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Internet Rundown: February 25, 2011

Finally, a decent video of three men taking on fifteen hungry lions. [YouTube]

You'd be surprised to learn what women will give up for a sharp dressed man. [My Daily]

This Venn diagram will help you keep track of Denzel Washington's various head/facial accessories. [Huffington Post]

Find out how much of your favorite caffeinated drink it would take to kill you. [Energy Fiend]

Don't start your weekend without a thumbs up from a six-fingered cat! [Geekosystem]

The Left Side Of The Staircase

You know what grinds my gears? When there is a huge line of people walking up the right side of the staircase (in the USA) and someone decides to go up the left side. Listen fucker, I am quicker, faster, smarter--I'm just better than you in every way. Why am I going "slow"? Because there is a crowd.

But okay--maybe I am being unfair. I know me some economics. This is a risk/reward thing--you are taking the risk that someone will come down that left side of the stairs, and if you manage to avoid that, you win--you got up the stairs 7 seconds faster than I did. Nicely played--but I'll still silently pray that you slip and crack those two buck teeth.

But know this--no, really, you must listen to this. In the event that someone punks you and starts coming down the left side of the stairs, DO NOT try and insert yourself in front of me. Why do you think I would let you in front of me? You are no better than the bloody smegma from my "cut and play" sessions. I would rather insert my member into the anus of whatever penguin is slowly waddling up the stairs than let you in front of me.

And why am I being a jerk about this? Because without that there is no "risk" in the economic analysis. Being an asshole keeps the order. Why wouldn't everyone do that if there is no downside? Oh, because doing that would be a cunt move, you say? Exactly. And cunts deserve to get fucked by a wretched penis--me.

Buses and Boobs

The following is a list of things to do while riding as a passenger on a bus (or other public transport). I realize most sane humans already follow these guidelines, but I feel a friendly reminder can always be helpful in case, just maybe, you forgot.

1. If you will be traveling in a bus, please make sure your personal hygiene is up to par.

(This obviously also applies to everyday life, please take note.)

2. It is fine to listen to music on the bus, but please limit this listening to ear buds and not a speaker surround sound.

I understand your love for Justin Beiber* but I would rather shove a pencil in my eye than listen to his music for my hour commute.

* Justin Beiber can be replaced with any other annoying generic singer or group like Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, Nickleback or Creed.

3. Talking on the phone is allowed because, obviously, you have time to kill, but please note the difference between talking and yelling.

I get it, you are upset because your boyfriend forgot to send you flowers for some non-descript holiday, and you want to vent to a friend, family member, pet, etc., but leave that conversation for the two of you and let me fill my own thoughts with delusions of grandeur.

4. If you are not handicapped, crippled, or sick, don’t sit in handicap seats.

This rule is similar to the handicap parking principle except not worthy of a fine. Listen, we all get tired, we all have days where walking three more feet seems like eternity, but when you look in the eyes of a poor old woman who can barely stand and just wants to knit her new grandchild a pair of mittens how can you say no?! Personally, this story breaks my heart for all the old ladies out there with an affinity for knitting.

5. Don’t take off your shoes.

This is not your living room. This is a bus. Don’t confuse the two in your need to make yourself comfortable. Also, the foot odor that you are letting escape through your shoes is filling the recycled air and the nostrils of all 30+ passengers. Need I say this is disgusting? Well let me be clear: this is disgusting! Keep your shoes on! I don’t care about your hard day nor do I want to smell it.

6. If you need to breastfeed your child in the seat next to me, please don’t use my boob as a baby head rest.

First, breastfeeding your baby on a public bus is weird for the most part and the bus isn’t even the place to have such a private moment between you and your child. With the 30+ onlookers you are just allowing strangers to oogle at your nipple as you wait for the baby to latch on. I forget when the bus became a place for one’s inner exhibitionist to come out and play.

Now, I don’t have a child, and after watching this, probably won’t be having one anytime soon, so I am very naïve to the breastfeeding process. With that said, if you know you will be commuting with child, don’t you prepare yourself with bottles of breast milk or formula? Isn’t this the logical resolution? I’m just saying!

Anyway, I digress, if you are to breastfeed your child in a bus don’t sit next to me and then use the leverage of my chest to pose as a pillow of sorts for the baby to rest on while you breastfeed. When I came on the bus after my 8 hour work day I did not sign up for this job! When I sit in the bus I would like to be encapsulated by a bubble, a “bubble effect” if you will, don’t fuck with that! You are breaking my bubble with your annoying baby and with no care for my feelings.

I get it, babies, in general, have to eat and the baby probably thinks two sets of jugs are better than one, but leave me and my knockers out of it. Just because I am female does not make me any more inclined to be alright with this; in fact quite the opposite. I am horrified that I am sitting next to this. But I am an adult, so I show restraint. I would love to start yelling and embarrass you enough in the hope you would find a new seat mate who would be more inclined to deal with your shit. Instead, I choose to pretend this is not happening until I feel the pressure of your baby's head squeezing my boob and then I am back to the reality of my cramped bus seat and met with the smirks of other passengers who feel bad for my situation but find this delightfully entertaining.

