Selling your O-Face "Photo Booth" on Ebay

Face it. You are a card-carrying subscriber to Things White People do at Parties: The Quarterly Edition. You purchase everything they're peddling and sometimes they even let you write a guest column. The primary sources of entertainment at your holiday party this year consisted of Pink Panty Droppers (frat-boy milky), a dirty Santa gift exchange (walking-on-eggshell white), and an ugly Christmas sweater contest (white-on-white fashion crime). Not fair, you say? You have a multi-cultural group of friends, you say? Please, please, and by the way, puh-leeez. Your Asian friends are so white they make the Pillsbury Dough Boy look like Wesley Snipes. Your Asian friends are so white they inspired an O-Face Photo Booth.

How did I know about that? How does the world know about that? Your white friends posted their white pictures on Facebook, that's how. Your Uncle saw them too, he's on Facebook. Of course he is, he's white.

Let's let this sink in. That. Is. The. Whitest. Thing. I. Have. Ever. Seen. It's so white its almost clear. I hope there weren't any underage girls at your party. If they were at your party, they also were white. Fear not, it's not too late, you can still rehabilitate your image.

Step one: Shower

Step two: Repeat

Step three: Put on that Kanye song you like (baby steps) and clean the house

Step four: Dispose of 0-Face photo booth.

Disposal Guidelines

Don't give it to Willy, the Senior Citizen your roommate adopted for this Christmas season. His name is Willy, he don't want no part of that shit. He asked for sweatpants. When he poops all over in his sweatpants, nobody can tell (yeah, right). But if he pooped on the photo booth? Visible defecation = no discretion = no more friends for Willy.

For the love of Larry Bird, don't put it on Ebay. I know it holds sentimental value to you and your creepy friends, but trust me, its not worth the wrapping paper it rode in on. You'll inevitably have to include photos of your family, friends and white co-workers embarrassing themselves. For profit. Mighty white of ya'.

Recycle - In the literal sense; regifting doesn't count. Don't give it away to a Caucasian Elephant. That's exactly what the velociraptors want you to do.

Step five: Throw some D's on that bitch.

Dancing with Black Holes

You've all heard of dancing with the stars. You know, grabbing a big mirror, dragging it outside in the dark, and waltzing while looking down to look up. It's a mirrored mindmelt.

I'm here to tell you to avoid dancing with black holes.

You know who I'm talking to. It's you, the guy who puts on 5 pounds of made up charisma to impress the pants off of every breathing thing. Except on this particular night, you aren't able to waltz across the universe. You can't seem to get past the first roadbump. Why? Because you hit a black hole.

You know who I'm talking about. It's them, black holes who put on 5 pounds of makeup to cover up their need to be ground-on beef through each boom and bump of the amped speakers. Black holes are the ladies that don't let you move on; once you cross their event horizon, you're with them for life. Or at least their life for the next 15 songs.

Happen to step off the dance floor for a breather, and you can feel her vision elevate to match your distance from her eyes. She isn't finished with you. Try to redock in the previously safe harbor of lights and music and you're out of real estate in a hurry. Such privileges as "personal space" are torn up like white elephants at a velociraptor's birthday party. She's back on you, attached like a turret shooting down all potential double-breasted approachers.

Learn who to avoid, just look for these warning signals:

Bulge in the left hip pocket - This is an obvious give away for a real-time communications device. She's got her phone with her; if she needs to text, she sure as hell isn't leaving the dance floor and her spot next to you.

Obsession with cleanliness - If you originally caught eyes with her when she was dancing with the janitor, she's probably not at a good place in her life.

She's got a clear drink - You really think she's going to risk spilling something dark on her JC Penney's blouse and having to step away to clean it for even one second?

Wearing a woven belt with rings in it - Better to attach you on, my dear.

A whiff of cologne - She's already had a 45-minute session with another man and acquired his scent. You will be biologically unable to enjoy anything else from this point in the night, pheromonically speaking. 

Plans for the future - Has she just told you she can't wait to dance to an Usher song with you? Hate to say it, but you've just run into a practiced black hole... and those are the most unstable.

