disco balls

Got a date with the disco this weekend? Make sure you have the old lady pick you up a bottle of Pub hygiene spray next time you drop her off at the supermarket. Because the seventies are no time to be smelling like a hapless hippy, especially below the belt.

4 out of 5 pairs of underwear recommend Pub hygiene spray when it comes to staying freshy fresh and keeping your man bits smelling crisp. It's the jewel of your medicine cabinet. And it's for your family jewels.

After all, it's the seventies dog! The days of smelling like a dirty, sweaty sock hop have up and ended. The decade of peace love and bellbottoms has arrived, and you're damn right your disco ballbottoms are gonna be glistening Saturday night when you're up at the discoteca getting down with your dirty self in the middle of the dancefloor.

So don't delay. Go buy a bottle of Pub today. Then stick it in your pants and spray. 

lion pride

Truth be told, Lionel was more of an advocate for gay pride than for the actual pride that he belonged to. When it came to roaring, most lion's modeled their roar after the MGM lion. Lionel crafted his after Kelly Clarkson. His vibrato could often be heard echoing over the plains, and resonating throughout the spooky carnage in the elephant graveyard. 

The beautiful mane that encircled Lionel's head was the result of countless hours of shampooing and conditioning. It was no secret that there was not a single split end to be found in his beautiful flow.  

When Lionel "came out of the jungle" as they say in the Serengeti, he was about the same age that young Simba was when he was chased out of his pride and ended up becoming boys with Timon and Pumbaa. Ironically, the first thing that Lionel bought after coming out was a little pet meerkat named Timon. The second thing he bought was an expensive man purse to carry around his little pet in. This purse was made out of the finest wrinkled Warthog leather. (Prada didn't make man purses. Pumbaa brand did however.) 

King of the jungle? Lionel was more on pace to become the next queen of the jungle. The way he skipped to a fro like a dainty gayzelle; the manner in which he refused to frequent watering holes that didn't have a nail salon within walking distance. Lionel took alot of shit from his Lion bros and all the homophobe hyena hecklers growing up, but that didn't prevent him from being the lion that he knew he was deep down inside beneath his silky smooth and blemish-free coat.

To pull a quote from Elton John's fabulous book of quotes:

"It's the circle of life, 

and it moves us all.

Through despair and hope,

Through faith and love.

Till we find our place,

On the path unwinding,

In the Circle of Life,

The Circle, of, Life."

It was pretty apparent that Lionel had found his "place" on the "path unwinding". Because the circle of life isn't very straight. And neither was Lionel. 

go pants yourself

Do you feel better with your pants on? Is that even a question? 

It is, sadly, but only because of the questionable punctuation proceeding those eight words there. It's a prime example of an inquiring inquisition that's totally unecessary; a dubious attempt at a debate that couldn't be anymore superfluous. 

It's rhetorical, God dammit, and without delving into the grammatical reasons why, I'll do my best to parley why you need not bother answering that question, let alone ever put on a pair of pantaloons again.

History speaks for itself, and if I've learned one thing from a pedagogical upbringing, it's that when it comes to the unforeseen future, history still wears the motherfuckin' pants, and you should not.

Historical scenario A: Jesus Christ. If Jesus Tap Dancing Christ had a dance off with the Rapture, would he kick the Rapture's pasty, uncoordinated ass? Aw hell yeah. That's because homeboy didn't wear pants. (The Rapture was last seen wearing assless chaps.)

Historical scenario B: Strippers. When was the last time a stripper made dollars plural wearing pants? It's been weeks. Mainly because a good pair of pants leaves too much to the imagination, not to mention pants + stripper pole = chaffing.

Controversial historical scenario C: Napoleon. Sure, one could argue that Napoleon Bonaparte wouldn't have risen to prominence in the latter stages of the French Revolution sans pants, but here's the catch: Napoleon was 5'4" tops. He never bought a pair of pants in his adult life. Doing so would have involved venturing into the boy's section at Gap. Weird. Even in France. Napoleon preferred bermuda shorts. He would tuck them into his knee-high socks. Dude liked to show off his calves.

