Monday, December 15, 2008

Watching Football in the West Is Hard

(Originally written on Sunday, Sept. 26, 2008, but later updated)

I slept until 11:15 a.m. today. Which means I actually slept until 1:15 p.m. Which means I missed the kick offs of the early NFL games.

Fuck. Watching football in the West is hard. It is also absolutely mind blowing.

On Saturday, I was invited to the house of a University of Georgia graduate here in Jackson to watch the Georgia-LSU game. The party was being hosted by my best friend's wife's work friend's best friend.

Got that?

Anyway, I am told that approximately a dozen people will be at her house to watch the Georgia-LSU game. It is the CBS game, which means it kicks off at 1:30 p.m., which means it really kicks off at 3:30 p.m. (I refuse to acknowledge Mountain Time when referring to football kickoffs.)

At approximately 1 p.m., I arrive at the house.

Inside the house, humans are struggling for dominance. There are 12 people and nine dogs. I was not prepared for this kind of human-to-pet ratio. We are almost outnumbered by these beasts.

There are dogs everywhere. In the house. On the back deck. In the kitchen.

Inside the living room, there is a high definition TV, lots of seating and about four to five girls here in Dawgs regalia. They are all UGA graduates, cheering on the Dawgs. One of them is actually shaking a pom-pom in her living room.

This is the kind of environment I thrive in.

As the afternoon progresses, I'm having really intelligent conversations with these Georgia girls about SEC football: Fulmer's job security, Vandy's descent back into mediocrity, whether or not A.J. Green is Jesus in cleats.

I feel right at home. It's almost like I'm sitting in someone's living room on Milledge Ave., except that I can see the Grand Tetons from the kitchen window.

That's the interesting part. But here's the weird part. There are about six dudes here, but none care about football at all. They are not even really watching the game, and frequently get up and walk in front of the TV screen on critical third down plays.

I think I underestimated how much it would bother me being removed from people who care about football.

I spent the last 13 years getting paid to cover SEC football. It was my job. I love the sport in weird and passionate ways.

That's why I am about to punch the guy sitting next to me at the bar during the SEC Championship game. This is actually what he actually said to me after Tebow ran the ball on 1st and goal at the 5:

"You know, that Tebow only runs the ball because he wants all the glory."

If this man had instead just turned and barfed on my arm, I would have been less disappointed in him. I felt like a 12th grader who was inexplicably sent back to 3rd grade. And here I am, an 18-year-old spending hours in a room with a bunch of 10-year-olds being told how to subtract.

Watching football in public in the Rocky Mountains (Colorado, Wyoming, etc.) is horrifying. My favorite is when a group of four walks into the bar on a Saturday night and says, "Ohhh. Look. College football. I wonder who's playing?"

Recently, I went to lunch with 10 coworkers. Five were male. There were three bowl games on and not once did any of the males look at the game or even acknowledge games were on.

I'm not sure about some of the guys out here. They're just really weird.

I am having a hard time respecting the guys out here.

How The Hell Did I Get Here?

I'll never forget Reggie.

Reggie was the first black man I ever saw in Jackson Hole. Ironic, because Reggie was from Jacksonville, not Jackson Hole.

I did not see a black person during my first six days in Jackson Hole. Not bad considering Jackson Hole's population is 0.21-percent black. That's less than a quarter of one-percent black. The 90210 kids at West Beverly High likely experienced more diversity than this.

Anyway, Reggie from Jacksonville made me smile. He stepped out of an Atlas Van Lines rig on a chilly September morning in Jackson Hole, rubbed his hands up and down his arms and said something I'll never forget:

"Damn. It's colda than a mutha fucka out here."

I laughed. After a week in Jackson Hole, I was a little homesick. And Reggie provided a quick remedy. Not only did he bring me all of my furniture, he also brought some diversity. A little Southern flavor.

I will never forget Reggie.

So, what the fuck am I doing here? What idiot, at age 32, leaves behind dozens of friends he loves and moves to Jackson Hole, Wyoming by himself without knowing anybody here?

The change in lifestyle was beyond my comprehension. It was like going from dating a 20-year-old stripper to a 40-year-old nun.

I think I completely underestimated the complexity of this move. For two days along this journey out West, I did not actually have a home or own a car. I was like a vagabond, but with good credit and married friends who own homes with guest rooms.

See, I came here after a lifetime in the south. I grew up in Atlanta and spent the last 14 years living in Southern college towns: Five years in Athens, Ga., nine years in Gainesville, Fla.

My entire life was soaked in Southern culture. College football. Chick-fil-A. Hootie and the Blowfish. Jean shorts. Trucks. The state of Tennessee. Overalls. Fat people. Sweet tea. The Waffle House. Ignorance. Confederate flags. Dollywood. Bama bangs.

I fucking loved it all. Mostly, I just enjoyed standing in the shadows and observing the circus unfolding around me. I mean, when you live in the south your whole life (but are not a Southerner at heart), you find complete humor in shit like knowing they sell giant beers at the Alligator Farm in St. Augustine, or being told the Troy University football team's media luncheon is at the Barnhill's Country Buffet.

However, what would happen if I left the South? What if I lived somewhere where people were interesting, women relied on their personality rather than their looks, and there was no crime, anger, hostility, ignorance, fake tits, make-up or short guys with huge muscles? What then? Would it be uninteresting?

I could spend a lifetime being entertained by all the ironic humor of the south. But what I was curious to discover whether or not a place with dignity would be interesting.

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

NOTE: Below is my old blog, "Blowing Smoke"

I wrote some stuff years ago that I might (or might not) still believe. Anyway, this garbage is below.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

From the Mailbag: A Scene From Vegas

We get tons of e-mail here at Blowing Smoke. Today, we've decided to open one and answer a random question sent in by a reader. Here we go.

Dear Blowing Smoke,

Just a hypothetical question: Let's say one day you are found dead in a hotel room in Las Vegas. In great detail, please explain what police would find when they enter your room.

Todd Wainscott
Scottsbluff, Nebraska

Blowing Smoke: Thank you for your question, Todd. This is an easy one.

Let's see. For starters, I will be found wearing a powder blue tuxedo with a ruffled white shirt. I will not be wearing any pants. I will, however, have on a pair of Chuck Taylors.

My nose will be broke, and I will have on one boxing glove. I will have a fresh tatoo of a midget fucking a chicken. I will also be wearing a bandana that has the long part in the back to cover the neck. It will be a rebel flag bandana. My teeth will have all been capped in gold. That is it for my appearance, other than I am missing a finger.

In the room on the night table will be a carton of Marlboro Reds, a half drank 40 of Old English, a plate full of premo cokaine, and a steak sandwich.

