Monthly Archives: October 2008

#45 The Weightroom Screamer

So you know it's good.

So you know it's good

What’s more eXtreme than lifting weights, sweating, and screaming at the same time?  If you said “nothing”, give yourself a pat on the pecks.

The Weightroom Screamer is the most intense, meaty, and vocal of all gym-going men.  Every set offers them not just the ability to push their muscles to the limit, but also a chance to show the world they have the vocal pipes of a castrati.  

And screaming bloody murder is not something they take lightly.  Most of the time, you’ll notice they utilize the “grunt-scream”, which is a hybrid noise ranging somewhere between an ejaculating bull and a dying dog.  This is chump change to them.  It’s filler. 

But the REAL scream — the one that makes everyone stare and uneasy — this is what the Weightroom Screamer lives for.  Max Weight. And they refuse to do alone.  They will undoubtably ask you for a spot, grab that weight in their greasy hands, and scream into your face like a drunk girl doing karaoke.  

Can I get a spot please?

Can I get a spot please?

Yet, it’s not all for nothing.  Their mindless screams function much like a bird’s mating call.   The shrill and uncomfortable vocals are merely a signal — letting all the ladies in the room know that he’s the strongest man in the room, and yes, he’s ovulating.

Fresh off of a gallon of Vanilla Whey Protein Shakes and a shot of “5 Hour Energy”, the WRS is ready — at any moment – to have a bench press competition, ask you “what the f**ck are YOU looking at?”, or to straight-up punch you in the face.   If you’re a female, spotting a WRS before they scream is not difficult — they’re the only one in the gym more interested in staring at their own ass over yours.

You can find the WRS at any location where free weights are found. If you live near a beach, you may find an increased ratio of WRS, as their screams hope to attract a hot bittie walking by the ocean. They feed off of lifting wrought iron, and if they even see a BoFlex or any of this other mechanical bullshit, they’re liable to scream in anger and throw a temper tantrum.
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Also Known As:  The Meathead Scream, The Weight Room Diva, Whey Warriors, That Dude At The Gym That Won’t Shut The Fuck Up, Braveheart

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Filed under beach, body, friends, guidos, gym, sports

#44 The Chinese Symbol Tattoo

Round Eye

What They Think It Means: True Love. What It Actually Means: Stupid Round Eye

The Chinese Symbol Tattoo is the quintessential go-to tattoo of the 21st century. It’s immediately deep, incredibly profound. Not because you read somewhere that it means “honor”, but because everyone of your friends doesn’t understand what it means.

For the Chinese Symbol Tattoo (CST), that little doodle on their arm is proof that they are, in fact, better and smarter than you. They’re intellectual, world-class people. And just because they don’t understand something, doesn’t mean that they won’t get a tattoo of it. Because they will. They’ll get a whole freakin’ row of tattoos.

And really…what’s cooler than branding yourself with something that — five beers ago — meant absolutely nothing to you. Don’t you see how insightful it is? It’s like embracing other cultures, without the hassle of actually learning or doing anything.

Now, it’s important to note that this article is specifically talking about Caucasians, not Asians — the hamburger-eating Round Eyes that entrust Cleedus down at Lucky Tattoo to ink them up in Mandarin. These are the same people that think Outback Steakhouse is a good place to experience Australia, and order Dominos when they feel like eating Italian.

While they are in the same family as the Barbed-Wire Arm Tattoo and the Tattoo Freak, the CST is by far the most powerful of the needle-based junkies. They’ve tapped into that rare fringe market — male and female twenty-somethings that want a cool tattoo, but don’t have anything in mind. So they settle for one that means something to someone else.

So then, why do it? The answer is simple. The CST loves the fact that you have to ask them what it means. It practically pays for itself in ego stroking!

