Posted: September 1, 2011 in Uncategorized

AiPT has moved! So to the two people who accidentally stumbled on this site somehow, please go to the new address:

On Rebirth, Hurricanes and Sacred Cows

This blog was originally launched as nothing more than a sad, sad ripoff of’s format. Actually, R&D, development cycle, and production of this site can really be summed up with the following conversation:

Pat: “Man, my article got rejected by Cracked again. Something about being “too disturbing” and “not funny at all”.
Russ: “Yeah, mine too.”
Pat and Russ: “..You wanna just make our own crappy WordPress blog and post lists?”

The idea was to post lists organically whenever they popped into my head, but I–and I think Russ–sort of imagined it “organically” happening about 2-3 times a week. Well, since I haven’t “organically” had one original idea for this website in over two years, I’m changing the format a little bit. In that my entries will no longer HAVE a format.

And randomly clumping together popular topics to form comedy wasn’t coming into fruition as nicely as it does for Seth MacFarlene.

Yep, just what the Interwebz needs: Another directionless, banal stream-of-consciousness from someone who’s most advanced education in creative writing is taking Writing Workshop class in high school twice because the teacher liked me so much she let me skip class all the time.

(Oh, this is the part where I’m supposed to assure you that this will somehow be different? …………..That’s exactly what this is going to be.)

Now that that introduction is out of the way, how about that WEATHER, eh guys? (A general purpose blog talking about the weather…this is web traffic gold!) Seriously though, Hurricane Irene is getting ready to power through the east coast, and as consequence we get some of the most blatant scare-mongering the news has to offer. I usually think both liberals and conservatives blow the whole “mass media is just a tool to scare you into watching their shows” thing out of proportion, but this storm has made me a believer.

According to The Weather Channel, we here in Boston are in the “EXTREME” category as far as mass-murdering potential Irene has, which is one small step below “CATASTROPHIC” (CAPS LOCK engaged–by TWC, not me–to EMPHASIZE how TOTALLY SERIOUS this is, you guys). When a major news outlet starts using DDR difficulty levels as an indicator of srs bsns, you know BSNS has gotten SRS.

Extreme is one thing, but if this thing makes it to Step-Step Mode, I might have to bow out of the next round.

“Did he really just reference Dance Dance Revolution?”

We have a new guy at work, straight from India. He’s a cool dude, but he has kind of a weird habit. Any time we get food, he gets the most RIDICULOUS thing he can possibly find, and then right before he’s about to sink his teeth into it, he freaks out, overtly concerned that there is beef or pork products in it. So instead of having a little taste or even just closely inspecting it, he enlists one of the people in our department to taste it and tell him exactly what’s in it. The first time I saw this I thought it was a unique situation, but it happens probably over half the time now.

It’s not like he’s getting chicken breasts or, y’know, corn on the cob or something, he usually gets the biggest hodge-podge mess of Chinese food, Thai food, etc, then gets concerned when it looks like you can’t really tell what’s in it. I get the most basic things possible at Chinese food restaurants and I’M not even sure what’s in mine. Here’s a crazy idea for him, why doesn’t he just get some…healthy food? I know I’m not one to talk, since two of my major food groups are McDonalds and PF Changs frozen dinners, but I also don’t give a shit about what goes into my body (Plus, my body kinda needs it at this point. You know how nicotine addicts’ bodies begin to need the nicotine even to function? My body is at that point, but with Chicken McNuggets). If I was worried about angering a sacred bovine deity, I would be a little more careful with my purchases.

by Russ Whiting

It’s a strange world in which we live.  So it should come as no surprise that pro wrestlers, individuals to whom we look for a combination of supreme athleticism and heart-rousing theatrics are a very strange breed indeed.  When not engaging in their mock battles, pro wrestlers perform in promotional interviews, or “promos” to add fuel to their upcoming matches or to bring further attention to themselves outside of their baby oil slathered torsos and spandex unitards.  Some are greater than others.  The following compilation of descriptions and videos pertain to what are perhaps the greatest wrestling promos the world has seen and may ever see; not because they necessarily advance a storyline in the best way possible or provide the illusion that someone’s health is being threatened in a conventional sense, but because they are so bone-chillingly captivating.  Sometimes for reasons that are damn near inexplicable and baffling in every sense of the word.  Enjoy.


Not pictured:  Hundreds of young ophidiophobics in the crowd with pants full of shit.

7.  Jake “The Snake” Roberts enjoys slapping women, would pay to do it again
Before he became a disconsolate drunkard, Jake “The Snake” Roberts was one of the more entertaining and well known pro wrestlers in the late 80s despite the fact that he never won a championship belt.  Why?  I mean, for the love of “Gorilla” Monsoon, the dude did invent the DDT maneuver, after all.  But for the purpose of this article, why?  Because he could make himself look like the most deplorable bastard on earth without resorting to overblown garbage like necrophilia or animal cruelty and subsequent feeding of one’s own dog to his owner characteristic of the “Attitude” era.  He could have just cashed it all in, hinged on his (not so surprisingly entertaining) gimmick of bringing a 20-foot python to the ring, called it a day, and  then slithered away into mild obscurity like so many other mid-carders of the era.  But no, legends are not made thus; not content in being overshadowed by his serpentine cohort, Jake decided to employ his considerable verbal skills to attribute villainous or “snake-like” qualities to his character.

Watch this video and you’ll see what I’m talking about:

Just look at that unctuous hair.  The disingenuousness in his pervert’s grin.  The fiendish glimmer in his eyes.  The periodic twinge of satisfaction in his robust porn-star mustache as he recounts his woman slapping antics with the hushed delivery of a serial rapist.  Christ, even back in the day as an eight year old oblivious to the world’s myriad evils I could perceive that this man was a goddamn creep.  I’m sure this is light years ahead of any heel in the WWE today, but I don’t watch the WWE today, so I won’t back that statement up with any sort of tangible evidence whatsoever.  Still, today’s wrestlers should watch this video and take notes.  Also, props to “Mean” Gene Okerlund for expressing his earnest disgust with “Get out of here!  You get the hell out of here!”

