Doc is gonna love me for this but it has to be told. I've gotten too many questions and comments about the Pheromones Theory and I think it's time that the story be told.
The Pheromones Theory is something that my friend John and I created. It was something we had noticed as we studied him with women but it didn’t become official until we locked ourselves in the study, reading numerous books, guides, charts and other various learning devices to come to this conclusion: The Doc is able to secrete Pheromones. I know what you are thinking, "That's really funny Dan, you're a jokester." A joke my friend this is not. This is actually true. This is something that you've only seen in movies or heard about in legend but it's true. IT'S TRUE! He's a King Cobra, hypnotizing the ladies with his magical, noise tail. Waiting until they sway in it's music until he strikes. Clinching his fangs into their tender neck. I've seen him with ex-acquaintances. Women that should absolutely hate his fucking guts but after five minutes they are laughing with him, sitting down and sharing a pint. It blows my mind every time I see it happen.
Some witnesses have said to see the Doc's neck bulge out, like a bullfrog, releasing a piercing cry and emit some type of yellowish, colored gas from his glands. Men run when they see this because they know that their fate lies in his hands. That women would never look at them the same so it's easier to hide and observe. Women inhale the gas and are paralyzed, stunned in lust, all wanting a minute with him. A minute they had been dreaming about their whole lives. The one only read about in fairy tales...
Ok...maybe...just maybe this is an exaggeration but to every exaggeration there is some truth. I have seen him perform miracles but it may not be due to the pheromones. It could be because he's charming, handsome and has a huge dick. What the fuck am I talking about, he’s none of those. I am calling you out Doc. Let the world know of your secret. The day Sasquatch comes out of hiding, will be the day that Doc finally confesses he has the ability to secret Pheromones and that’s the day I will be able to finally sleep at night. I wait for the slumber.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
I Don't Care
How does one comment on an audio post? Well I just did and deal with it. That's all I have to say about that. I don't want to tell you too much because how are you going to analyze it and over analyze it until your brain swells and you can't take it anymore. Tell me. TELL ME!!!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
See Attached File
Oh the wonderful world of resumes. The business world is so fucked up that you have to have at least a one page resume explaining what you have done and then you have to have a cover letter that explains your resume. To me, that don't make no sense.
It's that time of year when I have to update this piece of paper that somewhat justifies my life's work. That I have to sell myself, in ink, to someone who has too much power for their ability to work. Usually it's the fucking idiots who hire you and you have to kiss their asses. I'm sick of kissing asses unless it's a fine, Mexican whore.
Really...who came up with this?
OBJECTIVE To obtain a full time position in a professional setting
Yes...read it. Re-read it. Look at your old resume. This is the most generic thing on a resume and yet it is required. If you don't have something like this you are deemed un-professional and they move on to the next one. If you don't have this you have broken some type of business law that will have your fingers bleeding, your first born eaten by a rabid dog. If you don't have this then you don't have anything at all. You are worthless. Pointless. Scum of the earth.
A resume has you lying. Ok, not lying so much but the extension of the truth.
"How can I make my job serving burgers sound appealing? I know"
See attached file.
It's that time of year when I have to update this piece of paper that somewhat justifies my life's work. That I have to sell myself, in ink, to someone who has too much power for their ability to work. Usually it's the fucking idiots who hire you and you have to kiss their asses. I'm sick of kissing asses unless it's a fine, Mexican whore.
Really...who came up with this?
OBJECTIVE To obtain a full time position in a professional setting
Yes...read it. Re-read it. Look at your old resume. This is the most generic thing on a resume and yet it is required. If you don't have something like this you are deemed un-professional and they move on to the next one. If you don't have this you have broken some type of business law that will have your fingers bleeding, your first born eaten by a rabid dog. If you don't have this then you don't have anything at all. You are worthless. Pointless. Scum of the earth.
A resume has you lying. Ok, not lying so much but the extension of the truth.
"How can I make my job serving burgers sound appealing? I know"
- Helped customers achieve maximum satisfaction.
- Light paper work and assisted management on payroll.
- Microsoft Word
- Made sure there were extra pickles on shit head's burger.
- Handed out paychecks when they came in.
- Looked up porn on my lunch break.
