Jerry Falwell died today at 73. Hypocrisy has not been ruled out as cause of death.

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Here’s a user submitted video from Jodi. Jodi, you win a Contemptster sticker! All we need is your home address and we’ll bring it right on over.

Do you want a Contemptster sticker and all of us to come over to your house? Just submit a video or picture.*

Jodi, submitted this video under PDA and Middle-aged Mom Who Dresses Like Teen Daughter. Here’s what she said,

“We were downtown at a bar enjoying happy hour when this 50 year-old women wearing a shirt that showed off her beer gut and tattoos started bouncing on this man’s lap, trying to get all the attention from an almost empty bar. It was gross. When she saw that I was taking her picture she got even more into it.”

Yeah, that looks pretty bad. 50-year-old-lady-dry-humping is not hot. Not hot at all. In fact, I think it lands you in the ol’ Tool Room.

*Not valid in any state, but if you submit something we’ll link to your website, and if you really do want a sticker we can probably arrange that somehow too.

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God, doesn’t the couple in this picture make you want to throw up? They’re so cute and adorable and rich and they love each other so much. Fuck. Off.

If you are interested in how to join them in the arbitrary Pentamillionaires’ Club, one thing to know right off the bat: there’s no money in blogging.

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Finally, a window into the life of the one and only Crazy Carl Himself. Being a Yankees fan is no surprise of course; never have I met such a miserable fan base despite 26 championships. The girlfriend came as a shocker though.

Fun on the 4 Train, or: An Uncomfortable Experience Starring Hordes of Commuters, a Retarded Kid, a Crazy Father, an Asshole Who Sells Candy Bars, a Bladder Full of Bud Ice, and Crazy Carl Himself
By Crazy Carl Himself

For those of you who may not be aware, I am not a city dwelling hipster like many of the other contributors on this site. I am (not so) proud to live and work in one of the outer boroughs, Staten Island. Staten Island is a nice place to raise your kids, although it is also the only place in the history of mankind where gangs of kids who live in $400,000 homes fight over “turf” with gangs of kids who live in $500,000 homes. Because I don’t live in Manhattan, I am not aware of the trendy new restaurants or clubs, like one of the sad and pathetic women from Sex and the City. I am also not a regular subway rider, and most of my contempt is aimed at drivers who veer into me on the highway, or run stop signs and nearly sideswipe me. Most of my vitriol has been aimed at them. Today, I feel the pain of my Manhattan living brethren who ride the subway every day.

The following occurred on a trip to Yankee Stadium on Tuesday May 8.

Let me paint the picture for you. I leave work early, and am heading up to Yankee Stadium with my girlfriend Lauren, her best friend Christina, and her boyfriend Mike (who is a police officer), for a glorious evening showdown between the Yankees and the Texas Rangers. I had the pleasure of knocking down a 40 of Bud Ice in about 20 minutes on the Booze Cruise (or as commuters might call it, the Staten Island Ferry).

We are running late, and get to the Bowling Green Station at 6:30ish, and the game starts at 7. Here is where I make a tactical blunder. We just miss a 4 train, so when a Express 5 rolls up two minutes later, I say, “Let’s get on, we will get ahead of that last 4 Train and Transfer”. When we get off at 125th Street, a 4 pulls a second later, and we get on it.

It is on this train that four awful things intersect: a) really crowded places, b) retarded teens, c) those guys who sell candy in public places, d) and people who yell at their children, or threaten harm upon them in public places. This combination leads to an uber-uncomfortable situation. What’s worse is when you add an asshole who makes life so uncomfortable that you wish them to suffer a massive stroke on the spot. I never quite understand why people will do things in public that make everyone else uncomfortable. The best example of this that I can think of is when I was on line at Wendy’s once, and the customer at the counter, clearly frustrated by the cashier, started yelling at her, and then told her she was useless, and her mother should’ve aborted her. I would classify that as “unnecessary” and certainly uncomfortable.

My tactical blunder comes back to bite me in the ass when the 4 train is crowded, and the rest of us on the platform squeeze on it. I find out later that the 4 Trains at this hour are all express trains, and that this train probably came to Bowling Green a couple minutes after we got on the 5 Express. I also have the uncontrollable need to take a piss at this point, due to the 40 ouncer I drank previously. Firstly, there is a guy on the train with a bicycle. He is also somehow positioned on the train so that no one can climb over to it to stand where there is more room. So we all squeeze on, but it’s about to get worse.
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They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and what follows is a Larry Davidian moment. If Larry David were on acid, and in the South Bronx. At this point a 12 year old kid with a broken arm asks my girlfriend if he can hold on to her arm with his other arm for balance once the train starts moving. There is no other place for this kid to hold on. Sounds like a nice thing to do, so she says sure. Now, the kid is with an adult (I’m guessing his father), and a teenaged girl. At this point the adult announces that he’s selling candy bars for some cause or another, and since he can’t actually move around the train, we close to him are his sales audience. Luckily, we ignore him by avoiding eye contact, and that threat is neutralized. Me and my three companions all avoid eye contact with him. Now, the teenage boy with the broken arm starts talking about the Yankees or something. He seems fairly slow. In fact, I think he was actually retarded. So, my girlfriend has done a really good deed.

