#65 The Meathead With The Small Dog

Sometimes my Master and I play <em>Hide In The Colon!</em>

Sometimes he let's me play Hide In The Hot Dog!

We’ve all seen the swoll meathead out in public, usually devouring a high protein lunch, peppering his egg white omelet with several grunts and elbows propped awkwardly on the table. If his veiny-arm lumps weren’t enough to scare your kids, he’s now raised the ante — he’s purchased a rat and put a dog collar on it. Ahhh yeah…The Meathead with the Small Dog. His name says it all: a muscular goon with a quaint canine pet, usually in the form of a chihuahua, dachshund, or Yorkshire terrier. Either way, it’s a POS dog associated with stupid spoiled whores and Coach bags.

This walking hard-on’s entire life revolves around 3 daily chores: whey protein shakes, a 3-hour gym visit (plus 1 hour for looking at himself in the mirror), and walking his miniature dog. Where he finds the time to blow other men is a mystery to me.

BigGuySmallDogWhen purchasing a pet dog, most grown men follow the simple “Rule of Dog Kindness”: if you can kill your dog by accidentally stepping on it, then you don’t buy that dog. In other words, if you come home drunk at 3am and your stumbling to hit the light switch, maybe you mistakenly step on your dog’s paw — if your dog would die from such injuries, save the poor animals life. Don’t buy it. Don’t be a dick. Look at the size of your foot, if it’s bigger than your dogs head, this is a bad equation. Plus, that dog looks gay.

But alas, this is not a relevant factor with the Chiwawa-Meathead. He works out at the gym, defining his abs and glutes, right before strolling down the street with his puny pure bred (Editor’s Note: his dog’s probably named Ab or Glute). Both his workout regiment and his attention to his house pet are a tad bit on the aggressive side, and it should be noted there’s nothing more freakish than watching a 5’3” steroid in spandex shorts French kiss his Yorky at a sidewalk café.

Perhaps most intriguing, however, is that with all that buldging muscle and manly-manness asserted by the Meathead, he is virtually unaware of the latent homosexuality associated with his two favorite activities: lifting weights and feeding his Mr. Kittles a piece of his crepe. The act of being around a bunch of sweaty dudes, all groaning and moaning within the confines of heavy steel and cables, correlates well with sitting on a suede ottoman and letting Mr. Kittles lick your lips; both are the standard opening scenes to a mid-90s gay porno flick. And for all you germaphobes out there, sure Mr. Kittles just licked his hairy anus before licking Meathead, but in all fairness, Meathead has definitely tasted a hairy anus in the past. This is not a strange new world to Meathead. This is Friday nights at The Abbey.

Meathead and Small Dog can be found anywhere there are outdoor activities, weights, and lots and lots of hand jobs (mainly Los Angeles, Miami, and San Francisco). It’s not hard to spot this guy, even if he happens to be driving. Just look for the VW Beetle with the “I love my pets…and my pecks” bumper sticker.

By Scott Glockholder
Also Know As: Turner and Mook, Black Rob’s Small Dog, Butt-Pirate and the Beast, Bitch and Bitches, Hot Dog and Donut Puncher, Paris Hilton, The Salad Tossers, BALCO & Alpo, Both Receivers of Doggy-Style Sex
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Filed under animals, annoying people, beach, body, guidos, gym, idiot accessories

#64 The Karaoke Superstar

I've never wished for AutoTune.  Except for right now.

I've never wished for AutoTune. Except for right now.

As the saying goes: there’s one in every party. There’s always one person or group intent on ruining a good time. In the past, I’ve seen it in the form of police at a house party, or police at a wedding, or police at a soccer riot, or police at the bar. But at karaoke bars, it’s never police. It’s the Karaoke Superstar– that one person who looks at the beer-stained machine and microphone in the back of the bar as their window of opportunity to get discovered by a record executive.

And why wouldn’t they? It’s common knowledge that all music industry moguls spend their Tuesday nights outside their mansions, in the back booth of a sketchy Irish pub drinking $3 tall boys of Naddy Ice. The Karaoke Superstar truly believes this and uses it as a mantra for what he or she will do on Tuesday night for the rest of his or her life (for the sake of misogyny, let’s use “she” from now on).

Karaoke Superstar is the embodiment of the insecurity associated with the female gender, specifically middle school girls and all aspiring actresses. She believes that by using the esteemed principles of her grade school voice coach, she can impress that one person at Sonny McLean’s Publick Drinking House who has “contacts” to the music biz. While other folks are throwing back pints and belting out their favorite Elvis Presley or Three Dog Night song, Karaoke Superstar is sticking solely to what fits in her range, specifically LeAnn Rimes’ “Can’t Fight the Moonlight.”

