Even with the departure of George Bush, there is no doubt that the insane assault on teaching evolutionary theory in public schools will be stepped up. One only has to look at the “great” state of Texas , which has replaced one religious nut with yet another religious nut, Gail Lowe. As Steven Schafersman of Texas Citizens for Science points out, “Lowe will do what the radical religious right powers want her to do. She will not stop the continuing politicization of public education in Texas by the Fundamentalist Christians who still have positions of power and influence. It will be business as usual, as as usual, public education and the students and teachers of the state will suffer.” Fortunately, due to the efforts of people like The National Center for Science Education, these efforts have been thwarted in every case, but the Creationists keep trying, sticking their religious noses where they do not belong.

I, for one, am getting rather tired of the ignorant ramblings of Creationists who are hell-bent or replacing solid, established science with religious superstition. Why don’t Creationists just read a couple of relevant books that attempt to explain the undeniable presence of evolution in our natural world? But no, they have to insist that their ridiculous creation story deserves equal time in a thinly veiled attempt to dress up Genesis to go to school as science.

The main thrust of Creationist efforts stem from their nauseating bleat that “Evolution is only a theory”. From that point they try to take it further down the slippery slope, insinuating that if it is only a theory then it must be little more than a guess and should not be considered as a viable explanation of the wide variety of life that we observe on earth today.

Well, evolution is a theory and it is also a fact. Evolution is defined as a change in allele frequency in a population over time. Evolution has been observed in nature. Evolutionary Theory, explains the mechanisms of evolution (the fact). Scientific Theories are not merely guesses as the ignorant Creationists try to portray them. Scientific Theories describe a large set of observations with as few arbitrary elements as possible. Good theories make predictions about future events and are always falsifiable. This means that there must be some way to render the theory false, if indeed it is false. A good theory also shows a mechanism, and in the case of evolutionary theory, the mechanism of natural selection has been widely observed and demonstrated.

Evolutionary theory is the cornerstone of the biological sciences and without it nothing makes any sense at all. Evolutionary Theory has become stronger and stronger throughout the years despite many attempts to falsify it. Sure, scientists have disagreed about the specific mechanism of evolution, but to try to use this as a wedge to discredit evolutionary theory and sneak their god in the back door of the Science classroom is dishonest and laughable. Creationism is not a theory or a fact and I challenge any creationist to show me just one tenet of creationism that is scientific, just one.

In fact, Creationism is the opposite of science. In a nutshell, science observes, then explains. Creationism starts with a rigid conclusion and then looks around for natural phenomena that might support this conclusion. This is the same thing as shooting an arrow into a wall and then painting a bull’s eye around it. Science is self-correcting and ever changing. If a theory is falsified, science picks itself up and starts looking for another explanation, for science has no other agenda. Creationism cannot be falsified, it is inflexible, never changing. Creationism is religious dogma and nothing else.

I have a few questions for Creationists:

• Please use creationism to explain the development of drug-resistant strains of bacteria. Ask your doctor why you need to take all of your antibiotics when prescribed. That is evolution, observable, verifiable and demonstrated in your own body.
• Please provide a creationist explanation of sickle-cell anemia’s relationship to malaria, the Peppered Moth, Australian rabbits and myxomatosis, or the presence of gills and tails in the early embryonic stages of virtually all vertebrates (including humans). Use your precious and much vaunted but never demonstrated creation “model” to explain the presence of vestigial hind legs in numerous snakes and whales. Explain why God would have created over 250,000 different species of beetle. Why did God create over 2,000 different varieties of fruit-fly (25% of which can only be found in Hawaii)? Why did God create muscles that allow us to move our ears? What is our appendix for?
• There are some 8,600 species of birds so far described and 3,700 species of mammals. 20,000 species of fish are documented out of an estimated 40,000 believed to exist. Known insect species number over 850,000 and this is estimated as being fewer that 1/5 or even 1/10 of the total number in extant. The number of catalogued flowering plant species is over 286,000 and about 4,000 more are catalogued every year. The number of different species of fungi is in excess of 40,000. If you add it all up you get over 1.6 billion different forms of life on this planet. Since over 99% of all life forms that have ever existed are now extinct we end up with a total species number of as high as 16 billion. Please explain why your creator went to all this effort only to give one species any special favors. How did Noah manage to place at least 3.2 billion different life forms on the ark?
• Which of Noah’s children were black? Which were Korean, East Indian, Hispanic? Which had blue eyes, green eyes, hazel eyes, brown eyes? Which were albino? Which of Noah’s children had brown hair, black hair, blonde hair? Which of Noah’s children had syphilis, AIDS, gonorrhea, tuberculosis, polio, smallpox? Which of Noah’s children had congenital heart defects?

Come on, big mouths, put up or shut up. Lets see this creationism of yours start explaining things. No one needs to defend evolution any more. That hasn’t needed to be been done for over 100 years. If you can’t get with the program, get out of the game and relegate Creationism to where it belongs, in classes on Religion, not Science. Only the irrational, the intellectually impaired and the incredibly stupid can’t see that evolution theories such as theory of change by decent through modification are the only demonstrable means of explaining the wide diversity of life that we observe on this planet.

This issue makes the U.S.A. a laughingstock to the rest of the world and should have been dead and buried decades ago. It makes me sick to have to continue to fight this flood of ignorance in this day and time, but hopefully truth and science will prevail and mankind will one day throw off this yoke of myth and superstition.

Alcoholism: Anybody looking to slander your behavior will always bring up that you drink too much, regardless of the frequency or severity, instantly putting you on the defensive. It’s just like when you make a crack about a gay person, are accused of being homophobic, then scramble to pretend you’re a big fan of men fucking. A relationship counselor once hinted that drinking eight beers during Sunday football hints at a problem — that’s less than a beer per hour, plus it was a lie; it was more like 18. When did alcoholism suddenly become applicable to everybody who drinks enough alcohol to enjoy a hint of its effect? It used to be an affliction proprietary to Irishmen who drank varnish; now if you reach for your fourth beer, you can hear high horses whinny from all directions.