There will be a dead black guy on the floor. Next to him are two donkeys, and a cow. The animals will be wearing cowboy hats and smoking joints. There will also be a group of trapeeze artists participating in a funneling contest.

In the bathroom, there will be 9 strippers and a mariachi band. They are just sharing some drinks and eating take out sushi.

The bath tub will be filled with Bud in the can, and a woman dressed as Tootie from The Facts of Life will be hanging out with Danny Gans.

Rusty Wallace's car will be in the room, but Rusty Wallace is no where to be found. In one corner there will be an entire minor league hockey team playing a major game of monopoly.

Other than that. The room will look completely normal.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

The Halloween Slut

It’s close to midnight on Halloween night. I am supposed to meet a buddy downtown to have a few beers and soak in the beauty that is Halloween.

I had forgotten how long it had been since I had actually gone out and actually partied on the actual night of Halloween. Typically, people get caught up in going to a Halloween party on the weekend before Halloween, and they pass that off as celebrating the holiday.

The Hollywood of the East Coast does to Halloween what it does to most other holidays - it blows them out. Take any of the major holiday (St. Patrick’s Day, Cinco De Mayo, Mardi Gras, Halloween), put them in The Hollywood, and you’ve got a completely unique experience.

For some reason, though, this point was lost on me as I walked out of my apartment Tuesday night. My costume? I didn’t even have one. I didn’t even decide to go out until a few hours ago.

I figured that maybe 60 to 70 percent of the people out drinking would be in a costume. I would quickly learn that I need to have better foresight.

I walk out of my apartment around midnight to see downtown parking has spilled onto the street next to my complex. I turn the corner. Walking toward me are two women dressed as kinky catholic school girls. Both have pony tails, white button down shirts pulled up high to expose their entire stomach, tiny red skirts, knee high white socks and black shoes. Did I mention breasts? I probably should have.

I walked past them and head toward downtown. I am now walking behind three people. One is a woman. I don’t know what her costume was, but it included fish net leggings and boy shorts which struggled to cover, at most, 20 percent of her ass. I can’t remember what else she had on because all I could see was her bare ass.

I’m beginning to think going out on Halloween was a good idea.

The city has decided in order to properly celebrate Halloween, it will section off two blocks of downtown, charge people $20 to get in, then fill the area with booze and pipe in bad music.

I hear the block party before I see it. There are giant Domino’s Pizza streamers shooting up in the air and various radio stations are promoting their shitty networks with huge, obnoxious vans. None are playing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” which disappoints me.

The streets are crawling with Halloween revelers. I am the only one not in costume. Literally. It takes me five minutes to find another person in street clothes.

Not only am I in the minority, I am completely singled out. Why I am the only one who decided to go out 2 hours ago is beyond me. But I don’t care. Because in front of my eyes, The Hollywood is putting on the greatest show anyone could ask for.

There are thousands of people in the most intricate, most hilarious costumes imaginable. Look, there’s a guy dressed as a MySpace page. There’s Jay from Jay and Jay Silent Bob fare (sadly, he wasn’t with Silent Bob, which clearly lost him marks on my Costume-O-Meter). Here’s a grown man who’s not only dressed like a cave man, but he’s talking like one. Then there’s the people who truly understand the spirit of Halloween. They are dressed as the Grim Reaper, or are covered in blood, or are wearing scary masks. They are all not moving and generally looking very creepy.

There’s a dude dressed as a keg, another as a bottle of Cuervo and another is a big penis. A woman remarks aloud, “Beer, tequila and penis, my three favorite things”.

Behind them I see the Ambiguously Gay Duo, complete with the oversized package. The other thousand men were dressed as Borat from the upcoming film, “Borat”.

The scene was captivating. But amid this sea of insanity, there was something else going on. Something else equally as fascinating. Something that maybe tells us about ourselves and our society.

Everywhere I looked, I saw hundreds of naked young women. Well, not literally, of course. But they might have well as been.

There were the three women who were wearing nothing but bras and panties and wings on their backs. If you have a white sheet over your head, I know you‘re a ghost. I don‘t know what you‘re dressed as when you wear underwear and wings. Turns out, they were Victoria’s Secret Angels, although I’m still trying to figure out if this is an actual mascot of the clothing chain or one they made up.

Nonetheless, they are essentially naked. By this point I have met my buddy and we are standing on the packed streets of The Hollywood speechless for several minutes. If there is ever anything spoken between us it is either, “Look at that!”, “Hey, check this one out”, or “Holy shit, over there.”

There is another girl dressed up as a naughty nurse, complete with pumps and the white mini-skirt. Dozens of naughty, female cops saunter by. Then there is your run-of-the-mill hooker. Hey, look, another random girl just wearing her bra. There’s a girl wearing boy shorts, no pants, and what amounts to a bra. What is she?

Here are two female construction workers with ripped open wife beaters exposing their fake breasts, dazy dukes and hard hats. There costumes are made more sexual by the fact they are carrying around tape measurers. They are dancing together and grabbing each other. My buddy informs them their costume is not consistent with what actual construction workers wear. They do not appreciate the humor.

There are also dozens of Playboy Bunnies walking the streets wearing very liberating clothing. The slutty football referee is also popular with the jersey number “69” adding a subtle, sexual touch.

entire night, I scanned the landscape of The Hollywood’s downtown bar district. From every corner oozed sexuality. It wasn’t subtle. It was in your face. It was powerful.

But as this spectacle danced all around me, I began to wonder. Why is this? Why do women use Halloween as an excuse to let out their inner slut. Why are women so obsessed with dressing like complete whores on Halloween? If a woman wants to dress a construction worker, a cop or a nurse, why do their costumes have to be completely slutted out?

Then, through some interesting conversation, I figured it out. Halloween is the only time women can dress like a slut, without being categorized as one. At no point on Halloween will a women look at another and judge her based on how much cleavage she is showing, or the fact that her bare ass cheeks are exposed.

The You can’t rip a girl about dressing like a whore because it’s Halloween. She’s in a costume, and the inner slut she is displaying is essentially an “act”, a one-time deal.

This is crucial because women cannot afford to be labeled a slut. It is detrimental to their image and how people treat them.

Nonetheless, the Halloween Slut may be a bit exaggerated here in The Hollywood. The women here are in an intense competition amongst themselves as they fight for the attention of a very sub-par male gene pool.

What does it all mean? It means Halloween is by far my favorite holiday. It’s a night to go out and act as silly, as creepy or as bizarre as you want and not have people judge you. You can be half naked and appear normal. You can say weird things, talk to weird strangers and openly stare at people and it is all normal.

And of course, in The Hollywood, it is the night the Halloween Sluts come out.

I’m just pissed I didn’t have a costume.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

300 Million Is Too Many Americans

At approximately 7:46 a.m. this morning, the 300 millionth American was born. We Americans, and the media, have treated this as some sort of accomplishment. It's not.

