I'd probably lose track of my children after about two of them

Apparently the OctoMom and Kate from Kate Plus A Haircut Minus John Plus A Gaggle Of Whiny-Ass Children, or whatever the show's called, have some sort of beef with one another.

Or so I'm told. I've never fact-checked it.

But it makes sense.

Each must feel like the other's trying to creep in her share of the "My vagina's spat out a ton of babies" market.

They're like Pepsi and Coke, Nike and Reebok, Tranformers and Go-Bots, student strippers paying for college and strippers who just say they're stripping to pay for college, and so on, but for the wonderment of mass human procreation without exploding a uterus.

Whatever beef the Fertility Women allegedly have with one another is unfortunate, because with Jon standing in the way of Kate continuing her current show, I really thought those two should get their own reality show together.

I don't even understand how this show wouldn't be entertaining:

"New. 'How I Met That Other Mother.' Kate and OctoMom yell at each other over coffee at Starbucks while planning a playdate to introduce their children to one another. Series premiere. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Lost Boys.' Chaos ensues when Kate and OctoMom scramble to find a few of Kate's kids after a trip to the park. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Girl Talk.' Kate and OctoMom offer motherhood advice and pass out condoms to teen girls at a Planned Parenthood clinic. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Hey, Let's Trade!' Part 1. The moms accidentally swap kids for a day. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Hey, Let's Trade!' Part 2. After accidentally swapping kids, the moms decide to hold a draft to choose which kids they like best. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'A Quick Run To The Store.' Kate and OctoMom rob a Babies 'R' Us at gunpoint. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'My Feelings Run Deep.' Recurring aches from their childbirthings prompt the moms to visit a massage parlor, seeking 'The Cervical Special'. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Thelma And Louise.' Show producers intervene by calling the police when the moms try to skip town and leave their kids behind. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Don't Sweat The Small Things.' The moms talk to contractors about building a sweatshop. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'I'll Have What She's Having.' After putting the children to bed, Kate and OctoMom get drunk and fist each other. 30 min. CC."

"New. 'Night Owls.' After realizing OctoMom mistakenly left behind one of her children during a trip to the zoo earlier in the day, Kate gets arrested trying to seduce an overnight zoo security officer while OctoMom sneaks into the zoo and gets eaten by a lion. Season finale. 60 min. CC."

R-E-S-P-E-C-T... Find out what it... Oh, shut the hell up.

Recently a gut feeling (and various other circumstantial issues) prompted me to change my mind about a decision I'd made to go visit a girl I'd kinda had a long-distance thing with.

Immediately after I told her I'd changed my mind, she told me she didn't respect me and that she didn't think I was the "good person" she once thought I was.

It was shocking how quickly she threw those words out at me.

By the end of the conversation, she convinced me to take some time to think about changing my mind again and going to see her afterall.

If she truly felt I wasn't a good person and that she had no respect for me, why was she trying to convince me to stick with the plan to go visit?

Does she have something underhanded planned for me now, or was she just making a power play in an attempt to break me down with harsh words?

Upon further pondering of her words, I'm not sure I believe that men and women -- in general -- truly, honestly, ever really respect each other.

Get your hard-on on

The commercials for Viagra, Cialis, and all the other boner pills out there are stupid for more reasons than I can count.

However, every time one of those commercials pops up, one thing springs to mind.

Get it?

Pops up?

Springs to mind?

Eh?

You're welcome.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes...

The warnings.

The warnings on all medication ads are ridiculous, but the warnings on prescription hard-on medicine are my favorite, particularly two specific warnings therein.

Firstly, this whole "if your erection persists for more than four hours, consult your physician" business is ridiculous.

No man with a dick that's stuck on rock solid mode for 4+ hours is going to run crying to his doctor. No: what's gonna happen is the dude is gonna fuck his wife and/or his girlfriend and/or the neighbor's wife and/or any other woman he can slide up inside. And then he'll do it again. And again. And after he's done, he'll probably just walk around the house naked for a while making up new novelty tricks to try, like catapulting M&Ms off the head and across the room, or using the extra shelf to carry things around on.

If anything, the physician who awarded him the four-hour boner will receive a fruit basket and/or a bottle of wine, as well as referrals to all the dude's friends. Unless Super Boner Man is fucking their wives, of course.

And secondly, the "consult your physician to make sure your heart is healthy enough for sex" is nearly as dumb.

Any man with a dick capable of becoming hard, Viagra or not, doesn't care about whether his heart's healthy enough for sex. When it comes to sex, there are only two real concerns:

"Do I have a willing partner?"

and

"Can I get it up, and can I keep it up long enough to bust a nut in this bitch?"

