The Cheetah Girls

Who the hell are the Cheetah Girls? That’s the same question I ask myself every time I bust open a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Dinner. You see, I’m a single male with piss poor homemaking skills and I eat a shit load of mac & cheese for dinner (this is due to the fact that it’s fast, easy, and most importantly of all, delicious) and every time I get ready to make my mac & cheese, the faces of these dolled out “Cheetah Girls” glare at me from the all too familiar blue box.

At first it really didn’t bother me. It was like, oh look, its some 14 year old girls made up to look like middle of the road jungle themed prostitutes. I’ve seen this before on MTV! And then it got ridiculous. It got ridiculous because my chance to “See the Cheetah Girls Live!” never seemed to end and I didn’t want to see them. I just wanted to stay in denial about my true age and live the childhood dream of a Macaroni & Cheese Dinner! Fuck!

Besides, even if I did want to see the Cheetah Girls live I was too scared to admit this out fear that the whole Cheetah Girl’s advertising campaign was just another plot to catch pedophiles by Dateline NBC’s To Catch a Predator. The last thing I needed was Chris Hansen materializing out of thin air into my kitchen asking me tough questions like:
“What are you doing here?”
“Why is a grown man eating Macaroni & Cheese Dinner with 14 year old girls on the box?”
“Why are there condoms in your kitchen?”

There had to be a reason as to why these Cheetah Girls never seemed to vanish from my precious blue box and thanks to my primal instinct of fear, I figured it all out. Everything comes down to marketing and it appalls me that, in addition to children, Kraft’s marketing team targets pedophiles with its Blue Box Blues. That’s right, pedophiles. Who else would these no name glamorized pre-pubescent Cheetah Girls appeal to?

What the hell is wrong with you, Kraft? There are plenty of markets out there that are begging for advertisement aimed in their general direction. Single males, Kraft! Single males! We can’t cook. We’re lazy. We’re easily manipulated. Just look at G4TV.

It would be encouraging to at least have some “of age” girls on your box. Or maybe a football or something that screams, “Buy me! Buy me you lonely and bitter single male. It’s the cheesiest!” But, no. You just had to tap into a market that nobody dared to go after. Thanks a lot you sick bastards. Now all the pedophiles out there have something to look at as they suck on succulent morsels of macaroni and cheese. Shame on you Kraft, shame on you . . . .

Entitlement Issues

We all have issues. Employees have issues with their jobs, kids have issues with their parents, and most small intestines have issues with Chinese food. I for one have issues with just about every other thing you can think of. I have many issues, because let’s face it, there’s a lot of stupid shit out there that shouldn’t exist/occur/happen to me. One thing I have major issues with are other people’s issues.

Issues creating more issues? What a crazy concept! But not really . . .

You see, when you add issues you get more issues. When you multiply issues you get more issues. When you divide issues you get less issues but I’m not really sure how you would divide issues so that doesn’t count nor contribute to my point anyway. Its simple math and any third grader sufficient at his times tables can understand that other people’s issues piss me off.

This past weekend I was rudely bombarded by somebody else’s issue. Their issue – an entitlement issue.

This issue hit me like a ton of petrified dog shit while I was hanging out at this establishment called the “Pink Pony." What kind of establishment was this, you ask? Just look at the subtlety of the name. If you’re not a fan of subtlety then I suggest you read more and edumacate yourself. I like subtlety. It’s like a smart guy’s puzzle that makes you smarter and feel better than others. But I digress . . .

There I was at the “Pink Pony” enjoying myself when I felt the urge to enjoy myself more, so, naturally I ordered another round of drinks. The waitress served us our drinks and I paid in full and tipped like any good patron would. As opposed to smiling and saying, “thank you,” and then going on her merry way, this bitch decided to stay, shoot me a look meaner than anything I could ever come up with, and give me shit about how much I tipped her.

Now, I hardly ever tip over the standard 15% or $1 per drink, however I never short change someone even if their service is mediocre either. This wench felt entitled to a larger tip and had the nerve to bitch at a paying customer. Her entitlement issue pretty much killed my buzz and created a festering sense of anger that still lingers as I write this.

