Top of the Food Chain

Kids are selfish beasts. (Whoa) I mean, a four year old is never going to help you bring the loads of grocerys into the house, ask you what you'd like for dinner, or be your designated driver. They will eventually: take you're money, scratch your new Honda Civic, and masterbate in your bed when you're not there. Comedian Kathy Griffin puts it well, "The next time a four year old asks me how my day is going...then ill change my tune."

Second point that'll probably secure my spot in hell is that kids can't be trusted. You have no idea what they are going to grow up to be. You could be investing all this time and when they're 17, find them reading anime while frenching their algebra teacher.

If I could turn back time. If I could find a-a way...starts playing in your regretful head.

There are some kids that defy these odds. These charismatic little shits are cool before they even know how to spell the word. Their swagga' is near beastly (that's a good thing) and they run the playground like their fucking P-Diddy. "Top of the Food Chain" aims to find these top-notch tots and make you realize you've been doing everything wrong since you were born.

Exhibit A: Little Aussie how'd you get so fly? It's not enough to just be absolutely adorable. Notice the Alanis Morissette "one hand in my pocket" and posed leg: this kid knows what he's doing. He could post up with the men playing chess in the park and totally hold his own. I wore the same outfit last week and it no one took MY fucking picture. Top of the god damn food chain.

Photo from The Sartorialist

For more of his work check out: http://www.thesartorialist.blogspot.com/

WHO DONE IT??

[One night of fun = 6 weeks of hobble-hobble-crutch-time]

Our story begins a few nights before Halloween last year. We decided to get a keg for... well we didn't have an especially good reason, but fuck it, it was Thursday and this is college: KEG TIME. You wouldn't think it, but kegs can sometimes have the same effects as open bars. It would be one thing if it was a huge raging party with people hanging from the banisters and the keg getting tapped at like 10:30. No, we like to keep our keggers more intimate. (If I'm going to put a $90 deposit on my over-drafted debit card, and get a hernia dragging this thing up a flight of stairs: I WANT MY FUCKING MONEYS WORTH.

The night was running as smoothly as a reality show that follows a script: beer pong, keg stands, and drunken wrestling in the living room. Ghetto Superstar, that is whatcho you are... was belted at the top of our lungs at some point and I woke up wearing snake skin pants. (Yes normally a dealbreaker, but it was close enough to Halloween that I got away with it.)

Around two am, three of my girls leave to go on a drunken mission. The rest of the party was not aware that they left, which would explain why we didn't really worry when they didn't return.

At 6 am I get a call telling me that "Tiffany" is in the hospital with a broken ankle. The explanation for this is so good that I couldn't even have made it up if I tried.

Apparently, Tiffany along with "Courtney" and "Rosa" were stumbling through campus. [Side-note: the library at USF has a long river-like fountain that goes along one side of it.] When they pass the library, Courtney sees the fucking fountain and says,

"I'll give anyone who jumps into that fountain, butt-naked, twenty bucks right now."

Let's review: what do we know about drinking heavily and "truth or dare"? BAD NEWS BEARS. Without hesitation, Tiffany rips her clothes off. Remember that this is a pre-Halloween party and Tiffany had on a lace-onesie over a Wonderwoman-esque corset. She runs to the SHALLOW end of the fountain and DIVES THE FUCK IN THERE.

Hitting the water, she starts yelling in pain because without knowing it: she just landed directly on her ankle and BROKEN IT. AH SHIIIIIIT. Altough Tiffany is screaming slightly, Courtney (brilliant idea Courtney, really genius) unmercilessly says, "It doesn't count unless you get your head under."

Not willing to give up, Tiffany sticks her head under and crawls out of the fountain. Important to note that the fountain runs along side the part of the library that is open 24 hours a day and is fully lite. Although it is two in the morning, here at THE "Harvard of the West" there were about 30 people whose studying got interrupted by a drunk naked babe diving into the fountain outside.

So know Tiffany is: WASTED, NAKED, SOAKED FROM HEAD TO TOE, WITH A FUCKING BROKEN ANKLE. Rockbotton? We're not judging. Next they all sit behind a bush until Tiffany can bear the pain no more, they flag down our schools Public Safety car. They struggling to get as much of her clothes on her, while the stupid rent-a-cops drive them to the emergency room.

