Ask a White Dude.

For the last year, I've been part of a forum run explicity by black people.  As I was the only white person in there, I brought as much insight into the white community possible.  I had started a segment cleverly entitled "Ask a White Dude," wherein the rules were simple - ask anything you want to ask about white people.  From the deepest cultural questions to the quirky behaviors that often confuse one another, the gloves were off and I would do my best to help learn black people in the secret society that is Caucasiandom.

5.  Why do white people go crazy over finger foods?


This question especially hits home because finger foods are the shit.  It makes me ask myself, "Why do I love finger foods enough to go into a murderous rage?"   And furthermore, why do I - along with other white people - shun some of the other finger foods like Freedom Fries and chicken wings?


Just the other day I was at a fancy party where finger foods - or "h'ordeuvres" - were being served before dinner.  Before I popped a mini duck taco (no shit, it was a mini taco with DUCK MEAT IN IT!), I laughed as if I were invading Poland and I felt excellent.  The careful hand it takes to prepare two hundred mini duck tacos is not only a show of talent, it's also a show of pure domination.  We take something as fancy as duck, something as Mexican as tacos and make that shit tiny - then we blow a huge Caucasian load all over it.

If you've ever seen a white person eat finger foods, you'll notice how they close their eyes and fuck the shit out of that food in their mouths.  That's because we don't give a fuck how good it tastes, it's the fact that we can say, "Yes, I ate a MINI DUCK TACO, I AM PROBABLY CULTURED NOW."




4.  How come white people don't wear underwear?

I'm sure white people wear underwear, but I'm definitely one of those people who will screw underwear a few days a week.  Simply put, who needs them?  Honestly.  What do underwear do?  Separate your dick from your pants?  Why can't my dick touch my pants?  Both of them are clean, let them touch each other - I allow it.  Unless you work some sort of sweat-inducing job, the need for underwear is well on its way out.  I don't break a sweat at all at work, I sit behind a computer all day working for assholes who also sit behind a computer all day.  Every single one of us can go commando and no one would know - or give a shit.


Even if you take a messy shit that day, the underwear are useless.  I can restore my asshole to its former glory after any shit with a little water and handsoap (the 'hand' in handsoap is just a suggestion).

The question here, in actuality, is why don't black people go commando more often?

3.  Why are white people rude on the Subway?

This is a hilarious question.  If I were to pose as a black man on an all-white board, the opposite question would be asked.  Black people think white people are rude because we have no sense of physical courtesy.  We believe we can blast through a crowd of people without exchanging an "excuse me" because a) we just want to get to where we are going and b) who talks to strangers? 

And white people think black people are rude because they call us out on our shit.  We've all been confronted with a sassy, "EXCUUUUUUSE YOU," at some point in our lives, usually it's our fault for just shoulder-checking a person without warning.  But white people think we're justified because we didn't open our mouths - and the silent one is the winner.  It's all in how we are raised, really.  White people were raised to be silent and soulless.

2.  Why do white people take so many risks like skydiving and ice water swimming, brothas are just trying to survive!

Well, there's no hood in the sky, silly!


1.  Is it true white people have small penises?  And do you have a small penis?

My penis is exceptionally small when it's flacid.  It promptly makes a turn to "tolerable" when it engorges.  

This is a prime case of natural selection.  Look at the size of the average black girls ass, it's huge (read: fantASSSStic).  To make it through all that extra junk in thine trunk, one must be properly equipped.  White girls have depressing asses (for the most part) and don't require such tools.

So it's not really a matter of white people having small dicks - black people just have monstrosities-for-dicks inside their trousers - the shit in horror novels. But their dicks are big so it can penetrate the layers of absolutely fantASSSSStic ass black girls offer.

Polidics: 2012 Erection.

So, apparently Ron Paul is getting popular.  I'm happy for that - if there's any crazy old white dude I want in office, it's Ron Paul.  I might not agree with his policies, I might think he's batdick nuts, but at least (hopefully) he cuts most of the bullshit.  He's crazy enough to tell the truth, which is kinda refreshing.