The train is dead silent, and we are now at 149th Street. Me, Lauren, her friend Christina, her date Mike, the bike dude, the father, the broken armed kid, and his sister are all in a four or five foot radius. I guess the father was unhappy that the kid was talking because at this point he tells the kid he’s a moron, and that it’s no wonder he failed 6th grade. Ummmmm, OK, I don’t think that’s anyone on the train’s business. The uncomfortable level is rising. Then the kid says something else which I don’t understand. This time, the father says “You’ll be lucky if I don’t break your other arm.” At this point I am hoping that Mike, the off-duty cop with us, carries his gun with him at all times. And accidentally shoots Candy Bar selling man. I mean, seriously, who would miss this guy? Finally, 161st Street/Grand Concourse. Thank fucking God.

Some people ask me why I am bitter and full of contempt. Sometimes I tell them it’s the 14th girl who fucked me over, and that I realized at the point that the first 13 weren’t a fluke. Candy Bar selling psycho makes me remember the actual reason. The truth is this: 95% of the world are complete assholes, and have no idea that they are, and that the world is probably better off without them.

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I’m just gonna put this right out there for ya: I’m a M.I.L.F. I see the way my daughter’s boyfriends look at me. Yep, still got it.

I’ve managed to go from being the whore in high school to a respectable single parent holding down a job and a mortgage. Sure I play it straight from 9 to 5, but the second I get home or go to the supermarket or pick Ashli up from school, I like to unleash my sexy side. All it takes is rummaging for a few minutes in her drawers to find out what’s “in.” And if she can pull it off, so can I because I made her. The only difference between Ashli’s 17-year-old, perky, flawless body and my stretch marks, razor burn, bleached mustache and tree trunk legs is one word: experience.

One day, her best years will be behind her and she’ll wake up and realize that not even total whores can compete anymore. That’s when you gotta up the ante and emulate your daughter in order to glean an iota of self-esteem.

Personal Motto: You don’t know me! I look goooood!

Hobbies: Creating Myspace pages and adding my daughter’s friends as my friends, hot flashes, using household appliances in ways they weren’t intended to be used, trying to book myself on daytime talk shows, sending semi-nude photos to school administrators

If this lady creeps you out, also check out White Chicks and Gang Signs.
There’s plenty more public behavior nightmares here.

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For those of you who were able to understand my mumbled, rushed, and utterly incoherent “shout-out” for Contemptster at last night’s Brooklyn Blogfest (yeah, Chris, I went to a blogfest want to make something of it?) and are making your way here for the first time, let me introduce our weekly feature Premature Exasperations written by Bryan, our contributer and fetcher of coffee. And be sure to checkout our FAQ, About Us, and What’s New sections as well.

This week Bryan tackles a music industry scourge that’s sweeping the nation.

Now That’s What I Call KIDZ (Sucking)!
By Bryan

If a lady propositioned me right now to help her make a baby, I’d probably say yes. I’m a big fan of kids. They are cute, they teach responsibility, they believe anything you say, and they say the absolute craziest shit (“I want a glass of Drain-o…I want Drain-o NOW!”). Plus, as an adult, you could imagine that you are smarter than most of them.

Perhaps not the case with the unimaginably idiotic adult creators of the music series, Kidz Bop, which has made me lose my taste for kids and possibly kidz for that matter. This 12 volume series (not including holiday specials and yet-to-be-discovered mash-ups) gives kids the opportunity to sing all of the favorite songs you never liked. These pop hit abortions make a listener think maybe the parentz of some of the kidz may have been better off following suit. The tagline for the series is “Sung by kids for kids.” Just because something is intended for a certain audience does not mean it should be created by that audience. Roombas should not be built by lazy homemakers, dog food should not be made by dogs (or China), cold medicine should not be created by teachers and off-key kids should not sing on Gold albums.

As of now, nine of these albums have gone gold. However, since international thresholds for “going gold” vary, who’s to say Kidz Bop didn’t cook the books a bit in this area. As compared to the 500,000 minimum in the U.S., an album only needs to sell 35,000 copies to go gold in The Netherlands and only 10,000 in Poland. This makes sense because on the one hand you would have to be really high to wrap your mind around the Kidz Bop concept, and for the Poles part, they are probably doing research for a new joke scapegoat (“Why do Kidz Bop kidz think their wife is killing them? Because they found Polish Remover…oh…wait…no…).