To prove it's not, I'll profile for you the 300,000,000 American who was born this morning just so you can get a taste of how gross American life can be if you're not careful with it.

We're going to name our new American Todd. Todd, who is born and raised in Orlando, Fla., will grow into an extremely obese child who guzzles soda and plows through bags of Doritos. Odds are, Todd will be a very ugly youngster who, at some point, will wear a T-shirt that says, "God don't make no trash."

By his teens, Todd will spend every waking hour playing XBox and will consider the season finale of "Laguna Beach" to be a defining moment of his high school years.

Todd will dream of playing professional sports. However, his high school offers a limited physical education program and will instead stuff him in a classroom for 8 hours a day where he is fed lies such as Christopher Columbus being an American hero, when, in fact, Columbus was nothing more than a smug, arrogant rapist and murderer.

As Todd goes through puberty, he will be over-exposure to thin busty female models in pop culture which will fill him with inflated expectations of what the average woman is supposed to look like.

Todd will attend a state university, will feel socially inadaquette because he's not as physically attractive as the people he has grown up watching on TV, will consider suicide until being "saved" by punk music. He will graduate and work at a local financial institution, sitting at a desk from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday.

Todd will marry the first girl to show interest in him, which is likely his first serious girlfriend from college. He will consider not marrying her, but will end up taking the plunge for fear of not finding anyone better in a society where people isolate themselves in large, sprawling subdivisions where cars are the lifeblood of the community.

Todd will claim to love his bride, whom we'll call Betty, when, in fact, he is not truley in love. But years of pop culture, including movies like John Cusack's "Say Anything," have given him a false sense of what love is.

Todd has also been trained to believe marriage is an essential rung on the human ladder, when, in fact, expressing your love for someone through a legally binding contract may be one of the most unromantic concepts ever created by humans.

But clearly, marriage is an essential part of the U.S. economy, and Todd and Bettty and diving in.

Betty, meanwhile, has had a similarly unspectacular youth. She has been plauged by insecurity issues throughout her teenage years because of her small breasts. She spent her youth learning from TV and movies that large breasts are more attractive. Her self esteem issues are also crippled by the fact she believes she is 10 pounds overweight, when, in fact, she is not.

In college, her insecurities will be exploited by men who will date her only for sex. This will lead her to wonder if there are any "good guys" out there. Betty now has an ocean full of self esteem issues, all of which can be traced back to years of watching "The OC" and reading "Cosmopolitan" magazine.

Betty's other character flaws are consistent with most American women. Her major priorities include amassing a major collection of material goods - a new SUV, a plasma TV, a big house, nice furniture, the latest cell phone, an abundant collection of useless kitchen utensils, etc.

She has been trained by American culture since birth to believe these items equal success and happiness, when, in fact, true happiness can not be bought on credit at Best Buy or delivered by a brand new cell phone ring tone.

Betty is drawn to Todd because of his outstanding potential for financial success and their entire relationship will revolve feeding the American economony machine. They will work weekdays and collecting material goods on the weekends.

Todd and Betty's life will quickly grow shallow, but the couple will fill this void by deciding to buy a new house in a suburban neighborhood with little character and no soul. The newer the neighborhood and more sterile the house the better. This will satisfy them for a short time, maybe a few years. Then they will grow unsatisfied again.

To fill this void, they decide to have kids. Once the babies start arriving, they suddenly have a new identy and a new reason to spend more money. Like a crack user who simply needs a few quick hits to regain his buzz, they are temporarily revitalized.

They think they are happy, but deep down their souls are hallow. They don't know why. Their entire lives are a routine of traffic jams, work, more traffic jams, and caring for their children. Sadly, though, their children are being raised by minimum wage workers at O2B Kids and other daycare institutions.

In an attempt to cover up this new sadness, Todd and Betty will go on shopping binges, buying large plasma TVs and new cars. Each swip of the credit card, each major purchase releases doses of saratonin in their brains, and like crack smokers, they are temporarily high again.

Once the monotomy and pressure of marriage begins to weigh on them, though, they may seek out other avenues of excitment and pleasure, like cheating on one another.

Meanwhile, an entire world of life is dancing before them, hidden from them by a culture of greed and materialism. It is world many people do embrace. A world where people pass on the long work hours, the big cash and fabulous prizes for a simple life. A happy life. A real life.

You see, Todd and Betty will never understand the healing power of sitting before the Colorado River as it surges through the Grand Canyon.

They will never stop and take in the calm of an evening sunset, because they are hurridly loading groceries into their car so they can get home in time for the season premiere of "Lost".

They will never know the true freedom of traveling to Costa Rica alone, having a smoke in a tree atop a cliff while gazing out over the deep blue of the Pacific, considering the magnitude of the earth and the insignificance of the industrialized world.

And even if they travel to these places, Betty and Todd will likely miss the true experience, instead spending these reflective moments fiddling with their new digital camera and wasting these vacation nights watching Roseanne re-runs in their hotel room.

300 million of us have fallen into at least part of this trap at some point. I guess my point of all this is best stated here: In a country of 300 million people, no one wants to grow up to be the next president, no one wants to grow up to be next Sylvia Plath or John Steinbach. No one wants to grow up to be the next Mother Teresa or Pat Tillman.

All 300 million people in this stupid fucking country want to be the next Jessica Simpson or Paris Hilton or any number of marginally talented, multi-million dollar Hollywood trash. We are obsessed with the size of our TVs and cars, straining our lives and bank accounts over this pettiness.

And now we're boasting about the size of our country. That makes me think of an old cliche: Those who brag about how big they are often have a small one. Yes, America's penis is small.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Thought Of The Day, Vol. 1

You ever hang around these "Carpe Diem" people? The ones who claim to live their lives in the moment.

These people believe you should seize the moment because you are not guaranteed tomorrow.

My quesiton is: Why don't any of these people smoke cigarettes? Seems hypocritical.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

E-mailed Baby Pictures Are Complete Abortions

I would hate to be born today.

It has nothing to do with the sadness of being born into a world where news of pop singer Aaron Carter breaking off his engagement with his brother's ex-girlfriend grabs bigger headlines than the war in Iraq.

No, I would hate to be born today because, inevitably, shortly after my birth dozens of people would be receiving e-mailed pictures of my sorry ass. E-mailed baby pictures are complete abortions of the digital age.

In the past few months, I have too many baby pictures e-mailed to me from people I barely fucking know. The hoopla that surrounds newborn babies doesn't interest me. Throw digital cameras and e-mail into the mix, and it is a dangerous concoction.

Let me preface this by making a quick point: There are many very important people in my life who I greatly care about. And when some of them have had kids, I am very moved by the experience. This is not about you.