I'm by no means a republican.  I guess you can categorize me as a liberal, a democrat...  I prefer to label myself as who gives a fuck.  I don't care for politics, there's just too much bullshit for me to handle - we all know my stance on bullshit.  I do, however, watch the news and I keep up with what our leaders are doing just 'cause it's kinda important.

I've learned a lot since the 2008 election, specifically regarding the president.

Obama isn't HNIC enough.

I have a complicated relationship with our president.  Despite the fact that he never returns my calls, I try very hard to like him - to thoroughly enjoy his work - and brandish him like a shiny new toy to my foreign friends.

He's black, which is fantastic because I get along better with black people.  He's a great speaker.  He seems to have a nice ideals, ones that even I could agree with...

But...  

But...

Let me just say that Obama is the perfect shade of black for everyone to vote for.  He's got enough black for black people, enough white for white people, enough brown for Mexicans and Indians (or "Eastern Mexicans"). 

And...

Obama won 2008 with swag.  Which is more-than-enough of a reason to win in my books, but for people like my brother whose first ever vote was cast in for Obama - they feel like they're being let down.  

Oh...  And not to mention...

Obama's brilliant campaign reached out to people 18-25 years old - he had the highest turnout in this demographic ever.  Now, I don't mean to shit on anyone my age but...  We're all pretty fucking dumb and I do mean to shit on you.  So that ballot you might've cast 3 years ago when you were 18 probably wouldn't be the same one you cast today at 21.  Obama made a lot of promises to the young peeples and there hasn't been anything groundbreaking yet.  If I became president, I'd push to make one major change to appease my voters - that's all you really need.  The rest can be a W.I.P.

Now with Ron Paul becoming increasingly popular amongst both liberals and conservatives, young people and old people, the chances of him winning the Republican Primary are higher than ever.  And if any republican candidate can dethrone Obama, I truly believe it can be Ron Paul.

But Ron Paul is Republican, whatchu talkin' 'bout, Moose?

It doesn't really matter at this point.  Obama approval ratings have sunk lower than ever - especially amongst those young people who voted for him three years ago.  There will be a huge betrayal of Obama if Ron Paul wins the Primary - 'cause Ron Paul is kinda hip in a "Look at me kids!  I'm a fucking whacky badass whos policies are actually quite stimulating and realistic!"

Ron Paul doesn't make promises, he kinda just tells everyone what they're doing wrong - and maybe we need that for a few years before we can start making huge changes.  Someone above telling Congress what's fucked up, rather than us peasants constantly complaining to the seemingly invincible powers from below.

People will just want Ron Paul to walk into the Whitehouse, scream at everyone, turn beat red like he does, suggests a few realistic solutions, and get them passed because Holy shit, Republicans occupy Congress.

That means Ron Paul will be able to pass law easier than he passes stool. 

Again, I love Obama - but he's just powerless right now, it's gotten so bad that Obama had to reprimand Congress on national television for not letting him have his way.  Come on man, where's all the swag?

If Congress were filled with Democrats, I'm sure Obama would be kicking ass - but that's not how it's working right now.  I think Ron Paul needs to get in there to make some quick fixes, then maybe Obama can Grover Cleaveland another term when things are a bit more laid back.  That or we just vote for Obama again and wait it out...  But aren't you tired of waiting?

New Years Reviewsolution 2011-2012: The Turn

New Years Reviewsolution is a three part, annual series in which I review the past - shit on it - and make fixes for the year coming.  Part I:  The Flop


The Turn is a general post discussing the "whys" and "hows" behind my successes and failures.

 I know there are a few billion people in the world who have heard the parenting story about the hot surface.  The story about a child who is so interested in touching something hot (ie: a radiator, stove, candle, etc.) that he/she will keep on trying despite the warnings of a mother or father.  So, the parent takes the child's hand and puts it on the surface, burns them and they learn that shit is fucking hot.  This was supposed to be a lesson on consequence - this is hot, therefore don't touch it.

