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In a new feature, I will review the things from the past month that I’ve liked and things that I would punch in the face, whether or not there is a face to be punched. Now, for July’s installment of What’s Crouche?/What’s Schwag?

What’s Crouche?

The Alphabet of Manliness

The Alphabet of Manliness is either the greatest book of all time or the greatest book in the universe. Definitely one of the two and possibly both. Civilizations will find it far into the future and realize that our society was a truly fearsome and mighty society that must have been run by Pirate Lumberjacks. It’s a handy, illustrated guide to all of the things that make being manly great, and how to do them better written by Maddox, the brains behind the Best Page in the Universe (present company excluded, naturally). Organized in a handy, alphabetical format, the guide moves you from ass kicking, boners and copping a feel all the way through jerky, beef and Norris, Chuck. Unfortunately I left my copy in PA, so I forget the rest. Joe brought this to a fantasy football draft last year and I pretty much finished the whole thing while some ding-dong across the country asked for the fifth time if Steve Smith was still on the board. Yes, ball sack, he was taken an hour and a half ago. Choke on your own vomit, please.

Maddox also has a comic book coming out, which I’ll be sure to check out. There’s also a post on iPods sucking. Should be a good read for all of us techno-coveters.

College Football

The transformation is now complete. I am a college football fan first and foremost over the NFL and neither of these seasons has started. I’m just way more excited for college football this year than the pro’s. Sure, I’ll watch NFL games on Sundays, but I don’t think I watched a single Monday night game last year. I’m sick of the contract disputes, the crass commercialism, the idiocy of the nouveau riche of the NFL, the lack of heart and fire of (some of) these multi-millionaire animals. You name it, I’m pretty much done.

As an extension of this, I’m pretty sure I’m through with fantasy football, too. I had two extremes: the league where no one cares and the league where people are on at Tuesday 9AM to pick up players off of the waiver wire while some of us have to work for a living, thus two or three people with stacked rosters and I’m eating shit. Though I may come up with a fantasy fantasy football team just so I can come up with a team name. Check out this article if you are having trouble coming up with a name. I’m looking at you, Speedsters. I may come back, but for now I’m done. And I call dibs on the Rural Jurors if I do come back.

Now, if you’re a football fan, how can you not love the college game? The spirit of the students, the bands, the mascots, College Gameday… It’s all much more exciting to me. And these guys don’t get paid nearly as much as pro players, and it’s all under the table, so no contract disputes! It’s a win-win! Granted, my team stands even less of a chance winning a championship in college (Maryland) as they do in the pros (Skins) but f it. The games are cheaper and a lot more fun.

Oh, and Every Day Should Be Saturday is my favorite college football humor site. Welcome to the blogroll, Orson and co.

This is THRILLER!

Guess this beats making license plates. How do you think they chose the dude to be the girl? Do you think this is a decision that he regrets? In the early rehearsals did someone get shanked? So many questions… I guess that’s what makes this so great. Or maybe it’s how freakin’ good they are. (HT Kissing Suzy Kolber)

Death Race 2000

While not quite the ultimate man movie that I had envisioned in my reverse chick flick post, it’s pretty close. In the future… The future? In the year… 2000! Our newly fascistic country (off by a year and a half, darn) stages a cross-country road race from New York to LA. The drivers are the new gladiators. The navigators are busty cock towels (or poon towels, as the case may be. We are equal opportunity in the future). First one there wins. Oh, did I mention you get bonus points for vehicular homicide, with the elderly being worth the most? My second wildest dream has come true! It’s got everything you could ever want from a bad movie: gratuitous boobs, gratuitous violence, awful acting, young Sylvester Stallone and David Carradine (oh yeah, I mentioned awful acting already) and gratuitous boobs. Total classic.

Could’ve used more gratuitous boobs, though.

Cheesesteaks w/ Cheez Whiz

I thoroughly explored the cheesesteak thing with the Pat’s vs. Geno’s challenge, but it bears repeating. I haven’t been able to get that flavor out of my head since then. Almost time to try my homegrown version. And yes, I have ordered a home angioplasty kit.

Flight of the Conchords

Courtney and I actually saw these guys on Conan about 2 years ago. Never heard of them, and they were hilarious. They did “Business Time,” which is definitely a great song when it’s time for business. That’s why we call it business time.

HBO picked them up for a show, and I love it. It’s a bit quirky, but hilarious. Brett and Jemaine are excellent foils for each other. Check it out. Or be a dick about it and don’t.

Miller High Life

Why would I give some love to Miller High Life? Because it isn’t as bad as I remember it. Took down an eighteen pack with the cousin on the way to a pretty fun, beery night. And no hangover. The champagne of beers, indeed! (Even though champagne makes me hung over like no other.)

Corn!

It’s sweet corn season, so hit the ATM and keep some dough on you while you’re driving around. The Silver Queen should be hitting your country roads at any minute. Enjoy, bitches.

The Crouche Douche: Wilco

The coveted Crouche Douche label goes to this band that I’ve really plunged into headfirst over the past month or so. I didn’t care too much for them at first, but their music kept growing on me and growing on me. Once I saw them live that was pretty much it for me. After reading Wilco: Learning How to Die I have an even greater respect for the band and the creative process. I think they’re one of the most inventive and original (while still very listenable, this cannot be overstated as it’s my problem with most every other inventive/original sounding band out there) American bands making music today. They manage to blend their experimental whims with a roots/rock/punk/country (at times) foundation in a striking fashion. A lot of bands could attempt to do something like this and greatly overreach their grasp, either making trashy sounding roots rock or over-processed experimental wankery (which some of their explorations can degenerate into, for sure). Wilco manages to strike the balance most all of the time. Their music has many layers that reveal themselves upon repeated listens, which is very rewarding for a music fan that hasn’t found a lot to be excited about musically in a while.