Tiffany's last memory of the night is being asked what type of pain medicine she needed. To which she viciously replied, "THE HARD SHIT! GIVE IT TO ME NOOOOOW."

For the next six weeks, Tiffany was a regulation badass with a broken ankle, but when her boss and parents asked her how it happened: um let's just say she won't be referring them to this story anytime soon.

Lyrical Killspree

The Alchemist goes on a lyrical killspree with a couple other cats in Hold You Down. Big time producer and gold-chain enthusiast, The Alchemist literally does "hold it down" with tracks like Tick Tock featuring Nas and Prodigy. Check it.

"You could get caught up in some thing you would not wanna, so slow [Down] And watch how I mold the sound so when I ain't around the music still [Holds, you, down] But I'm a keep my eyes open yo I don't even blink. Keep my pen movin down the line, I don't even think, just write it [Down]."

-The Homie Al

Liv Tyler, Some Sushi, And A Goddamn Goldfish

Games are fucking awesome, the best are the ones that are in no way athletic or hugely ego-affectingly competitive. Lacking any real hobbies and having a desire to learn more about people, I like to ask a series of scenario questions. The questions can be simple or complex, but a standard set would be:

"If you were to be stuck in an elevator for 72 hours and there could only be one other person in there with you, who would it be? They can be someone who you know, have never met, famous, fucking dead, whatever. You have one animal and one meal, what would they be?"

The question can be altered to a road trip from one side of America to the other, incorporate more people, throw in a drug everyone is on for the duration, put one person you must have sex with during it, whatever.

Cab drivers never really like my quizzing, but last night one forty-year-old from Brooklyn didn't even think twice. Driving like a maniac to drop us off so he could take another meth-hit, without hesitation he blurted out, quite confident in his answers:

"I'd want that Liv Tyler to be there. For food? Probably some sushi."

Bold move, definately respectable. She a babe, but not an unimaginative Pamela Andersen, sort of straight guy answer. The sushi isn't very sustaining for 72 hours but if the man wants a god-damn spicy tuna roll, THAT'S WHAT HE'LL GET. When I ask what animal he'd want to be there, he loses interest and respect for the game, saying,

"Whatever, man. A goldfish or something."

He doesn't care about the animal, seeing that he has 72 hours to convince Liv Tyler to atleast give him a handjob. He then explains the beauty of Liv Tyler and I agree, telling him that his answer is one of the more respectable ones I've heard. Remembering my last cabby that refused to even answer the question and after 25 blocks of drunken pursuing on my behalf, he said he would want his best friend, Minh, there with him.

Whoa whoa whoa, this is just hypothetical Mr. Yellowcab, but come on! Way to dream fucking big! Way to get buckwild! Standard answers tell us a few things: you're probably bad in bed, you're not who your kids look up to, and you've never forgotten to return your DVDs on time at Blockbuster. (And yes, you are still loyal to Blockbuster.)

There is nothing more annoying than having a preoccupied lack of interest or worse, an unwilling imagination.

These Girls, These Girls, These Girls

Spending large amounts of time with the same people and driving around with two brutally uncensored females, makes dialogue know no boundaries. Staring out the window, smoking a cigarette, listening with a dazed and confused ear, not picking up all the words, I gathered this conversation. "Olive" explains to "Fiona" that the grass isn't always greener on the other side. (No really, they're being serious.)

Olive: I came three times before he did once. Good sex last night.

Fiona: Wait so he came after 20 minutes and you came 3x faster?

Olive: YEA.

Fiona: Man, I need to have sex like that. I NEED A NEW VAGINA.

Olive: Trust me, you'd rather have your vagina and not be able to come during sex, than have ovarian cysts, and yeast and bladder infections: LIKE IT IS GOING OUT OF STYLE.

Glad we covered that.

Real Legit

Now DATS whats up-

Blackberry Vizion

What could warrant this mid-party madness? Snoop Dogg walking through the front door? A tray of jello shots suddenly floating around? That out of season Christmas tree catching on fire? Nah it's just that "I'm On a Boat" began blaaring out of the speakers and our limbs melted into rubber. Swinging, twisting, bumping, grinding, spitting, and screaming, at near disturbing levels.

