To brag, Contemptster was mentioned on the music channel FUSE’s “Teen Angst, Guy Liner, and Sweat Band Showcase” also known as The Sauce. That’s right, PREMIUM CABLE MUTHA EFFAHZ! We even have the video to prove it:

Thanks to FUSE for the plug! It was, to use the lingo of a typical FUSE viewer, super cool and totally neato.

First FUSE, then the world!

Well more like, first FUSE, then VH1 Classic, then Much Music, then VH1, then MTV2, then MTV, and then the world. But you’ve got to start somewhere, and that VH1 Classic isn’t plugging just any flash-in-the-pan fad. They have Journey videos to play.

Seriously though, watch The Sauce on FUSE. It’s a music channel that, get this, plays music videos! The co-host was even on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy…or so my wife tells me.

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Can you think of a caption for this picture of the latest Clinton/Obama debate? Add your caption in the comment section below.

Click here for our full list of caption-able pics.

Send us your funniest, weirdest, most random pics for Caption This! Email contemptster@gmail.com!

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It’s been one year since we launched this site, but finally it pays dividends. We have agreed to write a book. Thank you, Little Brown. So it took a full year as opposed to a few months like some other blogs. Big deal. Our site’s not as good, but please don’t tell that to our publisher.

What does this mean for you? Sorry, but there are a few things:
1) Fewer posts as we’ll be hard at work on the book. Did I mention we were writing a book?
2) Lesser quality posts as the good stuff will have to be saved for the book, but there will be plenty of Premature Exasperations (kidding, Bryan! Written your chapter yet?)
3) We won’t return you emails, read your emails, or check email as we’ll be time strapped with our book’s deadline.
4) Mo’ money, mo’ problems.
5) The Founder will have an even bigger head.

Thanks to all of you who’ve supported the site. We couldn’t have done it without you.

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Dude, this rooftop bar is tha-shiiit! It’s such a nice night out. Oh, what’s that a whiskey sour? Yeah that’s going to give you a hangover. I would’ve gone with something with a clear liquor—not as many toxins.

Such a nice night out. Man, 9/11, what was that shit about? I remember I saw the towers fall. That shit was crazy. Man, could it be any nicer out? Twin towers, saw that shit from a rooftop not too much unlike this one. Oooh looks like you got a stain there. Again, should’ve gone with something lighter than that whiskey.

This is fun. Who do you know here? Oh you went to college with that girl? Nice, nice. Yeah college was a blast, right? I remember smokin’ bomb kush back in the day and just getting fucked up! Speaking of bomb, what’s with all of these kids killing each other in college now? Fucked up shit, man. Back in my day kids would never just go in and shoot other kids with guns, I mean maybe a fist fight, BAM BAM, but never would get guns involved. All of that senseless bloodshed, man, really makes you think. PAR-TAY!

For more recreational dick holes, click here.
While you’re there, enjoy a flick with the Movie Theater Dick.

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Wow! Another friend request from a random guy! I know I have 1,952,318 friends, but I have a feeling this guy is the one. He clearly asked to be my friend because of my personality and not the bikini picture where I’m sucking on a Popsicle and you can see part of my nipple.

When I was younger I wasn’t very popular. The kids all called me Fatty Flatty Pig Snout. Of course that’s all changed since the stomach staples, fake boobs and nose job.

For some reason most girls don’t want to be friends with me, but that’s probably cause they’re jealous bitches. LOL!!! Whatev! All I know is 1,952,318 horny guidos can’t be wrong!

Hobbies/Diseases: Modeling, singing, herpes, cutting, carpel tunnel syndrome, dancing, shopping and TMJ disorder.

For more pop culture jerks, click here.
While you’re there, ghost ride the whip with some Hyphy Culture enthusiasts.

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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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Yeah, I’ll answer my cell phone while I’m in a movie theater. Come on, man, that’s clichéd. Talking on the phone is the standard sign that you’re a movie theater dick. I’ve done it and I’m proud of that. I’m special and no one’s going to tell me to be quiet.

But see I’ll also kick your seat. I’ll put my knee up on the back of it and bounce my legs up and down. Then I’ll quickly remove them and slam into my seatback with no regard for the shins of the unlucky customer behind me.

I’ll text message for long stretches with the sound on or I’ll just talk throughout the movie picking apart every plot hole.

I’ll leave my blue tooth in my ear with the bright green light flashing every two seconds because I embrace technology and want to show it off to the world.

I do these things and you’re not going to do anything about it. Go ahead and tell on me with your little tattletale wireless remote device, that won’t stop me. I’m impervious to insults and I’ll tell you to just move your seat if you have a problem with me. I’ll fight for my right to be rude to the bitter end. So deal with it: you’re missing the movie.

For more people who make you want to lock yourself in your house and never go out again, click here.
While you’re there, buy the Hot Head at Bars a Zima.

