Things you shouldn't volunteer to do

Disarm a bomb based on "heavy cinematic experience"

Tick. The night is going by slowly. You've been chatting up the coat rack in the corner... and that isn't a metaphor. You've been chatting with the coat rack. Suddenly, Wendell's cousin busts down the screen door with a  plastic knife from KFC, blabbering on about some bomb scare at the sperm bank. Of course, your ears perk up because the sperm bank is where you got the low-interest loan for the boob job.

Tock. No one seems to  be volunteering to look into the potential bombing. You scenarioize in your head and decide there's really no way you aren't doing it. Your girlfriend has a 24-hour webcam trained on the sperm bank so you know she'll know that you "disarmed the bomb" and will probably let you play with her for the first time in weeks. I mean, what girl isn't going to let you disarm her from that 18th century frock after watching you save the sperm bank that gave you the loan so that she could get a boob job so she could show her friends her new coat rack. After thinking about this, you're so worked up that another party-goer takes one look at you and screams "This guy wants to disarm the bomb! Hooray!" Everyone is cheering, champagne is dripping from the ceiling fan, and you know that you're going to have to try one of the hardest things in the world...

...capturing a Rare Animal without using the Buddy System

Tick. To take down the bomb you're going to need a buddy. You are pretty self-aware; you know that you work best within the comeraderie comfort zone of a snowy white owl. Problem is, in order to catch this owl buddy, you're going to need a buddy to help track it down. Owls are among the most pretentious pieces of shit you'll ever meet; they won't even look at you unless you're toting someone famous alongside. Then they get all nervous and cross-eyed when asking for an autograph even though we all know they have 20/10 vision. 

Tock. You know the history of the owl you want to work with. It grew up in the park across the street from where they filmed Full House, so you know it will work best if you approach it with one of the actors from the show. You're going to need John Stamos, goddammit. But to get to him, you're going to have to...

...take Pictures of Government Officials

Tick. Only the government knows where John Stamos is.  To get anywhere in your negotiations with the Agency, you are forced into taking surveillance photos of high-profile senators lollipopping homeless men in the mouth with thick cans of creamed corn. You feel dirty, but it pays off when "an unnamed political official" from Georgia gives you an invisibility clock and $10,000 in very marked bills to delete said photos. The Senator then informs you that John is hiding in a bomb shelter halfway down an elevator shaft at the sperm bank. You throw away the invisibility clock because time and time again you can't find it to hit the snooze button when the alarm goes off: useless. With the $10,000, you buy an invisibility cloak and penetrate the sperm bank. John Stamos is just getting off of a treadmill with his pet koala slouched across his shoulders. You open your mouth to say something, but it is a Generally Bad Idea to...

...Tock. to John Stamos

Like a pie chart at a circle jerk convention, John Stamos is the most colorful dyke at the geography store. He breathes louder than a meteor-gasm hitting a black hole and he orates with more passion than Kayne West at a vagitarian picnic. You know you need John to flirt with the star-struck owl but hell, conversing with him is going to be harder than clipping those crematorium coupons after your godmother died. 

You notice that the koala looks impervious to the poisonous pheromones seeping from Stamos, and you 

deduce that this is one badass, battle-tested bamboo consumerist. If any sidekick can help you disarm a bomb, it's this koala. Fuck the owl. So you kill John with the truth - by showing him the comments on his IMDB page - and take the koala for yourself. It bites you, but you can tell from the teeth marks that the bomb stands no chance. 

The koala only needs one bottle of water to refresh after drinking an entire forest fire.

You can't find a single piece of evidence that a bomb ever existed at the sperm bank, but you do find out that John was there to donate sperm, and that this was frowned upon by most everyone in existence. Basically, all you were was a koala-toting tool used to keep John's sperm out of the bank's safety deposit slot. Job well done. Bravo! To celebrate, you throw a party at the back of your throat and nobody comes but the koala.

Blog Battle - Nick Cannon Vs. Gary Busey

Every King has a dream. Similarly, every turtle has a shell, every sidewalk has a crack, and every factory has its ashholes. Well then, shouldn't every blog have its battle?