Hypothetical Bus Hustle

Sitting on the bus you can't help but look around and wonder. These people, these insane and beautiful people. Who consider you the same thing. I sit there, behind a pair of sunglasses and make stories up about my favorite strangers. Daydreaming is better than the sleeping dreams. You control them. They're yours. If I'm stoned it's game over, I have figuratively figured out their childhoods, sexual orientation, and bank account balance; all in my head.

[A melodramatic mix of the two.]

[You see my interest.]

Photos by the The Sartorialist.

Riding home on the 31 bus, I get on and there are maybe 7 other people riding. I sit near the front, too tired to care about the etiquette of leaving the front seats open for the elderly and misfortunate. I'm sitting there, statically stoned and loopy.

A man sitting across from me looks stern and unwavering, staring at the sign flashing the up-coming bus stop. He is out of his element, but not willing to let it be known. Rocking a faded hair cut, with long locks towering over a strong forehead. Sharp and unconsciously handsome, but with the hair, his tight black jeans and healed loafers, you'd think he was gay, but no, wait no, he almost wants you to think that.

Without reason or warning a woman's purse falls to the ground, scattering insignificant belongings all over. They lock eyes and he gathers them in a few swift moves, his expressions remains firmly vacant, his eyes uninterested. Carrying a worn in copy of The Great Gatsby, he gets out an outdated flip-phone and quickly puts it back in his pocket. "On crowded buses always protect purses and wallets..." He mouths the words without blinking, his version of a grin form on his lips. He's no stronger to the bus yet still prefers his Vespa. This isn't his neighborhood, he checks the bus stops too often. Sitting in the very first seat on the bus, bold move.

I attempt to take a picture but the woman sees me and throws "creeper" dart eyes in my direction. Without explanation or apology, he stands up and walks down the bus and stops in front of me. I look down, like a child whose been caught in the act. He sits, crossing his legs and stares directly at me. Why would he change seats? His eyes are grey and vacant, almost glazed over. We sit this way, I'm alternating stares between his left ear and his belt buckle. It's a duel almost and I try to convince myself he's playing the same game in his head. He's mostly trying to remember what was next on his Netflix list, hoping Cool Hand Luke is sitting in his mailbox.

I've been completely focused on this man, until he pulls the "Stop Requested" wire, and stands to get off. We're at 34th Avenue and Balboa and I quickly rush upward. This obsession of mine has made me miss my stop by 11 blocks and I scamper off down the steps, forgetting to yelp thank you at the bus driver, something I strive myself on doing. I walk behind him for a block before the fear of seeming like a stalker causes me to turn onto Anza. I glance back and his head is down as he crosses the street, nose buried in Gatsby. It's too dark for that and he spent the entire lit-up bus ride not reading. None of it makes sense.

Textual Seductions

Because we spend so much time on our phones. Because sadly we drink to gain the courage to text and our friends don't take away our phones when they really should. Because "BBM" is the biggest thing since sliced bread. SuckitbySina is open to regrettable conversations and relationship ruining rants. Send your cringe inducing best to: sghahreman@usfca.edu

EvatheDiva gives us her conversation with a guy she had dinner with once and won't be calling back until the rest of the male species is eradicated, leaving her no other options.

Loser: By the way, I heard your ex was jealous.

Eva: Hahaha yea he was very jealous and mad at Sherm for hooking me up.

Loser: Hahaha. So would you consider us "hooked up."

Eva: Well no I was meaning like introducing us.

Loser: Hah. Well hopefully I can change that :)

Loser: Can I ask you something...

Eva: Ya?

Loser: Are you interested?

Eva: Am I interested in what?

Loser: Me?

Eva: Well I don't even know you so I can't answer that question. I'm not attracted to someone unless I know them and have that level of intimacy.

Loser: So you're not attracted to me? I'm just trying to get an idea of what you're all about.

Eva: I think things got a little too crazy a little too fast between us. I enjoy your company as a friend and I wanna keep in touch.

Loser: Hmm. Not sure what that means...

[Wait, in what way was that not clear? Fucking idiot.]

