Game Theory Will Keep Us Together

Math is important in understanding how men think.  The secret is knowing what equation your guy is working on in his head at the time.  For example, if you’ve been dating a guy for awhile and you ask him “where is this relationship going?”, and he gets evasive and weird, it’s usually because he’s busy crunching the numbers for the following equation  (Please note that it has not been peer reviewed and I’m better at bullshit than at math by a sizable margin)…

Solve for z where 1 is a constant for “still getting laid.”
Z/(x+y) = 1

X represents the sum of his issues with his woman.  Maybe she’s too clingy, maybe she has annoying tastes in music or movies, maybe she’s a hellbound Protestant whore.  Whatever.  Those are the problems he has with her.

Y represents the sum of his issues, whatever they are.  Maybe he’s got a fear of commitment, maybe there’s leftover baggage from a previous relationship, maybe he’s got two mistresses and a wife and kids two towns over that he doesn’t want you to find out about.  Whatever.  Those are his problems.

Now you can’t change x or y, and that’s where z comes in.  Z is a course of action or conversation that exists to reconcile these issues to equal the magical constant of 1.   It could be a simple phrase like “let’s just take our time” or “I don’t want to rush things.”  It could be a distraction like a bouquet of flowers or a weekend away.  Or a million other ways to say or do things that try to thread the needle of  ”I don’t want to be in a serious relationship with you but I still want to tap that ass.”

Or spelled out:

what it will take to maintain the status quo/(his issues with her + his own issues)= still getting laid

But as “still getting laid” is a constant, the higher the value for (x+y) becomes the more you have to put into z, and it may get to a point where it’s not worth solving for z anymore.

This is why it’s so hard most of the time to get a solid coherent answer out of a guy when you ask him the “where is this relationship going” question.  You just sprung a math pop quiz on him.  You’re hitting him with  ”where is this relationship going?” (or y) and if truly doesn’t know where it’s going  or if he has no intention of expanding it past its current point (or x) he is forced to solve for z becaue if he doesn’t he can say goodbye to the sweet constant of a.

Anonymous Doug uses this equation all the time.  He’s like John Forbes Nash, except instead of being schizophrenic he gets a lot of pussy.

Women use this simple equation as well sometimes, but they generally have more variables and the operation gets really complex for someone like me who hasn’t taken a math class in 12 years and has subsequently forgotten everything about that freshman Calculus class in college he took that first semester (I do remember it allowed me fulfill my math requirement in one semester rather than two, and that’s all that mattered).

This equation does not apply to Tag Larkin because you can’t solve Tag Larkin.  You can try but you’re not going to like it when he plots the cosine of his fist through your face.

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The guy who directed Home Alone gets a holiday?

It’s Columbus Day here in America.  In other places south of America today is Dia de la Raza, or as my loose knowledge of Spanish roughly translates it: “The Day When Spainards Came To Our Shores And Cut Off Our Hands If We Didn’t Give Them Enough Gold.”  Also Canada has their Thanksgiving today, which I assume is where they give thanks for Spaniards not murdering them.

Anyway, Columbus Day is only a Federal holiday, so most of us still have to go to work.  Unless you’re one of the 200,000+ people who lost their job last month.  Then it’s  like a continuous federal holiday that you’re trying to escape from before you can’t pay your rent and are thrown out into the streets to be murdered by Spaniards.

It’s a weird holiday, this Columbus Day, because people celebrate it for different reasons.  For some it’s a celebration of the discovery of the New World.  For others it’s a time to celebrate Italian heritage, which I find odd because I would have thought Leonardo Da Vinci would be a better bearer of Italian pride.  Then again, Da Vinci never crossed the Atlantic Ocean with a band of murderous Spaniards in his employ, and that sort of thing trumps being an awesome painter and inventor.  At least it does in America.

But mostly Columbus Day is for department store sales because Columbus Day has to tide our retail giants over until Black Friday in late November.  Halloween really only helps candy-makers and costume shops.  And Mischief Night only helps egg manufacturers and toilet paper companies.     So it’s a good time to get that sweater vest or cardigan for the murderous Spaniard in your life at a great price.

(Note: Tag Larkin toilet papers people’s houses with used toilet paper.  This is a step up from previous years when Tag Larkin would leave a bag of poop on a neighbor’s doorstep and then set the house on fire.  Tag Larkin is an innovator.)