Bruises of Mystery: Good morning. Without any theories as to how they got there, you have a constellation of bruises. Your arms and legs are peppered with small black spots, some newcomers, and some yellowing oldies. The red giant is always found in the most improbable place. How did you get four baseball-size bruises on the interior of your bicep and under your left nipple? You are 90% certain you did not go anywhere near the batting cages last night. What the fuck?

Calculations: You might have flunked out of ITT Tech, but if the problem begins: “40 oz. of malt liquor is 8% alcohol and costs $2.50, while 16 oz of marshmallow-flavored wine is …” you are as fucking aces as Michael Eisner figuring out 9% on a restaurant tab.

Drunk Driving: We all know it’s wrong when we’re sober, just like we know fat or ugly women don’t deserve even the most disingenuous compliments when we’re sober. We also know how quickly our sensibilities erode with each passing drink and how a bogus sense of invincibility simultaneously swells. Unfortunately, we Americans are slaves to our cars and few things suck more than having to contend with waking up hungover and not being able to easily acquire a “Revive” Vitamin Water and a sausage egg and cheese. Sure, there’s designated drivers sometimes, but he’s just the guy that pounds three waters 10 minutes before its time to leave. Don’t drink and drive.

Extract: You’ve gone to a party, underestimated the amount of gin it will take to put you down for the night and the liquor store is closed. A rummage through the pantry, fridge and medicine cabinet comes up blank. You know what you have to do. There’s a row of fiery shooters sitting among the spices and seasonings, some running up to 160 proof with flavors ranging from vanilla to almond. And it’s not like anyone ever uses that shit. By the time your theft is discovered, you’ll probably have made a clean escape to the grave.

Food: At 3:47 a.m., a slice of pizza that has been dessicating beneath a hot lamp to the point where it looks like the skin of a mozzarella elephant has you salivating like a Somali watching a U.N. airdrop. If you’re at home, managing the focus to cook up a box of The Cheesiest makes you feel like a god. On the road, it’s not by chance that the greasiest, most vile drive-through is the one with a line backed up to the streets minutes after last call is enforced. Just don’t try to assuage your doctor’s concern over cholesterol and blood pressure readings by explaining the unlikelihood of you living long enough to have a heart attack. It’s faster to just take the scrips and throw them away.

Gastrointestinal Malaise: A warning to all — do not drink black & tans and eat Burger King onion rings the day before a first date unless you feel the need to frantically sacrifice a pair of boxers to the trash can in a men’s room with no lock.

Hangover: For centuries, saucehounds have concocted snake oils and practiced arcane rituals to combat the cruel penance of a day(s) of pounding head, sizzling confetti shits and chilling sweats, and for centuries, they have failed miserably. Honestly, do any of us really believe a B complex and a glass of water will undo the damage done by a cube of Miller Lite? After that, you could use your urine to pickle deformed fetuses. Drink a water in between every drink? Sure. Why not do crunches between every bite of cheesecake or put on additional condoms during every position change?

Irreparable damage to reputation: When the sun rises and the haze of sobriety sets in, there’s a good chance that the people you were partying with will no longer think the stained carpet, smashed furniture, overturned cat box and felonious assaults were so funny. It’s a thin line between he’s a blast to party with,” to “that guy is NOT coming to my fucking wedding!” Usually this line is crossed when bar buddies invite you into their home. There’s nothing that can be done about it, and anyway, it is better to be dreaded than anonymous.

Job on the Drunk: Look, you are totally in the right here. No reasonable employer can ask you to remain completely sober for eight hours. I mean, if you can’t land an aircraft with a couple of shots in you, what kind of pilot are you anyway? All you need to sail through this requirement at most jobs is a screwdriver in a Minutemaid bottle and a pack of breath cleansing gum and you run almost no risk of being caught.

Kamikaze Pick Up Attempts: Long after you’ve shattered the beer goggles on a fall to the bathroom floor, any actual objectives other than amusing yourself go by the way side. Plus, it’s not like you have any legitimate game at this point anyway. So you approach that blurry thing with the girlish voice by blurting whatever horrible phrase oozes from your scrambled brain. Some part of you is still demanding a mate, but it’s orders won’t be carried out any more efficiently than those from the part of you responsible for walking in a straight line. My personal best here is approaching a girl to tell her about the internet video I had seen of a man being fatally sodomized by a horse. Kablam!!! Sure, a successful pick-up would be the ideal, but why be cleanly shot down when you can honor your ancestors by going out in a flaming ball of social catastrophe?

Law Enforcement: They’re bound to turn up eventually. If you don’t get a DUI yourself, you’ll have to bail out a friend who does. There are those uncomfortable moments when you stumble up to your car, key in hand and see a parked cop car and have to decide what to do, and there are those even more uncomfortable moments when you are led away from work in cuffs. The nasty secret of cops is that they almost never catch you. You can coast for years. You become emboldened and no matter how long your run of luck, you will eventually choose the wrong time to throw an empty whisky bottle at a pedestrian as you run a red light in a deaf school zone. Our only real advice is deny, deny, deny… and bewhite. ”

Moderation: The Drunks Three-Minute Mile.

Nosy Clerks: I prefer shopping in the judgement-free environment of the liquor store, but some times sale prices lead me to the grocery store for several weeks at a time. They might not say anything, but I can see it the scorn in their eyes when they realize I’m the guy who has bought three 1.75 liter bottles of store-brand vodka from them in a week, paying exclusively with Coinstar receipts. Fuck off, asswipe. You scan Apple Jacks for a living, yet you’ve shamed me into avoiding you by choosing a longer line. And of course, the same fucker will card me. It’s a bit flattering, but on the other hand I’m more than 10 years past 21 and have a beard like fucking Euripides, so give it a rest now and then.

