If Don Draper was zapped to 2011, here’s some shit he would NEVER do:

Carry around a bottle of spring water.
Listen to Nickleback.
Recycle.
Wear a helmet under any circumstance.
Be self-deprecating.
Assimilate.
Skype.
Text. Unless while driving.
Not, not have a lot sex.
Tweet.
Chew Nicorette.
Line dance.
Reconsider objectifying women.
Drive a Kia Sportage.
Manscape.
Wear a Tommy Bahama’s shirt.
Sport a beanie.
Apply Axe Body Spray.
Pull out (fuck you, you’re preggo).
Comprehend why he got arrested for driving with a blood-alcohol level of 0.18
Sudoku.

Vegannie

If chickens were smart they would eat big ass sticks of dynamite and as Farmer John's axe dropped and lopped off their heads it would detonate in his face and kill him and his dog Roscoe in a poultricide so vile and hellbent, it would serve as a warning to all the heartless, selfish meaters from Atlanta to San Diego and make them think twice before they assume that they are top of the food chain. But chickens are stupid so the explosion would probably just make them taste even more delicious.

This is what happens in the locker room.

To be read with an English accent.

Jordan: Indeed sir. Well it’s nice to make your acquaintance kind bedfellow.

Garrett: Likewise, yes indeed, indeed again, yes indeed. Why I have never, if I may be so bold, I say, I have never engaged in this fine activity know as, how does one say? Indeed, I believe it to be referred to as, ASSPLAY.

Jordan: Really, my oh my, okay, let’s get started.

Garrett: Oh my word. I never could have imagined. Wow, fine young man. That is a tough position you have put me in.

Jordan: Well, that does appear to be the object my good man. If perhaps, Mr. Man, I can get you to hold still a moment longer, I will “wash my hands as it were.”

Garrett: Oh, indeed I hope this doesn’t offend, but the pleasure/pain threshold is being compromised at this very moment, good sir.

Jordan: What’s my name BITCH???

Garrett: I’m sorry kind sir, can you please repeat?

Jordan: Oh, the apology is all mine good neighbor, I’m afraid I broke character for a brief moment.

Garrett: Quite alright. Indeed, I understand. You found yourself in a position of power. Who could blame you in this circumstance?

Jordan: Quite, quite.

Garrett: May I interrupt for the briefest of moments?

Jordan: Naturally.

Garrett: Is it normal to be losing this much blood? I hate to appear selfish, but I must insist that we cease all activity, for I feel light headed and nauseous.

Jordan: I can assure you kind sir, that all you’re feeling will go away in a moment, once I, as one does in this particular circumstance, I believe it is known by some as, um, “drop the hammer”.

Garrett: Okay then good chap, proceed forthrightly with all good intentions.

Jordan: Just one moment kind sir, for this cannot be rushed by any means or I may be obliged to start the entire ritual from the start.

Garrett: My sincerest apologies.

Jordan: Not at all. Do not give it another thought.

Garrett: Well, you were the one making a whole big thing of it.

Jordan: My sincerest apologies. Oh NO!

Garrett: What, may I ask, happened?

Jordan: I seemed to have ejaculated prematurely. Now it is I who must apologize.

Garrett: FUCK YOU JORDAN! That is gross!

Jordan: Now onto the salad tossing.

Garrett: Fine.

Probably should not say when you get pulled over by The Police:

-How rude of me. Would you like a cold beer too?

-So how does that zipper work there fella?

-Remember that scene from Fargo when Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare got pulled? Did not end well…just sayin’.

-What’s that big stick on your belt for?

-You didn’t happen to find that crack rock I dropped out a sec ago did ya?

-Now I bet you’re gonna tell me that there’s a law against masturbating in front of high schools. Really. Oh.

-I bet your mom is a really good kisser.

-Of course I’ve been drinking. If alcohol impairs your judgment, how should I know any better than not to drive?!

-Is this going to take a while? I gotta let that kid in my basement out of his cage for a potty break.

-Can you give me a police escort? I gotta get home for Bob’s Burgers!

-You’d be swerving too if you had a car full of sado masochistic midgets smoking hash while a cop was following you.