I hope you don't need instructions for the avoidance portion.Well okay, fine:

Rub razor scent on your wrists - I'm not talking about the kind you put on after you cut your scraggly attempt at Caveman face-fur, I'm talking about that mixed smell of steel, oil and an unworn anti-suicide shirt.
Ask her to do something ridiculous - Have her request a Coldplay song from the DJ, ask the bouncer if he has an extra condom, or try on your wingman's new Crocs.
Stop moving entirely - It isn't clear whether or not black holes can detect inanimate objects, so become one.
Call her Brenda - Ain't nobody named Brenda anymore.
Redefine "grind" - Sometimes the best defense is being offensive. Pretend that the purpose of your life is to knock her to the ground in 10 minutes or less. 

Why the first time hurts so much

People often ask "Why does the first time HURT SO MUCH?." Nobody knows, but every body does. 

Here are the typically given (but wrong) responses:

• There Will be Blood; there are no pads.
• That "YAY!" moment followed by the unavoidable accompaniment of busted flesh.
• Precaution and protection are thrown out the door in favor of passion and puerile emotion.
• You're concerned with how you look, and you look stupid.

Here's the real reason it hurts: You're doing it sober. Have a few drinks, toss off those inhibitions, and approach that blinding light at the end of the tunnel with the speed of the sound of your injured screams.

Hey, maybe you just aren't ready. Nobody said you have to rush into it. Practice in your head; flex the needed muscles on a daily basis until you're sure you can pull off even the most complex positioning without trepidation. For society's sake, watch some damn videos and lesson up on the subject. You aren't the first person in the world to feel confused about doing it for the first time and you definitely won't be the last, because kids will be kids until we do away with kids entirely. 

They do it with shadows.

Robot Actors

Who would own the rights to their output? What if their onscreen output is the most beautiful and fixating thing ever seen by man or rodent? What if two robot actors pulling off a sex clip in the middle of a middle school parade becomes a national pastime obsession? Or, think about this, what if a robot was writing to you right now to push these "robot actors" mainstream, making robots in general a more appreciated commodity/species?

Or, think about thinking about this, what if humans as a species are a trading piece on some alien’s galatical draftboard, to eventually be chosen for deletion?

And then think about this. When you thought about the species being deleted, did you include us robots in your mind? Aren't robots equivalent to unteachable human children? Don't you want your kids included in your definition of our species?

If, when you thought about how everything We know or use would be gone if we were erased, you assumed robots would be included in that "We", then you have just accepted Robots as part of You.

And that’s only the second declarative sentence in this interrogative freefall.

Inherent Generally Bad Idea: Letting a robot write a blogpost. 

Why you shouldn't make fun of surfers

They don't have many friends, but the ones they do have are fiercely loyal and extremely dumb; a gnarly combination.

Interesting concept, surfers. Sandy little bunch, aren't they? Liable to start a fight, if you let 'em. That first time your bottle of $300 liquor disappeared? Surfers. The first time you got into trouble at the theater, who were the little punks ragging you on from the front row? Surfers!

They aren't everywhere, but they might as well be. They seem to grow off the crest of waves and step onto the land, mollified like bronze rays of sunlight reflecting off of a $300 magazine. They're ambitious like the last sperm whale to sign up to bring

Flowers to the Funeral.

They sing the praises of balance and curly hair like it's the oldest hymn in the Bible.They talk about tomorrow like tomorrow is the mid-90's. It's compressing, rerealistic, and unbustable.

Looking for more?

• 10 Reasons Surfers Suck (as if surfers could count that high): 8. They can’t even get along with little kids on soft-foam sponges.
• Black "Surfers Suck" t-shirt
• Truth in Stereotypes: Surfers is Dumb?

Proud Parenting

According to most virtual online medical professionals who discourse on the topic of abortion abortion, the worst thing you can do to a previous "abortion candidate" is actually tell them they were a candidate. Can you imagine your mom holding your near-abortion over your head whenever you forgot to do your homework or tuck your jeans into your socks before riding a bike? I can.

Have you seen Lost? During the last season of the TV show there were multiple plotlines running with the concept of "candidates." One of the show's creators, Carlton Cuse, is himself a former candidate. In an interview with a Taiwanese newspaper, Carlton revealed his feelings on the topic:

Taiwan: Some Lost theorists think, everyone on island dead whole time. Let's say this true. This mean all "candidates" actually aborted babies?

