Archive for May, 2011


My Book’s Foreword

May 24, 2011

Some time during college, I had the idea to write a book about getting through college with a 4.0 social GPA. One could argue (at least I would) that the more friends you make in college, the better your future opportunities. Sure, there are the foreign exchange students with 4.0 actual GPAs who cure cancer and stuff, but none of those people are reading this blog. Thinking through some titles, I settled on something along the lines of “How to Get Through College Without Reading: Ironic I Wrote a Book.” I actually started the book about a year and a half ago, and combined have probably put about two hours into it since then. I’ve got like 3,000 words (aka- a tad longer than my bin Laden blog), so I thought I would post the foreword. The timing is good because I know nothing about this Israeli/Palestinian conflict and there’s nothing funny about what took place in Missouri. Don’t worry, I’ll throw hot girls in still. So here you go: the foreword to my book, written over a year ago and most likely to never be completed…

In case this blog isn't your cup of tea, Kate Upton twitpic'd a glass of beer, which you have to enjoy.

Monday, September 14, 2009


Who invented the foreword anyway? This seems ridiculous. I did no research on writing a book, but I know that some books have forewords, and I will do anything to at least present the image of me being an author. Am I an author just for writing this? If people ask, can I tell them that I’m an author, and not an unemployed college graduate living with my parents? (Editor’s note: you are an author when you are published. BOOM. Just published myself). Have I been too rhetorical in my foreword? These thoughts have all come to mind since I sat down and started typing this.

Bobby Frost... beardless as a baby's ass.

I’m starting to really like the foreword.

I originally intended to write this entire book at a Starbucks where I order trendy author-like frappes and have a cute barista know my order every morning. I’d also love to grow a beard, as some pictures I’ve seen of great writers show them with beards. Shakespeare had one. So did Robert Frost (editor’s note: I just googled Robert Frost to check the veracity of my last statement. It is false. Perhaps I can still be a great writer).

Anyway, I think I should tell a story at this point in the foreword to explain why I’m writing this book. If that’s what the foreword is even for.

Sophomore year of High School I wrote a five-page paper on some topic that escapes me now. It was for English class. So it was probably a paper on Shakespeare or Robert Frost. That’s not important. My Mom asked me how the paper went and I told her I finished the fifth page. She asked how long it was supposed to be (five to seven pages) and then said, so why did you only do five. I answered, “Because it said five to seven. That means I can’t be penalized for doing the minimum.” She told me that it was the minimum and maybe I should consider doing the maximum some time to show more effort. I told her, “Mom, I ALWAYS do the minimum. Doing the maximum is just a waste of greatness.”

Recently found out that this chick Ashley Greene is in the Twilight movies as Edward Cullen's sister. Do what you want with that knowledge, but I'm still not watching those movies.

This motto has generally guided my life in all endeavors that require work. It is also most likely the reason that I am an unemployed college grad living with my parents. Just think, if I did the maximum, I would be working a real job and not writing this book. So far, I’m having fun being an author. It has been 19 minutes. Now, I feel bad for the unemployed college graduates.

In closing, (Just the foreword’s closing. Not the entire book. Otherwise this would be a short book that may not classify as a book since it’s just a foreword) I’m writing this book because some people throughout my life have told me I’m entertaining and tell good stories. If they were patronizing me, this book is really going to suck. If they weren’t, then however many pages this book turns into might go down as the greatest words you have ever read (unless you have ever read Shakespeare or Robert Frost. I’ve spark noted them, and they seem pretty good, so I won’t put myself in their league, yet). The book should be about college, life, and things that are in college and life, and how I feel about those things. I just wrote that sentence and questioned whether I can put “, and” twice in the same sentence. I decided that since I’m the author and it’s my book, I could do this.

So without further ado, here is my book. If you are wondering, that foreword was fun. If I write another book, it will have a foreword, too.

Liked what Kate did with the place in her earlier Twitpic, and didn't feel like finding some other scantily clad model whose boobs don't redefine the game.

Stay tuned…


Smorgasblog: NHL > NBA? M-Bone Dead, Thor Yoked, and the Red Sox Alive

May 18, 2011

Sorry about the six day break in bloggage. We all know my weekends are a mission in market research for new topics. Combine that with May weather that would make a Twilight tween brace for Edward or Jacob to show up at their door, and you get no blogs. Seriously, it’s not even raining, but everything is just damp. Like a literal wet towel draped upon my life, which is already stuck somewhere between neutral in a ditch and stagnant in a dive bar. Thankfully, I’ve been ripping off naps like it’s my job and watching sports on the reg, which means you get some deep thoughts, and hot chicks in today’s smorgasblog. Le’go.

