speaking of halloween(ies)...

Does anyone else find it absurd that this over-accessorized jagbag has his own television show about picking up ladiez?

This chump, who calls himself "Mystery" (I seriously cannot make this sh*t up), is the very definition of a "don't." He's also the definition of an asshat. In fact, I think that's a rarely seen actual asshat perched over Mystery's ever-so-douchingly manicured soul-patch and overly guy-lined eyes. And, don't get me started on the lady's locket, the binoculars and the (what is that, chenille?) boa floating below -- and I can't emphasize the wrongness of this enough -- his ever-so-douchingly manicured soul-patch and overly guy-lined eyes. I don't get it.

Don't get me wrong, most girls like a dude who knows how to properly accessorize. Maybe that involves a scarf (not a boa), a hat (not Pam Anderson-inspired) and even some jewelry (not a junior high school girl's locket), but I can tell you that it never -- I mean never -- involves a soul-patch or poor makeup application skills. I solved the Mystery -- he's the Hamburglar.

But behind the exterior that indicates Mystery's both blind and retarded (and quite possibly a thief of delicious hamburgers), he's developed an apparently effective method to pick up drunk skanks in bars, which makes up the premise of Mystery's show, The Pick Up Artist.

Currently airing on VH1, the channel where all brain cells go to die (which is probably why it's so addictive), the show takes a bunch of meek, female-fearing nerds, turns them into mini-Mysterys (-ies?) and then tests them each week to see who can pick up the most drunk skanks in some douchey club in Arizona. It really is reality teevee at it's best.

The most retardulous part of the show, though, is when these would-be manwhores get schooled skooled in Mystery's "lessons," which are based on going up to groups of drunk skanks ("sets" in douche-speak) and lying. That is, they're taught to make up some sort of story or a fake pressing question (i.e. "I need to know, would you ever date a guy named Herman?" -- I swear to you that is an actual line from the show) to capture a skank's booze-laden attention. If these "pick-up artists" are really advanced they can then pretend to have a form of mild Tourette's and approach drunk skanks using such winning lines as, "I like pickle juice." (Again, I wish could make this sh*t up.)

But behind all the idiotic accessorizing and incredibly ridiculous pick-up lines (You like pickle juice? Really? Do you also like drinks thrown in your face, creeper?), are a couple of nuggets of good advice -- be confident, be funny and be cool. Too bad Mystery and his jagbag hangers-on, including a dude who calls himself "Matador" (I seriously long to make this sh*t up...), also advise these jagbag proteges to hide any newfound confidence under the exterior of being a Grade A douche. I suppose, however, if the advice wasn't clad in ridiculous clothing, it wouldn't make for a good VH1 reality show.

Which brings me to DC. At least Mystery is interesting. Interesting to laugh at, that is. A subsection of DC men, however, fail to inspire even that. There's an overwhelming group of dudes in DC who make up the dullest subsection of men in America, nay, the world, in my not-so-humble opinion. And that wouldn't be so bad if they didn't so often combine their devastating dullness with an overwhelming penchant for popped collars, pleated khakis and orthopedic shoes. It's a situation more pathetic than some of the "befores" that plead for Mystery's expertise.

SIDEBAR: Except for a kid named Bryan Ly, the wannabe womanizer on The Pick Up Artist who is anything but pathetic. This kid has the best one-liners in the history of ever. In the last episode when talking about the other contestants, he describes them as "family" before using the non-sensical, yet somehow suitable simile: "They're like a hair on my butt." Why does this guy need Mystery's help again?

Anybutthair, the bottomline (Yes! Scene points for "butt" wordplay!) is that, while the DC dating scene largely bores me, I'm probably a bit underqualified to dissect it, as I in no way will ever even try to begin to understand the mating rituals that occur between two government employees in love. I imagine all the sweet nothings would probably be reduced to a confusing set of acronyms, though: "You had me at ILYPK,* Herman."

And so, from my proverbial soapbox Hatorade crate (Yes! Scene points for late-'9os reference!), I will rub in the last metaphorical dollop of Boudreaux's Butt Paste, my very own flawless pick-up method (how do I not have my own show?!), into this post by embedding a scene from The Pick Up Artist below -- a scene in which Bryan's infatuation with Mystery's "medallion necklace" leads him to make a keen observation. Enjoy!



*Can you guess what the acronym stands for? It's actually quite easy -- smokin' balls easy.

way too much information...?

Don't worry. Hell hasn't gotten icy. I haven't found a new hobby, or, you know, gotten some sort of real life. Instead, I've been gambling. It's just how I roll (LOL!).

