Posted by: robinsonwarner | November 2, 2009

Things That Go Drunk In The Night, Part III

In honor of Halloween and crazy shit that usually happens as a result I would like to finish my final installment for a while about drinking.  Everyone loves low lying fruit, but you get full from it very quickly.  On Halloween you go out drinking and you do a bunch of weird stuff in a costume.  You might make out with Lilu Multipass or rub shoulders with The Incredible Hulk at a bar, but you know you are going to get into some strange stuff that you will most certainly regret in the morning.

The regret starts when you wake up and assess the damage.  You can figure out what your hangover is and you can also try to unravel what the hell is next to you in your bed.  These are the worst things to wake up next to after a night of drinking.

10)  Someone you don’t know.

9)  Someone you don’t know who is also homeless.

8)  Your prized horse’s head.

7)  The DVD case from The Notebook which means you most certainly did at least one of two things

  • Watched the extended sex scenes from the Bonus Material.
  • Called your ex.

6)  First Aid kit.

5)  Hair from your eyebrows.

4)  A receipt from a tattoo parlor.

3)  A hooker.

2)  Fast food wrappers.

1)  A dead hooker.


I’m lazy and have a cold.  Bear with me.  Tomorrow’s post will be better.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 29, 2009


To my dear readers,

The third installment of Things That Go Drunk In The Night will not be posted today because I had to clean my house yesterday in preparation for the Halloween arrival of some of my best friends from Providence College.  I know I said it would be posted on Thursday and it won’t be.  This makes me a liar.  To make it up to you, here’s an embarrassing photo of me playing Xbox.


So this is a picture of me playing Xbox which is embarrassing unto itself.  However what is more embarrassing is that I am wearing what is known in videogame parlance as a “headset”.  The headset enables boys to talk to other boys who are playing the same videogame at the same time and strategize about the best way to kill things (zombies, aliens, Nazis).  The headset has a very funny effect as it creates the illusion that you can take yourself seriously at all.  Letting a girl see you wear a headset while playing videogames is a more powerful sexual deterrent than admitting you don’t watch “The Hills”.

What is even more embarrassing about the photograph is that I was using the headset so much that I broke it.  And I couldn’t very well stop playing videogames so I had to fashion a new headset by fixing the old one with a mandana.

The headset takes escapism to a new level that allows boys to feel like bad asses without ever leaving the couch.  Things become more unrealistic and therefore more enjoyable because it is amplified by the presence of other nerds doing the same thing.  This is called The Nerd Omnipresent Corollary as outlined in Newton’s How To Never See Boobies.

What is even more embarrassing is that I’m twenty-three years old. 

Happy Halloween!

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 27, 2009

Things That Go Drunk In The Night, Part II

You’re groggy, dehydrated and you have to pee.  You have a splitting headache and it’s later in the day than you thought.  You’re not quite sure where you are and you most certrainly would prefer death than any sort of movement.  You’re hungover.

Every Saturday and Sunday millions of people wake up hating their lives because of the terrible decisions they’ve made the night before.  Why do we do it if the outcome is regrettable?  Well, as the late Mitch Hedburg wisely said, “You won’t stop eating apples just because they eventually become apple cores.”  People drink because it makes them feel silly.  However, despite feeling silly, as in physics, for every action there is an equal or opposite reaction.  So if you’re really super hammered on Friday night then Saturday morning you’re going to be really super hungover on Saturday morning.  All people get hungover in a different way, but there are clear, common signs that are applicable to all of us.  Here is the common progression of everyone’s hangover.

Level 1Cloudy With a Chance…

You’ll wake up wearing the clothes you planned on but a minor headache and manageable dehydration.  The disorder you can look forward to will be minor, i.e. shoes and socks on ground as well as other potpourri and knick knacks strewn about.  There is nothing to be alarmed about if you find paraphernalia that points to you listening to Kelly Clarkson before bed.  This is all perfectly normal.

Level 2 – The Albatross –

Your room looks a trifle more disastrous.  You have to pee a little bit too much and you’re noticeably uncomfortable.  You might notice you left your socks on or your pants are only halfway off.  There’s an empty glass next to your bed which is about as useful as one of those yellow straws that comes with your Capri Sun pouch.  There is evidence of food consumption such as Cheez-Its or Tostitos.  Nothing to be ashamed of.  You’ve pulled up your computer and you’ve noticed that you were looking at pictures on Facebook from last summer.