-So…you are not gonna give me back my pot then?

-I really think it’s a bad idea for me to open my trunk especially given the judgmental disposition you’ve displayed thus far.

-Can you make change for a ten? There’s no way I bribing you more than 5 bucks.

-The thing about my license is that I left it in my other pants…that are on the floor in your daughter’s room. You want me to call her really quick?

-Open container? My bad *GULP*, more like empty container. Happy now?

-Don’t tell me I left my kid in his car seat on the roof again. That’s twice in one week!

Twisty

I’m in a perpetual state of panic. Here’s what happens. Every morning I wake up and take stock. Okay, I don’t think I’m dead. I count the bed shakes to measure my pulse. Find my appendages numb and tingly from a long night of being prone, it must be MS or ALS. I’m now imagining a growing tumor in my pituitary gland. I look over at Her, She rolls away and I unscrew the Klonopin bottle just as deftly as I unscrewed her last night.

On this morning 2.0 MG is gonna do just fine. I sit up and immediately fall back down. Vertigo. Again. Wonderful. Better make it 2.5 MGs. I know it sounds weird but panicking doesn’t even make me panic anymore and this is making me concerned. Is there a finite amount of adrenaline the body can produce (when I was 13, I used to hope there wasn’t a finite amount of sperm swimming around the nut pond)? If so, I must have hit the wall. I’m already an hour late for work but I’m not going anywhere until my head stops spinning. I check the droid. Fuck, eight missed calls, 65 emails (60 spam), four text messages. I press on my Twitter icon but put the phone down because I can only read it when it’s exactly 12.5 inches away from my face and I can’t manage to get the distance right. I turn on the TV and can hear the cast from The View kvetching about weight loss struggles. I keep my left eye shut to focus, catch my reflection in the mirror and thank god I never got that tattoo on my shoulder (what would have started out as a ripped hockey player taking a slap shot by now would be a hairy fat fuck spilling out all over me).

Instinctively I reach down to adjust myself and I can’t feel my johnson. I pull up the sheets, look in my Hanes and I see what appears to be a dead fish-well, minnow. Klonopin side effect? I hope. I pull the head and tug it out but it slowly goes back into its repose like a 90 year old spent Stretch Armstrong.

I look back at Her to see Her eyes darting beneath their lids and feel happy and resentful. I reach for Her right tittie and squeeze gently. Look down, nothing. Great, now I’m sure I have dick cancer. Against my better judgment I get to my feet and into the bathroom. I empty my bladder but don’t feel a thing. My stream is weak and sporadic but as a benefit, it’s going in 8 directions at once. I get in the shower and immediately shart. At least I’m in the right place. The pipes squeeze and spring, finally relenting a brown unsteady offering of cold sharp water. No shampoo, no conditioner just a razor thin slither of Irish Spring.

I get it wet and sniff it imagining I’m a stocky Irishman on a prairie with my choice of sheep. The soap slips loose and after spending 3 minutes trying to grab it, I give up only to see shooting stars as I lift my head too fast. I towel off thinking I need a shower and see Her sitting up pulling her ear plugs out. She points to my thighs and appears to be mutely screaming. This confuses me so I look down to notice a yellow stream running down my leg. I guess I’m peeing again. That’s when I realize my hearing is gone. I get dressed (knock off Dockers, and unlogo’d golf shirt), grab a banana and get in the hybrid. I’m looking for a very large cliff to plunge from and this goddamn city doesn’t offer anything but gentle rolling hills. I step on the gas and head right into an oncoming garbage truck. Just before my head hits the windshield I wake up with a start. Jen looks over at me sympathetically and I tell her I dreamed I was John Banks again.

Sorry Marc!

J.to the Lo July 4, 2011 8:25PM

Fucking douche thinks he can make it all up to me with sparklers and piccolo petes. I NeeD u GReggy!