Check out Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, or Summerteeth if you’re a little scared of the experimentation. I definitely wouldn’t start off with A.M. or Sky Blue Sky. I didn’t care too much for them until I got into their other stuff.

What’s Schwag?

Summer

I’m one of those people that bitches about how cold it is in the winter, but I never say “I can’t wait for summer.” You know why? Because summer is too fucking hot. Once you graduate and head out into the real world, summer doesn’t quite have the same panache. I pretty much live in one season: work season, and the only difference is either being cold or sweaty balls. I like Spring, which we had a whopping 2 weeks of this year. Fall is cool, too. I definitely like those two times of the year the best. Which leads us to:

No rain

My lawn is brown (but I don’t have to mow, so that evens out) and the rivers are low. This sucks.

Cheez Whiz on anything else

I was so fired up after Philly for Cheez Whiz that I even got some to have with soft pretzels. Now I’ve been a salsa con queso guy on my soft pretzels for a while, but I craved the Whiz. I am also an idiot. Cheez Whiz sucks balls, unless it is accompanied with beef grease. Don’t make the same mistake I made.

Dog fighting

Dogs fighting is sad and awful. Guess I’m glad I couldn’t get a Mexico #7 Falcons jersey after all.

Man vs. Wild faked?

Kissing Suzy Kolber first brought this to my attention (two HT’s in one post, lucky dogs…) yesterday. I think I’m going to take the “Whatever, I never heard that” tack with this one. But you know what? Who cares if he doesn’t sleep out in the wild all the time? That’s the easy part. He did drink his own pee, pee on his shirt and wrap it around his head to keep cool, kill a rabbit with two sticks tied together… I could really go on and on with this. He knows how to do all that stuff, and he shows us how. Do you think they have enough money in there for their budget for him to go find all of the perfect shit to make a raft, then put it together? Isn’t the knowledge enough? It’s TV for chrissakes… Get over it!

I think that made me feel better. I’ll keep telling myself that.

Green Tea Hershey’s Kisses

This would’ve been the Schwiggity Schwag if it wasn’t for the next one. A lady at work brought these in the other week. They were sitting on the back desk with a note saying “Try at your own risk! These are awful!”

So naturally, I tried them shits.

And boy, was she not lying. Perhaps one of the grossest things I’ve ever eaten in my life, and I couldn’t get the bastard taste out of my mouth all day.

So naturally, I foisted them upon the unwitting for the next couple of days. Hilarity did ensue. Most people gave you a look like you just shat directly in their mouth.

I asked this woman what compelled her to get such things. She thought they may be a bit healthier and didn’t think they’d taste just like green tea. Poor, poor woman. What did you expect them to taste like, regular Hershey’s kisses? These things are ass. And if I ever offer you a Hershey’s kiss with a green striped wrapper, just say no. In fact, let’s just forget I said that.

The Schwiggity Schwag: Being Broke

For the 72nd straight month, being broke is the worst shit and thing I hate the most. Now, I could be a lot more broke, I understand that. I’m very thankful for what I’ve got, but shit… bills be kicking my ass. Almost time to start selling off my seed for $25 a shot.

Get ready, because I’m going to talk about baseball. This is pretty rare, but we’re on the cusp of a big moment for not only baseball, but all of sports.

Barry Bonds is quickly approaching Hank Aaron’s all-time home run record of 755, and a lot of people are pissed off. I know that the bulk of my readership (that’s 3 out of 5) are not sports fans, but this is an important story. This is something people will be talking about for the rest of our lives, or at least the rest of the year, and you should know at least something about it. Let me preface this by saying I am not a baseball fan. If you are reading this and are a big baseball fan you may think that I have a pretty cavalier attitude about the whole thing, and I probably do. There is a lot of real rage about this approaching landmark that I don’t really understand probably because I’m not a baseball fan.

I’d rather get in a groin punching contest with Mitch “Blood” Green than watch a baseball game on television any day of the week. But, like any other red-blooded American male I like to take a baseball game in at the park. Or at least drink a shload of beer at the park. I, like almost all American males in my demographic, also collected baseball cards with a fervent passion, so I’ve got a little residual love for the game thanks to cats like Dickie Thon and Rusty Kuntz. Imagine putting Dickie behind Kuntz in your lineup! Or on top of him. It’s all hot.

As such a kid I knew a pile about stats and records and whatnot, and the most monolithic record of them all is Hank Aaron’s 755 career home runs. That there is a lot of dingers. The previous record holder, some dude named Babe Ruth, had held that title for 39 years with 714 home runs. As kids we held that 755 in awe, and never did I imagine that I’d see someone break it. (more…)

Perception is a funny thing. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. You gets no part of my weed but you can have my bitch Heather. Sorry, got lost in an ign’ant tangent. There seems to be a new genre of movie that looks like a guy’s movie, feels like a guy’s movie, even makes me laugh like a guy’s movie, but rears it’s ugly head at the end to really be kind of a chick flick (Simmons brought this up in an earlier column with his dubbed “spork” flicks, but I’m not limiting myself, baby.). Some examples:

• The 40 Year Old Virgin

• Knocked Up

• Wedding Crashers

What do these movies have in common? They’re all pretty funny (at least in the beginning), they have male protagonists, and chicks seem to like them. (That’s strange, most girls don’t like watching Caddyshack, Clerks, Animal House or Dirty Work with me…) Also, Judd Apatow made the first two, the guy who brought us Talladega Nights (meeeehhhh, alright) and Anchorman (fuck yes).