Level 3 – Waterloo

You have a very unpleasant headache.  Your mouth tastes like a Gila monster has hatched eggs in it.  You’re wearing all of your clothes still.  You have food stains from your leftovers that you ate with your bare hands right before bed.  You have traces of your self-esteem left, but it plummets exponentially with the more drunk shrapnel you find.  You wonder how all of your clothes managed to get out of your dresser and onto your desk.  Your computer definitely has pictures of that hottie from class who you think keeps looking at you but it’s difficult to tell.  Good thing you sent her a friend request.  There is a trashcan next to your bed.  You peer into it carefully but thankfully there’s no vomit.  You’re just so responsible.  Despite this shred of order, your life is progressing towards irrevocable shambles.

Level 4 – Little Big Horn

You’re wearing your belt around your head and your roommate’s sweatpants.  You’re convinced someone cracked an egg in your mouth while you were sleeping and then minced a clove of garlic on top of it.  Clothes, papers and fast food wrappers are everywhere.  You’re missing your wallet, but you know that you wouldn’t have any money even if you did.  You’ll find it in the toaster oven later.  Your head feels like the Book of Revelations fed intravenously and you have random cuts all over your body.  You will vomit in ten minutes and you’ll ask God to strike you dead.

Level 5 – Murphy’s Law

You’re completely naked on the floor of your room.  You actually have your wallet but it’s missing all of your credit cards.  The only thing in it is a piece of paper with a drawing of a middle finger and a note to call a man named “Paper Staxx”.  The phone number has eleven digits.

It appears that someone cooked chili at some point during the evening that had Little Debbie Snack cakes and alfredo sauce as its main ingredient.  You find a receipt for seven hotdogs purchased at eighty-six cents a piece.  Your roommate will later inform you that you peed on him in the middle of the night and when he objected mid release you informed him not to worry because “it’s just a movie.”

You will check your trash can for vomit.  You’re relieved there are no visible signs, but your levity is short lived because your toilet looks like someone pureed a gerbil in it.  Everything that can go wrong most certainly has.  Your self-esteem is at -5 and you feel the need to renounce religion because no god would let its creatures feel this pain.

Part III on Thursday.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 26, 2009

Things That Go Drunk In The Night, Part I

People like to get tipsy.  It’s an enjoyable social ritual that allows people to drink fermented grains and liquids in order to lower their inhibitions enough to dance and talk to members of the opposite sex.  Tolerances and preferences may vary, but the one constant is that everyone gets drunk if they have enough of the stuff.  Because everyone progresses differently on their drunk scale, it would be nigh impossible to discuss everyone’s progression of drunkenness during the evening.  Thus, it would seem to be more productive to identify the different kinds of drunks that you might see out and about during your drinking adventures.  Let’s face it:  these people are everywhere.

The Fred Astaire – Sometimes you just really need to dance.  People have a difficult time expressing themselves and they have an even more difficult time expressing themselves through the art of the dance.  And white people have an especially difficult time unless Journey is playing.  But sometimes the combination of bar music and alcohol hits the Sweet Spot which allows this individual to move around wherever they are in search of their dancing soulmate.  If Fate isn’t feeling cruel, drunk dancing people will find each other and have a ball together.  Other derivatives of the Fred Astaire include Guy Who Plays Air Guitar During “Freebird”, Girl Who Thinks Every Bar Is a Karaoke Bar, and People Swaying Side to Side Singing “Piano Man”.  Here are some Fred Astaires in action:

drunk dancing

The Sloth  – You can see this person sprawled out on the bar still conscious, but barely able to keep their eyes open.  They still manage to be double fisting vodka on the rocks, but who are we to judge?  They will strike up a conversation with anybody in close proximity and the subject of the conversation can vary between the awesomeness of boobs to how not drunk they are even if Suzy says so.  This will be me in ten years.

drunk at bar

The Good Times Guru  – This is generally a guy who has seen far too may episodes of “Entourage” and treats every drinking excursion to be the most “epic”, “legendary”, “Biblical” experience they have ever had.  This person proposes a lot of toasts and spits a lot while talking about “owning freshmen” later.  The Guru is convinced that the evening will end with everyone sleeping with Brazilian supermodel twins with a winning Powerball ticket in her knee high boots.  The only thing more unrealistic than the Guru’s expectations is his belief that he can keep going at the current clip all night with severe repercussions.  Relax, dude.  I don’t need Kahlua on my Quiznos.  All the Good Time Gurus think they look like this…

good times guru

… but they’re really huge tools.  Shhh, don’t tell them though;  their egos are like cold eggshells.  They actually look like this, what Hot Chicks With Douchebags calls The Four Horsemen of the Douchepocalypse.


The Gamers – These are people who are very committed to two things in life:  getting silly and competing.  What better way than to combine the two?  Gamers can be seen at a bar or party playing quarters, card games or beer pong (Yes, Jon.  Beer pong) with the utmost of discipline.  Their commitment to the two disciplines leaves them drunk and tight knit.  Gamers are prone to a drinking life of isolation if they’re not careful based on the self removal from the general ebb and flow of a party. 