You may have noticed a recurring theme in this post, and I’ll explain it.  Long-time readers will recall that I work for Portuguese Intelligence.  But did you ever wonder why the most dangerous intelligence agency in the world would be in Portugal?  Because it’s right next door to Spain, where murderous  danger lives!  The hot women and beautiful culture are there to distract you from the murderous danger  hidden within.  Iran?  North Korea?  A smokescreen for the easily fooled!  We take our watchful eye off Spain for one second and BOOM!  Worldwide Guernica.

(Yes, I have been drinking the stuff under my sink all day.  What’s that got to do with anything?  Don’t try to change the subject, Barcelonian Pig-Dog!)

So if you know of no other way to celebrate Columbus Day, use this one: be extra vigilant, for murderous Spaniards may be looking to stab you in the neck.  Or go buy some stuff that’s on sale.  They’ve never stabbed anyone in a JCPenney… yet.

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We can surgically remove the backpack, but I’m afraid the unmerited smugness is terminal

So the American Psychological Association is telling us something we already knew: that therapies that purport to change people from gay to straight are bullshit.

Now can we can turn those misguided “reparative therapy” efforts to curing something much more pressing to our society: curing hipsterism.

Hipster has many meanings, but the one I personally go by is someone whose life is at least 65 percent ironic.  They’re not wearing those thrift-store reject clothes because they think it actually looks good.  They know it’s hideous, that’s why they bought it.  That garishly striped shirt, the velvet cowboy shirt, the mesh trucker hat, that BJ and the Bear iron-on t-shirt even though they never watched an episode of it in their fucking lives… all ironic wardrobe choices.  They have no other connection to what they wear.

Note: most of the 35 percent of the hipster’s life that isn’t irony is usually taken up by a deadly serious love of music, specifically from bands no one has heard of.  The less people know of a music act, the more the hipster will like it.  So when that band gets more popular, the hipster’s interest in them will wane until it disappears and they find someone new and relatively unknown to latch onto until too many people like them and the circle of hipster life  repeats.  This also goes for clothing choices.

The Elvis Costello/Buddy Holly horn-rimmed glasses are usually a dead hipster giveaway, but having the most common hipster symptom doesn’t necessarily mean you have the hipster infection.  Other symptoms include very skinny jeans, ironic facial hair (like a porn moustache on someone who will never get close to making a porno), hairstyles determined by the pillow you slept on and not any sort of comb or brush, wearing only Converse All-Star sneakers, religiously drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon even though you know it tastes like shit and you can afford a better beer, rainbow tights, 70’s retro knee-high football striped socks, wool hats regardless of weather, large aviator sunglasses, looking like an Urban Outfitters poster boy or girl, and playing kickball past the age of 22.  There are many more symptoms, but these are the ones that are the least disputed (if you know more symptoms, leave them as a comment).

Do not fear though.  Having a few of these symptoms does not make you a hipster.  There’s a good chance at some time you will pick up one or two of these symptoms, especially if you grew up in the 90’s and 00’s (because Ducky from Pretty in Pink in the 80’s didn’t dress like he did ironically, he dressed like that because he thought he was styling, and he fucking was).  But like depression, you need to have a majority of the symptoms to fit the criteria for a hipster diagnosis.  So remember the warning signs and seek help before you start looking like a character from a Wes Anderson movie.

As of now, science hasn’t determined a sure-fire cure for hipsterism.  It’s theorized that actually having a well-paying job might do the trick, and other believe that the body eventually rejects hipster germs as the patient grows older.  But there are no studies to verify these ideas.  Yet.

And if there’s any money left over from hipster cure fund, can we use the rest to stop people from wearing toe socks and sandals?  That’s just fucking creepy.

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With so much drama in the DPRK…

I’m having some gin and juice with the pimptastic former senator from Mississippi Trent Lott, because it’s 10am somewhere in the world.  And the TV up on the wall is showing the footage of Bill Clinton bringing those two journalists back home after getting them freed from North Korea.

“I gotta go…” Trent Lott abruptly says, his hands fumbling for the money for the last round of drinks.  “I gotta go now.”

