Archive for April, 2007


I’m Apparently Going to Rape You

April 27, 2007

A while back, I wrote a post entitled “I’m Not Going to Rape You”. It was a (I thought) hilarious little rant on the ridiculousness of some (mostly female) people’s reactions to seeing me on a somewhat isolated street late at night. I was assuring my hypothetical streetwalking buddy that I had no desire to initiate intercourse of any kind, consensual or no. It was my way of saying that my physical features don’t automatically qualify me as a sexual offender.

I was wrong.

I was neglecting my most heinous physical feature: my penis. Where there should have been a vagina, a bounteous life vessel literally gushing with creative energy and love for the universe, I had instead been cursed with a burden, which (though lovely for what it was) was the indelible mark of God’s first draft. As a nonwomyn, I had to come to terms with actively reinforcing a patriarchal society that encourages womyn to be second-class citizens, when in reality, it is the nonwomyns who are inferior.

It was a difficult realization to come to; I fought it at first. I told myself, “It must be possible to be a man (yes, I still used a term as sexist as that) and not be actively oppressive! I respect the rights of women to have an equal societal platform. Surely I would remember oppressing somebody?”

What a silly Negro I was. Since society has long been set up to benefit nonwomyns, every day I choose to spend not cursing at my penis in the mirror is a day where I reap the benefits of a society that both actively and tacitly condones rape. By the very virtue of my phallus, I am just as guilty as the man who actually penetrates the verdant womynly forest nonconsensually. Every time I watch a T.V. program or purchase a product not specifically allowed by feminists, I silently support rape.

I’m sorry.


Story Time!

April 23, 2007

Gather ’round kiddies, Papi’s got a tale to tell you. I’m not sure whether I can accurately encapsulate the surrealness of this experience, but you weren’t there, so you can’t tell it any better can you? Let’s get it on.

It’s the end of a relatively normal night, and I’m getting on the subway, ready to mosey on. Now, it’s somewhere in the area of 4 a.m., so I expect the train to take a while. In this interest, I’ve come prepared with a couple newspapers, which I look forward to pretending to read. I forsee no problems finding a comfortable seat, and, unsurprisingly enough, the platform is almost empty.

That “almost” is important.

The only people on the platform were an older mexican gentleman and a blonde about my own age. Nothing to interesting here. Except for the fact that she was half-passed out and he was administering an impromptu mammogram. I wouldn’t have cared if they were filming a sequel to “Debbie Does Dallas” except for two things; one, I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was consensual, and two, I really wanted to sit down and read my papers but didn’t want to interrupt. It was at this point that el rapisto dragged the young lady onto his burly lap, and proceeded to attempt to eat her face. She appeared to be at least a little bit responsive, so I came to the conclusion that they had some previous sexual relationship, and were so enflamed with desire that my presence (and the click click of my camera phone) didn’t bug them. I also came to the conclusion that they were so far gone that they wouldn’t care whether I was standing or sitting, so I discretely took the seat farthest from the young lustbirds, and settled into the paper.

Barely was I into article one, when the blonde woke up. Now I’ve never woken up to find myself hooking up with a 50 year old mexican on a subway platform (well, not in years) but her reaction was pretty reasonable. She tried to put herself back together while avoiding his wanton, raw, sexuality. I couldn’t help imagine her as a cat and him as a cartoon skunk. I thought, “well that was certainly weird” and looked back at the article, something about Elliot Gould.

“Should, shoudlb you hooshk this back up for me please?”

Blondie had sidled up to me and was asking me, in her very special way, to reclasp her bra. I obliged, and went back, once again, to Mr. Gould.

“I’m ssho sorry.”

I assured her it was more than ok. I was a bit curious as to why she had asked me to clasp her bra rather than doing it herself or asking her friend, but I merely assumed that she somehow knew my reputation as someone around whom bras never come off, and was merely using my greatest talent (making sure girls’ bras stay on) to her own selfish ends. Whatever.