Historical scenario D: Wizards. Robes. That magical breeze.

Now let's retrace our steps back out of Historical Lane and wander down the alley of aesthetics instead. Here are some case studies to nibble on while you squirm uncomfortably in your britches:

Case study A: Cargo pants. As functional as they may seem when your pockets are all stuffed with snacks and pens and shit, you'd honestly look and feel much better if you were in shorts and donning a man purse instead.

Case study B: Spandex. If pantalones were genetical entities, the skin-hugging variety would clearly be the dominant trait. Why would you purchase a pair of corduroys when you could invest in a pair of malleable elastic slacks that effortlessly fit the contours of your curves? Why would you purchase an expensive pair of designer jeans when jeggings now come in a variety of different washes? 

Sidenote: Why be a dirty hipster and purchase a pair of skinny jeans and bring absolutely nothing to the table of society, when you could just as easily sit in your room with the shades down and do the same thing, but pantsless?

Case study C: Zip-off pants. Unless you're trying to cheat on a math test (to which even a simpleton could figure out how to do), zip-off pants come up short in the looks category, especially if you wear them at pants' length before or after math class. Practical? Oh hell yeah. Stylish? Put it this way- in zip-offs, the only catwalk you'll be walking down is the path in your parent's basement that goes from your unmade bed to your cat's dirty litter box.

Case study D: Sagging. You look like a fool. 8,000,000 youtube views can't be wrong. Regardless, there's an indirect correlation between men aging and men sagging. As soon as your breasts start to sag, you tend to buy trousers that fit, or you at least invest in a quality pair of suspenders. 

Note to our nation's youth: don't wait until the droop starts to stop the sagging. Just stop now.

In conclusion, shorts, spandex, robes, jorts, assless man capris- anything, but pants. 

That does it for today's lesson in pantsology. Any rhetorical questions? Didn't think so. Class dismissed.

instagrampa

Phil leaned back in his rickety lawn chair, tilting his face up so that the sunlight filled every wrinkled crevasse on his aging facade. His Kodak Instamatic rested in his lap.


He was a young eighty seven by mental standards. His wit had remained sharp as cheddar over the years, and he still hated Democrats with the staunch Republican passion of his youth. He wasn't young Phil anymore, and his wife Ann would be the first to tell you how he had changed over the years. For starters, he wasn't as racist as he used to be. Ann noticed some other Phil changes too, but those were more peformance-based. Fortunately, Ann happened to be a nurse. There were always Cialis® (tadalafil) starter packs in the doctor's sample closet at work.


Phil's first wife had passed away a few decades back. He had since remarried, and had very little to complain about as an aging octogenerian. Ann, 15 years his junior, was a good wife, and a loving companion who made a killer sauce. She fulfilled all of his senile needs. That's not to say old man Phil couldn't have an extracurricular hobby or two..


Sitting out on his porch, basking in the sunlight, Phil twisted the volume dial on the radio. Phil fancied himself a photographer, a paparazzo, if you will. Oldies music no longer drowned out the hum of the lawnmower down the street. He picked up his camera and was instantly back on the photo prowl.


Phil lived on the corner of Spruce and St. Francis. From his front porch he could see oncoming traffic from both streets. By "oncoming traffic" we mean people jogging. By "people jogging", we are specifically referring to young women donning neon colored sports bras. Locationally, one could say that Phil lived on a prime piece of real estate.


Phil had been napping and picture-snapping ladies getting their cardio on all day. It was a glorious day for a jog/nap. 


Out of the corner of his eye he saw a frisky feminine figure jogging energetically into focus. Neon green. Nice. He cooly held up his camera and click.  He chortled to himself as he looked down and pretended to be distracted by the begonias in his garden, waiting for the runner chicky to pass. Except that she didn't. She ran right up to the edge of his yard and began to walk angrily across the grass towards him.


"You creepy old pig, I saw what you just did, hand me that camera right now or I'm reporting you to the police."


Ah, shit, Phil thought to himself. Busted. 