“But we’re not even drunk yet,”  I say.  “Why are you bugging out on me now?”

The answer to that question comes in the form of Bill Clinton, the only man on Earth Trent Lott fears, kicking in the door to the bar and strolling in.

“You thinking about me again, boy?” Bill Clinton yells at Trent Lott.  “I hear your thoughts, bitch.  I know you were thinking about me. What I tell you about that shit?”

“You were on the TV, I couldn’t help it,” Trent Lott says.

“Oh yeah?”  says Bill Clinton.  “They were showing me bringing back those two girls from North Korea, right?  Yeah, you see that shit?  You see that motherfuckin’ shit?  I gets shit done, honkey!  I’m the motherfuckin’ pimp of pimps!  I went up to N-izzle Ko-rizzle and laid my game down thick. Ya feel me?”

“Feel ya, dawg,” Trent Lott says, more out of fear than of actually feeling what Bill Clinton was saying.

“Kim Jong-Izzle knows I stack mad paper,” says Bill Clinton.  “They all know.  They all know my gators cost more than what they spend all year on tanks and guns and shit.  They all know who has the strongest pimp hand in the land.  Who else is strolling into Pyongyang and walking out with ho’s?”

“Uh… no one, dawg,” says Trent Lott.  “You’re the mack.”

“You god damn right, sucka,” says Bill Clinton.  “And what has your ass done lately, ya bitch-ass mark?  I don’t see your ass doing shit.  Look at you.  Ain’t done shit, ain’t worth shit, ain’t never gonna be shit.  My dick does more by 10am than your punk-ass does all fiscal year.  Recognize, fool!”

“I said you were the mack, dawg,” says Trent Lott.  “No need to be trippin’.”

“Game recognizes game, cracka,” says Bill Clinton.  “And right now all y’all asses be lookin’ pretty unfamiliar.  Now get me a Crown and coke before I beat yo ass with y’own shoes.”

So Trent Lott goes to order the drink and Bill Clinton looks over and sees me.

“Hi, hope we can count on your continued support for a nationalized health care plan,” says Bill Clinton, shaking my hand.

“Anything to piss off the screaming head on the radio,” I say.

Trent Lott comes back with Bill Clinton’s drink.  The former President promptly chugs it down and then slams the empty glass over Trent Lott’s head.

“Next time I find out you’re thinking about me I’m gettin’ medieval on that ass, ya honkey-ass cracka-ass trick,” says Bill Clinton, then he leaves the bar.

Luckily for Trent Lott, his steady unmovable head of hair took the bulk of the blow.  But as he pulls himself up off the floor and back onto his bar stool I can see a few spots where the glass cut him.

“At least he didn’t fuck my hair this time,” Trent Lott says, wiping the blood from his face with a cocktail napkin.

Any day you don’t get your hair fucked by a former Head of State is a good day.

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Something Crazy This Way Comes

There’s a new study out of Hungary saying that ” a genetic mutation linked to psychosis and schizophrenia also influences creativity.”  Does mental illness influence creativity, or is it the other way around?

So I ponder the ramificiations of these results as I sit around the bar with a talking half-cyborg cat, that cat’s drunken Irish Catholic wife, a wiccan pimp, a man who you forget about when he leaves the room, a ninja, a samurai, a paraplegic superhero, and Tag Larkin (a man who defies any and all classifications).  Briefly.  Then I stop pondering and go back to drinking my antifreeze margarita with an Oxi-Clean shooter.

The study also says intelligence is a factor on whether the ”mutation boosts creativity or contributes to psychosis.”   As the scientist doing the study is quoted as saying: “My clinical experience is that high-IQ people with psychosis have more intellectual capacity to deal with psychotic experiences.  It’s not enough to experience those feelings, you have to communicate them.”

Now I may be a college graduate and a champion pub quiz player, but the fact that my degree’s in English/Communications (which is just a B.A. in dick jokes) and that I’m able to win gift cards and cash with my vast knowledge of trivia doesn’t necessarily get me closer to joining MENSA.  So I worry if I have enough smarts to stay the necessary one step ahead of the crazy.  I already know not to listen to the couch when it threatens to eat me because I know it doesn’t have teeth or a proper digestive system, and that I should disregard the toaster’s advice because he’s a racist, but I can’t tell how far ahead of the crazy train I  actually am in case it unexpectedly speeds up on me.