Finally, someone has bottled up the magic of preteen karaoke! For anyone older than fifteen, these albums transport us to a time of mandated elementary school musicals and awkward school dances. Cue up Kidz Bop “Sounds Off on The Sound of Music” since “these are a few of my favorite things!”

Some songs make a listener think “these are just kids living kid lives!”

In Sheryl Crowe’s “Soak Up the Sun” they shriek, “My friend the communist/holds meetings in his RV.” Ah, who among us doesn’t remember that white trash friend in 6th grade who could be found reading Critique of the Gotha Program in the corner, lobbying for universal school lunches, and inviting you over to view “some literature” in his RV while his proletariat parents stood in Panera bread lines.

Some songs make a listener think “these are just kids with a childish curiosity for infidelity!”

On their rendition of Frankie J’s “Obsession (No Es Amor),” the fake-out adult Frankie voice sings, ”We can do this all night/ Now I don’t care if you got a man,” and the kids reply with ”Baby, I wish you’d understand.” That’s just your run-of-the-mill nine year-old boy trying in a legitimate falsetto to overcome a C-block from a married woman’s husband so he can find out what’s really in her heart/what a vagina is.

Sometimes the results can be confusing as with the butchering of Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone,” where the crooning about a love lost is “kiddified” into a seemingly darker reference to remembrances of a dead brother. KIDZ BOP RULES! Most of the videos give the viewer a sense that a snuff film could break out at any moment. THAT’S HOW MUCH KIDZ BOP RULES! When the adult sings the verses, a viewer wonders if a man or woman stands off screen manipulating a child as a human hand puppet. KIDZ BOP HAS UNSEATED THE BRITISH MONARCHY AND OFFICIALLY RULES ENGLAND!

When a teacher asks students what they want to be when they grow up, they have to assume that inevitably one will fail and develop a massive drug habit. Meet your starting line up of Kidz Bop! How could parents legitimately allow their children to do this? If kids will be child actors at least force them into roles that could garner some inkling of respect. At least Jodie Sweetin had a tagline she didn’t lip sync before vacuuming meth. These kids are the Milli Vanilli’s of child actors, and their parents knowingly wish this upon them! At $19 for one CD it’s like taking candy from a bunch of doomed babies!

I leave you with the video of Kidz Bop does Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.” The video speaks for itself, but here’s a running commentary for the first thirty seconds:
0:00 Shoot me.
0:08 “Yeah man thanks for the blow last night! Shelly, the one in stripes, did everything!”
0:13 Creepy.
0:17 We’re in store for a literal representation of the song. Nothing says “crazy” like contorting your face with tape. KidZ are CraZy, that’s who!
0:30 Here come the flashlights! Someone put a stick in my mouth because epileptic seizures to this soundtrack never felt so good!

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Hmm. Those two purses look and feel exactly the same. Which thinly veiled attempt to build up my self esteem should I buy? More importantly, which one will make other women hate me more? One is $50 and the other one has an “LV” on it and costs $1500. That’s $750 a letter. What a bargain! I’ll take it!

Contempty says: Money woes gettin’ ya down? Can’t afford that $1500 flavor of the month so vital to your sense of self worth? I have the perfect solution. Simply develop an eating disorder. That way you’ll save money on food so you can afford those expensive bags. And with your new emaciated, haggard, super sexy body, women can be jealous and hate you for ANOTHER reason! Hey, you deserve it, girlfriend.

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, get an earful from the Bitchy to Girls Bitch.

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Time for Don’t Just Take Our Word For It, our weekly links and user submission forum. This week we have two user inspired photos and videos, a musician that couldn’t be more washed up if he were a confused and diseased whale, and security assholes. If you have your own send it here. Now, let’s get on with it.

1) Remember when Barry Gibb could sing? Yeah me neither, but this performance on American Idol last night (not that I was watching) was especially painful.

2) Contemptster HQ literally has the biggest hard-ass security guards in the city. Even if you’ve worked in the building for, say, five years (has it been that long? Fuck.) you’d better swipe that ID of yours. They recognize me, if they don’t they’re the dumbest security guards on the planet, but they don’t care if my hands are full of hot coffee, bagels, dry cleaning, and everything else my boss sends me out for. Expect no sympathy from what the East Village Idiot calls, “The Security Nazi”.

3) Springtime is the best time of year. After a winter of bulky sweaters and jackets, clothes finally get more revealing and a little tighter. Sent in by Mark.

4) This is one of the stranger submissions we’ve had, but we’re not here to judge people; only to berate them. Michael from California doesn’t like the Charmin “Bears shitting in the woods” ads. Here are his exact words:

“We get it. The old ‘does a bear shit in the woods?’ thingy, but do they really need fluffy toilet tissue? And why the hell are they doing the CHA CHA? Who gave this lame ass campaign the green light?”