On the Road: What is it that makes road sodas some of the most delicious beers? We’re not encouraging the sucker driver to actively drink, but when you’re a passenger on a road trip to a sporting event or whatever, few things feel better than slugging beer in the car. Unfortunately, the pissing situation can become tedious if the vehicle’s owner is fastidious, meaning they don’t like it when you clumsily whizz all over their floor mats while trying to keep your helmet aimed in the mouth of a 32 oz. Gatorade bottle.

Pissing the Bed: You have reached the point where your central nervous system had to take the controls and crash land you on the nearest soft surface. You are unconscious and your system is brimming with diuretics. About four hours later, as basic subsystems start to come back online, you startle from your sleep, feeling a strange chill. Even as you mutter “No, no, no,” flip blankets, strip off clothes and look for a spilled drink that isn’t there, you know what you’ve done. You drank yourself into infancy. If it was your own bed, your mattress will forever be cursed with a faint brown halo of shame, but you control the crime scene, so this is the best-case scenario. If it was somebody else’s bed, couch or floor, nothing can mend that relationship but time. If a still-sleeping innocent was involved, you are bound by your own sense of honor to frame them by whatever means necessary. If you did it in a hotel room, it will probably be the only time in your life that you fear reprisal from a Motel 6 maid.

Queerness: Good times, lowered inhibitions and a sense of camaraderie and belonging — this is why many of us drink. But there is a dark side to the bro-down world of putting your buddies in hug-headlocks — the guy who takes it too far. Maybe he’s gay, maybe he’s just really lonely and drunk, but that lingering arm he draped on your shoulder doesn’t have the same harmless feeling it did when Dum-Dum Jimmy did it to you moments before he went to bang some divorcee in the passenger seat of her Hyundai.

Regret: Even before your 250-grit eyelids grind open to a day pre-emptively squandered, you know there is something to atone for. Prior to blacking out, there are blurry snapshots of offended women flicking through your mind. You feel like something expensive of yours might be broken. You wonder where your car might be parked and if there’s a Jack Russell terrier decaying in your wheel well. You make some casual, “feeler” phone calls to your friends, trying to piece things together. Eventually, one of them answers the phone, not with a “hello” or “‘sup?” but an emphatic “Dude!” At this point, all you can do is listen helplessly to whatever combination of staggering, cruelty and law breaking that you weaved together the night before while promising yourself a future of sobriety.

Sadness: As Lenny Leonard so aptly stated, “Nuthin’ like a depressant to chase the blues away.” Intoxication has an inertia to it that can inflate mediocre situations to greatness, or exploit your insecurities to a point where you’re insulting yourself in a mirror. It’s not all that dissimilar to laying a tab of acid on your tongue, only the teeter on the cliff takes much longer and you can go to sleep instead of boring others with profound descriptions of your Dali hallucinations. Every drunken episode is a role of the dice, and many times, sweet escape is denied, and all you’re left with is your miserable self, only crippled to deal with how shitty you really are.

Too Drunk to Wank: Let’s be realistic. Unless you’ve just rocked Madison Square Garden, it’s a pretty safe bet that traveling across the room on all fours, trailing a potpourri of (mostly) human excrement is not going to get you laid. Instead, you spend five minutes coaxing forth an erection, exhaust both arms and try to focus on the booty video on BET without your mind wandering to fantasy football, before giving up and passing out as a man incapable of outperforming even the most frigid monkey.

Unsafe Sex: Let’s just get it out — condoms suck. We’re pretty sure AIDS sucks too, but we know condoms suck. Speaking for my penis alone, it’s a hill climb to nut while sporting a jimmy sober. Tack on a BAC of .20 and you’re setting yourself up for a frustrating finale-free slamfest or, worst case, a bored and traitorous dong. If it was some horrible stranger and you underperformed, you still may feel obliged to redeem yourself at first opportunity instead of focusing on throwing her cell phone in the toilet while tiptoeing out of her pen, so we will responsibly state that abstinence is often the best course of action for the true drunk because why take all that risk to do something so utterly fruitless? Unless she’s really hot.

Van Damme: Along with Seagal’s canon, the Golan-Globus era of JCVD are 3:00 a.m. staples of the basic-cable networks. Along with the aforementioned shit food, your wet brain demands low-quality stimulation as well and what it really craves is a movie that ends with a guy being thrown down a fucking elevator shaft or a bitch in a penguin suit getting executed with less mercy than Rasputin.

Wine: Every now and then, when the buzzes of shit beer and vodka have you bored or you’re about to indulge in a fantastic meal, wine is dictated. In smallish amounts, it is quite pleasant and it ranks up there with tequila shots as a means to getting laid. After heavy amounts, you suffer like a baby bunny trapped inside Dave Lombardo’s drum kit. It also makes your poop greenish-black, which we’ll assume to be unhealthy. If wine is your go-to drink, you are either gay or a gay hobo.

Xanax: Among the most popular of all supplemental party favors, with good reason. Unlike military grade painkillers, it’s not commonly mixed with aceta… Tylenol which is pretty, pretty bad for a drinker. Also one of the afflictions for which Xanax is commonly prescribed is being female, so they are in abundant supply outside of gaming and LARPing circles, wherein one must rely primarily on allergy prescriptions. Warning: excessive use may cause two college educated men to forget that the letter “X” is part of the English alphabet and initially post this list without an “X” entry.

