Monthly Archives: July 2008

#32 The Stoner

Put that in your pipe and smoke it
While the rest of the world struggles with Global Warming, economic downturn, and the threat of nuclear war, one man sits isolated, on a couch, with a bag of Funions and a glass bong named the Green Lantern. This man is the Stoner. And he’s got no idea what’s goin on.

One of the most beloved and least-douchey members of the Pants Party, Stoners are a docile, shy bunch with a hankerin’ for Taco Bell and the salty-sweet foods. They have a seemingly one-tracked mind: procure, and then smoke, said weed. They hate shwag, fear the government, and believe that pretty much everything is a conspiracy. Except for Obama, he’s cool.

You’ll know the Stoner by that glazed look in their eyes, their laid back attitude, and their penchant for hemp. They have a thing for flavored sodas, particularly “grape” and “orange”, and believe that they’re the only people that know about Malomars. Confused? Listen for their signature catchphrase:

“Wait…what we’re we talking about?”

Their simple lifestyle is based off of their two pop icons: Bob Marley and Towelie. Marley taught them to fight for what you believe in, don’t give in to the Man, and keep rockin’ rebel music. While Towelie taught them that getting high is a solution, and that Funkytown can be played on a phone keypad.

Much like The Club for your car, it’s recommended that every person have at least one Stoner friend to protect them from the outside world. While your stressing about your f**king boss, that girl that won’t call you back, or paying your bills on time, a simple call to the Stoner will make you realize: you’re waaay too stressed out. Take a rip of Sour Diesel and chill the crunk out, man.

You can find the Stoner all over the world, with large facets in California, Amsterdam, Jamaica, and Canadia. And with the global de-criminalization of weed, their pleasant movement is gaining momentum. More than likely, they’ll be rolling a fat doobie, visiting their local weed pharmacy (in California), or talking about how 9/11 is a conspiracy.

When you come across a Stoner, ask him if he knows “William Holdin”. When he pulls out a bag of weed, get high with him. You’re stressed out and he likes to talk. Win, win.
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Also Known As: The Pothead, Ganga Queen, Blunt Face, They Got Weed In ‘Em?, Dreadlocked Rasta, The Peace Pipe Guy, Smokin’ Aces
Related: The Brohan

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#31 The Back-of-Head Sunglasses Guy

It\'s like the back of my head is the front of my head
There is something absurdly obnoxious about a guy that chooses to rock his sunglasses flipped upside-down and behind his head. Even if the sun is blaring in this guy’s eyes, it makes no difference. His shades are sitting pretty, totally useless, on the back of his head.

Much like an out-of-control teen on Rikki Lake, the Back-Of-Head Sunglasses Guy just doesn’t give a shit. While everyone else puts their sunglasses on the top of their head, on the V of their shirt, or god forbid, over their eyes — the BOHS Guy wants you to know he’s got his own special real estate. Right on the back of that nutsack he calls a skull.

For those of you wondering “But why?!”, there are two distinct motivations:

1) The “eyes in the back of my head” method. This is used frequently to try and trick passerbys into believing that: yes, this man does in fact have eyes in the back of his head. And he’s using them to stare at chicks, man.

2) The “Trailblazer” method. This is used to try and be the first of his friends to do something never before done. Namely, using his sunglasses improperly. Much like The Upside-Down Visor Guy and The T-Shirt in the Water Guy, the BOHSG aims to blaze new trends with how things shouldn’t be used.

T.G.I. DouchebagTypically the BOHSG will either have a bald/shaved head or some sort of frosted tips. This is perfectly demonstrated by douchebag extraordinaire Guy Fieri, of TGI Fridays fame. Notice how the sunglasses are buried near the nape of his neck — a sneak peak you only get when he turns to oggle at a girl that says “She’ll be right back” but is really running for the exit.

The BOHSG is a cross-cultural breed, ranging from retired Army Officers to Gang Members to Softies like Feieri. There’s a particularly large population Backwards Sunglassers in the Latino community, where they are taught at a young age: “See esse, yoous put da gafas on da espalda de cabeza”. Many such BOHSG devotees consider this a Father-Son bonding activity.