But these three movies are not truly guy movies. Yes, guys are the main characters. They do guy stuff and make dick and fart jokes, just like real guys. But the message gets tainted at the end. What do these three movies have in common? In order to truly attain happiness the guy must totally change who he is so that a woman will love him and, therefore, make him truly happy. Behold, the examples:

40 Year-Old Virgin: Guy leads a decent, if nookie free, life. Has a steady job, his own place, and all of the video games and action figures he could ever want. Sounds pretty sweet, right? Shoot, we’ve all had droughts when all we dated was our right hand (or for a little exotic twist, our left hand after sitting on it for 10 minutes) for a somewhat extended period of time, and things went pretty well, right? So his boys try to get him to get some ass, and he seems down with it. Good friends, good idea. Lots of mishaps abound, and he turns up the sure-fire freak who would love a thumb in her butt and being called mommy mid-coitus for the older broad he has feelings for and he still waits until he’s married. Motherfucker bought the cow when he could’ve gotten the sweet freaky sex for free. He even freaks out when he’s losing his identity before realizing that’s what he really wants… Say it with me now, awwwww….

Knocked Up: (Spoiler alert, retard) Dude that hangs out with his buddies and gets stoned all the time (sound familiar, fellas? Did your ladies say “they’re just like you and your friends” to you? Thought so.) meets a truly bangin chick, plants the seed, and has to totally give up everything he likes to make this girl happy and be her full time love interest and baby daddy, totally ditching his friends in the process.

Wedding Crashers: Two best friends live the swinging life by crashing weddings and wielding meat with copious amounts of girls. A cad’s lifestyle? Sure, but what else do they have going on? Wedding season is summer, and all that’s on is baseball. Who doesn’t like free food and booze and anonymous sex? Funny how I don’t see any hands raised… So he finally finds the girl that he wants to change his life for and that’s when the fun STOPS. Seriously, is there any movie that hit the emergency brakes on the fun train faster than Wedding Crashers? How does it end? He changes his life and gets the girl, only after turning damn near suicidal over a girl he knew for approximately 48 hours. Get a grip, douchebag.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like all three of these movies. They were all very funny. I guess even Knocked Up didn’t totally piss me off at the end because he was doing it for the kid, which is respectable. But the main theme for all three of these movies is guy has fun, does his own thing; guy meets girl who totally makes him change; guy pisses on everyone and everything he loves for this girl, he is now happy.

****Before I go any further, Courtney, I know you’re reading this. This in NO WAY reflects how I feel about myself, but how I feel about the movies I’m talking about, and the general theme they seem to reflect. I’m just talking about movies. I can still do anything I want and you’re an AMAZING woman and I love you with all of my heart. You’ve never insisted that I change anything and you’ve only helped me grow as a person. Don’t hit me. Thank you.****

And maybe that’s what they’re getting at, that these guys were incomplete and they grew and became better/more complete people thanks to these women brought into their lives. I can respect that, but ho in 40 Year-Old Virgin makes dude get rid of ALL of his action figures. What the fuck? That’s a lifetime of collecting! Girl in Knocked Up monopolizes his time and more or less makes him choose between his friends and her. Hey, if you want him to give up the tree, that’s fine. He’s unemployed and living off of an insurance settlement. But dang, let him hang out and look for nipples in movies with his boys! That should make you happy, too! The more time he spends looking for other nipples the less time he’s tugging and feeling on yours (scientifically proven). And in Wedding Crashers? Yeah, maybe the womanizing could get old. Maybe. Gosh, I don’t know. But this dude was fucking MO-ROSE after the girl got pissed at him and told him to fuck off. Well you lied to try to get in her pants. Deal with it.

This train of thought echoes what I’ve heard many folks say (like the G.I.P., for instance). But there’s something else that made me write about this. I was reading this chat transcript from the Washington Post that talked about Knocked Up. Allow me to quote:

Silver Spring, Md.: Hi, Ann, love a woman chatter! I say this because there are so many what I call “male fantasy movies” that men in particular seem to love.

Most recent version of this, “Knocked Up.” Very funny, but super sharp woman ends up with a jerk who turns out to have a somewhat sweet side but is nowhere near her equal in terms of brains, education, earning potential. Enough already!

I think some of these have been spawned by country songs, which routinely contain lyrics such as how amazing that you, a PhD, could love an automobile mechanic and high school drop-out. I’m sure there are some of these marriages, and some of them may be happy, but not nearly as many of these good ole boys would like to have us believe.

Ann Hornaday: Love it! I must admit, I had the same reaction to “Knocked Up” — he never quite transcended that arrested adolescent vibe to make me root for him. I can’t quote her here, but Gloria Steinem recently coined a very funny phrase for guy-centric movies, a slightly profane pun on “chick flick.” … I’d say that generally, yes, since most of the filmmakers and green-lighters in Hollywood are (still) guys, there’s probably a bias toward male fantasy fulfillment in the narratives they create. And as readers/viewers/listeners/consumers, we’re all conditioned to accept the white male perspective as the universal, objective norm.

Go fuck yourself, Silver Spring. And don’t call the male EMT when you get a zucchini stuck up in there, you man hating bitch.

Oh, ha ha ha…. A dick flick. I get it. You know what a dick flick is? Fucking 300 (in all it’s thinly veiled homoerotic glory). The leading male (Leonidas) is empowered. He tells a huge army to suck his Spartan cock (paraphrase). He has a bangin wife, who is also an empowered chick and LOVES that he’s empowered, too. She encourages him to be himself. And he encourages her to take disdick. Then some war happens. Guys get stuck with spears and warhammers and clubbed with shit. The end. That’s a dick flick, Ms. Steinem.

In what ways do any of these three movies exhibit male fantasy fulfillment, besides the beginning of Wedding Crashers (getting mad play) and Knocked Up (Katherine Heigl on your weiner)? It may start off as male fantasy fulfillment. Any average guy knows a chick that hot wouldn’t sleep with him, no matter how funny he is, unless he pulled up to the club in a gold plated Bentley and drug his dick behind him on the way in. But homeboy does it, raw dog at that. End of fantasy. She wakes up and sees he’s a regular dude (thanks, booze!), has an awkward breakfast and proceeds to blow him off until she finds out he hath spawned in her fertile field and needs a baby daddy. Guy goes back to his regular life doing his thing, then gets to knock it out a couple of more times while she gets greater with child. Make no mistake, the fantasy ends at “I’m pregnant.” Game fucking over, Ben.

