Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Show Out--Spread the Gospel
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
When Bladders Attack
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A Shirt and Next Post
Apologies to all the new fans--haven't posted in a while. Don't worry, I have another good one in the works...I feel like the last post was a little like childbirth. Something so traumatic, exhausting, miraculous, and life-altering that you just have to sit back and appreciate the miracle, while also recuperating, before you try to replicate it.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Top 10 Fake Identities
Without further adieu, here are the top 10 fake identities:
Group 1: True Alter Egos
(From Wiki Answers)The informal handshake is as follows: To identify a real brother in public extend your hand as to shake it normally and then curl in your middle finger to scratch the palm of the other brother. Then the brother who got his palm scrached whispers in the ear of the other brother. "How High Does the Eagle Fly?" and the other brother is to reply: "Not As High As The Cross Of T_K_E". And this completes the public identification process.
The Super Secret Formal Handshake is: Person A extends his right hand to the Kustos the Kustos takes his right hand and curls his pinky into an O and then Peson A does the same, then they clasp hands. Then the Kustos will take his left hand and put it over person A's right one with his fingers extended to the base of the wrist of person A, then Person A does the same. Then they
both lean forward and whisper the secret passwords. First the Kustos will say "We live for each other" person A will say "We grow together". then the two let go of the shake and the Challenge is complete.
Comments:
answer and as a frater of Tau Kappa Epsilon im offended that someone could
even put this horrible representaion of our grip on here
-Why would you ask something like this? its incredibly insulting to those of us who believe what it means to be a TKE.
-exactly, i went through my pledgship to obtain this and other sacred ideals and secrets that i share with my brothers all across the world not to share them with some slapdick on the internet who couldnt even get a bid
Clearly, the formal handshake would be way too hard to pull off. So, I practiced the informal handshake, including the incantations, with my friends. With a giant shit-eating grin on my face, and an overflowing of enthusiasm, I walked up to one of the tour guides and said "Hey man, you're a TKE? I'm a brother from the George Washington chapter" while thrusting out my right hand. (Side note: this was particularly delightful as TKE is one of the douchier houses on GW's campus, one of those that is just cool enough to think they are hot shit while everyone laughs at them, and in the case of my fraternity, makes fun of them mercilessly. You can read more about their shining example here). He eagerly reached out his own hand and began scratching my palm, an action which I mimicked. He didn't even ask me how high the eagle flies, which was somewhat disappointing. Really, I could have done all this without even looking up the handshake. The following is an approximation of the rest of our conversation:
The scene: a favorite local haunt, where I have had success recently meeting foreign au pairs (I know, random rightf?), one from Brazil, and one from Norway. With the economy going to shit, something tells me those days are over....but I digress. Me and some buddies were scoping a 5-set with a bona-fide dime as the centerpiece. Now, this wasn't what we have taken to calling a "DC Dime," a girl who is hot enough to be a 10 amidst the slim pickings in the district, but wouldn't warrant a third or fourth glance in hotbeds such as Miami, New York, LA, or any foreign country. This girl was legit. So much so that I--the default "starting pitcher" in the group--was too intimidated to approach. Today, I wouldn't be, but the force was not yet strong within me.
3. The Gay Friend
"My cute redheaded friend turned 21 and, because I couldn’t make the first birthday celebration, I went out a couple of days later with her and her friends. I arrived at the restaurant late, the table was finishing up their food and drinks, but I noticed something was a little off. I soon realized that would be spending the night with 7 girls as the only male. Initially skittish, I asked myself, “Well shit, why the hell not??” I then proceeded to meet the 4 girls that I didn’t know and engage in a bit of repartee.
An interesting aside: the girls seemed to think that one man, out with seven women, is a baller. However, being a man who understands said group dynamic from the inside, I educated them that it is usually safe to assume that said man is usually a) gay (and therefore “one of the girls”) or b) simply trying way too hard to get one of said girls, but reaping no rewards. Regardless of this perception, I decided that I was having fun with a group of beautiful women, and there was no reason to allow societal pressure to prevent me from enjoying myself.
Pretty soon I was told that it was time to hit a swanky martini bar in midtown. Never having had a martini, yet having already discussed with the group the perception of one man with seven women, I let curiosity get the better of me. Upon arriving at the martini bar, I find that the female population had dwindled to four, three of whom I had known for some time. Being a man of some distinction, as well as one long-enamored with James Bond, I ordered a martini with three measures of gin, one of vodka, and half a measure of vermouth shaken until ice-cold and served with a bit of lemon peel. The waitress was instantly impressed, and upon taking my order left me with a sultry glance, which I happily accepted as she was the kind of woman who, in another time and place, might have belonged among a tribe of fierce Amazonians. The drinks came, there was much rejoicing. As it turns out, James’ drink tasted like a deep glass of fine strained and purified potato alcohols; also, it had similar effects. As the night wore on, strange characters came out of the woodwork.