Who the fuck did this waitress think she was to demand a larger tip? Don’t they call it gratuity for a reason? She was probably showered with gifts a few days prior on Valentine’s Day – gifts she fully expected – and here she was just a couple days later giving me attitude because she felt my tip was not substantial enough. Fuck you, bitch! Who the fuck are you to demand a larger tip? Valentine’s Day – the very bane of my existence – is a day for entitlement, the weekend while I’m trying to unwind from a rough week at work is not. Man, Valentine’s Day is a crock of shit. But I digress again . . .

While my rage boiled over and I tried to find some logic behind this bitch’s actions, it all started to make sense to me. This waitress, like many other individuals, was not beaten as a child. I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t logical at all. But it is. Let me explain.

When you beat your kids the only thing they will ever feel entitled to is a beating because that’s what’s realist to them. Beatings are a bad thing to a child and they will, in time due to their frequency, learn to expect them all the time. When the only thing you feel entitled to is something bad, you learn to fear all that you are entitled to. So, to make the bad feelings go away you learn to feel entitled to nothing. Entitlement is essentially beaten out of the kids.

If you’re still not following me let me break it down into algorithm form:

Kids are entitled to beatings
Beatings are bad
Feeling entitled to anything is bad
Kids don’t like feeling bad
Kids don’t like feeling entitled to anything

There’s your logic. Once again, I am a genius.

Now, to my main point: Everyone is going to have issues but we need to make sure that the sense of entitlement is not one of them. Nobody wants a snooty ass server or bar tender that is going to ruin you’re good time because they feel entitled to something out of you. There’s enough shit out there to bug us already. Accept your tip and spit in the next drink if you’re so pissed off about your tip. There’s subtler ways to get back at someone than to be an outright bitch.

Parents, do society a favor. Beat your kids. Beat the sense of entitlement right out of them and maybe one day, we will live in a world where Valentine’s Day is only a fleeting memory. Did I digress again . . . ?

The Allure of Douchery

There I was the other day lounging around channel surfing when all of a sudden I found myself fixed on the Fox News Channel watching Bill O’Reilly and then Hannity & Colmes. Although I claim that Fox News is one of the few sources of masculinity out there – which has been scientifically proven – I can’t stand Fox News and its obnoxious conservative pundits like Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity. Despite this, I just sat there watching.

Like a terrible car wreck, or an awful deformity on an individual, I found myself unable to turn away from the network and individuals I claim to loathe so much. I just sat there and watched, even stooping to the low of turning back about every 30 seconds during commercial breaks to make sure I didn’t miss any of Bill’s and later Sean’s words.Despite my inner-self pleading, “No, Faheem! Stop! You hate these guys. They’re fucking annoying and they’re destroying America!” I lacked the inner strength and self respect to just turn the channel. At this point I made a profound discovery:

I am not a hypocrite rather I am just another normal person suffering from an attraction to douchery. The perception out there, especially amongst nice guys, is that women have a tendency to be attracted to douche bags. After my transfixion to Fox News and their personifications of douche, I discovered that it is human beings who have a tendency to be attracted to douche bags. As a species we have a tough time ignoring people we should logically despise. Think of all those famous douches who should have been written off as socially undesirable yet gained fame, fortune, and power: Hitler, Tom Cruise, King Tut, Grover Cleveland, I could go on.

So, where do we go from here you might ask? How do we as a species fight this? Fuck fighting this; you want to be a more socially attractive person, right? Start acting like more of a douche and I guarantee your social life will greatly improve. I figure if I start acting like a douche not only will I attract more ladies but I will gain more friends as well.

For those of you out there who already think I’m a douche that probably explains why we’re such good friends . . . . .

"The Truth" vs. Super Bowl XLII

Last night my brother Screech and I got into yet another argument about the history of the world and the nature of our current establishment. You see, Screech believes that events in history have been dominated by a small group of elites who run everything from our banks to our governments and corporations, and have manipulated many events throughout our history in order to further increase their consolidation of power. Basically, he’s part of the “The government is behind 9/11” crowd.