For a moment like thisThe Superstar comits their acts of “kareokicide” under the dodgy pretense that she’s a good singer. And maybe she actually is alright. But instead of cutting her chops at a local live venue or at the “Dress Like Susan Boyle Night” in the Rec Center, she finds the Tuesday bar crowd less critical and easier to appease, which isn’t hard considering most of the male bar attendees looking at her imagine the microphone as their penis.

In fact, it’s quite common for K.S. to undergo a minor sexual encounter with a bar fly after he tells her he once worked in the same office as Russell Simmons, a half-truth, in that he mopped the floor 2 hours before Russell walked on it in Fat Farm sneakers. These sexual encounters can become a deadly game for Karaoke Superstar, as she’s bound to have a sore throat or oral herpes for a few weeks, both malaises causing major damage to her social life and her karaoke career (both one in the same).

If you come across Karaoke Superstar, be sure to not buy her a drink and not compliment her until she tries to sing something by Queen. There’s no way she’ll reach Freddie Mercury’s pitch, and it will be fun to see her get down on herself. It’s during this point of low self-esteem you’ll be able to go down on her. Even if she’s not into the whole cunnilingus thing, you’ll sleep nicely knowing she’s probably going to binge and purge tonight due to her un-Mercury-esque rendition of “Fat Bottom Girls”.

By Scott Glockholder
Also Known As: Fiona Crapple, American Idle, Amateur Hour, Stage Fright, Karaoke Dookie, Karaoke vs. Bukkake: The Showdown, Microphone Fiend, the Middle Child, Chris Snornell


Filed under annoying people, awful, chicks, entertainment, friends, music

#63 The Shitter Graffiti Artist

Picasso would be proud

Picasso would be proud

Most people think of public restrooms as a “last resort shit depository” — the filthy, regrettable step between pooping one’s pants and playing the “How Long Can I Hold It” Game. It’s a place where homeless people go to have sex and where the walls inexplicably are covered in a doody sprinkles. Simply put, it’s the worst.

But to the Shitter Graffitti Artist, this is art school. That toilet seat is a beautiful blank canvas — a brownish-yellow stained platform through which they can truly express themselves. That’s not just a plastic ass-holder, it’s a circular shrine to artistic integrity.

Sure, it’s regularly urinated on. But that doesn’t matter. Urine and feces don’t phase the SGA — the feed off of it. In fact, that toilet is surrounded on four sides by walls which could have just as easily been graffitied. But no! They chose the toilet seat itself — the throne, the porcelain palace. This is where the SGA shines.

After all, what speaks louder than carving your name into where people put their colon? If you answered “nothing”, then you’re starting to understand. It’s about respect, recognition. That carving technique they learned in Shawshank State Penitentiary can finally reach the wide audience they dreamed about while sharpening shivs on Cell Block E. It’s finally happening for them.

idiotsNow, I should pause to clarify. The Shitter Graffitti Artist is not to be confused with the equally mindless Toilet Seat Decorator (seen on the right). The main difference between these two fecalfeliacs is that the Toilet Seat Decorator spends hours upon hours gluing seashells or other “quaint” objects to toilet seats, while the Shitter Graffiti Artist spends a few panicked seconds carving “RALFIE” onto a piss-stained restroom. Other than that, the two are quite similar — both share what scientists have identified as the I.D.I.O.T. Gene (or in medical terminology, the “I Decorate Insanity On Toilets” Gene).

The SAG is largely of the male persuasion, as women have an intense fear of toilet seats (hence, the development of “the squat”). It is also more prevalent among males who are not incredibly sexually active, as if they were, they’d spend their time talking to women instead of touching public toilets. The SAG can be found in most truck stops and bars around the country, generally concentrated in areas where the aforementioned “vagina” is lacking.
Also Known As: The Mona Loser, The Restroom Renaissance Man, Doodyfingers, What Germs?, The Toilet Seat Smithsonian, Port-O-Painter, You Should Really Get A Hobby, Picasso’s Plumber

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Filed under annoying people, awful, douche, stink, wtf?

#62 The Flatso

I think she knows the Muffin Man.

I think she knows the Muffin Man.

The Flatso is a rarity in the female gender — a concave specimen swimming in a gelatinous pool of convexity. Truly, Flatsos are a unique bunch, combining the 2 core qualities deemed most unattractive by superficial males: little-to-zero breast surface and a rotund body. Where as most chubby chicks are granted their one golden asset (bulbous titty balls), the Flatso is unfortunately denied such an amenity.

It is worth pausing to clarify: this is not a reference simply to small breasts; these are awesome. It is instead a specific niche who’ve chosen to let themselves grow wild. Still confused? Follow this simple “Rule of Plumb”: If the gut protrudes farther out than the breasts, then those ain’t breasts. That’s Flatso territory. And a man could accomplish the same feat (and many, many men have).