You can find the Back-Of-Head Sunglasses Guy near (but not on) the beach, at a Raiders game, or outdoor sporting events such as NASCAR. They will likely be drinking a room-temperature PBR, and over-exaggerating a story about hooking up with a chick.
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Also Known As: Dark Side of The Poon, The Backwards Shade Dude, Two Face, I Wear My Sunglasses At Neck, Backdoor Pete, The UV Necktie

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#30 The “I Bet She’s Crazy In The Sack”


There’s a saying in the male community: “If she scares your head, she’s good in bed”. In other words, if she’s crazy enough to scare the shit out of you, she can probably rip your Johnson off when you unleash her sexuality.

The “I Bet She’s Good In Bed” is most known for that signature crazed look in her eye. You’ve seen her dancing on bars, violently screaming out the lyrics to “Living on a Prayer”, and/or punching her boyfriend in the face. She’s not afraid to be the center of attention, and she’s certainly not afraid of you.

Her key personality traits: aggression and bitchiness. She’d rather tell you to “f**k off” than answer that stupid question you asked. And she’d also like you to buy her a drink. Like now.

If your relationship with the IBSCITS (pronounced “I-Biscuits” for short) does progress into the bedroom, there are several things you should be prepared for:

1. Talking dirty. She’ll demand that you talk nasty to her, and believe me, she’ll say some shit that will make you uncomfortable. But make sure you steer away from calling her a “whore” or any variances of this. This term will turn wild sex into a violent scene from Clockwork Orange.

2. Aggressive and constant sex. She’ll let you know early on that she wears the pants. And you wear the skirt. The sex may be great, but once it’s over, she’ll want it again. Only harder this time. What are you, a pussy? And after that, again. While the IBSCITS does possess nympho traits, it will loose it’s luster after the first chafe sets in.

3. Peripheral Scariness. This could be anything the IBSGITS has in her crazy bag — from mentioning her father during sex to the ever-terrifying “Eyes Open Coitus”, where she’ll stare at you the whole time, wide-eyed and unblinking.

I like to watch you sleep.

I like to watch you sleep.

Now, I must warn you upfront: Just because she’s crazy, doesn’t mean she’s good in the sack. In fact, if your first instinct is “bitch is crazy”, then follow that instinct. Try not to think with your little head.

Most relationships with the IBSCITS typically end in two fashions: Abruptly. Or, more commonly, by the IBSCITS becoming attached, and progressively clingy, until said male breaks it off and fears for his life. After all, bitch is crazy.

If you see an “I Bet She’s Crazy In The Sack”, your best move is to point your friend in her direction. Let him take the bullet, and enjoy the phone call the next morning — The one where he calls in tears, saying she gave him a hickey the size of a walnut on his forehead; and he has no idea how to cover it up for his job interview that afternoon. This is where you say, “Ahh, they won’t notice.”
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Also Known As: What Lies Beneath, Crazy Train, The Firey-Eyed Seductress, That Crazy Bitch, Was It Worth It?, Sleeping Beauty, Your Future Ex-Wife

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#29 The Movie Theater Applauder

Wow!  That Brett Ratner did it again!

Wow! That Brett Ratner did it again!

There’s always one person that ruins a great experience. At Faber College it was Dean Wormer, in the 90s it was that parachuting fan man, and since then, it’s been the Movie Theatre Applauder. Where the former two were single, flash-in-the-pan jackasses (on par with Sugar Ray’s Mark McGrath), the Movie Theatre Applauder is omnipresent and everlasting — and he or she hasn’t let up since my first cinema outing in the mid-80s.

Perhaps the most annoying characteristic about the Movie Theatre Applauder is their anonymity. Just like the drunk girl at the party packing the clap, you don’t know who’s going to ruin your experience until after you’ve had your fun. They’re a slick and self-conscious bunch, able to cloak their nimrod habit just as the house lights are turned on.

With their “clap and bounce” strategy, MTA’s slither out the exit well before a crow-hop hard-right from myself or any other person trying to enjoy the sullen end to Requiem For A Dream. Yet, just a few seconds ago they were applauding with pure vigor, as if Darren Aronofsky was going to answer questions in a post-flick seminar.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. There is no Aronofsky standing at the podium, no producers to give you insight. The only person waiting when those lights come on is the 17-year old usher, who’s lethargy is at its peak because he’s well aware he’ll be picking up my empty box of Raisinets and the five cans of Sparks I left in the back row.