Drinking games do get very serious very quickly so the problem arises is that it isn’t necessarily appropriate to scream “asshole” at the top of you lungs at the conclusion of card game.


Spring Breaker – This is the girl who is seen taking a few too many shots, her clothes are becoming progressively more chaotic, and whose tenuous concept of bodily physics is beginning to become a dangerous situation for all around her.  She takes a lot of pictures with her friends with her tongue out while also making hand gestures that denote her general life philosophy of “rocking on” or “hanging loose”.  She will also have flailing arms, and will grab onto  non-wasted people.  The Spring Breaker has incredible durability based on the frequency that they fall down, bump into things and knock over drinks.  She will seem like the life of the party for about an hour before she has managed to piss off everyone in the bar and falls asleep making out with the coat rack.

spring break

The Monsoon – This is the girl who can’t… stop… crying.  Yes, there is legitimate chemical precedent for why women cry when they’re drunk, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying.  The Monsoon can be seen attracting attention for one reason or another.  It’s probably because she thought of the ending of “The Proposal” and just became overwhelmed with how beautiful it was.  For those looking to comfort The Monsoon, beware of giving her more alcohol and of giving her hugs as her mascara will rub off on your shirt.  Plus, Jesus Christ, it’s not like you missed the pinata at your seventh birthday party.  Get over it.  You’re in public.


The Nomad – The Nomad is an extravert that becomes a trifle overwhelmed when they go to a bar or a party.  They are so excited by the prospect of being in public that they need to walk around the party just to check shit out.  Who is there?  Maybe there’s something exciting happening downstairs?!  Maybe I just like people almost a little bit too much and I have a difficult time standing still?!  Probably. 

The Nomad will drink faster just so they have an excuse to go find the keg to make the rounds people or go walk up to the bar to do the same thing.  The Nomad, based solely statistics, is more prone to tripping and falling when intoxicated because of their frequent mobility. 

The Nomad doesn’t have a particular look or any noticeable characteristics other than the ones mentioned, but reserach has shown they live in structures that look like this:



Look for Part II tomorrow.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 23, 2009

Risky Business

Having your own space is amazing.  Whether it’s a room, car, cubicle, locker, or desk, our own space is very important to us.  It gives us a medium where we can express our individuality.  We are not all artists or creative geniuses but we all at least possess personal preferences.  I don’t qualify myself as a particularly creative person, but right above my desk in my apartment is a clipping about owls attacking skiers in Bangor, Maine.  This says two things about me:  firstly, I am really good with scissors, and secondly, I am terrified of owls.  If I am ever killed by owls, the moment right before I am savagely torn apart by their talons, I will think, “They finally found me.”  If this doesn’t convince you of the real intent of owls then we are already lost.


Digressions and owls aside, our space reflects who we are and it enables us to engage in a particular kind of freedom that most people in the world don’t have the luxury of enjoying.  So that’s why when our parents leave us with the house to ourselves we get a brief glimpse into the brighter side of homeownership and thusly individual expression and personal preference.  It is because we enjoy this brand of liberty so much that when the house is ours, we get really excited.  Here are some of the best things to do when you have the house to yourself.

Watch Rated R movies – Is there anything that harkens back more swiftly to the days of yesteryear than watching a movie you’re not supposed to?  Mom and Dad are gone, I’m finally allowed to watch The Mask.  Everyone knows Jim Carey is prone to inappropriate behavior.  Even as an “adult” , there is nothing like sitting down and watching something profoundly adult in a space that, with the absence of your parents, is yours.

Have People Over –  This is a much trickier endeavor because you can’t invite people over when you’re at school.  One person tells another person and that person tells Charlene, who, everyone knows, has a big mouth.  Before you know it there are eighty people at your house, including several people you don’t know; some of which appear to hookers… or maybe your neighbors.  You can never really be sure with the Joneses.

The flip side to this is an evening with friends (drinks optional) where you are the esteemed host, bestowing your benevolent space on your friends to enjoy.  Let’s face it, people love dinner parties.

Shower – This might sound a little strange, but I think this is more particular to guys than girls.  Too many girls have seen Psycho and even more boys have seen it.   This film included, there are just too many instances in movies and television where something breaks into the house and “gets” the woman in the shower or immediately after she gets out.  Men take a shower because they secretly hope there is a robber, medium-sized monster or at the very least a zombie to be able to defend oneself against.  Every man wants to test their mettle against these foes especially when the man is most vulnerable.  It’s probably the closest thing an average male will get to being a gladiator.  Most of the times it’s just pesky old Whiskers spooking around in the pantry.  Everyone knows how she gets when she smells catnip.