So we go from male fantasy fulfillment (average guy bangs hot girl… Seriously, is that the depth of the male fantasy?) to the endings, chock full of female fantasy fulfillment. “This guy was a total schlub and loser and I fixed him! I fucking rock! Now, let’s have some Cosmos! Girl power!” This is what happens in all three of these movies (in one way or another), and every other reverse chick flick that’s ever been made.

Who were the ad wizards that came up with these? I think Oprah has developed a lab to make the ultimate subversive chick flicks, the reverse chick flick. Lure us in with the funny. You put Apatow’s name on it “fuck yeah, I love Anchorman… I’m in.” Lull us into a false sense of comfort, then WHAM! They cut our virtual movie dicks off! The secret Hollywood gynocracy (tm, me) is trying to emasculate huMANity! They know there are guys like me who put our feet down and say “hell no, no chick flicks, no way.” So you ladies find your girlfriends, sisters, mothers, etc… and go see Hugh Grant piss away male existence opposite whomever with a real tender soundtrack. But the girls want to see movies with us, too. That’s how these movies came about.

As I said, I like every movie I mentioned above. Even the end of Wedding Crashers didn’t totally sully the movie for me, even though Owen Wilson is wearing WAY too much makeup in it. Yikes… But they all made me feel a little weird at the end. I’m having a good time laughing about dick and fart jokes and “You know how I know you’re gay?” and all that good stuff, then I felt the old tug and snip at my crotch. Motherfucker. I got duped.

It’s funny how the ladies in the chat above (and maybe even the couple of you that read this blog) felt that Knocked Up embodied the ultimate male fantasy. I know that none of my friends that have seen it (or the other two) would say that. We just thought we were watching a funny movie that ended up getting us stuck in another having babies conversation (not me, but men in general). The guy sold out and the woman got her way. How does this fulfill my fantasies?

You want to make a movie that would appeal to my male fantasies? First of all, get the MPAA to come up with a rating well beyond NC-17. The movie starts with Chuck Norris and Bear Grylls as cybernetic commandos being dropped into the major metropolis of your choice. It has been overrun with hot, big-tittied, nympho aliens (I’m thinking Jessica Biel and Scarlett Johannson could be the bi-sexual alien queens). Chuck and Bear fuck them all out of existence with their cybernetic machine-gun dicks. Then they fly back and punch their boss in the face, go fishing, and have some peace and fucking quiet. That is a male fantasy movie.

In an ongoing attempt to provide a public service to our readership, and since I’m the foremost expert in everything, I’ve decided to offer my expertise in all of the various areas where I’m truly knowledgeable. So to kick this thing off, I’m going to start with the one thing I’m perhaps the best at:

Taking a Dump at Work

You know the feeling. You’re sitting at your desk and you get a rumble in your stomach. What do you do? Hold onto it until quitting time or get up, slink down the hall and get it out of your life? If you’re of the former camp, what’s wrong with you? Pooping at work is one of the great American pastimes, up there with watching football, masturbation, and pooping at home. What are you, some kind of commie or something? You spend a third of your life at work. Factor in a long commute and your day could be half consumed before your cheeks get to hit home porcelain. So you’re going to rob time from your precious loved ones/pets/internet porn by waiting until you get home to drop it like it’s hot? Home field advantage is an undeniable luxury, but come on! When nature calls you can’t always make it home, and nature doesn’t leave voice mails, so why don’t you get off your high horse and use the company facilities?

The Case For

There are a number of great reasons to make a boom boom at work. Some are even more compelling than going at home. Behold, the knowledge:

The work bathroom is probably cleaner than your house bathroom. Someone gets paid to clean your work bathroom nearly every day. How often do you clean the crapper at home? Weekly? Yeah right. I’ve been to your house, and that’s a crock. And unless you work at a VD clinic, the cleaning is probably good to go all day.

Even if you re-enact the bombing of Nagasaki with you colon, someone else has to clean the mess. So let me get this straight. Not only is it clean when I get there, I can also blow it the fuck up and not have to clean up the consequences? Fuck and yes…

There’s a distinct chance that your boss or an asshole co-worker will have to endure your stank. Did the boss dress you down at the meeting? Did that jagoff in accounting take your parking spot? Deal with the wretched stank from my small intestine, you mouthbreathing dick bag!

You get paid to shit at work. How does it get better than that? Let me repeat myself in case you missed it… YOU GET PAID TO SHIT AT WORK. Let me get this straight, you give me money to grunt one out between the hours of 8-4:30? Maybe this gig isn’t as bad as I thought. You get to get up from your desk, saunter down the hall, and take a nice 3-15 minute break with no phone calls or annoying co-workers to bother you. Where do I sign up? Oh yeah, that’s right… In the bathroom. Look, if this doesn’t persuade you then you are a lost soul, and there is no hope for you. Invest in some diapers, you dandy.

Now that you’re convinced, all this doo-doo talk probably has you ripe for an evacuation. But not so fast! If you’re a rookie you need to know the right way to go about workplace number 2’s. Even a professional should take some time to reacquaint his or herself with

Potty Etiquette

In my past 10 years of office work I have seen some gross offenders. Poop is some dirty business, but it doesn’t have to be that dirty.

• Bathroom selection

If you work at a one john office then you’re kind of screwed. You can skip on, but I’d advise against it because you may actually get a decent job one day at a company that cares enough to give you two or more shitters. Pop quiz, hot shot: That carnitas burrito from Chipotle has just hit your guts and is dying to get out. You have two options. 1) The one holer in the heavily populated area of work where everyone pees or 2) The 6 staller down the hall where the executives are located, but few of your fellow ops employees. Where do you go? If you answered 1, you are a fucking bastard. This example was not just pulled out of thin air, this is an actual real life experience, culled from my work at The Nerdery. Calvin was the night testing manager and survived on a diet of coffee and Copenhagen (not to mention that he had a WICKED mullet. Cheers, fuckface.) so you can just imagine what this guy’s b.m.’s were like. They were of a noxious and humid variety. Weaker men have been brought to their knees by this guy’s stench. So where does asshole choose to make it happen? The little shitter, because it’s closer. Now, if he would’ve went down the hall no one would’ve been around and he could’ve fumigated the entire place and no one would be the wiser. Instead I actually had to pull my shirt up over my nose ninja style just to pee pee. Rat-soup eating motherfucker.

