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Dear World

Who Wants Legs This Big?

by Commodore on October 1, 2010

Really?

Dear World,

I saw this ad on a youtube video and a few things came to mind.

1) That’s funny, this ad has nothing to do with Arcade Fire.
2) Who in God’s name is trying to get thighs the size of an attack submarine?
3) Are there more than 5 women on the planet that think this is hot?
4) Where does this guy buy his jeans?
5) Are there wet suits that fit this guy? Shame if he can never see the underwater world that SCUBA diving allows
6) Why does the tip of this guy’s penis look like the bottom of a soda can?
7) Is there really a market for men’s purple thong-ish underwear? Niche markets are one thing but this is more of a nook market, no?
8 ) Does the guy in the image talk like the caveman the poster implies he does? Muscle. Videos. Now.
9) This guy must have the worst inner thigh chafe just walking around. He should have some Gold Bond on him at all times.
10) Does this guy have big poops or little poops?

There are the things I wonder about on a rainy Friday afternoon.

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A Brief History Lesson

by Commodore on September 23, 2010

Remember me?

Dear World,

For those with historical amnesia, I thought this little comedic ditty would be educational for you. In 2000, Bush was handed a golden platter covered in the finest delicacies. In 8 years, he turned that into a bag of poop. Now Obama gets his hands on the poop and people are upset because he has crap on his hands. Nice. Among Bush’s uniformity on inanity, he is the guy who said “Mission Accomplished” on the war in Iraq….in May, 2003. That’s almost 2 years before youtube started. Think about it.

Oh, and if you’re gonna use the tag-you’re-it methodology of “Well, Clinton’s policies led to 9/11 so it wasn’t Bush’s fault”, then you have to give Obama the same slack on the state of the economy he walked in on. Let’s just be happy Obama bailed out the right country. If Bush was president, he might have bailed out Liberia because of his inability to connect 2 dots.

Why am I writing about politics at 11PM? Because I’m drunk, and listening to humanoid baboons with apparent short term memory loss try to make political sense in a bar almost made my organs self destruct, that’s why.

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Enough With the All-You-Can Eat TV Shows

by Commodore on August 5, 2010

Stop it.

Dear World,

Have you tried to process the show Man vs. Food yet? I mean, have you put down your half-pound bacon cheeseburger and thought about it? There is this guy who goes around trying to eat as much as he can without having his lower intestine explode. Here I am trying to eat a spare tire filled with bean curd, Worcester sauce and legs of lamb! Roooooar!”

Having just come back from South East Asia and noticing the infiltration of Western TV, even in Borneo, I can’t help but think about the day that that show makes it to the TV screens of Third World countries. I can see it now. A group of emaciated locals shoveling whatever white rice they can find into their mouths, while this jackass is on screen glorifying the idea of eating more food than a male lion eats on a particularly hungry day. I want National Geographic to be there to document what the physical personification of “Bro, wtf?!” looks like.

Enough with the shows that diefy over-eating. While most of the world plays a very different tug-of-war game, a very competetive game of Man vs. Food, one where even the smallest amount of food is a worthy adversary to man’s search for it, America plays the role of Magnus ver Magnussen to food’s Vern Troyer. We only throw the word “versus” in there because Vern gets to bring all his friends until the tug is somewhat even, and most importantly, entertaining.

God help us.

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Somebody Beat Up Paul Shirley

by Commodore on January 27, 2010

This guy.

You know, my favorite articles are the ones that practically write themselves. Ones that actually make you say, “Bro, WTF?!” as you read it. For instance…this article.

Paul Shirley, the former NBA player who still plays pro basketball, penned a long letter today about Haiti and the consequences of its earthquake. He begins the letter by stating that he has not donated to relief efforts in Haiti and “probably will not… for the same reason that I don’t give money to homeless men on the street. Shouldn’t much of the responsibility for the disaster lie with the victims of that disaster?”

That’s true compassion from someone who luckily grew up in a society that did all the work for him as far as laying down the infrastructure of civilization. Responsibility? Kind of like when you soon hopefully get beat up and you try to call the cops and they say, “The responsibility to get you out of your predicament falls on you, sir.”

His letter gets even better.