Valid questions, Michael, valid questions. If you’re not familiar with the campaign here’s an example followed by a rebuttal (no pun intended).

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Like millions of American’s I spent last night watching a riveting, cutthroat competition, filled with high drama, and wishes come true: “The Hooter’s Dream Girl Challenge”. Oh, you missed it watching American Idol? Well pray your Tivo accidentally recorded it because you missed one hell of a contest featuring 16 Hooter’s waitresses competing for the ultimate prize “a photo on the cover of some swimsuit magazine”. That’s what the Time Warner info description said, but after some digging I discovered that the swimsuit magazine was none other than the world famous Hooter’s Magazine; the only publication that comes with a side order of wings and five minutes of awkward flirtation.

For those of you unfamiliar with the hierarchy of franchise-restaurant-inspired-magazines-for-men, Hooter’s Magazine trails only: The Ladies of Red Lobster, TGIFoxes, Awesome Blossoms, Barely Legal Sponsored by Applebee’s, and Meet Me Outback Steakhouse Magazine. Not too shabby.

For my money, Hooter’s Magazine is the classiest of the bunch. When you want soft core pornography full of “eh, she’s sort of hot” girls, turn no where else. Plus, the restaurant is top notch and is absolutely ethical. One minute you’re working hard, waiting tables and the next minute your boss asks you if you want to pose half naked. That’s totally awesome. Why wouldn’t you take them up on the offer? I mean, the cover of Hooter’s Magazine is what some call “The Big Time” at least that’s what Paul, the Day Shift Manager at Hooter’s Scranton, claims.

So what if the Hooter’s Dream Girl is the Tampa Bay Devil Rays to Ms. Hawaiian Tropic’s New York Yankees on the swimsuit competition circuit. Keep chasing that dream, and let’s see Ms. Hawaiian Tropic try and carry five 32 oz. Bud Lights. That’s not happening, and we salute you.

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(SMACK) I am someone (CRUNCH) who really enjoys a meal (GURGLE, SWALLOW). People have said that when I eat it sounds like a dog devouring a jar of peanut butter. Here’s a little pop quiz to figure out if you’re a loud chewer like me.

When you chew your food, does it sound like:

A) Walking in damp socks and shoes
B) Mashing raw meatballs in your hands
C) Wet, sloppy, vaginal sex
D) All of the above

If you answered D, then you’re among friends. Pass the corn on the cob.

Contempty says: If you answered D, then you should either: A) Switch to an all smoothie diet or B) Let me punch you in the face until my fist connecting with your face makes that familiar squishy sound you seem to enjoy so much.

For more horrendous public behavior, click here.
While you’re there, check out the Stealth Farter.

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I thought I had seen and encountered every possible annoyance on an airplane: screaming kids, crying babies, seat kickers, knee crushers, and of course, The Psycho Mom From Hell. But like most activities, you can never underestimate the populace and its power to piss you off.

I first heard it in the waiting area, a faint chirping from across the room, and thought nothing of it. It’s south Florida, there are birds chirping everywhere, maybe one got trapped inside the airport. Then I moved closer to the gate and saw the origin of the sound: a caged canary being carried by a couple – as luggage. The bird’s coming with us! I shook my head and laughed to myself thinking of the people who are going to have to sit next to that thing and thought nothing else of it.

By the time they called “Zone 9” to board the plane I was one of the few people left in the waiting area. As I walked down the jet way I could hear the bird even louder; the fuckers are in Zone 9 with me! And when I sat down, the brain splitting screech of the bird was right across the aisle from me. I quickly thought back to when I was laughing about who would sit next to the bird and wanted to travel back in time and punch myself in the face.

Bringing a bird on a plane is like saying, “What’s the most annoying and uncontrollable thing to bring on a plane? A baby, yes pretty good but we don’t have one. A snake? Too cliché after that movie and not loud enough. A cougar? Probably not legal. A bird! Birds are really loud, certainly louder than any baby! Birds have no cognitive abilities so you can’t force them to eat and be quiet like you can with a baby or a dog! Birds are perfect!”

Look, canaries are fine, in theory. I have nothing against them. If I was a miner I would appreciate their role in keeping me alive. If there was a sudden drop in cabin pressure and the bags didn’t fall to let us know, having a canary on board is a nice fail safe, but you’ve got to guarantee that the bird will be quiet or don’t bring it on the plane. Stow it underneath, or hey, ask a friend to feed it for you while you’re away, because carrying your bird around is making you look like assholes, and is definitely landing you in the Tool Room.

