmeg attempts, shanked heel passes, skied thirty yard shots. The blame falls on ESPN and its damn World Cup rights.


Which brings me here: I’m finishing up Those Guys Have All The Fun, the tell-all oral history of ESPN. The major takeaway: ESPN is really male-dominated, and of those men about 90 percent have massive, massive egos.


Team Drake, all the way. More confrontations in my life need to involve bottle throwing. Realistic examples:

Editor angry at me for an error-filled wedding announcement? *Hucks Ciroc

Pregnant woman on crutches giving me the evil eye for staying seated on the subway? *Flings Grey Goose

Girlfriend testy about my open admiration for Catherine Zeta Jones’ age-defiant bosom? *Lobs Patron


Improbably, right now I’m listening to Trey Songz croon “I only came forrrrrrrr…THE BITCHES AND THE DRANKS, THE BITCHES AND THE DRANKS.” Somewhere, all my female role models are shaking their heads. 

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The Prospects of Several Presidential Candidates…as Arrested Development Characters

Note: This post first appeared on Bob Loblaw’s Law Blog. 

By Zach

If I were Ron Paul or Newt Gingrich, right now I’d be screaming “I’m a MONSTER!!!” at the top of my lungs. The game is up for these guys. Their thunder has effectively been hidden. The money in the banana stand has gone up in flames. Oscar Bluth won’t be seeing weed legalized anytime soon, and Lucille II will not become Newt’s fourth wife and the inaugural First Moon Lady.

Yep, we know who we’ve settled on for our general election: Mitt Romney and Barack Obama. But why don’t we analyze them a bit further, and for that matter take a look at their potential vice presidents and cabinets? As you can probably see from the opening paragraph, I’ve decided to do so using the platform of Arrested Development. If you want to question that choice, go right ahead. I don’t understand your criticisms, and I won’t respond.

Mitt Romney = Gob Bluth

I see numerous parallels between Gob Bluth and Mitt Romney. Right now, flush with that primary-victory-aura that you usually only find in pregnant women (Lindsay Funke, this excludes you), Mitt’s cruising around on his Segway, waving (and bloodily attempting to sheath) his samurai sword with confidence. Largely, he stayed above the Boyfight that developed among the other Republican candidates. And with good reason; Mitt and Gob view themselves as born winners. They’re the guy with the $5,000 dollar suit — I mean, COME ON!!

Barack Obama = Michael Bluth

It might be a little unfair to the Republican field, comparing Obama to the only sane character on the show. I thought it rather apt, though, considering the collective dysfunction of the Republican field vying to run against him.

Look, it’s not like Obama is always successful with his policies. When you run a country, you’re going to get hop-ons.

Rick Santorum = Tobias Funke

Santorum may have peaked too early — he shot his wad prematurely on what was supposed to be a dry run, and now  he has a large mess on his hands. Whoops, lotta poorly chosen words there. But maybe they’re fitting, considering how the gay community has named a unique liquid mixture after everyone’s favorite indignation-machine.

The game’s not necessarily up for Santorum, though. He could still make the Romney ticket, if only to satisfy their rabidly anti-female, tea partying base. But if I were them, I’d be worried that Santorum might come out as a never-nude, or even get caught in a rest stop bathroom with Barry Zuckercorn, their feet straying. Santorum has such a rich history as an analyst and therapist for the nation’s gays, women, immigrants and amateur pornographers that you wonder if his business cards might be getting at something else.

Nevertheless, Santorum has to have his sights set on Romney’s ticket. I’m sure that right now he can just taste those meaty vice presidential man parts in his mouth.

Joe Biden = Carl Weathers

I’m sorry, Joe. I know you’re probably a normal and minimally goofy man, but the Onion and Jason Sudeikis have completely and utterly skewed my perception of you. And I just can’t help but envision you sitting at a table chiding Tobias for finishing his drumstick. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. There’s still plenty of meat on that bone. Now you take this home, throw it in a pot, add some broth, a potato. Baby, you’ve got a stew going.”

Newt Gingrich = Barry Zuckerkorn

Their personas aren’t all that similar, but I find them to be similarly competent in their chosen professions. If only Newt’s bluster was as endearing as Barry’s dependence on Ask Jeeves for legal matters. Whatever the case, Newt and Barry will have to content themselves with a place in the background, itching the rash on their foreheads.

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Theorems By Gator

By Zach

I was going to call these “Gator’s Theorems,” but I liked how “Theorems By Gator” gives off a more elegant vibe — it sounds like we’re marketing a high-class perfume. Anyway, these are just some random Sunday afternoon thoughts:

– I’m not surprised that the Secret Service has been dabbling with prostitutes, only that they were caught doing it. Those people are specialists in discretion. If anything, I’m surprised that they were only soliciting prostitutes, not working as them. Wouldn’t being a Secret Service agent be the perfect cover for your moonlit career as a hooker? The clients would know in advance that you’re trustworthy, and it’d cut out the middleman when dealing with politicians.