Here at Generally Bad Ideas, when we aren't having wet nightmares and screaming in our sleep, we like to dream big. Real big. In this dream of ours, two proven celebrities go keyboard to keyboard in a war of words; in this dream, Nick Cannon blog-battles Gary Busey.

Why should they accept this challenge? Because all it takes is one Generally Bad Idea and access to a computer for Merlin-style magic to be made. We picked these men because we have an inkling and a clue that they are flowering with bad ideas. We are also pretty sure they've never done anything like this before; we are offering them a swell experience, like when a drive-by preacher asks if you want a piece of holy candy. God, swell is such a cool word.

Nick now has babies to take care of, but we think he'd love to show his tyke(s) how good he can be with written language. In addition, he's battle tested. He's done some wily stuff on Wild 'N Out, that crazy stud. And anyone remember Drumline? That's the movie when Nick went from snared crab to celebrated sex symbol with a few flicks of his snappy wrists.

Gary experienced a similar transformation on Celebrity Fit Club. It wasn't entirely clear what was going on in the show, but there was a lot of screaming, sweating, praying, and muscle spasms, so there must have been exorcising at some point.

"Hey cameraman, do you want a crotch shot or a gun shot?"

The point is, both Gary and Nick are great guys with Generally Bad Ideas. The question is: Whose idea is better? Or "worse"? 

Potential Topics to Choose From:

• Driving a Railroad Spike into a Cow (AKA Cow-Spiking)
• Taking your Girlfriend's Dad to a Rave
• Making Shameless Love during NASCAR 
• Spraying AXE into a Crowd vs. Spraying Hatchets into a Crowd
• Wheelchair Salsa Dancing

Two Babies, One Father, No Pick-up Line

"I am unable to reproduce" never has been and never will be a socially acceptable pick-up line. The negative acceptability quotient is infinitely multiplied if

(a) you live outside of China or (b) you actually are fertile...

...fertile like a crescent moon, a cold sore at Hot Topic, or Shawn Kemp. Even though most Game theorists (imagine Russel Crowe playing Mystery!) would agree that the conversion ratio on such a poorly worded introduction would be lower than the Reign Man’s career three-point field-goal-percentage, there is a small chance that some poor lass - some unfortunate combination of dumb/drunk/horny - would fall heels over thighs for your fabricated low-sperm count legend.

Real recognize real but dumb has a profound inability to identify its own likeness. Just like a bird in a truck is worth two cheeps in a jeep, chances are this psuedo-tard you've inconceivably propositioned has a wing-woman with similarly questionable instincts. Think back to high school, when the other kids were in "numbers" class. You cleaned the ovens while the lunch lady explained to you with a handful of rotten baby carrots how two negatives can sometimes equal a positive.


Or was that double positive? Shit, you don't remember. Well...



Karma is a sit-down-and-shut-the-fuck-up comedian. Kinda like Dennis Leary. Also like Dennis Leary, karma is an asshole.

Nine month’s later you wake up to the smell of expired potential and the sound of two diaper-eating kids screaming to their respective mothers for nipple access. The situation reminds you of the basement your dad blew himself up in when he found out you were having retarded twins by different mothers. Life just doesn't have the same snap, crackle, pop! that it used to, so you've turned to slaps, crack and pot to help modulate your mediocrity. Welcome to Fatherhood. Also, welcome to tax breaks you had no reason to look forward to just a year ago.

You sit down to write out possible alternatives to what you could have said back then, back when you had the audacity to hope that telling the least attractive chicken in the hen-house that you couldn't lay eggs would get your eggs scrambled. Here's what you could/should have said:

• "I graduated from Old School High School; I still write with a quill. Have you any ink, Octopussy?" 
• "I'll buy you a drink if I can borrow your phone number for this credit card application I've been working on." 
• "Can you bend over and check the floor? I dropped my pick-up line around here somewhere." 
• "I swear I recognize your voice from the Suicide Hotline..."
• "You can call me Rhett or Rick; but don't ask me rhetorical questions. Do you like to hear pick-up lines? 
• "I forgot to register for next month's erection. Do you any idea where I can sign up?"

Substance Abuse on a Blind Date

"Your dress looks pretty."