But first, here’s an awful cell phone video that will give you an idea of the noise the bird was making, but not really (you can hear it best right at the beginning):

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It’s Monday and the big celeb news going into the weekend was Paris Hilton being sentenced to 45 days in jail. Ugh. Normally, Contemptster wouldn’t touch such a frivolous matter with a ten meter cattle-prod since just about every blog in the world has probably already covered it. Plus, if you haven’t noticed, there’s some serious shit going on elsewhere in the world. However, we have so much contempt for people who are famous for being daily train wrecks that we felt some comments were warranted. Also, our blog guy overslept and we had to have an unpaid 18-year-old intern fill in on blog duty. Take it away, Goober!

So Paris is going to jail, but somehow I feel like she and her behind the scenes team of vampire hookers will turn this into something positive. Here are some of the likely ways she’ll do it…

The Paris Hilton Weight Loss Plan – Paris will emerge from jail after 45 days looking malnourished and stick thin. Teenage girls and vacuous female celebrities all over the world will clamor for the chance to go to jail in order to look just like her. We can expect an upsurge in drunk driving and petty theft among the Hollywood elite.

Paris Hilton Prison Chic – Don’t be surprised if you start seeing the likes of Jessica Simpson and Sienna Miller walking down the red carpet in form-covering orange jumpsuits. They usually cost about $40, but by the time Paris gets out they’ll have a street value of $1500.

Brand New Sex Tape – Paris will pay off a warden to sell a security video of her getting to know her new roommate Fisty. Every home in America will have a copy.

Paris Finds Religion – Prison is good for a lot of things besides rehabilitation, education and violent anal rape. It’s also good for getting your God on. Paris will be no different, but the existing religions will not be “hot” enough for her. She will start her own religion, which takes the best parts of the other popular religions and adds her signature slutty stamp to them. She’ll take the wine drinking from Christianity, but change it to Kettle One. From Judaism, she’ll borrow the fasting, but extend it from one day to 365. From Islam, she’ll take the frequent kneeling since she’s already pretty used that. Finally, from Scientology she’ll borrow Tom Cruise and carry him around like her Chihuahua.

Yes, I think our girl is gonna be allllll right.

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One spritz, two spritz, three spritz, four. Whoa, I SMELL GOOD, BABY! This will cover up the fact that I’ve been putting off laundry for a couple of weeks. That burning sensation in my nasal passages means it’s working.

Five spritz, six spritz, seven spritz… these go in my arm pits. See, I ran out of deodorant, too. Plus I got up too late to shower. Nothing a little dash of cologne can’t fix. I’d bathe in the stuff if it didn’t burn my penis hole so much… not that I’ve tried that.

Eight spritz, nine spritz. Giving you a headache? That’s just the musk induced euphoria, baby. I want people to know when I’m approaching and I want my scent to linger long after I’m gone. Your eyes are watering because you’re so turned on. Just follow the pheromones and you’ll get a reward… a semi-conscious bathroom stall dry humping courtesy of yours truly.

Ten spritz, eleven spritz, twelve spritz… heyyy, whoa, why is the room spinning? I don’t feel so good. Why do I keep biting my tongue? Can somebody call poison control? If I’m passed out when they arrive tell them I poured an entire bottle of Drakkar Noir into my asshole. I wanted to make my farts work FOR me instead of AGAINST me.

Interests: Obsession for Men, Polo, Canali, Drakkar Noir

For more office losers, click here.
While you’re there, try to avoid eye contact with the Creepy, Lurking Office Creep.

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Happy weekend everyone! Take pictures and video of any movie theater dicks you see this weekend and send them in, but of course, don’t be one yourself.

It’s was hard saying goodbye to April, but May is off to a good start. What did we learn during this week of transition?

We found out how to slum it in this modern world of ours. Hipsters be warned, the McCann’s on Port Authority won’t be yours for long.

We were sorry to see that men have begun carrying designer handbags and sorry to hear of John Wayne’s head exploding.

We punched two tickets to the Gun Show.

We received a double dose of Premature Exasperations.

We learned that Access Hollywood takes celebrity news a little too seriously/employs, like, idiots.

And finally, we witnessed that Bruce Willison is still on fire. And announcer, don’t apologize for the language, apologize for stupid fucking sideline interviews and reporters everywhere. NO ONE WANTS SIDELINE REPORTERS! Thank you, Bruce Willison.

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As promised, here’s your bonus Premature Exasperations.