I’m the D-bag applauding after What Happens In Vegas.

I’m the D-bag applauding after What Happens In Vegas.

Although similar to their annoying counterpart,The Black Movie Theater Talker, the Movie Theater Applauder cowers at the prospect of being identified. Even so, we’ve managed to draw a rough sketch: Applauders are more of the New England smug type; the same people who wear turtle necks underneath corduroy sport coats, work on the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in bed, and indulge in brunch at least 12 times a month.

If one is to ever catch a Movie Theatre Applauder, I recommend they duff him or her out, but hold back on their vindictive assault. One should shackle the applauder and bring him or her to the nearest university, where their blood can be tested to see if they’re genetically predisposed to being a douche bag.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: And The Dipshit Is…, Credits Killer, Clap Your Hands Say Gay, How To Lose An Eye in 10 Seconds, Clappy Gilmore

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#28 The Reality Show Contestant

I want to be on TV!There was a time when it horrified the public to hear that guitar-legend Robert Johnson had sold his soul at the crossroads for Rock God status. Yet today, no one bats an eye when the Reality Show Contestant whores their soul out for a pack of American Spirits, a fresh strain of Herpes, and a slot on the latest installment of Bret Michael’s “Suck My Rocks IV”.

To the Reality Show Contestant, eating raw cow testicles and blowing some quasi-celebrity on screen is proof that they too are “celebrities”. This is key. The Reality Show Contestant’s desire to be famous follows a “no holds barred” strategy — they will do anything, screw anyone, and even disgrace their own family, to stay on the show.

Their ultimate goal: To get their own reality show. One where they can make someone else eat moose dick for their “love”. They’ve seen how Flavor of Love’s “New York”s borderline psychotic behavior got her her very own show. And they’ve seen Tila Tequila’s bi-sexual gangbang turn from MySpace Tweak to Reality Freak. These are dreams coming true, people.

“But why?” you ask. “Why would someone make their own Grandmother take deep throating lessons from Tila Tequila just to win that weeks competition?” The answer is simple. They want to “find love”. You’ve seen how quickly they can turn on the waterworks, and start mindlessly blabbering about how much they love Bret Michaels or want to be with Flava Flav for the rest of his life. They love him. Of course, by “love”, they mean they love the attention, and more importantly, the cameras. They really love the cameras. Really.

You may want to use a Dental Dam

Uhh...You may want to use a Dental Dam

I’ve had the unfortunate opportunity to work on a few reality shows and see first hand the RSC’s uninhibited lust for attention. All they want is to be on TV, even if it makes them look bad. You want me to jerk off a homeless person? OK. Really, I need to sleep with all three of those guys? And the Producer? Alright, I’ll do it!

Yet, the Reality Show Contestant does possess one unique trait. They need to be unleashed — chosen. Without cameras, the RSC is just a lunatic with serious parental issues and a loose moral backbone. But after a few sessions with Mr. Producer, they turn into well oiled TV gold.

You can find the Reality Show Contestant on any broadcast or cable network around 8-9 PM, with high concentrations on MTV and VH1. After their 10 week stint on I Love Money VII, you’ll undoubtedly see them trying to leapfrog their “stardom” into a successful entertainment career. And failing miserably.

If you ever see a Reality Show Contestant in public, please, for the love of god, do not give them attention. It will only stroke their ego, and in turn, encourage them to audition for another Reality Show.
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Also Known As: Meat Puppets, The Reality TV Doody, The Callsheet Says Love, TV’s Least Talented, Flava Sava, Who Wants To Marry A Tramp?

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#27 The White Trash

Whats wrong with this picture?
Somewhere between patriotism and a 30-pack of Busch Lite lies the social anomaly known as White Trash. Yes, this is the American wasteland where pulling out is birth control, pregnant women have belly button rings, and the mullet is king.

You’ll know the White Trash by their signature “inbred” look. This is not to say they actually take their sister to bed. But their cousin, definitely. Maybe it’s the powerlines they live under, their commitment to staying in school until the 7th grade, or the lead in the paint chips they eat, but they just look stupid. That straw in their mouth doesn’t help either.