See attached file.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Send in the Clowns
I love laughing. I love making people laugh. If you are capable of making me laugh out loud then you’ve done a good job. That means I find you funny because I don’t give courtesy laughs. If a kid with cancer came up to me and said that the only way that he would live is if I genuinely laughed at him and if he wasn’t funny, I wouldn’t laugh and he'd die. Not a tear would be shed and I would not go to his funeral. Where am I going with this? Stand-Up comedy. Just because you are labeled as a Stand-Up comic does not mean that I have to find you funny.
I was at a gathering yesterday (I won’t call it a party because parties are considered fun) and by livening it up they put in a dvd of some comic. I thought I’d give it a chance but I knew it was down hill after someone told me that I’d like it because “he says what people think. He’s not ‘P.C.’” To me, when someone has to tell me out loud that I will like it, it means I won’t. “Tastes better then the original,” “You’ll laugh harder then you’ve ever laughed before.” Shit like that is a dead give away that it sucks.
At first I was excited because I thought he was a telepathic comic but what she meant was that nothing was “P.C.” in this man’s eyes. No race, no gender, nothing and I mean NOTHING was off limits. He would say something “shocking,” people would laugh and turn to see if I was laughing. It was as if they wanted to see if I approved and in all honesty I didn’t find it funny. You can only say shit, fuck, bitch so many times before it gets old and lame. Murphy, Prior, Chappelle and David Cross have a gift. It comes off naturally...organic and that’s why I laugh. They tell stories, funny situations. It’s a big build up with a funny conclusion. It’s not, “The reason why Mexicans are poor because they don’t buy Chicklets in bulk.”
I did Stand-Up once at my college and it sucked. I know it's tough, trying to get the love of an audience, wondering why they don't get it. "How can I stand out from the rest? Should I use HA-larious props?" and I came to the reason that I didn't care. I don't care for 99% of Stand-Up comedy. So please just stop. Please don’t waste my time. I don’t care. You aren’t my friend and I don’t care why the chicken crossed the road. So please just Stand-Up and get out of my face...forever.
I was at a gathering yesterday (I won’t call it a party because parties are considered fun) and by livening it up they put in a dvd of some comic. I thought I’d give it a chance but I knew it was down hill after someone told me that I’d like it because “he says what people think. He’s not ‘P.C.’” To me, when someone has to tell me out loud that I will like it, it means I won’t. “Tastes better then the original,” “You’ll laugh harder then you’ve ever laughed before.” Shit like that is a dead give away that it sucks.
At first I was excited because I thought he was a telepathic comic but what she meant was that nothing was “P.C.” in this man’s eyes. No race, no gender, nothing and I mean NOTHING was off limits. He would say something “shocking,” people would laugh and turn to see if I was laughing. It was as if they wanted to see if I approved and in all honesty I didn’t find it funny. You can only say shit, fuck, bitch so many times before it gets old and lame. Murphy, Prior, Chappelle and David Cross have a gift. It comes off naturally...organic and that’s why I laugh. They tell stories, funny situations. It’s a big build up with a funny conclusion. It’s not, “The reason why Mexicans are poor because they don’t buy Chicklets in bulk.”
I did Stand-Up once at my college and it sucked. I know it's tough, trying to get the love of an audience, wondering why they don't get it. "How can I stand out from the rest? Should I use HA-larious props?" and I came to the reason that I didn't care. I don't care for 99% of Stand-Up comedy. So please just stop. Please don’t waste my time. I don’t care. You aren’t my friend and I don’t care why the chicken crossed the road. So please just Stand-Up and get out of my face...forever.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
I Miss The Kiss
I miss a kiss that means something.
A kiss that makes you forget about time.
Forget about the first time you skinned your knee.
The first time you ever wanted to kiss someone else.
I miss a kiss that fills you up inside.
That makes you wish you never had to leave.
The kind they write about in songs.
The kind they try to write about in songs.
A kiss can feel so empty with the wrong person.
That makes you wonder what's on t.v. later.
That allows you to realize that she's not the one.
A key into the heart.
It's the ultimate lie detector because it has nothing to lose.
Because there are always going to be another pair of lips.
I miss a kiss with that one person.
The one that makes you want to kiss again.
To make another song.