...I'll make it clear. I like you. I'd like to see where things go.

Eva: I don't want to lead you on. I just am not in a place in my life right now to be intimate. I would make it easier for me if we could agree to remain friends.

Loser: Look, I know you're into that guy in Hawaii. But gimme another shot. I won't disappoint.

Eva: Wow that was really insensitive and not very understanding.

Loser: I actually wrote that before you wrote the other. I'm sorry. Whatever you want, sweetie. We ARE friends. And just know that I dig you. That's all.

Loser: Life is long, time is everything. [How much do I owe you for that fucking token of wisdom. Lifetime movie much?]

You could bail a brotha out?

I woke up with what looked like two phone numbers on my arm this past Sunday. No, I wasn't being a pimp up in VIP. After some minor investigation I found out that apparently I was planning on doing something which may have ended up with me and a few loyal friends to up in jail. In my state I figured out that these were the two friends who I would call if I needed to be bailed out. In case I did try to use them, it wouldn't have helped considering you're only allowed to call local numbers from jail. (A friend had to be bailed out recently and yes the story is in the works.)

Don't worry: there would have been no high speed chases or 5-hour stand offs. It was a plan to break into the impound lot and rescue a friends impounded scooter. Very badass, very Scareface. We didn't end up having the key to the scooter so it was a lost cause, but if we do eventually tap into our Grand Theft Auto selves, I'll probably be gone for a few days. Stop crossing your fingers in hopes of reading the story.

Lyrical Killspree

"And her pussy so good, wish I could wear it for cologne. Pussy so wet I wish I slip and break mah neck."

-Lil Wayne

Blackberry Vizion

Every morning there is a ritual. It's start times range between 10am-2pm. Waking up with a quench nothing seems to cure, hopefully recognizing your surroundings, and finding your cell-phone. Take a deep breath and observe the embarrassing evidence from last night it's history hold. One of my top 5 favorite activities is to look at the pictures on my phone from the night before. 

At 6 am I text Elise, who is visiting her sister in Davis:

"Hi. Can you pick me up when you are coming into the city. I'm about to fall sleep at a house on Folsom and Twelfth downtown. I will explain later."

All I had were these three pictures and "Dick / Clit," written on each respectable knuckle. 

The evening "began" (at midnight) with a snack of salmon. Obviously, why wouldn't it.

Somewhere along the lines there was a Paris-Hilton-Carl's-Jr-esque photo shoot on some d-bags orange Hummer. The owner barked us away mid-photo when he caught us in the act.

 

The dub-step party that we got to around 2:30 am was no kind of joke. Literally the DJ is bumping sounds of "Did you drink my apple juice," until the sun was rising behind him. A night spent with the most eclectically different people, ranging from 18-45, from sober to possibly overdosed, is something I won't even begin to try to explain. Just bring your sunglasses to wear when you're leaving at 6 am.

Real Legit: Terry Richardson

[Terry Richardson and an unidentified friend.]

A Terry Richardson photo is usually recognizable. White background, straight on the subject, bright light, props and toys, and raw honesty. Having shot the likes of: Lil Wayne, Amy Winehouse, Justin Timberlake, and President Obama; Richardson has recently done projects in Hong Kong and Brazil, along with his Wives Weapons & Wheel study. Richardson's oral obsession, bluntly delicious nudity, and confidence to stay consistent, makes him pretty legit.

See the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio, slutty middle aged women, Pam Anderson, orangutans, and McCully Culkin:

http://terryrichardson.com/

Daily Dealbreaker

You've seen it: the crowd hooting and yelling in judgement, that sub-parr silver fox of a host, the 13 year old sitting next to her mother. She scratching her infected belly button piercing, with a mini-skirt, and uncrossed legs, telling her mother, 

"Chica you can't fuckin tell me what to do. I wanna have a baby and I iz goin to have a baby. I'm sleepin wit not 1, not 2, not 3, but four guys."

Then the guys file out and though their lack of non-rotting teeth may be a dealbreaker itself, a guest writer for SuckitbySina breaks it down:

Dealbreaker #9-

"I won't date you if you have appeared on the "Maury Show" regarding a paternity test.