“I’ve never met that guy ever before.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this. Granted, I haven’t done any statistically significant research, but something tells me that 20 year olds don’t exactly troll subways looking for unsuspecting middle aged men to accost. I stammered out the somewhat obvious question.

“So…what…why…who…what the fuck is going on?”

“I thought he was someone else I thought he was my boss I didn’t know here I was i’ve neverseen that guy if this is sober this is me.”

On that last point she made a hand gesture, the sober hand quivering above the one that indicated her current mindset. I was curious as to what she thought was happening, but concerned that I would NEVER have a chance to examine the career path of the man who would eventually father Ross and Monica Geller, went back to my paper.

She wasn’t certain I understood, and insisted on drawing me a picture of her drunkenness on my paper, a beautiful one that featured several lines and poorly drawn circles. I assured her once again that I understood.

“I’m shoo sorry!. You saved me! you shaved my life. You’re amazing”

At this point I became interested. Elliot Gould be damned, it had been literally hours since I’d been told how amazing I was and I was all ears. Unfortunately, at this point, two young ladies came onto the platform at this point, and Blondie (whose name, I later found out was Lila), took the chance to tell them of the crazy happenings. She did mention my heroics, but they were unimpressed.

At this point, the train came, and we all got on together. All, that is, except for amorous gentleman. Now, there’s only one train that goes through this station, and there are no carnival rides or smoothie vendors, so I have no idea what he was doing there if not waiting for the train. Perhaps he was waiting for another 20 year old blonde. Maybe he thought he was somewhere else. Maybe he just really liked train platforms. Whatever the case, he was still there when I left.

My very favorite thing about Lila was the religious tattoos she had on her feet, reading, “Strength in Jesus”, and “Walk with God” (or somethign equally inspiring.) It really gives me a newfound respect for Christianity. And blondes. And Mexicans.

But not Elliot Gould.


For the Ladies

April 18, 2007

Equal power between the sexes is a sham. Oh sure, men might get better jobs and get paid more, but that means quite little when you realize that they only go to those jobs and make that money to impress women. Unless they’re gay, in which case they have to get good jobs to combat the ever-rising costs of appletinis and Astroglide. By now, obviously, that observation is a bit trite, and I don’t make it to send you into little convulsions of laughter, but rather as a segue to helping the ladies harness that power.

I was under the impression that it was easy for girls to get guys, at least in a physical capacity.  I assumed the process went something along the lines of letting it be known that you in fact, were possessed of a vagina, and that the guys then flocked like oh so many seagulls(because it’s a well-known fact that seagulls LOVE vagina). I knew that it was a little bit harder to actually get a relationship, especially at college age, but I assumed that was what fake pregnancies were for. Apparently, however, some girls don’t know how to get guys into bed short of shameless desperation. Lucky for them, I’m here to help. Here are a couple of tried and true tricks that will let you get all you want without crying shamefully in the mirror the next morning (because seriously, I can hear you, and it’s freaking me out a little bit):

The ‘Ol Movie Trick: 75% of the battle is getting into position for a tactical strike. The other 25% is using awkward metaphors and random statistics. Every guy worth his salt (and who isn’t worth their weight in salt these days?) knows that the offer to watch a movie is helpful trick. First and foremost, it can help get the two of you alone, which can be otherwise a little sticky. Secondly, it can help get the lighting down to a point where it’s easy to ignore each other’s imperfections. Finally, especially if the movie was well-chosen, it means that there’s no burden of conversation until you actually have something witty to say.

Now, to my girlies, you can use this trick too, and not be slutty! If you invite a guy back for a movie, he’s going to see through you. But if you mention a couple of movies you like throughout the course of the night (bonus points if you already know he has them), eventually he’ll get the idea. Then, you can seal the deal with an oh-so subtle, “I don’t even really feel like being out tonight, but my friends dragged me.” If he takes the hint and invites you back for a movie, you’re golden. If not, well then you haven’t  lost anything because you haven’t really put yourself on the line. Oh, and you’re probably unattractive. Uh, work on that.