To forget each time because one will never be enough,
No matter how many times you try,
No matter how much you lie.
I miss the kiss.
A kiss that makes you forget about time.
Forget about the first time you skinned your knee.
The first time you ever wanted to kiss someone else.
I miss a kiss that fills you up inside.
That makes you wish you never had to leave.
The kind they write about in songs.
The kind they try to write about in songs.
A kiss can feel so empty with the wrong person.
That makes you wonder what's on t.v. later.
That allows you to realize that she's not the one.
A key into the heart.
It's the ultimate lie detector because it has nothing to lose.
Because there are always going to be another pair of lips.
I miss a kiss with that one person.
The one that makes you want to kiss again.
To make another song.
To forget each time because one will never be enough,
No matter how many times you try,
No matter how much you lie.
I miss the kiss.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
I've Got That Love and Feeling. By Dave M.
I’ve still got it…
We’ll I’ve sort of still got it. I guess I should be honest, some might say that I never had “it” at all but that is beside the point. For purposes of this iteration let’s all assume that at one time I was able to draw women and reciprocate their attention and therefore at such time had “it”, and although I’ve been married for several years now, I have now discovered that I still possess an outward sexuality worthy of genuine response. The problem arises in the “sort of” that I mentioned above and this is when my story begins.
Today I made my triumphant return to the local YMCA after a six week absence necessitated by a nasty ankle sprain. I’ve still got joint pain and attend physical therapy, but I felt spry enough to try the stair master on a low speed. The stair master is the type that involves actual revolving steps that creates a climbing machine resembling a short escalator. It sets at the end of a long row of treadmills which are all placed forward of a room full of weight lifting machines. The stair master’s height gives me a good view of the rest of the gym and truly provides a vigorous workout. It felt good to undertake aerobic activity again.
While gently stretching my ankle and pushing it to the limits of its flexibility as I walked up the down escalator that is the genius of the stair master, I found myself surveying the noon hour gym attendance. I do this frequently, hoping to scope out and goggle beautiful scantly clad professional women. I call them “motivation.” There is nothing like a firm round ass in stretch pants with a slightly growing line of sweat encroaching the cheeks from the center cleavage of low rising waist bands to consistently draw me to the gym. One can almost determine the cut and style of the panties the “motivation” wears.
Today I craned my neck around and was looking behind me when I lost my train of thought and in my absentmindedness began starring at an individual using a weight machine. I didn’t know I was starring at someone. I wasn’t really starring, I wasn’t even looking. My legs were doing their work and my mind simply floated off into a Neverland of inward contemplation. My sense of sight was overrun by whatever thoughts I was having at the time. I was jolted back to real world when I made eye contact with the individual whom I had been looking at for what must have been a full thirty seconds. These situations can be embarrassing, it’s not good to stare and it’s even worse to get caught. This, however, was a special situation because the person I was starring at was obviously a gay man. He was very stylish, and while that may be a stereotype, it’s true. I wear bloodied basketball shorts and torn t-shirts to the gym and it’s a simple fact that if you see a man in designer exercise clothing in the Lansing Michigan YMCA then he’s hitting for the other team. This man either just got back from a “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” makeover or he is well on his way to auditioning as an expert adviser. I assumed the later when we made eye contact. I simply went back to my work out and thought nothing of it, other than absorbing the embarrassment I felt, and contemplating the fact that I was actually busted checking out a gay man. I get busted checking people out on an hourly basis; it’s normally no big deal. I just end up creeping out some woman and then go back to my business. It wasn’t until about two minutes later when I realized that I had opened up an opportunity to include homosexual experimentation to my list of worldly experiences.
The man at which I was unintentionally flirting with stopped using the weight machine he was on had apparently decided it was time to go for a jog. He walked over to the treadmill next to the stair master I was using and began his walk.
Dear reader, please correct me if I am wrong, but if I make eye contact with a beautiful woman at the gym and quickly look away and she then decides that she needs to use the nearest exercise machine to me out of the perhaps six identical and available machines that are not placed six inches from the machine I am using, she has sent a signal to me that indicates I should start a conversation.
That is exactly what this man did.
