To Those Seeking a Challenge

Lately I've been talking with some of my single female friends and I've noticed a disturbing trend among them. The first commonality is they won't have sex with me, which is why we're friends who actually talk, as opposed to friends who say nothing beyond guttural moans and drunken phone calls. The second, and slightly less important topic upon which they agree is that they are all looking for a guy who is a "challenge." Then they will turn to me and ask whether I'm looking for a girl who is a "challenge," to which I reply "hell no."

If I wanted a major challenge, I'd go climb Mt. Everest after running the New York marathon with a Sherpa on my back the whole time, not decide to start dating someone. Maybe it's me, but I think life should be challenging enough if you're doing it right, and why in the world would I want the person I'm dating to make it harder instead of easier? And this idea goes to the fact that I believe my friends, along with many others, are overlooking the inherent difficulties that make life a struggle. If you want to find a real challenge, check out a homeless person on the way to work, or ponder how pretty much everything created by man is poisoning our atmosphere.

For my friends, I think their problems began when they bought into the whole work hard/play hard mentality that has become the omnipresent mantra in overachieving yuppies of a certain age. Sure, I can see the value of the work hard thing, and, even though I don't practice it, how that might benefit a person professionally. However, when it comes to playing hard, there couldn't be a bigger oxy moron going. Play shouldn't be hard, it should, dare I say, be relaxing, joyous, and if its not, then it's not play but more like work. I think my friends and those like them have taken this philosophy to its logical extreme and applied it to their relationship lives as well. For you see, it can't be enough to enjoy someone's company and simply savor the moment, but they want this guy to be a challenge, just like they expect from their work and play. The expression should now be: Work hard, play hard, date hard.

The downside is of course that at some point no challenge is enough. People of this ilk switch jobs and hobbies always looking for the bigger test, and they tend to switch partners just as frequently, all the while complaining about how they got bored. So it seems to me that the answer my friends need is to stop looking for someone who "challenges" them and to start looking for someone who "compliments" them. Someone who might not be the walking equivalent of a half finished rubiks cube, but who holds them when they've had a bad day or eats the onions they take off their burger. They also need more friends with benefits, particularly a guy they already know and who is good at keeping a secret. I'm not sure if my friends are going to take any of my advice, but they would be a lot happier if they did.

[Challenge] [Mt. Everest] [Female Friends] [Girls]

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Christmas with the Mazes

For those of you wondering what the holidays are like in my household, here's a little recap of this year's attendees who made the annual Maze Christmas spectacular so special.

Bradley-me-Generally during family gatherings I will sit in the corner of the room and occasionally nod in agreement with something that's been said. Every once in a while I'll be asked to get someone a drink with no ice.

Mama Maze-Mother-fringe member of Gambler's Anonymous, and was, as always, draped in her prized Harrah's Casino pullover. She still will only ride in the car with Bradley if she is allowed to place her hands over the dashboard to brace herself in case of collision.

Sandy-Cousin-Chain smoker whose hobbies include talking about smoking and doting over her three grandchildren, two of whom she suspects to be gay.

Max-Cousin-Genius engineering professor who spends five days a week working in the city to avoid spending time with his wife Sandy at their home (See above). Vows to continue working until the good lord strikes him down (See Sandy above).

Bernard-?-Not sure how he is related to me but he suffered a heart attack on the 24th, and then defied everybody's expectations by still making Christmas dinner. He loves horseradish, and will put it on anything. Reputed to suffer from: diabetes, a pacemaker, botulism, e-coli, asthma, sickle cell anemia, night sweats, mumps, shingles, multiple white tiger bites, bubonic plague, rickets, the bens, etc.

Lois-?-Bernard's sister. She monitors his numerous health problems. During desert Bernard tried to eat a slice of pie, and Lois responded by reminding him of his diabetes. Bernard ignored her, and in a fit of rage Lois wrestled the pie away from him before trying it herself and proclaiming that "its too sweet for me, but Bernard would probably like it."

Mike-cousin on my father's side-A reputed anti-Semite who spends the majority of dinner wondering how he winds up spending every Christmas with so many Jews.