The “Me, Sexy”?: This trick is particularly for those girls who complain that guys only think of them as friends no matter what they do: “I’ve tried playing Warcraft, I joined the football team, I even tried wearing nothing but flannel shirts and jeans, but no matter what I do, he still thinks of me as only a friend!! Help!!”. Being friends with guys is a great thing, but every once in a while you have to remind them that you’re still a girl, at least if you want them to want to sleep with you. There are a couple very easy ways of doing this. One is to invest in a modest-yet revealing bathrobe, and wear it so it accents your best features. Got massive cottage-cheese thighs? Wear a long one that shows a little cleavage instead. Got the chest of a fourteen year old corpse? Try a short robe that shows off those lovely legs. Generally fat and unattractive? Try a burquua.

Now, it might make you uncomfortable to wear this robe everywhere. And more importantly, it would make me uncomfortable. All you have to do is wear it at the opportune time. Say, for example, a bunch of your guy friends are picking you up from your room for a rousing game of Dance Dance Revolution. Try opening the door wearing the robe, because you “didn’t realize they were going to be here so soon”. At that point you can immediately change into your coveralls and still have a decent chance of being masturbatory fodder for at least one of them. It only take a brief moment to change your image into something sexy, at which point you can let their imagination do the rest.

The “Long Day” Massage: This one is admittedly a little over the top, but effective nonetheless. As you might have expected, at some point you complain of tenseness in your back and wait for the inevitable massage offer.  The key to this trick is how you accept or decline the offer. If the offer comes from somebody from whom you do not want a massage, all you have to do is complain of ticklishness. If it comes from that strapping young gentleman with whom you do want to engage in heavy petting, look surprised, as if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind, and acquiesce somewhat reluctantly, as not to appear immodest: “Oh, really? A massage? Well, I guess I could really use one. Why not?”

During the massage, make pseudo-sexual noises and/or faces, while looking embarrassed. Nobody’s asking to be Jenna Jameson, but even catching your breath once or twice will associate the massage with sex in the guy’s mind, and your job is essentially done.

The Body Control: This one is probably the simplest but requires the most commitment. Essentially, it requires participating in an activity that has a secondary association with sex. Try taking Pilates, or a dancing or yoga class.  For best results, I suggest a “how to be good at sex” class. The only professor that teaches it is on sabbatical, but I’d be more than happy to meet you and go over the notes from last semester. If, you, know, you wanted to.

Now, all of the above are for that young woman who wishes to engage in some sort of physical relations with the gentleman. But what of those who wish for nothing more than a walk in the park filled with hand-holding and shy smiles? And dating, and romance? Stop being such a prude. If you don’t have sex with any guy who asks, none of them are going to like you, and you’re going to be ostracized.  What if your mom were as prudish as you? You wouldn’t even be here.

On a more serious note, if you want to date a guy, just date him. It’s a little ridiculous to wait for him to woo you with flowers and romance, especially in college, but there are plenty of interesting things happening all the time. It needn’t be dinner and a movie, it could be  nothing more than bored people going for a milkshake. Or to a play that one of your friends is in. Or to an improv show. Go out with a guy a couple of times, and if you should actually be dating seriously, it will eventually will come up. If there isn’t a spark, you shouldn’t be romantically involved, but at least you now have a friend who you can stand to be around in a one-on-one context.

This article was really funny, but was hopefully at least a little bit helpful to someone. Tune in next time for more pointless things!


Present-iche (Past-iche Part Deux)

April 16, 2007

This one is still a little stubby, because I’m having trouble thinking of present writers that are well-known enough to be recognizable by both of my readers. Still, enjoy,

The Onion

Area Muffin Slightly Overcooked

Area blueberry muffin came back having been slightly overcooked, sources reported last Tuesday. Onlookers said the renegade muffin defied both its cookers and logic when it became slightly blackened before the “muffin” setting on the toaster had finished it’s cooking. Said witness Evan Roberts, “There must have been some foul play involved – a muffin just doesn’t overcook out of the blue.” After a pause, he continued, “berry.” Investigators have yet to determine the cause of the overcooking and are anxiously pursuing leads.