Play loud music  – You won’t have to listen to complaints from your parents about your blasted rock and roll when you play it as loud as humanly possible when they aren’t there.  Let’s face it, parents equate everything that is wrong with our generation based on our music and what better way to really stick it to them than to show them you don’t care what they think than by playing your music when they aren’t there.  That’ll show them! 

Parents also believe that infernal rap hop is vile and ignorant.  I’ve never met an old person who can decipher a single rap verse, but they’re pretty inexplicably spot on when it comes to content.  I think it involves some combination of “Dateline” and Oprah.  If we, as a Younger Generation, ever were engaged in a lengthy land war against the older generation, a perfect code would be to just have young people rap messages back and forth.  The country would be ours in a matter of weeks.  However, we would need to keep them around in case we had to balance our checkbooks.  Because really, how often do we use our checkbooks?

So, my gentle snowflakes, what do you like to do when you have the house to yourself?  I’d love to hear.  And please, let’s keep it appropriate.  I’m not going to say it, but I don’t want to hear about anything that rhymes with “schmornography”.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 23, 2009

Hipster Definition Update

One thing that came up while discussing hipsters with my very dear friend Jon was that all hipsters suffer from what is clinically called “Hipster Denial”.  Hipster Denial, which isn’t just a river in Hipster Egypt, involves the hipster in question denying all claims of being a hipster when labeled as such by his or her peers.  Hipsters, who sometimes have non-hipster friends, might be jokingly called hipsters by their friends because that’s what friends are for:  to call out their friends for being giant tools.  Those suffering from Hipster Denial will generally scoff, furrow up their brow and argue, very convincingly, “No, I’m not.”  As convincing as this kind of logic is, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and smells like a duck, it might just be a hipster.

Treatment for Hipster Denial involves a healthy dose of perspective, a large mirror used twice a day, a razor (preferably Mach 3), dictionary for definition of “irony” to administered thrice daily, and finally, friends to make fun of the hipster which is used to stunt the nascent stages of megalomania

Hipsters, while ascribing to a belief system that shuns all forms of social characterization and mass culture, have in turn created a form of social characterization and mass culture.  Unable to deal with the fact that hipsterism has noticeable character traits and an appropriate label that is self-defeating to their original mission statement, hipsters, in order to prevent their brains from exploding, must be in denial.

A person must share the genotypic and phenotypic traits of a hipster in order to be considered one.  You could be drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon ironically, wearing skinny jeans, a retro t-shirt, ironic penny loafers you got from your grandfather, a hilarious mustache, and black box frame glasses, but that person might be lacking the particular brand of condescension and cultural disdain (i.e. indy douche) to be considered a full on hipster.  You might be a really cool person that just dresses strangely.


If you’re interested in reading the original post that discusses hipsters, take a look here.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 21, 2009

Believe Me, It Does

Remember those girls in high school?  They were usually fairly attractive, came from money and were insufferably mean to everyone unless they needed something.  And on top of all of that, they could get guys to do anything they wanted.  I know this guy who let a girl copy his chemistry homework for an entire year because he believes women operate on a system of merit.  Foolish me… I mean… foolish guy who I certainly wouldn’t associate with.  If something like this was happening in Salem a few centuries ago we would be burning high school girls at the stake like hot cakes.  Hot girls probably look something like this:


We all know why these girls were able to manipulate men into doing what they want.  It’s because men are particularly weak willed when it comes to a pretty face, and especially a really pretty face.  That’s not what I’d like to focus on though.  I’m more curious as to why these girls were so mean; and to everyone.  What was bothering these girls so much that they had to turn their nose up to 99% of the people at high school?  And secondly, why was the group of mean people so close knit?

As social castes go, these girls are used to always doing the right thing, very rarely feeling awkward in their own skin (more importantly never showing it), and generally seeming comfortable with who they are.  The cause for this behavior is a steady stream of positive reinforcement about their physical looks and social savvy.   But what you don’t know, and I didn’t know until recently, is that despite popular science’s belief, the Popular Girls at your high school held a deep, dark secret.  They had to poop; just like you and me.

I know it sounds crazy.  Believe me it sounds nuts to type out, but I believe that these girls were so concerned with their physical appearance and maintaining their social exclusivity that no one had a talk with them before high school about pooping.  Oh sure, they pooped in junior high, but that was when they were still wearing l.e.i. jeans and shopping at the Limited Too store.  Anyone who is anyone in high school stops pooping and immediately wears as much Gucci shit as possible.  Or at least that’s what they thought.  No one had ever told them otherwise.

 And they had to do it every day in high school but were embarrassed about it.  “What’s wrong with me?”  they would speculate in their heart of hearts.  I thought I would stop pooping in high school.  It’s so juvenile! 