Al-Uncle-Owned a convenience store that he thought would someday rival 7-11 before it went bankrupt. Has a garage filled with over 10,000 baseball cards that he purchased from his son for $25,000 in 1998. In his younger days, he was considered to be the greatest amateur bowler in the history of Jersey City, NJ. He once poured an entire pot of hot soup on an opponent during a fight.

Beattie-Aunt-Married to Uncle Al. Described by medical professionals as chronically obese. Grew up in Vienna, Austria where as a little girl she developed a lifelong love of teddy bears and fudge.

Lenny-Godfather/Family friend-retired Spanish teacher and current labor agitator for the New Jersey teacher's union. With his spare time he harbors several illegal immigrants in his home, and they repay him through cooking and yard work. He also recently bought a pontoon boat.

That was this year's lineup. The sad part is its all true. I hope this explains why I live in Virginia instead of New Jersey.


[Christmas] [Holidays] [Family] [New Jersey] [Gambler's Anonymous]

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A Massage Story with a Real Happy Ending

"Google Options Make Masseuse a Multimillionaire"

Keep studying kids. The link is below.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/12/technology/12google.html?em&ex=1195016400&en=e5d6c0dae476cfbe&ei=5087%0A

[Massage] [Masseuse] [Millionaire]

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The Modern Lawyer

The inevitable question, “What do you do?” As if reading from a script, people at almost any social gathering will move down their mental checklist and utter these four simple words right after feigning interest in your name and hometown. Because in our society one’s employment is viewed as providing an almost total insight into their personality, earning capacity, values, likes, and dislikes, the response to this seemingly innocuous inquiry will result in a label indelibly etched into the memory of all those within earshot. Members of certain vocations relish these opportunities, and stand with eyes wide and lips pursed, eagerly anticipating an opportunity to expound upon the many virtues of their chosen profession. For others, this is a moment of dread, when an otherwise pleasant conversation will become uncomfortable and tense, as you wait to see whether those with whom you are speaking will continue undeterred, simply sigh before prematurely ending the conversation, or, worse, go on an extended diatribe about how you and those like you are systematically destroying all that is good in the world.

In case you couldn’t guess, lawyers, along with anyone else who introduces themselves as a murderer, devil worshipper, or terrorist, are often on the receiving end of the tongue lashing described above. Generally, these moments present the ideal occasion to reflect upon the years of schooling, many stressful examinations, and mountains of debt accumulated in order to become part of this select class. Once the lecture has ended, there are a few moments to plead your case - i.e. that you are different, not like other lawyers, and that you really wanted to be a writer but you went to law school in the meantime - before your company disbands for the evening.

This was not how it was supposed to be. When I was growing up, being a doctor or a lawyer meant instant respect and admiration. Somewhere along the last few decades, doctors have managed to maintain their status as an honorable profession, while lawyers are regarded as ambulance chasing con artists, less concerned by the nuances of the law and the pursuit of justice than by trying to bilk every penny from powerless clients. In fact, I have repeatedly witnessed the greed and dishonesty of lawyers blamed for personal bankruptcies, the acquittal of dangerous felons, as well as vicious, drawn out divorce proceedings. Fortunately, it has been confirmed that the Titanic was sunk by an iceberg, or else there is little doubt that lawyers would have been held responsible not only for sinking the mighty vessel but also for the subsequent cinematic demise of Leonardo Dicaprio.

Can lawyers really be this bad? As with most complex issues, the answers are ambiguous at best. Surely, there are way to many of us, due in large part to the unnecessary proliferation of law schools and lax bar requirements that have made becoming an attorney more a matter of reasonable persistence than a case of tremendous ability. With the numbers crunch, lawyers unable to find meaningful work and having to repay huge financial burdens are likely more tempted to undertake cases and conduct themselves in a manner that a less desperate attorney might not, as contrary to popular belief, the average lawyer, including this one, is far from rich. Also, with this overabundance comes a sense of competition and rivalry among attorneys that does little to foster any sense of kinship that might make it easier to efficiently address the many problems facing the legal community.