I am talking about the baby picutres I get from the third cousin of the people who lived next door to my family when I was 12 years old. I'm talking about the baby pictures I get from that person I hung out with for two weeks during my sophomore year of college.

When I get these e-mails, I'm usually one of about 100 people on the e-mail list. This is rude. There's no possible way 100 people care about your new kid. I sure don't.

For starters, every kid looks the same when they are 1-day old. Their faces are bloated. They have a stocking cap on despite the fact they are in a climate-controlled room. Closed eyelids. No hair. No distinguishing physical characteristics. Nothing.

Do you know why sometimes parents accidently take the wrong baby home from the hospital? Because they all look the fucking same.

Why send me a picture of this?

And they all look like they're ready to piss themselves because they have no idea what is going on.

I mean, they just shot out of a vagina. That would scare anybody. All you know for nine months is a uterus that is warm and dark. All of your meals are delivered directly into your body. Suddenly, you pass through a vagina and you're in a loud room with alien-looking people, bright lights and flashbulbs going off every two seconds.

It's like being abducted by aliens.

This is not a happy time for a baby. I guess, however, there is an allure to the peace and tranquility of a newborn. When most people (women) look at a baby, they go, 'Awwww.'

Not me. When I see a baby, I am more realistic. I'm thinking that one day this little girl is going to expose her breasts to hundreds of drunk, horny men on Spring Break in Cancun. Or one day this little boy is going to break into my car and steal my entire CD collection.

I guess my point is this: Hitler was a cute-as-shit baby (see actual Hitler baby picture on the left. What a doll!)

I guess all of this makes me think of one of my favorite lines from comedian David Cross.

"A lot of my friends have kids now. They tell me having a baby is hard. They say, 'Oh, having a baby is so hard.' No, it's not. Talking your girlfriend into her third consecutive abortion ... that's hard. You're just inconvenienced."

Friday, September 08, 2006

The Top 5 Worst Beers You May Be Drinking

5. Bud Light
This is only to be drank when given out for free. And in the can.

Let's say you’re tailgating for the Huey Lewis & The News concert and the crew you’re with has a cooler full of Bud Light, then dive right in and begin discussing whether Huey is going to open with “Hip To Be Square” or “The Power of Love.” Otherwise, stay away.

For starters, it is impossible to get drunk on Bud Light. It has a %4.2 alcohol content, which is just slightly higher than a bottle of Robotussin. The only beer you may ever drink with less alcohol is Amstel Light (%3.5). You'd get a better buzz by licking my kitchen floor.

I am a huge fan of the much more robust Budweiser heavy. Anyone ordering a glass pint of Bud Light should have the keg slammed into their crotch.

Tastes like: Sand
90210 star most likely to drink it: Brandon Walsh

4. Michelob Ultra
Let’s be honest. Anheuser-Busch is a marketing genius for targeting a beer toward every weight-paranoid freak in America.

Mic Ultra is not just a bad beer, it’s a gimmick, a hard curve ball thrown by some marketing faggot who gets paid a huge salary to take advantage of your physical insecurities.

Tastes like: Gym socks.
90210 star most likely to drink it: Donna Martin

3. Samuel Adams
In Middle School you associated Sam Adams with the Intolerable Acts and the Boston Tea Party. In college you associated Sam Adams with a bar named Tasty World and a sorority girl named Allison. By the time you were in your late 20s, anything remotely factual you learned about Adams in school is lost, pushed deep into the recesses of your brain by 12-packs of Summer Ale. Isn’t history fun?

Sam Adams beer is essentially like the tricycle of lager beers. For those American beer drinking assholes, it’s a dangerous - yet safe - play. Ohhhhh! A micro-brew! From Boston! What a joke.

If you gave Sam Adams to someone in a bar in Ireland they would kick you in the knee and call you a pussy.

I wonder when Sam Adams was making a difference as the governor of Massachuessets if he ever knew there would be a shitty beer named after him?

Tastes like: The inside of Paul Revere’s shorts
90210 star most likely to drink it: David Silver

2. Rolling Rock
Have you ever been invited to someone’s house for dinner and they have prepared a special dish or desert. They make a big spectacle of the moment and demand you try it. You put it in your mouth and it tastes like a bicycle chain. Yet, you still have to smile and pretend to like it?

This is how I feel whenever someone gives me a Rolling Rock. Anhueser-Busch bought this shit from a tiny Pennsylvania brewery in May, giving you even more reason to hate it. Anhueser-Busch rivals McDonalds for making billions of dollars off of shitty products.

Rolling Rock sucks you with smoke and mirrors. The green bottle gives the illusion of a tasty beer. Perhaps you mistaken if for Heineken (and you would have to be stinking drunk to do so). Then they spend a few million dollars to have Rolling Rock beers appear in the movie “Old School.” Now, you’re being seduced by the big advertising wand.

Tastes like: Gravel (hence, the name Rolling Rock)
90210 star most likely to drink it: Matt Durning/Kelly Taylor

1. Miller Lite
I wonder if people who drink Miller Lite have decided on their own this is a great tasting beer, or do they drink it because they’ve subconsciously fallen victim to the $80 million Miller Brewing spends in advertising each year to make you feel good about Miller Lite.

You see, everyone who drinks Miller Lite is a tool. In 2000, Miller underwent a major management shake-up. Their sales were stagnant. They came up with a new ad campaign. Ever since, they have produced some of the funniest - and provocative - ads on TV. Miller Lite ads are great. They are cool. They make you laugh. They make you feel good.

So when you go to the bar, and you see that familiar blue and gold Miller Lite label, your subconscious associates that label with good feelings. It’s like Pavlov’s dog.

Miller Lite = feeling good.

So you order a bunch of them, blind to the fact that the aroma is skunked and the beer tastes like cooked cabbage and corn.

You are a tool. A victim of advertising. Somewhere in Milwaukee, a guy in a suit gets paid $500,000 to make sure you feel good enough about Miller Lite that you buy it. You are now his bitch.

Tastes like: Urine
90210 star most likely to drink it: Steve Sanders.

Want to taste real beer? Go order a Newcastle, Red Stripe, Heineken, Sammy Smith’s Oatmeal Stout, Sierra Nevada, Flying Dog, Blue Moon or Beck’s.

That’s what I’m on my way to do.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Accused Ramsey killer admits being mastermind behind Diet Pepsi Jazz

(The following is not a news story, but originial satire from Blowing Smoke).

LOS ANGELES - (BS) Accused JonBenet Ramsey killer John Mark Karr made another horrifying confession Tuesday when he admitted to authorities that he is the mastermind behind the new soft drink,"Diet Pepsi Jazz."