In turn, this lack of boobage forces the Flatso to evolve a very sour, unfriendly attitude towards everyone. How bad an attitude you ask? Ironically, their attitude is equivalent to that of the snobby modeling hoes that most men admire and get chubbies for. Nature is one ironically cruel motherfucker, ain’t it?

Pregnant Man or Flatso?  The world may never know.

Pregnant Man or Flatso? The world may never know.

Similar to the moon, the Fatso can be seen from far away, usually gravitating towards the nearest corndog stand or Carls Jr. They may also be seen standing in line for a nightclub, or later, sitting outside of said nightclub with their shoes off.

Their most visible characteristics would be their infamous belly and A-cups, with the former sticking out much farther than the latter. Typically, an underlining quality of alcoholism may also be present. Her constant consumption of beer coincides with her Yodels appetite, but more importantly, serves as a primitive tool — a modern-day arrowhead — used to spear down potential male mates. If there’s alcohol present, odds are an inebriated soul might get stuck in her gravitational pull, and indulge. The booze also serves as an invisible lube, making it easier for her to straddle herself on top of victim # 5’s penis.

Flatsos are located all over the USA, with a heavy populace (pun intended) in the Midwest, especially Wal-Mart parking lots and Ponderosa buffet lines. If one is to meet a Flatso, try to remain sober throughout your experience with them. If one chooses to drink, it’s recommended that you aim for heenan. You wouldn’t want to leave a night with a Flatso empty handed. Well, on second thought, that’s probably impossible.

By Scott Glockholder
Also Known As: Lady Lumps, Flattop, The Grand Manyon, DJ Belly Bell, The Gutman, Hefty Flat Bag, Flatbed Dump Truck, Jezabelly, Dick Van Flatton, Flat-Broke-n-Busted, The Drew Carey Chestbump


Filed under body, boobs, chicks, food, slow

#61 The Aged Metal Head

I'm gonna rock your flapper dress off!

I'm gonna rock your flapper dress off!

Unlike the sharp cheddar they stink so badly of, the Aged Metal Head is not something that gets better with age. They are as nostalgic as seeing a Native American behind the wheel of a Studebaker; once you witness this rare site you’ll be forced to think of a time when such a thing propagated the American landscape (just like Long John Silver’s). The AMH is from that last bastion of 80s rock, so caught up in his statement from high school that he’ll “forever rock” that he’s forgotten about the social standards that come with growing up — namely the “job” and “not wearing mesh-t-shirts” part.

Key traits of AMH include a receded hairline with the remaining hair shoulder-length, a love for denim vests and black denim jeans, and black wristbands (ironic considering his inactive lifestyle requires absolutely no athletic garb whatsoever). Unfortunately, for all the enthusiasm and innovation behind this get-up, his Sam Ashe sales position doesn’t allow such wardrobe freedom in the workplace.

'Ol Dirty RockerAged Metal Heads are generally white men with ratty upper lips and form-fitting clothing. Fading tattoos of dragons and the usage of ladies spandex are also key. Nonetheless, AMHs see nothing wrong in their out-of-date appearance. Whereas metal gods like Dave Mustaine and James Hetfield have adapted to life with children, wives, and a career, the Aged Metal Head has not (in his defense: he has neither children, a wife, or a career).

The AMH would be someone you’d like to high-five, maybe even jam with, if he wasn’t such a pretentious smarmy employee. They hate this “new” rock ‘n roll, where people don’t have frizzy hair, and are incredibly disheartened by the rising sales of certain consumer purchases, namely Rock Band, Guitar Hero, and turntables. But what they hate even more: when customers practice blues riffs on one of the several Fender Stratocasters they’re trying to pitch on the selling floor. All this adds up into a boiling rage that’s only released during basement guitar sessions when his parents leave the house, or during his drive back to the house, where he has all the time in the world to air drum to Metallica’s “One.”

The Aged Metal Head can be found working at any Sam Ashe or Guitar Center across the nation or in any city that has a steady denim provider. If bored and looking for a fun activity, look for Aged Metal Head and ask him about his “old girlfriend” and why they aren’t together anymore. Unlike the AMH, that story never gets old.

By Scott Glockholder
Also Known As: Lars Ulshit, Heavy Mothball, “To Those About to Age, We Salute You”, Satan’s Class of ’86, Death Gip, Am I Cool Yet?, Queens of the Stone Age, Jon Bon Blow-Me


Filed under clothes, music, old people, piercing

#60 The Sparkle Tits Debutante

Hey Becky, before we hit the club, I just need to stop at Michaels real quick

Hey Becky, before we hit the club, I just need to stop at Michaels real quick

As if jiggling boobs popping out of a shirt wasn’t enough, the Sparkle Tits Debutante (or STD for short) is the chick that goes the extra distance to ensure her funbags get noticed by absolutely everyone in the room. To guarantee this, she’s plastered her melons with a fresh layer of sparkles so thick it would make a stripper have seizures.