But for real, this weekend I was Indian gaming in Oklahoma. (Honestly, though, Cherokee Nation gambling doesn't have anything on Minnesota's Mdewakanton Sioux Community. Mystic Lake!)

Oh, I also visited my grandmother down in the sticks of Arkansas, where I learned that if I'd been alive during WWII and possessed a different lineage, I would've had a big ol' crush on my grandpa. Yowza! What a looker!

My family has loved freedom for a long time.

Yeah... Something is so not right about what I just revealed... So. Not. Right.

But, um, moving on, my grandma also showed me some of my dad's old childhood books from the 1950s and, my-oh-sexism-my, did one of them catch my eye.

Cyclotron!

Brought to you by the one-and-only Raymond F. Yates -- the renowned author of such works as A Boy and a Battery, A Boy and a Motor, The Boys' Book of Communications, The Boys' Book of Magnetism, The Boys' Book of Model Railroading, The Boys' Book of Rockets and Model Jets and Rockets for Boys -- the above-posted book, Atomic Experiments for Boys, offers a nice overview of such fun and masculine things as geiger counters, nuclear power, the H-Bomb and, of course, "Miracle in a Pickle Jar." Apparently, a simple at-home experiment involving a pickle jar, two pieces of black velvet and a felt weather strip, which is "obtainable at any five-and-ten-cent store," allows you to witness "the paths of atomic and cosmic ray particles." Sounds sweet. I'm going to buy a jar of pickles this weekend.

But besides deciding my grandpa was dreamy in the 1940s (hmm...it's still not sounding any less creepy...) and discovering I have the interests of an 11-year-old boy circa 1954 (well, except for the being attracted to your own family part...oh man, I'm calling my therapist now...), I also found out my grandmother's uncle was a master furrier. (Ahem, not a furry, mind you, but a furrier.)

Back in the 1930s when he was in business in San Francisco, he made my grandma a mink stole, which apparently was the hot sh*t back in the day. The thing about this stole, though, compared to some of the more polished and finished items he used to make, was its deconstructed details, like, you know, keeping the heads and paws (with tiny claws!) on.

Dear PETA, I'm vintage. Don't throw paint on me. Toodles!

My mother's response to this item was something like, "Ew. That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Get it away from me. Now."

My reaction was more along the lines of, "Holy effing sh*t. This is the coolest thing I've ever seen. Let me wear it. Now."

Eat your heart out, Diddy.

Thanks to the awesomeness that is my grandma, I now own this. I can't wait to hand out Butt Paste while wearing this.

Unfortunately, my Butt Paste'n'fur escapade will have to wait as I am in Las Vegas for the week. I'm going for "work" (shady!), but will hopefully be spending most of my time practicing Golden Touch Dice Control. Anyway, long story short less long, my blog droppings might be a little scarce this week, but I'll try. After all, next to DC, Las Vegas might be the Shambles P.I. capital of the world. It's like an extra-strength blog laxative.

Wish me luck!

my buttpaste brings all the boyz to the yard

It all started with a routine trip to Target in Columbia Heights. It was there that The Law collapsed in laughter and threw a packet of what would ultimately, but unknowingly to me at the time, serve as a makeshift love potion at a Brooklyn bar. And of course, I'm talking about travel sized packages of Butt Paste. Boudreaux's Butt Paste, to be exact!


There's nothing better than marketing a product under the name "Butt Paste." Who wouldn't buy it?! With that kind of instant name cache and our homosexual friend's birthday coming up, we really had no choice but to dole out 99 pennies and buy him a trio of these tiny Butt Paste packets. (Clearly, we're expert gift givers.)

And so I set out, Butt Paste in hand, to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a place known for attracting hipsters, Hasidic Jews and hipster Hasidic Jews, to give my and The Law's main gay his birthday Butt Paste.

Regrettably, I forgot about the gift for hours after disembarking from the worst bus ride of all time (ahem, Megabus mega sucks!). Luckily, though, at some point I remembered I had three packets of Butt Paste burning a hole in the bowels (LOL!) of my bag. And so began a Butt Paste love story.

Minutes after the Butt Paste saw the dim light of the K&M bar, a ridiculously attractive man sauntered into the bar, brushed past me, my gay and my vodka soda and ordered a drink. I looked at my G, mouth agape, and bar-whispered to him, "Holy sh*t. Did you see him?"

And then I stared at this beautiful man. Creepy, indeed.

After he got his beer, he turned around, smiled and went to the other end of the bar to sit with his friends. Again, I turned to my homo, who by now had strategically tucked the Butt Paste packets into his shirt pocket like a beautiful, yellow plastic, Butt-Pastey pocket square and said, "I should go give him some Butt Paste!"