And really, what’s cooler than a permanent reminder that you don’t speak Chinese? If you happen to come across a Chinese Symbol tattoo (which you undoubtably will), give them a little scare. Tell them you speak Mandarin, and that their tattoo actually means “a whale’s vagina”.
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Also Known As: Lost in Translation, The Chinese Star, It Means “Douche”, The Cultural Tat, Bing Bing Herro Prease, The Poo Poo Platter

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Filed under body, friends, idiot accessories, IdiotPantsParty, tattoo, trendy

#43 The Fantasy Football Fanatic

It's like I'm actually part of the team!

It's almost as real as beating off to porn!

Since when was it socially acceptable for a grown-man to watch football on Sunday with a laptop propped on his thighs? This question is one of the many asked while observing the internet’s latest product, the Fantasy Football Fanatic AKA F3s.

Other questions include, “why would a grown man live out his life vicariously through an offensive line?” Or even worse, “why would an adult let his life be consumed by the stats of a newly acquired placeholder?” These questions are just part of the enigma that are Fantasy Football Fans, a group immensely growing in numbers while ironically, their cocks shrink.

“Irony” is the proper term for this pathetic culture of loserdom. The F3 is a big proponent of all things masculine: reading FHM, doping drinks with GHP, and shopping at GNC. All in all, F3 lives in a fantasy world (obvious by his name). But on Sunday, all that masculinity culminates to a couch cushion in order to perform the least manly thing possible: watch television and let a computer tally up statistics. F3 plops himself on the couch for an arduous day of nothing but potential bragging rights at the water cooler tomorrow. In doing so, he has become the perfect example of the pussification of the American male.

Whereas only 10 years ago, adult males would enter the workplace on Monday morning to trade stories about who’s penis went where over the weekend or about how much property damage they caused — today’s men meet at the water cooler to boast about who traded up for Ricky Waters prior to Sunday afternoon*.

Even more stupendous than their pussification is the event they hold just before their 5-month internet hard-on. I’m referring to the Fantasy Football Draft, which, if some of you aren’t familiar, is the equivalent of the motivational huddle fluffers create the first day of shooting on a gay-porn set.

Spotting an F3 is one of the easiest tasks to master. For one, F3 outfits are as uniform as the referees they’ve come to detest. By sporting their favorite football team’s home jersey or t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, the F3 announces to the general public that A) I’m a huge fan of Eli Manning and B) I’ve abandoned self-confidence and have given up caring about my place in society.

Secondly, all F3s congregate in the same place: their homes. There once was a time where F3s wandered planet Earth like the husky dog in heat. But much like the husky breed, they’ve been neutered, trading in their natural ways for a fat, domesticated life on the couch. Nonetheless, an enticing menu of chicken wings and boobs can get F3s out of the house, but the lack of internet access hinders their social behavior. And while you’re trying to kick it to a pair of slutty Chargers fans, your F3 “Wingman” will be too busy texting his buddy Karl to hit the refresh button, and update him on their fantasy league.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: Tim Couch, Peyton Not-a-Manning, Warren Goon, Warren Sappy, Mean Joe Recliner, Robert DeNiro in The Fan, Season Ticket/Dick Holder

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Filed under entertainment, friends, internet, sports

#42 The Storytime Haircutter

I'm not just a hair stylist...I'm also annoying!

I'm not just a hair stylist...I'm also annoying!

Look, no one likes getting their hair cut at Supercuts. The quality sucks, the mood is shitty, and usually Lupe doesn’t speak English, so you’re not even sure if she understands how you want it cut. But a majority of us still do it because it’s cheap, quick, and quiet.

But The Storytime Haircutter aims to rob you of that precious silence. Sure, she’ll throw in the cheap and shitty part of the haircut, but fuck you — she’s got some stories to tell.

Have you heard about her kids and Myspace? They’re always on it and she doesn’t approve. Oh, and this one time, she caught her niece’s Myspace profile, and-and she was wearing these like super short skirts. And so she’s like “MMmm, girl…I’m telling your momma!” Please! Tell me more!!

Like a Homeless Person asking for change, the SH will never stop; even if you’re unresponsive or don’t make eye contact. They’re relentless, and as long as you’re trapped in that little seat, they plan on raping you eardrums.