– Every time someone tweets “#makeitplatinum,” a Vermont microbrewery finds a possum floating in the fermentation tank.

–  Survivalists would be much more successful at what they do if they wore edible underwear.

– From Taylor, in a preview of our forthcoming satellite Tumblr, TextsFromTaylor: “When you see homeless people/hobos talking or yelling to themselves, they’re in fact talking to an invisible deity that only appears to people at a dramatic level of poverty.”

– I’ve watched an unholy amount of 30 Rock over the past two days, and have decided this: If Alec Baldwin jumped into the Republican presidential race, in character as Jack Donaghy, accompanied by the promise that if elected he’d shape all policy decisions around the mantra “What would Jack do?”, he’d immediately surge ahead of Mitt Romney. I would vote for Jack Donaghy in a heartbeat. He’s a businessman of the people, someone who thinks about the employees, the pensions, the kittens he uses to test the strength of his microwaves. Donaghy2012.

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Which Dystopian Societies Taylor Admires Most

Recently, at the behest of my girlfriend and the rest of society, I saw the current cinematic attraction The Hunger Games. After the film I had a number of questions, comments, criticisms and critiques. All of which, once enunciated , were instantaneously countered with a resounding, “You NEED to read the book!!!” Well too bad, society. As an American I’m upholding my God-Given Constitutional Right to never read ever. Not EVER. Also if you’re wondering why I haven’t been posting, I was busy.

Anyways, the post-apocalyptic dystopia “Panem”, as presented in the film seemed a little lac-“But you didn’t rreeead the booo I GET IT. As I was saying, all-in-all the future didn’t really seem as bleak/soul-crushingly empty as it could have for the citizens of Districts 1 through 12..13? 14?? So you’re a little hungry, each year you lose a couple of teenagers, and alright there’s a pinch of total government control over your lives? #nbd I proudly present a short list of films and novels containing my personal favorite/ most admirable dystopian societies.

Logan’s Run – Directed by Michael Anderson, 1976

Why? City run by maniacal computer overlord, everybody dies at 30 to avoid “overpopulation”/human uprising, 1970’s visions of the future #hilarious, and this robot that tries to freeze people/is a refrigerator.

Children of Men – Directed byAlfonso Cuaron, 2006

Why? This director found a way to take the crushing sadness of real-world British socialism and go even further. No need for Hunger Games when teenagers no longer exist, is there? Despite all of the important religious symbolism and social commentary that I missed while Clive Owen was staring into my eyes, this movie was intense. I believe it’s safe to say that this film proved, beyond any doubt, that the children are our future.

Equilibrium – Directed by Kurt Wimmer, 2002

Why? Do you like art? How about feelings? Too damn bad, go back to Amherst. In the meantime, someone in this glorious dystopia decided it would be a good idea to give Batman (played by Christian Bale) a magic pistol that never runs out of bullets…I hope he doesn’t start to sympathize with the resista-THE END. Also starring Taye Diggs.

Running Man – Directed by Paul Michael Glaser, 1987

Why? Just read the first sentence of the plot description from Wikipedia: “By 2017, the global economy has collapsed and American society has become a totalitarian police state,censoring all cultural activity. The government pacifies the populace by broadcasting a number of game shows in which convicted criminals fight for their lives.” Are you terrified yet? How could this be the future of America? What government leader would use its people’s fascination with entertainment to distract them from enormous debt, a failing economy, growing police control and overcrowded prisons?!? My god…

Fahrenheit 451 – Written by Ray Bradbury, 1953

Why? Oscar Wilde once said, “If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.” Well Oscar Wilde was a communist. Taylor B. Woodward once said, “As an American I’m upholding my God-Given Constitutional Right to never read ever. Not EVER.”  Taylor Woodward was born out of a giant egg found in a nest at the top of a massive sequoia, high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. In this horrifyingly clairvoyant depiction of mankind’s growing obsession with alternative forms of media and entertainment, the true horror lies in the glaring similarities between Fahrenheit 451‘s dystopian nightmare, and our own decaying society.

I weep silently knowing that Ray Bradbury has lived long enough (91 years old) to see the dawn of e-books, 72 inch televisions, and programming such as: 16 and Pregnant, Teen Mom, The Jersey Shore, I Used to be Fat, Every show on MTV, 19 Kids and Counting, Cake Boss, Extreme Couponing, Long Island Medium, Mamas Boys of the Bronx, Say Yes to the Dress, Dance Moms, Toddlers in Tiaras, Pawn Stars, Full Metal Jousting, Swamp People, Big Shrimpin’, Hairy Bikers, and Gossip Girl and Pretty Little Liars. I’d go on but my rage levels are soaring, instead I’ll leave you with another quote.