I Gotta Stop Falling Into the Gap
By Bryan

I’ll admit it. My wardrobe could use an upgrade or thirty. The only thing worse than having a subpar wardrobe is having the same subpar wardrobe as someone else. Misery may love company, but not when those two miseries coincide on “Whoops, same shirt day!” This phenomenon has been occurring to me more and more recently, and I attribute this to Gap’s ubiquity and alluringly reasonable prices. And their targeted demographic of everyone. A recent New York Times article linked the lack of Gap’s niche with its downturn in earnings. Conversely, I think this generalized fashion classifies it as the clutch utility player of stores. It can pitch a Friday night game for a forty-something cougar or DH for a twenty year old clutz-a-zoid waiter. Some of their clothes are flat out unisex. I wore a Gap woman’s blouse as a clubbing shirt for two years—a two year dry spell.

On a recent Monday I showed up for work wearing a Gap navy blue polo with a distinct stripe pattern. It was a cheap affair with a floppy collar that required little effort out of the shower. Wouldn’t you know it, another guy at work decided to fall into the same post-shower apathetic Gap only in a different color. Color didn’t matter. The stripe pattern would narc us out.

Immediately, I felt the need to go into PR mode and begin a campaign to head off the insufferable comments. I had my mother fax me a copy of my sonogram and earliest head shot. I wrote up fifty sticky notes that said “You’re tacky, and you aren’t invited to my shirt parties.” Finally, I exposed my ass crack ever so slightly. Let it begin.

Sue: “Oh, you two are twins today!”
Sonogram’d! Incorrect, Sue, here’s the proof and look at the attached 7×10 headshot of me crowning out of the birth canal. No way two could have fit.

Dan: “Oh, did I miss the memo?!”
Oh did you just…BAM! Shirt party un-invitation sticky note to the face!

Bernice: “Are you two wearing the same underwear too?”
Check out the crack! Wish I could say there was underwear to emulate.

I held the press conference in the kitchen.

“People, people, I understand some concerns have cropped up about the state of my shirt. Some think I have begun copying other people, but I assure you that this is purely a coincidence. I can confirm that the state of my Unionbay pants is strong and noticeably stained.”

The two people in attendance seemed unconvinced and/or disappeared halfway through.

There was a time when my clothing set the bar for hip; always imitated but never duplicated. I worked at a camp for gifted children many years back, and believe me, my wardrobe shined. These kids could find Riemann sums and play Mozart, but they couldn’t dress for shit. You’ve never seen so many Umbros, wedgied tapered jeans, and wizard hats in your life. If the children weren’t beating me in chess every night I would’ve thought it was a camp for gifted children. Their fashion IQ rated well below fifty-shit while mine seemed to stand firmly at two hundred and awesome. My cargo shorts and sweat stained t-shirts never garnered so much respect.

My fashion IQ looks great against pre-pubescent dweebs but not necessarily next to adults. Turns out the same principle holds true for my championship strength arm wrestling powers and tallest person in the room prowess. I cringed upon learning my largest Adam’s apple ribbon was only relevant to the Li’l Mister Circuit. Ever since these post-camp revelations, I turned to the Gap to fulfill all of my adult clothing desires. Apparently most of my co-workers did too.

In the same week as the Gap polo debacle, a Banana Republic sweater disaster occurred implicating most everything on my person. Suffice it to say I should not have worn underwear that day. It’s high time I make more money so I can afford custom clothing, or I need to begin rummaging through thrift store bins/robbing. I decided to just stay my present course and buy more sticky notes. It’s cheaper than a new shirt and slapping people in the face with hand written messages is infinitely more fun than making a statement with some sort of cotton/wool blend.

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So by now all of you have heard about Britney Spears’ comeback “performance” but did you see the Access Hollywood report on it? Oh, it’s fantastic. Three points on their story.

Paparazzi Are Scum
Paparazzi are scum and you get to see some paparazzi get messed up in this video. Always a treat.

Nick Friedman, Producer/Tool Bag
The best part is when Billy Bush throws to Access Hollywood Producer, Nick Friedman, (the 1:10 mark) who was in the audience. The music gets all dramatic, the video goes slow motion, and Nick talks about how everyone was saddened by Britney lip syncing her performance. It’s hilarious; they’re treating it with the same reverence most would save for the death of a head of state.

A few quotes from Nick: “People were pretty amp’ed…once the set started people were just kinda sitting there saying, ‘wow’.”

And then there’s this jewel: “You could tell she wasn’t even trying, like, to sing.”

Well said Nick, you’re proof that Producer requirements at Access Hollywood are rigorous; a pulse.

Also, Nick, are you really surprised that Britney was lip syncing? I’d say she’s lip synced roughly 100% - 100% of her concerts in her career. You know how I know this? Because most people who can sing DON”T SOUND LIKE A COMPUTER! She a studio singer Nick! She can’t sing!

And Nick, you look like you’re in your late twenties early thirties, a word of advice: time to stop going to Britney Spears concerts. People might start to think you’re weird.