Knowing that wasn't some perverted sexual metaphor, this most intuitive gay grabbed a packet, held it out and said, "Yes! Go!"

But I couldn't. Having lived in DC for over a year, I felt the move was risky. How would he react?
"He's going to think I'm nuts!" I told my homosexual. "He's going to be confused and not want to talk to me! He's going to freak out!"

After 30 minutes of debate about how the ridiculously attractive man might possibly react to receiving Butt Paste as well as several lingering moments of across-the-bar eye contact, my gay had had it. "Bitch, this isn't DC. People aren't all douchey and uptight. He clearly wants to talk to you. Just go give him the goddamn Butt Paste!"

And so I threw back the rest of my drink, slipped the Butt Paste packet into my back pocket and approached this ridiculously attractive man.

"Um. Hi."

He smiled. (Yes, it was gorgeous.)

"I saw you from across the bar and, well, I have this present that I think you should have."

At this point, it had crossed my mind to just slip the Butt Paste into his shirt pocket, but with thoughts of uptight DC in my head, I decided I needed to explain.

"So, I have this gift here. For you. And I don't want you to freak out. But I'm guessing you might not understand why I'm giving this to you. I mean, it's weird. But funny. And you won't expect it. That's for sure. And no one's probably given you this before. But it's funny. It's supposed to be funny. And I think you would think it's funny. Maybe. It might be the best gift ever. It's funny..."
At this point, his less attractive friend interrupted my retarded, paranoid spiel and said, "You're not going to tell him you have a penis are you?"

I laughed. The ridiculously attractive man laughed. His less attractive friend laughed. And that's when I remembered, New York City was different. People there can take a joke, tell a joke and, most importantly, aren't hypersensitive.

I smiled and said, "No, which is kind of unfortunate considering the gift build-up I just did. That would be much funnier." I reached into my back pocket. "Here."

He squinted, looked down at the packet and stammered, "Butt...Paste? Does that say Butt Paste? Did you just give me Butt Paste?"

"Uh-huh."

He chuckled, looked me in the eye and said, "This is the best gift ever. I'm Troy."

Butt Paste was a hit. A tall, shaggy-haired, well-dressed, adorable hit.

---

But would it be in DC? That is the ultimate question. I hesitated to write this post, actually, because I wanted to do an experiment, A Tale of Two Butt Pastes, if you will. I want to go to a bar armed with Butt Paste and give it to boys and note their reactions. Would the majority burst into tears? Punch me in the face? Put me on a terrorist watch list? The world will have to wait. I've been too lazy. And, also, going out in DC sucks. However, it's time I suck it up and get back on this scientific endeavor. I'll let fancy academic journals fight over who wants to publish this study. Bidding starts at $1 million. Science sells, right? Science! Bitch!

Cambridge, Mass., tries its hand at graffiti. Brilliant.

what the hell have i done today?

Honestly, I don't know what the hell I've done today, but somehow it's already nine in the evening. I went to work. I think. Yes. Yes, I did. I spent some time on the great Interweb checking out the wonderous and wonky CQPolitics.com. I can't get enough of those election maps!*

Then I went to lunch. For two hours.

Then I returned and did some manual labor around the office, before settling in for some sweet Olympic games viewing. Hot damn, I love those games...

After that, the day is a bit of a blur. I apparently rode around on my bicycle for a while, did some laundry, cleaned my apartment, made some dinner and currently find myself settled in for some more Olympic games viewing, which, after spending last night at Poste getting introdouched** to the hip downtown lawyers-gone-wild scene, is well deserved. Hey, don't judge me because I reward myself every now and again with a night of sitting on my ass, eating nachos and watching Usain Bolt win more gold medals just by showing up. (That man is miraculous. And so is this ridiculously awesome panoramic view of the Bird's Nest Stadium.)

Anyway, I'll have more retardulous sh*t to write about next week after my current reason to live, the XXVIV Olympiad (it's OK to pity me), goes off-the-air. To whet your e-appetite, though, I'll reveal that I'll be composing a nice little tale about Boudreaux's Butt Paste. Never heard of Butt Paste? Don't worry. I'll 'splain more details later. For now just know it has a pleasant smell and it really came in handy during a recent trip to Brooklyn. Butt (LOL!), would Butt Paste prove just as handy in DC? You and I will just have to await the end of the weekend to find out...

Whoa! I just pulled an R Kelly! Oh, not the peeing on a teenager thing, I'm referring to the Trapped In the Closet "cliffhanger" thing, just in case anyone was wondering. Pervs.

*Sarcasm points!

**Term courtesy of The Law -- she's one sick freak of a genius.