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When Entertainment Tonight, Extra!, or Access Hollywood need a go-to celebrity ass kisser, I’m the one they call. I’m an expert on all things pop culture. Why do we need experts to cover things that anyone with a television and half a brain can figure out on their own? That’s the beauty of it. Most people have the TV, but not the brain.

So I’m needed to breakdown the complicated prime time television line up. Who on Grey’s is fucking whom and whatnot. I can list all of the gaudy, overly expensive cars and jewelry any given star has purchased in the last year, because they’re better than you. I’m a journalist who answers the tough questions like “Who’s cooler: The Killers or Bloc Party,” and finds out how exactly JT is planning on bringing SexyBack.

Interests: VH1, Billy Bush, cool people

More on Access Hollywood here

For more pop culture jerks, click here.
While you’re there, put on some sandals and your most broken in Abercrombie baseball cap and meet up with the Dave Matthews Band Fan.

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I hate smoking, smokers, and smoke. If you smoke around me I will give you a dirty look and perhaps a snarky comment or fake cough. Smoking is gross and you’re gross for smoking. I don’t smoke and you shouldn’t either and if you can’t make that choice for yourself I will do it for you. I have the moral high ground.

Now that we fought the good fight to ban smoking from those dens of sin, bars, it’s time to take our fight to the streets. I want public outdoor smokers banned. Just look at them, all smug with their cigarettes and sunglasses and laughter. Look at them not caring what I think, not concerned with the fact that I don’t smoke.

We need to raise cigarette prices and taxes. So what that smoking is more prevalent in lower income areas. I went to Vassar. I know what’s good for these people.

If you’re a friend of mine who dares to “smoke socially,” I will take the cigarette out of your mouth and break it. I will give you a lecture of cigarette’s ills. I don’t care if you’re drunk and having fun and only do it once in a while. Not my concern. I don’t care if I kill your buzz. Better than killing yourself. You will thank me.

Interests: Banning smoking, Gilmore Girls, The View, Political Correctness, Vassar Soccer, Galas, Dad’s Yacht

For more everyday assholes, click here.
Then jump over to the Public Behavior tab to check out the Rude Smoker.

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All right, self, it’s almost 6 o’clock. Don’t panic. Just act natural…

But we’re socially awkward!!

Shut up! I said don’t panic! We will find something to do tonight if it kills us. As long as we don’t have to go home to the wife and kids everything will be fine.

Why don’t we have a mistress? We’re a VP for Christ’s sake. Ted is an assistant VP and even he’s got one.

There’s no use crying about it now. We’re on a mission. Look, there’s a group of young go-getters. Let’s see what they’re up to. Just be cool. Act like you’re one of them, as if you couldn’t ruin their entire careers on a whim.

“Hey, fellas, where we goin’ tonight?”

Good job, self. The “fellas” said we’re here for a good time and “goin” was just casual enough.

“I sure could go for a beer. Maybe even a titty bar to end the night. What’s the plan?”

Careful, we’re sounding desperate. Titty bar was too much.

“Any of you see the big game last night? I can’t believe that idiot coach!”

Bail out! Bail out! They’re onto you! Look at them trying not to laugh. They want to laugh at us! We’re a vice president, dammit! We could squash them each like a bug! Time to reassert our authority.

“Feingold, if I’m not mistaken you have a cost report due on my desk first thing in the morning. I suggest each of you start learning to pull all nighters or you won’t last very long here. Consider that free advice.”

Well done, self. Well done.

Click here to off your boss!

For more office jerks, click here.
While you’re there, check out Creepy, Lurking Office Creep.

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You all know me. I come in many different flavors. Sometimes I just don’t look where I’m going and bump right into you. Other times I’ll be talking on my cell phone and cross the street in the middle of traffic forcing you to jam on your breaks. You may have even seen me standing on the left side of the escalator blocking you from walking up. I likes to takes my time.

One of my favorite tricks is crossing the street right before the light turns green and then making all the cars wait for me to finish my leisurely stroll. Whenever you see me, rest assured that I don’t give a shit about inconveniencing you and I will not learn my lesson. I’ll be pulling the same shit tomorrow and the day after that. See you soon, fuckers!