Dear Haitians -

First of all, kudos on developing the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Your commitment to human rights, infrastructure, and birth control should be applauded. As we prepare to assist you in this difficult time, a polite request: If it’s possible, could you not re-build your island home in the image of its predecessor? Could you not resort to the creation of flimsy shanty- and shack-towns? And could some of you maybe use a condom once in a while?

Sincerely,

The Rest of the World

That son of a bitch stole my style! Well the intro and outro, not so much the meat of the message. Anyhow,

Dear Paul Shirley,

Shirly you can’t be serious? And yes, I’m calling you Shirley. Please refrain from using the pronoun “we” when describing the selfless acts that the rest of the world are conducting on behalf of the less fortunate. Since you aren’t giving a dime of cash or a dime of your time, and since you are a piece of shit, you cannot ever say “we”, because you are not a part of the global “us”. The current generations of Haitians are paying the price for many years of unfortunate events, and do not deserve your pompous holier than thou comments, especially at a time like this.

What if this earthquake devastated Rome and its citizens were buried under rubble? Should we help them? Or is the world every man for himself? It sounds like you think it is. So fuck the French for saving us in the Revolutionary War. Those bastards shouldn’t have given us shit. The British were our problem. Part of me wishes that the French would have never saved our asses back then so that your ancestors wouldn’t find America such a lovely place to live and give birth to your douchebag self.

I guess you think that we should have let Hitler run wild on the whole of Europe too because it was the fault of Europe and its residents when they decided to build their societies in close proximity to a soon to be madman. You lived the fortunate life of growing up in the late 20th century in a plentiful country, because of:

a) blind luck and
b) the back breaking efforts of people who sacrificed so future generations (that you are a part of) could have more.

Remember, you did NOTHING to deserve the life you were born into. You were given it. You should spend your life earning the good fortune you were so blessed to have been graced with. Earning it by possibly shutting your fucking mouth and maybe donating $10 bucks to people that just lost everything.

Paul Shirley, you and those that think like you are the worst that billions of years of evolution have produced. And by the way, you fucking SUCK at basketball.

Sincerely,

Browtf…on behalf of The Rest Of The World

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There’s Gotta Be A Better Name

by Commodore on December 28, 2009

Ta daaaa!

Dear World,

The Blow Job. There isn’t a job on this planet that a man would rather have. Actor. Ball player. Czar of the galaxy. None of them compare to “The Job of the Blow”. But where on earth does the term come from? Some say it has to do with jazz musicians in the 1950’s describing a woman conducting fellatio as “playing the skin flute”. A flute is blown into, and the act does take a bit of work, so they came up with “Blow Job”.

Some people say that the term comes from Victorian England. I am told that at that time, folks would refer to women of questionable character as “blowsy?” It’s not hard to connect the dots from there.

Others pass the naming torch to none other than Samuel Clemens (a.k.a Mark Twain) as coining the phrase “below job.” By Mississippi riverboat vernacular, “get b’low” meant to “get below deck”. It is also the reference to where the female’s head ends up when giving oral sex.

Three grotesquely different answers that couldn’t be further apart, like the points of an equilateral triangle. Whatever the etymology behind the statement actually is, it’s flawed and I’m here to fix it.

It starts with the word “blow”. It couldn’t be more incorrect. At what is definitely the most important dramatic scene in the movie Spaceballs (that fact that I’m arguing about a dramatic scene in this movie means that you should just concede this point to me), Lord Helmut’s giant galactic vacuum cleaner is sucking the air off an entire planet. And everyone is yelling, “Suck! Suck! Suck!” But then something happens. Lonestar uses the force and flips the switch on the giant maid making her action go from suck…to blow! The 2 words are polar opposites. Antonyms. Spaceballs says so. And if you had to pick one of the two, “suck” is a much more appropriate verb than “blow” is when describing the act of fellatio, no?

In fact, Encarta’s World dictionary has these definitions for suck.

suck (verb)

1.            to draw the liquid out of something with the mouth
2.            to hold something in the mouth and make movements with the tongue and lips as if drawing liquid out of it
3.            to consume something by making it slowly dissolve in the mouth, rolling the tongue around it and making pulling movements with the cheeks and lips
4.            to draw something out of a container (often passive)
5.            to pull or draw something somewhere with a powerful or irresistible force

(noun) an act of sucking something

Are you kidding me?! Pretty much every single one of those definitions could be a “How It Works” description of a blow job. Quite frankly, the first two could be in the “How To” directions.