Honestly I'm a pretty open minded person especially when it comes to sex and sleeping around with random people on a regular basis. I'll tell you right now, one thing I learned at a young age was to wrap it up! You can't sleep around these days without getting knocked up, herpes, or chlamytia (I can't even spell that word). It's not 1972, shit is fo real yo. Seriously, if you wore a fucking condom in the first place you wouldn't be on "Maury" with sweaty palms, sitting next to 4 other potential baby-daddies, wondering if that baby with alcohol fetal syndrome is yours! Publicly displaying your bad decisions on national daytime television is just NOT chill. Dealbreaker, hands down. I don't even care if that crack-baby didn't end up being yours- you still lowered yourself to that level. Paternity testing is meant to take place in the privacy of your doctors office and NOT on television. So grow up people and stop acting like assholes.

Back to the dog house

Is it just me or does this rolling tobacco not completely target a four year old with freckles and a lisp? Primary colors and a spinning top thing? Sold! The fact that you could buy it with the quarters you got for lunch money doesn't hurt the situation either. And yes, pay day is next Friday and we're trying to make our smokes last until then. Back to the dog house.

"We should fuck each other's mothers"

Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg not only bad it into the badass hall of fame after this one. But also topped the "Two people I would let Eiffel Tower me" list.DO IT DO-DO-DO-DOGGIE STYLE:

 

Come on Justin, don't kick Britney when she's down. (You may think she's back, but girl has tampons hanging out on stage and the lip-synching isn't cute anymore.) 

Scoreboard: Justin:981,357 vs. Britney: 4 Venti Caramel Frappachinos:

  

WATCH YO BACK!

Master prankster and quite the vengeful bitch at times, EvatheDiva breaks it down on how and why to stalk your ex. With the internet, that tacky twitter thing, the late night show "Cheaters," and straight up stalking, keeping tabs has never been easier. Better watch yo back:

We all do it and don't even try to pretend like you don't. Casually stalking your ex boyfriend or girlfriend is totally normal and there is nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, it's not my fault that his house is on the way home from work and I happen to know what kind of car his new girlfriend drives. It's also not my fault that I have the password to his facebook account or know his favorite restaurant and have been eating there everyday since we broke up. Whatever, call it what you want to call it. 

So one night my friend "Kelli" and I are getting stoned and watching re-runs of Tila Tequila: A Shot At Love- when, believe it or not, after several hours we got bored. So I decide me and my sidekick Kelli need to get into some trouble. Giving the combination of our history as master pranksters and my recent breakup- we immediately looked each other in the eye and knew what needed to be done.

So we make a couple calls and find out that my ex-boyfriend is gambling his money away (per usual) at the casino and DEFINITELY won't be home for hours. Bingo! We grab a roll or two of toilet paper, hop in the car and discuss our plan of assault over the 8 minute drive to his residence.

Dressed in all black, we park up the street a little to make sure no one sees my car if they drive by. Remember details make or break a good prank. We were planning on just going full force with the high school style Tee-Pee prank, when Kelli suggested we check to see if any of the windows were open. Genius! This is why we make a great team. 

So we start on one side and move around the perimeter of the house and sure enough, the dumbass had left the guest bathroom window: unlocked! We slide it open and she helps me climb through so I can go unlock the door and let her in. We were contemplating just TP’ing the inside of his house but opted that it would be way funnier if we also re-arranged all his furniture. So exactly what we did. We were like crazy little mexican workers frantically moving the couch over there, coffee table to the kitchen, dining table to the office etc. I think you catch my drift.

The next day, like clockwork, ex-boy calls Kelli (they have been good friends for several years) and tells her what happened. Kelli is asking him questions like, ”Oh my god…did they steal anything??” and “Wow, that’s so weird…who the fuck would do that??” 

The best part is that he picked up some skank on the way home and when they walked in the house he nearly shit his pants in front of her! HAHA sucka. He had an alarm system installed a couple days later and still has no idea who did it.

Daily Dealbreaker

I was recently informed that if I'm going to call them "daily" dealbreakers, then I have to post one once in a fucking while. My bad, but I'm back at it like a bad habit:

Dealbreaker #8:

"I won't date you if you still rock a yellow Lance Armstrong "Live Strong" bracelet."