You see, the Storytime Haircutter doesn’t play by the rules. They don’t ask you about YOUR day, they TELL you about theirs. It’s forced role reversal — like paying a Plumber to shit on your floor. And that’s just rude.

You're stories make me want to cut myself

You're stories make me want to cut myself

Instead, I’m treated with the pleasure of a story about how you were stalked by a customer at Koo Koo Roo. Delightful. Oh. No…I actually haven’t had the salad bar at Sizzler. It’s good? OK, well if you say so.

Much like their close counterparts, The Airplane Talker and The Douchebag Dentist (how am I supposed to answer your question when your fingers are in my mouth?!) — the Storytime Haircutter lacks total self-awareness. Despite the fact that you’re PAYING them to cut your hair, they don’t focus on haircutting, they focus on talking. Shitty stories and awful analogies. You know what, forget me. Let’s put those scissors on auto-pilot and hear more about how your father worked in a Pillow Factory.

You should be warned, though — much like Melanoma, the Storytime Haircutter is not someone you should take lightly. You feed too much into their story, and your head will come out looking like a cross-breed between Alfalfa and a newly turned lesbian.

If you have the unfortunate luck of falling victim to a Storytime Haircutter, don’t panic! At the beginning of the cut, tell them the the IPP tried-and-true story: “Yeah, it’s weird. My Dad’s in jail for a pretty brutal haircutting accident. But oh well, he’ll be out in a couple months, so that’s good. …I’m sorry, you were saying something?”
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Also Known As: Gabby, The Haircut From Hell, Chatty Kathy, Henifer Lopez, The Supercut Sham, Nights in Rodanthe, The Neverending Story IV, Getting Scissored
Related: The Airplane Talker, The “Let Me Tell You About My Day Guy”

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Filed under annoying people, awful, haircuts, idiot accessories, work

#41 The Metrosexual

We're 51% straight!

We're 51% straight!

If it’s cool to be gay, than this guy is balls-deep in an ass. And if being gay is uncool, than this guy is still balls deep, but he’ll be blasting the latest Akon mashup and feigning heterosexuality. This is the confused dichotomy of the Metrosexual — dress like a gay person to score chicks.

The Metrosexual is the Clark Kent of the gay world, able to walk on the straight side then run into a telephone booth and come out with a feather boa. They want to be gay so badly that they’re willing to put on the full costume and shake their tailfeather. But if you’re a gay guy, don’t you even LOOK at them. Because they’ll make you a knuckle sandwich with extra man-meat.

It’s ironic, however, that while the Metrosexual embraces gay fashion and stylings, they are perhaps the most “homophobic” people on earth. Notice the quotation marks I put around that word. It’s common knowledge that many such metrosexuals will outwardly hate, but on the inside, be as gay as Clay Aiken. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

If there’s a 2-for-1 deal on waxing, they’ll get their chest and their taint waxed. If there’s a sale at Barney’s, they’ll be waiting outside the door with a $5000 credit limit. And if there’s a new trendy club, they’ll be there with greased hair and a collared shirt.

The Metrosexual lives a fabulous life, with a peppering of douchiness mixed in. So how do you tell a metro from a gay person? It’s a tough distinction, and one I don’t really care about making.

What’s particularly interesting is that while the Metrosexual philosophy is aimed at pleasing women, they are often the butt of the joke on both sides of the fence. Straight men dislike Metros, Gay men dislike Metros, and most women scoff at Metros. So that pretty much means that only Metrosexuals like other Metrosexuals. Again, man on man.

You can largely find Metrosexuals concentrated in New York City and areas of Long Island/New Jersey. They love clubbing, rap music where the vocals are robotized, and being inside another man (not in a gay way). Hobbies include: Frosting their tips, buying stripped shirts, Madonna (especially her new stuff), scarves, and reading GQ, both online and in print.
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Also Known As: Metro, Gay For Play, The Bare-Chested Stripped-Shirt Guy, The Confused Clubber, Ball Street, The Fabulous Homophobe

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Filed under body, clothes, douche, friends, guidos, idiot accessories, long island, new jersey, new york city, rich people