In spite of these glaring deficiencies, I maintain that lawyers are really no worse than any other vocation. Look at the recent financial collapses of Enron and Worldcom, where an army of businesspeople and accountants conspired to defraud millions of people out of their hard earned pensions. Doctors have become less about healing the sick then pedaling Botox and liposuction to otherwise healthy individuals obsessed with their own vanity. Computer engineers and scientists have succeeded in creating a world of less human interaction and easier access to porn (which, I suppose some would argue is not such a bad thing). Real estate developers and builders help to turn swaths of pristine wilderness into cookie cutter duplexes and strip malls. Priests, once the essence of purity, are now at the center of investigations alleging child molestation. Yet, somehow these are the types of people who often feel that they possess the moral and intellectual superiority to condemn lawyers.

The core reason could be that whenever an atrocity is committed, the public sees the lawyer front and center answering questions in place of the accused. Therefore, even though we might not ourselves commit the appalling act, we are seen as somehow justifying it, as though carrying out our duty to represent our client to the best of our abilities makes us co-conspirators. The public still does not understand that being someone’s lawyer is not an endorsement of their views, or even a sign that you would like to have them over to your house for a fourth of July barbecue.

Let us remember that attorneys usually do not initiate lawsuits to represent themselves, but bring them on behalf of somebody else. Until we as a society can come up with a better means to settle our disputes, or possibly regain the medieval affinity for jousting, utilizing attorneys will remain the most effective method to do the job. Those individuals who continually harp about the wickedness of lawyers would probably have their objections fall on deaf ears if they ever had the chance to stage one of their patented sermons before the countless individuals who are unable to afford counsel and are defended by industrious, dedicated public employees, or the beneficiaries of the hundreds of thousands pro bono hours put in by lawyers and firms across the country.

Maybe it is telling that the main way through which I am able to extoll the virtues of my profession is not by pointing out our esteemed contributions to society, but to malign other occupations for their sins. Maybe these other groups would argue that I am overlooking all the good they contribute by stereotyping what they do and disregarding the principled majority in favor of focusing upon a couple of bad apples. Maybe, this is starting to sound a little too familiar, and you could mercifully spare me from having to spend my next night out listening to your trite and misguided rhetoric.

[Lawyer] [Vocation] [Doctor]

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Bradley's New Year's Resolutions

I will stop believing that dancing and dry humping are the same activity.

I will ensure that I no longer appear in pictures as drunk and queer (Drunk or queer maybe, but never again will I be both).

I will love myself less-in all ways.

I will love other people more, even those I loathe, who are many.

I will stop referring to myself as the the thinking man's Howie Mandel, the poor man's Zach Braff, or the white man's Marlon Wayans.

I will understand that a football stuffed in a beer scented brown paper bag is not an appropriate gift for a women, no matter how much she enjoys football and alcohol.

I will sleep less because 8 hours is the recommended amount of time to spend resting, not being awake.

I will no longer consider sex with unattractive women to be community service on par with that done by Habitat for Humanity or the Red Cross, nor will I argue that it be should be entitled to a charitable giving tax deduction.

I will recognize that lowering my belt beneath my gut so that I can use the same number of holes is not fooling anyone, and at the current rate of expansion I will soon be wearing it just above my knees.

I will not watch the Hills at 9pm Wednesdays on MTV and in so not watching I will be completely unaware of Lauren and Whitney's drudgery at Teen Vogue, the deterioration of Spencer and Heidi's relationship, and Adrianna's penchant for wearing tight, form-fitting tops.

I will downplay the contents of this list by January 2nd, and forget its existence entirely by January 4th.

[New Years] [Drunk] [The Hills] [Football] [Beer] [Zach Braff] [Howie Mandel] [Marlon Wayans] [Dry Humping]

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If a Man screams in his cubicle does it make a sound?

The notion that the cubicle is the modern day wasteland is nothing new. Whether you want to liken it to one of the chains that binds us to our own personal Platonic cavern, a cage not unlike those used to constrain animals at the zoo, or merely part of the Matrix that occupies one's thoughts as futuristic machines harvest their bodies for nutrients, it is easy to see why few embrace their tiny enclosures. I used to be one of those who despised the cube, and would frequently join in with the haters lambasting its shortcomings and citing its existence as yet another sign that corporate America loathes its employees and seeks to humiliate them whenever possible.