“We have too many cellphones. We’ve got too many internets. We have got to get rid of those machines. We have too many machines now…” – Ray Bradbury, prophetic author & humanity’s last hope

1984 – Written by George “The Orwell” Orwell, 1949

Why? Spending the next week writing would barely be enough time to explain all the ways in which 1984 is magnificent. So I’ll just say this:

In 326 pages George Orwell presents a hellish nightmarescape devoid of reason and thought in which an eerie calm surrounds the soulless, faceless masses, eyes unblinking in a synchronized march towards a future without change or hope. Pulling us helplessly into an overcast realm of gloom in which a careless glance, or slightest hesitation means death, or worse. George Orwell stabs the reader in the heart with the cold, raw reality of our own emotions and self-doubts, breaking us down from the inside outward, until finally unleashing a conclusion so devastatingly unforgiving that we are forced into the most powerful crygasm of our entire lives.

The End.

What The Shit is Going On?

By Zach

It’s a Sunday morning and I’m at work. Usually I can count on these shifts to be slower moving than an NYPD car in an ethnic neighborhood, but today the world is blowing up. White guys are shooting black guys in unclear but suspiciously Zimmermanian circumstances.  Four cops were shot in Brooklyn (though, happily, not killed). Geriatric 60 Minutes commentators whom I’ve never heard of are dying. I’m getting so excited, I’m using the plural for singular subjects! This was not what I bargained for when I drank those seven sessioned ales last night. I don’t even know what a sessioned beer is, but it makes me sound like a Brooklynite beer aficionado and thus I duly persist.

UPDATE: According to Urban Dictionary, a sessioned beer is “low in alcohol and has a balanced flavor of both hops and malt. The purpose being so that it can be drank over a long session of time with out overwhelming the palate or getting the drinker too intoxicated.” Does that make Busch Light a sessioned beer? Busch is about as antithetical to intoxication as the American Pie series is to comedy.

Which brings me to two nights ago, when I found myself sitting in a movie theater watching Sean William Scott poop in a cooler of beer. The sad thing was, that was one of the funnier scenes in American Reunion, the totally necessary (a sarcasm font would be useful here) fourth reprise of said teen sex-comedy franchise. As my girlfriend pointed out afterward, Tara Reid and Chris Klein couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag, and the rest of the cast doesn’t exactly pick up the slack. And while we’re on the subject of Tara Reid, there’s an unintentionally hilarious scene where she accuses her ex-boyfriend of thinking that they had sex (which would make her a slut, naturally) because, well, they woke up naked in a bed together. Reality hits that scene with an ironic haymaker that the writers really should have seen coming.

While we’re on the subject of fidelity/commitment, I have a couple thoughts on all the wedding announcements I’ve been writing lately. The process has been instructive on a number of levels. Here are some of the things I’ve learned, while keeping in mind that I’m a company man through and through:

– There are people in finance who are so far removed from the real world that they’re literally incapable of speaking English. “What do I do? Well, I restructure Delta-one municipal bonds into equity swaps, providing clients with optimal securities optionality while allowing them a market share of ETFs and futures.” I literally had a guy at JP Morgan tell me,  “I don’t advise clients. I work with clients to find the optimal solution.” After receiving an email like that, how can you be mad? Wording like that is worth its weight in Krugerrands, a metaphor made all the more fitting by the abstractness of the industry in question. 

– There are also people who think they’re incredibly interesting (so said the blogger in the post about his life). An example: the couple who made a website for their wedding, complete with nine different pages detailing every aspect of their impending nuptials. This included lengthy biographies of the groom and bride, a page dedicated to the proposal in Grand Central which featured a band and family and friends in hiding, and links to YouTube videos of the proposal. Pretty nauseating, but you’ve got to give them credit for their shameless pursuit of attention.

– Let’s end this post with an empirically true, hopefully harmless stereotype that would seem to fly in the face of all existing background data on their mothers: Jews are really chill about their weddings.

What I’ve Been Doing While Not Posting

By Anthony

Well if you haven’t noticed, I’m just going to come right out and say it: I’ve been posting with the regularity of a grass-fed hippie on calcium pills. For my triumphant return, I thought I’d fill you, the avid reader, in on all the glorious things that I’ve been doing to occupy my time away from the keyboard on which I should be mashing out comedic genius.