“Excuse me girls, I have a quick question…” The sound of a surprise attack alighted upon my ears.
As I turned to the source of the horribly overused opening line, my eyes were greeted with an offending sight. It was as though Danny DeVito had reproduced through double mitosis, my gaze fell upon two brothers who were, for all intents and purposes, identical to the famous funny man.
The first brother continued his inevitable stampede towards disaster, “my brother said that this is a nice shirt and that women would like it, what do you think of it?”
The offending shirt was festive collection of large, bright orange flowers (to later be described by one of the girls as “the color of regurgitated pumpkin pie, but brighter”) printed recklessly all over a white silk background. In good conscience I could not allow my female companions to ward off these over-the-hill Casanovas alone.
“Are you kidding me?!” I exclaimed. “There is no way that you are going to try and open this set with that shit,” I proclaimed, recognizing instantly the trademarks of a wannabe pick-up artist who had seen the VH1 show too many times.
The portly fellow recognized that I was a dominant force at the table, yet continued to attempt to ply his trade on the weakest (read: most genetically unfortunate) of the pack, no doubt in hope of landing an easy meal. Many awkward attempts at conversation followed, such as, “yeah, my wife and I just split and I am back out looking for some fun,” and, “I am soooo thirsty, can I buy all you girls a drink?”
At this point I realized that I could not legitimately claim four women as my own, and, therefore, could not rid myself of these clowns. Drastic measures needed to be taken.
I jumped into action insisting loudly (with a hodge-podge of accompanying flamboyant mannerisms) that Tweedledee would be buying me a drink as well. The waitress, recognizing my sudden strategic shift, brought a Tap Light with, “EASY,” emblazoned on the front in capitol letters. “Here you go, baby! So that everyone will know!” Instantly grateful one of the prettier girls grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged my head into a big, wet, kiss. This was to occur a number of times that night, whenever a DeVito cousin came after her. This was not only a pleasant and surprsising perk of my new strategy, but the move lent legitimacy to the pretense that I was her gay friend, whom she could kiss without fear of resulting boyish infatuation.
The two-man strike force was in disarray. Angry, overprotective, sexually frustrated male friends can be dealt with, and even made to appear foolish or (God forbid) “no fun.” However, the loyalty of a group of girls to their gay friend is beyond contention. Multiply the power of the gay friend with the admiration and appreciation gained from the complete sacrifice of that which we straight men traditionally guard with a zealot-like fervor, our masculinity; the result is a heretofore never experienced level of social immunity. I was bulletproof. The fact that I laid my self bare to the lashings of public opinion was the ultimate show of dedication to these girls. It also didn’t hurt that most women simply love hanging out with gay men. From on high in my estrogen-forged bastion I lorded over that little fiefdom that was our table, dictating the ebbs and flows of the night.
The most memorable moment of the night is perhaps not even my sudden transformation into bitchy She-man, guardian of co-ed virtue, but the audacious one-liner delivered haplessly by either Harry or Lloyd. As stated before, the birthday girl was a strikingly pretty redhead, whose hair bounced about that night like a toothsome carrot leading the slow, plodding mules closer to the precipice than they ever would have ventured otherwise.
The first brother, a modern-day Custer, charged brazenly, heroically, and most of all stupidly deep into enemy territory on a foolish maneuver: “I love your hair, you’re like a sexy Irish ‘lass,’ and you make me want to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day early…” And so, like Custer, the brothers could only watch warily as the girls descended upon them, laughter and war-cries stinging their ears. Like a Liberachi version of Sitting Bull, I watched these poor saps’ hasty defenses crumble; I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for my little warrior-women, and there was no arguing with the results of my unorthodox tactics.
It was time to go, the girls and I had enjoyed ourselves immensely, drank for free most of the night, and created a story which has been told to great effect at least a dozen times thus far. As for all those who might believe that the “Straight Man’s Gaymbit” might close the door (so to speak) to all women involved, rest assured, nothing shows sexual confidence to a group of women like complete renunciation of all things manly coupled with the complete absence of bashfulness.