I often fantasized about pushing down the wall to my cubicle like in the movie Office Space, so that I could finally bask in the natural sunlight that reached everybody’s desk but mine. During other days, when my neighbor would spend hours gabbing on the phone, my day dream involved taking a sledge hammer to the partition between us and creating a breach through which I could emerge on the other side, much akin to Stephen Tyler in the Aerosmith/Run DMC video. Only instead of singing Walk This Way, I would melodically urge my boisterous co-worker to take a moment to consider the effects her unabated personal discussions have upon those in her general vicinity and refrain from such inconsiderate personal conduct during business hours.

But today, as I sit back and admire my space, I can't help but ponder my cubicle's seemingly contradictory virtues. You see, my cube is both rigid and confining, yet is still open enough to allow people to enter without knocking. My cube is continually gripped by a state of disarray, yet it remains organized enough that I can locate what I need when I need it. My cubicle looks flimsy and temporary in design, yet it is somehow sturdy enough to withstand decades of use.

In fact, I am certain that my cubicle will exist long after me, and centuries from now, when we are long gone, and space alien archeologists descend upon our world, it will be the abandoned rows of cubicles that will represent the ruins of our generation. As these futuristic Indian Jones meander from office building to office building they will try to piece together the evidence to get a sense of how we lived as a species. They'll ask the basic questions about our thoughts, behaviors, and values, not out of spite, but because they'll assume that we at least contemplated the answers.

So I can only imagine what would happen if out of the millions of candidates, the explorers were to somehow choose my cubicle as their primary excavation site. Here, they would uncover notebooks filled with drawings created during meetings, at least fifty empty bottles of Propel fitness water, and a copy of a certificate stating that I had successfully completed the company's anti-pornography training. Based on these relicts, they'd think whoever occupied the cubicle was inattentive, over-hydrated, and neutered. I think that pretty much sums it up. The company wouldn't want it any other way.

[Matrix] [Indiana Jones] [Cubicle] [Office Space]

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Another Sign of the Apocalypse

Thumbelina, billed the world's smallest horse, is the size of a cocker spaniel, and is touring the country to cheer up sick kids. If I were a sick kid, and got plopped down in front of Thumbelina, I might suggest to her owner that instead of spending all day playing Darwin and creating unbelievably small horses maybe she could instead pour her time and money into other scientific pursuits, like fighting cancer or AIDs. I mean, its great we can create really tiny horses, it is, but it just seems to me that mini-horse people could help sick kids more with something along the lines of a cure for cancer. Besides, at this rate, in ten years the tiniest horse will be microspic and little Johnny will have to wheel himself over to a microsope so he can see Thumbelina X licking herself in a petrie dish.

Just a thought.

[Horse] [Thumbelina] [Darwin]

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Reasons to Love the Metric System

I'm not sure why, but I've always opposed the metric system. Perhaps it’s because it uses measurements that I just don't understand. For example, what is a kilogram? Exactly, nobody knows outside of math majors and a couple of snooty, crepe eating, beret wearing Frenchmen living atop one of those idyllic hill towns in Provence that nestles around the Mediterranean and reeks of Fromage de chevre aka goat cheese.

However, my views may have recently changed, as I was speaking with a friend (NOT ME) who confided in me that he was only packing five inches (Again it’s NOT ME). He was afraid that his girl might leave him for a guy with a little more substance and wanted some advice. After our laughter, alright my laughter, stopped an hour later, I had an epiphany. Sitting down at the computer I googled "five inches" and was shocked to discover that in the metric system my friend's embarrassing measurement transforms into a pu-nanny slaying, lung puncturing 12 centimeters! I told him to throw out his old rulers with their inches and proclamations of inadequacy, because tonight he could proudly tell his girl that she would be getting the full 12.

Apparently, the full 12 centimeters isn't as appealing as I had first thought, because a couple weeks later they had broken up. He says the split had to do with personal reasons and not the fact that he's hung like a baby field mouse born three months premature, but who knows the truth. Before you start feeling too badly for him, you should know that my boy is already dating a new girl he swears will be the one he marries, which has really pissed me off and is no doubt going to set me off on another diatribe.

