Jeans Style Correlation with Generational Ball Shrinkage

Since adulthood I've struggled with finding jeans that fit. You know, ones that aren’t like all baggy in the ass, aren’t too loose on my waist, and yet don’t squish my junk. Levi's are especially confounding. I've tried 505s, 501s, 514s, and a few others; I thought I’d exhausted all options. So today I went directly to the source. I’m glad it was a dude on the other end. Although that wouldn’t have changed my question.

I’m pretty sure my balls are no bigger than average for someone my age—in fact, they may be smaller than average. But if Regular Fit (505) is so ball room deficient, how do hipsters tolerate skinny jeans?

My theory: Owed to dependence on technological advances, less demand for physical labor among whiteys, and increased pussification, there has been an accelerated decline in ball size correlated by generation during the 20th and 21st centuries. That is, the Greatest Generation (huge balls)... Baby Boomers (regular size, Goldilocks size)... Generation X (smaller, including mine)... Millennials (tiny balls).*

Anyway, I never would have guessed 569 was the style to get for that. Seen them in stores but the signs don’t say, “Extra ball room.” So how could you know? In fact, this is what the sign should look like at Kohl’s.

And it cannot be by coincidence that the number most associated with genitalia (69) is ascribed to these jeans.

*No offense Millennials. Keep in mind that my hypotheses are founded only on my unimpeachable ability to amuse myself, and I am full of shit.

PENIS GOLEM

I found the original editor's cut of page 137 in the Pathfinder^TM Bestiary. Found it in a dark, prickly cockle of mine heart.

In all honesty, I do not have a lot of free time. I just choose to make stuff like this over going to bed at a reasonable hour.

Yankee Candle Will Steal My Idea

Whilst putzing around a late summer art festival last weekend, I turned to the stranger next to me and said, "Yankee doesn’t make a candle for this pervasive, unmistakable aroma. And they should.” 

The stranger arched his brow and glanced at the Port-O-Lets. 

“Nevermind!” I said. Bastard might steal my idea if he catches wind of the heavenly wafts coming from the food trucks. 

It’s like being on a fairground midway, like being at World Fest, except it only smells this way in America. Grilled, fried, shamelessly artery-clogging. So appetizing it could make you hungry even on Dexedrine. You know what smell I’m talking about.

I like going into the Yankee Candle stores twice a year and spending about 45 minutes opening each flavor to give it a sniff. I don’t buy anything. When the smiling floor clerk ladies ask if I’ve been helped, I explain that I’m helping myself and glare at them until they go away. 

In the last few years, they’ve endeavored to expand their market by making men’s flavors, like MMM, Bacon!, On Tap, Riding Mower, First Down. They should name one Internet Porn and make it smell like Jergens.

So I wrote to Yankee Candle and told them about my idea. It would be a special challenge, I explained, because it’s such a mélange of aromas all flourishing at once—grilled onions and peppers (especially), sizzling swine, chicken, and other beasts, funnel cakes, pizza, kettle corn, chocolate-covered bacon, bacon-wrapped Oreos, fish tacos, kabobs, pickle-corndogs, Belgian waffles, BBQ, cinnamon buns, deep-fried bubblegum, fried ice cream doughnut burgers… If it sounds inconceivably gross, but smells fuckin awesome, they’ll feed it to you at the State Fair.

Which is why my candle would be called: State Fair

It seems to be a magical process by which the chemists at Yankee Candle fabricate the aromas, and this is why they have me by the balls. I can’t do the magic trick, so I can expect no royalties. (In fairness, I did pretty much deliver my idea straight to their Research and Marketing department.)

I even forwarded them some artwork for the label.

So if one day—say around Christmastime—you’re in a Yankee Candle outlet sniffing up a storm and you see State Fair on a shelf... you're welcome.

Bathroom Etiquette That Will Enhance Your Morning Ablutions

A friend of mine and I confer on things now and then. Like whether the automatic water/ice dispenser on the fridge should be set to Crushed or Cubed Ice. And what kind of punishment should be administered to the perpetrator in your house who left the switch in the Cubed Ice position without changing it back to Water.

So the other day a new question came to mind…

I'm Having A Hard Time Dumping My Load...

Once upon a time I contracted with a beatific-type woman to edit/proof her Christian poetry.

I charged her about one-eighth of what I would charge for actual writing. And by actual writing, I mean technical/academic writing. Even if the poetry was exceptional, which hers was not, I have never been able to formulate a fee for such purely subjective work.

Anyway, because this woman is such a fine human being with a heart of gold and the artistic aspirations of a minor saint, I will not disclose her name, nor the book she actually published.

Generally speaking, it was an abysmal piece of work. Yet I found this poem particularly inspiring.

Critical Assessment of Iconic G.I. Joe Comic Book Cover (Issue #23 - May 1984)

I remember this one so well. A definite favorite of mine.

Here are some swell things about it:

Roadblock looks mountainous. And pretty much exactly like Evander Holyfield in his heyday.






Clutch clearly has a dip in his mouth, and he’s about to spit juice over his shoulder, which pleases me.

Clutch could just hold a pistol to Cobra Commander’s head, but no—only an Uzi will do.  

Cobra Commander’s dishwashing-gloved hands are cuffed in the front, making easier his mischievous legerdemain. 

The Joes did not bother to remove CC’s hood… because his outfit would just look silly without it?

Other than these logical boo-boos, the dramatic tension in this indelible snapshot of nerd history makes me want to high-five the illustrator.

I have no idea who the illustrator is.* But good job man.

*The illustrator is Michael Golden. (Thank you, Shlong.)