J. to the Lo July 4, 2011 11:13 PM

Now he thinks he can serenade me while we're in line at Jack in the Box. He really knows how to treat a lady. Rescue me in your big jewy arms my Greg

J. to the Lo July 5, 2011 2:57 AM

So he puts on some uglyass skyblue Guayabera shirt that he thinks makes him look like Scarface and told me to pee on him. Fucking troll. 143

J. to the Lo July 10, 2011 11:35 AM

I seriously can't take it any longer. Did you know his music is total shit? plus he told me that I can't talk to STyler anymorre unless I'm working? I'm like what? NO! Did your swelling go down? Tell Mr.Man that I'll make it all better XO!

J. to the Lo July 12, 2011 4:22 AM

Greggg I can't believe how you make me feel. I just keep looking between my legs and pretending you are still there. btw, I <3 your bald spot

J. to the Lo July 12, 2011 4:23 AM

Oh yeah, Dumbass McGee forgot to flush his baby M.A. in the toilet.

J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 12:00 PM

I just ordered a footlong at Subway...thinking of you!! XOXOXO JL

J to the Lo July 14, 2011 2:15 PM

So M.A. sends me a text saying he feels a distance falling between us but I had to read it like 50 times because he even types in a Puerto Rican accent (and you know I'm PR too!) Fuck that puto. Can't wait to see you again.

J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 2:15 PM

Greg, I know people think my ass is perfect but your's makes mine look like a dude's.

J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 11:40 PM

I'm sooooo over this shit Greg. He's taken me for granted for the last time. I can't believe he forgot my cousin Maria's quinceanera (I'm kinda glad...he looks so gay when he sings anyways).

J. to the Lo July 14, 2011 3:33 AM

He finally got home reeking like cheap hookers and tried to cover it up with old spice. Can I move in tomorrow?

You guys know the rest

This Just In

I was poking through what was left of the kid's easter (sorry, I can't capitalize e's) baskets when I got the call on my 1984 Sports Illustrated football phone-free with 12 month subscription. God dammit what the fuck could he possibly want now? Always after I've just settled in with a little triple D (that Guy Fieri can eAT!). "Yes, Mr. President?", I sang.

"Mitchell? Barry. We gotta situation, grab Banks and K-Fed and get your asses to Dulles pa-ron-to", he barked. Usually I would tell him to chillax but he sounded serious. "This better be go-time?", non-plussed.

"Yea motherfucker! Grab Jack's Flip and get to the situation room", he was losing patience.

"Fine, but tell Joe if he sits in my chair, he's, he's, he's...aw, fuck it, I don't care. Let the baby have his bottle", I ran out steam. In retrospect, hash was probably a bad idea but things were supposed to be mellow, especially after the correspondence dinner display. Trump is such a loser.

I jumped in the hybrid, scooted out to echo Park, woke up John with a tickle and we headed to Bob Hope Airport. It ain't easy rushing when you're a hipster but John took the news in stride and voluntarily skipped on lacing up his Chucks. I double checked his beard symmetry while he took the wheel and looked at his sunglassed mirrored reflection in the reflection of the rearview mirror. It was the perfect distraction for me to smoke through my GWB pez dispenser (cowboy-booted carb). I sure as hell wasn't gonna drink Jet Blue's idea of a Bloody Mary sober.

Once airborne, my Droid stopped co-operating so I commandeered the cockpit and called Kev c.b. style at Johnny's to let him know operation Tarzan and Jane commenced. At this hour he had no choice but to travel by blimp. Lucky!

We hooked up on the tarmac 35 minutes later, John complaining about wearing Levi cutoffs and an off white muscle shirt. Personally I thought our uniform was pretty badass. Maybe someone shoulda been doing more shake-weighting and less spinning and he wouldn't have had a problem. Kevin was getting pumped up with some Bonnie Prince Billy and I had In the Air Tonight on repeat. We gathered our shit and cabbed it to the West Wing.

Once there, it was pure bedlam. Apparently Biden shit the bed and was blaming Bill Daley. I couldn't concentrate and told B I wasn't doing anything until we got some french toast and diet Squirts. Once accommodated, he broke it down. Turns out they finally discovered that dude Osama bin Laden's lair. We were to drop in from some blackhwaks, lay down the shit and exit stat. It wasn't until we were chopping in over the Abbottabad compound that it dawned on me that none of us had any formal military training in the slightest (save Barry's insistence of us watching Spies Like Us). This suddenly seemed like a bad idea. But fuck it.

