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.