I’ve now found that my reaction to this signal is different if an effeminate man wearing turquoise work out pants and a shiny ring on each middle finger makes this very same gesture. In such instance I’ve discovered that I make it a point not to remove my headphones. I make it a point to simply look straight forward and make no further contact. I know this is an effective means of ceasing all mutual interaction and sends a clear message that the non-responsive individual is not interested. I know this because women do it to me all the time. My new potential gay friend could not talk to me because I was wearing my headphones, and I did nothing to invite his further initiative. While I do not normally shun people based on their sexuality, I do when their sexuality is derived from testosterone and is directed towards me. In human mating ritual terms, it was my obligation to make the next move and remove my headphones and ask him some mundane question about the frequency of his gym attendance. I did not take up this opportunity. After about three minutes of his feigned jogging with absolutely no body language from me other than my fidgeting with my wedding ring literally less than a foot from his face, the man stopped the machine and went back to lifting weights. I was relieved, and only hoped to avoid an awkward locker room encounter.
By awkward locker room encounter, I mean the instance where we are both standing there naked and we are obligated to make eye contact, nod at each other and know that we have seen each other penises, and that while he may have thought I was open to touching his penis and open to him touching mine, and knowing that that was not going to happen, and then silently go about our merry business of showering and getting back to work as it nothing happened. Fortunately that did not occur. I was able to shower and change without bumping into this individual either literally or figuratively. It’s comforting to know that when I make an ass of myself starring at a woman in the gym and she gives me that social silent rejection that fifteen minutes later I am not going to see her naked breasts when I go into the locker room.
As I left the gym contemplating these thoughts, I sought to touch my thumb to my wedding ring as I constantly fidget with the ring out of nervous habit. I discovered that the ring was gone. Somewhere between when I was subtly indicating to the gay man that I was married and the time that I walked out the gym my ring slipped off my finger. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Not only did I have to tell my wife that I lost the symbolic gift of her eternal love, I also had to tell her that I lost it after I almost picked up an attractive gay man.
We’ll I’ve sort of still got it. I guess I should be honest, some might say that I never had “it” at all but that is beside the point. For purposes of this iteration let’s all assume that at one time I was able to draw women and reciprocate their attention and therefore at such time had “it”, and although I’ve been married for several years now, I have now discovered that I still possess an outward sexuality worthy of genuine response. The problem arises in the “sort of” that I mentioned above and this is when my story begins.
Today I made my triumphant return to the local YMCA after a six week absence necessitated by a nasty ankle sprain. I’ve still got joint pain and attend physical therapy, but I felt spry enough to try the stair master on a low speed. The stair master is the type that involves actual revolving steps that creates a climbing machine resembling a short escalator. It sets at the end of a long row of treadmills which are all placed forward of a room full of weight lifting machines. The stair master’s height gives me a good view of the rest of the gym and truly provides a vigorous workout. It felt good to undertake aerobic activity again.
While gently stretching my ankle and pushing it to the limits of its flexibility as I walked up the down escalator that is the genius of the stair master, I found myself surveying the noon hour gym attendance. I do this frequently, hoping to scope out and goggle beautiful scantly clad professional women. I call them “motivation.” There is nothing like a firm round ass in stretch pants with a slightly growing line of sweat encroaching the cheeks from the center cleavage of low rising waist bands to consistently draw me to the gym. One can almost determine the cut and style of the panties the “motivation” wears.
Today I craned my neck around and was looking behind me when I lost my train of thought and in my absentmindedness began starring at an individual using a weight machine. I didn’t know I was starring at someone. I wasn’t really starring, I wasn’t even looking. My legs were doing their work and my mind simply floated off into a Neverland of inward contemplation. My sense of sight was overrun by whatever thoughts I was having at the time. I was jolted back to real world when I made eye contact with the individual whom I had been looking at for what must have been a full thirty seconds. These situations can be embarrassing, it’s not good to stare and it’s even worse to get caught. This, however, was a special situation because the person I was starring at was obviously a gay man. He was very stylish, and while that may be a stereotype, it’s true. I wear bloodied basketball shorts and torn t-shirts to the gym and it’s a simple fact that if you see a man in designer exercise clothing in the Lansing Michigan YMCA then he’s hitting for the other team. This man either just got back from a “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” makeover or he is well on his way to auditioning as an expert adviser. I assumed the later when we made eye contact. I simply went back to my work out and thought nothing of it, other than absorbing the embarrassment I felt, and contemplating the fact that I was actually busted checking out a gay man. I get busted checking people out on an hourly basis; it’s normally no big deal. I just end up creeping out some woman and then go back to my business. It wasn’t until about two minutes later when I realized that I had opened up an opportunity to include homosexual experimentation to my list of worldly experiences.