The Atkins Muffin

Ingredients: 1 cup cubed steak, 1 muffin, ½ cup mixed vegetables, 1 cup olive oil

  1. Cook steak
  2. Eat steak.
  3. Throw out everything else.


The facebook muffin changed their status to blueberry

The facebook muffin added “being eaten out” to their favorite activities

Kelly Marshall is attending Tanning Party!

The facebook muffin is overcooked

The facebook muffin is now listed as single

The facebook muffin is “weeping with quiet despair at the idea that they are no longer desirable.”

New York Times

Liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin, liberal hippy nonsense burnt muffin. –AP



April 15, 2007

I know it’s been a while since I posted, but this is my blog and I DO WHAT I WANNA. Now that that’s out of the way, a few things I’ve been thinking about:

>Those of you that follow professional basketball probably know of this team, the Golden State Warriors. Now I’ve been thinking, and this is the only team that I can think of that’s not from a real place. I know California is the “Golden State”, but seriously, what the fuck? Are nicknames now fair game for sports franchises? Is the day approaching were I can watch the Big Apple Knicks take on the Sin City Venereal Diseases? And why stop at pre-established nicknames – under Golden State’s renegade example, we could have the Magical Fairyland Jazz, and nobody would know where the hell to go. I’m just saying. Enough is enough.

>Dear Michael Ian Black,

We get it. You’re clever and snarky. You don’t need to have that smug little grin of yours everytime VH1 tosses you a warm cup of coffee to come up with your witty little one liners. I can just see you alone at home, making snide little asides about your breakfast cereal to your cat and then looking around for a camera. Please don’t take this the wrong way – you’re not yet in Zach Braff’s (read: crotch-kicking) category. But enough, as always, is enough.



> I vote yes on orange juice. I find it to be TANGY AND REFRESHING.

> I managed to score an early headline from the end of the 2007 baseball season: Alex Rodriguez finishes disappointing first in MVP balloting.

>Dear girl in front of me in line for brunch,

I am overjoyed that you took Spanish in high school. I fully believe that you got a 4 on the AP-kudos! But the entire line could do without your trying to stammer out your omelette order in broken Spanish just to appear culturally sensitive. When the very competent chef asks if you would like cheese, feel more than free to politely nod and even say yes. Or no, if you do not wish to have cheese on your omelette. There’s no need for you to take a minute and a half to get out “No quezo, no, is that queso? Pour fabor.” And God help you if you should try to engage in small talk in Spanish; your accent is comparable to a drunk dolphin with a mouthful of crunchy peanut butter. And the dolphin much prefers creamy, but the store was out, and she really wanted a peanut butter sandwich, so she got crunchy, and then realized that there is no substitute, and she should have just gotten a taco instead. THAT’S what your accent reminds me of. Nice Uggs though.


Scowling black male behind you.

P.S. When I said “nice Uggs”, I meant “not-nice Uggs.” I’m tricksy.

>Why is it that every stoner is immediately a chemist when it comes to smoking? I know a bunch of people who barely passed high school chemistry, but as soon as smoke is involved, they know fifteen different reactions that happen in the body and how to manipulate all of them to get the best high. And their newfound savantesse, (yes, you’ve just witnessed the birth of a word. Congrats!) isn’t limited to chemistry. All of a sudden, they’re chefs, carpenters (honestly, I’ve seen stoners who couldn’t even find a woodshop class build bongs out of acorns and twine) and philosophers. Perhaps rather than teaching against marijuana, teachers should teach through marijuana. Board of Ed, you can thank me later.


My Medical History

April 10, 2007

Throughout my life, I’ve been a pretty healthy person. However, as is the case with all vigorous young lads, I have had occasion to injure myself, ranging from the mildly inocuous to the nearly deadly. Here is, because I’m sure you care, a mild sampling.

The first surgery that I remember having happened when I was about seven years old. I had consented to race another young lad, but seeing as he was possessed of several more years than I, we deemed it fair that I should be allowed the use of one (1) bicycle, whereas he would only be allowed the use of his two strapping legs. Also, apparently, we had arranged the race to take place using language that lurches unpredictably between the 17th and 21 centuries. Kids do the damndest things.