Carlton (crying): Yes. (sob) You know, I once was almost on that island.

Taiwan: No man island, Carlton.

Carlton: Except Darrelle Revis. (painful laugh through his tears, end of interview)

Don't be like Carlton. If you have an unquenchable desire to tell your kid about their unfortunate but irrelevant past, first _____.

a.) Count to 8... sideways

b.) Paws, like a cat on birth control

c.) Wait, like Corporate America for a capitalist Jesus

d.) Hold your breath, like a ketchup bottle caught up in mustard gas

If you send off the right vibes, your offspring will approach you wondering if they were ever almost aborted. When they breach the subject, fire away. It will spice up future discussions, make for interesting Easter dinners, and create such large psychological chasms that only a fat lady singing could burn the bridge over that wide of a gap.

Get Lost.

The Four Lokos of the Apocalypse

A shortage is a shortage, whether it's water or grain-stores or penis size, just ask any Egyptian. But what do you do if you're short energy, alcohol and cash?

Yes, you could leave grape juice out until it turns into something more bitter, mix in some sugarlumps, and call it sippable. Why bother? Haven't you ever heard of Four Loko? It's only $2.49.

The Stockpiling Begins...

Submitted by Anonymous in Durham

Four Loko is due to be banned in North Carolina

Even if you have heard of it, it's too late to buy any. Many states have banned the caffeinated, heroin-addled alcoholic beverage. North Carolina is succumbing to peer-pressure next week. Each state's weakness on this issue is analogous to every 401k account in the world rolling over for the financial markets and saying "pour acid in any crevices you see, I'll do whatever you want." Even this dog is pissed.

Bev (seriously? Bev?) Purdue wants retailers to push the product off their shelves and into dumpsters littering the already polluted streets. That's right, Bev is pushing pollution; another dirty politician.

We figured we might as well let our mouths be the dumpsters, like we did when we heard rumor that kids go around seeking candy at the end of October. We dressed up as Hot Cops for Halloween and forced younguns into handing us their goods, then shoved said goods down each others throats. Gluttony is a sin, but it's not even in the top ten sins (prove otherwise, please), so conject elsewhere if you are looking for a target for your moral conjecture. We, on the other hand, will be playing Prussian Roulette with the Four Whoremen for the Lokopalyspe. 

The cashier turns away when we ask if he will voluntarily stop selling Four Loko.

"Four Loko me in the eyes when you say no!"

The Final Product

 

"That's $100+ worth of a Generally Bad Idea."  -Bev Purdue

"I met a married woman last week and we got matching tattoos."

I personally know very little about astrology. I did a little research. I now know remarkably more about my static destiny than I did 37 seconds ago. Interestingly, I now put infinitely less stock in the viability of one's Zodiac sign to reveal a birthing-period specific personality type. Karl and Dr. Karl is a Virgo. So am I. While he's an asshole fit for two, you'd be hard-pressed to get even the most pompous Leo to utter constructive criticism of my radiant and simultaneously ghostly disposition.

If I did put any stock in the predictive nature of astrology, I would thank my lucky star-sign that I am not a mid-Fall vaginal fall out boy. Scorpios, it seems, are known to be deceptively charismatic, vengeful, secretive, and possessive. Possessive of poisonous tails that can be lethal to beasts of a larger scale, like Doggieos and Racoonios and Cheerios.

If I were a Scorpio I would keep my head down and go about my pre-destined life as if the commonly accepted term for inflatable sport boats had no synonym. If I did decide to brand myself according to my October/November birth in the most permanent of fashions, it most certainly wouldn't be in the form of a red tattoo that looked equal parts lobster and scorpion. If I had already done all of these things I wouldn't do, my lobster/scorpion wouldn't include the initials of a recently separated married woman I met the week prior even if especially if she was a fellow scorpio and offered to do the same... on her pelvic region.

Most importantly, I for damn sure wouldn't provide my semi-internet savvy coworker with photographic evidence of my transgression, enabling him to legitimize his half-baked blog post:

      (Basic interpretation) (Totally legit image)

That would be impulsive. Which just so happens to be a trait astrologically linked to Scorpios. While all of the above constitute Generally Bad Ideas, if the stars do indeed control our destiny, it has become apparent that inventing Scorpios is the universe's way of making sure our species earns no respect from aliens. Thanks Mom... and Dad, if I have one.