So here it goes: The best rationale I have heard for marriage is that once you attain a certain age and all your friends break off into pairs, it’s inevitable that the urge to mate will spring from sheer boredom. The transition from young and single to ancient and undesirable can take place overnight, and the reaction it spurs occasionally makes forging a relationship with another human being feel as though it were some sadistic game of musical chairs, where the music has stopped and everyone has begun scurrying for that last open seat. This final chair, perhaps once frequently overlooked, has suddenly become much more inviting, as the change in circumstances have made its availability alluring in a way it couldn’t be three years earlier. No one I know wants to find themselves in the midst of the mad scramble for that final empty seat, nor do they want to be that broken down chair covered by a thick layer of but sweat and plagued by a sunken middle and crusty edges, so they grab the best available seat and cling to it for dear life.

And this is why there are problems down the road my friends. Nature is nothing if not cruel and ironic, for the longer you spend with your women the more she will want you and the less you will want her. This fate makes the Black Widow, who devours her mate immediately after the courtship ritual, seem kind, because at least she doesn't prolong the agony, whereas in humans, the man will get bored sexually, and then his wife wants to know why they have become more roommates than lovers. Faced with this situation, he will do what men have been doing for centuries; he will lie to her, always, often, and completely.

Today's lie de jour for men is that he's impotent and needs to see a doctor, as explaining this is far easier than even the mere suggestion that the lack of passion might come from the fact he no longer finds his wife appealing in that way. Men will pop drugs with names like Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra. It doesn't matter that these drugs have side effects or were probably cooked up to breed farm animals. In reality, the drugs could be labeled fast acting Ebola and most men would prefer taking them than having to tell their wife the truth, ie that there is nothing wrong physically and after fifteen years even the idea of bending Phyllis the neighborhood bag lady over her shopping cart sounds pretty damn appealing.

I am not married yet, but statistics show I probably will be some day. And when I am, and my wife is yelling at me for not taking out the garbage while simultaneously trying to consume a tub of mashed potatoes, I will scream impotency at the top of my lungs until a task force of pharmacists breaks through the windows of our bedroom, hands me a few pills, and gets me so drugged up I could play major league baseball, or, if that doesn't work out, have sex with my wife.


[Marriage] [Baseball] [Viagra] [Metric System] [Musical Chairs] [Black Widow] [Impotence] [Pharmacist]

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What day is complete without midget wrestling?

There has been a lot of news lately about the dangers of professional wrestling, but I like to remember the good times. Here's a photo of some of my favorite grapplers from the 1970s, when bad hair and man boobs could only help one's career.

[Man Boobs] [Midget Wrestling] [Bad Hair]

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2007's Sexiest Men Alive?

Its that time of year friends. There's a chill in the air, and we're coming to the end of the calendar, which can only mean one thing: People magazine is going to unveil it's list of the Sexiest Men Alive. Not to give too much away, but the winner this year was not me. I finished fourth, sandwiched in between Brad Pitt and George Clooney. For the record, lets all agree never to use me, Pitt, Clooney, and the word sandwich in the same sentence again.

The actual winner this year was Matt Damon of Good Will Hunting and Bourne Identity fame. Apparently the criteria for the folks over at People includes mediocre acting and spending an entire film crazy glued to Greg Kinnear. Alright, enough hating on Matt Damon and his fraudulent victory. Its important to remember that I'm just entering the peak years of my loiny goodness, and besides, there's plenty of opportunities for all us young bucks in Hollywood to be bitten by the bloated, Lyme disease inducing tick that is pointless list making.

With that in mind, I'm composing my own list this year and its called 2007's Sexiest Men Alive? These scientifically proven rankings count down all those men we thought were dead but somehow aren't.



1). Carrot Top-I know he's still around. Maybe its just wishful thinking.

2). Keanu Reeves-No doubt exhausted from his research for the Matrix films, he's probably sitting on a beach somewhere making the Keanu face, a potent glare that melds total confusion, sheer wonder, and a self-assured smile into a look that suits every role.

3). John Stamos-I originally wrote that outside of Full House re-runs nobody has seen him in years. It was later pointed out to me that he is currently featured on what must be the 30th season of ER. I stand by my earlier statement.

4). Matt Le Blanc-Just the mention of his name makes me nostalgic for David Schwimmer and that monkey. I hear the monkey is now doing porn in South America. Sadly, the way his career is going, Le Blanc may not be far behind.

5). Tom Green-The Canadian funny man once famous for showing his bum and sucking on cow utters now has his own internet show, joining the likes of Lonely Girl and Muscle Beach. That's creative, an internet show is so 2006, why don't you just be really old-fashioned and start a blog...oh.