Anyway, this joker decided cut a corner a little close, and when I tried to follow suit, my front tire hit a tree stump and I was sent sprawling. I landed on my chin, and received a nasty gash just above my chin stap. Thanks Helmet! The cut required a few stiches, the scar from which is hid under my manly, bushy, beard, the accumulation of nearly 20 years of facial hair.

The next scar is relatively minor, but is notable for the reaction of those around me. I had been playing kickball and was running to cover a base, when the guy who was attempting to reach that base safely decided to slide. Seeing as we played on concrete, this was somewhat unexpected, and I wound up being tripped and landing on my hip, resulting in the aforementioned scar on my manly hip. This also resulted in the wild giggling of a gaggle of nearby third grade girls, who apparently were able to experience schadenfreude at a seventh grade level. That’s why these days, I continually torture third grade girls by proving that their favorite male stars are almost certainly homosexuals. Thanks Photoshop!

I managed to spend several years memorable injury-free, until 11th grade, at which point I got a black eye. Normally a pretty forgettable experience, save for two things – the circumstances under which I got it were utterly idiotic, and the day after I got it I supposed to be an extra in a music video (which if I get around to it, probably deserves its own story. Unintentional hilarity like you wouldn’t believe.) I had been playing ping pong, and for whatever reason, my paddle had been across the table, and I bent down to pick up a ball. Now, my opponent, who shall remain nameless, decided at this point to throw my paddle across the table, resulting in it bouncing off of my side and into my eye, just as I came up with the ball. Priceless.*

*If anybody asks, I was defending some old ladies from some thugs. Black thugs, with doo-rags and everything.

Obviously, next is the whole drowning story, which did in fact warrant its own post, which you can find under true stories. A bit of aftermath that I didn’t post then: It turns out that having a bunch of tubing being pushed down and taken out of your throat isn’t very good for it (insert porn star joke here). What wound up happening is that I had these legions of scar tissue, called granulomae (which kind of sounds like a kind of granola, but it apparently not), on my larynx. My voice had been getting progressively raspier and raspier, so after recording a blues album, I decided to see a doctor.

My parents, having done some research, were pretty sure what it was. Nonetheless, the doctor had to check, which makes a lot of medical sense, I suppose. Which means that I got to have a lovely telescope pushed through my nose and into my throat. The doctor told me to say AAAHHH. I got through the first A and part of the second before I had a sensation like I was being punched in the throat by a boxing kangaroo (which doesn’t make much sense, but the thought amused me). With this bit of uncomfortability over, the doctor took the telescope out, confident in his diagnosis.

Or so I thought. For some reason, after taking it out, he decided to have a second look. “Yup, granulomae” he confirmed once more, and I thought I was done. Until he began calling colleagues in to also look at it, without regard for the fact that there was a tube going up my nose and down my throat. He called another doctor. He called a nurse. I think at one point he might have called for other patients to see what was going on in my throat. They all had the same diagnosis, and spent an inordinate amount of time gravely nodding to each other and admiring their spiffy white coats. I was not amused.

Eventually the surgery was scheduled, and went pretty seamlessly. Eating was a bit painful for a while, but more painful was the fact that I wasn’t supposed to talk for several days, during which time I still went out with friends. For reasons that escape me now, my inability to talk apparently meant that I had to give them the finger in incredibly creative ways, of which there were more than you might think possible. I WAS allowed to speak a couple of words every few hours, just to make sure my voice was ok, and to my delight, it was nearly an octave deeper and strangely booming. I used this to my full advantage to startle my hapless friends, whose amusement at this particular trick waned well before my own.