"I'm not wearing a dress..."

"Oh. Ohmygod I thought you were wearing a dress. You aren't." You stumble over your thoughts, finally settling on one... you shouldn't have smoked your grandma's medical marijuana before your first blind date with the blind chick.

"Blind dates are my specialty..."

She looks good in that dress she's wearing, but you've recently learned you can't necessarily buy what your eyes are selling. She looks like a visitor from space. A dolphin dildo in flower print, squeaking for fish bits.

"Oh so you're ordering fish?" You sure do pride yourself on your ability to spark conversation, don't you?

"No, the smell of fish makes me queasy. Also, we're still waiting to be seated." She speaks confidently but smiles nervously, unsure if you are making fun of her or if you are just antsy to order the Catch of the Day. The hot hostess finally gets over her fear of your blazing eyes and leads you to the booth in the corner. The 70's-style decor is covered with dried splashes of ketchup but it seems unnecessary to mention this to your date.

You say "I'll take a banana split smoothie!" even though the only drinks offered on the menu are coffee and Pepsi products. When the waiter actually comes over to take your order, you ask about your smoothie and he explains that he hadn't even gotten to ask for your drink choice yet. You chuff and roll your eyes, saying you'll take whatever your date's having as long as it isn't as pulpy as orca drool. Effective use of marine analogies, douchebag.

The waiter leaves and your excuse for ignoring your date evaporates like a condensation penis on a summer windshield. You ask about her kids and she says she doesn't have any, she's 19 and has never had sex. You agree.

You tell her that she pales in comparison to the dirty menu, which you expect will be taken as a compliment. Instead, she takes the glass condiment bottles and whips them across the room, buzzing like a hive Queen when somebuzzy has tapped into the Royal Jelly. "This is probably a dream," you think out loud. She assures that it's not, out loud. The waiter returns with the drinks just as your date calms down and settles back into the child seat you've chivalrously pulled up for her.

When you calmly ask the waiter about the availability of bibs, she screams and snatches her chainmail purse, sprinting toward what she thinks is the exit. You squint, nearly crying, as the head cock gently struts her out of the kitchen and back to your table. It is around this time you realize you forgot your wallet.

You switch into discovery mode, asking her the same question in one hundred different ways: "What's it like to be blind?" She describes a world inconceivable to you, a place where noise and mental acuity are just as important as porn and colored contacts. You think you're beginning to dig her, so you stroke her sideburns and ask if she'll pay for your chicken strips.

Seven days later you emerge from the hospital with an eye patch, an arm sling, and sixteen stitches inside your lowest sphincter. You have a new appreciation for sobriety, and, more importantly, one of those coveted hanging handicap permits for your rearview mirror.

Doing Human Things with Wild Animals

Trying to scare an eagle 

What are you dumb? Well yeah, but, do you have a death wish or something? That's a damn eagle you're playing with. It has talons whereas you have waist-high stacks of trash surrounding your recliner. It can see your underwear growing a moldy personality from a mile away whereas you can't see your underwear without the help of two mirrors and a wet nurse. 

Eagles are raised by other eagles and not ignorant parents. When you were sitting around the dinner table shaking your jowls and gesturing for more salt, Mother eagle was screeching obscenities at the kids after pecking Father eagle's eyes out.

Eagles aren't interested in you or spelling correctly.

You got candles on your birthday cake. That eagle you're playing with got a dead hiker's fingers. Let's just be glad the eagle has been claimed by America as a representational mascot. We don't really have to worry about getting eviscerated by a sea scallop, or whatever China's mascot is. So fuck you, China, and scallops.

Raising a Meerkat as a pet

Meerkats are cute... bordering on sexy. They live to die for each other. Posture is their most important subject in school, followed by shitting, nipping, and Math. If you take one meerkat and add one idiot (you), you get disaster incarnate. Aside from the sexual impacts of raising a meerkat - and there is at least one (no sex forever) - here are reasons why it is all but impossible to be a good parent to the fuzzy, phallic creatures:

• Their eyes can penetrate a chastity belt faster than a diamond tipped drill
• They come in multiples of -3; yeah, they don't come...
• They look cute on a leash but no leash is big enough for that ego
• They work cage latches just as well as they work street corners
• They're rumored to have masterminded the downfall of dinosaurs and the upswing of inbreeding in Arkansas in 1990
• Most meerkats have mad cow disease which truly makes them happy

It's just one of those things. Just like doors make better doors then they do windows, meerkats make better sandwiches then they do pets. 