[Sexiest Man Alive] [Tom Green] [Matt Damon] [David Schwimmer] [Matt Le Blanc] [George Clooney] [Brad Pitt] [John Stamos] [Carrot Top] [Keanu Reeves]

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Ohio Girls

So I had a date last night with a pretty cute girl from Destro's old hood in Ohio. She loved the Browns, Buckeyes, and Cedar Point. She even bitched about how expensive it is in the Northeast, just like Destro. Things seemed to be going pretty well, that is until she decided to describe some of her many physical ailments.

Apparently, this girl suffers from TMJ, which is a jaw disease that causes severe pain, headaches, and best of all, locking! But it got better, she also was in a car accident and now has a bad back, so she can't lift anything over five pounds or bend over. After about fifteen minutes of this medical confessional she looks up at me with these sad eyes seeking out solace and understanding in what would no doubt be a sensitive and comforting reply. My resonse: "Lets drop you off before its too late."

This is unbelievable. Maybe now I need to conduct pre-date physicals. I thought Ohio girls were tough? If only I were an ear man, she didn't mention anything wrong with them. Back to the drawing board.


[Ohio] [TMJ] [Cleveland Browns] [Locking]

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Transformers the Movie

After a lot of procrastination, I finally saw Transformers the movie, from which we can learn 3 very important things:

1). Apparently, all black guys do is talk jive, dance, and try to avoid the wrath of fat grandmothers always up in their shit. Props to Pat, you were right.
2). It is actually paintful to watch Shia LaBeouf on screen. Was Carrot Top busy? All he did was stutter and blurt out random, incoherent phrases. If I'm the casting director I just go out and find a kid with tourettes and save myself some cash.
3). Fuck Meryl Streep and Jessica Tandy. Meghan Fox is the greatest actress ever, especially if you use the criteria I do for evaulating talent; how they look in a belly shirt while bent over the hood of a car. I rewound that scene so many times it took me 7 hours to watch the whole movie, although in my defense, its difficult to operate the remote control when your hands are practically glued together. Must've looked like a dolphin trying to wriggle free from a tuna net. Anyway, her first of many marriages will be to Brian Austin Greene of 90210 fame.

Where would we be without Michael Bay? Frankly, I don't want to know.


[Transformers] [Megan Fox] [Meryl Streep] [Jessica Tandy] [Shia LaBeouf]

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Bradley Scares U Straight-Don't Go to Law School

I went to law school and I am not alone. Each year thousands of students find their way into the soul-sucking profession that is the law. Many have reached a point in their life where there is no clear path, so in their confusion they submit to three years of additional schooling. Others are told by their peers that they are good arguers or extremely anal retentive, and thus would make excellent attorneys, becasue afterall, being a lawyer is really all about two people arguing with each other over who has the bigger stick up their ass.

For those all-stars who aren't lucky enough to drop out or be expelled, they get to spend three years and thousands of dollars on a degree that is utterly worthless. A lot of people say a law degree opens up many doors. Bullshit! A law degree will open up one door, being a miserable lawyer, and thats if your lucky. Otherwise having a law degree on your resume is about as valuable as saying you spent three years as a crack whore. I'd actually argue that the crack whore experience is more valuable, because at least then you'd have a skill.

For me, everyday I go to work is more miserable than the previous one. Sometimes when I am sitting in a meeting listening to some fossil with dry mouth or overweight women squeezed into a pant suit drone on about boring details or irrelevant numbers my eyes will glaze over. Out of the darkness I will imagine a still photo of myself being punched in the balls by a giant fist. The fist is massive and has the word LAW tatooed on it in bold faced capital font.

The first photo of me is from when I was a young buck of 22, fresh from college and viral, ready to devour life and all its trappings as I proudly stand at attention without the slightest bit of trepidation. But then the muscular appendage moves in from the right side of the screen, and wastes no time striking my groin area with a couple lightning fast jabs. In response to the progressive beating the photo of me ages, and my features rapidly change from young to middle aged, and middle aged to old. Finally, my body crumples and sags until the fist is no longer punishing my balls, but is instead grinding an ashy pile of dust spread on the ground.

Then I wake up, check on my boys, and look around me. I wonder if I'm any better off.