My latest injury happened on the gridiron. That’s right. I was playing football. This wasn’t any pussy tackle football though, with all the pads, and the referees, and the goalposts. This was flag football, the sport of kings (who are far too light or out of shape to play regular football). When going up for an interception, I managed to smash into a player going back for a reception, leading my top lip to be caught between my teeth and his head. Needless to say, my lip frenched out and gave way to my teeth, leaving tooth-sized holes in my upper lip. I honestly wanted to finish the game, but apparently the gushing blood was distracting to the other players. So I got on my horse and high-tailed it to Student Health, where I got to sit and fill out forms. During this time, people were served on a first-come, first-served basis, so I had to wait for girls to get their birth control, guys to ask if it really was true that they could get Herpes just by walking on Scripps, and a couple of people who I think were just there to see if they could score lollipops. All the while gushing blood from a hole in my lip.

Eventually I saw the doctor, who informed me that I needed immediate stitching, which he JUST SO HAPPENED to be able to provide FOR A LOW LOW FEE. I’d like to say that I sauntered out of his office and fixed it myself with thumbtacks and duct tape, but I pussied out and got the minor surgery. Delightfully, the painful shots of anaesthetic wore off because of the heavy blood flow, so I got the downright orgasmic sensation of sharp needle pentrating fresh wound. MMMM.

Eventually, the stitches went in and came out, and the swelling went down. If you look closely, there’s still a small scar, which I have just affectionately nicknamed “The Lady Tickler”. Oh yeah. That feels right.

I feel assured that I will find another way to hurt myself soon. If you’re keeping score at home, I’ve been injured: By a tree stump, while being laughed at by third grade girls, by a ping pong paddle, in the shallow end of a pool, and playing FLAG football. In short, I’m pretty awesome.


Nate Gaudy-who?

April 6, 2007

Now, I’m sure most of you don’t know who Nick Gaudio is, and that the rest of you are Nick Gaudio. But rest assured that this ignorance is temporary, for one day this winsome lad will scorch an indelible mark on the literary landscape. For you see, he is an HONORS student at THE West Virginia University. He writes like a poor man’s Hemingway, without the vocabulary, and his wit knows no bounds. (Truly, he is the master of the burn: The randomly violent outbursts; The nonsense verbiage; the gay joke – He’s got it all). But I know some of you don’t have the patience to find his writing on your own; that is why, I am proud to present to you, a vintage Nine-second Nick article.

I make Poetry Badass by Nick Gaudio

Most of you know about my badass prose, and my massive penis. And while it’s true that my prose does often feature sexual situations, and my penis is incredibly massive, I feel like I get sold a little short. Because I also write, like, really badass poetry. Here’s an example of a totally awesome poem I just wrote:

She left her coke can on the night stand

a little red smear of lipstick

fondling the rim

amongst the semen

and anal leakage

Do you see what I did there? I took a totally normal poem and added some vulgar details. And that, my friends, is how to make poetry badass. Because a poem isn’t good unless it somehow refers to manjuice or hookers, preferably both. Sometimes, my poetry is so badass I read it – but not for feedback or artistic expression – i’m so cool I read poetry for beer money. And let me tell you, nothing get’s a chick lubed up faster than a Gaudio original, except maybe the thought of playing hide the pickle with the massive Gaudio dong. Whenever I finish a poem, I look for the hottest chick in the room, and sure enough, she’s melted into a puddle.

A vagina puddle. On my penis.

Here’s a cartoon I made of me doing poetry. It doesn’t have much relevance, but it is fucking hilarious.


In this cartoon I’m smoking a cigarette, because I think having lungs that resemble used tires is motherfucking pimp. But don’t ask me for one of my cigarettes, even if I have a bunch of extras. Get your own!!!!!!!1 Each cigarette is worth like 45 cents, and I’ll be damned if i let a fucking stranger or family member get their grubby paws on any of the profits from my badass poetry.

On an unrelated note, if any rich strangers want to send me money and support the arts, hit me up, and we’ll work something out. I might even reply with a thousand-word entry on my pants-pepperoni.

Every so often, some stupid cunt will say that my poetry lacks variety, or personal depth. I punch her in her stupid cunt ovaries and laugh at another argument won, the Gaudio way. Then, I reach into my pants and scratch my balls and rub it in her mouth until she gags on the Nickbutter, at which point I finish her off with a crotch kick. PWNED!

Gaudio, away!