Rosie Huntington-Whiteley earned a feature on the Revolver a few months back, then Maxim named her #1 on its Hot 100 a couple weeks back. Coincidence? I think not.


I have to start off with this question because Tuesday’s action in both sports made me question the entertainment value of each game. I officially invested in the Bruins playoff run this year because they broke enough of my heart during last year’s collapse to make me care. I also still watch every NBA playoff game with my own Celtics eliminated because I genuinely enjoy the sport. Last night, for the first time, I concluded the hockey game won out, at least on this night. Yes, on a night where Dirk Nowitzki shot as efficiently as a hybrid running on vegetable oil, scoring 48 points on 15 shot attempts, the Bruins-Lightning game legitimately had 20 different “are you shitting me?!” moments. Kind of like when you see the timeline of women Leonardo DiCaprio has plowed through over the years.

Call me crazy, but to give this up...

For whatever reason, David Stern decided this would be the year of the free throw in the NBA playoffs. If you are a star player in the league, and you go to the basket, the referees will bail you out. No matter how badly you travel (Lebron), flail wildly (Westbrook), spin and shoot over your head (Rose), legitimately draw zero contact (Wade) or take a small pat on the ass (Dirk, Durant), you will get to the line. The Mavs-Thunder game had 79 free throw attempts last night. Including technicals, the whistle blew over 40 times to stop the game and let a guy take a free shot at the basket. That’s about as entertaining as watching drying paint on growing grass in a sandbox.

Meanwhile, Bruins and Lightning players

... you've gotta do better than this. Not crazy? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

were flying all over the ice, to the point that small enough mistakes kept happening to open up amazing scoring chances, en route to a 6-5 Bruins win. Along the way, a Bruins rookie named Tyler Seguin scored on a breakaway dangle and a snipe over the glove-side, while assisting on two other goals… all in the same period. The Bruins trailed 2-1, then led 6-3, before the Lightning trailed 6-5 and made desperate attempts on net for four solid minutes while Tim Thomas hardly stood on his head, but beat back all shots from any angle with every inch of his equipment. When the final horn blew, the Bruins held on and tied the series at 1 game a piece. Which is good news, because we might just get to watch five more games like this one.


A friend of mine and I share a very serious sentiment that outsiders may misconstrue as a joke. The worst day of his year, thus far, is the time we didn’t get to go ice skating at the Frog Pond in Boston on New Year’s Day.  Because the whole group bailed, and two hetero guys can’t just go galivanting around like it’s the GOTDAMN ice-capades out there, the moment passed us by. Since then, I can not remember one time I have been legitimately upset, or sad. Just high on life as a motheruffer. Going on party buses, watching sports, hitting up sorority formals and Dougie’ing my ass off along the way. Then, like Thor’s hammer, news hit of M-Bone’s untimely death and all that awesomeness came to a halt.

Your first thought when you saw the headline was probably, “Wait, who is M-Bone?!” Then you read the first line of the news story and got that same sinking feeling: Rapper M-Bone, whose group, Cali Swag District, scored a hit this year with “Teach Me How to Dougie” is dead after gunshot wounds to the head during a drive-by shooting. Suddenly, you came to remember that old saying: “life is like an hour glass placed on a table, each with its own unique sands.” Alright, maybe I made up that quote because I remember one like it using the hour glass analogy, but still. M-Bone cannot be thanked enough for providing us the one great jewel he had in him. While many of us will pass through this life impacting nobody, pushing paper at a 9-5, reading my blog and hoping to be as amazing as either myself, or the people I write about, M-Bone was out there living it. Homie was just parked on a Monday night outside a liquor sto’ trying to get his sip on when he got two-pieced to the dome. Next time you’re out and hear the Dougie, pour one out for M-Bone. Remember, your year wouldn’t have been the same if M-Bone never taught you how to dougie.

Inspiration for us all.

Thor’s All Yoked Up and Norse-Godly

If I read one more article about a movie star who never lifted a weight before they started training for their role as (INSERT SUPERHERO) I am just going to snap. That shit just doesn’t work for the common man, unless you’re like me and you’ve been on a strict two-a-day Perfect Pushup plan for years now. This cocky Aussie, Chris Hemsworth (first appeared in Star Trek as Kirk’s dad who got blown up), decided to roll up to the set of Thor so jacked up he didn’t even fit in the costume, then says he never lifted in his life. Really, bro? You never lifted a weight in your life, then you were magically able to look like a cross between Hulk Hogan, Mark McGwire and Fabio? After seeing the movie, my friend who lifts regularly and holds a record in the Boston University workout room said, “After Thor, I’m not lifting another weight until I get some steroids.” Way to ruin it for the rest of us short, white, unathletic dudes, Hemsworth. You’re lucky I get a Natalie Portman pictorial segway out of your vanity.