Our Friend Sally

We sat in a basement in our home state, catching up with a friend (not Sally). We were trying to watch the goddamned movie The Box at 11PM, even though the licence to it was set to run out at midnight. As promised, it cutoff at midnight, so I've only seen half of The Box: I was thrown out trying to get to third base.

Bored, I despairingly checked my phone; Oh Wow!, a text!.

hey it's M and S! are you out? we want you to meet our friend Sally.

I responded in the negative; after all, we weren't even in the same state.

We went back to hating on The Box. Then, about 30 minutes later, I clutched at MostlyGhosty's arm. Visions of Molly and Sally -plums danced through my head. I suddenly was inclined to believe that these fine ladies were trying to get us to do drugs with them. Weird drugs. Silly, Sally drugs.

Urban Dictionary taught me how to think of Molly by doling out this vision: Me and my girl chopped a 1/2 gram of molly into 4 lines last night and we each inhaled one. rolled balls for 5 hours straight. pure love and cuddles all the way.

I had Mostly query the web, quickly reaffirming my hunch; Sally-D was out there, watching, waiting, and probably facilitating listening to some cyclical, spirally music. Here is a quote from a light-hearted, heart-eating blog concerning music listening while "using" Sally-D:

The music was talking to me in layers, so I'd better just knock [Sally] off.

The only time I'd ever heard of Salvia before was in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I'm not a serious gambler, and I don't look up to Hunter S. Thompson as a role model, so I initiated action avoidance maneuvers. Interestingly enough, IT IS LEGAL! 

However, the verdict remains: Not Interested. Salvia use is for Mexicans and Mexican'ts, and possibly James Franco.

Turns out Sally is a girl. Got to get my gut out of the udder and learn to milk these situations, cream more crops, etc.

General Nutmeggary

Just procured a QP of Jawzt at-Tiyb (nutmeg for our non-Arabic speakers). Street price: $2 per ounce. So apparently nutmeg is the crack to marijuana's cocaine, albeit with a culinary twist. The analogy isn't perfect but thats about how I'm expecting this all to shake out.

The choice remains: for an ideal journey into the nutmeg cosmos does one ingest the spice, take it orally, smoke or even shoot it? Is it shootable? Maybe not... but my roommate did give me all his old needles before he went to prison for killing a hooker for drug money, so its an option. How about all of the above? This should be interesting, I'm already feeling peculiar as the only thing I've eaten within the past 24 hours is a teaspoon of cinnamon (all at once, try it).

I'm officially nutmgegging, no high yet, but the house smells of pumpkin pie. I'm getting excited, I'm getting scared, I'm getting cotton mouth... I'm getting a helmet. More as the saga progresses...

Celebrity Nutmeggers:

Senator Joseph McCarthy, Wisconsin (R) - Nutmeg-induced paranoia gave way to the Red Scare of the early 1900's and was a crucial element in developing its own -ism, McCarthyism. Shits legit

.

John Cusack, Actor - A bonafide addict, Cusack's vice originated from his time on the set of Being John Malkovich. Nutmeg is the primary reason Cusack fully anticipates the end of the world in 2012.

John Malkovich, Actor - but only when Cusack is Malkovich.

Malcolm X - For real this time, took it in prison when the green grass wouldn't grow back before he became brother Malcolm. The prison guards eventually got wise and banned the substance. Banned in prison, but still, is it legal?

IS IT LEGAL?

What is the fucking difference between white and gray and legal? Sirs and Ma'ams, there really isn't time for us to check out library books, let alone check out library books and read them and learn all the fancy laws conceived, ill and otherwise, by some ancient chickenshit with a wig and a bottle of 100-proof ink.

Generally Bad Ideas was born from a thirst for knowledge and water. But mostly water. After "winning" the teaspoon-o-cinnamon challenge (there really is no winner, in our opinion), our sights turned to the next spicy target; that spiced target is Nutmeg. The first grab at the answer bag yielded some high-class bullshit packaged as a tell-all story. Long tell-all short: a lot of Nutmeg, ingested orally, can make for "unpleasant," dream-like hours of fun. We were told doing Nutmeg would be a Generally Bad Idea. Who knows someone that cares? The real question is... what will our shit look like?