Attempting cybersex with web-cammed animals

I'm not going to come out and say that web-camming with a hamster is a bad idea, but I think taking the video chat to the next level and trying to introduce sex is just a tad over-the-top/into-the-bottom. 

Really it's just a matter of asking too much. The animal has already done a lot for you. They've gained access to an Internet-connected desktop, they've asked your permission to chat, they've smiled, nodded, and pretended like they understand your slurred speech. Now you want them to watch while you... No. You can't get me to do this. I refuse to give any more time or text to your awful, naughty, slightly alluring idea of what it is to connect with another mammal on a primal level. Send me your MSN butterfly chat name, or whatever they call it, so I can report you to the authorities.

Prolonged eye contact with Sharks/Jets/Lynx

At this point there isn't much to say except "I'm glad you're being deleted from the gene pool." There are certain animals that shouldn't even be in zoos because THEY HATE BEING LOOKED AT!

Sharks don't like to be looked at due to a deep-seeded desire to be invisible. They'll fuck you up if you say they'll never be see-through.

Jets don't have eyes in the literal sense, but they have radar and landing gear which is all that is needed to kill a groundling such as yourself. If you think you can get around this by making eye contact with a sporty Jet, like Mark Sanchez, think again. He comes equipped with the latest gaydar model and is used to taking "evacuative measures." Meaning he orders colonoscopies for everyone who looks at him. 

Lynx are purely instinctual and just plain don't like you or me or a pile of platinum bananas. They don't give a shit about anything but padding around on their bigass pussy paws and yowling into your face if you're dumb enough to get close enough to dance. Warning: they will ask you to dance while they shoot vision bullets at your feet. If you get hit... bitch youz done. 

Why you shouldn't nod off at the bar...

...check yourself before you wet yourself. Bartenders have an inherent and well-documented bias against potential sleepers. This isn't Narnia where the only thing you can't do is jerk off in front of Aslan without proper grooming.

“Let him first be shaved.” ~Aslan

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe – Chapter 14

Those aren't sheep you're shaving, they're seconds until you're thrown out of the bar. Buck up, buddy. Or you're fucked.

Be warned.

These aren't the days where you can lay down a fat track of catnap on the bar and snort a line of winks into the dark oblivion of REM heaven. These are the days where - at the slightest sign of a nod - EVERYONE IS UP IN YOUR SHIT!:

• the bouncers
• the tender bartenders
• the barstool
• lucidity
• slot receivers

You showed up to play the game. You showed a tremendous amount of drive and motivation. You fought hard; throwing punches at unseen opponents in the form of Jack & Cokes, shots of tense half-lidded staring, and fancy flights of imported missed connections.

It doesn't matter what you did, because you just got your ass licked out of the bar.

It's not your fault. You know this. But seriously, it's not your fault. I know, you know. But anyway, in case you think this may happen again, here are some tips:

Raise the Roofie - Sometime mid-week, add Rohypnol (the date rape drug) to your post-workout protein smoothie. You're guaranteed a good night's sleep, a spotty memory, and a VIP pass to next year's Darwin Awards. But you should be well rested for the weekend.

Emulate a stupid Italian - Pretend you're on Jersey Shore, knee deep in a dirty ocean of STD soup. Drink a Red Bull and Vodka and don't dare fall asleep for fear of what crabs may wash up onshore.

Wear a heart-rate monitor - May or may not warn you of a sneakup sleep slip-up, but it will be cool to show off to the bouncers as you are getting escorted out.

WWJD? - Jesus was a big fan of water; he walked on it, he turned it into wine, he wept with it. So what would Jesus do? He would order a really expensive bottle of water. Chances are, the type of person you're looking to attract won't know the difference between a Dasani and bottled diamond piss anyway, because you're an idiot and so are they.