Yukin’: Sometimes we want escape so totally that we are willing to nearly kill ourselves. Of course, this is the world’s fault, not ours. As you predictably drink yourself into your standard stupor at a pace that cries for help, somebody offers you a shotglass of something awful. Even though you are a complete boozerocker, you don’t really want it, but at the same time, you don’t want to lose the pointless distinction of being King Drunk. You kick it back and grimace. With the first one out of the way, more come, some of them even reluctantly purchased by you. If you’re any sort of drunk, your grey zone is huge, perhaps a range of 15+ drinks in the comfortably buzzed zone before you hit the wall hard. The spins are merciless. You battle with your own esophageal functions like you’re being assaulted by a poltergeist Max Hardcore. It surges — and is swallowed. You seek water, but it only provides the necessary gastric bulk for total overflow. You know you’ll feel better, but also look like a pussy. You make it outside and, inexplicably, don’t hunch over to expunge the poisons, instead, getting the standing rigors and demonstrating the awesome projectile power of a body rebelling against its own idiot brain. Astute bar patrons watch in amusement, then disgust as you make your way back inside, feeling refreshed enough to request that they resume serving you.

Zzzzzz’s: Even at our best, we need a solid 6+ hours of sack time a night so our next-day snoring doesn’t get us fired. But on a Tuesday night, the aggravating responsibilities of friendship can force you into listening to a dumped buddy moan about how his girlfriend cheated on him (Hint: She’s a coke whore and cheated on you with a guy that has lots of coke) while having a few beers. A critical moment comes where you have to ditch him, but if you love your booze, that may override practicality, especially because now, you have somebody else to drink with, so its OK! Then, every hour on the hour, you calculate and delude yourself — four hours is more than enough, three hours is more than enough — next thing you know, you hear the alarm blare and it almost brings you to tears.

Adult Services: Whether using a phone book or website, it’s a dead end to look for any other term. Some phone books have removed the section altogether, preferring “Adult Entertainment” to legally cover stripping, basement/garage modeling, jumping out of cakes, and the like. “Services,” on the other hand, ensures the exchange of sex for money, though it’s never wise to ask the friendly voice on the other end for specifics. Trust me, “That’s between you and the lady” will meet every awkward inquiry. And for fuck’s sake, don’t ever pick up a streetwalker.

Bargaining: Do not, under any circumstances, try to negotiate a fee upon arrival. It’s even worse to do so after you’ve taken off your clothes. If the cost is $100, the best ladies are all-inclusive, but there are still rackets about that require additional tips. Yes, you may have to learn the hard way. If you hand over your money and she isn’t naked herself within 30 seconds, I hope you brought additional cash.

Comfortable: As in, “Maybe you’ll get….” If you hear these words upon arrival, get naked. Yes, completely naked. Leaving your socks on will only cause the lady to repeat this phrase or, in extreme cases, call her dispatcher. If you’re in the buff, it’s unlikely you’re a cop, or at least that’s the assumption.

Dental Dam: If you’re the crazy sort who needs to eat a much-abused pussy, failing to use a dental dam will likely send you to the hospital. I munched once (and briefly) sans protection, and I’m not sure I ever washed away the odor. Whore pussy is for tapping, not immersing the same tongue that expects to savor a Big Mac afterwards.

Erection: If you have a raging one on the drive over, you will not exceed three minutes in the sack. If you still don’t have one after she’s tickling your balls, I suggest the other persuasion.

Fellatio: Any respectable prostitute will perform oral sex at the opening bell (pity if you get one of those “massage first” chicks), but decline immediately if she pulls out a condom. Yeah, it’s safer, but you might as well be wearing a wool sock. Sure, I’ve gotten off to the mere sight of a chick in the nether regions, but to this date, I’ve never actually enjoyed a condom-oriented blow job. If she rolls it on before you can protest, move directly to sex.

Gonorrhea: You’re more likely to get it from your girlfriend than a prostitute, so dive in with confidence.

Humiliation: Usually very costly and reserved for specialists, you can often convince your regular to smack you around a bit if you overpay for the half-hour session. Don’t ask if it’s your first time, but once you’re comfortable and familiar, a sawbuck or two will likely earn a disparaging comment or perhaps an open-hand slap. Full beatings usually require a doubling of the overall price.

In-Call: Jump in the car, baby, because you’re going to her place. Or his, if that’s your cup of tea. Curiously, this is the preferred method of meeting an adult sex worker, as you can remain relatively anonymous and avoid blackmail schemes such as those featured in Punch Drunk Love. Sure, there’s a chance some dude is hiding in the basement, waiting for you to be naked, vulnerable, and amenable to handing over your wallet, but that’s not likely to happen in your more upscale, non-Detroit/Newark markets.

Jerking Off: Sure, she’s a pro, but do not ask for a handjob from a prostitute. She’s not only beneath such rote behavior, she’ll likely do it half-assed just to piss you off. Still, that’s not as bad as paying $265 and only being allowed to jerk yourself off. Bitch wouldn’t even remove her top! Not like I’d know or anything.

Kissing: It’s pretty much conventional wisdom that prostitutes don’t like to kiss because it’s “too personal,” but that’s one of the oldest myths running. They don’t want to kiss because it’s likely your breath approximates her pussy after an atypically busy afternoon. I slobbered all over a tubby whore once just to say I did, but dragon breath was the last thing my tentative erection needed for the good fight. A peck goodbye is the preferred method. Making out is for teenagers and drunks.

Love: If it existed, you wouldn’t be here.

Music: I can’t remember ever visiting a prostitute who didn’t have music playing, though on one occasion, I fucked in a motel room while the television was on. Maury, if I’m not mistaken. Acceptable tunes include Enya, Seal, Marvin Gaye, and light jazz, though R&B will work in a pinch. Avoid heavy metal and country at all costs. AC/DC is for strip clubs.

Nasty Talk: You always think you’re going to use such language (hey, she’s a whore, not my girlfriend), but it never happens. The minute you start saying, “You want my cock, don’t you bitch?” you feel completely stupid for assuming you could be manly. You fear women, that’s why you can’t find any outside the parameters of a transaction, remember? Meek and mild is best, just in case you want to see the little lady again. You are allowed to scream like a banshee during your orgasm, but leave the trash talk at home.