The latter falls into the category of health, sure, but dick health is far from heart health.

More men will die from heart attacks sustained during sex than will say something to their physicians along the lines of, "You know, doc, I've been wanting to have sex with my wife, and I get hard all the time, but I've been too worried I may have a heart attack if we start getting romantic. I think it's time for an EKG."

A bouquet of dandelions and a box of chocolates should get me laid, right?

It's pretty stupid when people say they don't like receiving flowers as gifts because all they end up doing is dying.

That's like saying you don't like receiving food as a gift because it just ends up as shit in your toilet.

Appreciate the sentiment and move on.

The country is good for farming, but bad for music

I recently ate at an Arby's, where my pocketbook was raped by the cost of an Ultimate BLT and my ears were raped by Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats," which was playing while I was eating.

I would've been better off jamming the BLT in my ears.

I mean, damn.

Seriously?

A pissed off woman, a cheating dude, and a 4x4 truck that gets the shit kicked out of it.

I hate country music.

Oh, boy! Good for you, Carrie Underwood. You just keyed your unfaithful partner's truck! And you smashed it with a baseball bat! And not just any baseball bat -- a Louisville Slugger! It's as American as apple pie!

So congratulations on teaching homeboy a lesson. Maybe he will think twice before he cheats next time.

Except next time he's going to understand the need to cover his tracks better. And he won't be hiding his extracurricular activities from you.

That's because you'll be single, writing songs about how lonely it is for a country girl without a cowboy in her life, or some similar bullshit, or you'll be moving from cheating rube to cheating rube, racking up malicious destruction of property charges all along the way, while all of these assclowns you keep on dating will be better at cheating on their next girlfriends because of you.

How about next time you be a pick a guy who actually gives a shit about you and/or do a better job of communicating with him?

In the meantime, say hi to Judge Judy, Jerry Springer, or whoever runs the southern states' judicial systems for me.

America! Fuck yeah!

Speaking of Team America: World Police, am I alone in thinking the new GI Joe movie appears to rip off its basic premise? Well, sans satire and marionette porn, of course.

Anyway, since yesterday was the Fourth-uh-Joo-ly, I wanted to take a minute to mention some things that make me proud to be an American.

I wanted posted it yesterday, but I just didn't get around it. What can I say? I procrastinate like a patriot.

So, yeah, here are some of my favorite things about being an American. From the real America. None of this "Hey, Canada and Mexico are in North America, too!" bullshit. You can suck my balls talkin' all that mess.

I made a list and I checked it twice. It basically makes me Santa Claus, except it's July, I'm not sliding down your chimney (unless by chimney, you mean your mother), and I'm not leaving anything. Unless I slid down your chimney.

Peep the list:

- Eggo waffles
- big titties
- walk-off home runs
- Rent-A-Center
- kickoff returns for touchdowns
- the TV show Cops
- White liberal guilt
- frozen pizza
- credit card debt
- changing your last name to "Ocho Cinco"
- indoor shooting ranges
- outdoor shooting ranges
- Pop-Tarts
- cookouts
- the original Die Hard
- xenophobia
- above-ground swimming pools
- bowling leagues
- Ron Artest
- "Because I said so!"
- New York City, but not New Yorkers; they're assholes
- myself
- bastardized international foods
- TV trays
- libraries

So that's the list. Well, except for that last one. That was a joke. Who the fuck reads books anyway?

Or do I really love your brain?

Online dating is pretty much the same thing as shopping for a car online, except not only are you looking for a car, you're also a car being shopped for.

So just imagine that the Chevy dealership doesn't return your email about the Impala you picked out that was looking for a driver with no record of traffic tickets or accidents. The Impala passed on you because it guessed you might slam on the brakes at stoplights occasionally and do donuts in empty parking lots from time to time, despite the fact that, as it requested, you've never had a ticket or an accident.

It sucks.

But I guess that's how it is in real life, too.

The difference is that getting to know someone in real life is more like learning what the car's features are by driving it around for a while. As you drive it, you get to know how it handles, whether you like the stereo controls, whether the seat is comfortable, whether the brakes stick or not, and whether you think its seat warmer will keep your ass warm enough in the winter.

And that's not even the being-in-a-relationship part of the process.

But online dating?

It's not about driving and understanding the features at all. It's about how many of those features are listed on paper and how those features are perceived.

And when it comes to "on paper," a lot of the women on these sites are overly-picky bitches who don't realize "on paper" may not translate to real-life compatibility.

I bet they drive shitty cars, too.

If it's not some fairytale, idealistic bullshit about them waiting for their Prince Charming to arrive on a white horse, then it's about how a guy has to impress them.

I'm tired of that bullshit.