The man at which I was unintentionally flirting with stopped using the weight machine he was on had apparently decided it was time to go for a jog. He walked over to the treadmill next to the stair master I was using and began his walk.
Dear reader, please correct me if I am wrong, but if I make eye contact with a beautiful woman at the gym and quickly look away and she then decides that she needs to use the nearest exercise machine to me out of the perhaps six identical and available machines that are not placed six inches from the machine I am using, she has sent a signal to me that indicates I should start a conversation.
That is exactly what this man did.
I’ve now found that my reaction to this signal is different if an effeminate man wearing turquoise work out pants and a shiny ring on each middle finger makes this very same gesture. In such instance I’ve discovered that I make it a point not to remove my headphones. I make it a point to simply look straight forward and make no further contact. I know this is an effective means of ceasing all mutual interaction and sends a clear message that the non-responsive individual is not interested. I know this because women do it to me all the time. My new potential gay friend could not talk to me because I was wearing my headphones, and I did nothing to invite his further initiative. While I do not normally shun people based on their sexuality, I do when their sexuality is derived from testosterone and is directed towards me. In human mating ritual terms, it was my obligation to make the next move and remove my headphones and ask him some mundane question about the frequency of his gym attendance. I did not take up this opportunity. After about three minutes of his feigned jogging with absolutely no body language from me other than my fidgeting with my wedding ring literally less than a foot from his face, the man stopped the machine and went back to lifting weights. I was relieved, and only hoped to avoid an awkward locker room encounter.
By awkward locker room encounter, I mean the instance where we are both standing there naked and we are obligated to make eye contact, nod at each other and know that we have seen each other penises, and that while he may have thought I was open to touching his penis and open to him touching mine, and knowing that that was not going to happen, and then silently go about our merry business of showering and getting back to work as it nothing happened. Fortunately that did not occur. I was able to shower and change without bumping into this individual either literally or figuratively. It’s comforting to know that when I make an ass of myself starring at a woman in the gym and she gives me that social silent rejection that fifteen minutes later I am not going to see her naked breasts when I go into the locker room.
As I left the gym contemplating these thoughts, I sought to touch my thumb to my wedding ring as I constantly fidget with the ring out of nervous habit. I discovered that the ring was gone. Somewhere between when I was subtly indicating to the gay man that I was married and the time that I walked out the gym my ring slipped off my finger. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Not only did I have to tell my wife that I lost the symbolic gift of her eternal love, I also had to tell her that I lost it after I almost picked up an attractive gay man.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Team A.D.: The Best Around.
Team A.D. was formed on October 7th, 2005. It was a union formed by friendship, strength, honor and the ladies. The "Evil powers that be" have attempted numerous times to dismantle them, but the quick ability to improvise, adapt and overcome destroyed any chance these forces had. Team A.D. laughed in their face and simply said, "We have a code we live by. We are the best around, nothing's gonna ever bring us down."TEAM A.D.'S CODE OF HONOR
- Team A.D. knows Kung Fu.
- Motto 2 (Only Team A.D. knows this)
- Team A.D. loves the ladies.
- No one fucks with Team A.D.
- Team A.D. loves Sally Pressman.
"The Gutter" is homebase for Team A.D. Strategies and other various experimental fighting techniques are practiced and perfected. Many women have come and gone in more ways then one. Always wondering what it would have been like to date a memeber of Team A.D. That's how Team A.D. rolls. Satisfying the ladies, having them come back for more.
Team A.D. has been questioned by skeptics in the past. By the way they live their lives, their style, the cut of their jib. Has this slowed them down? Has it made them hesitate their actions? No. They continue fighting the good fight, doing what's right...for them and making sure that supporters of Team A.D. are protected and are never victimized by Anti-A.D. hate crimes.
If you have a problem, if no one else can help and if you can find them, maybe you can hire Team A.D.
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