Does A.C. Slater Sit Backwards On The Toilet?

spare a square, Mr. B?

Test results are inconclusive. But Mario Lopez has aerobics instructor levels of spandex photos floating around on the internets, just waitin' to be downloaded by some retro, '80s-loving pervert/blogger with perpetual boredom/no social skills/insomnia/indigestion. I hate myself.

just another reason for self-loathing

The McDonald's in my neighborhood is open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday nights, which means two things: One, I have an even unhealthier option for late-night drunk snacks than going to the bodega for a bag of kettle chips, a beef patty (pictured above, except sliced open and stuffed with pepperjack cheese before being microwaved) and a large VitaCoco; and two, they must have some sort of policy in that vagrants are allowed to loiter overnight. Both of these scenarios — eating late-night QPCs and photographing hobos — are near and dear to my heart, but one is going to cause my heart to explode from joy, the other explode from cholesterol...

Behold number three, "Dream Team", in my ongoing series of Homeless People Trading Cards (and another), in which I capture the unsheltered citizens in my neighborhood in their natural environment, like a National Geographic special created by a mental patient with photoshop.

this was the happiest meal i've had in weeks...

For some reason, looking at this photo has me thinking about that song "Holidae Inn" by Chingy. (whatever happened to him? Is he working the front desk night shift at a Cleveland area Radisson?) I got to wondering just what his street cred was really like. What if Chingy was homeless when he wrote that song and it was sad and depressing, talking about trying to bathe at the McDonald's or like a (hot) Carl's Jr. or something on Friday and Saturday nights and dreaming of a hotel room, but then Snoop and Bishop Don "Magic" Juan wandered in for a McFlurry and Chingy recognized Snoop and spit a few rhymes for him, Bishop Don trying to preach to him about turning his life around but Snoop — ever the savvy businessman — knew that even though the current version was depressing and totally unmarketable, especially since homeless Chingy was using a window washer's squirt bottle as a "mic", he saw some real talent in that kid, thinking almost out loud "If this shizzle wasn't about some homeless nizzle, it'd be off the hizzle" (or something like that, I think his mouth was full of Butterfinger McFlurry at the time). I scoured the internet and found the "Lost Lyrics" to the original song, when his name was Squeegie, due to his famously streak-free skills washing car windows on Sunset.

But out of those humble beginnings, this star was born, so we must appreciate his unfortunate roots and poor penmanship/grammar/spelling and love Chingy for the man who produced this:

I need to go to bed, but before I do, single solitary reader-prisoner, I will announce that I am going straight up Nick Denton and expanding my publishing empire to two horrible blogs, the second of which I am hoping to launch maybe tomorrow but realistically more like later this week. It is called "Tuesdays With Maury", and the idea is to take the choicest screenshots from the two daily episodes of the Maury Povich Show and post them on a tumblr blog, and maybe even try to teach a life lesson or two in the process like Mitch Albom does in that book, allegedly. I have not, nor do I ever envision myself reading it. Here's another little teaser, a PR shot from the play that was made from the made-for-TV movie that was made from the book. Enjoy, or whathaveyooz.

there's so much maury can teach me if i just plug my nose and keep an open mind about the elderly

Tiny Twin: Kinda Sounds Like a Dickens Character With a Speech Impediment

I was just looking at the "stats" section of this blog that tracks who reads this embarrassment of mine. Basically, it tells me your Social Security number and how much porn you watch daily (it hovers around maximum security prisoner levels), which is just barely more than me, but you probably cry during the act just slightly less than I do. (Thanks Southern religious upbringing!) While it doesn't actually tell me about how you are just like James Franco (he's everywhere), it does tell me what search terms in Google currently bring up my blog. "Pooping With The Door Open" was an obvious one, but my favorite was "Are Lionhead Rabbits Insane?". My boring blog is result number six in Google, which has me proudly telling girls about my "huge Web presence."

My newfound confidence is all thanks to my tiny twin, a dwarf lionhead rabbit named Martina Van Buren. She is insane, at least a little bit, but she also lets me degrade her in photographs and is pretty fun to have around. I haven't had a pet of my own since I was in high school, when I rocked a 20-gallon fish tank and was convinced I would become a marine biologist solely based upon the idea of living in a warm ocean environment, eating seafood, scuba diving, riding in boats, stumbling upon swimsuit photoshoots and not upon the reality of having to pass college-level science and math courses (which, like most things, I suck at). My family dog died about an hour before I landed in Atlanta this past Christmas, and I didn't get to see her because my flight was delayed two hours on the runway because they "had problems getting one of the engines to start." (also the tagline for my other website, MaleSexualDysfunction.com) Since the engine eventually did start and I didn't die that night, too, I'm currently drafting up a lawsuit about how Delta killed my dog. But until I'm a hundred-aire from the punitive damages, I have found companionship from this little monster:

what the hell?

she looks kind of like Nicholas Cage here

These two photos are the rabbit bad cop good cop routine: In the first, she stares you down with a steely gaze and malignant non-verbal threats; in the second, she's going to cuddle the confession out of you.

Martina is chill, she's litterbox trained (already) and she sat on my shoulder the other night while I was wrapped in my Snuggie drinking bourbon and watched back to back Jack Nicholson movies, "Easy Rider" and "The Last Detail", without bitching at me once, something no other girl has ever done.

P.S. If you want to play an '80s-style video game to learn proper condom use, go here. And by "proper condom use", I mean the goal is to catch three falling hearts and hit the space bar to shoot a condom bubble onto people at the club, which is a pretty accurate description of all my past condom use.

P.P.S. I was feeling totally uncreative today but when I decided to just sit down and write something a bunch of good ideas came to me (none of which are documented here). It proves that if you sit down and decide to just work no matter how you're feeling, you can get something done. Read "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield. Everyone. NOW.