One-and-Done: Few things are as depressing as finding that hot little number who makes you shoot your wad inside of a minute, only to find out that “per hour” is arguably the most misleading term on earth. Most whores are “per load” types, which is their right, but if you manage to find a lady who lets you go as many times as you wish without additional currency, never let her go. I mean, follow her from coast to coast, if necessary. I would suggest jerking off right before seeing a prostitute to ensure a longer experience, but every time I think I can do this, I realize, post-orgasm, that I just saved a bunch of money and am too tired to go anywhere.

Prostitute: An acceptable term in some quarters, but “escort” is pretty much the standard these days. Never, ever use “whore” or “tramp” when discussing business, and if you’re a real gentleman, you’ll resort to “ma’am” as needed.

Quickie: If you’re going to be the sort who can’t fill the allotted hour (or half-hour), make sure you’re dropping no more than $100. My personal record is $150 for five total minutes, but that’s a mistake no man will make twice. Fine, three times. Find a prostitute who allows “multiple visits” during the session, and you’ll never fear the call of pre-maturity again.

Ramada Inn: The worst fucking place to ever meet a prostitute. Yeah, they often have the outside entrances you crave, but they never seem to cool down those rooms in the summer. As strange as it sounds, I’ve had the greatest times at Motel 6, perhaps because I don’t feel so guilty about dripping my juice on the comforter. It seems almost obligatory.

Sexy attire: I never did like it when whores would answer the door wearing a teddy or some allegedly “sexy” item. Such things made me more self-conscious and mindful of the business side of the situation. No, it’s best when they come to the door in every day clothing, like a sweater, blue jeans, or tight-ass shorts that reverberate camel toe. And if they look like they’ve just gotten home from a big meeting, complete with librarian-style hair bun? I’m hard before I hit the foyer.

Talking: Very, very important to exchange words with a prostitute after sex, though no more than 3-4 minutes. Believe me, she wants you the fuck out of there. Still, I learned many things over the years, including the fact that a whore’s number one client is a married cop. My sweet, sweet Gina in Colorado Springs puffed up like a peacock whenever she told me about fucking a high-ranking officer at
Fort Carson, or some suit from the mayor’s office. And it made me go all aw-shucks with pride whenever she asked me how my Master’s Thesis was going. Still unreadable, thanks.

U-turn: Once you call to arrange an appointment, don’t be a dick and not show up. If you have regrets, call her and cancel. She has better things to do than shower for no reason. Though you may not.

Voluptuous: They’ll tell you over the phone if they’re in possession of a healthy rack, and it’s best to insist on it. Sure, it’s wise to withhold funds from anyone “full-figured,” but if the only way you’re going to get a mouthful of funbag is to climb Mt.
Fuji, so be it. Few things are as depressing as driving across town to find an emaciated chick who looks like that neighbor boy who never eats.

Washcloth: The classier dames will always offer to wipe down your penis after sex, which is more than my damn wife has ever done. Then again, she has to mount me for free.

Xavier: Just isn’t a believable pseudonym. I tried Enrique once, but giggled my way to a hang up. You’re not faxing her a copy of your Social Security card and routing information, for crying out loud; just give her your real name.

Youth: Yeah, I’ve had the ladies fresh from college, or its whore equivalent, waitressing, but your dollars are better spent with the 30-40 crowd. Not only does an older woman have the chops, she’s more likely to convince you that she actually wants to be there, rather than simply being too lazy to punch a time clock. A hot 20-year-old, while good for the loins, will never pull off the head-back moan. But a MILF? I’m buying it, baby.

Zero: When you’re earning $7.25 an hour and still living at home, your bank account will never rise above this point if you insist on more than one whore per month. It’s why the Lawd done made credit cards.

SUPPLEMENT

8.14.04

Abbath rivals Satyricon for #1 most ridiculous BM pic!

Just when you thought the black metal pics couldn’t get more ridiculous, Abbath unzipps his fucking pants! Holy Mother of God this is horrible! Apparently he did the entire photo shoot with his fucking fly down. He’s covering his crotch in the number 2 picture, but here, in all of his unholy glory, Abbath bares it all for the fans. Seriously, he may as well have done the picture nude. I just don’t get it. I mean, the axe is bad enough, but this just flat out destroys the attempt to be evil. I think this might be the first instance where a black metal icon has posed in a provocative, sexually inviting manner. Abbath, dude, you’re not gonna get the ladies with this one!

#10

IT

IT (Abruptum/Ophthalamia) in one of his Via Dolorosa-era photos cleans up in the #10 slot. Does Sweden have Indians? He looks like a fuckin’ black metal Comanche! Or better yet, John Rambo. After all, he’s in a cave with a large hunting knife, but by the way that thing is glowing, you’d think Orcs were near. Go black metal Frodo, go!

#9

Fenriz

Fenriz (Darkthrone) is probably the most dramatic of all black metal-ers. In almost every choreographed photo, he’s either kneeling in the woods, got his arms outstretched, or is looking into the sky, no doubt cursing Jesus for not giving him enough money to record a decent album.

#8

Gorgoroth

Wait, are those suspenders? Oh, fuck, you gotta be kidding me. And he’s got his hair in a ponytail. Not only that, but I beleive he’s carrying a scyth. He’s a fucking black metal farmer! Jesus Christ this picture is gay. What’s up with the hooded avenger in the back? And who is that goliath motherfucker? Holy shit that guy is huge! Don’t fuck with Gorgoroth man!

#7

Old Man’s Child

Damn right these guys look old. They’re all fucking bald! Did Crowbar turn into a black metal band when I wasn’t looking? Apparently baldness has found a niche in the black metal scene. It’s ok to be bald if you’re in a black metal band because being bald evidently means you are evil. And don’t wear your own band’s t-shirt to the fucking photo shoot dude, that’s just a metal fopaux.