“Shut up, you’re fine,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “The fact that you can articulate these concerns means you’re not psychotic.”

Well, if the talking cyborg cat says I’m okay, who am I to argue?

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Eliza Dushku can have my gun when she pries it from my cold dead fingers

So I was spending Sunday the same way I usually do, alone and drunk in my house, and I learned that today was the final day of Sarah Palin being governor of Alaska, which was punctuated with a farewell speech by the queen of the run-on sentence. And while it’s hard to keep track of the various tangents and abbreviated ideas in a Sarah Palin speech, I was able to latch onto one point she made about Hollywood

“…because you’re going to see anti-hunting, anti-second amendment circuses from Hollywood and here’s how they do it. They use these delicate, tiny, very talented celebrity starlets, they use Alaska as a fundraising tool for their anti-second amendment causes.”

At first I figure that’s a good idea using tiny starlets to take people’s guns because their small size makes it harder to get a bead on them.  You can shoot Seth Rogan all day long; he’s a hefty target.  But it ain’t so easy to keep Katherine Heigl in your sights.  She’s rather wiry.

The question then becomes which delicate tiny very talented starlets will be using Alaska as a fundraising tool for their anti-second amendment causes?  I need names, damn it!  I can’t protect my arsenal against vague inferences.  I can’t shoot an undefined threat that has no form.  I can’t empty a clip into innuendo and passive accusations.

Will it be Dakota Fanning giving the orders for federal agents to raid your compound of weapons and underage wives?  Will it be Zooey Deschantel signing the law saying you can’t bring a concealed firearm to a baptism or a hospital or a prison?  Or will it be Ellen Page leading the charge against hunters using flame-throwers to both hunt and cook deer at the same time?  I need to know these things!

I’m going to feel really bad if I falsely accuse Megyn Fox or Jessica Alba of trying to leave us disarmed and helpless when the race war/zombie war/robot war finally comes.  Not so much Summer Glau though, as I tend to blame her for everything.

I’m writing to my senator to demand that Sarah Palin name the form of our gun destroyer.  And by writing to my senator I really mean drinking until I forget I ever took something in a Sarah Palin speech to a logical conclusion.  You can’t unsee what you have seen, eh?  Well I got a case of DoubleBock to the Future that says otherwise.  It’s like hitting your brain at 88mph with 1.21 gigawatts of sweet delicious alcohol.

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Renal Restraint Order

We’re skipping Haiku Friday this week to provide the first-ever get well card/legal motion…

Dear Da Old Man of Crotchedy Old Man Yells At Cars,

It has come to our (belated) attention here at Renal Failure, via HumorBloggers.com, that you are in the hospital and are, by your accounts, “in renal failure.”

This admission represents a severe encroachment on our intellectual property and copyrights, as well as possible confusion in the market place that could cause irreparable harm to our brand.

By the authority of Brigid, the pagan goddess of fire, ice, and trademark law, we request that you immediately cease and desist being in renal failure.  May we suggest yelling at your kidneys to function properly.  Tag Larkin once saved a heart attack victim by hollering profanities at him, and possibly tasering him repeatedly.  That last part is still disputed.

Failure to comply with this cease and desist order will result in a more sternly-worded missive, and possibly a ninja visiting you in the night to switch your hospital charts with the pre-op transsexual down the hall.

Please do not die.  It will just drive your legal costs up because we retain the services of Avonia the Wiccan Pimp who can commune with the dead, thus allowing us to bring the recently departed to trial.

We await your full recovery so that you can stop defaming our good name.

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Does your iPhone have a Breathalyzer app?

We all know that St. Patrick’s Day is a time for heavy drinking and… uh, heavier drinking.  Now all the beer and liquor commercials will tell you not to drink and drive, but there’s something just as important that they’re not telling you to do.

Don’t Drink and Use Your Cell Phone.

Yeah, you drank your body weight in Guinness this day, but it hasn’t changed the fact that you’re still cold and alone in a world that rejects you, and you know this.  Next thing you know, your cell phone’s out and you’re volleying text messages to your ex.  Or you’re calling up that asshole who you swore never to deal with again but whose number you just didn’t get around to deleting from your phone.  Or now you finally have enough liquid courage in you to call up that friend of the opposite sex and declare the secret love for them you’ve been harboring all these years and that you don’t care that they’re married to your other friend and have two kids.  At no point do any of these scenarios end well.