Okay, you picked the right bathroom. Now what?

• Reading material

This really depends on how long you’re going to be, and no one knows this better than you. A diet rich in protein? Reading material is not necessary for quickies, though a 1-2 page column or news story are acceptable. High fiber diet? Go ahead and print off that Bill Simmons 5 pager and relax. Taco Bell for lunch? If it’s football season you can print off TMQ and maybe be able to finish it before you either wipe or your legs go numb. DO NOT let your legs go numb. It is not cool to have to be carried out of the bathroom because you’re a lavatory librarian. Hemmorhoids are also a possibility.

Another question you need to answer is what is the traffic situation in this bathroom? You don’t want to emerge from the stall with a magazine or newspaper when your President or CEO has IBS and is in the bathroom almost as much as his desk. Of course I’m not speaking from experience, but I’d recognize those wingtips anywhere. My solution? Print something off of the Internet, read it, flush, then fold it while the flush is going on. If no one is in there, no problem. If there are potty mates, put the paper in your pocket. The perfect crime, indeed. Now when I was working the night shift I’d make a big production of which magazine I was going to pick, then flamboyantly tuck it under my arm and march down the hall without an ounce of shame. Then I’d come back and carry on like I just gave birth. Why? Because the audience was receptive. Don’t try this when you’re one of 3 males in the room. The ladies, on the whole, don’t share in the love.

Some office shitters I’ve frequented may have a newspaper on the floor that someone had brought in. Doesn’t it go without saying to not read this newspaper? Some dude who was pooping was holding onto this paper. Just let this one go, even in a reading emergency.

The bathroom has been selected, the appropriate reading material has been procured and you’re off to the bathroom. You get in there and there are other people in the bathroom. Now what? Do you want to be known as the shitter? Are you in the company of fellow wanton shitters? Most of the time I will not start nesting if there are other people in the can. Mainly because I don’t want to be the subject of a “guess who’s in the bathroom baking brownies” conversation. However, there are a couple of guys I work with who are office dumpers and damn proud of it. They don’t care who’s there, and will probably say something like “Whew, holy shit do I have to take a dump.” I haven’t quite reached that stage. I’m more stealth. I may stop in the hall if I see someone else going in to my original target bathroom and head to the alternate. Then again, I normally don’t wait until the turtle head starts poking out before I make my decision, so I’m probably cool to wait a bit, too. To protect your rep, I advise against pooing with company. And, if someone has come in during the course of my movement I will usually wait until they leave, unless they’re having a sitting event, then I’ll wash up and get out. Does that make me weird? I guess it’s a little too late since I’ve already devoted this much bandwidth to pooping at work.

• Making noise

One way in which I am not usually shy is making noise. Not in terms of grunting (that’s for kids and the constipated), I mean the accompanying gas. If you follow my principles from the previous paragraph you’re either by yourself in the john or anonymously evacuating, so why not have some fun with it? This step is for the more advanced. You have to be comfortable in your act for this to be cool.

• To spray or not to spray, that is the question

In most men’s rooms this isn’t even an option as no spray is to be found. This is why the larger bathrooms are preferred, because scent dispersal is a lot easier in a larger room. However, some offices have placed Lysol in the bathrooms. DO NOT EVER USE LYSOL AFTER YOU SHIT!!!! I am fucking serious. Lysol DOES NOT cover the odor. It binds with the odor to make an unholy scent that is almost guaranteed to make you throw up. You know who used Lysol after his dumps? Calvin. The noxious cloud would seriously make my eyes water. Boy I hated Calvin.

I’ve heard a rumor that some ladies rooms have good spray like Oust or something like it. This is totally acceptable. Of course they wouldn’t put these in the mens room because, being men, we would piss all over them. It’s just the way of the world.

That’s pretty much all you need to know to successfully shit at work. Follow my principles and you’ll be making money for performing one of the most basic of bodily functions all while your more timid co-workers sit at their desks with rumblings in their stomachs and sweat beading on their brows, just because they’re too chicken to go potty like an adult.

*The following is a special feature to Schitthaus.com by Middle East correspondent and all-around sweet dude, the Notorious G.I.P. This thoroughly researched and completely factual article is the fourth installment in what will be a series of educational pieces about his experiences in the Holy Land. (The following report includes absolutely no fabrication or embellishment.)

Greetings once again from Ramallah.

After quite a long day today, I am sitting in my bed enjoying a nice, cool glass of “Multi-vitamin Nectar” (I love this place). As I am writing this, my neighbors are firing celebratory AK-47 rounds in the air and I’m hoping they’ll land somewhere other than here (the rounds, not the neighbors). OK, without further ado, here’s the latest news:

 

It’s no Insult Master

I played an interesting video game today on a friend’s TV while waiting for the washing machine to break again. It was the familiar game where the player attempts to bounce a “ball” off of his moving “paddle” to destroy “bricks,” thereby earning “points” in hopes of impressing “girls.” In this version, however, an extra feature has been included: A pile of shit floats around taking smaller shits all over the bricks. I am serious. The big shit even closes its eyes each time it takes a dump. It was mad gross. I even took a picture because, yes, I am coordinated enough to simultaneously rule at video games AND take award-winning photographs.