Billy Bush
Our next President? Here’s the report:

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Submitted by Crazy Carl Himself

Hey, good to see you here at the old college bar. What has it been two or three years since we graduated? Boy, you sure have put on weight. You’ve gotten huge, buddy. I just wanted to let you know that you’ve gained like 40 pounds. I mean, I’m positive you didn’t realize that you’ve gained weight and I just thought I’d bring it up.

I’m sure you never noticed that two years ago you wore pants that were a 34 and now you wear pants that are a 40. Or that you don’t take your shirt off anymore at the beach. Or that you think you are about to have heart attack. I just figured I’d mention how much weight you put on because I knew that it was the thing that you wanted to talk about most in the world at this moment. In no way did I think that mentioning it would be awkward, and piss you off.

I know you’re glad I mentioned this because it will motivate you to lose weight. Sure, you don’t even like me, and you wanted to stab me in the kidney with a homemade shank during college. But I care about you so much I figured I’d mention that you’re becoming quite fat. You’ll thank me later for motivating you to lose weight.

Oh, and thank you for not having a sharp reply ready when I mentioned your weight gain. I appreciate that you don’t start conversations with me by mentioning that time I shit myself when I was drunk, or the time I date raped that girl after that frat party. Or by pointing out to a room full of people that at 24 my hair resembles Bill Murray’s in Kingpin, or that my mother is dead. Lord knows I wouldn’t want to talk about those things.

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, check out Cocky for No Reason.
For more of Crazy Carl Himself’s random musings, click here or email the man at CrazyCarlHimself@gmail.com. I’m certain that he’ll grace you with a response.

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During the long period of finalizing our site and waiting to launch we asked Bryan to write us some evergreen blog posts; stories we could run at any point over the year regardless of time or season. So naturally, Bryan wrote a holiday movie preview which was relevant six months ago and only six months ago. Thanks Bryan! For this insolence, Bryan was asked (told) to write a bonus Premature Exasperations for you which will be posted later in the day. But first, with the summer movie season set to kickoff today with the release of the highly anticipated, “Lucky You”, I thought it would be a good time to rehash the wondrous time that was the “Winter 2006’s Holiday Movie Season”, and what better way to do that than with Premature Exasperations’ Holiday Movie Guide?

Holiday Movie Guide
By Bryan

Want a holiday gift that is sure to excite and entertain? Look no further than your local box office this winter–you’ll be glad you did!

The latest DeVito joint, “Deck the Halls” surely pushes the envelope of holiday comedy. After seeing it you may think a more appropriate title would be “Deck the Halls and Ceiling and Furniture and Floors with Rubber Sheets Because You’re Gonna Lose Your Shit!” I know what you’re thinking: An exclamation point in the title? I am a firm believer of using them sparingly, but believe me, this title should have an exclamation point in it–this movie is THAT GOOD.

And original! Two neighbors battle in a war to see who can decorate their house the best for Christmas. Now get this: mad-capped hilarity occurs as a result. Precocious kids getting the best of the adults, animatronic reindeers and camels, Santa costumes, and a delightful sprinkling of groin shots. The comedy surely ensues. And ensues…and ensues…and then ensues so much that you have to think the definition of “ensue” is going to have to get updated in Websters next year! Are you fucking kidding me? A warning should come with this stuff, it’s so funny. Upon seeing this concept I realized that we may be in a Renaissance for the holiday film genre. I’ll have to check IMDB, but it seems that this particular spin on Christmas comedy has yet to find it’s voice–until now.

Talk is so cheap in matters of this nature so let me relate a quote I saw in the movie’s trailer:
Matthew Broderick: “‘Round here, I’m the Christmas guy.”
Danny DeVito: “You can take Toe Jam Day.”

HOLY BALLS, Toe Jam Day?! Toe-Jam-Day! Motherfucker said Toe Jam Day! Thankfully the Hays Code is a thing of the past or this movie may have been labeled “Too Raunchy for the Reel!” It’s like some scientist combined Stephen Hawking and Redd Fox into some hyper-intelligent comedic Frankenstein to write this thing. I for one will be offering cheers and not torches when I storm that monster’s castle, which is probably made of bricks mortared together with solidified jokes and monkey business.

If this does not satisfy your Christmas desires, be sure to check out the thrilling third installment to “The Santa Clause” franchise. What do you get when you combine Tim Allen, a fat suit, and Martin Short as a villain? A reason for ordering adult diapers! If you want a brainier holiday movie then this is the one for you. Where else can a viewer get laughs and a law lesson? “The Santa Clause 3: The Escape Clause” shows that paying attention to details of legal documents and utilizing a little ingenuity can get you out of the most extravagant of pickles. Martin Short will be in full force as the evil Jack Frost, but be sure that the former tool man turned Santa will not concede. He’ll just use the Escape Clause. Heady move Allen, heady move. May I enact the writ of waterus drinkus during this movie because my throat will surely be super dry after all of the laughs.