Best Quote:  “But the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life…”



Steroids + cocaine:  the breakfast of (WWF) champions.


6.  Macho Man is definitely not coked out
Growing up, watching the late, great Randy Savage’s interviews I remember constantly thinking about how I didn’t have the slightest idea what in the hell the guy was talking about.  Was it simply because I was just a naive little boy?  His promos made about as much sense to me at the time as political pundits from CNN’s Crossfire or a page from my father’s Wall Street Journal.  “I can’t wait until I get older,” thought my younger self.  “Then I’ll unravel this and more of life’s great mysteries.  I just know it.”  Well, here I am folks.  A (relative) grown man… and to my disappointment and perhaps perverse fascination, I still have no goddamn idea what the man is talking about.

I could have chosen pretty much any interview featuring the Macho Man and it would have fit the bill, but this one just brings a shit eating grin to my face every time.  Everything about this promo is pure Randy Poffo gold:  the predatory pacing back and forth directly in front of the camera before the interview starts; the trademark waggling of a solitary masking taped finger as he begins his diatribe; the hyperactivity displayed throughout in his incessant and erratic movements; the completion of every sentence with a crescendic and capricious outburst of one, two, sometimes three “YEAHs” in machine gun succession; eyes crazier than a subway hobo; the unkempt scraggly hair of a subway hobo, and the rugged, grating voice.  It’s all there.  And it’s all good.  OOH, YEAH!



“Obey me.”

5.  Jumpin’ Jeff Farmer is one eloquent bastard
Some folks have it and some folks don’t.  Some folks have it so good and have so much of said goodness that you question how God could ever give someone such an unfair advantage in life.   Jumpin’ Jeff Farmer my friends, has got it.  What is this “it,” you ask?  The power to control the world with his overwhelming eloquence.  Anything that smooth talking son of a bitch Jumpin’ Jeff Farmer commands of me, I will do.  And I’m willing to wager you would also.

From the wavering inflection infused in his sentence fragments to his remarkable acumen of such Shakesperian terms as “having the tables turned on him in a wrong way,” to the perpetual fits of stuttering all the way to the nervous twitches and stammers that say “I have no idea what I’m going to say next,” Jumpin’ Jeff Farmer has had women of all ages tremulous as dogs in heat from the day he could first talk.  And menfolk too.  I am yours to command, Jumpin’ Jeff Farmer.

Best Quote:  “And when you treat-CHEAT me out of what’s rightfully mine… that’s when I get angry!”

5.  Razor Ramon will scar your soul
Okay, I’ll admit; his Tony Montana accent done in Christian Bale’s gravelly Batman voice is borderline terrible.  But that’s not why Razor Ramon is the man.

Razor Ramon is the man because he doesn’t go the predictable route and say he’s going to beat his opponents up really badly or put them in the hospital or make their mothers cry when they see what he’s done to them.  Oh no.  He’s going to employ straight up ” misogynystic warfare like a playa and scar your fucking soul.  Just as the woman in the video who wrongfully assumed she could establish some sort of meaningful relationship with him, Razor’s opponents are nothing more than vacant shells whose minds and bodies are but mere playthings.  Fin.

Best Quote:  “I probably scarred her heart for life.  Thas too bad!”

“Hulk Hogan, you so black you make Wesley Snipes look whiter than Kevin Federline!”

3.  Booker T forgets for a moment that his dialogue is heard by millions
The funny part of this video isn’t even the fact that Booker T calls Hulk Hogan the N-word on a program viewed by millions of people, including and primarily consisting of small, impressionable children.  Okay, that’s pretty damn funny.  But the funniest part is what comes after the fact, when Booker T realizes his folly and cups his face into his enfolded hands in a display of intense shame and humiliation and the white woman at his side casts him a sly glance and shit-eating grin as if to say “It’s funny because you’re black.”

2.  Ric Flair was born with a golden spoon
Ric Flair isn’t actually terrible (well I can’t speak for now, or for any sixty year old man still actively pro wrassling) but I put him on this list because he reminds me of one of my high school football coaches.  Usually calm and collected, the man was occasionally prone to fits of raucous hollering that came out of absolutely nowhere.  Most times in mid-sentence.  One minute he’d be all:  “Alright boys, what we’re gonna do now is practice.   Let’s go over this next play… THAT NONE OF YOU SALLIES CAN SEEM TO UNDERSTAND OR COMPLETE WITHOUT GETTING STUFFED BACK SO FAR BEHIND THE LINE OF SCRIMMAGE THAT MY NECK IS TWISTED AND MISALIGNED AS A FLESHCOVERED CORKSCREW! JIMINY CHRISTMAS!”

He didn’t even swear.  He actually said the words “Jiminy Christmas,” with his voice cracking all over the place; a shining exemplification of a man whose restraint has finally deteriorated. A man who has briefly succumbed to the dark whims of the beast within and has only barely clawed back what sanity is left of his mind.

Now granted, my coach was nowhere near as captivating as Ric Flair is on a regular basis; but when this guy blew his stack, everyone listened.  Whether because of how unforeseen the outbursts were or how pants-shittingly overwhelming they were, I can’t say.  What I can say, however, is that they were awesome.  Kind of like Ric Flair.  He didn’t use vulgarity in his interviews and you could tell that most of the time he was trying to be that restrained cool guy, all slick and calm and what not, just casually talking some shit.  But when the dude flipped his shit, you were in for a treat.  Maybe not as much as the woman apparently playing with herself 1:18 into the video, but close enough.

Best Quote:  “… I dress myself in alligator shoes.  I wear a $15,000 Rolex!  I got Mercedes Benz, Rolls Royce, the biggest house on the biggest hill on the biggest side of town… you know why I got all that?  ‘Cause I was born with a golden spoon.  And that took me to the World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship!”