So there would be a group of attractive, pretty, well to do young women who have known each other since they were young girls.  And they would talk about their problems or their insecurities and laugh about how they were so funny because of course they weren’t insecure about anything.  But one day a girl would crack.  Let’s call her Janet.  Janet would break down to her friends that she’d been pooping for three whole months and didn’t know what to do.  Her friends gasped at first, shifted their weight and told her she needed to stop, but another girl, let’s call her Gwen, caved and admitted she had been pooping too.  Eventually they would all admit they were pooping, had a good cry, watched Now and Then, and polished off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s before heading to bed (ironically, they all had to poop in the middle of the night because of the massive dairy intake).  In the morning they made a pact they could not let anyone else into their group of friends lest they find out about their unfortunate pooping proclivities.  Controlling information was the name of the game.

There they would be on Monday morning, scowling away at people under the guise of social elitism and scowling away because they were really holding in a massive deuce after burrito night.  And the plan worked perfectly to keep everyone away.  God, those girls are so bitchy!

But what if someone outside the approved list of members found out about this whole pooping thing?  How could they handle it?  There were only two options in this case: 

1) Kill the outsider.

2) Let her in the group.

Because people who are attractive in their youth often are used to having things done for them, they wouldn’t have the fortitude to take another human life.  So they would let the girl in the group to prevent the spread of information.  You would usually see no more than one addition at a time.  This usually involved emergencies at school where one of the Popular Girls didn’t have anyone to watch the bathroom door while they made an emergency deposit.  A popular girl would walk out of the stall, thanking their lucky stars that they had decided to make an Evil Knievil and there someone different would be, an outsider who had witnessed the aftermath of one the most unholy of unholies:  pooping at school. 

The Popular Girls would call the Holy High Council of Hotness which usually involves sacrificing a nerd to Moloch down by the Abyss of Unyielding Tears which was located next to the Chasm of Irreversible Hiccups.  After the sacrifice, they would debate the merits of letting another into the group and discuss the likelihood of the Outsider telling people about the Deep Dark Secret.

The Outsider will then be brought into the social group by The Popular Girls (pending an affirmative vote from the council).  It is at this point that a girl of high character will refuse the advances and someone with low self esteem and and impeccable timing will join.  If you were invited and decided not to join the Popular Girls would generally engage in a fairly ruthless smear campaign by calling that girl a slut.  Calling a girl a slut in high school is like linking them to Watergate:  no matter what they say from here on out, there’s always a doubt.  And no one actually bothers to check if the girl’s a slut.  It’s like the most powerful word you can use in high school when trying to discredit someone.  It’s second only to “Dungeons and Dragons”.

And so it goes all across the country.  Year after year, Popular Girls with constantly expanding and contracting ranks, are catty to everyone else because no one has told them that it’s all right to poop.  For the safety of this privileged information, they must keep everyone at arm’s length.  They don’t know how to deal with the fact that they too poop, and they flush it so quickly out of shame that the silver lining to them is that they believe it doesn’t stink, but believe me, it does.

So the next time you see those girls from your high school when you make an obligatory appearance at a local bar where you grew up, go up to them and say, “It’s all right.  Just let go.”  You’ll usually see a single tear make its way down their cheek by the end of the evening and another angel gets its wings.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 15, 2009

Losing Your Vanity

Imagine, for a moment, a conversation between two middle class Americans:

Mike:  Oh, hey man!  How the hell are ya?

Charlie:  I’m doing all right.  Just got out of work.  Hey!  Those are some really cool shoes.  Where did you get them?

Mike:  Thanks man.  I got them at this store downtown for twenty bucks.  Pretty cool, right?

All right, stop.  Every single one of you have had this conversation.  What I’m talking about is that when people acknowledge our fresh duds or kicks, we not only feel obliged to thank them for the compliment, but also we feel supplement our gratitude with information on how much money our clothes cost.  When we do this, it is almost always to let everyone know that while we might look super fresh, the dopest part of the clothing acquisition was the bargain.  We are quick to let everyone know that we appreciate being told we look great, but more importantly that we didn’t pay that much money for our look.

You very rarely hear people exclaiming, “Thanks man, I payed full price for it.”  That would be admitting defeat in several ways.  We, as a middle class, exhalt the almighty bargain for several reasons:

1) Sticking it to The Man – Middle class members have a very complicated relationship with The Man.  Synonyms to The Man include Authority, Multinational Corporations and any fiscal or social Superstructure.  We resent The Man because of his largely oppressive actions towards the underclass, favoring of the overclass, and that, despite all this, they make really cool stuff that we really, really want.  It is in our nature as middle class Americans to consume, but we also often resent the Superstructures and the products they spew out for our consumption because who doesn’t want to something the size of a pack of gum that can play every single song in existence. 