[Law School] [Balls]

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Reaching Out 2 Friends Through Poetry

I called Coach Crunk on Sunday and once again was dissed. No pickup, no return call. In my grief, I composed the following. Yes, I have way to much free time at work. Feel free to diseminate your own poetry about Tommy Crunk.

An Ode to Crunk

He glides through the world in a florescent blue sweat suit
His bulk in constant motion except for girls that are cute

Students and bartenders, strippers, and even wives
He treats them all the same, like a bear raiding a bee hive

With a gallon of iced tea and cheese puffs for the party
His car zips along, for he hates to be tardy

Spraying cologne so he’s sure he’s not smelly
He can’t flip people off, because he’s fingering his belly

Always thinking of basketball and drawing up plays
His mind stuck in the past, with his Claymont glory days

He now lives in Maryland, amongst men afraid of shirts
One who loves his Brittney Spears dance pad, and belongs in a skirt

Because Crunk is a teacher, a coach, a slumlord, and a mac
Just be sure you don’t need him, because he’ll never have your back

[Cheese Puffs] [Strippers] [Teacher] [Basketball] [Maryland] [Coach]

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Vaginosis Returns

On Saturday night I went a date in Bethesda with a girl I had met the previous evening in Adams Morgan. She was cute, thin, and from New York. After a few drinks, alright a lot of drinks, I suggested we go to her place so I could use her bathroom. Why I couldn't use the bathroom at the bar I do not know, but being the hopeless romantic that I am, I went with the bathroom reference in order to try to get into her pad.

Regardless of its obvious hollowness, my scheme worked and after a few awkward moments on the couch discussing topics such as the accent colors in her living room and how she exclusively dated football players throughout high school, we were making out. Thinking to myself, what would the star quarterback do? I pushed her onto the couch and jumped on top of her. Yes, sadly, we were both thinking of the high school quarterback.

It was after approximately five minutes of kissing that I first noticed it. A lightly wafting aroma that started stinging my eyes, burning my nostrils, and jogging my memory. With our increased intimacy the odor grew more pervasive and it quickly dawned on me that the pungent foe I thought I had vanquished for good back in 2000 had in fact survived. Vaginosis! My arch nemesis had returned to torment me seven years later.

For the unitiated, vaginosis is the insidious medical condition where a woman features a strong, unpleasant odor emanating from her pubic area. Scholars have theorized that this smell results from an abundant collection of dead sperm, an overall lack of hygiene, or a girl sub-leasing space in her nether regions to a sewer treatment facility in order to make extra cash. Regardless of the reasons, the result is a hellacious, pungent stench that is capable of rendering armies of men impotent. It has also been speculated that this year's dramatic reduction in the number of pollinating honey bees can be directly tied to an increase in the number of women suffering from this condition. The most awful and sadistic part of vaginosis is that the sufferer is almost always immune to the effects of her own powers.

In spite of my past experience, I found myself on the couch, bewildered and scared. While most women with whom I've been intimate guard access to their pants with savage intensity, my date on this night had no problem trying to remove them herself. In this ironic duel taking place at the top of her jeans she would unbutton a button and I would snap it back into place. She would pull down her zipper and I would zip it back up. Round and round we went in this twisted dance, as somehow my reticence only added to her aroused state, until I relented, and the jeans came off.

I wanted to cry. Instinctively I recoiled and looked for ventilation. Why is it that these girls always live in apartments with so few windows? With a sly smile on her face, she suggested we move to the bedroom. With a look on my face that implied this suggestion was somewhere in between drowning and a colonoscopy on my pleasure scale, I thought of suggesting we should move to a car wash.

I would like to tell you my friends that I am a stronger person in 2007 than I was as an immature college student in 2000. That I stood up, addressed her with an honest explanation for rejecting her indecent proposal, gathered my possessions, and walked out the door never to return. I could tell you this, but I think we all know that I'd be lying. Yes, I did it, and yes it stank, and yes it lingers to this very day. While some of you will judge me and my actions as being less than those of an honorable man, I believe that going in there with her makes me more of a man than some will ever be. I think we've got another date scheduled for Thursday. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the store to find the world's largest bottle of Febreze.

Peace,
Bradley

[Vaginosis] [Odor] [Kissing] [Pubic Area]

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