The confession comes almost one week after Karr admitted to killing 6-year-old JonBenet Ramsey 10 years ago in Boulder, Colo.

"Killing a little girl is one thing, but creating something as offensive as Diet Pepsi Jazz is just downright evil," said Los Angeles attorney Stephen Goldberg. "Diet Pepsi Jazz is the soda industry's 9-11."

Goldberg said Karr made the confession after authories found nostalgic cans of New Coke and Crystal Pepsi in his Thailand apartment.

Police said a seizure of Karr's computer showed his obsession with flavored colas. Found on the computer were instructions on how to make Mountain Dew Code Red, Pepsi Blue, Pepsi Rasberry, Surge, Coca Cola C2 and Coke Zero.

Karr is also believed to have posted in numerous cola chat rooms under the handles DietCherryVanillaPepsi_Co2 and ObeyYourThirst4829.

Court records also indicate Karr was cited in Tuscaloosa, Ala., in 1990 for stealing a six-pack of Pepsi Twist from a Grab-N-Go convenience store.

"This is a sick, sick individual," Goldberg said. "He belongs behind bars where he can no longer terrify the public with his carbonated propaganda."

Diet Pepsi Jazz, flavored with strawberries and cream, hit supermarkets last week to poor reviews.

Sherry Kirkpatrick passed over Diet Pepsi Jazz in favor of two 12-packs of Diet Sprite and a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper Tuesday at Albertson's in Newport Beach. Kirkpatrick said she tried Diet Pepsi Jazz last week.

"It has everything I'm looking for in a soda - unhealthy levels of sugar, addictive levels of caffeine and toxic acidity levels," she said. "I just wish it didn't taste like a bag of charcoal."

Karr is facing two life sentances in the Rasmey murder and seventeen life sentences for creating Diet Pepsi Jazz.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Hollywood of the East Coast

I love nicknames.

I believe all things should be nicknamed. Your car. Your house. Your coffee maker. Even your city.

Some cities have legendary nicknames - Tinsel Town, The Big Easy, The Windy City, The Big Apple, Big D, The Classic City, The City That Never Sleeps, and my favorite - The Biggest Little City In The World … Reno, Nevada.

When I moved here, I discovered Gainesville had a nickname: Hogtown. This has everything to do with the name of the creek that runs through the city and nothing to do with actual hogs. This did not make me happy.

So, I observed the town for many years, then branded it with a new nickname.

The Hollywood of the East Coast.

Realize, of course, that the Hollywood in Gainesville doesn’t jump right out and smack you in the face. It dances cautiously in the shadows, revealing itself only to those who care to spend a portion of their lives here.

Sure, there’s a bigger spotlight on other East Coast jaunts such as New York, Atlanta and Miami. But you would feel totally uncreative calling one of those cities The Hollywood of the East Coast, in the same sense you feel uncreative sexually by telling someone you think Pamela Anderson is hot.

Many of Gainesville’s Hollywood traits are subtle. The sun shines every day here. The people are beautiful, they know they’re beautiful, and they have little to offer outside of their looks. True to Hollywood form.

The nightlife is completely out of balance with a mid-sized college town, offering elaborate dance clubs with cover charges, VIP rooms and dress codes (which only made sense to me when I learned many of the clubs here are owned by the same people who own the clubs in South Beach).

In a roughly sketched portrait, Gainesville features tens of thousands of good-looking young people walking around in the hot sun wearing little, yet trendy, clothing and partying in clubs fashioned straight out of Miami’s South Beach.

It’s a good Hollywood start.

However, to be in true Hollywood style, you need celebrities. And the Hollywood of the East Coast has you covered there.

Let’s begin with Playboy’s 2002 cover girl, Lauren Anderson. A local high school graduate and former University of Florida student, Anderson quickly rose to local fame after baring it all as Playboy’s centerfold four summers ago.

In true Hollywood of the East Coast style, she came to my roommate’s birthday party several months after her spread and drove us to the bars that night in her SUV while playing the Striptease DVD for her passengers.

The fact I actually participated in such proceedings angers me. I loathe everything accompanying that scene including celebrating a woman whose only true accomplishment is being bestowed with an amazing set of tits, even though that is truly no achievement whatsoever.

But sometimes in The Hollywood, you have to just let situations like these run their course. Just roll with the punches and enjoy the randomness.

Celebrity runs much deeper than Anderson, however. The Hollywood gets amped up for Clinton Portis' annual Summer Jam (the NFL Pro Bowl running back was born and raised here). There's always a buzz when celebs like Derek Jeter, Rick Pitino or Warren Sapp attend University of Florida basketball games (once, it was rumored Jeter stayed in town to party in the VIP lounge at The Bank downtown. That guy recognizes Hollywood when he sees it).

Turn on your TV and The Hollywood is well represented. One of ESPN’s most drooled-over personalities, sideline reporter Erin Andrews, graduated from UF in 2000. The Weather Channel’s most popular reporter - Stephanie Abrams - is also a Florida grad. Bob Villa? Tom Petty? Sure, they lived in Gainesville.

Spend enough time here, and your chance of experiencing a Hollywood of the East Coast moment multiplies. Like the time I realized "The All-American Dream," Dusty Rhodes, was standing next to me at the bar (speaking of nicknames, “The All-American Dream” is up there). Or when my dad came to visit and we ate dinner at a table next to Steve Spurrier … when he was head coach of the Washington Redskins.

I’ve played pick-up basketball games with Chicago Bears running back Adrian Peterson and Minnesota Vikings wide receiver Travis Taylor.

Don’t be shocked if you see Ruthie from The Real World Hawaii at the bar or Joaquin Phoenix’s sister, Rain, on the streets. If you see New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick or Philadelphia Eagles All-Pro defensive back Lito Sheppard in town, your eyes aren’t deceiving you.

Roger Maris’ son. He lives here, too. Bo Diddly? You know it.

Like I said, if these sightings occurred in a big metropolis it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. Somehow, this sleepy little Florida college town, tucked away beneath a massive canopy of live oaks, has turned into Hollywood’s sister city.

The Hollywood in Gainesville never ends. There are three websites that follow the Gainesville nightlife scene (,, and features pictures from bars across the globe. Your choices include such exotic locales as Berlin, Paris, Sicily, New York ... and Gainesville. It makes very little sense, unless you've accepted the power the Hollywood of the East Coast posseses.

Yeah, the NCAA basketball champions reside here. Super Bowl XXXIX was held less than an hour away. The world champions in all four major sports since 2001 have come from this state.

But let’s be honest, Hollywood is not all glitz and glamour. In August, 1990, Gainesville was placed under the national spotlight when “The Gainesville Ripper,” Danny Rolling, murdered five students in a 48-hour span, a spree that transfixed the nation and strangled the city with fear for weeks.