Yet, among the White Trash, being “trashy” is a point of pride. They’ll smoke Marlboro’s, eat spam, and cheat on their wife with her sister just like their Papy, and his Papy before him. America is king, evildoers are terrorists, and Bush just makes sense. Oh, and if you don’t drive an American made truck, you’re a terrorist as well.

I bet she\'s a virgin

I bet she's a virgin

And why not? Life is simple for the White Trash. They keep their aspirations low (“When I grow up, I want to be a waitress”), keep their bills minimal (“This trailer home practically pays for itself!”), and they keep their women in line (“I don’t care if she’s your sister, I love her.”) In fact, there’s pretty much only one rule they live by:
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem” Everything else is just unAmerican.

So grab a confederate flag, tighten up those overalls, and grab your gun, because there’s a hootinanny at the waterin’ hole and Uncle Skeeter’s about to shoot off some homemade fireworks.

You can find the White Trash concentrated in the Southern/Central regions of the United States, with pockets of trashiness scattered throughout the country. Most likely, you’ll see them in large concentrations at NRA meetings and Kenny Chesney concerts. It’s important to note that the “white trash look” has at times become hip and popular, such as during Cyndi Lauper’s career and during Derek Zoolander’s “Derelict” campaign.

If you find yourself in the midst of a rowdy group of White Trash, and you’re nervous that your Abercrombie shirt might tip them off, simply say “Get ‘Er Done!”. They will embrace you like their cousin.
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Also Known As: Trailer Trash, The Redneck, America’s Got Garbage, Confederate Kids, Constable Cockeye, The Mullet Men

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#26 The Ringtoner Extraordinaire

I can\'t believe we both put that in our mouths!
The Ringtoner Extraordinaire is the kind of girl who finds human beings so simple, so uncomplicated, that she’s confident in summing them up through one digitized pop song. Whether you’re a friend, coworker or family member, your never too valuable to be replaced by a $1.99 download on their LG Chocolate.

The most prevalent flaw with the Ringtoner Extraordinaire is the unoriginality behind their song choices, with nitwit connections including Alicia Keyes’ “In & Out of Love” for a former lover and “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister whenever her (you guessed it!) sister calls. While the RE sees originality in her song-to-caller choices, the rest of the world sees (and hears) a tone-deaf ardtard.

You’ll also notice the RE’s total inability to pick appropriate or politically correct ringtones. Don’t be surprised to hear “My Neck, My Back (Lick it)” by Khia when her grandfather calls, or “Whoop That Trick” for her Mother. I had the unfortunate experience of witnessing the RE’s senselessness at my own aunt’s funeral, when my cousin’s phone rang out Hall n Oates’ “She’s Gone.” Bravo, you dumb bitch.

Whoop the trickDespite the complexity of her pubescent emotional state, you’ll notice the RE is not a bright bulb. Odds are her song selections are:
a) produced by Timbaland
b) found on Clive Davis’ record label
c) off her favorite album “Now That’s What I Call Music: Vol. Who Gives A Shit!
d) rhyme with Shmelly Shmurtado.

The RE loves to paint with broad strokes. In fact, there is an eerie similarity between the Ringtoner Extraordinaire and sheriffs of the Deep South circa 1960. Both groups have a strong urge to categorize a person into one particular group, disregarding individuality altogether. More than likely, a relative of Ringtoner Extraordinaire has participated in church bombings or, if foreign, apartheid.

Ringtoner Extraordinaires can be found pretty much everywhere in this country — except at Onyx concerts, where after a girl’s ringtone interrupted their performance of “Blac Vagina Finda.” , singer Fredro Starr boot-stomped the girl into a coma. Despite this incident, REs have seen an overwhelming growth in popularity, especially among female teenagers. Currently, owning several ringtones is as popular in middle school as MTV’s The Hills and the fad of trading Parliament Lights for oral sex.

The true dilemma that faces single ringtone owners versus their multiple-ringtone counterparts is the fact that most female REs are quite attractive, hence the complications that arise during conversation between the two post-coitus. Keep in mind that this is only a problem for men, as any female who sweats a male Ringtoner Extraordinaire should understand he’s a homosexual.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: Ringtone Clone, Boner & Toner Lover, Toney Toney Toney, Ring Jobbers, Celly Cell and the Ruin Movies Crew, Love-to-Interrupt Slut, The Girl with the Pearl Necklace and lots of Ringtones, 8th Graders

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