If you, gentle reader, further doubt my assertions, know that the sultry Irish lass just left my apartment, and that we did indeed celebrate St. Patrick’s Day early."
If you've spent any time abroad, you know that American girls are universally sought after and cherished throughout the globe. The reason goes beyond their comparitively loose morals. American women aren't sluts--they just can't get enough of foreign guys. Despite their corny jokes, tight pants, bad teeth, and insufferable creepiness, these guys clean up with our gals, both at home and abroad. I'm here to tell you that you can be that guy. Let's defend our turf, even if we have to dress in the wolf's clothing to do it.
5. Scholarly One-Upsmanship
One situation in which myself and my good friend The Farm used this was at a snotty wine-and-cheese graduation party stocked to the brim with intellectually snooty Honors Program students. I’ve heard it said that every Honors student thinks he/she is the only cool person among a giant field of nerdy losers. In our case, both at the party and during undergrad, this couldn’t be closer to the truth. Nonetheless, we took a particular pleasure in mocking them and beating them at their own game.
When one brought up his fellowship on some intellectually obtuse anthropology topic, I claimed that I was actually starting a Marshall Fellowship the next year researching aboriginal languages in
The Scholar was left in the lurch, confused and out-bullshitted. He had busted his ass and missed all of those fraternity parties and bar nights over the past four years specifically so that he could excel in situations like this. He had no doubt had to face his own academic douchebaggery as a result of my fake identity.
The Farm ate this up, and—I have to admit—proved even more adept at this gambit than me. He made it appoint to blow up The Scholar’s spot, as well as that of his compatriots, for the rest of the night, using a variety of assumed identities that made it clear that he was merely making up stories to fuck with him. By the time anyone at the party had figured out our ploy, we were long gone with our phone numbers and stolen bottles of wine. In our wake, we had left bruised egos, lusting co-eds, and a depleted stock of booze.
Group 2: See-Through Avatars
These identities are best adopted as an alternative answer to the hum-drum answer to the question "What do you do," and can be used in early game to build a rapport through humor and creativity. They mostly involve verbal traps that you allow the target to walk in to.
6. The Love Writer
"Umm...haha...really??"
"I know, isn't it romantic?"
"Soo romantic"
At this point, you can go in a lot of different directions, customizing based on her level of sexual permissiveness:
These all may or may not have been used by yours truly. Also, they can easily flow into more teasing/joking/conversation. At this point, you can even ask her to help you come up with some new ones:
If she's dumb, you can just see how long she buys it and whether she gets the joke. It can be pretty amusing. Or you can say "just kidding, I actually write for Rolling Stone." A relieved expression will cross her face, and of course at this point you will know that her intellect is such that she will buy any ridiculous proof of this blatant lie that you give her.
Me and my buddy Costanza use this one on each other and our other friends all of the time. It is great if your buddies have a sense of humor but are being too nervous/lame to approach groups of women. Here’s the way it works: You create an identity for a friend and introduce him. The more ridiculous the fake occupation/distinction/talent, the better. He must then play along for as long as the set stays active. Extra bonus points if he can turn it in his favor, and keep it going for the rest of the night.
Some Examples:
“Have you met my friend Costanza, we’re all celebrating his big win tonight”
“Oh really, what does he compete in”
“Believe it or not, this guy is actually into competitive rollerblading. Crazy, right? You should see a race sometime though, it’s really fun”
“Uh-uh”
“No, well check this out. He was actually in a traveling midget—excuse me, Little Person—Circus until the age of 15 when he had a limb-lengthening procedure. Insane, right?”
This game is often used on a more elementary level with the “Fake Birthday.” As a reader of this blog, I trust you are more creative than that, but it is a fun one to pull on rival guys that could potentially encroach on your territory. I’ve actually had it sprung on me to two ladies at a local bar that happens to serve 10 cent wings on certain nights. If you choose to play this game, at least observe the code: you don’t blow up someone’s spot if you set them up with a “Have you Met My Friend, _____” or “Fake Birthday.” In most un-dudelike fashion, these guys killed my game after I had leveraged the Birthday back-story all night, telling the ladies just before I number-closed that it was all a ruse. But karma intervened, and I still got the digits, while they had to somehow go home and sleep that night.
8. The _____ Model
This is another good ice-breaker/fake career. It actually works really well on actual models. You can either play it out front or make them dig for the truth.
Scenario 1:
Girl: “What do you do?”
You: “I’m actually mostly doing modeling right now.”
Girl (skeptically): “Really?”
“Yeah, how about you?”