Despite the fact that I disagree with just about everything my brother has to say regarding these issues, I decided to be open minded and look into some of the stuff he was telling me about. How can I claim to be educated and worldly if I’m not willing to look at other perspectives? Also, how can I provide smart ass commentary on something I think is utter bull shit if I haven’t even seen it yet? I need material, man!

So, I did some searches on Youtube and Wikipedia – sources more scholarly than anything the Harvard library has to offer – and found stuff involving “Zeitgeist,” the “Illuminati,” and the “Free Masons” to name a few. What I gathered from these sources was pretty much everything Screech told me about however there were a few things he failed to tell me. Things I found truly shocking – The shadowy behind the scenes ruling elite are actually reptilian humanoids from the planet Nibiru
(I can’t make this shit up . . . just watch the linked video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_9y1ORPZaw).

What did I learn from these websites, you ask? Not only are the raptors in Jurassic Park smart enough to open doors, they are also smart enough to control our money, run the office of the presidency while successfully hiding their huge talons from the public, and smart enough to execute the attacks of 9/11. It was on Youtube! How can it be false?

Another thing I learned which shocked me and made me a true believer is how the few ruling elite keep the masses in line and unknowledgeable about the truth – Entertainment. Everything from celebrity tabloids, video games, amusement parks, and sports are used as an opiate for the masses in order to keep us blind about the nature of the ruling elite. All of this new information came full circle when I realized that today was Super Bowl XLII. How inconvenient that the day I investigate the truth falls on the same day as one of the biggest entertainment days of the year.

So what did I do when faced with the option of further discovering the truth or taking in the opiate of the Super Bowl? Fuck the truth when you can watch a game like that. God damn, I still have goosebumps just thinking about how intense the last three minutes of that game were. I mean fans on both sides were on the edge of their seats, hearts pounding and palms sweating, waiting to see which team would come out on top. The Giants and Patriots both gave us one hell of a game that the average person would become more ignorant just to watch all over again. A football game like that makes me feel so much more alive than any amount of truth could ever provide.

I still can’t get over Eli’s game changing pass to Tyree or his touchdown pass to Burress in the last minute of the game. Football does not get any better than what I saw tonight. If I can get a game like Super Bowl XLII every year – hell, every five years – I would gladly serve my reptilian overlords. I would go as far as to help them plot conspiracies against an ignorant public. To hell with the truth when I can smoke, snort, and inject all that is football. I love this game! Woooooooooooooo!!!!

Screech, I believe it all. I believe it all because nothing as good as Super Bowl XLII can come without some sort of consequence and/or sacrifice. Raptors, you keep that shit coming and I’ll stay as ignorant as you want me to. Go Giants! Go Football! Go America!!!!


Here’s a link to another source about “The Truth.”
http://zeitgeistmovie.com/

Lessons From Being a 5th Wheel

So a couple of weekends ago I took my first trip to New Orleans, Louisiana. Upon my arrival to Bourbon Street the first thought that came into my mind was, “This is like Vegas on acid.” It was only a matter of liquor and time before the good times began to roll and I found myself assaulted by the debauchery of New Orleans. While I could sift through the drunken haze of this weekend’s memories and probably compile some sort of entertaining story/rant, it would be in bullet form without the continuity required of all comprehensive stories. Here’s just a taste:

- Drank beer and threw beads. Saw boobs.
- Watched a “Citizen’s Arrest” against my friend.
- Talked to girl until she spouted the words, “I’m still in high school.”

I think you get what I’m talking about.

With all things considered, the story I’m about to tell involves an experience I had following such a debacherous night. You see I found myself in quite the awkward predicament the following morning. Get this, I found myself on a double-date in the French Quarters playing the role of the dreaded 5th Wheel. Granted, this was never a plan of mine when the weekend started but I really had no choice considering my ride home was on the date.