#6

Dark Funeral

Don’t get me wrong, Dark Funeral is the shit. But this photo is not. Actually, I should say they were the shit until David Parland took off. Anyway, Lord Ahriman is fucking fat. Notice his belly hanging out from under the leather daddy vest. His generic, upsidedown cross-shin guards are pretty fucking absurd too. What’s up with the bondage theme anyway? How about those chains on the ground? It’s obvious that the band is going to tie up and fuck the guy on the left. He’s already waiting with his hand on his crotch. Hell, maybe this should have been number five.

#5

Dimmu Borgir

The bald guy makes this picture #5, hands down. This is some serioulsy shoddy corpse-paint on everybody, especially for a photo shoot. Look at the bald guy. Just look at him! Is that supposed to be intimidating? He looks like a fucking alien! As with Cradle of Filth, Dimmu Borgir’s pics have gotten more ridiculous with time, i.e., the presence of top- hats, vampire teeth, capes, etc. Terrible!

#4

Dani

Dani from Cradle of Filth comes in 4th only because he is so incredibly gay. First of all, there is no black metal band that has sold out quite like Cradle of Filth. Secondly, there is no other black metal band that loves to have pictures taken of them as much as Cradle of Filth. And lastly, Dani always has to be doing something stupid and/or gay in virtually all of the band photos. Why? Well, he’s obviously watched Interview With a Vampire one too many times. The theatrics just need to stop. This is one of his few un-photoshopped pics. STOP IT! Also, Cradle of Filth is from Helsinki, Sweden.

#3

Immortal

What exactly is going on here? Is this the new WWF tag-team? Demonaz looks like he’s ready to swan-dive off the turnbuckle. And what is that leather guard holding his gut in? He’s been drinking too much Smirnoff Ice (That’s what they drink backstage by the way). Abbath looks like he just saw the fucking boogey man and doesnt know whether to run or stay and shit his pants.

#2

Immortal (Again)

Immortal take the number two spot with this pic, and for good reason. LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING SHIN GUARDS! Since when did Satan have his own ice hockey team? Horgh wins #2 for the evil goalie look. But that’s not all. What about Abbath’s weapon!? What the fuck is that? It looks more like the Bat Signal than an axe. I just don’t know what to think actually. Last, but not least, is Iscariah. The leather pants. The chainmail. The belt that turns said chainmail into a skirt. Ask Jonny, but I think Bennett developed that look in Commando. The only reason why this photo didn’t make #1 is because of the lack of taxidermy.

#1

Satyricon (Nemesis Devina)

This is the most ridiculous black metal pic for three reasons. One, the stuffed eagle. C’mon guys, you’re not fooling anyone. Two, Nocturno Culto, who is notorious for taking tacky black metal pics. And three, for Frost’s homemade arm bands complete with 10″ carpentry nails. Seriously, it looks like he punched a fucking porcupine to death. Not to mention his tight spandex pants. That’s not very black metal. Or maybe it is…

Released: 1985

Tagline:

Somewhere… somehow… someone’s going to pay!

Entire Story In Fewer Words Than Are In This Sentence:

Gay men get fucked by–not with–Arnold

Homoeroticism:

More than you could possibly imagine. I mean all the crap about Arnold being Der Gropin’fuhrer was just a rightwing-ruse to distract Californians from the fact that Schwarzenegger has starred in the single gayest movie ever made. The Republican Party had to make Schwarzenegger look like the worst heterosexual predator since Marv Albert just so that their own people would vote for him. For reals. The first time we see Arnold in Commando, Mr. Olympia is carrying a big chainsaw with a four-foot blade and an even larger log on one shoulder. He’s all sweaty and determined looking, rugged, and accompanied by a steamy steel drum and sax solo! Bear City, USA, man. While flipping through his daughter’s Tiger Beat a few scenes later, he exclaims, “Why don’t they just call him Girl George? It would cut down on the confusion.” Meaning of course that while others might have been confused about Boy George’s sexuality back in 1986, Arnold knew the straight truth. Or lack thereof.

When Arnold’s old commander comes to tell Die Governator that somebody is killing all of his old men, Schwarzenegger sneaks up behind him and puts a hard gun in his back. The commander says, “Silent and smooth — just like always.” Is that what straight men say when another dude sticks ‘em with something hard from behind? Didn’t think so. Arnold also of course picks up another man by his balls. And, for God knows what reason, Arnold is in a pair of skimpy speedos for at least four minutes. Just paddling around in a boat. Oh, wait — I know the reason.

But, you can’t talk about the amazing gayness of Commando without mentioning Bennett. In fact, if I ever go back to school, my thesis will detail how the late twentieth/early twenty-first century embracing of homosexuality stems from Vernon Wells’ portrayal of this particular character. After I’m done, West Hollywood will be renamed “Vernon Wells.” Where to even start… Bennett spends nearly the entire movie wearing the following outfit:

• Leather pants
• A black, sleeveless T-shirt
• A chain mail vest
• A large belt that turns said chain mail into a little skirt
• Fingerless leather gloves
• A dog chain choker
• A flat top
• A push broom moustache
• A leather belt that he wore around the chain mail vest, making it seem as if he were wearing a skirt. Yes, I stated this point earlier, but holy fuck does it need repeating!

Basically your standard leather-daddy getup, minus the cop hat. His Australian accent doesn’t help things, either. For no apparent reason, Bennett exclaims, “John, I’m not going to shoot you between the eyes. I’m going to shoot you between the balls.” Money shoot him between the balls… But what really sent my gaydar off the chart was the following exchange between Arnold and Mr. Wells:

Matrix: “You can beat me… You want to put a knife in me. Look me in the eyes. See what’s going on in there while you turn it. That’s what you want to do to me, right? Come on, let the girl go. You and me. Don’t deprive yourself of some pleasure. Come on Bennett; let’s party.”