I find all of this tremendously amusing. I don’t seek out all of the worst traits of America that thrive here - pretentiousness, celebrity, fashion and the desire to impress people with looks.

It’s all fake here. The big concert events of Gainesville include Trick Daddy and Snoop Dogg. People don’t celebrate good music here, only music that represents their life style - all attitude and no substance.

True Hollywood style. To be in this city each day, observing the delusion, is an amazing thing. Comedy abounds at each turn.

There is no better example of the irony that resides in The Hollywood than the movie “Doc Hollywood.” This 1991 comedy staring Michael J. Fox and Julie Warner could be one of the most ironic things that ever happened to The Hollywood of the East Coast.

The movie is about a young doctor (Fox) who is driving cross-country to Beverly Hills to become a surgeon. He crashes his car in a rural Southern town and is ordered to stay there and do community service. All the while, he just wants to get to Hollywood.

Where’s the irony, you ask? The movie was filmed right here in Gainesville.

Doc Hollywood was trying to get to Beverly Hills. But what he didn’t realize was that he was already there … in the Hollywood of the East Coast.

The little town grows on Doc Hollywood enough he considers staying.

It’s a poetic ending, I guess.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Random Hostility

Some days, society just makes you shake your head and say, “How fucking stupid is everybody?” For me, this happens about every 30 minutes … or every 30 seconds if I’m near a TV.

Anyway, I thought it would be therapeutic to let all the anger out. The following is a series called Random Hostility. It’s a steady diet of societal failures.

The “Miss Universe” pageant
Am I the only one who thinks this is the most arrogant and naïve name ever given to a contest?

Miss Universe? Let's just stick with Miss Earth.

It is plain to see there is other intelligent life in the universe (there are an estimated 70 sextillion stars in the universe similar to our sun). Yet, we humans are arrogant enough to presume the winner of our “Miss Universe” pageant is the most superior female species of intelligent life IN THE UNIVERSE! What a joke.

No other contest is this arrogant. Even our American sporting championships declare the winners as world champions, not universal champions. Muhammed Ali was never delcared Heavyweight Champion of the Universe.

Nonetheless, stripping the Miss Universe event of it’s credibility is somewhat of an elementary task, especially given that one of the judges in the 2006 contest this past week was Tom Green, the comedian who was pretty funny for 6 weeks in the summer of 2000 and whose career was officially pronounced dead in 2005 when he starred in the children’s TV movie, Bob The Butler.

The contestants, as it turns out, have even less substance than the judges. This is evidenced by this year's winner, Puerto Rico’s Zuleyka Rivera, who fainted shortly after being announced Miss Universe Sunday. Rivera was picked as the most impressive female throughout the far reaches of the ethos ... and she faints. I am not impressed.

These contestants are an embarrassment to women everywhere. The Miss Universe website says the participants are “savvy, goal-oriented and aware.” Last time I checked, no one who is “savvy” and “aware” faints.

And “goal-oriented?” Holy crap. That phrase sucks. All you need to know about that phrase is that Osama bin Laden is also very “goal-oriented.”

Finally, more contradictions. The web site lists what past winners are doing now, as if to validate the contest. I figure these past winners, who are apparently the most impressive female species among the 100 billion galaxies in this Universe, would be achieving profound things. So I randomly click on one.

She is Miss Universe 2002, Justine Penak of Panama. Her write up:

An ambassador in her country, Justine continues to travel the world on behalf of Panama to promote its culture, history and resources. She also continues to model and dedicate time to her new puppy, Molly.

Translation: She went to Europe and slept with a French waiter named Pierre. She appeared in an advertisement for hand soap before her life became so void of meaning she went out and got a dog and named it Molly.

In my opinion, the only thing that could be worse than the Miss Universe pageant would be if they held a contest for World's Greatest Grandpa.

Tip the counter help?
I don’t tip counter help. Sorry. Standing behind a counter and moving 3 inches to the left to swipe my debit card does not deserve a tip. Greedy fucks. Besides, I'm the one doing all the work. I have to enter my pin number, press whether or not I want money back, press whether or not the amount shown is the correct amount, etc., etc. Maybe I'll tip myself.

Besides, what’s going to happen if I don’t tip the shaggy-haired, 18-year-old behind the counter at The Pita Pit? Is he not going to take my money next time? The tip jar, and the tip line on debit card receits are insulting. Fuck off.

If you want a tip go bartend or wait tables you fucks.

Too many bags
Speaking of cashiers, next time I go to the store and buy a stick of deodorant, I don’t need a big plastic bag, thanks.

I have 10 fingers and two arms, and enough wherewithall to handle a 3 oz bar of Speed Stick without it being placed in a bag.

Last week, I bought a paperback book from Barnes & Noble. They put the book in a plastic bag. Let me reiterate. They put a book in a big bag.

Really? A book in a bag? For a second there, I thought I was going to have to ask the stockman to help me carry this book out to my car.

Women who park on curbs
This fucking pisses me off. Women who have huge, expensive cars and lack the skills to drive them.

Have you ever seen a woman pull into the front parking spot and completely fail in the whole geometry of the manuever?

The result is her back right tire resting up on the curb. It is not pretty. Three wheels on the ground, one resting on top of a Palmetto bush. Hey, sounds like Miss Universe material. This reminds me of my favorite Rodney Dangerfield quote: "How come my wife can spot a blonde hair at 20 yards, but everytime she comes home she misses the garage door?"

The strange dichotomy of women in big, expensive cars is this: I know a few women who have bought themselves big SUVs. These women are all excellent drivers. The ones who suck at driving and parking are the ones who have had someone else (i.e. Daddy or their husband) buy them these huge SUVs. This phenomenon should be delved deeper into.

Inverse plural
Anyone who uses the inverse plural deserves to have an umbrella stuck up their ass and opened. For those who need a short primer, the inverse plural is a complete abortion of the English language. It’s when someone adds an extra “s” to a proper noun.

For instance, Karen might tell you she is going to go purchase the new Wilson Phillips CD at Best Buys. She says this in spite of the fact the store is called Best Buy.

Your name is Karen. I don't call you Karens.

Other nouns frequently fucked over by the inverse plural include:

Barnes & Noble(s)
Oscar Mayer(s)
Olive Garden(s)
Everybody Loves Raymond(s)
Krispy Kreme(s)
Blockbuster(s) - (in referrence to the video store).
Nestle(s) Crunch
Sam Goody(s)
J.C. Penny(s)
Ruby Tuesday(s)

Failing at the drive-thru
Folks, if the window on the driver’s side of your car doesn’t roll down, you should not be allowed to drive through at fast food restaurants. Simple philosophy. Maybe you should Value-Size your auto-mechanic bill.