“Why do I so ardently wish to de-brain Hulk Hogan?  A fine inquiry Mean Gene and I’m glad you asked.   Basically it’s because… RARGHHGWWAARRR GAHHHHHH RAWWWGHHHHH!”


1.  Ultimate Warrior will sacrifice your pilots, crash your plane
Just do yourself a favor and watch this video.  Hell, watch any interview/promo involving the Ultimate Warrior.  Don’t even attempt to understand them the first time around; don’t arch a brow in bewilderment at the fact that the Warrior assumes pilots will commit suicide for the sheer purpose of his elaborate mindgames with Hulk Hogan; don’t inquire as to whether or not his statements are figurative or metaphoric in nature; simply indulge in their sweet, sweet tumult.

Say what you will about the man’s rambling incoherencies, his bombastic and contrived lexicon, his all around batshit craziness: the bottom line is that the man is entertaining.  It might lean more towards the “Mommy, why is Rover eating his own shit?” end of the  inquisitive scale, but it’s entertaining nonetheless.

Alright, fine.  So he’s batshit crazy.  No one ever said crazy people couldn’t be entertaining.  But is the Ultimate Warrior truly the deranged lunatic that he ostensibly appears to be?  Or is there more to him than what we can discern from simple face value?   Are these the rambling incoherencies of a man whose mind has gone off the deep end? Or more extraordinarily still… are they the soliloquies of a man who has achieved an altered state of consciousness or sort of perverse enlightenment through madness?  What in Old Norse literature was referred to as berserkergang?

“His (Odin’s) men rushed forwards without armour, were as mad as dogs or wolves, bit their shields, and were strong as bears or wild oxen, and killed people at a blow, but neither fire nor iron told upon them. This was called Berserkergang.”

Perhaps we are all victims to one of the most elaborate ruses in the history of professional wrestling.  Surely no one would denounce Leonardo DiCaprio for completely engrossing himself in his latest role.  So why unfairly disparage the Warrior?  Maybe he’s just really, really fucking good at playing his role.  Ultimate Warrior:  berserk retard or misunderstood pioneer bridging the gap between the fine line of genius and insanity?  You be the judge.

By Russ Whiting

Following in the precedence of that zany Henry David Thoreau, who among us hasn’t wanted to shed the cumbersome weight of today’s sprawling megalopolitan trappings and embark upon a voyage of spiritual discovery? Returning to our roots in nature as it were? Well, you just might want to rethink that instinctual adventure you silly little bastard; if you think crying into your pillow at night about working eight hours behind a desk all day means God hates you, try taking a look at the lives of these presumably awesome animal creatures:

5) Praying Mantis
That’s right, the Praying Mantis; among the most lethal, hard-assed insects to have ever been formed by God’s repudiating hand. These wondrous insectile butchers are sleek, elegant, purdy and presumably pious religious folk (They pray a lot, LOL). Don’t let their appearance and churchly demeanor fool you however; they’re the type of predators that would slash and grab you with strong, spiked forelegs if you ever got too close – committing unseen horrors to your body and any of their other mortified prey. (Which consist of other insects, frogs, lizards, snakes, rodents, homeless people). Any insect that feasts on the sundered flesh of the living instead of nibbling upon dirt and poo pretty much becomes an undisputed legend in my eyes.

Where Things Go Horribly Wrong:
Alright, praying mantises are bad-asses. I’ll even go so far as to say that they could be considered the epitome of macho, butchering animals twice their size – all the while resembling alien rape machines with their bulbous, remorseless eyes. Oh, they’re macho, alright. That is, if they didn’t have the ironic misfortune of actually being born male.

Why Their Lives Suck Even More Than Yours:
Our protagonist mantis finally gets laid after prevailing over a cock blocking process of epic proportions. This includes him pouncing upon and essentially raping the female while she’s busy preening or eating (eerily similar to my own tactics, try it some time!) After all this, you’d think she might light up a cigarette and maybe give him a pat on the thorax for a job well done, right? Wrong! After getting hers, the female brute will violently turn on the male. (The nerve of that asshole, trying to further propagate the species) For you, this would involve your wife, significant other, or female escort brushing you away, saying that she has a headache. Or for the very unlucky, uproarious laughter at the futility of your dick.

For the male mantis this means having his goddamn head chomped clean off his shoulders! As a morose consolation prize for living the life of the ultimate masochist, a reflex mechanism in the mantis’ body ensures he’ll keep on pumping away, necroboning the lucky gal while his severed head becomes a delectable little treat! (Men, always thinking with their other head, amirite ladies?) Hopefully the femme fatale has the common courtesy to chew in a way that allows him to watch his dying thrusts with voyeuristic bliss! Grant that horny mantis male his final wish, won’t you snookums?

“Oh real nice, Bill! You went and died again! For once, I just wish you’d want to cuddle after sex.”

4) Anglerfish

The image I’m pasting onto the ceiling above my first born baby’s crib

Picture this: You’re an abhorrent, appallingly grotesque sea creature that looks like the remains of John Travolta from Hairspray and a used condom from Clay Aiken. Alright, that’s terrible even by my standards. Let me start over.

Picture this: You’re just a vicious, loveable, though ugly male anglerfish with a heart of gold; traversing the deep, abounding sea with Sebastian the crab, Nemo, and the rest of your fishy friends! Nestled like a jocund, deformed fellow in those fathomless depths, your gaze soon fixes upon a sight that sends a tremor of longing and anticipation up your incurved spine; one that tickles from your fishy fins up to the base of your throbbing gills:

What’s that you spy? A cavernous mouth; spiny, razor sharp teeth; nubile, iridescent dorsal fins framing a plump, J-Lo ass; and even one of those cool organic “fishing rods” protruding from her sloping forehead! (One that can glow in the dark, and lure smaller fish into her close proximity.) Could it be? Why, it’s a sexy female Anglerfish and you’d simply love to get yourself a piece of that sweet, fishy smelling (good in this instance) poontang!