So now we have “suck job”. This is a much more accurate portrayal of the deed but it’s still not 100% accurate. “Job” sounds too official and mundane. Jobs should be the daily makeup of someone’s career, not the title of a sexual act. (Now, if you’re giving head for a living, feel free to call it whatever you would like). Conducting fellatio is more of a task than a job. Tasks can be a challenge that must be accomplished quickly and excitedly, like, “I can finish a suck task quicker than anyone,” or an assignment too annoying to undertake, such as, “If you think I’m gonna perform a suck task tonight, you’re out of your friggin mind.”

Now, sticking 3 inches of a 6-inch meat cylinder in your mouth while trying to keep your mandibles clear of the skin like you were playing Operation, but somehow making your lips into a penis sheath, is not an easy task. And someone grabbing your hair, trying to aid inches 4, 5 and 6 in, forcing inches 1, 2, and 3 to push down your esophagus (or sometimes windpipe) while hot gooey liquid can shoot into your mouth without any warning, sounds like a recipe for disaster (and I don’t envy you), but it is just a task nonetheless.¹

But for us boys, the task you are providing is no task on our end. It’s entertainment. It is a vacation. We actually sit there and think, “Holy shit, my penis is in someone’s mouth. This is awesome.” It feels like a gift. It feels like a treat. Yeah, a treat. That’s it! Suck treats. “Suck treats” is much more telling of the gift we receive. “Dude, I got the best suck treat last night!” And ladies, if we call it that, we might appreciate them even more because we know that we shouldn’t receive treats all the time.

So to clarify, girls accomplish “suck tasks”.² Boys receive “suck treats”. Let’s get these terms in heavy rotation, please.

Sincerely,

Browtf

¹After all, you refer to man’s attempted navigation of the clitoris labyrinth as “eating out” like it was as simple as grabbing a sandwich “to go” from Denny’s. It’s more like eating at the restaurant of You’re Never Going To Order The Right Thing. Or it’s sometimes referred to as “going down on you”, like we merely had to duck behind a couch in a game of hide-and-seek. No, it’s like hiding behind a couch for hide-and-seek and finishing a mensa quiz while spinning on our heads.

²Except for whores. Whores who LOVE finishing suck tasks almost as much as guys love receiving them (you know you’re out there, ladies) can’t call it a task anymore, it’s too fun for them. They too have to say that they give the best suck treats because God knows who’s enjoying the act more. Girlfriends/Wives who do it simply because it’s part of the committed relationship charter, can refer to them as “suck projects”. More annoying than a task but not as demoralizing as a job.

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Dear Match.com

by Commodore on December 7, 2009

This would be under the body type: "Guy"

It has been brought to my attention that some of the females on your site are lying. When the choice comes up for body type and we see “About Average” we are expecting an average sized adult female human being, not an average sized competitive eater. What men think about when we see “About Average” is a girl who still looks pretty cute in a bikini. That’s a decent gauge. This “About” that you throw in there allow the girls to interpret that word far too liberally, and it’s not fair to guys who use match.com as a sex finding service. Christ, you give them enough places to stick their flabby-ass arms already, namely: A Few Extra Pounds, Heavyset, Stocky, Big and Beautiful, Curvy, Full-Figured. Do you need to steal “Average” from the reigns of bang-able by throwing the word “About” in front of it?! That leaves us “Slender” and “Athletic and Toned”. That’s it!

I thesauricized (yes, thesauricized) the word “about” and here’s what I got: near, nearby, around, hearabouts, not far off, close by, in the vicinity, in the neighborhood. You see the problem, right? When looking at a map of earth, Alpha Centauri is not in the vicinity of us here on earth but galactically it is. Speed is relative to the viewer and “About” is all relative to the typer.

But hang on a second. A Few Extra Pounds, Heavyset, Stocky, Big and Beautiful, Curvy, and Full-Figured? Speaking of a thesaurus! WTF is that match.com?! Aren’t those all synonyms of each other, with the (sometimes) exception of “Curvy”? I realize that your site is mostly used by people who can’t seem to meet people milling about in a coffee shop for half the day but let’s cut the fat off these categories, huh?