Thank you. I feel much better, now.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Dial 1-800-Cell-Porn

Whenever you're out drinking with a friend, at some point during the night, there is guaranteed to be one long stretch that passes where neither person talks.

Sometimies it's 30 seconds. Sometimes a minute.

Whenever this silence occurs, I believe the next words to be spoken should be significant or hilarious.

Which is why I couldn’t stop laughing recently when a dude I was out with broke the ice with his line. He pulls out his cell phone and says this:

“Hey, do you want to see a video of my girlfriend sucking my dick?”

My kind of guy. When you’re out drinking and the conversation turns to pornography, it is always a good thing. I'm a huge fan of inappropriate subject matter.

It's a hell of lot more interesting than listening to Couple A ramble on about the intimate details of the installation of the new cabinets in their kitchen. Or listening to some married guy talk about the new major electronics purchase he has just made which, evidently, will distract him from how boring and routine his life is becoming.

That's boring shit. But porn is always fun. Especially when your friend has a 15-second video clip on his cell of his girlfriend going down on him. (No, he didn’t really show it to me. But a few more rounds and I likely would have watched it).

I thought this was fascinating, and culturally significant. Then I discovered that Cell Porn, as we’ll call it, is quite prevalent.

Several of my friends have revealed to me they have pictures/videos of them either fucking or getting blown. But they never show it to me.

One thing is always constant, however. The moment someone reveals they have Cell Porn always occurs at random times.

Say I'm talking to a friend about whether The Price Is Right adds the clicking sound made by the Plinko chips strictly for TV or if the clicking sounds are audible in the studio. At some random moment, just as The Price Is Right conversation fades, the cell phone will come out.

“Dude, do you want to see pictures of me fucking Kathryn?”

I love it. Not that I want to see it, but I am enamored by the fact this is actually occurring.

It’s to the point now, that my friends’ girlfriends are pulling the same stunt. I have actually been tricked into seeing some rather forgettable shit. Totally dooped.

Girlfriend A has her cell out. “Hey, check out this picture.”

I look. It’s a photo of my buddy on his bed with his erection shooting up inside his gym shorts (yes, his shorts were on, mercifully).

Oh, really. Thanks. You think that’s funny? Why don't you just point to my chest and say, "What's that," then when I look down hit me in the face with your hand.

I felt like the waiters in the movie "Waiting" who got goated.

So apparently it goes both ways. Maybe I find this fascinating because I have never recorded my sexual exploits with my cell phone. Actually, when I’m having sex it never occurs to me to get out my cell and turn my bedroom into a movie set.

I mean, I wouldn't even be able to find my cell phone while I'm having sex. It takes me five minutes to find my keys before I leave home everyday. I have no idea where my cell is unless it is ringing.

Do these guys have those cell-phone belt holders strapped to their body during sex and then just whip out the camera phone when they have a money shot? How does this work? I want to know.

My friend says “Dude, my cell was on the night stand.” That seems to make sense. I guess.

Regardless, we are all now porn stars. Our phones, the ones we use to conduct major business on, to talk to our mothers and fathers on, is now filled with some of our dirtiest and most forbidden acts.

Isn't technology great?

Friday, July 14, 2006

San Diego = Paradise

San Diego's Pacific Beach may be the most amazing place in the Galaxy.

That's a bold statement considering I'm not sure what lies beyond our solar system.

But as far as Earth goes, there can be no place better.

For starters, this small stretch of Pacific Coast could be the home of the most prolific gene pool in North America. The dudes are fit, tan and totally money (I am secure enough in my manhood to openly make this observation).

As for the women, they are world class.

I have been to New York, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Miami Beach, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, Atlanta ... you name it. But I have never been to a place where every single woman was an 8 or above.

In my recent trip here last week, it became a game to find an ugly woman. After seven hours of drinking on the beach, we had seen two.

No bench warmers. No scrubs. The women of San Diego are kind of like the 1992 U. S. Dream Team whose bench warmers were future Hall of Famers Scottie Pippen, Chris Mullin and Karl Malone.
Shockingly, you couldn't even find the token ugly/fat girl that is frequently a part of the female herd, the one who is there to make the other women feel better about their apperanace.

No. San Diego is World Class.

The thing is, the people at San Diego's Pacific Beach exhibit an auroa of confidence I have seen very few places, except for here in The Hollywood of the East Coast. Everyone San Diegoan knows they are fucking beautiful.

And they seem to be really pumped up about it. But they don't care to judge you strictly on appeance, a quality that makes this place even more unbelievable.

Let's not forget, the surfing. Or the people sauntering onto the packed beach with 30-pack Budweiser suitcases on a picturesque, sunny, summer Saturday afternoon in July.

Did I mention the surfing?

San Diego is by far the most underated city in the U.S. They don't have an NBA or NHL franchise, but they don't need one.

They have rolling hills, sunshine, beaches, ideal weather and beautiful bodies, beautiful souls. And great bars.

What else could one ask for?

Monday, June 26, 2006

Don't Ask Me To Take Your Picture

I go to bars to drink, be stupid, mix with walks of life, revel in the randomness and drink some more.

What I don't go to a bar to do, however, is work. By work, I'm referring to having to set down my beer, cigarette and halt a conversation in order to photograph a group of rich, vile, judgemental bitches.

I can tell by the shirt you're wearing that you are proud of the new tits you bought, but do you have to photograph them all over town? Is your self esteem that low?

How did we go from simply enjoying the bar, to trying to document and record an experience as common as going out for a drink?

The digital camera, of course. The invention of the digital camera has lowered my quality of life and it is polluting the bar scene.

Now, everytime I go to the bar I turn into fucking Ansel Adams.

It makes me want to fucking puke. Here's how it usually goes down:

I'll be in an in depth conversation with a friend about whether Tiffani Amber Thiessen was hotter as Kelly Kapowski on Saved By The Bell or as Valerie Malone on Beverly Hills 90210 when some girl interupts by handing me a digital camera and asking to take a picture of her and her friends.

Then, like eight girls will gather round. What? Pictures? Women start running out of the bathroom to get in. A trap door opens in the ceiling and women repel down to get into the photo.

Then they begin with what I call the Picture Girl Smile. Most women have this smile that only appears in pictures.

It's the fakest fucking facial expression ever. It's so forced it almost looks like they're taking a shit.

Anyway, I snap the photo. Poof! Half the bar goes blind.

Now comes the sick part. The women start running after the camera like baseball fans scrambling for a foul ball. Somewhere, Ivan Pavlov is smiling. The women grab the camera and immediatley gaze at the picture.

I'm thinking, What?

I guess their mentality is this: "Oh! Remember this one. That was a fun time when we all went out to The Saloon. When was that anyway? .... Oh, I know. IT WAS FIVE FUCKING SECONDS AGO!"