You see, my ride, a close friend of mine who I will call Sebastian, and I planned to stay in New Orleans the following day in order to watch the AFC Championship game between the New England Patriots and San Diego Chargers. You see, I’m a firm believer that in order to maintain your masculinity you must intake large doses of Sports Center, Fox News, and most importantly of all, Football. Basically these things will prevent me from turning gay. Debauchery and manliness equal a good weekend, right?

So the audible (you like that manly football reference?) on our plans was called after Sebastian and another guy from our group named Sam met two girls the night prior and ended up going home with them. Now I have nothing against random one night hookups – they’re almost as manly as Fox News – but they need to maintain their key characteristics: random and one night. Sam and Sebastian hung out with these girls the entire next morning partaking in brunch, shopping at a local flea market, and mass. Yes, mass. “Are you serious? That’s fucking retarded,” was my exact response as well.

Now it seemed the girls were going to accompany us while we watched the game. Sebastian said he wanted me to hang out with them because they were cool. And by “hang out” he meant “you tag along” and by “cool” he meant, “I hooked up with this girl and you ain’t got none, bitch!”

After we reunited and I latched on as the super cool 5th Wheel, Sebastian did his best to break the ice and incorporate me into a group in which I didn’t belong nor did I want to belong to. Despite my best efforts to scare the girls off with a cold scowl, I was trapped.

“We found the perfect girl for you,” Sebastian told me – great she’s busted – “The girls’ roommate just broke up with her boyfriend.”

Before I had time to reply and make a comment establishing myself as the asshole wet blanket 5th Wheel, one of the girls quickly chimed in, “Oh, she got back with her boyfriend.”

Seeing how I’m a college accredited graduate and a genius at that, I quickly saw through this girl’s comment – she was an undergrad after all. Through the scientific method, historical analysis, and triple integration I translated this young lady’s comment into, “You’re not even close to meeting my roommate’s standards. You are lame, Lamey McLamerson! Go lamely crawl back to your lame hole and wallow in your lameness.” Great, they hate me, I thought. They hate me before I had the chance to act like an asshole. And I hardly even said anything . . .

So, things are bad, right? Well they only got worse for the 5th Wheel of Lame. As we quickly walked through the French Quarters in search of a Sports Bar, we abruptly stopped in a square filled with palm readers. I began to panic. What the hell are we doing here, I thought. The game had just started and I wasn’t soaking in the rays of a flat screen TV radiating a masculine touchdown pass thrown by Tom Brady. Instead I was surrounded by a bunch of mystical witches whose powers infringed upon my Judeo-Christian upbringing. As the shakes set in, I watched in horror as Sebastian, Sam, and the girls approached one of these masters of Voodoo.

“Can we have our palms read?” asked on of the girls.

“Let’s have our Tarot cards read too!” piped in the other one.

No. No! NO! It can’t be. Was I really going to miss the football game so these girls can have their palms read with their one night stands turned soul mates? I had to do something.

I ran up to the palm reader, knocked her table down, and punched the girl who brought the idea up in the face. I then turned to the other girl and kicked her in the vagina. All of a sudden the palm reader pulled out her mini flat screen TV showing the game and we lived happily ever after.

Okay, none of that really happened although I definitely contemplated it all at the time.

Being the passive aggressive 5th Wheel that I was, I stood there and brooded in a concoction of misery, anger, and estrogen. It can’t take too long, I figured. I’ll stand here for 20 minutes and then I’ll be sitting in a warm bar, beer in hand, watching the game.

Twenty minutes later the palm reader was still on the first palm. My God! I just stood there in utter disbelief watching this heretic cast magic spells on the creases of the palm of a girl I did not want to hang out with. Meanwhile the football game was going on and I was not feeding off the masculine nectar emitted from the flat screen. Never had I imagined someone else’s one night stand could have such dire effects on me. It seemed like the palm reader wanted me to suffer as she took her sweet ass time.

Finally the palm reader finished the first girl. Hoping they all had had their fun I prepared to walk to the bar to watch the game. Wrong! The other girl had to have her palm read now. Once again I stood there in utter disbelief as Sebastian and Sam giddily watched another palm reading. At this point I had had enough and I pleaded to Sebastian that we go find a bar immediately. After all, Sebastian is a huge Patriots fan and I figured he would want to ditch the Wicked Witch of the West and go watch the game.