And speaking of Occupy, that brings me to my first time suck. Occupy Wall Street is back, if you didn’t know. They are planning a ‘general strike’ May 1st and to plan for it they’ve tagged just about every square inch of Buschwick and Williamsburg with the Sharpies their moms got them for Christmas last year.

But ugly graffiti aside, I thought it was time I jumped on the bandwagon. Who knows, maybe this time we’ll leave the annoying drums behind and actually manage a competent and engaging protest.

Until then, as the newest member, I get stuck with some gross tasks — like washing all the recycled feminine products. By using hemp, and reusing it, (again and again)  we show the corporate dogs at Tampax that we don’t need them or their fancy wing features and bright colors.

I’m also the resident vulture shoo’er. Since it smells so rank in the grounds, sometimes the older members pass away with out anyone noticing. Until the vultures come, at least, and that’s where I come in. Both thankless jobs with long hours.

I’ve also picked up a part time job at the Artisanal Pencil Sharpening Factory as an “Eraser Breaker-In-er.” Pay is lousy but the networking is great. Just in case I ever want to become a head sharpener.

Getting to work takes significantly longer now, too. The L “bane-of-my-existence” train has killed more people this year than the Hundred Years’ War. I now avoid it entirely and walk to work. Which is easier some mornings than others. Like when I wake up in a Chinatown alley after drinking all night.

I’ve also been practicing my women’s self-defense (though not in the way that you’re assuming) after being punched in the face by a girl on St. Patrick’s Day. More on that another time, maybe.

Lastly, living in Brooklyn has instilled in me an appreciation of absolutely nothing. Basically, if it exists then I want nothing to do with it. So that means I do nothing worthwhile, really.

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Rap Lyrics That Apply to My Lifestyle, Part II

By Zach

A while back I wrote a post detailing the startlingly numerous similarities between rappers’ lifestyles and my own. And even though I discovered that Rick Ross and I share the same philosophy regarding the gun placement in our Maybachs, and that Jay-Z and myself both face the daily challenge of fending off an irksome surplus of high class poontang, it was a flawed study. Sorta like the current research on global warming.

But liberal conspiracies to cripple American automobile production are neither here nor there. One thing I’ve discovered as I listen to ill track after dope jam of the most hood hip hop music ever bumped out of a spoiler- and rim-adorned Civic in a New Hampshire strip mall parking lot is that there’s a plurality to the message of most rap songs. In any given track, there are lines that don’t necessarily speak to me. So I thought I’d break a couple songs down line by line. Lyrics in italics, my comments in normal font, in case you get confused.

Rick Ross – “I Love My Bitches”

(A feminist message! I can roll with that.)

Ohh man, I love my bitches — Agreed.

Tongue kissin’ a dark skinned vixen — This is a great message of empowerment for African American women.

50, 60 racks, I might go blow a 100 though — The Bawse loses me here. A populist message might have been more prudent. I usually stick to 50 or 60 racks, but 100 borders on a papal level of excess. 

Jet owner, G5, where you wanna go? — What I just said. I normally stick to first class on my model-accompanied trysts to my private island in undisclosed Caribbean waters. Did I mention that said island incidentally has its OWN private island? Don’t sweat the mind-blowing geographical implications. 

Fuck your ex’s baby, really, that’s your past? — Unkind, frankly, to the former men in your women’s lives. My chicks’ exes are normally treated to the dignity of a complimentary bottle of Courvoisier and flippant yet respectful eye contact upon their forced departure from the club. It helps ease the pain of loss. 

Load up your carry-on’s and all of this is cash — At first I thought this was laughable — who uses carry-on, or luggage for that matter? I always buy a new set of designer linen upon arrival in Ibiza. But then I heard the last part and I totally get it — Rick Ross has his girls transport his duffels of stacks. Which contrasts with my strategy of simply having a member of my posse fly ahead with a suitcase of bills to ensure the promptest possible resumption of rain-making. I guess I just have superior asset management.

Eminem – “Cleanin’ Out My Closet”

See what hurts me the most is you won’t admit you was wrong — Agreed, Em. That hurts the most. Except for that other thing. But people who won’t admit they’re wrong hurts the second most.

Bitch do your song – keep tellin yourself that you was a mom! — Woah, looks like Eminem’s not going to Motherboy anytime soon. I usually call my mom a hooker or tell her she’s acting like a big ol’ d-bag whenever I notice wrinkles in my slacks or burnt parts of my chocolate chip cookies, but to each his own.

But how dare you try to take what you didn’t help me to get — I can relate to that. My mom always tries to take credit for my accomplishments with boasts like “I’m so proud of you honey.” What an obnoxious braggart.

You selfish bitch; I hope you fuckin burn in hell for this shit — If anything, this line is a little overwrought. I’d go simple here.*

*Sincere apologies to my mother, whom I appreciate dearly.