Where Things Go Horribly Wrong:
Here’s the deal. Anglerfish are rare. So rare that it could conceivably take years for two anglerfish of the opposite sex swimming along to have the fortuitous luxury to just bump into each other and proceed to get freak nasty. So nature, being the detestable whore that she is, decided to play a “harmless” little prank on the male anglerfish when it comes to getting laid.

Why Their Life Sucks More Than Yours:
Of course, by harmless I meant – they become the living, breathing embodiment of a “pussy whipped” joke. These guys make Doug Christie, a guy who flashes his wife “I heart yous,” erratic winks, and blown kisses on live national television in NBA basketball games look like the father of sixteen kids in Harlem. So what could possibly be so terrible, you ask? Recall an instance when your wife, gal pal, or any woman in general called you a dick. (For me, this happens every time I open my mouth). Do you have it firmly etched into your mind? Good. Now imagine that her words took on a literal meaning of the most degrading, humiliating degree. That’s right kids, you are doomed to live the rest of your life as an actual cock(and balls)!

Just take a gander at this excerpt from the Wikipedia article on Anglerfish:
“When he finds a female, he bites into her skin, and releases an enzyme that digests the skin of his mouth and her body, fusing the pair down to the blood-vessel level. The male then atrophies into nothing more than a pair of gonads, which releases sperm in response to hormones in the female’s bloodstream indicating egg release. This extreme sexual dimorphism ensures that, when the female is ready to spawn, she has a mate immediately available.”

So to recap, the male bites into the female, and they fuse together; he gets all his essential vitamins and minerals, as well as a shared oxygen supply. This means he doesn’t need to do anything in life except become like a patient little caterpillar; except instead of emerging from the cocoon as a magnificent butterfly – he emerges from his hypothetical cocoon as a magnificent schlong. (Yes, I really just used those two words in the same sentence.) This turns the female into what is essentially a sultry hermaphrodite, since she can reproduce at any time with the former fish turned empty shell of a dick perpetually dangling from her underbelly. C’est la vie!

“I sold my soul to the devil to be reincarnated as Megan Fox’s vibrator. This… isn’t what I asked for, is it?”

3) Asian Giant Hornet (Getting its comeuppance)
“Nature, she is a dirty whore, non?”

Are you all ready to hear a tale of unspeakable slaughter and butchery far worse than any war in human history? Such is the life of the Japanese Giant Hornet; pitiless, winged automatons of death. Numbered in 30, these sons of bitches can horribly maim and kill a nest full of 30,000 European honey bees in less than 3 hours! (A single hornet able to kill 40 bees per minute) Not content with eradicating every last one of the hardest working foragers of nature’s gold, the wasps then proceed to steal the helpless bee babies from the ravaged hive; presumably suffocating them, punching them in the face while they’re in their strollers, and slipping them down garbage chutes before finally eating them. Check out this video:
Where Things Go Horribly Wrong:
Yes, such tragedy saddens my heart as well. As if bees don’t have it difficult enough! But fear not honey sucklers, and deviants who had a crush on the cherubic “little” girl in the Blind Melon video; in nature – justice is its own ripe reward! You see, the aforementioned description of what happened to the poor bees was an example of when honey bees from Europe were introduced to the Japanese environment. This was all in some horrible mad scientist-esque experiment to increase honey production by our overseas friends. (Or maybe it was for a Japanese game show) Not accustomed to Hentai, Hello Kitty, or battling Mothra, these bees that were suddenly thrust into the cusp of an alien locale were predictably massacred, offering little resistance.

The native Japanese honeybees, however, are a different matter altogether! Come, learn with me, won’t you?

Why Their Lives Suck Worse Than Yours:
The native Asian bees, invigorated by a bee-like Genghis Kahn (or Shigeru Miyamoto) have devised a unique strategy in dealing with their godless foes:

As the hornet enters the nest, a large mob of about five hundred honey bees surrounds it, completely covering it and preventing it from moving, and begin quickly vibrating their flight muscles. This has the effect of raising the temperature of the honey bee mass to 47 °C (117 °F). The honey bees can barely tolerate this temperature, but the hornet cannot survive more than 46 °C (115 °F), so it dies.

Wow. Well, that’s certainly a horrible, agonizing death isn’t it? Being smothered in a writhing mass of bodies and then immolated from the inside out by the “vibration of flight muscles” (AKA, gang raped until you catch on fire) is something that even Stanley Kubrick would have shied away from tackling on the big screen.
I think I’d rather see someone killed by Carrot Top. Yes, that’s right. I’d rather see someone jimmy the door to his house (rundown apartment most likely) to gain access, where Carrot Top and a nest of Carrot Top clones are waiting; bonking themselves and then the intruder on the head with their hilarious mallet props. The would be assailant is then bound, gagged, and smothered by a mass of Carrot Top and clones’ nude, tremulous bodies – fiery red afros nuzzling and fondling him into a combustible grave. Oh yeah, and then he’s thrown into a scorching oven along with a kitten.

Or simply forced to watch Chairman of the Board. Either way, nature is hardcore.

“Fred, our balls are touching. And why do you keep looking up at me with hundreds of doe-like eyes? …Fuck, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

2) Fig Wasp
Fig wasps are born and raised inside a fruit that grows upon the fig trees of their namesake. Their life is closely related to this tree; they pollinate it, decorate the interior, and complete the “circle of life” so to speak. All is well in the gay, merry world that is nature.

Where Things Go Horribly Wrong:
Yes, there is a common theme prevalent in this article. It is the adversity that is faced by the brave males in this broad scope of animal species; our kindred brothers that share our very masculine quintessence. (Sorry ladies, you already have all the power in society as it is!) These male fig wasps need our support, for they live vacant lives destitute of any real meaning. Read on!

