I’d like to talk with you today about double standards.  The classic one you always hear about is how when a guy sleeps with a bunch of girls then he’s a stud, but when a girl does the same thing she’s a dirty, sausage stuffing slut.  This is nothing but a convoluted justification for girls to continue their endless promiscuity.  “But Bryan, girls are equal to men and should be treated as such, right?”  Crazy wrong.  The reason this myth is just that is that women are not our equals; they are our superiors.  For all of you who just cringed when I used the words “women” and “superiors” in the same sentence without “are not and will never be our” in between them, relax and don’t switch over to YouTube to watch this (awesome to watch 35 go down with her own separately related injury over and over again) to make yourself feel better just yet.

When it comes to the street that is hooking up the girls are the streetlights.  They are the only ones who can give you the green light to drive down labia lane.  If you get some, it’s because she allowed you to take it; kinda like when parents make their kids believe that Santa exists and that by being good they actually control the caliber of gifts they’ll receive.  As Peter Parker’s creepy uncle will tell you though, “With great power comes great responsibility.”  In this case, the power to decide if we get to lay some pipe or not comes hand-in-hand with several ugly names such as “whore”, “skank”, etc.  If history has shown us one thing, nobody likes a dictator, especially dictators of dick.

Here’s where the story takes a nasty turn.  Because girls have the power to decide if Harry will indeed meet Sally, they subsequently get to choose how often they give out lift tickets to Poon Mountain.  The basic rule here is that all girls unrelated to yours truly are all too willing to kick the tires and light the fires with multiple guys regardless of relationship status.  Their innate need to cram things in their crevices causes this excessive pattern of doing guy after guy.  As guys, turning down sex pretty much never enters our minds because nobody turns down a ride on Space Mountain no matter what time of day or how we’re feeling; we’re just pumped to skip the 2 hour line.

It’s this difference that causes the double standard, and also the reason it is absolutely valid.  It’s a lustful choice for girls to make the beast with 2 backs while it’s a privilege for guys.  Sluts, we’ll stop with the double standard when you decide to close your legs for a change, Grow Up.

So you just witnessed your team cap off a 2-minute drill drive with a beautiful fade pass to the corner of the endzone as time expires that results in the game-winning touchdown and a nice payout for you hitting the money line.  Somewhere in the midst of a joyous celebration with your buddies that most closely resembles a pillow fight among pre-pubescent girls, you happen to glance at the television and see the altogether worthless sideline reporter catch up with the quarterback who has just been added to your “People I’d take a bullet for” list.  In a matter of seconds this miserable bitch has turned your invincible hero into a bumbling moron or a conceded asshole.  It’s completely unfair that reporters are allowed to catch these super athletes unprepared minutes after a huge triumph and expose their lack of education on national television.  For example, “You’ve been facing a lot of scrutiny recently from the media regarding recent allegations claiming your involvement in a nightclub shooting where several people were wounded from torrents of gunfire from what police are calling an arsenal of semi-automatic weapons carried by members of your security detail; in light of these tumultuous events how were you able to prepare for tonight’s game?  And how has your family responded to your suspect actions off the field and in what way were you able to persist in that last drive and lead your team to victory despite reports of serious contract disputes you’ve been having with the organization?”

About halfway through this ivy league hag’s monologue you can see the player actually soil himself.  She might as well have asked him to describe in detail how to perform an appendectomy.  This guy just exhausted himself for the last three and a half hours and now he’s getting grilled worse than an insurgent at Guantanamo Bay.  This chick is using words that didn’t come in his Hooked on Phonics boxed set and now we get to watch him sweating like Mel Gibson in a synagogue.  This is the only reason this whole sadistic ritual is bearable.

Football is not the only sport where this happens.  How ridiculous was it to watch track & field events during the summer olympics and watch that douchebag reporter interview the winner of each race approximately 30 seconds after they finished.  These runners hadn’t even caught their breath yet and were expected to answer questions about what this moment means to them.  If you want to interview athletes, fine.  But keep those interviews in the press room where they belong, and where adrenaline can’t create an extremely awkward moment for everybody.  On field post game interviews should be banned and sideline reporters, Grow Up.

There’s something that I’d like to bring to everybody’s attention (if you haven’t noticed it already).  Our country is getting fatter.  This, however, is not what troubles me-the combination of fast food convenience and awesome television programming can only have one result.  The thing that keeps me up at night and burns grotesque images into my retinas is fat chicks who wear revealing clothing.  It’s bad enough that we have to persevere in spite of your existence, but when you get it in your chubby heads that in some sick fun house mirror way you actually have an attractive figure worthy of display, it makes me want to strap on some TNT, enter the nearest self-serve frozen yogurt shoppe, and get my 72 virgins.

By the way, I’m well aware that not everybody can be skinny.  After all, fat chicks serve as natural confidence boosters, leverage over your friend for his drunken mistake, and hilarious punchlines.  If you are going to choose the lifestyle of the morbidly obese, however, your clothing should have a fabric surface area requirement that is at least double your own mass.  I need to see your tent-like dress billowing in the wind so that there is no conceivable way to tell just how bulbous you really are.  Advice: It’s fine if you don’t like to exercise…who does?  But you’d better not be seen anywhere wearing exercise clothing: constrictive and revealing=planned parenthood receiving an anonymous donation totaling in my checking account balance.  If you want to avoid revolted stares, don’t try to stuff yourself into a tube top because the result resembles the episode of How It’s Made where they visit a sausage factory.

From what I’ve heard there are allegedly guys who are into fat chicks and prefer them over normal sized girls (until I actually meet one, this will rest firmly in my myth column).  Even if this is the case, I beg of all you portly dames out there to be considerate to the rest of us and cover up (a salad wouldn’t hurt either).  Seriously fat chicks, Grow Up.

Welcome to my blog where you will get periodic glimpses at the sometimes genius, sometimes idiotic things that enter my mind. You’ll laugh, cry, and learn a little something about yourself and life as a whole.