Yeah, it probably dates back to when cavemen were competing for the right to drag a cavewoman by her hair back to the cave by winning some dinosaur-clubbing competition or something, but there's more to matching up than a guy spending all his time impressing a woman.

That shit gets tiring. We're not really that charming. And women wonder why guys change after the relationship gets serious.

Plus, saying you need to be impressed is pretty pompous. Simply having a pussy doesn't give you that right.

I realize women are out there putting on makeup so they look all vibrant or whatever, and wearing high heels to make their asses bounce so men will notice them, or to make them feel good about themselves because men are noticing them, but that's just about attraction.

Everyone wants to feel attractive, but just because you look hot enough to bang doesn't mean a guy's impressed with you. You're just making him want to swing his club around.

I like swinging my club as much as the next caveman, but it's about more. How about you impress me? How about you keep my attention with more than just your looks?

But go ahead and still make me want to bang you.

Because if you're not settling, I'm not, either.

Compton's definitely in the muh-fuckin' house

Everyone always talks about how shitty the hood is and shit, but it really can't be that bad, can it?

There are yuppies all over the damn place sending their kids to ridiculously expensive private schools, including $20,000/yr preschools, just to boost their kids' chances of succeeding in life.

$20,000 per year? For preschool!?

Fuck that shit.

Yeah, there may be a shitload of whitebread doctors and lawyers running around all pumped full of expensive private school educations, what with their country club memberships and their sweaters wrapped around their shoulders and names like Todd and Chad and their high-class hookers lookin' like models and shit, but don't tell me the hood don't produce shit. Or, depending on your grammar, that it only produces shit.

Hell, Compton may be as good a place to set your kids up for success as Beverly Hills.

Let's take a look at some Compton natives of note: rappers Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, DJ Quik, The Game, and even fuckin' Coolio's lame ass; tennis stars Venus and Serena Williams; NBA ballers Baron Davis, Tyson Chandler, Tayshaun Prince, Aaron Afflalo, and and, like, a ton of other dudes; former MLBers Mo Vaughn and Duke fuckin' Snider; a ton of awesome NFL players, including Panthers wide receiver Steve Smith and Hall Of Famer Anthony Munoz; actors Anthony Anderson and Tiny Lister; former NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle; and even that one female NBA ref.

I bet they all get the model-lookin' high-class hookers, too. Especially that ref. chick.

Hell, even George HW Bush and George W Bush lived there for a while. That damn near makes them more hood than Barack Obama.

Okay, maybe not.

It's close, though, right?

Okay, whatever. You know what I'm sayin'.

This settles it: I'm raising my kids in Compton. And if you want good lives for your kids someday, you should, too.

Granted, your kids may pretty much have to be rappers or athletes, but I like rap and sports, so I'm cool with that.

"What's up?" "Snot much."

It never ceases to amaze me that we simply sit back and accept when people pick their noses.

Sure, we don't accept people hitting it raw, all barefingered like a kid or something, but wrap a Kleenex condom around your index finger, and all's fair.

At work.

At church.

At the bus stop.

At the strip club.

Okay, maybe not at the strip club. Some places are sacred. Plus, if the dancers see you doing that, even with a Kleenex, you'll only end up with the flat-chested ones who can't dance vying to have your dollar bills stuffed in their g-strings.

That's because the hottest strippers who dance the sluttiest are also the classiest.

And they're on to something.

Nosepicking is nosepicking, regardless of whether you're using a tissue or not.

Let's stop pretending there's a difference between getting all up in it unprotected and busting out the Kleenex.

Go thank a stripper.

Setting adrift on memory bliss is more blissful when the memory's wrong

Okay, so there was that one awesome PM Dawn song from back in the day. Y'know: "Set Adrift On Memory Bliss."

It was awesome.

It was from back in the day.

It was by PM Dawn.

Anyway, so you know how sometimes you hear the lyrics to a song differently than they actually are? And you keep singing them wrong forever?

Well, there was this one chunk of that song, near the end of the first verse, I always thought said something different than it actually did:

I can remember when I caught up
With a pastime intimate friend.
She said, "Bet you're probably gonna say I look lovely,
But you probably don't think nothin' of me."
She was right, though; I can't lie.
She's just one of those corners in my mind,
And I just put her right back with the rest.
That's the way it goes, I guess.

I bolded the actual word from the song I had for so long mistaken.

For years and years and years, I always thought that word was "pornos."

And it made sense. I mean, how can it not?

Everytime I heard the song, I imagined my mind as an attic storage room with rows and rows of shelves full of stacks of film reels comprising sex scenes my imagination had filmed with all of the women I'd thought not too much more of than their physical loveliness.

But I guess "corners" makes sense, too.