My mother claims she did the same thing to me, I don't doubt it considering I was a stupid fuckin' kid - but this method of parenting is most likely the reason I am the way I am today.  I've been programmed to touch the hot surface before learning my lesson; in other words, I've been trained to monumentally screw myself before earning the knowledge on how not to take life's big dick in my humble anus.

I'm not blaming my mother for being shitty at life - I mean, she's only human and you only get one chance to raise a kid - but I'm totally blaming her.  I live my life by consequence, I will do what I like until life tells punches me in the mouth for being an idiot.  It slows the process of growing up considerably, but I like to think that I'm living life more thoroughly than the next person - that's what makes me kickass.

And if my mother is pissed at me, I can't really apologize for it - I learned how to do it all because of them.  Rather than learning by example, I've been taught to learn through experience.  The only thing I can control is how low I will let myself go before learning my lesson.

Then we have my father.  His method for raising me has always been focused around two questions:  "Are you okay?" and "What's your plan?"

The latter makes me want to drink mercury for the slight chance of pissing mercury.  If you're letting me pick my own plan, then please don't criticize it - because chances are the plan of a twenty-year-old man is somewhere between awful and rape.  I haven't lived for almost fifty years, so I don't have the hindsight to take into account everything that I should be worried about.  My plan mainly consists of comedy, sex, pot and getting money; we all know how well I did with that.

The only positive from all of this?  I'm not living on my parents' dollar anymore and this puts me in a power position - the kind of position where I get to be left the fuck alone if I dare so ask for it.  But even then, most kids my age are either living with their parents or going to school with their money - which is pretty fucking convenient.  So why didn't I do that?  Well, besides the fact that I'm pretty bad at the whole schoolwork thing; my entire family thrives on guilt.

Members of my family will do something nice for you without you asking, then make you feel guilty for not being appreciative or repaying them.  My parents, like most other parents, will make me feel guilty for being raised - how the fuck can I thank them?  How can I repay someone for raising me?  It's not like I could've given them a middle finger when I was an infant, packed my shit and moved in with a buddy.  Because of all the guilt trips, I decided to get out on my own as fast as I could - not asking them for tuition or a job, or a place to stay, or anything (even though I'm currently living with a family member).  Truly, the consequence of the savvy mind fucking has conditioned me to strive for independence.  I want to be on my own because I'm escaping the possibility of having to owe someone something - not because I want to be independent.

My conclusions from all of this is that I've been made to live life fighting the negativity instead of embracing the positive.  And I honestly can't thank my parents enough because I fucking hate hippies.

Fat Fuck's Drunken New York Food Guide: Brasserie Les Halles.

Hello folks, I'm Fat Fuck, here with a restaurant review for the fat fucking people.  I don't watch a lot of television; in fact, I've only watched two shows my entire life.  Since Oprah finished last year, I'm down to one program - No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain.  If you like travel shows, hosts who don't give a fuck about reservations and getting shitfaced then this show would be right up your alley.  Because I'm such a supporter, I figured I'd visit Brasserie Les Halles - Chef Bourdain's restaurant - for my first restaurant review.

As it was a Holiday, Brasserie Les Halles was almost impossible to get a reservation for one...  So I went in with no reservation.  With my journalist tools (a pair of glasses and a flask of whiskey), I waltzed in like Bourdain would and plopped down at the first open table.  A pretty muscular waiter mosied up to me and said something to the effect of, "Sir, I don't believe you have a reservation."  To which I replied with, "Sir, I don't believe you have a dick." 

Back outside and pretty tired from wrestling a gaggle of waiters, I decided to use an alternative method - the power of the press.  I went to the host and revealed that I was actually working for a column, when prompted for the name I said, "You're a faggot."  Thankfully he interpreted that as, "Zagats."  I was lead in and given an intimate table in the corner.  My flask ran dry, I figured I'd start my meal with some alcohol.  Lo and behold, they had no liquor - they didn't even have beer.  I begrudgingly ordered a bottle of wine and began to review the menu.  It was time for a full-course meal:

-Appetizers.  I can't read anything on this menu - which is strange because even Chinese restaurants print in American - you'd think that people would understand that just because they use American letters doesn't mean the words are American.  I knew the only way to read this menu would be through wine-goggles - so I powered through half the bottle like a beast. 