Absolutely destroying it in the nerdy-scientist-who-wears-plaid-but-gets-a-god-to-love-her role.


I had to google this whole mess of a series, because I know I drank a lot during it, but did the Yankees honestly start Bartolo Colon and Freddy Garcia?! Like, your payroll is almost a quarter billion dollars, and after CC Sabathia, you trot Colon, Garcia, AJ Burnett and Ivan Nova out there?! This shit ain’t Little League. You don’t get to mow down scrappy lefty slap hitters like myself. This series was just what the doctor ordered to turn the season around, let the Red Sox rip off like a 14-2 run and cruise to the division title like I predicted. Meanwhile, the Sox are only getting better now that Lackey and Dice K have been forced to fake elbow inflammation for the good of the team. Once Pedroia starts his annual laser show and Crawford realizes Boston is not a racist town, the only real question is how many games we win after starting the year 2-11.

Kelly Brook from Piranha 3D... since you didn't see the movie, I'll show her here.

Stay tuned…


The Party Bus Survival Guide: Nighttime Addendum

May 12, 2011

While the references are rare, her powers are enumerated through brief, forceful examples throughout Greek mythology. Nyx, goddess of the primordial night, spawned some of the greatest mythological representations: death, sleep, the fates, and ironically enough, day, just to name a few. She represents a figure of such magnitude that Zeus himself did not dare anger her, as witnessed in Homer’s Iliad, when Nyx’ son, Hypnos (sleep), runs for her protection after angering the god of all gods. I swear none of that is plagiarized, I just write the goodest, sometimes. Naturally, since this knowledge required an exhaustive researching of Wikipedia, I have reserved this parallel of omnipotence to be drawn between the Greek goddess of the night and a Night Party Bus.  See, I’m back writing gooder thanks to my edumacation. As you’ve all undoubtedly read the Party Bus Survival Guide, allow this blog to act as the night bus’ addendum on those aforementioned daytime laws.  Yes, that means there are entirely new genus’ of riders, potential bus pitfalls, and of course, iTunde postulates. Without further ado…

I'm so excited for this blog, I had to get Rosie Jones involved. Never forgotten.

GUEST LIST: New Species

a. Eagerus Imbiberae

For whatever reason, the cloak of darkness facilitates a speed and intensity amongst some drinkers that is unmatched.  The warming sun of a day bus may compel its drinkers to relax with a beer over the first 15-minute span before raging their spandex off. However, the night bus has people ripping shots, slapping the bag and ‘gunning beers as soon as the wheels part from the curb. Even though Michael Buffer may not be on your bus, his drinking equivalent is there to let you know you better get ready to rumble. While the overall state of the night bus is improved for everybody due to the selfless acts of the Eagerus Imbiberae who ride within, their individual night is often cut short around hour two due to blackout. Arguments can be made and won that “Eagerus Imbiberae” is the noblest of titles attained on the night’s ride.

b. Coherentis Solidaritae

We all remember the Dormis Comatosis from the first bus blog. That lone person who simply goes so hard nothing can keep them conscious. Well, at the night bus’ conclusion, the entire constitution of the bus is bass-ackwards. Now, just about everyone that actually makes it back onto the bus at the end of the night is strewned about, using shoulders as pillows, resembling Jigglypuff in a Super Smash Bros. Gamecube session in the Den. If you didn’t get that Pokemon reference, don’t worry, you probably just suck. Anyway, you may be wondering where the Coherentis Solidaritae factors into this equation. This rider is the lone person fist pumping in the front of the bus on the ride home, when they finally realize nobody else is cognizant. Doing a slow turn back, the crushing realization dawns on them like that Twilight Zone story about the guy who wants to be alone in a library for all eternity, then shatters his reading glasses: they didn’t get drunk enough. Scrambling to awake their closest friend to see if they have any rage left in them, the Coherentis Solidaritae is one of the most unenviable bus species. Take this as your warning.

c. Lordus Danceus

Whether pop n’locking to the musical stylings of the Biebs, bouncing to a mashup by Guetta or giving a tutorial to everyone yearning to Dougie, this rider sits no song out and is often the first to occupy the pole at the bus’ nucleus. Along the way, they somehow manage to constantly gyrate in some semblance of rhythm during each sip (slap or shotgun) of alcohol they take. En route to the bus’ stop at a bar/club they make the bold proclamation that the dance floor within that establishment is about to be held ransom, yet, ultimately murdered in ruthless fashion, regardless of payment… so somebody better call the cops now. Gender carries no relevance here, as the Lordus Danceus primarily acts as the first dancing icebreaker for all non-affiliated bus riders.

Kate Upton, SI Swimsuit Model- redefines hotness and the Dougie, at once.