So to people who find this process the norm, what the fuck is wrong with you? Find another place to feed your child that doesn’t involve nipple-sucking, me, or my boob. Let it be a singular act that you and your child can enjoy together. Let me offer a few places to do this:

- A BATHROOM, maybe even one with a stall made for this activity,

- an office with a closed door,

- did I say bathroom?!

There are many places. Find one and leave me and my bubble the fuck alone.

I hope these bus rules have helped you in determining your behavior the next time you take on public transportation. I know this will definitely be beneficial to me and my hour commute home.

Menstrual Cycles + Hot Tub + Social Construction = ?

As conversations go, the cornerstone of any great friendly dialogue touches on politics, metaphysics, science, and female/male pubescent shame. I will not go into great detail as to the time and location of this conversation… but there was a hot tub involved.

The only reason I bring up the hot tub is its’ importance in allowing the soon to be discussed conversation to occur. A hot tub is small, you cannot meander to the bathroom to break a conversation, order a beer or take your shot at the pool table; you are always present. Another element is the lack of clothing. As a semi-adult, any long pauses in a conversation where you happen to be partially clothed always flips a switch in the male brain that maybe I should make a move, a sexy move.

A sexy move was not an option in this case due to reasons I can discuss at another venture. Needless to say, the conversation needed to have a few pauses so any possible topic flagged as inappropriate was fair game.

Tampons were the topic du jour and that progressed into the idea of women sharing the same domicile match their “cycle” to the most dominant female. Two females were present and offered great insight with little shame. I fear neither, tampons, periods or vaginas so I continued to probe….with questions. The females agreed that women tend to match their “visits” from “Aunt Flow” to whoever the dominant female is in the shared living space.

As a man, this came off to me as an elegant, advanced way of determining a pecking order. Men living in the same space don’t match up masturbation cycles or even farting order. Men have to rely on feats of physical strength, intelligence, or income level to understand who the alpha is and who the omega is. Even those determinants can be debated.

Maybe that is one reason why women may be less aggressive or competitive as men, nature will tell them who is more dominant regardless of who wins the wet t-shirt contest or receives the most drinks at the bar. Granted, bleeding once a month is a drag and tampons and other sanitary napkins aren’t’ free. While women enjoy their hot water bottles resting on their cramped tummies, eating frozen yogurt and watching Lifetime movies of the week absent the pressure of competition; I’m entering arm wrestling competitions, working 80 hours a week and convincing my roommates to sync up to my masturbation cycle.

I Am One Hundred and Ten Percent Sure that This Is the Stupidest Sentence You Will Read All Day

Let’s stop using the expression “one hundred and [n additional amount] percent,” all right? Let’s stop saying things like, “I’m a hundred and fifty percent sure that my boyfriend is cheating on me,” and, “Though they lost, the baseball team gave it one hundred and ten percent.” This expression is no good.

First, note that this expression is hyperbole because you can’t have more than one hundred percent of these things. If you have the highest possible amount of something, you still only have one hundred percent of it. Why? Because “percent” literally means “one part in every hundred.” So “one hundred percent” means essentially “one hundred parts of one hundred parts,” or “all parts.” Because there can only be one hundred individual percents, being “one hundred and ten percent sure” about something is kind of like thinking that if wearing one condom is 99% effective, then wearing two condoms is 198% effective.

But I get that this phrase is not meant to be interpreted literally. That’s fine. My problem with this expression is that it is, ironically, not expressive. First, when someone says, “Timmy gave one hundred and ten percent out there on the field,” I think, “Why didn’t he give one hundred and fifteen percent, or one hundred and twenty percent?” The speaker could have gone infinitely higher in expressing Timmy’s effort, and I’m left wondering why the speaker settled on the arbitrary percentage that he chose. The expression thus loses persuasive and expressive force because it is distracting—while the speaker continues with his comments, my mind is careening down the railway of cacological speculation.

Second, and more importantly, this phrase makes me think of those classless troglodytes that get paternity tests on the Maury show. These jokers are invariably “one hundred and [insert some arbitrary additional amount] percent sure” that Tyson is/isn’t the father of eight month old Vanessa. When you say this expression, I think of you as one of those Maury guests, which is neither flattering to you, nor helpful to whatever point you’re trying to emphasize. So, unless you think evoking a comparison to deadbeat parents is useful for your claim, forego this phrase.

Of course, percentages over one hundred can have useful meanings in more scientific or mathematical contexts where they are not merely idiomatic phrases. For instance, a doctor might find that a patient’s T-cells have “increased two hundred percent,” meaning they have tripled. But the chief difference here is that the doctor is contemplating a change in amount of something by more than one hundred percent rather than a raw amount that is more than one hundred percent of itself.

And that’s it, folks. Now that we’re clear on this, let’s delete this idiom from our vernacular and leave it exclusively in the capable hands of scientists, mathematicians, and putative fathers.