A woman, if given the chance, will put herself in the “About Average” category over the “A Few Extra Pounds” category, 100% of the time. I would bet my urethra on it. And I can’t disagree with the reasoning. Isn’t being in the vicinity of average about equal to having a few (which means 3) extra pounds on the bones? And since “Average” sounds better than “Extra Pounds”, who wouldn’t go with “Average”?

And “Stocky”? Jesus Christ. Are you trying to scare dudes off? Why don’t you just delete that choice altogether? Even a world-class weight lifter from Belgrade wouldn’t pick “Stocky”. The first thing a man thinks about when he hears the word “stocky” is another man…playing fullback. That’s usually not a good first impression of a woman.

If someone could logically explain to me the difference between Big and Beautiful, Full-Figured, and Heavyset, you have a set of Ginsu knives coming your way, free of charge. Here’s an idea. Get rid of “Full-Figured” entirely. That just means your “fat” but you haven’t come to terms with it yet. Everyone knows that and nobody wants to hang out with a denier. Next, change “Big and Beautiful” to “Big Boned”. That makes more sense. We get it. You’re freakishly tall, you don’t look like Marissa Miller, but we’d definitely have sex with you because we like to be manhandled, but not suffocated. “Heavyset”…well, some ladies (and men) can’t even hide their chins even if their match.com photo was taken from directly above their head.

And before you blame me for my rudeness, blame match.com. Match only has 3 categories that 98% of men are interested in. Slender, About Average, Athletic and Toned (Ok, and sometimes “Curvy”. I’m staying away from “Curvy” because I don’t want to deal with the argument of Vida Guerra vs. a chick whose rolls are curvy. If a girl looks like Vida Guerra, she just has to write her dimensions in her profile and her body type could be “Mamed” and dudes would still come running.)

And it is clear to me that too many of the “Few Extra Pounds” crew is seeping their way into the average crew, leaving some guys out there eating across the table from a girl with pendulums for triceps (Think about it). So match.com, here are the new categories and descriptions that BROWTF suggests. Trust us, you’ll have happier members:

Slender – Petite Chick. Ok…ok. We can dig petite.

Athletic and Toned – Self explanatory. We like.

Video Vixen – She can be overweight or underweight by whatever degree but if she was dancing in a Jay-Z video in 1999, we’d still definitely hit it.

Average – We’d have sex with her without having a beer, but we might not show her picture to our friends

At Least 12 Kilos Overweight – At least 5 beers

Big Boned – Depends. This is truly a wild card. Women larger than us but still having the body proportion of an average girl confuse us and turn us on at the same time

Heavy Set – Fat people need love to

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Can’t We Just Exercise Like Normal People?

by Commodore on October 20, 2009

How many idiots can you fit on one street?

Dear World,

At the risk of starting a war with all of you “extreme” athletes out there, I am going to go out on a ledge here, even though I know you could all catch me (eventually) and beat me up if I started running from you. But fuck it, you need to hear it. Whatever happened to just “working out”, “going for a run”, or “getting a good sweat”?

It started with marathons. A race run in honor of a man who died running it. Recently 3 seemingly healthy people died running one in Detroit. (Now, I understand it’s Detroit and people probably simply drop dead when they see a letter sent to them and realize that they actually still live IN Detroit, but still.)

Why do we feel the need to run 26.2 miles? Because some other guy did? That guy ran it in mocassins because he had to beat the Persian Navy to Athens or that city would have been destroyed (or so the legend goes). If he could see you running it for fun, he’d punch you in the face.

If you think you’re so cool running 26.2 miles, why hasn’t anyone thought of running a double marathon, huh? Why stop at 26.2? - Hm? What’s that? Oh, people do that too? I see.

Are we that bored with ourselves that the only way for us to find meaning in our lives is to compete in voluntary events that could kill us? That’s sad. No no Mr. Emperor, let ME jump in the Coleseum with the lions. Let the slaves rest. I want to feel the thrill of being extreme!