Why Their Lives Suck Worse Than Yours:
You know how some people don’t tend to enjoy being fucked like two dollar hookers and then never get spoken to or called again? Crybabies, right? Alright, how about being told that they have a vacuous personality and are essentially only good for getting laid from and that they should never ever open their mouths unless it’s to exhale during sex? How do I put this nicely? Male fig wasps are like the two former scenarios combined, except instead of being told they have no personality, they are kicked out of the bed the second they are done screwing and die in a horrible car fire on the taxi ride home. (Which they paid for!) So much for baby daddies in Fig Waspville, huh? Bitches get played and used for real, son! Just take a look:

As the fig develops, the wasp eggs hatch and develop into larvae. After going through the pupal stage, the mature male’s first act is to mate with a female. The males of many species lack wings and are unable to survive outside the fig for a sustained period of time. After mating, a male wasp begins to dig out of the fig, creating a tunnel for the females to escape through.

Okay, so let’s recap. Upon reaching maturity, the first thing that the fig wasp has to do is put his newly developed fig meat to the test – by getting it on with a female fig wasp; an insatiable female fig wasp cougar, out to prove that she’s still got it; and can still get some of those nubile young figgy loins!

This is essentially the equivalent of a budding, coming of age teenager who masturbates furiously in his bathroom to Sear’s Catalogues; hoping one day to whet his proverbial whistle. The second he is able to sustain a “woody,” as the kids call it, a mature, horny female perches upon his rod like a howler monkey and goes to town. Thirty seconds later, the boy chews a hole through his bathroom door for the lady to escape through later, and dies of exhaustion, or maybe even cholera, like a kid from Oregon Trail. Curtains.

Simply horrible, isn’t it folks? Absolutely deplorable that one’s life could consist only of having sex the absolute instant they’re able to, and then crumpling into a ball and dying. If you’re a female, please skip down to the next section of this article, entitled “Gorilla.” If you are a fellow man such as myself (though definitely not as virile) I think we can all agree on one thing: we all know what critter we want to be reincarnated as, don’t we boys? Awwww yeahh. Gettin’ some of that sweet tang the second we can get it up – till the day you die, baby! (Literally the very same day. Goddamit).

“Love at first . . . hard on?”

1) Gorilla
To put it in simple terms, gorillas are the paragon of the words tough, brutal, and pants shittingly scary. And the best part is, you know this already! These guys shower in vodka, can bench press cars, have thighs like anvils, and could breast feed Fifty Cent. Remember that scene in Jason Takes Manhattan where Jason actually punches a guy’s head off? Gorillas could do that to you, only they’d peel the flesh off your face afterwards and eat your severed pate like a banana.

Where Things Go Wrong:
When gorillas mate, they have absolutely no competition. That’s right – no one’s going to cuckold this snarling, simian giant! Gorilla females are the exact antithesis of Paris Hilton: they are faithful, non-promiscuous, affectionate mates. (I think we can also all agree they would do more than just lay there and stare vacantly at the camera during a sex tape – I mean . . . You’re thinking about fucking a female gorilla! What in God’s name is wrong with you?) I know what you’re saying right now: “Damn Russ, this all sounds so amazing. Those gorillas sure have it made, don’t they?” Sorry folks, this means nature has developed one small side effect in accordance for the gorilla’s life of sexual harmony; like some Gorilla-Faustian satanic pact gone horribly awry:

Why Their Lives Suck Worse Than Yours:
The gorilla penis is a staggering 2 inches. Erect. I bet about 85% of you reading this right now are standing up from your computer chair with your hands on your hips, thinking to yourself “Oh yeah, I’m more hung than a gorilla baby!” If you did that, I want you to know that even a gorilla would get more human pussy than you.

“Hey, come look at this snot I picked zoo keeper! It looks like a dick! HAHAHA! Yes… it is in fact bigger than my actual penis. Why do you ask?”
By Patrick Ross
Most people know professional wrestling is largely staged, even some of its biggest fans. Wrestling fans get caught up in the whimsical stories the wrestlers act out on the world’s stage, and suspend belief for two hours every Monday night while the slightly less brain damaged are watching football. But sometimes, the creative team at the WWE ask us to suspend our belief a little too high, and then drop it off a fucking skyscraper. Here are some examples of how if things in wrestling were handled in an even remotely realistic fashion, these deranged criminals would be on Death Row:

4) Stone Cold Steve Austin

Charges: Aggravated assault, attempted calculated murder, public drunkenness , DUI, grand theft beer truck/zamboni
Biggest offense
: Attempted vehicular homicide

Austin’s image is pretty much based around the concept that he’s an asshole. In stark contrast to the faces of old, Austin gained fans not by supporting America and imploring kids to say their prayers and drink their milk, but rather by kicking his boss’s ass on a weekly basis, and telling kids to go fuck themselves. All of this was in kayfabe of course (kayfabe = “in character”, the etymology of which reportedly is derived from pig latin for “fake” – which pretty much makes me an “agfay” for knowing that), and only added to his appeal.

“Go fuck yourselves New York! …Austin 3:16 shirts now just $19.99 at!”

Possibly the most insulting act to wrestling fans’ intelligence, however, came at Survivor Series 2000, when in a match between Austin and Triple H, Austin locked Helmsley into a car, somehow gained access to an industrial 50 ft. crane, and lifted the car with it and subsequently dropped it to the ground. Oftentimes the creative team will “write in” a reason as to why a wrestler legitimately has to take camera time off for personal reasons. Surely this was some sort of explanation for Helmsley having real-life surgery or something. This sort of heinous act would invariably severely injure, if not instantly kill someone.

Triple H was on RAW 15 days later, healthy as a horse!