All Jamal
As I mentioned in a previous report, there is a plethora of satellite television channels pumped into my apartment daily. I was flipping through the standard Arabic pop music and conservative Islamic phone-in shows when I spotted the channel that has single-handedly reversed my hatred of the television: The camel channel. It’s all camels, all day long. I’m not kidding. The camels just stand around, and occasionally, a man dressed in a robe and a keffiyeh walks up to them, gestures, and speaks a few words. From what I can decipher (using my dynamite Arabic skills), he typically says something like this, “This is a camel. I like camels.” Or sometimes he just stands there. That’s it.

Delicious!
I thought you would like to know that I have a new favorite beer, which is brewed right here in the West Bank by real West Bankers (Wankers, for short). The name? Taybeh. Is it the best-tasting beer in the world? Maybe not, but it’s pretty decent, plus it has this guy going for it, which is nice. If you’re still not convinced, read the following excerpt, taken word-for-word (or non-word, as the case may be) from the official Taybeh website:

“For peak flavor, store all beer away from heat and light . Heat, light, and age, are theenemies of all beer. Store in a cool dark place,and the use of a brown bottle will protect the beer from light Green bottle will protect the beer from light. Green bottles offer protection from light, as one minute of direct light can turn beer in a green bottle shunky in aroma and taste. Beer should be fresh, unlike wine, it deteriorates as soon as it is bottled. Most imported beer contains adjuncts and\or preservatives to preserve them for long ocean shipping. TAYBEH BEER is completely pure.”

You know, I could see myself staying here to launch a PR campaign against “shunky” beer (and maybe doing some freelancing as an editor).

Fan Mail

Normally, I receive entirely too much fan mail to read, but today I decided that I would open a few letters and share one of the many questions asked of me with you, the faithful Schitthaus.com readers. So, here it goes…

Krystal from Ranson, WV asks:

“i know you is cool & tough, but has you done been in any danjer over thur?”

The answer, Krystal, is no, although, the other night I did have a close call. It was about 2 o’clock in the A.M. and some of my associates and I were just leaving one of the popular social establishments in downtown Ramallah. As we stood outside, an acquaintance of ours generously offered to drive us back to our apartment. “Sounds good,” I said. But once we hopped in the back of his silver BMW, it was obvious that things were not right. Just then, the driver opened all of the windows, reached his hand toward the dashboard, and…began blasting some Michael Bolton ballads. We were so scared that we all made falafel in our trousers.

So let that be a lesson, kids (what the lesson is, I don’t know).

See you next time.
Love,

Gip (who ain’t no no-talent ass clown)

 

The Olde English had Canterbury, hippies have Woodstock, Muslims have Mecca, lardasses and carnivores have the corner of 9th and Passyunk in Philadelphia. There you will find the twin titans of the cheesesteak world, Pat’s and Geno’s. Being both of the aforementioned, the cheesesteak is one of my favorite foods of all time. And what’s not to love? Greasy beef, artery clogging (often fake) cheese… Best thing ever, man. So when you swear allegiance to a food, you look for the best. You grow weary of your local pizza and sub shop’s variant and seek the real deal. And if you eventually seek the real deal, you end up in the middle of South Philly, where I happened to find myself on a balmy Sunday in July.

Ask a hundred Philadelphians and you’ll be hard pressed to find a majority (but most everyone I know says Pat’s). How often do you find yourself in South Philly? Do you want to go home unsure of who the real king of the steak is? And if you have a pocket full of cash and you’re hungry like the wolf you can’t bitch out. You don’t go for one of the other, you go for both. Decisions are for pussies.

With my lovely assistant and our two hungover compatriots we set out to find out the truth. I’m not going to tell you which one you must go to. I will instead present the facts, measure them up tale of the tape style, and present you with my favorite. But do yourself a favor. Try both.

Pat’s vs. Geno’s - The Tale of the Tape

Bread

Let’s start from the outside and work our way in. This is kind of cheating, because I’m about 90% sure that they use the same bread: the ubiquitous philly roll from Amoroso’s. The roll is darn tasty. It’s a little bit tougher than your run of the mill supermarket hoagie roll, but South Philly is a little tougher than your normal neighborhood. It’s delightfully spongy. Geno’s seemed to have been a little more “done,” so to speak. It gave it a pronounced bread flavor. I’m sure this was a fluke and they don’t order their rolls extra cripsy, but I liked their roll better on my trip.

Edge: Geno’s

Meat

Here’s the biggest difference between a steak from Pat’s and a steak from Geno’s. Pat’s chops theirs up finely. Geno’s steak looks a little more shaved than chopped. Geno’s had a very beefy flavor to it, whereas Pat’s beef (no homo) did not overwhelm with flavor, but acted more as a part of the ensemble. I think they both had their merits, but I prefer Pat’s by a hair. I liked the chop and everything else Pat’s meat brought to the table, but Geno’s had the (slightly) better flavor and that’s pretty much it.

Edge: Pat’s

Cheese

Unless you are a major fruit, you only get your steaks with Whiz. That’s Cheez Whiz to you, fucko. I was a little leery of the Whiz at first, being a sissy semi-rural suburbanite that made his steaks with Velveeta, then provolone when I thought my shit didn’t stink. Turns out I was more right on with the Velveeta. It’s not just the taste that’s better with the Whiz, it’s the meltitude. By using the Whiz it allows all of the components (there better be onions in there, too, Nancy) to form one sweet mass. This is what makes the difference between a steak and cheese and a cheesesteak. Now it starts to make sense, eh?

So who’s the winner here? I can’t confirm, but I’ve read that Geno’s doesn’t use Kraft brand Cheez Whiz. I don’t know about that, but the Pat’s Whiz was off the hook. That may also be because I accidently ordered it with extra Whiz, but my mistake was serendipitous. Geno’s cheese was meager, even taking into account that I got extra Whiz at Pat’s. This is a place where Geno’s definitely could’ve shined and may have eventually taken the title, which may lead us to Pat’s vs. Geno’s II - Geno’s Revenge.