It is what it is

Coming to the realization that you have been un-friended by someone on Facebook can be a tough pill to swallow. I myself take great pains to cultivate meaningful connections, and consider how to keep my posts fun for the whole family. Furthermore, I have always strived to limit my status updates—to only that which at least five of my friends could actually give a fuck about at any given time.

Sure, I am often tempted to err on the side of shock value, and spread as much libel about you idiots over the internet as I possibly can. Yet I do understand the value of censorship, and the important role it plays in our God-fearing society. To that end, offending or annoying my fellow Facebookers is actually very low on my list of priorities. I typically summon my faculties of judgment and discretion before posting shitfaced photos or statuses re: my latest sexual exploits, fetishes, and the like. You know, so as to not alienate my friends and relatives, co-workers, and even a tech-savvy terrier.

Despite my painstaking efforts to appeal to the entire crowd, my friend’s mother decided to sever her social networking ties with me. Yes, it is true. I was mindful of her demographic (old, crotchety), and she still gave me the axe. What hurt most about this severance was the fact that she was a parent of a friend. And parents have always historically loved me. So of course, it was a real blow to my ego.

Days went by. Questions began to fill my head. Did she ever really like me to begin with? Will it be awkward to see her in person? And most importantly, was she uncomfortable with the fact that I like to start my mornings with a cup of Joe and a naked tantric yoga sesh?

As anyone would naturally expect, my curiosity soon developed into anger and violence.The next Saturday morning, I decided to relate my angst over the matter to my lover. I queried him as to why anyone in their right mind would ever want to un-friend me??

Poised in downward facing dog, he responded with Zen-like focus, “It is what it is.”

Now, if you know me at all— do. not. ever. say: “It is what it is,” to me. This phrase is an outright slap in the face to anyone who gets off by venting their frustrations on a given topic. Sometimes, I simply need to complain. And not only does "it is what it is" indicate to me that you do not care about my issue, it also demonstrates that you were not even listening to begin with. It is an unoriginal one-size-fits all response used by anyone who cannot appreciate the therapeutic benefits of a good rant. Furthermore, what does “it is what it is” even mean?

Let’s break it down.

So, you’re telling me that the thing that I am talking about, is in actuality, what I am talking about? Get the fuck out! Thank you for that insightful gem of wisdom. Before you were here to offer me absolutely nothing in the way of supportive feedback, I was under the erroneous impression that the thing I am complaining about was actually something completely different than what I am complaining about. Thank you so much! I was forever doomed to think that it is what it isn’t, or rather, isn’t what it actually is. But now you’ve clarified for me, that it is, in fact, what it is. I am now completely fucking enraged and you have contributed nothing to this conversation.

How close is TOO close?

The other day I was at my desk and one of the girls came over to ask me a question:
“How do I copy and paste this?” she asks.
I replied, “Did you try the copy and paste options up top?” Crystal clear.
"Oh, yeah" she says...

Maybe if she would have opened her eyes it would have saved me from an uncomfortable experience. Come to think of it, her computer illiteracy inspired me to speak up.

Bottom line, this question could have easily been “googled”.

Google me this interwebs?!

Do you think invading my personal space is acceptable in today’s society? I’m sorry I do not want to smell the tuna sandwich you had for lunch, nor do I care to smell your horrible perfume [GLENDALE!] And the last time I checked, belly to elbow is unnecessary.

You have your bubble.
I have my bubble.
Please stay out.

Let’s do an exercise - stand up and do a helicopter (a sprinkler will suffice). If you hit someone in the process – do not apologize, repeat this exercise until they fully remove themself from your bubble.

_{[Belly to elbow is defined as such: trespassing in my bubble to the point where I can feel the baby in your belly kicking my elbow.]}

It's Official: The Pharaohs Should Have Won the Egyptian Revolution

Last week's audience poll concerned the recent Egyptian revolution. Abuse of Discretion readers were overwhelmingly "rooting for the pharaohs" during the 18 days in which millions of Egyptian protesters from a variety of socio-economic backgrounds and religions lamented police brutality, lack of free elections, and uncontrollable corruption. The results of the poll are as follows:

Which of the following best sums up the recent Egyptian revolution?
I was rooting for the pharaohs.: 50%
Who cares? Brown people are so drama.: 27%
A great victory for democracy!: 18%
This won't change anything, but it was entertaining.: 4%
(Percentages rounded down.)

These results suggest that more than three in four Abuse of Discretion readers didn't really care about the militant political oppression imposed by dictator Hosni Mubarak, nor were readers particularly concerned with the hundreds of deaths and thousands of injuries caused by rioting in the wake of Mubarak's deposition. Also, people really like mummies.

Please take a moment to answer this week's poll, which has nothing to do with brown people.

Internet Rundown: February 18, 2011

Do you notice anything odd about this "Chance" card from an early edition of Monopoly? [Adena]

You've heard of a jack in the box. You've even heard of a dick in the box. But have you heard of this? [Huffington Post]

There's nothing angelic about this new Dodgers shirt. [OC Register]

Autocorrect errors should be the least of your worries. [Wrong Number Texts]

There's no other way to explain this: an elephant devoured in "seconds." [Huffington Post]