-I was ready.  If you're gunna review a restaurant, you might as well order things based on price, right?  I went with the most expensive item, turned out to be escargot - which sounded like a high class wooden crate. 

-To my dismay they didn't serve me a wooden crate, they served me snails.  I'm adventurous, I'm drunk, but snails?  Mother fucker, how are you gunna charge eleven dollars for four snails?  French cuisine was starting to confuse me.  But whatever, I ate them shits because I'll be honest - if I didn't get anything in my stomach, I was likely going to vomit everywhere forever. 

-I vomitted everywhere for what seemed to be an eternity.

-The Maitre D' escorted me to another table, apologizing for my reaction to the food - I didn't let on that I was merely shitfaced.  Although calling him a "pencil dick mustache" probably didn't help my case, or that French fairy's self esteem.

-It was time to order my dinner, I went with the special - some shit named "squab."  I finished the rest of my wine AND the complementary bottle while I waited.

-I'm completely hammered; if I remember how to eat, maybe there's a chance I'll remember how it tastes.

-Dinner is served.  It looks like chicken!  FUCK it tastes like what I'd imagine spooge tastes like...  Just kidding.  It tastes like spooge.

-I call the Maitre D' over, "Dickstache, did you cum in my food, assbandit?"  He shakes his head "no" or in horror.  "Then did the chef spooge in my food?  Or replace all the chicken with spooge?"

He furrows his brow, "Sir, it's squab - not chicken.  This is pigeon, it's supposed to taste like that."


-I socked that asshole right in his mouth for daring to ever serve me spooge or pigeon or whatever the fuck it was.  I pulled my check from his gay little pouch, ate it and bolted out the front door. 

-Dessert.  Downtown Manhattan was busy at this time of night, giving me perfect coverage from any police.  As I couldn't finish my meal in Les Halles, I stumbled into Carvel for some ice cream. 

-My dick is in the "Birthday Cake Batter" bucket, the police are pulling me out of it.  I scream out, "Now everyone will know what spooge tastes like!"

-The police let me off with a warning, they're either fans of FFDNYFG or a shriveled ice cream dick was punishment enough.

Well, it was a pretty successful night.  I was able to taste French cuisine for the first time in my life and I won't lie, it was pretty terrible.  Any cuisine based on animals you can find in your backyard will probably taste like shit - or in this case, spooge.  Unless the French are playing some cruel joke on Americans for all the shit we give them, I don't see a reason to charge thirty dollars to eat the flying equivalent of a rat.

Holy Misfire.

This article is not a "comedy post" specifically.  It's a short story written for the website The Wicked Pink, you should check it out and support my friends!  It'll be featured there soon!


I suppose I should preface this post by saying I’m turning twenty this month – which is another way of saying I know dick about love.  On top of that I’m a child of divorce and both of my parents are in terrible second relationships.  Needless to say, I have some issues with handling romance. 

Despite being under-qualified for love – like every human – I have had my ins and outs with it. 

I moved to New York City about a year ago and quickly found out just how lonely such a populous place could be.  Without a foothold on any social circles and a fresh comedy career in the works, I was destined to waltz with the frigid winter alone. 

Then she came along.  You can tell a girl is looking for disaster when she’s the first person to make eye contact – and the first person to give the wry smirk.  The ends of her lips curled up and I was done before they parted. 

Before I go any further, let me just say that I have no religious standing – nor am I against religion – I’m just not concerned with all that shit.  That being said, I am absolutely in love with religious girls.  When there’re more rules to break, it makes things a lot more interesting.