 While I hate to completely remove the notion that the Neonus Feminae is not an extinct species on the Night Bus, it is certainly on the endangered list. Only in the rarest of instances is someone capable of both dressing slutty enough to get onto a dance floor AND being in neon. While always leaving the door ajar for that sort of greatness, it is often a threshold that goes uncrossed. More regularly, the night bus consists of two relatively specific templates for how one is dressed. They are obviously gender specific and go a lot like this…


Kim just killing the middle 1/3.The guy on the right just killing my retinas.

1- Some variance of dress that presents the optical illusion of it literally being painted onto the skin due to tightness. (It can either be a one piece that requires all bodily effort to be squeezed into, similar to the casing of a sausage, or one of those high-waisted skirts that consistently blur the lines of sex/secretary on Mad Men.

2- Legal length of this dress is not to exceed more than 2 3/4 ‘’ past the curvature of the butt cheek measured from the waist, or less than 1/3 of the subjects body. Yes, the dress should not be covering more than the middle third of the wearer.

3- Regulation fc*k me heels. No further explanation necessary.


1- Dark Jeans.

2- Button-down Ralph Lauren shirt.

3- Sperry’s.

Natural observations for each gender:


Look, I don’t run a fashion blog like my good friend Logan @ … So I’ll let him do a better job describing it. I basically detailed what I wear out, every night I go out, bus or not.


a. Just as God intended, the females will look far more beautiful then the males.

b. The females undergarments will almost certainly be on display for all to see at one point. It’s the simple formula: skirt+alcohol(bus + sitting/standing)= panty.

iTunde Playlist Updates 1.1 (as always, quotes from Tunde set the tone)

Ammendment 1: “There is literally no time to mess around, so you gotta get hits in early, because people just DIE on the night bus!” Couldn’t have said it better myself, Tunde. For this reason, Khia’s “My Neck My Back” is the easy choice as the commencement song. After that, waste no time getting to the most popular songs within your group because by hour three, people will forget their own phone number.

Amendment 2: “Really? like really…it’s a night bus, there’s no room for relaxing songs. That playlist better be damn TOUGH!” In case you weren’t sure from the Khia song, Tunde isn’t messing around here. We are talking hit after hit, no matter how hardcore, or sexually explicit. Some songs that might fall under this umbrella include: Rick Ross “MC Hammer,” Madcon “Freaky Like Me,” Fabolous “You Be Killin ‘Em,” and YC’s “Racks.”

Googled: Huge Rack. Got: Heidi Montag. Who knew Heigh would ever make it into the Revolver?!


This is perhaps the most pressing issue one must be prepared for when taking part in a night bus. While desertion is a term generally reserved for war, myriad reasons ensure the people who get on the bus to start the night simply will not be riding home on it. Dropping from the ranks worse than a Confederate soldier at the Battle of Antietam, the dangerous elements of a night bus exact their toll quickly and without warning. Let’s first take care of the obvious reasons for straying from the group: darkness, food, sickness, maming, emergency room, strip club, public urination arrest, cannibalism and hallucinations of Ewoks dubbing you their king and carrying you away. Now, let’s touch on the more rare, animalistic survival tactic that often comes into play when excessive drinking and overwhelming human interaction mix.

It's time to go if things look like this.

We all know the scene. You’re unclear of how you got there, but as sure as the day is long, you’re standing in the middle of a dance floor, disoriented, foggy and haphazardly clothed. Without knowledge of the forensic analysis of rape for a few more days, you experience that queasy instinctual reaction: fight or flight. Since there’s nobody to fight because no one is paying attention to your stumbling ass, your brain shuts down all external receptors and enters into tunnel vision. You need to get out. Now. In one of the rarest of drinking miracles, nature has released the basic survival tactics that prevented early mankind from falling enslaved to Sauron’s army of Orcs in the fight for middle earth (if you subscribe to the Tolkien view of man’s evolution).

You alert nobody of your departure as you fumble, crash and spill into anyone who gets in your path. At this very moment, no other stimuli could prevent your ultimate goal: bed. Except for food: the first necessary means of survival. So you stop at 7/11 and stick a shrink-wrapped sub that is officially past expiration since it’s after midnight, down your pants/into your purse. Armed with sustenance, you begin the journey home. Whether it requires a three-mile walk in heels, haggling with an Uzbekistani cab driver over a fixed fare of three wadded up homeless bills, or bumming a ride off a stranger in the middle of a busy intersection, you will get home safely. Just not on the bus.

Okay, so not EVERYONE makes it home.