Most Sparkle Tit Debutantes are attention-seekers and HAMS. They thrive in bars, clubs, and places where disco balls spin and cocaine is blown. In these locales, STDs will commonly employ “the booby trap” — a deadly trick used to ensnare potential mates on par with that of the Praying Mantis. The trap is initiated by said STD speaking in low volumes, so that when you lean in for a closer listen, her boob-sparkle gets all on your shirt. If this happens, you’ve been “marked”. At this point, you’re best bet is to just give in and start motorboating.

glitter2While some Sparkle Tits may be using the glitter to compensate for their ugly face or larger midsection, it’s important to note that this is only a small percentage of the STD market. Most STDs apply a heavy layers of glitter simply because they crave the attention — many are quite attractive, with supple breasts. But normal attention won’t cut it — for these women are the “Anti-Femme“. They toss aside the normal notion of “eyes up here, Mister”, and replace it with an open invite. Whether your a latino gangbanger with a fresh Chico Stash or just an Average Joe guzzling down a Bud Diesel — feel free to feast your eyes on those shimmering milk balloons. No boob-attention is too much for the STD, and any attention going to other girls in the room brings out what Doctors call “the crazy eyes”.

These traits are obvious warning signs for “nuts” and sluttiness, of course. Actresses, bartenders, and strippers are the most obvious carriers of the STD gene (and also of STDs in general), so know what you are getting yourself into. Sparkle Tit Debutantes can be found in large concentrations in the Los Angeles, Miami, and New York bar scenes, especially during the summer months as this is when they truely shine. Also, an abnormal amount of STDs may be found in Las Vegas, and it’s underachieving counterpart Reno.

It’s also important to note that this Sparkle Tit trait does not exclusively belong to the female gender — males may also possess this STD gene, but in place of Sparkles, use large SUVs and expensive materialist goods. ie – You may see a small bald man driving a huge, shiny Hummer — this is his “sparkle tits”, and it’s most likely compensating for his small genitals.
Also Known As: Glitter Goblins, The Titty Show, Circus Peanuts, “New York” from Flava of Love, Shinatown, The Booby Trap, Glitter Tats, Community Chest
Related: The Fake Boob, The Drunk Girl Horror Show


Filed under boobs, chicks, college, idiot accessories

#59 The Laptop Pooper

The Laptop Pooper:  Taking Multitasking Too Far

The Laptop Pooper: Taking Multitasking Too Far

It’s a sad day for technology when that 30 Megahurtz processor is working double duty to rapidly refresh “WWTDD“, while simultaneously attempting to stream the latest “Akon” song, all while you’re taking a sizable BM. But to the Laptop Pooper, this is a twice daily routine. Sometimes three, if today was Bran Flake Tuesday.

A more modern, recent addition to the Idiot Pants Party, the Laptop Pooper has streaked their way onto the scene within the last four years, breaking new ground with the invention of WiFi. These wireless technologies have given the LP virtual free reign, and upon their porcelain throne, they intend to be entertained.

For the Laptop Pooper, there is no line to cross — no line between what’s acceptable computer behavior and what’s just weird. Taking a shit with their computer propped precariously on top of their thighs — mere inches away from defecation — does not raise any red flags. They like that heat on their thighs, they need it.

Laptop LoggerLaptop Poopers tend to be younger males with excessive free time at work — worker bees who thusly experience a numbing exposure to the internet and various FAIL blogs. They tend to rely on these virtual sources to pass all waking moments of free time. And that 10-15 minutes in the Power Dome is no different.

Don’t even try to give them something “printed” to read, that shit is for old people. The laptop is king. “The Laptop Pooper Creed”, translated from Latin, states it quite plainly: It’s thine laptop, and they shalt poop if they want to. Sure, their motto is a rip off of Lesley Gore’s iconic song, but who the fuck is that?

Yet, perhaps the most disturbing aspect of LP’s habits is what’s know by scientists as “Fecal Fallout”, or unseen residue from said bathroom experiences that are unbeknownst to fellow computer users. This is quite similar to a nuclear reaction. That laptop you borrow to look up Google Maps may have been in the shitter only moments ago, and now your fingers will smell like chocolate.

If you’re confused, that’s a good thing. I personally follow the philosophy that if you’re not bringing it in there to whack off, then give it a rest. But be warned, it’s difficult to spot a Laptop Pooper unless you are close friends and/or roommates with them, as this tends to be a very personal pasttime.
Also Known As: Partners in Porcelain, Poo Crew, The Computer Crapper, Dr. Doody, Crapping With My CPU, The Laptop Logger


Filed under college, entertainment, friends, idiot accessories, internet, stink, wtf?