You wanna fucking know why? Because they blew up and DIED. Yea sure we all hopped onto the "anti-cancer" train for a hot minute, but it's like adopting kids or the continent of Africa: we turn our heads and open our wallets when Oprah starts yelling at us for being selfish, then we go back to watching The Real Housewives of Fucking Palm Beach. It was so god damn "in" that your grandmother and mailman got them before you. And when they sold out and could only be bought on-line: FUCKING MAYHEM. We all took that non-existent "live strong" oath, wore that yellow band and never felt more patriotic. Although trend-watching should be left to the unimaginative, this one thankfully caught a STD from being such a social slut and died. Currently seen on: runners, health obsessed weirdos, and guys rocking muscle polos and beady eyes, pumping fists and claiming to "chyea man, live strong breh." When in reality your one dollar contribution, 8 years ago, is no longer helping anyone, so stop fucking pompously showing off you lacking "sensitive" side. And if your're wondering, yes: not even Lance Armstrong is an exception. 

Street Level Avec Perfect Strangers

Although the world is becoming largely non-smoking fucking everywhere, there is one bench I refuse to not smoke on. Outside the cafeteria you get a constant flow of the most insane and intellectual, stoned and sober, stressed and blessed: variety of precious human specimen. It's such a prime piece of people-watching-real-estate that my day isn't complete without at least a half hour daily bench session. 

Sitting there I came across this little lady. I had to double-take because my mind couldn't grasp the concept that someone would tattoo testicles on their foot.

When I asked to take a picture she explained that it "takes balls to get a tattoo on your foot," so she literally GOT BALLS TATTOOED ON HER FOOT. That is so high up on the insanity scale that it has actually wrapped around and become PURE GENIUS. (This reasoning is much like the concept that the reality tv star known as "New York" is so fucking ghetto that she has actually become fabulous.)

I though that was all. But I had one more gift coming from Baby Jesus, and it came in the form of the 12 inch "cock" she had tattooed on her calve. It's a rooster but you get the pun. So let's get this straight, she now has a cock and a pair of balls.

Lastly she showed me a chocolate chip cookie tattooed on her inner ankle. She went on to tell me that she and her friends like to refer to their vaginas as "cookies," so she got a tattoo of one.

I asked her if she would have gotten a cartoon of Pokemon's Pikachu tattooed, if she happened to call it her "Pikachu." The sarcasm was lost in translation and she loyally replied, "Probably."

Real Legit

Things that suck: stepping in dog poo and final exams. Things that don't: Cutter MacLeod at taking pictures. The legend returns! Making it look easy, here are our favorite shots. For more check it:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/cuttermacleod/page1/

Dollface

Throw It Up

Shuffle

"I never said I was a rolemodel"

With some help from up-and-coming rapper Natalie Portman, I'd like to formally launch the "I am NOT a rolemodel" campaign. If you never ever: said, thought, wrote down, or sang those words, NOT ONCE in your life: YOU ARE IN. We are lucky, living in an age were you currently can use a number of standard broad excuses for even your most ridiculous faults. When my boss asks why I'm 45 minutes late for work? "Sorry, there's a really bad case of swine flu going around. If a cop pulls you over for running a red light? "The economy is hitting everyone really hard." Elise's personal favorite is the "I drink alot" excuse to nearly everything.

While these excuses are invaluable, they are temporary. If you need a lifelong get-out-of-jail-free card: "I never said I was a rolemodel" is your savior. As long as you don't care to be an example for others, continue the hazardous absurd ways! Join the motha-fuckin movement.

                       

WHO DONE IT?? LITERALLY

[Well if at one point in the night your holding onto a pole on the sidewalk, while sitting on your friends head, as she is attempting to pray: the following story makes more sense.]