Unfortunately, the fun from the night before doesn’t end there. As the Sahara-like dryness of your mouth finally forces you to wake up at an otherwise ungodly hour, your first reaction is like the start of a Rick Ross verse when you literally verbalize the thought: “OUAHwha!!!… WHERE AM… OHTHANKGOD” as you realize this is real life.  Walking into the living room, friends immediately blow up your spot talking about the stuff you were unconsciously doing the night before. In this instance, I like to use the “shot at the doctor” coping method. When you need to get bloodwork done, you know it’s coming, you know there’s a sharp prick, and you know in the end things are going to be fine. After the bus, deep down there’s some discomfort as you sit there and take the shot (or retelling of your actions) , but there is also the everlasting memory of a night you’ll never forget you forgot and got told about.  If you’re lucky, you’ll even get the following text sent to you: “I woke up… in only a thong… and a plate with mustard on my desk which leads me to believe I ate a hot dog.” Yup, it’s like that.

There's the mustard!

 Stay tuned…



Smorgasblog: Rondo’s Elbow, Hummus, Marisa Miller and my Mom

May 9, 2011

I haven’t done a Smorgasblog in a little while, and after a weekend getting sexually assaulted by a blackjack table, the tiny asian temptress who dealt those satanic hands, the devil spawn of an ATM machine that dispensed my money, and whiskey on the rocks, I doubt I’d be able to string together enough coherent words for one awesome blog topic (like the Night Party Bus Addendum, coming later this week!). See, just then I somehow decided it made sense to write one run-on sentence with five commas in it. I even re-read it to make sure it sounded okay, and walked away satisfied with the start to this blog. Let’s just get to the smorgas’ing. This blog brought to you by British Pop star Cheryl Cole, because she looks decent etc.



This one time, I banged my elbow on a gym door latch right before warmups and wouldn’t you know, it hit my funny bone. Searing waves of pain fired across seemingly every synaptic vesicle in my brain as I thought, “sweet baby Jesus, take me now.” I thought for sure my career would be cut short. Thankfully, the pain subsided in about 37 seconds and I didn’t miss a shot in the layup line. I was eight years old in this imaginary tale being used to draw a comparison to Rajon Rondo on Saturday night.

Just 15 years after this harrowing falsified anecdote, I cannot comprehend how Rondo played with a gimp, dislocated left arm the other night. More inexplicable, is how the Miami Heat refused to overplay and deny him going right. If you watched the replay hammered drunk, you would have known an elbow shouldn’t bend like Rondo’s did. Even if you weren’t hammered drunk, you may have arrived at that fact. To compare what Rondo did to the embarrassment of the Lakers yesterday would be a disservice to homeless people. Because they try harder in life than the Lakers did on the court. So I guess, what I’m saying is, the Lakers compare more favorably to homeless people than Rondo, but still not very favorably to society?

By the way, this could be the turning point in the Heat-Celtics series. KG played like it was 1999 (not to be read like that terribly catchy song about partying like it’s, well, you get it), Paul Pierce is back in a groove, and Chris Bosh has openly admitted that it’s his time of the month and the Boston crowd gave him the jitters. For the record, only an emasculated man who got turned into KG’s housewife says the word “jitters.” Sprinkle in the fact that DWade has been playing dirty and Shaq may have to knock him into the off-season, and I think we have a seven game series on our hands.

Anybody else’s skin crawling after that awkwardness? “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”


They are like the Portman-Kunis lesbian scene in Black Swan. Feeding off each other’s passion, beauty and dedication to their roles, they create one of the most satisfying feelings ever. There is literally no hummus size tub that can hold me down. Yesterday I started in on a “Party Size” tub that serves 16. If that was a “party” it would have been over fast, and no one would have gotten buzzed, let alone laid.  Since the age of six, I’ve “snack”ed in the way Charlie Sheen bangs a rock. Even though my mom regularly purchased low sodium Wheat Thins, I’d salt those bitches up and go to town, tearing through boxes like a rapper on tour in an Atlanta suburb. So, when my palate matured enough to fully appreciate the heavenly, tangy spread of hummus atop the crystalline encrusted top of a Wheat Thin, the greatest snack combo known to man burgeoned.

Hummus: meet Wheat Thins.


You're probably not as ready as Marisa is for summer...

This weekend, Twitter finally reached a level of credibility in my eyes: Marisa Miller joined. Prior to this event, Twitter essentially acted as a way for me to add one more layer of social media to my internet experience, which as some of you may know, is my Super Bowl. Now, my twitterverse has been flipped upside down. Left is right. Up is down. Ochocinco going to Target is no longer the highlight of my feed. Marisa Miller struggling to grasp the re-tweet is just another update on my timeline. Prior to this, I used Twitter like the bastard half-brother to Facebook after Zuckerberg messed around with the postman. It got to the point where I attempted to stay relevant on Twitter through people solely tweeting at me. Relevance through absence is power, after all. I know, that shit is deep, so go ahead and breathe that in once more. Relevance through absence is power. Now, I just want to tweet all the live long day knowing Marisa Miller is doing the same thing. She’s muploading fly shots of her at the Kentucky Derby, and wearing the living hell out of any article of cloth that attempts to cover her body. Just the other day, she tweeted her newest Esquire summer shoot, which you already had to cut your inseam out over.