What better way then to stick it to The Man for his deviousness than to buy his products at a discount.  That will surely hinder your revenue stream!  Take that!  By purchasing The Man’s products at a discount, and letting people know that The Man is surely to be pissed at us, we receive social adulation from our likeminded peers while also still having a totally rockin’ iPod.

On a sidenote, for all you Apple users out there who put Apple stickers on your Priuses and walk around like their shit gives birth to puppies made out of angel orgamsms, did you know that your precious Apple Corporation outsources their manufacturing just like every other corporation based in the United States?  So, buying Apple products doesn’t make you unique or somehow better than PC users.  It’s just another multinational corporation with a particularly vitriolic and clever marketing strategy.  Plus there’s no right click button.  Wammy.

2) Evasive Vanity – Evasive Vanity allows for the consumer to be vain without people actually recognizing their vanity.  That is why the add on of, “I got it for… (insert lowballed price)” holds so much weight.  By attributing value to the product we purchased that will seem generally low to our peers we are sending the message that, “I like to buy things that make me look good, but I am not concerned enough about my appearance as to pay top dollar for it.  I like to look good as much as the average consumer.  Thus, I am in no way shallow or vain.”

3) Resentment of Wealth – Members of the middle class, especially middle class whites, often will come to resent their wealth.  My generation especially likes to enjoy the luxuries that wealth provides, but hold the knowledge of that wealth at arm’s length for one reason:  they haven’t earned it.  They are often reaping the benefits of the hard work of their parents so it is easy for them to slanderously address the evils of private property, working and evil corporations.

They feel that their relative opulence compromises their ability to identify with the underclass for whom they still strongly advocate, while also not being a member of its ranks.  By letting a peer know that they, as a consumer, did not indeed pay full price, it states, “I am not in possession of enough wealth to pay full price for this product.  Thus, I identify with notion to be left wanting; just like the poor people for whom I know what is best.”  This phenomenon depresses middle class people because a lot of them went to four year universities, studied liberal arts, got  really into Marx, Gramsci, and idolized countries with socialized medicine, but still enjoy the fruits that the free market and capitalism tend to spawn. 

To have money means an estangement with the struggle that most of the world engages in on a daily basis.  The Struggle is a theoretical construct to the middle class only.  This is why buying things for less than full price  is the illusion of being part of The Struggle, even if it is just for a moment.

4) You’re a HipsterHipsters are almost as bad as douchebags.  They are on opposite ends of the spectrum of obnoxious social groupings, but they go so far on either end of the spectrum that they begin to share similar qualities and just piss everyone off.  Hipsters are proselytizers of a kind of liberal postmodern neo-nihilist college educated ethos who sleep in coffins made of irony and independent record collections.  Hipsters are consumers, collectors, and critics of culture, but in no way contribute anything to it.  By having no real skill sets  or marginally original thoughts other than knowledge of music and obscure foreign films, the hipster must hide  his lack of tangible cultural and social contributions with a mustache he names Snarf and a fucking sweet fedora.  Hipsters might look something like this:


Please stick your genitals in a garbage disposal so you can never reproduce.  I hate you so much.  You give the left wing a bad name.  Shave, wear jeans that aren’t made for women, and stop pretending your taste in music is better than mine. 

Hipsters are notorious for their sense of irony, but it is a kind of their irony that really just means “makes you look like you eat paste for breakfast.”  They don’t fully understand true irony because they didn’t ascribe to the fascist structure of the modern education system that English 101 presented at Wesleyan.  

But hipsters are the epitome of touting their “cheap” clothing by routinely doing two things:  shopping at a Salvation Army store or Good Will Store though they often possess adequate disposable income to buy normally priced clothing.  This is a result of coming from a background of money that they undoubtably resent.

Hipsters shop at GW or SA stores to acquire “vintage” clothing that is very meticulously picked out which cultivates a look to their peers that conveys a very strange paradox, “I most certainly don’t care how I look, but I will spend hours making sure I look just the right way.”  It is very important to let everyone know that they hardly spent any money or time on their hyper-individualistic appearance.  Lots of money may not be spent on an outfit but if I may counter:

Time = Money.

Hipsters spend lots of time on their appearance.

Thus, hipsters spend lots of money on their appearance. 

What is just as common is the Surreptitious Hipster that will indeed spend lots of money on their “look”, but feel compelled to lie about it to deflect any suspicions of vanity or narcissism.