Bennett: “I don’t need the girl — I don’t need the girl!!“

Short of Arnold actually licking Vernon’s ass, you simply could not come up with a gayer scene. Seriously, men fucking is straighter. And of course, you can’t spell Commando without “man,” “do” or “personal lubricant.”

Corpse Count:

Commando almost features more murders than it does homosexual innuendos. Almost. 146 people are shot, blown up, stabbed, scalped, dropped off cliffs and mutilated, and fully 138 of those onscreen deaths happen during a four-minute time frame. Four fucking minutes! Without doubt the bloodiest four minutes in the history of film, easily trumping the even finale of the great Death Wish 3. In one particularly noteworthy sequence, Schwarzenegger’s John Matrix character manages to commit five murders using a pitchfork, an axe, a machete and two circular saw blades–all within the span of twenty seconds! He even kills two guys with one bullet.

Maybe even more impressive than the amount of men that he kills is the amount of men that he just beats the living crap out of. Specifically one scene where he not only hits a guy with a phone booth, but then he throws eight grown men flying through the air at the same time! The Wachowskis obviously stole this far superior scene for Neo’s lame-ass fight with 5 dozen Agent Smiths in the Matrix sequel. And we know where they got the name of their film. And we know why the one brother is a cross-dressing transvestite.

How Bad Is It Really?

Bad? Bad? Look, I’ll be the first to admit that it is hard to retain one’s critical faculties while watching THE RADDEST MOVIE EVER MADE!!! But seriously, Commando rules. If the purpose of a film is solely to entertain, then no movie has anything on Commando. Did I mention that at one point Arnold and Alyssa Milano are feeding a deer? And that he’s wearing a pink shirt tucked into white shorts? Holy shit, that rules. What is also fantastic about Commando is that for all the ridiculously over-the-top uber-mensch moves Schwarzenegger makes, Rae Dawn Chong is constantly reminding us just how over-the-top and ridiculous all of the macho bullshit is. Here’s what I mean:

Cooke (The Great Bill Duke): “Scared, motherfucker? Well, you should be. Cause this Green Beret’s going to kick you ass.”

Matrix (Arnold): “I eat Green Berets for breakfast. And right now (punch) I’m (kick) very (slap) hungry.” Cooke gets tossed through a wall.

Cindy (Dawn Chong): “I don’t believe this macho bullshit!”

See, that’s what makes Commando succeed on so many levels. You don’t believe the macho bullshit, either. But you love it. The director tells you exactly what to think, in case the action is too fast and you can’t pay attention to everything that is going on. Like, when Arnold throws Cooke through the wall onto a couple who somehow kept having sex despite the four gunshots in the next room, Rae Dawn observes, “These guys eat too much red meat.” Again, exactly right. Also of note is when the naked couple emerges from underneath the covers, the woman is behind the man. Yeah, buddy!

One-Liner:

Move over Henny Youngman. Take a hike Don Rickles. Here comes Commando! Honestly, everything else aside (yes, even the hot man-on-man action), what I love most about Commando are all the brilliant, transcendent One-Liners.

From, “Don’t disturb my friend. He’s dead-tired” to “I’m air sick,” Commando trumps all other movies ever made–EVER–when it comes to One-Liners. I mean, even when the bad guy asks the eleven-year-old girl, “You’ll be together with him soon. Won’t that be nice?” The eleven-fucking-year-old girl says, “Not as nice as watching him smash your face in.” Even the soon-to-be-fodder for Arnold’s mighty gun D grade bad guys get to rip some off, “Slitting a little girl’s throat is like cutting warm butter.” However, Commando being Commando, Bennett retorts, “Put that knife away and shut your mouth.” Remember, in 80s Actions, knives are dicks.

Post-Mortem One-Liner:

Let’s be honest here. With the possible exception of Predator no other movie in history has half as many good sentences to hilariously celebrate the death of a fellow human being.

The greatest Post-Mortem One-Liner of all time is the following: Schwarzenegger has just chased down and run Sully’s (David Patrick Kelly) Porsche off the road with an Austin Healy Sprite. After ramming the Sprite head-on at 80 miles-per-hour into a telephone pole, Arnold checks to see if Rae Dawn is alive and then pulls Sully out of the Porsche, demanding to know where his (Matrix’s) daughter is. Sully tells him to fuck off. Arnold says, “Listen, loyalty is very touching but it’s not the most important thing in your life right now. Gravity is.” Great line, but, well, keep reading.

Arnold then carries Sully over to a cliff and dangles him over the edge by one leg (look for the wire holding Sully up). After some more words are exchanged, Schwarzenegger says to Sully, “Hey Sully, remember when I said I’d kill you last?” Sully then says, “Yeah, you promised you’d kill me last.” To which our governor responds, “I lied.” He then drops Sully off the side of Mulholland Drive. Now, I know what you are thinking. That is technically a “Pre-Mortem” One-Liner. Right, except for the fact that just before Schwarzenegger pushes Sully’s Porsche back onto its wheels, Rae Dawn asks, “What happened to Sully?”

“I had to let him go.”

Holy shit, is that funny/brilliant! It has had me laughing for the past twenty years.

Stupid Political Content:

None really. I mean all the usual romanticized military/vigilante crap is front and center, but it is obviously such homosexual fantasy that any overtures to the right are lost on everyone, save castratos. Sure, he lives isolated and alone with a literal arsenal in his tool shed, but look at that chest! We could begin to discuss how a man could murder over a dozen-dozen people and yet be smiling at the end of it all (sheer fascism), but then, those biceps start calling my name. All bulgy and shit. There is one odd part where Arnold explains to Alyssa Milano, “When I was a boy and Rock and Roll came to East Germany [the] communists said it was subversive… Maybe they were right?” But honestly, I had way too large of a hard-on to make heads or tails of it. OK, fine — tails.

