If you run, they will yell

If you’re ever having one of those days where you’re feeling like you’re extremely sexually irresistible to women and are also very smart, go for a jaunt in some running shorts in an area densely populated by a younger crowd. You will be called a “faggot” and “Forrest Gump” an average of like 35 times each.

These two seem to be the go-to “jokes” for anyone trying to poke fun at a guy who is wearing short shorts in an effort to avoid chafing while he exercises. Sometimes, you don’t even have to have the shorts on. People will just yell, “Run Forrest, Run!” and then cackle like one of those hyenas  from “Lion King” with those other kids they’ve become friends with during their five-year tenure together at George Lopez’s School for Kids Who Can’t Joke Good (and Can’t Do Other Things Good, Either).

LeBron gives two

LeBron James gives two fucks. Separate ones, actually. He gives a fuck about winning, but it’s becoming more and more apparent (judging by his finals performance) that he also gives a fuck about the thing he led us all to believe he didn’t give a fuck about last summer.

I remember when he first made “The Decision.” I remember the ensuing days, when he seemed to genuinely not care about the uproar his choice had caused, which got more media coverage than lots of other, more worthy stuff (that I guess I’m feeding into by writing about him yet again — I hate myself). I remember a point during the season, when the Miami Heat were in a slump and he started Tweeting stuff about how his team was something similar to the armed forces. (If he’s really into comparing the two, then I’ll go with it: Some dudes from the armed forces recently stepped up and performed in what had to have been one of the most pressure-filled and important portions of their careers by offing Osama Bin Laden. James didn’t even reach double figures in an NBA Finals game.)

During all of that, I was under the impression that James’s arrogance prevented him from either realizing that everyone hated him, or from really caring. 

Noodz

If you reach a point in your life where you're coaching a porn star in anything more than how to win back their father's respect and admiration, it's probably safe to say you made a wrong turn somewhere along the way. It's even worse if you're coaching them to lie about something, because I'd bet a few bucks most porn stars have lied at least once or twice about their profession, by calling themselves actresses or performers or something. If you're coaching a porn star to lie in an effort to prevent yourself from getting into some serious type of deep shit, well then you're probably already at least wading in it.

Anthony Weiner allegedly found himself in that last position recently, when people started finding out he was apparently writing sexually-charged emails to  former porn star Ginger Lee that may or may not have included pictures of his dick, like the ones he seems to enjoy taking with his cell phone and sending to women who are not his wife. Weiner gave Lee some pointers on how to address questions about the scandal, and also offered the assistance of his public relations team. Because his team's plate wasn't full enough after their boss accidentally posted a picture of an outline of his junk to Twitter.

Weiner is apparently just like Brett Favre and myriad other famous dudes who don't seem to realize that most people -- especially famous and/or wealthy ones -- really need to use a dick picture to get laid. Especially not when they're sending them to a former porn star or Playmate, respectively. (Those women have probably seen dicks before. Lots of them, like enough to form a pipe organ made out of cocks with their mind's eye.) How anyone can honestly think a straight-up picture of their dong is really going to get them very far with a woman is completely beyond me. To the point I'm not going to even try it, and I'll try almost anything to get laid.

Notes from the Coast: Part 1

When I was born in 1987, Cougars did not exist. The Baltimore Ravens didn’t, either.

Things change.

I started my evening telling myself I was going to stay in. My friend Phil convinced me not to with two text messages. The first asked if I wanted to drink a little bit, and the second said there would be Jungle Juice at his apartment. At 23, I guess by societal norms I should be opposed to the Juice. I should be going to wine bars where I talk to people about how their steady relationship is going while I eat cubes of cheese and talk about work and stuff.

But yesterday was the fifth anniversary of the day I graduated from high school, and that made me feel old. There’s a gray spot in my beard, and I can’t even grow a fucking respectable beard yet. So, in the interest of youth and pure enjoyment, I went to his place. Also, for the drinking.

We played some drinking games, which made me feel young even if it didn’t restore pigment to my stubble. It was fun, but I had to hold back. I had work in the morning, so I told Phil and his friends I had to head home. I’d taken my bike there, but was unable to pilot it home. Nobody wants a BUI (or a David Bowie, as I have just now decided to call it), so I caught a bus.

While I waited at a bus stop, a group of four women had an in-depth discussion with me about the merits of owning and using a vibrator, and also about how their respective boyfriends didn’t accept their desire to pleasure themselves with the aforementioned device, despite the fact most dudes have been rubbing out at least once daily since the day they discovered they were able to. (I told ‘em to keep making themselves happy. If I had a package of double-A’s, I would’ve given it to them.)