"Eh, err, I'm sorry, what's that you say missy?" Phil tried to play the hard-of-hearing card. She wasn't biting.


"I said give me that fucking camera or I'm calling the cops is what I said!" The feisty jogger immediately snatched his camera and smashed it on the ground repeatedly until the undeveloped film was exposed to the sunlight. Phil was in disbelief! His Kodak Instamatic! Insta-ruined! It was at least like, 50 years old! That was the last roll of Instafilm he had! Who knew if they even made that film anymore! Kodak was like, bankrupt now, right?! 


"You wish you had a picture of me, you old horn dog! I'm a sexy piece of ass! You're a creepy old man! You disgust me!" Without giving Phil a chance to conjure up a stuttering apology, she stormed off across the yard.


With her back turned to him, Phil quickly whipped out his iPhone, activated Instagram and stealthily snapped a few pictures. Nice. She bent over to tie her shoes! Phil kept surreptitiously snapping away. Nice! Nice! He quickly pocketed his smartphone before the girl stood up and turned around to give him the finger. Then she jogged off. Phil waved, then looked down at his shattered camera. It was a good camera back in the day, but it didn't have an 8 megapixel lens like this here iPhone. Anyways, he was too old to get hung up on a broken camera. He shook his head and chuckled quietly to himself. Bitches be cray.


When the coast was clear he took out his phone and played around with a few filters. Phil, you dog you, he thought to himself proudly, replaying the recent altercation in his head, you stillll got it.


He continued to smile to himself. He opened up his facebook app and uploaded one of the pictures for all of his seventeen sixteen friends to see.


Caption:
"87 and still livin' the dream"

see Tom peep

Tom's favorite color without a doubt was yellow. Kevin's was most certainly blue.

Tom was an aspiring birdwatcher. He liked to keep his bird watching skills razor sharp by people peeping from time to time. Never was Tom seen without his binoculars. Kevin would often accompany Tom on his bird-peeping expeditions. Tom always knew where to find chicks. Kevin on the other hand, he had a keen eye for spotting other birdwatchers. Especially the handsome ones.

Kevin wasn't without aspirations himself. He fancied opening a cupcake shop someday. Kev's Kakes. Back home in Indiana, Kevin's mother loved to entertain guests with grainy home footage of 3-year old Kevin using his Easy-Bake Oven. She bought him his first apron. Yes, it was paisley. No, it wasn't on sale. 

Tom was a Scorpio. Kevin happened to be a Gemini. No, it wasn't the most compatible friendship, but Tom sure loved baked goods. Plus, Kevin's maternal grandmother had a pretty sweet bachelorette pad.

So anyways, after a long hard day of peepin', the boys were hangin' over at Kevin's grandma's crib, watchin' TV. Kev had just put a big batch of rugelach in the oven. They had approximately 20 minutes to kill. 

Casually sprawled out on the floor like a professional model, Kevin couldn't help but think how Tom looked like a canary in his yellow. He giggled to himself, then went back to watching Antiques Roadshow. Tom sat there watching television through his binoculars. Tom soon grew tired of watching television with his binoculars. Peeping down at Kevin from his perched position on the couch, Tom mentally remarked at how Kevin looked like a handsome bluebird. Sitting there with his binoculars backwards, Tom also noticed how the blue in Kevin's socks and sweater brought out the color in his robin's egg blue eyes. He continued to watch Kevin focus on the TV program. Kevin had a stern brow, like a slightly angry bird's. His teeth were whiter than a virgin dove. Tom subtly turned his binoculars around for a closer inspection. When Kevin smiled, his dimples were suddenly the only two things in Tom's entire world. Kevin's cheeks were rosier than a flamingo. (Grandma liked to keep it toasty up in that bitch.) Venturing southward, it was clear to Tom that underneath Kevin's tight blue sweater was anything but a bird chest. 

Venturing even further south DING! The timer in the kitchen went off. The rugelach were done! Kevin instantly jumped up and scampered into the kitchen. 

Tom sat there on the couch, confused. 

Was he just blueballed?