Contempty says: a) Doesn’t Look Where He/She’s Going – You are walking with such reckless disregard that if I realized you were blind, I’d still have to shove my foot up your ass. b) Talking on Cell Phone instead of paying attention to traffic – Hey, sweety, shut the fuck up. Before cell phones, did you feel the need to talk incessantly wherever you went? If you did, then you’re one of those crazy homeless people, a New Yorker or both. Relearn what it’s like to be silent and think your own thoughts instead of having your ditsy ass girlfriend telling you what to think all the damn time. She doesn’t know shit, but you treat her opinion like gospel. What gives? c) Crosses street slowly just as the light turns green so all the cars have to wait – This is just balls. The least you could do is that pretend jog thing people do to make it look like they’re TRYING to hurry. The one where they swing their arms back and forth, but don’t actually change the speed of their gait. You don’t even give enough of a shit to do that. No amount of honking my horn will ever express how deeply I wish your dad had erectile dysfunction so you’d never been born. d) Stands on the left side of the escalator – Lazy assholes and gimps to the right, please. Those of us who actually have somewhere to go would like to get there today. e) Stops short in the middle of the sidewalk – Are you serious? I don’t think you know how close you just came to getting anally penetrated by me. MOVE! f) Slow walkers – If you feel like taking a leisurely stroll, do it on your own time, not rush hour. Stay to the right or better yet, never ever leave your house. And get a new haircut. That bob ain’t workin’ for you. g) Zig zag walkers who block the whole sidewalk – I really hope you’re drunk and numb because I’m about to tackle you. h) Person who walks down the subway stairs when everyone is walking up -Dude, you’re not making that train. Why force 300 people into a single file line so you can get to the platform faster and wait.

For more people who make commuting a nightmare, click here.
While you’re there, hitch a ride with the Bad Driver.

Blow off some steam and become a Pedestrian Killer:

http://crazymonkeygames.com/Pedestrian-Killer.html

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Macs are so intuitive. Who cares that the mouse sucks and only has one button because “right clicking” is soooo PC. Did I mention Macs are really intuitive?

Macs are the best computer for photography, graphic design, and video. Any true artist owns a Mac. And by “true artist” I obviously mean the type of artist who has enough parental and trust fund support to afford a $3000 dollar computer, plus that sweet-ass apartment in the Lower East Side.

Macs are also super intuitive, but I have to come clean, I don’t know what intuitive means. I think it means “any idiot can use it,” but I’m not sure. Intuitive.

Interests: Pointing out people’s flaws, gadgets, coffee

For more pop-culture parasites, click here.
While you’re there, give the Star Wars Fan a wedgie.

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Roll down the window and put your hands on the steering wheel, ma’am. Do you know how fast you were going? Well, I’ll tell you. 70 miles per hour, five miles over the legal limit on this highway. Kindly put your bosoms away because they’re no use to you here.

Didja not see the signs? Is that your excuse for putting countless lives at risk on this deserted highway at 1 am? Let me tell you a little story about another person who wanted to put lives at risk.

Once upon a time there was a kid who got beat up at school a lot. When he’d come home, his mom liked to put her cigarettes out on his arms. After barely graduating high school, he became a cop so he could finally direct his pent up anger by walking around arrogantly and flaunting his skewed version of authority.

Do you know who that person was? That’s right. It was me: Officer Douchebag. And every time some lady like you speeds by my radar, it’s like another cigarette burn in my arm. Now I get to dish out my own brand of justice. Are you Latina or light skinned African American by any chance? No? Just tan? That’s fine. Just asking.

At this point I’m going to go back to my car and run your plates. It only takes about 30 seconds to do, but I’ll make you sweat for 10 minutes or so. I’m actually jerking off back here, but my boner has nothing to do with you. Oh no. It’s the power.

I know that the worst I can do to you is give you a ticket, which you’ll probably find a way to get out of anyway. So the least I can do to feel satisfied is make you late for wherever you’re headed. I may even force you to do a sobriety test even though there is no evidence whatsoever that you’d been drinking. Your embarrassment and aggravation are all the reward I need.

On your way home, enjoy thinking about how your taxes pay for the continuation of my unhealthy obsession with power. Now you have a good day, ma’am.

One way to get out of a speeding ticket (Not recommended).

Know your rights when dealing with the Asshole Cop.

For more people that make commuting more annoying, click here.
While you’re there, flip the bird to Cuts You Off Then Drives Insanely Slow.

*Contemptster.com has the utmost respect for police officers. Every occupation has a few assholes, though, and the police are certainly no exception.

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Hey, handsome. It was dead in here until you showed up. You want a lap dance? I know how to make you feel gooood. No? What’s wrong? You don’t like me? (Pouty face) Are you secretly thinking my pouty face somehow makes me look uglier? I understand. In a room full of below average naked gyrating women, I look like the deformed cousin none of them wants to be seen with.

What if I show you my tube sock-like breasts? Still nothing? Is it because I forgot to shave my back today? Maybe it’s the spider veins on my legs. Oh wait, those are actual spiders. Or perhaps it was the fact that when I was dancing on the main stage you could smell my cooch from inside the men’s room…

Well if you want me, honey, you know where to find me: Crying in the fetal position next to the dumpster out back.

Contempty Says: Here’s the facts, fellas. Ugly strippers work harder. Close your eyes and think happy thoughts.

For more obnoxious people you encounter when hitting the town, click here.
While you’re there, check out the Party Buzzkill.