What you know: bin Laden was KIA. Body ID'd. DNA matched. Buried at Sea. No U.S. military casualties.

What you don't: Kevin, John and I were decoys. Our guns only shot Skittles (taste the rainbow motherfucker!). I pulled my quad on my right leg leaping from the chopper. Kevin severed the tips of 2 fingers on each handed when he gave the victory sign a little too close to the blades. John got laid. I guess I'm just proud to be part of it all but I caught a ton of shit for taking a personal day from the lumberyard.

Things I May Say on my Deathbed

After I die, put my hand in a bucket of water and see if I pee.

I was totally joking when I said to donate my eyes to science.

I can’t believe I never got around to watching Mad Men.

Don’t let your mom find my porn collection.

I never used soap in the shower.

I like dudes.

Thank God I never lived to see the Leafs win the cup.

I am a double black-belt in puppeteering.

I once fellated a komodo dragon. I was in college and experimenting.

Trudy and I used to make out while watching Happy Days in the basement.

I used to eat Crisco. By the can. Daily.

I think I’m dying.

Fuck, I think I’m still double-parked.

That paramedic had a blond mustache.

My favorite movie is Blame it on Rio.

Of course I’m not scared, I frequently involuntarily shit myself.

How do I look? Liar.

I would do anything to trade places with you.

This Really Happened 7

After the debacle that was my Magic Mountain employment, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, assessed my worth and got a job at Jack-in-the-Box.

What could go wrong? I'd learn about the culinary arts and commerce. I guess I should have known something was up 5 minutes into my interview when I was handed Jack Jeans and a spatula. Ten minutes later,I replaced a dropped, frozen, burger patty onto the grill with the smiling approval of Felix. Of course, the smile was probably from his getting it on with some ditchweed in the backseat of his Tercel. I dressed burgers with the focus and steadiness of an oral surgeon. I learned to deep-fry tacos, fish patties and potatoes with the efficiency of an apathetic teenager. Anyone that's ever worked in a restaurant knows that burns are badges of honor. I eventually built callouses so thick, I could put my hand on the grill for 8 seconds. Nothing fazed me. My customers came in drunk, naked, tweaking, vulgar, and Republican. I met them all with indifference but dedicated service. Felix and I decided it was time to make a permanent commitment so he walked with me next-store to the Cut-Bait Tattoo salon where we had Cleanliness, Friendliness and Quality inked across our backs in French Fry font.

Upon punching back in, Manny told me that Stephanie (drive-thru operator) asked about me (code for was looking for the secret-sauce dispenser). This was JIB go-time. I slipped into the restroom, popped a nose zit and straightened out my hairpart. Was I ready? I wasn't even a Shift-Leader yet. How I played this out would affect (effect?) my entire future. I washed my face, pulled out my penis and closed my eyes (I have a really hard time looking at my cock when I address it, "It's just you and me Pinky, time to get laid." (I used to be succinct).

Feeling good, I walked straight through the store, approached Steph and told her it was time to get it on. She smacked me across the left cheek so hard, I had time to piss my Jack Jeans before my knees buckled. Goddammit did that sting. Fucking Manny. What a 1st day!

FACEBOOK STATUS UPDATES THAT GOT REJECTED:

I hate when I’m watching porn and just as I begin to nut, there’s a 15 second close up of the sweaty, mustachioed dude. As I avert my eyes and notice the dog watching me, he says, ”Nice timing faggot”. I cannot believe my dog is homophobic!

I don’t regret the banana because it was soft and pleasant. In hindsight, sending in the ferret was perhaps unwise.

A tremendous amount of satisfaction is derived from sitting on the couch naked watching The Biggest Loser. Until you sober up and realize the fat stoner you were laughing at was in the mirror.

If I could do it all over again, I probably woulda paid back Italian Express and avoided the limp.

When I die and go to Heaven, I hope God has a room full of all of my duty. I’m having a difficult time trying to visualize it and it’s the least he could do for killing me.