Sometimes shit is just WAY too literal. So many common day expressions or saying should not under ANY circumstance become a reality. Like "imma bust a cap in yo ass!" If that was to ever literally play out, I'm getting the FUCK OUT OF THERE. Or "kill two birds with one stone." I don't need none of that. Let's keep it figurative:

So when you say "I just threw up in my mouth a little bit," what you want it to mean is something around you is hugely disgusting or offensive to you. A friend found out the hard way what you don't want it to mean: Paulina drank too much last night and while driving around in his roommates BALLER ride the next morning, he literally threw up in his mouth a little and held it in with both hands covering his mouth, until she could pull over. Then he could finally get out and release his tequila and yesterday's burrito steaming stew, all over the sidewalk. Ugh fucking lovely. 

Don't Get Dressed Stoned

"I was gonna color coordinate, but then I got high."

Add that line Afroman, shit is TRUE. You may think it's simple. And yea it should be: YOU'RE JUST DRESSING YOURSELF. Something you do everyday suddenly becomes more difficult than finding "true love" on a reality show. Somewhere between packing the bong and making Easy-Mac, the ability is lost. You start pulling out ancient relics from awkward stages past and begin trying to make them hip again. Seriously stop with the clashing colors and put the boxy t-shirt you bought in Hawaii cause you thought it was funny BACK! There will be print, PRINTS-ON-FUCKING-PRINTS: floral, animal, sequins, and plaid. By potential outfit number 17 you're so unclear on what to wear you have lost faith in your own taste and judgement. You're going to be a little self-conscious anyway, don't make it harder on yourself. Trying to figure out what your non-verbal behavior is going to say about you for the day, is about as hard as figuring out what to order at Jack-in-the-Box when you're high.

Exhibit A: Our resident Diva wanted a comfy outfit to travel in. She did not need to mix my dad's old flannel, with a loudly stripped cardigan, and a green pashmina scarf. You may think it works, but even this gorgeous girl isn't that edgy. But since I helped her pick it out and kissed her goodbye, as a friend: I'M JUST AS GUILTY.

This Ain't Sunset Boulevard

No stranger to a bit of bad luck and a sense of cynicism, Mr. Jay Chase shows us why it's crucial to be able to distinguish the full-blown crazy cab drivers from the mediocre nut-jobs. Sitting on the bus after this shit went down, he goes on a bit of a verbal-killing-spree, writing for SuckitbySina a play-by-play of the most dangerous $5.50 he ever did almost spend. Well, almost the most dangerous: the cheap hookers will get you, Jay. Hail with caution kid:

I like to flag cabs like I imagine a gentleman would. I puff stoically on a cigarette, turn my back defiantly against the wind and confidently ignore the peasants on the bus, the model in my head being based roughly on the Monopoly guy. I heiled the Bay Cab and it swung across three lanes, brakes whining like a selfish toddler at Christmas. Admittedly, not a good start.

I climbed into the backseat quickly, casting a semi-apologetic shrug to the indignant traffic honking and screaming at the what seemed to be the Crocodile Dundee of daring cab drivers. He looked like a cookie cutter mold of all the old Bears fans from the nineteen eighties I'd come to know in Chicago: overweight, a thick, impractical neck and a voice like a belch.
“Where you headed?” he expelled. 
“Uh, Fulton and Parker,” I murmured. 

I don't claim to know a great deal about bears but it seemed to me a safe bet to not make eye contact, or whatever his woeful neck could manage from the front seat. He fit into the car like a mistake, his overwhelming girth stretching the limits of the narrow driver's seat. To say that we took off from there would be an insult to fighter jets. As the cab accelerated my back smacked the seat, my fingers flying frantically for the “OH SHIT” handle on the door. 

I don't wear seatbelts in cabs. As I see it, it's an act of feeble defiance to the Man. Don't fuck with me I'm PAYING to be here. Also, I like to imagine myself a cosmopolitan urbanite who simply cannot be bothered with the hassle and inconvenience of the two point five seconds it takes to click it or the impatient tug at the pudgy reminder of last night's pizza. Even so, at that moment, my eyes pressed into the back of my skull and my genitals scrambling back into my torso, I'll admit that I considered it.