How can you be naustalgic about a concept like five seconds ago?

I have no problem with photographing the party. But only if something extraordinary is going on. Posing for a forced picture at a bar is boring as shit. If you're blowing the bartender or puking on someone's arm, please take a picture of that.

Of course, the saboteur in me likes to play games.

Back in the days of film, I would always frame the picture so none of the girls' faces were in it. Of course, they wouldn't know until a week later when the film came back.

Now, ruining these worthless photos takes imagination. That's where my friend, who we'll call B-Diddy, comes into play.

B-Diddy loves to sneak in the back of these pictures and make inppropriate gestures just to illustrate how childlike, fake and artless these "bar photos" are.

That's my guy. (Editor's Note: To avoid a violation of B-Diddy's probation, he is not the saboteur pictured above, but rather one of his protoges).

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Is Everyone A Lesbian?

I'm lying in bed. It's late. I'm trying to sleep.

By "trying to sleep", I mean I'm just lying there waiting to lose consciouness.

Then, I hear a woman moan through the wall behind me.

The moment you hear someone having sex, you do a double take, much like the first time you hear the wedding singer in Old School drop the F-Bomb while singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart."

Curious, I placed my ear to the wall. Indeed, my neighbor was presumably getting a stiff one.

Two nights later I heard my neighbor getting fucked again. This piqued my curiosity because I had never seen my neighbor.

But now that I've listened to her getting fucked, I was extremely curious to see what she looked like ... and maybe even what the dude who was slamming her looked like, too.

Finally, I got a glimpse of her just yesterday. As I'm leaving my complex, I see her door open. The moment of truth. What came out of the door stunned me: Two girls, holding hands.

This threw my mind into upheaval. What I had actually been listening to through my wall was nothing close to what I thought I was listening to.

I suddenly felt like Banky in the movie Chasing Amy when he says to Alyssa, "You just said fuck to that girl. You said you were going to fuck her. Were you talking about strap-ons or something?"

This was so predictable, though. It has been happening a lot to me lately. One of the most beautiful women I have ever seen was in line in front of me at the deli a few weeks ago and next to her was her short-haired, lesbian lover. They held not hands, but pinky fingers. Yeah.

There was also another woman I see frequently whom one of my friends works with. I had always thought she was hot, but I had never actually met her. When I tell my friend of my attraction, he goes, "Oh, she's gay."

Not only that, but he kicks me in the balls with this follow up statement. "Did you hear about her and Sarah P? Yeah, they used to hook up."

"What?" I stammered.

I, too, liked Sarah P. Here's two women I was interested in, and they're fucking each other. If it's any consolation, my friend says that "Sarah P. might be willing to throw a guy into the mix."

Apparently, Sarah P. occasionally craves the dick. The others, it seems, are hard-core lesbians. Isn't everybody these days. The U.S. Government's Center For Health Research determined, in a 2002 study, that 11 percent of women ages 14-45 reported having a "sexual experience of some kind" with another woman.

I'm pretty confident most of these women live in my town. One of them lives right next door.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Is This Porn, Or The Weather Channel?

I think Maxim Magazine is the most juvenile publication out there.

It is aesthetically appealing, I suppose, because it’s pages are graced with bony models slipping out of their underwear.

But the editorial content in the magazine rivals the Weekly Reader I was forced to read in 3rd grade.

The articles largely revolve around manipulating your girlfriend.

Some examples are, “How to get your girlfriend to have a three-way” or “How to convince your girlfriend into watching porn with you” or “How to watch the big game on the night of your 2-year anniversary.”

Maxim basically just feeds the worst appetites of men. And tons of dudes love it. Not me.

I don’t like Maxim girls. I don’t even like Playboy girls. How could I?

I’ve already given my heart away … to The Weather Channel Girls.

You see, it doesn't take great vision to ogle Shakira's ass or Carmen Electra’s tits. Their sexuality is obvious. You have to look well beyond the fire light to capture the beauty of TWC Girls.

When I watch Kristina Abernathy describe how the unusually northern flow of the jet stream is going to bring lake effect snow to areas of Buffalo … something inside me feels alive.

The Weather Channel is unquestionably the hub for hot women. In terms of variety … it is second to none.

It starts with Alexandra Steele, co-host of “Evening Edition.” If I have to choose between watching Sharon Stone ride Michael Douglas over on HBO or Steele’s Weekend Planner on TWC, I go with Steele 10 times out of 10.

Steele has stunning facial features and resembles the hot soccer mom in your neighborhood. Her signature wardrobe is a tight silk top, and often times, it looks like a slick janitor (or savvy producer) has turned up the AC in the building.

For those into younger, curvier women, look no further than Stephanie Abrams, a former Hollywood of the East Coast resident. Abrams' breakthrough performance came during Hurricane Season 2005.

Abrams, a staple on TWC’s roster of reporters in the field, was frequently seen being hammered by 80-m.p.h. winds and pelted with rain while wearing the tightest t-shirt I have ever seen. Instantly, the barometric pressure began rising in thousands of living rooms across America.

The clincher is that Abrams (and all of the TWC Girls) is articulate, smart and well informed, unlike such television boob-puppets as ESPN's Erin Andrews or CBS' Jill Arrington.

If you’re into exotic women, TWC’s deep roster has you covered. Take a peek at Vivian Brown, a former track standout at Jackson State University. Let's not forget Jennifer Lopez, Kim Perez and Eboni Deon.

All told, these TWC Girls exude sexuality, further evidenced by their porn-star like names. I mean, Alexandra Steele? Are you serious? How about Jennifer Lopez, Betty Davis and Kelly Cass? (For fun: Do a Google search for images of Alexandra Steele and watch the stunning amount of porn appear on your computer).

I know I’m not alone in my obsession of TWC Girls. Has anyone else noticed these women have collectively been pregnant about 328 times over the past five years?

One day, Kristina Abernathy is looking like the money. A few weeks later, she’s carrying a keg in her stomach.

These women are always knocked up. It appears someone is slipping them a stiff one while we’re enjoying some light jazz and watching Local on the 8s.

We’re getting the 7-day forecast, and Jeanneta Jones is getting 7 inches.

I blame Jim Cantore. He looks like a complete womanizer, and I’ve noticed the increased sexual tension building on the set between him and Steele during “Evening Edition.”

There’s no way two attractive people can work with such chemistry on the set and not have that electricity spill over into the bedroom.

It’s only natural, and, of course, weather is all about natural forces.

In many ways, I respect Cantore. I also am fanatical about Dave Schwartz, Mark Mancuso and Jeff Morrow (whom I’ve actually met).

These guys don’t need Maxim. They work with the hottest women in show business.