Finally, the term “Unaccompanied Minors” normally elicits a response like, “Where? I have candy!” However, this term is the title to the latest feel good Christmas comedy where (get this) kids are left to their own devices while their parents are away. The kids are stranded in a Chicago airport without their parents and must create a makeshift holiday on their own. I mean, minors in a MAJOR real world situation! However, something is suspicious about this one. I feel like a film may have been created where a child is left alone in Chicago during Christmas and must learn the value of the holidays on his/her own…what was it called…oh right, “Chicago.”

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Time for Don’t Just Take Our Word For It, the weekly feature with the longest and clunkiest name on the internets, where we link to the best contempt-filled and humorous blogs of the week.

1) Summer is nearly here, and with it brings concerts, the movies, and going out on the town. Unfortunately, with these simple pleasure comes annoyances like dealing with surcharges, over-hyped movies, and the occasional guido (and be sure to check out the last video on Clublife’s page too or go here).

2) Whatevs.org has a great write up on the “hope hope” demise of Perez Hilton (he’s just so smug) and his beef with Billy Joel’s daughter. Did I just write that sentence? I feel nauseous. I may weigh in with an opinion on this “story” later in the day.

3) Two words: Gun. Show.

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Here’s an apparently drunk Bruce Willis and his seemingly under 21 companion being interviewed at the Nets vs. Raptors game the other night (we’re masters of the legalese here at Contemptster). First, the announcer calls him Bruce Willison. Later, Bruce drops the f-bomb. High comedy.

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As a star vehicle YouTube has launched its fair share of internet celebrities. From the two Smosh kids and their Pokemon lip sync thing to that Evolution of Dance guy. And who doesn’t hang on to every word of LonelyGirl15 and her impeccable eyebrows? Uh, yeah, me neither. Anywho, my point is YouTube has made some obscure people pretty well known.
Then there are people like wannabe Pro Wrestler/Comedian Johnny Guns who are desperately looking for their 15 minutes of fame. I don’t know what this video is exactly, other than completely unoriginal and unfunny (he steals from Ron Burgundy, “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair, and Mark Twain, not easy to do). He does excel at one thing though – being a tool, an unsolicited advice giving tool. See for yourself, although by clicking he’ll no longer be unsolicited, but he’ll still be an advice giving tool.

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Submitted by Kasey

Hello, I’m the all-knower, pleased to make your aquaintance. Well, if you really want to understand what I do, I’m more of an “enlightener.” I like to help. I enjoy making your life simpler by letting you know exactly what is wrong with what you do, say and think…which is everything. It’s no trouble, you dont even have to ask me for advice, I’m here to tell you all I know without the slightest bit of encouragement on your end.

No, please don’t thank me. I love what I do! It doesn’t matter what the topic of conversation is, I will correct you. I will always disagree and enlighten you with my genius insight. What do you want to know? The history of the Geneva Conventions? I have the info, you obviously have no idea. Maybe you need me to interject about how to deal with your latest significant other. I understand much more about them than you. Or perhaps I can guide you through food shopping in the most productive and efficient way. You were floundering through life without me! Thank god I’m here to save you.

The point is, I need you to understand how deeply valuable my knowledge is and how extremely stupid you are on all matters of the universe. It’ll just make my job that much easier. But don’t feel bad for me. It’s the cross I proudly bear. I was placed on earth to show you where you have gone wrong. I am the shepherd and you are my flock. If you feel the need to bow, please do.

Heroes: Cliff Clavin, Bill O’Reilly, Alex Trebek

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, check out the Guy Who has to Point Out that You’ve Put on Weight.

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It’s bad enough that we have to tolerate the fashion world charging thousands of dollars for handbags that do little more than advertise their handbags/company to other people/suckers. Louis Vuitton, Channel, Gucci, and others smother their bags with their logos, add some obnoxious color to it, and sell it to women willing to pay anything for it. These women then strut around with it thinking they’re the shit, only they‘re really just a common ad poster; a more expensive version of the guy handing out menus wearing a sandwich board. Fine, whatever. I can accept this…barely, but I accept it. Mark it down as societal pressure. But when men start falling into the same trap, that’s when I need to call bullshit. It’s a new phenomenon hitting the street, men with designer purses. When did this become OK? Did I miss the meeting when we decided to cut off our balls and start carrying a purse? What do you carry in these man purses? Do you carry your wallet complete with a change pocket? Your sunglasses? Lipstick? Guy liner? Please let this just be a stupid trend, but judging by these pictures that were sent in this may be around a little longer. Thanks to Leslie for this one.

And thanks to Mark for sending these in. Send yours in.

Louis Vuitton can’t save you now, Designer Purse Men, welcome to the Tool Room.

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