Better late than never. Better never than late. I choose, “There is an immeasurable distance between late and too late” by American author Og Mandingo, for the obvious reason that his last name was Mandingo. Feel free to insert any other time-related idiom, but my mom is pretty awesome. She birthed me, then taught me lots of stuff along the way. Perhaps her most amazing trait, aside from the ability to dominate Jeopardy on a nightly basis whilst reading some form of literature at the same time, is her love for sports. Growing up, “bedtime” came when the Red Sox ended. For this blog’s sake, I am thankful for that. She corrected my school papers with the fine-toothed comb any English major-turned-journalist/newspaper editor would. By third grade, she held my subject-verb agreements in contempt. When high school began, passive voice gave her active rage. College applications rolled around, and she deemed me “frustrating” and “mediocre” as a writer. Two high compliments. If she were to read my blog, it would probably cause a sinking feeling that shakes her very core, similar to the realization of swallowing a full curd in sour milk. While it is doubtful she would swell with pride upon reading the Revolver, she did provide the sturdy foundation to support this house of cards I masquerade as a blog with widely delusional, humorous thoughts. Like lipstick on a pig, such is Colt’s Revolver. Love you, Mom.

NSFW due to an F bomb, obvi. Is it even worth warning you guys at this point? I mean, if your boss walked by while you were reading, he/she already knows what’s good…

Stay tuned…


Osama bin Laden Shot Dead… IN THE FACE… AMERICA!

May 3, 2011

During the past decade, an entire generation of Americans literally grew up in the aftermath of 9/11. It became the “where were you when?” moment of our contemporaries. Along the way, Americans came to associate one man with the attacks on the World Trade Center: Osama bin Laden. While there were plenty of other alien sounding, hyphenated, three name psychopaths involved, “Osama bin Laden” stuck in the nation’s conscience. As “America’s Most Wanted” terrorist, he put out his little cave videos, threatened attacks, recruited new, lonely, apparently sexually frustrated males by promising them 72 virgins once they blew themselves up, hid like a coward for 10 years and as Allen from The Hangover reminds us, made masturbating on an airplane illegal, rather than merely frowned upon. Last night, I had another “where were you when” moment, and it came upon hearing the news that Osama finally got his head popped by an American made assault rifle with a laser scope. Obviously, the news called for a nightcap, and some mental notes that needed to be put down on electronic record as more information came to light. Guiding you through today’s blog will be some of the hottest middle-eastern women on the internets… because beauty is everywhere, and you’ve probably never googled that.

Rima Fakih: Miss USA 2010... but of Lebanese/Heavenese descent.


When I first heard the news that we killed Osama, I didn’t know how to react, but some quick thoughts came to mind. First thought, “Brick killed a guy. Did you throw a trident?!” My next thought immediately jumped to imagining the mission details of this operation, and the feeling whichever Navy Seal had when he saw a 6’6” bearded frame through his night vision goggles, lined up his laser scope between bin Laden’s unibrow, and squeezed off that round. My third initial thought (which makes little to no sense since “initial” means first),  obviously skipped to whether there was beer in the fridge. There’s really no more American principle than the freedom we have to sip whiskey or tip back a cold one in the safety of our own home. It is the very basic safety and freedom fought for and protected by the courage of men and women fighting overseas for those very ideals.


Rima, again... in a bikini. Because I can.

If you’re like me, you couldn’t wait to see the cave they dragged Osama’s dirty ass out of. I mean, this evil son of a bitch has been hiding out in Paki caves for a decade, narrowly escaping carpet bombs and drone attacks, without any amenities. Outside of drinking your own urine, because it’s sterile and you like the taste, the best part of your day is making another home video on your terrorist flip cam, and maybe some foreplay with a stray goat. Then, news broke that Osama lived in a million dollar compound with his youngest wife and two of his terrorist “couriers” and their families. While it had high-level security and 18 foot high walls topped with barbed wire, it did not have internet, phone or television. Suddenly, a whole new set of thoughts came to mind.

1- Being a “courier” in Al Qaeda basically makes you the biggest bitch on planet earth, right?. I mean, you haven’t even reached the level of getting to blow yourself up. You’re still fetching the martyr dude his coffee, highlighting and color coding his schedule, and lining up afterlife meet and greets with the virgins he gets when he’s finally exploded. It’d be fine if you got to do all that bitchwork and eventually moved into the corner office, but once you’re done with all that, you explode yourself, too.