She will inevitably either continue to harp on the model thing or ask more detail questions.
“Oh, I work at Friday’s. But are you really a model?”
“Let’s keep talking about you, who do you model for?”
“I work for Hillary Clinton. What kind of stuff do you model, anyway?”
Again, you can choose to string this out as long as you deem necessary, even making up fake companies and products
“I actually model for Garmint”
“Hmm…I’ve never heard of that”
“Oh you probably wouldn’t have, they’re a hearing-aid company. I’m actually an ear model”
“I’m mostly doing work with Joint Efforts”
“What is that?”
“It’s a company that makes athletic braces, I’m actually a knee/elbow model”
“Right now, I’m shooting with Last Resort Sports. I’m actually an athletic cup model.”
“Come on, nobody models athletic cups”
“Well it’s your decision whether to believe me, but I speak the truth. If you play your cards right/If you’re lucky/If you make the cut/If I’m in the mood, maybe you’ll see why that’s what I do”
At this point, again, you will have the inevitable divide between the ones that get the joke, and the ones that ain’t getting much. I’d advise trying to use this on the former, but it can be fun to use on the second group as well.
Group 3: Some Yet-to-Be-Tested Ideas
These are a couple ideas I've kicked around recently, but have yet to try. However, I have a feeling that they will eventually be classics.
9. The Obama Campaign
This identity really is designed for use abroad. Barack Obama engenders very passionate feelings on both sides of the spectrum here in the states, but internationally, he is a rockstar. Much of what foreigners know about
You: “So what is your job here in ____?” (You will probably be leading the conversation, especially if it’s in English. Don’t mistake foreign women not asking questions for a lack of interest, sometimes they just don’t know what to say or how to say it.)
Her: “I am—how do you say—hair cut? What you are?”
You: “Oh you’re a hair dresser. That’s awesome, my aunt actually owns her own salon. Have you heard of Barack Obama?”
“Of course, he is very great man”
“Yes, I agree. Me and my friends actually worked for his campaign. We are visiting ____ right now because it’s our only break before we start work with the administration.”
“Wow, that is supercool! How is Obama like?”
“Oh, he’s a great guy. Have you heard about how he plays basketball? My buddy Iceman here actually plays with him all the time. Iceman, tell her about how intense B is when he balls….”
One of our new President’s main goals is to repair our image abroad. You can help in the effort by assuming this identity and helping the administration beef up its “international experience.”
10. The Whaler
My special friend “The Flame” has been complaining recently that the men of
“Baby, stop texting I’m already heah.”
“You girls live in Southie? I love that. My friend Mahty actually had this horrible situation. You girls can’t put out cones in the winter for pahking. Get it, that’s a fackin joke?”
Now this is a girl from a top-tier sorority who has very prodigious…talents. These lines just ain’t gonna cut it—you gotta have game to get in her rotation. Believe me, I know. Anyway, she was telling me some of the fake identities/evasive maneuvers that her and her roommate adopted to dodge/fuck with Sal, Sully, and all of their buddies from
Why not say that you work on a fahkin whale boat? You can curse like a sailor, heavily employ the
“So we’re about 50 knots off the coast of
Anyway, the captain end up havin to shoot the poor bastahd with a scoped rifle. He was fahkin pissed. Some of the meet was ruined, but we still sold the rest off and had the best fahkin whale steak I’ve ever eaten that night. Have you tried whale befah? It’s huge in
Say, have you met my friend The Farm? This guy actually is a Whaler who is based out of
The Fake Southerner
Speaking of the fahking Fahm. Ok…I’ll stop now. Speaking of The Farm, this guy has the balls to try almost any fake identity in any situation. He really kind of lives his life through a series of alter-egos. It’s kinda sick, but fascinating at the same time. Before he became a traitor and started rooting for my Florida Gators, he used to be a huge UMiami fan. I had a bunch of friends at VaTech, so we decided to make the pilgrimage to Virginia Tech for the game that year.