Now there’s the Iron Man and the Double Iron Man, ad nauseum. When does it end? When does satisfaction set in? Hannibal took elephants over the Alps. Who wants to trek that with me for shits and giggles? When do you realize that you have no life and no friends and all you do is workout? You don’t have to work out 32 hours a day to look/feel good. I workout for an hour, 3-4 days a week and I can crack coconuts with my abs. (The coconuts are perforated of course, and by “abs” i mean, a hammer.)

Because let’s be honest, men workout to get laid. That’s really the only reason. I don’t care what anyone else says. We shave, we groom ourselves, we workout, we are employed, we buy European cars with cool LED headlights, so we can get laid. Period. If women didn’t exist, or if sex hurt, we wouldn’t look much different than the cavemen in the Geico commercials. I’m not even sure if we would have developed spoken language if women didn’t exist. But in order to get laid, you have to stop working out from time to time and grab a goddamn beer and enjoy this immensely blessed life we live in Western society.

So fellas (and ladies too, because if you’re not out drinking apple-tinis in your uncomfortable shoes and short dresses, who are we supposed to pursue?), calm down with the “ultras” and the “supers” and the “extreme” and the “adventure” races. How bout a jog, a pick up bball game, some sit-ups and pull-ups and then call your boys, get drunk and go try to get some ass out on the town? I’m tired of losing wingmen because they have to get up at 4AM for a workout NAVY Seals don’t even do. Because unless you need to survive in ultra, super, or extreme conditions, re-fucking-lax. Because when I asked a friend how the Iron Man went and he said, “At one point, I wanted to die, cry, and shit myself and would have welcomed all three of those, whole heartedly,” I thought, well that doesn’t sound very fun. Why would you do that?

You do all this solo working out because you hate your life and your job and have no idea how to get out of the dead end relationship you’re in, and so you run/bike/swim so much that you see your girlfriend less than if she was working in Cape Town on a co-op, to find some sort of purpose in life.

Well I have some advice. Man up. Quit your job. Lose the girl. Play volleyball. Blackout. Regret drunken decisions. Live. You only have one life. Don’t go wasting it dying while running a foolishly long distance for no reason whatsoever.

Sincerely,

Browtf

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Dear Friend Who Owes Me Money,

by Commodore on September 4, 2009

Look, covering your $250 hotel room bill at our buddy’s wedding because your credit cards were temporarily deactivated (for whatever reason you and your budding credit rating could get deactivated for) is fine. However, you trying to pay me back by buying me beers the next couple times we go out, is unacceptable.

Had I bought you a sandwich the week before, then yes, you can pay me back by purchasing me a tasy beverage. But when the money owed reaches the same amount of money that could purchase airfare, then I’m gonna have to go ahead and request a check.

You see, spending that $250 on you removed that amount right from my checking account and unless that $250 makes it’s pretty little way back into my checking account, it is as if I got robbed of $250 because I don’t balance my checkbook, nor do I have any semblance of financial planning. In fact everytime I send my check in for rent I make the same face and gestures that someone who just threw a grenade makes (holding of the breath, plugging of the ears, and a forced closure of the eyes), hoping that I don’t get hit with any “bounced” shrapnel.

And while I enjoy drinking beers with you, if I have a $250 drinking credit next time we go out, I will of course treat that $250 like it was a surplus owed to me and not the payment that keeps the books even. This is dangerous for someone who has yet to learn how to drink responsibly. A $250 open credit at a bar leaves me: buying drinks for people I don’t know, hitting on chicks with a high body mass index, and trying to use up all $250 in one night because I like reaching goals.

So please, we are not 22 anymore and the $250 isn’t exactly a “just get me back on the next round” kind of loan. The rules should be as follows. If you owe me:

$0 – $20, you pay me back in booze or food next time we are out
$20 – $100, you pay me back in cash. Buying me a lap dance at a strip club is not an acceptable payment. However, buying me a blow job at one, is. (BJ’s are the exception to every rule)
+$100, you write me a check, or you cover my share in the next unavoidable group fee until your debt is repaid, i.e. rental car, plane ticket, hotel, or The Wolf’s services when we need to dispose of a body.

Savvy?

Respectfully,

Browtf

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Dear Guy in the Gym

by Big Lou Al Timber on August 14, 2009

I’m going to try and be as polite about this as I possibly can, but you’re a douche bag. Not only did you immediately become the laughing stock of my afternoon, but you instantly reminded me of why I hate meat heads and wish they would all elephant-walk right off the side of the Grand Canyon.