Edge: Pat’s

Other Food Related Things

You really don’t need any more than a steak if you go to one of these joints, but if you’re feeling saucy they both offer fries, and they both offer them with cheese. That’s right, bitches, Whiz fries. Pat’s fries were tasty and delicious, even though there was WAY too much Whiz. Geno’s fries sucked, big time. They tasted like cafeteria fries. And unless you go to school at Thrasher’s French Fries University, those fries sucked. I didn’t really pay attention to the rest of Pat’s menu. Geno’s has a roast pork sandwich that my boy Justin says is pretty tasty. I’ll probably never find out, but I trust him on it. Pat’s had a nice little pepper and condiment bar. Not that I needed it. I felt a little dumb even putting a touch of ketchup on it and I did not repeat the mistake at Geno’s, even though I should’ve. Geno’s had a little less on the condiment side. I could really care less, I suppose. Oh yeah, Pat’s serves Pepsi and Geno’s serves Coke. That being said, Pat’s still gets the edge with the Whiz fries.

Edge: Pat’s

Service

This is a no-brainer. The affable older gentleman working the window at Geno’s was much nicer than the surly goombah at Pat’s. Then again, some people like the whole “what the fuck do you want” kind of attitude they give you at Pat’s. I get it, you’re the King of Steaks. Now shut up and ring me up.

Edge: Geno’s

Cleanliness

Another no-contest. Pat’s was like a fucking dump, literally. Garbage and pigeons everywhere. I have no idea what the condition of the inside was, but it looked like a hellhole. Geno’s, on the other hand, was near pristine. There was no junk on the sidewalk, the kitchen looked very clean, and there was hardly a pigeon. A couple rogue asshole Goodfeathers from Pat’s stomped around on the sidewalk, but no big deal.

MAJOR Edge: Geno’s

Miscellaneous

As anyone that knows about these two places will tell you, Geno’s is the gaudy place clad in orange and neon. Celebrity photos adorn the walls. Hey, no shit, James Gandolfini eats cheesesteaks? Get the fuck out of here! There is also tons of law enforcement paraphernalia all over the place. There’s a big picture and dedication to Officer Daniel Faulkner, the cop that was allegedly shot by Mumia Abu-Jamal at the front of the building. I’m guessing The Boss and Rage Against the Machine are Pat’s guys. Joe Vento, proprietor of Geno’s, apparently has a bug up his ass about people trying to order in “not English.” There are numerous signs, stickers, and t-shirts saying “This is America. When ordering SPEAK ENGLISH.” Not entirely sure how I feel about that, but he’s made a kind of cottage industry out of it.

Pat’s, on the other hand, is pretty much entirely void of pretense, unless you consider counter guy being an asshole to you as a pretense (and I may), though I have to say he wasn’t entirely rude to me, just brusque. . There is a handy sign next to the window advising you how to order, which is nice. It’s a charming enough place, in it’s seamy, trashy glory. I guess it depends on what kind of person you are. If you’re a flamer you like the Geno’s aesthetic. If you’re a bowie knife shaving, shocker giving, red-blooded American then you probably like the Pat’s style. All that being said, I still liked Pat’s better. Geno’s seemed really corporate, and that isn’t me. Also, Beth and Justin were TOTALLY hungover, and Pat’s brought them back like a Life potion in Final Fantasy. What, too nerdy? Cheesesteaks are truly God’s food. They have miraculous healing powers.

Edge: Pat’s

Final Verdict

As you can tell, when it came to the shit that really mattered, the meat, cheese, and roll, the contest was very close. Ultimately it comes down to do you like your meat chopped or shaved? I prefer mine stroked, but that, fortunately, was not an option, though the guy at Pat’s had big forearms. But I digress… I say Pat’s is truly the King of Steaks, but it’s no landslide. Geno’s is very decent in their own right. And with a couple of tweaks to my order (extra whiz?) we very easily could’ve had a push, or even a Geno’s victory. But this time we did not, so Pat’s is the winner.

Oh, and here’s where I got that one picture. What the fuck?

 

*The following is a special feature to Schitthaus.com by Middle East correspondent and all-around sweet dude, the Notorious G.I.P. This thoroughly researched and completely factual article is the third installment in what will be a series of educational pieces about my experiences in the Holy Land. The following report includes absolutely no fabrication or embellishment…

Marhaba.
I now live in the West Bank city of Ramallah, which is Arabic for “Holy Shit!” My colleagues and I arrived in the city yesterday and were eventually dropped off at what will be our home for the next five weeks, which is located in the neighborhood of Masayef (Motto: “I hope you like spiders”).

A fun game we found to play here in the West Bank is called “Will It Stop?” To play, cross the street assuming that traffic will follow the standard protocol of yielding to pedestrians (it usually does). Then, about 1 out of every 10 times, a car flies past you at about 70 KPH, which in ‘Murican units is slightly more than 490 MPH. This helps keep you on your toes, as it can be all too easy to lull yourself into a false sense of security when you are constantly seeing civilians strapped with large weapons in public… (Does the grocery store really need a sign reading, “No guns” with an image of a rifle behind a red circle with a line through it?)

Since there are four of us in the apartment and only three bedrooms, we had to find an equitable way to divide the living quarters. After narrowly deciding against a drunken throat-punching competition, we settled on drawing crumpled-up pieces of paper from a cooking pot, all the while making sure to document the event in video form on the digital camera of the group’s designated “Numba One Stunna,” Tatsuaki Tomiyama (See photo #1 – And yes, we’re watching Middle Eastern rallying on TV).

As expected, I won easily (I have always been good at picking pieces of paper out of containers – I even have that skill listed on my résumé). My housemate/co-worker/suave Italian friend, Salvatore, however, was lucky enough to draw the only room with adult-themed bedding (Please see photo #2). In other news, our apartment has metal blinds, bars on the windows, 878 TV channels (seriously), and no shower curtain.