The only thing ironic about the hipster social grouping is that hipsters ascribe to a largely empathetic world view that supposedly champions the needs of the underclass, but will spend their money on exceptionally cheap clothing at stores established for the class they are supposedly helping.  By buying clothes there, it deprives clothing to the class they so do dutifully and often pretentiously campaign for.  Hipsters are also advocates for whales, medical marijuana, PBR and every citizen of Tibet.


What I’m arguing is that this bargain boast is a phenomenon exclusive to middle class America where wealth is often not celebrated.  In the upper class wealth is… well it’s pretty celebrated.  That same sentence we’ve been examining might look something like this if both members were exceptionally wealthy, “Thanks man.  I got them downtown at this store for two hundred bucks.  Boom.  I love Fox News.   I would blow Ronald Reagan.  All poor people are lazy.”


I hope you all like the recent blog post.  Oh you really do?  You think the writing is amazing?  Well thank you.  I got it on the internet… for free.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 14, 2009

Gorilla Warfare

Have you ever heard girls talking about their jealous boyfriends?  “Oh my boyfriend is totally jealous.  He gets so upset when I talk to other guys at the bar”, or, “Josh gets so jealous when I dance provocatively with other guys at the bar covered in KY jelly”, or, “Randy hates when I enter wet t-shirt contests.”  All the other girls in the room will nod approvingly that their friend’s boyfriend as well as their own often need to take it down a notch.  Jealousy is not something to be desired in their male partners.

Stop it.  Just stop.  All males are jealous to some extent.  Maybe Gandhi didn’t but even he was known to roll on some suckas when they tried to, as he called it, “get all up on his Kool-Aid”.  Even when guys are cool with you hanging out with your guy friends or he waves genially when he sees you at a bar talking to an undetermined male, he is on high… fucking… alert.  The Russians are trying to give missiles to Castro, Hitler has taken the Sudetenland, the Ark of the Covenant is in danger if you know what I mean.  He might seem calm to you, but his radar is going off nonstop.  And it’s not just him.  All of his guy friends sense that there is something threatening a member of the pack.  Their radar is going off as well.

Millions of years of social interaction and evolution that has made us fiercely defensive about our women.  Women nowadays we are as civilized as we are about it.  They are lucky that “manners” and “social grace”  have prevented men from finding the nearest nearest blunt object and stomp menacingly up to the other male waving the instrument violently.  Social grace and reason has made us quell the dragons of jealously into a very controllable, understood feeling.  We acknowledge the roar, but we have to say, “Not now dragon. Everything is fine.  Save it for the zombie apocalypse.”

And if men didn’t have social grace/appropriateness, then every single bar scene, dance club or restaurant where both sexes are allowed (all of them) would look something like this:


You’re thinking, “Well what about the circumstances where guys do actually lose their heads and appear to turn into gorilla/cavemen when they are out at these social places?”  This brings us to the X-factor:  alcohol.  When guys imbibe alcohol even without the presence of women they will do foolish things:  eat a bouquet of taquitos from 711, throw ping pong balls into plastic cups, fight, soil themselves, etc.  It is with excessive alcohol consumption we see the last vestiges of humanity leave a guy as he is reduced to Epicurean impulses:  food, drink, sex, and sleep.  Combine the unavoidable loss of civilized behavior with these already latent jealous tendencies (that are problematic even in a sober state of mind), there are bound to be incidents.

Jealousy is also the reason guys get back together with their ex girlfriends, or at least think about it.   The idea of their woman with another guy is so unbearable that he will engage himself back in a relationship that had already proven itself to be dysfunctional.  Even if he broke up with this woman and he is dating someone else and is completely happy, when he hears that his old girlfriend is banging/dating/married to another guy, the dragon in his stomach perks his head up, destroys a peasant’s home and then resumes his slumber in the Cave of Unfathomable Rage.

A lot of this is a result of men’s memory being very similar to a goldfish prone to extremely wishful thinking.  The wishful thinking is that every single woman they’ve ever been with was so emotionally decimated by their departure that they swore themselves to a life of celibacy, or became a lesbian.  The male ego has a very difficult time dealing with the reality of the situation that all women move on to have wonderful, productive, levity infused lives with their ex boyfriends.  This is why they engage in acutely irrational behavior; such as getting back into relationships that have proven themselves to be rife with discord.

You can’t take it personally though.  It is not that all men have been spurned by the cuckoldry of women.  Most women are faithful, supportive, caring, human beings who would not even dream of messing with their guy’s head or being unfaithful in the way men often suspect.  And ladies, this may seem counterintuitive based on his actions, but he actually does trust you, honestly.  But all men are a house divided which means there is a constant struggle between their civilized, sociable, non-feces throwing side as well as their Dragon Rage, feces throwing, grunting, and jealousy prone side.