It was Halloween, and our hostess, Girl PowerHour, was having one of those nights where the pre-game is the endgame. She has those often. Not wanting to miss the chaos of
The Farm, caught up in the excitement of Halloween—and lacking a costume—decided that he was going to assume the identity of “Bubba from
Buzzed, and outwardly giddy over what he though was an enormously clever and well-executed fake identity, The Farm commenced to loudly proclaim his affinity for hush-puppies, the Hokies, and kicking
As he floundered, I began to edge away. Our host had long since disappeared, and he wasn’t answering my frantic calls (he’d told us to give him a buzz when we had to leave). As a portly, goateed Larry the Cable Guy look-alike in a camo vest questioned him, I could see The Farm’s story (and Southern accent) crumbling. What’s worse, he was frantically trying to cover up the
Exiting the party, I realized that we were on our own. We had three options: go back into the party and beg our guy for a ride, hitch the 3 miles home, or call Girl PowerHour and have her drunk ass give us a ride. The Farm’s
“Lesh juss call a cab” intoned The Farm
I didn’t even dignify this thought with a response. Of course there were no cab companies in
“Pleeease call me back, all I want is directions. We’ll walk, ok, but I have no idea how to get there!”
“Pick up your coddamn phone, woman. Your friend ditched us. Fuckin V-Tech. How do you not have any freakin cab companies?? Got I hate Blackburg. God I hate my life.”
“I love you, I want you to know that if I die tonight, don’t be upset. I’ve lived a full life. You are awesome—always remember that. Sell my tickets to the game and buy yourself something nice. Let my Mom know I’d like to be cremated”
Having exhausted all alternatives, myself and The Farm decided to do the only logical thing: somehow find our way back to GPH’s place. Based on vague memory and directionalism, we attempted to make our way home. Our conversational topics (and emotions) ranged from “what if we die tonight?” and “just imagine, we’ll be telling our kids about this—laughing!—in a few years.”
We finally made it home to GPH’s place at about 5:00AM the next day. I didn’t know whether to be more furious with her passing out or The Farm’s stupidity, so I just let it all go. Fittingly, the next night VaTech crushed the Canes. I looked on smiling, savoring the hilarious, potentially fatal lesson we had learned:
Never play The Fake Southerner.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
A Thanksgiving Story
I'd like to share a little story about this fantasy basketball league I'm in, and some events that transpired over the holiday. For T-giving, I was at my grandparents house with my youngest bro (co-manager of the team "Whoop That Trick") and my younger bro, one part of the "Memphis Vagina Jihad" duo, which is currently in first place.
We had been talking about picking up Eric Gordon privately for a while, and he had 2 blowup games over the week. Surprisingly, he hadn't been picked up (I think due to the holiday), and we decided we were going to get him. Obviously, there's only one comp in the house, and as we went in there, who was just logging onto ESPN.com but Vagina Jihad himself!
We sat in silence as he navigated to the Fantasy Basketball page, where Eric Gordon was featured in a pickups article. Trying to throw him off the scent, I mentioned that he had been a disappointment so far. My co-manager and younger bro made a comment that went something like "yeah, didn't he come straight out of high school." Unswayed, my younger brother continued his holy war on the female organ by clicking on the link and beginning to peruse the article.
At this point, I sprang into action. I couldn't take it anymore. Standing behind the computer chair where he was sitting with his back to me, I felt a rush of adrenaline. In a Herculean burst of strength, I grabbed him and suplexed (shout out to Guile) him backwards onto the bed behind me. Despite the fact that the kid has 30 pounds of muscle on me, I gamely held him down while my co-manager sprang to pick up Gordon.
After about 30 seconds of struggle, though, my strength waned against the raging beast. Temporarily shaking free of my grip, Osama bin Vagina thundered over to the computer and swept his 15-year old brother to the side with one arm, as if he were a small sapling blocking his way to the Thanksgiving table. As I recovered my strength to mount another attack, he signed Whoop out and signed himself in.
"What?" he responded
"Umm....nevermind. Come get some," I definitively answered.
With my youngest bro writhing in the corner, his arm shattered, the glint in Alotta Jihad's eye turned bloodshot, and he prepared to finish me off so that he could make the pickup. He made a sudden, mad dash at me, but underestimated my quickness and guile.
Keanu-Reeves like, I Matrix-walked around him using the sidewall and my staff, and in one motion jumped onto his massive shoulders, 6 feet off the ground. Balancing myself against the brute's girdth, I ignored the 150 pound advantage he had on my and conentrated in applying the rear naked choke.
He thrashed about like nothing I have ever seen, nearly bringing the entire house down!! But I held on. He threw his giant head this way and that, expelling gutteral screams that could not have come from a creature of this world. But I held on. He smashed me up against all four stone walls of the room for what seemed like an eternity. But finally, he succumbed to the lack of oxygen. Shattered, Whoop That Trick collectively dragged our bruised, broken bodies over to the computer, and the rest is history.
The End
P.S. Eric Gordon is available for scoring big men that are SF/PF eligible.