I’m sorry but maybe I wouldn’t have to be a martyr if you people just cleaned up after yourselves for once.

I don’t understand people’s fascination with history (specifically pre 1970). I wasn’t even alive yet!

I wonder if Alexander Graham Bell knew that someday we’d all be beating off to pornography on our telephones.

Last night while Jen was sleeping I attached a harmonica to her coochie. Now every time she queefs, I’ll think she’s Bob Dylan.

Unfunny

Remember The Swimmer (http://shortstoryclassics.50megs.com/cheeverswimmer.html)? I think I might be turning into Neddy swimming my way back home. Mental illness notwithstanding, I really am sick of cookie cutter culture like Kurt Cobain was sick of cookie cutter song structure. There’s so much new technology and I‘m so back-dated on futureshock that I suffer from pastshock. It’s not that I feel I’m missing out so much as I don’t care. Is it good for anxiety to transform into apathy? Guess I’ll probably live longer.

Buddy Holly

DILEMMA:
When I was 16, I wanted to buy some shit and since my parents were no longer willing to actively/passively participate in my freeloading adventures, I needed to gain some form of employment. With little alternatives in Awesometown, I dropped my hat into Six Flags Magic Mountain’s ring of opportunity.

INTERVIEW:
I arrived 3 minutes early to my scheduled interview only to come upon 6 fellow hopefuls twitching on hard chairs with blank resumes on their laps. My competition. Good thing I smoked a bowl in the Fiat or I woulda shit a brick. We were all called into a large office where a crusty, bald man in a red jumpsuit and white Reeboks introduced himself as Jim, our “interviewing coordinator”. He called my name first and I felt my heart start to pound. Jim looked at his paper, squinted at me, looked back at his paper, muttered something about my appearance and began. Work Experience? The Signal Newspaper Delivery boy (do you have any idea how difficult it is to collect money for a free newspaper?). Education? So far, Wm S Hart High School sophomore, Newhall Calif., sub-par work ethic, poor sense of balance and indifference towards anything beyond Pre-Algebra comprehension (in general ignored by teachers and popular kids alike). Interests? Going to the Mann 6 Theater (with Lenny, wishing I could avoid all of the anxiety that came with trying to publicly pick up girls while wearing pegged Levis and a boner). Jesus, when I read it back, it is way more pathetic than I remember. Result: HIRED! Fuck you suckas! I knew they were wasting their time. I later learned that they were all hired too. Turns out, a pulse and willingness to work for $3.05 an hour was all one needed to get a uniform and free access to Valencia's finest amusement park.

DAY TO DAY:
Two things you can count on during SoCal Summers at Magic Mountain: Chicks and weather (both hot as fuck). I worked at “Head Gear”-foreshadowing? We sold hats and hat apparel. Our big draw was sailor hats that could be personalized with the assistance of an industrial sewing machine. I say industrial because there’s no other way to masculinize the fact that I used thread to cursively spell names. I didn’t mind. I chatted up so many goddamn hot chicks, my spank bank was full of deposits by noon daily. Since this is a coming of age tale, I guess I had better get to it.

COMING OF AGE:
One midweek morning as I watched the new employees touring the park I wondered if I would finally get a decent co-worker. Out of the mass of primary colored uniforms came a vision I’ll never forget. She was blonde, tan and thick. BAM POW! The sunlight prismed through her cascading locks as if she just stepped into daylight for the first time. I simultaneously panicked about my acne, potentially visible boogers, and parted/feathered hair. I took stock of my lack of muscle mass and abundant body fat and felt sick to my stomach. But it was too late (I wished I could freeze time and do another hour of aerobics). She headed my way, I sucked in my gut and stuck out my chest. She introduced herself as Alex and said she was excited about getting started at Head Gear (that's what she said) I was turned on. Male names for women have always turned me on. She was from Green Bay, Wisconsin. I was turned on. I taught her to sew names, give directions to Colossus, and get away with 200 bucks a day from the register. She taught me to feel insecure, needy and wanted. I spent every waking minute in her company for 18 days. On the 19th day, she was picked up for shoplifting stuffed monkeys and got deported back to the Midwest. It was for the best, she had a dick.