I saw her at an open mic, I practically performed my entire set to her – I couldn’t get my eyes off of her.  She was laughing the entire time so I knew I could swoop in for a few words.  When I finished up I went over the bar and we hit it off almost immediately.  Her name was Amy and she was a good ol’ Christian gal from Roanoke, Virginia – one of my former homes.  Once the connection was made, the night was on lockdown. 

She was still moving into her apartment so I offered her a “place to rest her head” and also a place to potentially have sex.  She took to the idea like a cat to cream and we bolted off like Bonnie and Clyde. 

When we got to my place I had my strategy worked out.  Food, movie, pillow-talk and a “Hail Mary.”  Basic stuff, really.  She unpacked her necessities from her purse – including a King James Bible which she placed right on my nightstand.

Her goodie-two-shoe personality was attracted to my cynical attitude, she found absolutely everything I said to be hilarious.  It’s like I hit the jackpot, she could be wifey material if she kept this pace! 

Food.  I made her some rice, beans and a fried egg (courtesy of my Brazilian half) – turns out she didn’t like beans.  She didn’t like…  BEANS.  They’re BEANS!  Oh, and she also didn’t like EGGS.  EGGS?  Whatever, I guess she’s a picky eater, I can deal.  She wound up having “the tastiest bowl of rice ever!” 

Movie.  Oh…  GOD.  She won’t shut up.  Why do women insist on talking during movies?  Or getting up every four seconds to do nothing?  I seriously wanted to break her legs so she’d stop moving, then sock her in the mouth to keep it quiet – but I showed restraint…  Other than smoking like a thousand cigarettes to keep my nerves at bay.  But it’d all be worth it, she was having a fantastic time in her oblivious little Christian world – I knew I’d be a lucky man tonight.

Pillow-talk.  If breath could manifest into the tangible, her breath would be Excalibur – slaying my nose with every intimate word she spoke to me.  Jesus, if you love your followers – please bless this woman’s breath with an everlasting mint, because this was serious.  Hell, I smoke and my breath is incapable of being this deadly.  It was warm and depressing…  I never had a conversation while holding my air in.

Hail Mary!  I grinned and bared, I knew it was coming.  The petting was at maximum heaviness.  It was time to seal this deal.  I initialized “hooking” – all men know the move, where our fingers curl at her beltline and slowly peel away those pesky clothes – but she suddenly slapped my hands away.  What…  What could possibly be going on?  I warmed back into the petting to try again – she shoots me down once more. 

Maybe I’m the asshole here but if you agree to enter a young man’s home, eat his food, watch his Netflix AND sleep in his bed all in the same night as meeting him…  Aren’t you broadcasting a certain message?  I’ll just say I’m the asshole.

So I ask her if something’s wrong and she replies with, “I’m saving myself.”

“From what?”

“FOR marriage, silly.”

“Uh…  Saving…  Like, everything?”

“Sure.”

“Even your butt?”

I get smacked.

“Well…  What about your mouth?”

Gut check.

“All right, all right.  But, you know…  You got me all riled up here – what am I supposed to do?”

“I mean, if you really want me to – I can use my hand?”

It was something; this innocent young lady was making an effort.  An effort that was making me increasingly more sexually frustrated than I had ever been before.  But shit, I took what she was going to offer...

I hadn’t properly prepared my artillery for sexual endeavors that night – so my troops were gathered and ready for action…  Immediately.  The moment her hand wrapped around my...  Yanno…  I Dante Peaked all over the place – particularly on the King James Bible. 

That’s when she screamed out, “JESUS CHRIST!  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Unable to handle the embarrassment that washed over me, I ran out of my own apartment in the midst of getting dressed – leaving her in my home to deal with the mess.  I took a long, long walk before coming back.  She was gone, thankfully, but the bible wasn’t.  The bible rest smack dab in the middle of my bed, sure enough open to Ezekiel 16:63 –

 “that you may remember and be ashamed, and never open your mouth anymore because of your shame, when I provide you an atonement for all you have done,” says the Lord GOD.’”

New Years Reviewsolution 2011-2012: The Flop

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