2- Osama took his youngest wife to hide out with him. This sort of stuff just tickles me. Unless you’re reading about a Mormon wedding, it’s rare you get the old “multiple wives age differentiation” clause in a news story. Lately, my imaginary conversations have been drawing rave reviews, so here’s how it went down when Osama asked his little lady to go hide out with him:

Osama: So, baby, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, come closer so I can hold a rusty machete to your neck as I speak.

Youngest Wife: What is it my lanky lover?!

Osama: Well, I’ve done some things, and pissed off the world’s greatest superpower. I want you to come away into hiding with me. We’ve got this sweet pad all set up, it just doesn’t have an internet hook-up, but we’re working on that. There’s nothing here in this small town for us, especially running water or electricity.

Youngest Wife: Majestic as your beard may be, Osama, and while I can neither read nor write due to the sexist oppression of males in our culture, I have heard others talking by the milking goats that you’re the most wanted man in the world. I do not want to come… and no internet?! This is the 21st century, Osama!

Osama: What do you mean you don’t want to come? You do realize I’m holding a rusty machete to your neck, don’t you? Does this look like a democracy?! No. It looks like an extremist islamic terrorist organization trying to destroy democracy, because that’s exactly what it is. Now pack your robes, or I will tie you to an IED and let the children practice with their rocket launchers. And I told you, we’re looking into the internet issue! We might get a MiFi or something through Sprint. I hear 4G is coming!!!


sidenote: Is it weird that bin Laden has better luck with the ladies than me? I guess “blogger” just doesn’t have the same cache as “megalomaniacal terrorist mastermind.”

3- You’re the head of Al Qaeda and no one, not even one of your couriers, can find you a basic cable-phone-internet triple play package?! That shit is like $99.99/month, including HBO and Starz for the first year with a contract re-evaulation, bro. Weak sauce.


Manel Filali: Singer from Yemen. I don't understand what she's saying in her songs. (ps- is it Yemeni? Yemenese? Yemenish?)

As the story continued to unfold, we found out that this mansion in Pakistan looked more like a prison on the inside, with mattresses flat on the floor and clothes piled up in corners like a Hoarders episode. Reports also came out that the area was initially deserted, but since the bin Laden’s moved into their compound, smaller houses started popping up like Mr. Rogers himself started up a neighborhood. Following that up came the factoid that the bin Laden compound burned its own trash. More intriguing perhaps than all that involved the little fact that a Pakistani military academy sat essentially down the street. Obviously, this brought up some further analysis, by me.

1- Pakistan has got to be shitting me. Not that any of us should have ever thought they were actually on our side in this endeavor to track down bin Laden, but these dudes might as well have been his Islamic brothers from another less extremist mother. Osama is in the biggest house on the block, with tall ass walls and barbed wire, and two shady guys who are just couriering the shit out of the place. Meanwhile the Pakistani military academy is just chilling down the street eating goat cheese, sipping goat’s milk and playing cricket or rock ball or whatever they do out there. Maybe their military just sucks that bad. The USA is tracking dudes all over the world, collecting intelligence like it’s going out of style, tapping wires, creating facial recognition software and examining DNA like it’s CSI: Middle East, and Pakistan is struggling to get dial-up internet. If this isn’t another example of why America runs the world, and every other country just always needs us to bail their asses out, after they do nothing for us, ever, then I don’t know what is.

2- Nobody willingly burns their garbage when there is someone who will come by and pick it up. Have you ever smelled hot garbage? Smells like… well, hot garbage. Osama actually played this one pretty cool. He obviously knew we wouldn’t be looking for a literal smoke signal as to his whereabouts. Even though, in hindsight, we should have realized that would be the best technology a Pakistani would have at their disposal to alert us.

3- I’m not saying women need to cook, clean and make babies, but Mrs. bin Laden has no excuse here. You’ve been living in this joint for over six years (still unknown where he lived in the years directly after 9/11). You’ve got no TV, phone or internet so it’s not like you were watching the royal wedding coverage this past weekend. So far, I haven’t read a report that you didn’t have a vacuum, duster and closets. No excuse for the hideout to be a pig sty. Have some respect for yourself and clean up the place. You never know when US troops are going to kick down your door, blast you and your husband with assault rifles, then release photographs of the scene. I’ll give a pass on the stained rugs, but only because I assume that’s freshly spilled blood, and not tomato juice.


Dana Halabi is a Kuwaitian actress. Yes, I'm just making up what you call people from these countries. No, I don't know what she's saying in her acting roles.