3) Triple H

Charges: Indecent exposure, fraud, assault with a deadly weapon with intent to injure, conspiracy
Biggest offense
: Videotaped and publicly admitted rape

The Game himself is just an upstanding, morally sound fellow, isn’t he? Betraying long time friends to get ahead, hospitalizing innocent men, raping his boss’s daughter…wait, what? In 1999, Stephanie McMahon was set to marry Test on an episode of RAW (always the best forum for a declaration of holy matrimony), but as the priest asked if anyone had any objections, H’s music hit, and out he came with video evidence of him drugging, marrying, and subsequently raping a passed-out Stephanie. Vince McMahon had all the evidence he needed; he called the cops and Helmsley was sent directly to jail without parole. …Just kidding, this is pro wrestling, McMahon instead did nothing other than sign himself into a title match against Helmsley. The punishment has to fit the crime, after all!

Christ, if real life was anything like wrestling Saddam would not have been captured and killed, he would have faced Dubya in a ladder match for the rights to face the champion at WrestleMania, and the ‘Iraq war’ would have been nothing more than Bush blowing his nose in the Iraqi flag in front of Saddam’s weeping manager and Saddam calling everybody in attendance ‘stupid Americans’.

2) The Big Boss Man

Charges: Animal cruelty, inhumane murder of animals, interrupting a funeral and dragging the dead man’s goddamned corpse by a chain attached to his personalized police car (I can’t even feign legal jargon with these crimes, they’re too fucked up)
Biggest offense
: Killing, slicing and dicing a man’s dog without his consent and subsequently feeding it to him, cackling maniacally

The Big Boss Man was one of those mid-carders in the early 1990s who everyone knew but no one quite knew why he was on television. He’s been offensively overweight his entire career, and his entire gimmick is that he’s a cop. I know there are some uncreative gimmicks out there, but Christ, his gimmick may as well have been that he’s a dinosaur.

“You know who are hard asses? T-REXES! But since we sadly can’t fashion a man into a dinosaur, let’s just make him a policeman.”

In the late 1990s he came back with a complete character overhaul which included exchanging his blue police shirt for a black SWAT team vest. He also became the most sadistic motherfucker on the face of the planet. It happened in a strangely clandestine meeting in a seedy Worchester, MA hotel between the Boss Man himself and Al Snow. The two were bitter enemies at the time, yet somehow put their differences aside for a completely unexplained casual meeting before the show in Snow’s hotel room, where Boss Man offered Snow some food. Disregarding the fact that the Boss Man was apparently out for blood, Snow readily accepted the mystery meat without so much as a precautionary sniff. After he ate it, the Boss Man excitedly told him that he just ate his own dog. Once again, instead of being thrown into jail and protested by PETA for the rest of his mortal life, a wacky gimmick match was created for the next Pay-Per-View event to settle the horrific injustice. The two fought in a hilariously failed “Kennel From Hell” match wherein dogs were supposed to be surrounding the ring, acting all ferocious and shit like dogs do, but instead just yelped defeatedly and pissed all over themselves.

1) The Big Boss Man (again)

Charges: See above.
Biggest offense
: See above.

For some reason the Big Boss Man became the most soulless antichrist on the face of the planet (which laughably still didn’t get him over as a heel), and his laundry list of mortal sins became way too much for just one entry. Try to follow this horrifying (and retarded) chain of events:

In another feud with The Big Show, Boss Man decided to get into his opponents head by somehow uncovering untold secrets Show had never told anyone in his life. Boss Man hired someone to tell Show that his father had passed away. At the funeral, he showed up in a custom made police car that he inexplicably owned, chained the casket to it and drove away whirring his sirens, screaming and shooting off his guns like it was an episode of a necrophiliac Dukes of Hazard. A few weeks after this display which likened him to a satanic Yosemite Sam, he decided to mess with Show a little more. He accomplished this by knocking on his mother’s door, who, like Snow, readily invited the raging maniac who just stole her late husband’s corpse into her home for milk and cookies. During the powwow, Boss Man got Big Show’s mother to admit that he was a bastard child, and immediately exclaiming to the camera that he was a “Big Nasty Bastard!” while cackling to the camera. Boss Man then stole blankets from a nearby orphanage and strangled an elderly woman trying to cross the street with them while pissing on an American flag [citation needed].

Once again, a sordid affair that should probably have involved intervention of National Defense was instead solved by a wrestling match with some wacky stipulation. The Big Boss Man died a few years later, presumably from guilt.

By Patrick Ross

Let’s face it: sitcoms by definition are pretty formulaic. Guideline is set, character breaks guideline, character learns lesson, character makes up with others. The originality is supposed to be in the delivery of the laughs in between, but as you can see, sitcom writers are just damned lazy.

4) “I’ll be frank.” “Can I still be Theo?”

Worst Offenders:
The Cosby Show, Full House, the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

Why It’s Supposed to be Funny:
You see, ‘frank’ is a rarely used word to mean ‘completely honest’, but these darn kids (or mildly retarded roommate, in Full House’s case) just see it as a name! What a delicious G-rated double entendre! This can come in any number of variations, such as the Cosby-classic “Can I still be Theo?” to the modern spins, such as “ooh! I’ll be Dave!”

Why It’s Not:
This tried-and-true line is basically one gigantic slap in the face to the American people, and a complete defamation of the character who utters the “punchline” to this “joke”. The second person in this back-and-forth is supposed to be so dim-witted that he doesn’t understand the word “frank”, automatically assumes that the person talking down to them is initiating some freakish role-play scenario, and, possibly evoking repressed memories from youth, immediately jumps on board with it.

What Would Make it Funny:
If Bill Cosby punched Theo in the face and the scene just fades to black while focusing on his son’s lifeless, bleeding heap on the ground.

I have no idea what’s going on in this picture. Wait, yes I do. That’s why I hate myself.

3) The Ironic “exact opposite of what I just said happens” Maneuver

Worst Offenders:
Every sitcom ever made.