Novelty Death:

At the climax of the “fight” between Bennett and Matrix, Arnold somehow manages to rip a 4-inch diameter pipe off the wall and hurl it through Bennett’s chest. Of course, before Arnold even sees the pipe, Bennett has a sub-machine gun leveled at him. And of course after the pipe goes through Bennett’s chest, Arnold says, “Let off some steam, Bennett.” God, I love this movie!!!

Was There An Atomic Blast At The End?

No, but Arnold’s old commander does say that he is expecting World War 3. He seems to be looking forward to Armageddon, too.

What You Learned:

If I was al Queda, I would not fuck with California while Schwarzenegger is in charge. Also, if you watch the scene when Arnold is blowing up all the military barracks, you can actually see the support beams that are holding up the dummies. Oh, and I am definitely, severely, chronically gay.

And the only repercussion is that the Stupid Chief takes your badge and gun for the weekend…

Check Out the RUTHLESS TIMELINE of 80s Action

Welcome to the wonderful, whitebread world of 80s Action. The brain trust here at Ruthless spent some time figuring out just what exactly made a shoot ‘em up flick in the 80s so much better than the identical film shot in some other decade. That task took all of about five minutes. Firstly, action films from the 80′s are all exceedingly homoerotic. It is an essential part of the given movie’s aesthetic. Sure, Steve Reeves took his shirt off in The Thief of Baghdad, but he spent most of his time chasing after the princess, not touching other men. Of course all of the heroes in 80s Action flicks talk like tough guys, but there is rarely any hetero-sex and by the end of the movie they are typically locked in mortal, lascivious combat with another muscular, shirtless man.

Furthermore, the heroes of these great films are men who in real life could actually beat the living fuck out of you. Say what you will about his political abilities [Ed Note: Vote Larry Flynt], but back in 1983, Arnold Schwarzenegger could have ripped the arms off your body. Sylvester Stallone, Dolph Lungren, Charles Bronson, Chuck Norris, Jean-Claude van Damme or Clint Eastwood, back about eighteen years, were all actually muscle-bound, tough-as-nails uber-mensches. You would not have wanted to run into any of them while lurking in a dark alley. Especially if you’re a commie-nazi, drug-dealing terrorist leftist cop who’s soft on crime and likes kidnapping/molesting under-aged white girls in said alleys. These days, more often than not, all you get are androgynous pencil-dicks like Jared Leto playing the heavies. Put more succinctly, if me and Leto met in a darkened alley, I’d be the one bending him over. And Will Smith is exactly as intimidating as Milhouse Van Houten. Action stars of today are pussies. Action stars of two decades ago shot .44 bullets out of their cocks. Honestly, if me and Charles Bronson were in the same room I’d kill myself just to make sure he didn’t hurt me.

Finally, 80s Action films have a definite right-wing slant to them. Similar to Triumph of the Will. Sure, no one wanted to see sex on screen while Reagan was in office, but more than half of the films we’re going to discuss derived their plots from Willie Horton commercials. Whether it is Rocky Balboa single-handedly bringing down the Iron Curtain while draped in Old Glory or Charles Bronson intricately dissecting the fallacies of liberalism with a .357 Magnum or Schwarzenegger waltzing around half-nude with more guns than the Branch Davidians, people who enjoy circle jerking to Norman Rockwell prints simply love action films of the 80′s. We know we do. Enjoy!

The Ruthless Guide To 80s Action is a living document and will be updated every so often. We’re thinking 50 100 is a nice round number, so we’ll probably stop there. Here is what we currently have:

10 TO MIDNIGHT	ABOVE THE LAW	ACTION JACKSON	ALIENS
AMERICAN NINJA	ARMY OF ONE	ASSASSINATION	BEASTMASTER, THE
BEST OF THE BEST	BLACK RAIN	BLOODSPORT	BRADDOCK: MISSING IN ACTION 3:
COBRA	COMMANDO	CONAN THE BARBARIAN	CONAN THE DESTROYER
CYBER TRACKER	CYBORG	DAYS OF THUNDER	DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR
DEATH WISH 2	DEATH WISH IV: THE CRACKDOWN	DEATH WISH V: THE FACE OF DEATH	DIE HARD
DIE HARD 2: DIE HARDER	DIE HARD WITH A VENGEANCE	DOUBLE IMPACT	DOUBLE TEAM
ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK	EXTREME PREJUDICE	EYE OF THE TIGER	FIREWALKER
FIRST BLOOD	FLIGHT OF THE INTRUDER	HARD TO KILL	HEARTBREAK RIDGE
INVASION USA	IRON EAGLE	KICKBOXER	KICKBOXER 2: THE ROAD BACK
KICKBOXER 3: THE ART OF WAR	LETHAL WEAPON	LOCK UP	LONE WOLF MCQUADE
MALONE	MARKED FOR DEATH	MAXIMUM RISK	MCBAIN
MISSING IN ACTION	MISSING IN ACTION 2:	MURPHY’S LAW	NAVY SEALS
NEXT OF KIN	NO DEAD HEROES	OUT FOR JUSTICE	OVER THE TOP
PREDATOR	PREDATOR 2	PUNISHER: WARZONE	RAMBO
RAMBO III	RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD PART II	RAW DEAL	RED DAWN
RED HEAT	RED SONJA	ROADHOUSE	ROBOCOP
ROCKY III	ROCKY IV	ROCKY V	ROLLING VENGEANCE
S.W.A.T.	SHARKY’S MACHINE	SHOWDOWN IN LITTLE TOKYO	STEEL DAWN
STONE COLD	TANGO & CASH	THE DELTA FORCE	THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
THE HANOI HILTON	THE LAST BOY SCOUT	THE PERFECT WEAPON	THE PUNISHER
THE RUNDOWN	THE RUNNING MAN	THE THING	THEY LIVE
TOP GUN	TOY SOLDIERS	UNDER SIEGE	UNIVERSAL SOLDIER