And when a guy sees a strange male near his gal, instinct tells him that something is wrong.  He can’t explain it and if his partner asked him later that night why he was staring at Tommy like he murdered his grandmother with a kitten, the guy, for the life of him, won’t be able to tell you.  He’ll just know that something was wrong; he could feel it in his gut. 

Why do men act this way?  Well I’ll tell you:  instinct has reminded him that other men used to bonk women on the head and drag them to their caves and make whoopie with them against their wills.  It is this innate feeling of imminent head bonking of their woman that makes men jealous.  The feeling is an unsubstantiated lack of control because, when men were getting their start, the fidelity of their women was out of their hands.  It was often subject to the whim and impulses of other men;  which, we all know, are not to be trusted.  It’s not that they don’t trust you, it’s just  their primitive selves telling them something is askew in their world and some sort of reaction is necessary.  I mean who knows?  Tommy might have a club in his jeans.  You don’t know him.  And if it isn’t a club in his pants then it’s even more reason to keep him away from your woman.

It’s funny because I was talking about a penis.

Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 13, 2009

The Sum of All Fears

You know the feeling.  Your hands get clammy and there’s a cold sweat on the back of your neck.  Denial creeps into your mind.  No, not now.  How could this be?  Yoou took every possible precaution.  People might suspect something if you act now.  You wring your hands together vigorously.  You’re on a hair trigger and there’s nothing you can do about it.  Before you know it, you’re out of your seat and sprinting down a long hallway.  Onlookers eye you strangely as you weave your way through the human traffic.  What’s the matter with you?   Well, you had to poop at the movies.

You’re not sure you’re going to make it and burst into the bathroom.  There’s a line.  Oh sweet holy razor blades, there’s a  line, but it’s a small one.  You have to go so badly that you’ve  accepted the possibility of crapping your pants.  All you can hope for is damage control.  Perhaps you can sew a pair of pants out of your socks?  Or, or or you could ask the stranger to run to JC Penney for you.  Maybe there will be a magic lamp in the stall that will be able to give you three wishes. 

Things are looking grim as you feel the final level of control raise its white flag.  Your body is fighting a losing battle against the elite cavalary of the Fecal Army.  Resistance is futile.  It is a matter of seconds now. 

But what is this?!  A stall at the end of the bathroom opens and the most beautiful person wearing a Star Trek t-shirt walks out of the stall.  You think it’s a bit unnecessary for this person to bring nachos into the stall but that’s not important right now.

You move as quickly as your condition permits.  You sit down and welcome sweet relief.  If Christmas, an orgasm and Oreos dipped in milk could be made into a feeling it would be this.  You didn’t… shit… your pants.  No humiliation.  No mess.  No psychological scarring.  Victorious fanfare might as well fill the bathroom and you offer an olive branch to your colon.  All is forgiven for the betrayal your body tried to perpetrate.

You open your eyes, elated.  Something is wrong though.  You first check for toilet paper as your hand darts to the dispenser.  Resources are low, but it will be enough to get the pilgrims through the winter.  What could it be?

My my my!  What a spacious stall you’re in.  No, you can’t believe it.  How coul the fates be so cruel?  You’re in a handicap stall.  Should you move?  Should you be concerned?  What are the odds that someone with a wheelchair would actually need to use the stall?  Do people in wheelchairs even need to poop?  Do you need to stop and pick up eggs at the grocery store on the way home?

You go through your routine maintenance, ignoring the type of stall you’re in. Would it kill businesses to use toilet paper that doesn’t have a 67% sandpaper quotient?  For an industry that requires people be sitting down and be comfortable, these companies would only improve their caste by going for some toilet paper with aloe, you think.  Baby wipes might also be nice.  Better pick up milk and eggs.

You’re about ready to move on from the trauma when you hear the door open.  Cold, unforgiving science is making a squeaking noise.  Hoping, you muse that someone should really get some WD-40 for that door. 

And then you see it:  wheels.  Those stainless steel, immaculate wheels used for Satan’s chariot.  Why me?  If you believed in God you would ask Her why such awkwardness should be bestowed on you?  You’re still sitting, at your weakest, hoping that the occupant of the wheelchair might just be washing their hands or blowing their nose. 

Please let the chair stop before it gets to your stall.  You would rather see the feet of a sodomizing mange infested yeti than the wheels of this wheelchair.  Alas, the chair movesdown the length of the bathroom.  You slowly pull your pants up, open the door and look into the face of your accuser.  Now they know, you were using their stall.  You expect to have limestone thrown in your eyes.  The person stares at you in the doorway of the stall, “Everything all right?” they ask.  You nod your head, drop your left hip six inches and slowly limp out of the bathroom.

She totally bought it.  Sucker.

Wait, she?  Not again.


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