First, however, I checked to see if Dundee was wearing one. No, the bulge of his massive stomach clearly would not allow it. I sunk back and decided to find my happy place. Not knowing where that was, I elected instead to study the cabbie's massive forearm, casually gripping the passenger seat as we broke the sound barrier. Out of the many frekcles and age spots next to the snarl of fat that must have been his elbow, I could make out what appeared to be a box turtle. It was like connecting the dots. Flakes of dead skin hovered above the outskirts of his faded Grateful Dead tattoo.
Thats what I was thinking about the moment the cab dug its teeth into the back of the white Lexus ahead at speed. Had the crash been fatal, I take great offense that my last living memory would amount to the terrified mental equivalent of a Highlights! Magazine puzzle you find at the doctors office and lazily fill out when somebody has already grabbed Home & Garden.

On impact I flew forward, frenching the back of the headrest and chest bumping the seat like an exuberant frat boy on rape night. I'd always entertained the idea that in such circumstances my body would react much like a Navy Seal. I would clutch the seatbelt, lasso it around my arm and brazenly brace for sudden impact with my war face on. Instead, I leaned back as the cab came to rest and examined the spit on the back of the seat with what I'd call my retard face drooping across my head. 

Dundee gave a great sigh in which the syllables of “shiiiiitttttt” could be detected. The Lexus driver got out and began to wave his arms like a drunk juggler.
“Sorry, man,” said the cabbie.

I looked at the meter: $5.50. I'd made it just over four blocks. I briefly considered paying, scrapped the idea, decided to be a man and reassumed my composure. I opened the door I surveyed the damage. The cab took the most of it, the hood at a slight angle and the front grill cracked and broken. I left the two drivers to deal with it all and this witness started down the block. 

A crackhead made a joke which I didn't catch, a bird shit on my shoe and I got on the bus with the other gentlemen.

-Jay Chase

WHO DONE IT??

Wait, is this awkward? Two painfully platonic friends (shhh no foursome talk) getting wasted and taking scandalously incriminating pictures. I mean at this point, there's really no turning back.

Why your mom should never get a facebook!

Now I would never accept a friend request from my mother because, well, let's just say my extra curricular activities aren't her idea of productive or morally just. Lying face down in the middle of Haight Street at 3 in the morning is something your mother just doesn't need to see. But Evathediva breaks it down on why it is so sketchy if your mom showing up on Facebook:

My mom recently got hip to the “world wide web” and signed herself up for a facebook page. When I saw the friend request come through my inbox I was a little hesitant to click accept, but whatever she’s my mom so I confirmed her. Fuck! So many incriminating photos. Things you just don't need your mother seeing. I then immediately went on my page and had to delete all the inappropriate pictures of me partying until 4 am, peeing in the alley and smoking pot out of my 2 ft. bong. Let me just mention- my punk ass little sisters didn’t even care to do a courtesy round of deletions and just straight DENIED her. SO WRONG FO' DAT! In hindSight, that was a pretty smart decision on their part. 

Ok, so now I’m thinking it’s all good and I don’t need to worry about it. WRONG! Next thing I know she’s asked all my friends to be her friend, she’s posting pictures of herself in a bikini (granted, my mom is hot piece of as, but that’s just not cool) and lastly she’s tagging the UGLIEST photos of me. For example, Christmas morning with my hair a mess, no make-up, no bra and a huge zit in the middle of my forehead. Are you fucking kidding me??? I’m sure most of you people reading this story have a facebook so your aware that you don’t always know when people tag you until you check your page OR have it on your blackberry- which I recently lowered myself to because I’m pathetic and a complete loser. 

I immediately call my mom up and yell at her to take down the fugly photos of me- to which she replies, 

“Which one?? (in shock) I thought you looked so beautiful in all of them”. 

Awwww, thanks mom that’s sweet and everything, but I definitely want to exercise my right to screen what ugly ass photos of me go on the internet . I mean, this is facebook, not an email to grandpa and grandma in Willamsburg, Virginia. Do I really want my ex-boyfriend (WHO SHE IS ALSO FRIENDS WITH) looking through those photos and thinking he has the upper hand like- wow she really went down-hill after we broke up. To sum things up, I now live in a constant state of paranoia because my mom is on facebook. NOT CHILL.

Facebook Moms- Listen Up: it's not funny. We have social images to maintain and although you love us no matter what we look, THE REST OF THE WORLD'S NOT AS NICE.

No one should ever be photographed when in the process of moving, but it should definitely not be on the internet.