As far as transportation is concerned, a taxi to the center of town costs exactly 1.5 NIS (New Israeli Shekels), roughly equivalent to 40 cents. And before you ask, the answer is yes, the Palestinians LOVE using the currency of their occupiers.

Ahmad, our “man on the ground,” hooks us up here with anything we need. As an added benefit, he’s a badass. He once kicked a guy in the balls so hard that he destroyed his left testicle (to the point that it had to be removed). The man told Ahmad that if his chances of having a son were ruined, he would kill him. To which Ahmad responded, ”I still have two balls, so I can get you a son.” Well, the man did eventually have a son, but it was unclear from the story if he was actually the father of the child…

I work for the Palestinian Authority’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which, by the way, is slightly different than its Israeli counterpart. There, you go through a 45-minute screening process that includes a complete physical (with urinalysis), a Rorschach test, and a process where you donate one kidney as collateral for the receipt of an official visitor’s badge. Here, the only time you get turned away is if you forgot your Kalashnikov at home.

Apparently, my work will consist of repeatedly trying to establish an Internet connection. On the first day, after 27 attempts to fix the set-up & configuration issues, we still hadn’t made any progress. By the time it was one o’clock, I had completed exactly zero hours of real work.

My supervisor, Omar (who, apparently by some mistake, is not named Ahmad), was looking very anxious at that point because we were approaching the deadline for writing several reports that had to be delivered to the Deputy Foreign Minister. After speaking with the 17^th computer technician of the day, Omar, whose demeanor had become very serious, proclaimed, “OK, as soon as we get this computer problem solved we will…meet a few more people and then have some tea.”

In a related story, I am now completing my daily work assignments at home.

I have to go now because I am experiencing a dust storm inside my office (Think: motorbike race scene in “Fear and Loathing.”)

Kshhhht. Over and out. Kshhhht. (That’s supposed to be the sound made by walkie-talkies. Shut up.)

My login lets me post too! The weather got warm, the beer got cold, the posting took a hiatus. This is not to say I didn’t keep a few things in my back pocket. Lots of randomness here, SAST style.

First off, your new favorite summer drink. I don’t follow the trends so forgive me if I missed the boat. Blueberry Stolichnaya — or any of the non-vanilla Stolis — and club soda. Tonic sucks, don’t use it. It has all the sugar of soda, but it tastes like butt. For those of you drinking at home (and Lord knows this is my venue of choice unless it’s payday weekend) you can even up the ante by getting flavored seltzer at your local grocer. Do it.

A couple of good quotes/snippets that I’ve read:

“Weigh it and name it!”
-Shout through the bathroom door at someone taking an inordinately heinous dump.

“Chumming the Waters”
-Upon entry at a strip club walk immediately up to the main stage and drop a bunch of ones or as the brothers call it “make it rain”. Don’t wait for a reply from any dancers, just drop the money and walk back to your seat. Then sit back and reel them in all night.

“Prostitot” = Prostitute + toddler
-The groups of slutty looking 13 year olds you invariably see at fairs and movies.

This last one leads me to my next topic: summertime carnivals. E’rrbody that knows a Frederick local has probably experienced or heard the tales of the Great Frederick Fair. How can you not love the fair/carnival atmosphere? Heart-attack snacks that lead to cathartic purging in nearby parking lots. Rickety “attractions” operated by “professionals” that can also lead to said purging. Farm exhibits. Fantastic people-watching. Shady games. Are you in the mindset?

This past week — June 26-30 cause MFs up here have trouble with their calendars — was the annual Great Gettysburg Volunteer Fire Department Carnival (henceforth to be known as the “GGVFDC”). This was my third year attending, and it’s always a hoot. Fans of the movie “Joe Dirt” will remember the carnival scene where our hero is minding the quarter pitch game and spraying down the glassware with Pam. This, and its many variations, is a common game. The version at the GGVFDC has two rotating pedestals with various glasses, mugs, goblets and such. Pitch a dime into the glass, and you win it. Tis a simple machine. First year at the carnival I was on point. I sank so many the carnie gave me a divided box so’s I could safely cart home my winnings. Next year had some success but the quantity was far less. Last week was the unquestioned best time ever due to the QUALITY of the glasses. That’s right, a carnival souvenier that you actually WANT to take home. The two pedestals had a single glass on the top level. From my tossing point the closest one for me was one of those Coca-Cola glasses with a polar bear on it. Haven’t seen them in a while, have you? I took a gander at the other side and laid my eyes on the prize. I saw what appeared to be a decent, albeit lightweight pint glass with a Canadian maple leaf on one side and the word BUZZ on the other. After a few tosses I sank one and it was mine. Upon further inspection I saw why this glass was the greatest. Time not spent at the dime pitch was occupied under the big tent with the old folks playing multiple rounds of bingo. We each won a round, and I may have caused some lady to have a heart attack when I cursed her luck in a colorful manner. This is what qualifies as gambling since the town rejected the idea of a slots casino moving into town.

An aside: Yes, I know I’m simple for playing bingo and pitching dimes. Playing bingo is to support the FD. Without them, and this man in particular, Heidi would’ve drowned in a flood.

The resolution of the carnival story actually takes place 5 days after the beginning. I won that glass linked above on Tuesday. I spent Wednesday evening in Dad’s garage getting dirty and he said Heidi had invited him and Mary-Kay to the carnival. I was informed that my dad thought he was too good for the carnival (not exactly his words, but the message was clear) but in recognition of our dime pitch addiciton he gave me two rolls of dimes with explicit instructions that “Heidi has to win me a glass.” He’s getting a matching set of sunflower glasses AND cow glasses. I took the opportunity to get a second BUZZ glass and was glad I did because they ran out of them while we were pitching!

Time to wrap this shit up. Remember DeBeers? Do you have a caring boss? Are you easily bored? Did you make a late dinner of spicy seared tuna steak and go almost straight to sleep, then felt the aftermath the next day?

Wow. Hell of a money shot there at the end. I’m spent.