“This is really cool,” Sebastian told me, “We’ll go after this is all done.”

No! The witch had ensnared Sebastian along with the other three and was holding my masculinity hostage. As I stood there watching this feminine assault on my senses, I felt the masculinity drain from my body. All of a sudden I wanted to have my palm read too. This is fucking bull shit I thought, yet as I continued to miss Brady and the Pats duke it out on the football field my inner-man further subsided. Soon I felt the urge to talk about my feelings, watch “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” and simply cuddle with a nice girl. Shit was not good.

I watched a magic show from another master of the dark arts in the middle of all this but it did not provide the manliness I needed. The palm reader had me in her trance and it was quite possible I was going to have my palm read too. Fortunately for my sense of manhood, the happy couples decided to stop after Sam’s Tarot card reading and we finally made our way to a sports bar to watch the game. Unfortunately, my role as the 5th wheel continued to wear me down.

We entered the bar and I immediately noticed the four flat screen TVs displaying the game in high definition. I felt a wave of testosterone rush back into my body. It looked like I would stay straight after all. While I was certainly thrilled to be watching the game and drinking beer, it was already the middle of the second quarter. I had missed a quarter and a half of the AFC Championship game because the lovebirds just couldn’t stop doing cute things together. Regardless, I was watching the game, drinking beer, and trying to zone out the chatter of the two couples. It worked for awhile but I once again felt my unwelcome presence.

When the bill arrived from the bar we all scrounged around to gather the correct change for our portion of the bill. Sebastian and Sam did not have correct change and went to the ATM to get some money. Being a nice southern girl and all, one of the girls decided to reduce the hassle and pay for the bill herself. However, this happened only after I paid up. When I pulled a $10 bill out of my wallet, she snatched it like I just offered her immortality. At that point I felt like an even bigger douche. It was obvious they wanted me gone yet I couldn’t leave – the game wasn’t even half over. Like Han Solo frozen in carbonite, I just sat there with a look of frozen agony on my face. Boba Fett, Jaba the Hutt, the whole galaxy far far away was out to fuck me.

Eventually we left the bar in search of a cooler hipper one where the couples could get close. As we walked through the French Quarters my world seemed to be coming to an end. Being a 5th Wheel for so long made me forsake the very things that made me a man. I no longer wanted to watch the game. I no longer desired shots of manliness. I just wanted to go home, crawl under the covers, and be alone. I had no idea that being a 5th Wheel is just as debilitating to your manhood as getting kicked in the nuts. I thought watching the football game would be an easy fix to what I was feeling but I was dead wrong. Like crystal meth, it was a only temporary fix. I needed a more permanent fix and it appeared that it wasn’t going to happen

I moped into the next bar and quickly ordered a drink. If I was going to be miserable at least I could be drunk and miserable. When all was just about lost I experienced something magical. Something so fantastic it brought me out of my rut and made me forget all about being a 5th Wheel. What saved me you ask? Cougars. Two lovely Cougars who desired a conversation with a man half their age. I managed to strike up a conversation about football with two Cougars on vacation in New Orleans. It was glorious. These Cougars were the Leia to the 5th Wheel encased in carbonite. Talking football with the guys is one thing, but discussing it with Cougars takes it to a whole new level. I immediately felt like a man again and I knew for sure this wasn’t going to be temporary.

And that’s how I discovered the ultimate cure when your manhood is at stake. You see, football can only take you so far. It is the compliment of a lovely 40-something year old Cougar which will sustain your manhood. True manliness comes from hitting on Cougars. I was down in the dumps being a 5th Wheel even after watching some pigskin. But you know, those Cougars really saved the day. So to all those Cougars out there, I salute you. Because you make the world go round and the football spiral, and most importantly of all, you warm the hearts of millions of young men looking for a good time.

You know now that I think about it, the booze also could have helped . . . .