Why It’s Supposed to be Funny:
You can’t really blame the writers for pulling out this get-out-of-jail-free card from time to time. After all, expecting one thing and experiencing the total opposite is one of the paragons of humor. This one happens so much, it’s hard to cite specific examples, but here’s an example:

 Rational character: “Don’t do that, you might hurt yourself!”
Irreverent yet lovable character: “Don’t worry, I define smooth! I have a higher-than-average self worth for reasons unknown!”
(Character #2 falls down a flight of stairs)

 You can throw in any hapless, yet affable characters in the second position and you will see where I’m coming from. Urkel, Joey Gladstone, Tim Taylor, you name it. If a character is notoriously accident prone (which, inexplicably, there is always at least one such character), this is bound to happen fifteen to twenty times an episode.

Why It’s Not:
Reread the example I gave. If even one wrinkle forms around your mouth from the beginnings of a smile forming, you deserve a swift kick to the junk.

What Would Make it Funny:
If character #2 fell down the stairs and never got up. The next episode is a touching funeral service.

 2) The “off-the-cuff birds and the bees” explanation

Worst offenders:
Full House, the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

 Why It’s Supposed to be Funny:
Whenever a character gets pregnant on a sitcom, it’s always met with unbelievable surprise, even if it’s a known fact the couple has been trying to get pregnant for months. One of the shocked family members/friends will exclaim, “how did this happen!”. That’s where the funny begins. One friend will very bluntly explain “well, you see, when two people love each other very much…”. OH the sexual innuendos! I can’t even take it without bursting into laughter! Variations include the questioning buffoon catching his blunder, muttering “well of course I know how it HAPPENED…” with a cocked eyebrow and a suggestive smile.

Why It’s Not:
I don’t know if there’s anything easier to turn to for a cheap laugh than vague sexual references.

What Would Make it Funny:
If after the question is posed, the mom-to-be solemnly looks at the ground and says “…I was raped”.


1) The “I just inadvertently murdered my friend/roommate/loved one’s pet and sole companion, but I’ll just buy another one and he’ll never notice” Caper

Worst Offenders:
Family Matters, Seinfeld, Full House

Why It’s Supposed to Be Funny:
To be perfectly honest, I have no idea. Is this something that happens often? Sitcoms are entirely based around being able to relate, but I can’t think of one goddamned time myself or anyone I’ve ever known has lost or killed a pet or otherwise priceless possession of a friend and instead of fessing up, tried to cover it up with messy, last-minute wackiness. Again, this comes in a number of varieties. The pet is most common, but for no real reason, Family Matters seems to come back to this theme a number of times with inanimate objects. Cakes, laptops, you name it. The laptop one is actually unintentionally funny for it’s outdated-ness; Eddie wants to borrow Laura’s laptop because “I wanna go on the ‘Internet’; they have a new site:!” And upon breaking it (a comical tug-of-war because Urkel wanted to play the latest “3D computer game”), Urkel explains Laura’s laptop is missing because he “gave it to a friend who will download it with the latest softwares”. …Actually, nope, even latent with early 90s views on the Internet as a passing fad, it’s still not funny at all.

Why It’s Not:
It’s in no way realistic, and also the person who commits this heinous borderline crime should really never be talked to again for how little they can be trusted. No amount of sappy piano music at the end of the episode would make me ever talk to this asshole again.

What Would Make it Funny:
To teach the friend a lesson, the victim skins him alive and stuffs him, assuring his parents that “there’s definitely nothing different about him”.

By Russ Whiting

I’VE WORKED AS A PERSONAL TRAINER AT THE LOCAL FITNESS CLUB FOR THE PAST THREE years now, and attended the same club for almost five. In my time there, I’ve come across a vast array of people from all walks of life; some of them shining, affable individuals who have shaped my experience for the better; and then . . . from the other end of the spectrum, there are these people. These horrible, repugnant bastards:



This is an aging bar whore or a steroid abuser far past their prime; perhaps by a decade or two, if we’re being lenient. Shhh . . . don’t tell that to the uneven globs of cellulite and acne-ridden lumps protruding from gym outfits that look small enough to have been embezzled from Baby Gap!

Because going blind is not fun.


These poor beings usually fall into one of two subcategories. On the one hand, you have the man or woman that is above the standards of what is considered healthy in areas such as body fat percentage, weight, or desired muscularity for their age group, yet for some inexplicable reason, it’s just never enough. In their mind they need to be “skinnier, bigger, or (insert desired trait here).” In severe cases, this is known as Body dysmorphic disorder, and while it’s not really a laughing matter to rip on people that suffer from a psychiatric disorder (Or is it?), it’s more prevalent than you think, and worth mentioning in an elucidating sense.

On the other hand, you have someone that could be accurately classified as a liar, an ignorant sap, or a poor misguided bastard that chronically brings about self-inflicted failure. They may workout adamantly in the gym for hours at a time, but usually subject themselves to a major flaw that inhibits themselves to the point of inconclusive results every time. It’s just like an ancient Greek tragedy, only with Twinkies in place of incest and eye mutilation!

It’s great to set goals, or to aspire to build a physique that lives up to its fullest potential; however, these goals have to be well-defined and realistic. Unless you’re shoving needles into the cusp of your ass, or ingesting pills that are made to stimulate horses, results aren’t going to come overnight. Overall, it should be about your health and well being, not looking like a human anatomy chart or running twenty miles a day on a diet consisting of a crouton and two fronds of lettuce. Remember kids, if you tore your bicep from overworking it, or your shins have burst through the skin from excessive running, then a day or two off once in a while isn’t going to kill you. And ladies, I will still bang you even if you can’t cut off the flow of blood to my cock with your adductors.