As I opened the door to our small neighborhood gym, I noticed you over there on the lat pull down machine, eye fucking your latissimus dorsi in the mirror. Now this isn’t such a lame thing to do in the gym, and you’re definitely not the first to commit this crime, but you still looked ridiculous. I calmly made my way over to the treadmill that stands directly in front of the television so I could enjoy me some Boston Red Sox beat down at the hands of the Detroit Tigers (or so I thought.)

As I changed the channel on the television, you jumped up from the machine and ran over to me, letting me know you were “watching that.” Here is how the conversation unfolded:

Gym Guy: Dude dude dude, I was totally watching that.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry man, I didn’t realize you were. My bad.

(I turn the station back to Gym Guy’s show – I’ll address what it was momentarily).

Gym Guy: Yeah, I was watching it.

Me: No big deal man, it’s all good.

Gym Guy: Oh, well if you want to watch the baseball game that’s cool.

Me: Really dude, it’s no big deal, I’m just going for a run.

Gym Guy: Well I have some friends that love baseball, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you never fuck with a man’s ball game.

Me: Huh?

Gym Guy: It’s cool man, you can watch the game.

Alright, what the F just happened here, dude? How did you go from being Johnny fucking Rough Nuts to Mr. Nice Guy in a matter of 13 seconds? And please tell me you don’t think we’re going to be buddies now that you let me watch the channel I wanted to watch. Truthfully, I don’t even like the Tigers and I don’t really give a shit what’s on TV while I run. And what do you mean you ”never fuck with a man’s ballgame?” Are you kidding me?

But this crap isn’t even the root of my most major problem with you, Gym Guy. Do you realize what show it was that you were watching when I changed the channel? You were watching The Closer, on TNT. And to think you wanted me to leave it on that 30 minutes of absurdity instead of watching baseball. For this Gym Guy, I hope Kyra Sedgwick jumps out of the TV and tears your lat in two.

Sincerely,

Big Lou Al Timber

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Dear Sarah, Nobody Cares.

by Commodore on July 27, 2009

Shhhhhh.

Dear Mrs. Palin,

The only reason anyone originally gave a shit about you is because you are a MILF from Alaska. We hadn’t seen that porn scenario yet. Then you started talking. Now, nobody cares. But you’re still talking. Please stop.

The end.

Ok, that was my letter but seriously, WTF is this:

“By the way, Hollywood needs to know: We eat, therefore we hunt.”

This was in response to an Ashley Judd commercial that had a wee problem with hunting wolves with assault rifles from helicopters. I knew Alaska was bum fuck but I didn’t know they ate wolves. I don’t think Cro-Magnon men ate wolves. It was too uncivilized for them.

“Some still are choosing not to hear why I’m charting a new course to advance this state,” she said, adding that “it should be so obvious to you. It is because I love Alaska this much, sir, that I feel that it is my duty to avoid the unproductive, typical, politics-as-usual, lame-duck session in one’s last year in office.”

So, you’re quitting. I should use the Palin Theory in bed. “Listen, the reason why I feel the need to run out of here 3 seconds after cumming is because I love you so much, sweety, that I feel that it is my duty to avoid the unproductive, typical, boredom-as-usual, lame-ass Talk & Cuddle session in one’s last minutes awake.”

Before addressing the crowd in a park with an ersatz frontier main street and encircled by a choo-choo train that was once called “Alaskaland,” Palin spent hours under a tent serving hot dogs and greeting admirers.

This sounds like a Tim Burton movie. What the hell exactly goes on in Alaska?

Two Texans holding up pro-Palin signs said they drove on Harley-Davidsons some 4,000 miles north from the Ft. Worth area to check out Alaska and see the woman they want to be the next president.

[(2Fort Worth + Harleys)4000] x Sarah Palin 4 President = Hilarity.

(FYI, Sarah if you’re reading this, don’t let my teasing let you think that I wouldn’t love banging you. That is so not the case. Just wanted to be sure I’m clear. We could always do it when your husband was out snowmobiling for caribou carcasses that he mowed down with a gatling gun. K, thanks.)