Next, the reports on the military team and operation started taking shape. Navy Seal Team Six, which may or may not have been a Tom Clancy video game, headed the operation. The US had gathered so much information, mostly from detainees at Gitmo who got waterboarded worse than Shamu, that the Seal team practiced the mission on a replica bin Laden compound. The operation took just 40 minutes, included a malfunctioning helicopter that was expertly landed without injury, resulted in four terrorist deaths, and zero harm to any American soldier. If you’re keeping score at home, that’s the military equivalent of hitting for the cycle. First reports also stated an armed bin Laden resisted troops upon being asked to surrender, and he used his wife as a human shield. My pressing thoughts…

1- This is why I love sports. They let us draw the closest parallels to war. You practice, you get good, you execute, you win. That is exactly what the Navy Seals did. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bill Belichick drew up this operation. Just steely cool and tactful as all hell.

2- Torture: 1 Osama: 0. There’s a reason torture is as old a practice as prostitution: it gets the job done. In recent years, the Bush administration took major heat for two things: Guantanamo Bay prison practices, and waterboarding. Now, we find out that the very prisoners being tortured at Gitmo, were the same men who dropped dimes on Osama. The beauty of waterboarding is that it only “simulates” the act of drowning. Thus, we get to drown these terrorists over and over and over until they tell us what we want, and all we’ve done is scared the shit out of them repeatedly. If you think this violates their human rights, I’d argue you’re an idiot.  They gave up their identity as humans and became monsters when they planned, succeeded, or failed at bombing innocent people.

3- Nothing like the old human shield maneuver. They say Hollywood is all cliche, I say, they nailed the whole “a villain uses another human being as his shield” bit. Of course Osama used his wife as a human shield! If Vegas books had odds on, “Will bin Laden use his wife as a human shield on the day he is raided” I’d have bet my left nut on yes. That’s an easier wager than the Celtics being pushed to +250 from +150 in the Heat series after losing game 1.


Brigitte Yaghi was on Lebanese Idol, and might have even won, but I didn't care to check on that. She's hot though.

So in any government-run operation, there are bound to be more informational mix-ups than a paternity episode on Maury. Sure enough, a few of the issues I already discussed eventually proved to be untrue. First, even though I still think I should keep my left nut for it being earlier reported, Osama’s wife did not get used as a human shield and isn’t dead, either. In actuality, she stormed at the Seal team before getting shot in her leg. Next, Osama was not armed during the raid. However, the Seals did come under fire, so you can imagine they weren’t too pleased by the time they saw OBL. The government maintains that you can resist a request to surrender without being armed. It has been reported that Osama suffered bullet wounds above his left eye that took a piece of skull with it, along with a shot to the chest. Osama bin Laden received a burial at sea as the Navy dumped his body after giving it a proper Islamic burial. Thought time…

1- Mrs. bin Laden is a ride or die bitch. Sure, she can’t clean worth a damn, but when it hits the fan, she is apparently down to storm trained special ops teams on behalf of her man. Can’t knock the devotion there.

2- The fact that Osama was unarmed could not mean less to me. I’ll re-create how the surrender request would have gone down during the raid, armed or unarmed.

Navy Seal: Identify yourself, motherfc*ker!

Osama: I am Osama bin Laden! I surren… (shot rips through left forehead carrying frontal lobe with it… shot rips through heart milliseconds after).

Navy Seal: (thinks to himself) ::That was all I needed to know, bro:: (nods approvingly upon review of hits to target).

and… SCENE!

Seriously. if you think the “request to surrender” is anything more than a politically correct way to cover our ass by not saying “we were popping this dude’s head even if we walked in on him reading arabic Dr. Seuss to his son while daisies were tucked behind his ear,” you’re batshit crazy.


All joking aside, according to the latest report, the White House will release images of Osama’s corpse. Debates took place early on in this process as to whether such a photo should be released.  I’m not waiting to post the pictures here, because this is no place for that kind of seriousness. While conspiracy theorists will abound, regardless of the images produced, ultimately, this is a great event in the War on Terror. Hopefully to all the families affected by the events on 9/11 and in the ensuing wars, this acts as another step in the grieving process. Osama bin Laden, even in hiding, represented the evil that tries to threaten the freedom of not only Americans, but also the citizens of any free country.

As I said in the beginning of this blog, I had another “where were you when” moment upon finding out we killed Osama bin Laden. Sitting with a group of friends, one whose birthday is September 11th, we discussed how awful that day back in 2001 was and where we were. We then watched as the president addressed the nation and news stations began updating us on the facts. Maybe the only fact that matters is Osama bin Laden’s last thought on this earth was, “Oh shit!” as he stared down the barrel of that Navy Seal’s assault rifle. I cannot thank the families and soldiers who defend our freedom enough. If this blog could give them one laugh, or bit of enjoyment, it has done its purpose. God bless America. Stay tuned…