But bartenders will only take your keys from you if you’re drunk, not your cell phone.

Another fact: being drunk at home increases your risk of drunk dialing or messaging.  This is because you have another implement for your own personal self-destruction: your computer.   Email, blogs, Twitter, message boards… it’s like leaving a baby in a room full of plastic dry cleaner bags and easily swallowable toys, except the baby is your dignity.

This is not to say you should not get drunk.  Have you seen the state of the world?  By all means, get drunk whenever you can.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t take precautions, sort of like you do with sex.  And these drunk precautions are easier than remembering to taking a pill every day, or putting on a condom, or fucking while wearing a shoulder holster.

Perhaps you have a friend who can keep you from such embarrassment, but then again if you’re drinking this hard it’s probably because you have no friends.  So you’ll have to do it yourself.  If you can, remove the battery on your instrument of communication.  If you can’t, write yourself a note warning you not to drunk dial or text anyone.  Sign the note “The President of Space.”  That will give it authority.  Or sign it “Tag Larkin.”  He doesn’t mind if you forge his signature; he’s probably forged yours at some point.

Idle drunk hands are the devil’s playground, because the devil likes to watch you humiliate yourself.  That gets him hard, but he can’t get off unless you cry.  And you really shouldn’t be getting the devil off on a day devoted to a Catholic saint.

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Transparent Government Puts a Lot of People Out of Work

It’s been too long since I last talked to Jackal, the NSA agent tapping my phone. So I pick up my phone and wait for him to say something.

“Oh, hey,” says Jackal with a heavy sigh.

“What’s wrong now?” I say. “Did you get a lien put on your house for all those back child support payments you owe?”

“No, it’s just that with Barack Obama becoming president I’m afraid I might lose my job,” says Jackal.

“There will still be phones that need tapping,” I say. “It’s just now a greater percent of them will actually need warrants and probable cause. The government’s never going to stop spying on people, no matter who’s in the White House.”

“They’re going to cut back, I know it,” says Jackal.

“Maybe you’ll just get reassigned to another department,” I say. “What about interrogation? Maybe you can waterboard some people for the country.”

“No, that’s going to get cut back too,” says Jackal. “I am so losing my job when Obama takes office.”

“I think you’ve got a little while before they get around to canning you,” I say. “It’s Washington DC. Nothing happens quickly over there. You’ve got time to work on your resume.”

“I’ve been covertly tapping phones for the NSA for eight years,” says Jackal. “I can’t put that on a resume.”

“You could if you were working for Richard Nixon,” I say.

“But these are different times, man,” says Jackal. “Different times indeed. The economy’s in the shitter. New President coming into office might put me out of a job. Ex-Wife’s getting remarried next month to a diabetic accountant. Where did it all go wrong, man? Where did it all go wrong?”

“”When did it ever go right?” I say.

It’s at this point that Jackal hangs up on me for bumming him out more than he already is. Well sorry Jackal, but I’m not in the business of telling you what you want or need to hear. I’m in the business of saying what I want to hear.

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It’s hard to go Christmas shopping when you’re banned from the mall

So I’m walking around my local mall, as I am wont to do when I’m shopping. And while I’m walking I’m flagged down by a lovely young lady manning one of those kiosks. Lovely is a bit of a understatement because this girl is smoking hot. She is rocking a tight sweater and that skinny jeans + knee high boots look that just short circuits my mind and makes me highly susceptible to suggestion.

Anyway, she’s looking to sell me some hand lotion, and that provides a lifeline to my logic center because the prospect of spending money always clears my mind, even when confronted with a woman in boots (a woman in just boots… okay, she still has the advantage, but for a good goddamn reason).

“So it’s one bottle for fifteen bucks, but three for thirty-five?” I say.

“Yup,” says the hot woman whose desperate quest for commission sales has led her to believe I need hand lotion.

“Does this stuff come with a photograph of you?” I say. “Because if so, I’d better get the three-pack because I’ll blow right through that one bottle in a single evening.”

Security comes pretty quickly at my local mall, especially since they got those Segways.

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