Another thing that helps is what I like to call “not being a complete and utter dumb-ass.” Point in case: The overweight guy who spends four hours at the gym, partaking in every cardio, spin, and swimming class that is offered to him with the gusto of a pedophile at a playground. Let’s call him Ron.
After accomplishing such impressive feats of human tenacity and endurance, Ron goes home and proceeds to devour four pounds of cupcakes and a small child and then comes back wondering “Why he just can’t seem to shed any weight.” If you’re making the effort to discipline yourself in the gym, why not instill this in your diet as well? Devouring every Hostess or Little Debby snack item in sight may not be the best approach.


No true list of loathsome individuals at the gym would be complete without this pitiful clown. It doesn’t matter if he’s lifting five pound dumbbells over his head, or doing tricep kickbacks for eight hundred – this guy or chick has been created in life with only one fundamental purpose etched into their brain: and that’s to grunt like a bloated, constipated mule while at the gym!

Sure, I’m all for getting into the zone during your workouts. And sure, I’ve been known to exert a bit of audible breathing during a bout of intense muscular contraction. But does the whole damn gym really need to hear the blubbering wails of someone who sounds like they just busted a nut on a Kodiak bear’s face? These banshee shrieks are usually accompanied by the weights being slammed onto the floor in an attempt to bring even more attention to their endeavors.

“Yes, we hear you loud and clear, douche bag. And we still want to stab you with an ice pick through your heart.”


I know there are other people here that could really make expedient and advantageous use of this machine or exercise bench, but I think I’ll just pitch a tent, spread a picnic blanket, and sit here like an inebriated sloth on disability!”

They’re only there when you need to get something done, leisurely loafing around like the gigantic bags of shit that they are. Extra points if they decided to whip out their cell phone while they’re “working out”, or if they stare at you like you just spit in their baby’s face when you ask them how much longer they’ll be there – on the very same machine they’ve been on for the past 45 minutes.


You could be Mr. Olympia or even have written several books on kinesiology. None of that matters! Because this person just expediently skimmed over the latest article in Men’s Diary Issue #69, and you’re totally doing it wrong!

“Yo dawg, ever tried that exercise while juggling two medicine balls and clenching your left ass cheek at a hypotenuse angle?”
“No, but I’d sure like to finish a fucking repetition without hearing your grating, harpy-like voice!”

What a sweetheart! She had the “philanthropic” and “practical” intentions to squeeze into a pair of spandex pants so tight, that I can see the cleft of her glutes with each step she takes on the treadmill! That, and every individual nook, cranny, and pore of her taint.
Oh wait, here’s another classy vixen, wearing lycra shorts the size of a baby’s bib and stretching with her ass six inches away from my face on the bench press! Bless her innocuous little soul!

This can be a catch twenty two. Either you are so mesmerized that the sight of her pulls you in like a modern day siren’s song, and then BOOM, you have fallen off the treadmill in a gangly pile of limbs and other extremities; or you’re a shy guy and you can’t even use your favorite exercise machine because she’s perched upon one in the same vicinity like some jungle lioness in heat. So what’s the good part? It may actually motivate you to work out more often, if only for a glimpse of her sweet, sweet can. This also makes you a sad, lonely little man that doesn’t deserve the touch of a woman.
The best, and perhaps most deliciously paradoxical part of her dressing so scantily is that ninety nine percent of the people like you that attempt to talk to her while she’s performing squat thrusts like a nubile whore will be brushed away like insignificant granules of dirt and doo-doo. I’m sorry sweety, you don’t want to get hit on, you just want to be the hottest chick in the gym! My mistake!


“Every breath you take, every move you make. I’ll be watching you.”

You’ve just about finished your final repetition after a solid chest workout, and you find that the Watcher is still lurking there in the corner, pretending to do bicep curls. Your eyes abhorrently move to his position, but he looks away and pretends that he’s engaged in something other than intently watching perspiration glean off your body. As soon as you look away, he’s on you again, watching. Waiting . . .

Unless you’re a fifteen year old girl with no friends, enjoy being the target of pedophilia, or are Lindsay Lohan, this is unnerving as fuck, and we damn well know it’s not simply because he’s “making sure you’re using correct form.” This has actually affected me on a personal basis, and I sobbed openly like a sniveling child while typing this paragraph. Remind me to tell the story in a future article on day.


This guy seems to exist for no other reason than to materialize whenever you’re done with your workout and heading into the locker room; it doesn’t matter what you’re doing; taking a piss, changing quietly from your workout attire, or simply tying an errant shoelace. There he’ll be: that slovenly, hairy old dude. And oh yeah, he’s not wearing any clothes.

Sure, that’s what the locker room is there for. There are lockers (!), showers, toiletries, sometimes even saunas and steam rooms. But those are merely there for decoration when this guy’s on the prowl. Instead of going from one hygienic task to the next in a time-efficient, conventional manner that ninety nine percent of the normal population engages in, this guy is seen languidly lounging around the locker room benches like some ancient Roman dinner banquet attendee, the white towel draped loosely around his waist serving as the metaphorical toga.

The aforementioned could merely be relegated to irritating behavior, but no. Oh dear God, no. Things go terribly awry and fast. Naked old guy usually finds it pertinent to sweep one leg up on the bench for unknown reasons: like a blasphemous Captain Morgan, fully displaying his floppy, drooping balls. He’s just standing there, trying to uphold a conversation or humming annoyingly to himself, while his dank junk is dangling and swinging plainly for all to see like they’re the oscillating pendulum of a perverse grandfather clock. To add insult to eye-raping injury, Old Man Dangly is usually attempting (unsuccessfully) to apply a coat of Gold Bond medicated powder to his loins, hilariously and nauseatingly missing the mark by a long shot, and instead littering the floor and other people’s gym bags in a chalky white blanket analogous to some deviant Christmas morning.
“Sure is nice weather we’re having isn’t it? Oop, excuse me, I seemed to have missed a spot.”
“The forecast from my end says I’m going to stuff you and your old balls into a locker if you don’t hurry the hell up!”