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Greetings. I am Baby. Do I make you uncomfortable? Your face does not amuse me. No, I would rather not make a scene and begin crying. Your silly noises seem a little trite, wouldn’t you say? Ah, yes, look away. I’ve decided to start a staring contest. Yes, that pleases Baby. Commence staring contest. Take my unflinching eyes as a sign of my victory. Don’t avert your gaze to my mother. Do I make you uncomfortable? I will begin blinking again. The staring contest is in the books and Baby has made you look foolish. Your backpack is open, and your shoes are untied. Ha! Baby will begin celebratory blinking.

Contempty says: If anyone other than a baby stares at length at someone for no reason that person would surely hear an angry reproach such as “what’s the big idea?” or “hey fucker, why don’t you go steal my wife’s fucking eyeballs and look through them so you can know what it’s like to stare at me when I’m fucking you.” No one says that to a baby. They just let them stare with judging, emotionless eyes. “Does it know I’m sneaking glances at its incredibly small feet? Does it know I’m looking at its mother’s swelled boobies? Does it know all of my insecurities?” Yes, yes and Biggie-Sized YES! What do you want? Do you want me to stop looking? I will, but every time I turn back to you you’re shooting me some sort of naïve stink eye that makes me want to hug you and exploit your gigantic head’s soft spot all at the same time.

www.myspace.com/creepy_staring_baby

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, check in with the Person Who Says “I’m All Thumbs.”

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God forbid I ever suffer severe bodily injury, no matter where I am in the world, fly me to Seattle Grace Hospital. If I need a leg amputated I want it performed by beautiful doctors with nicknames! Seriously, do you know what I love more than this sexy dramedy? Nothing. Not even ice cream.

Sandra Oh-my-god, does it get any better?! And I can’t believe McSteamy stole Addison from McDreamy, but Dr. Sloan is a plastic surgeon and hot so who can blame Addison for cheating?? How come all the doctors I know are old, bald Jewish guys who tuck their pants into their socks? Sigh…

E.R.’s too serious and Scrubs is not serious enough. If Goldilocks had to choose, she’d watch Grey’s. Mmm, just right. Yeah, Mmm, as in McDreamy. Of course, Patrick Dempsey is a fox, but I’ve liked him since Loverboy. I have him as my computer’s wallpaper! I also own a 365 Pose-a-Day calendar of him, a McDreamy white noise machine, and all of his fan books, including McMayor Mastery: How McDreamy Usurped McCheese. Sometimes when I’m driving I like to close my eyes and imagine getting into an accident and when I wake up I’m on a surgical table being McFelt up and having McIntercourse with him.

Oh, and I’m also totally getting into the Grey’s tribute band, Code Black. They’re mainly a Rush cover band, but they totally project Grey’s episodes during shows in a super fun way!

For more pop culture annoyances, click here.
While you’re there, check out the American Idol Fan.

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Go ahead… tear open the envelope… take out the card… And… BOOOO!!!

Oh god look at us posing on that Christmas card like two snot-covered gargoyles. Remember us? Your third cousin’s kids? The twins? That’s right we’re back. And we’ve somehow gotten uglier since last year’s card, the one where we’re dressed as elves pretending to steal gifts off Santa’s sleigh. Classic.

This year things are a little different. We know all about Santa and frankly we’re pissed off. So as you can see in the photo, we’re sitting in front of a Christmas tree predicated on a stack of lies, stone-faced and still snot-covered. Our identical faces never grew into our noses like you all hoped. So it looks like we’re stuck with them until we’re old enough to ask “Santa” for cosmetic surgery.

Go ahead and hang the card up behind the others on your fridge to shield your holiday guests from our horrific, disproportioned visages. Try to enjoy this one while you can. Soon we’ll be going through puberty and those cards will look like crime scene photos compared to the one in your hand.

Happy holidays from the Twins! See you at the next funeral!

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, check out the Jeopardy Watcher Who Shouts Out the Answers.

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Submitted by Crazy Carl Himself

I don’t understand why you still live in this house with your mother and I even though you are 24. When I was your age, I was living on my own…
(In a day-glo painted VW van with 11 other college dropouts.)

And had already moved out of my parents’ place…
(Because I was following the Grateful Dead around the country, and indiscriminately boning hot hippie protest broads unprotected. Every girl you bang off Myspace might be your half-sister.)

And living out in the real world, being an adult…
(An adult who did more acid than the audience of a midnight showing of “2001: A Space Odyssey” in 1968, and battling demons and talking snakes in this said real world.)

And supporting myself financially…
(By selling drugs, and shoplifting from every store I went into.)

Your mother had also moved out of her parents house at age 17…
(Because she ran away with a 29-year-old ultra militant Black Panther, giving your grandfather a heart attack.)

And was completely self-sufficient as well…
(If you don’t count hitchhiking or having to huff a few dongs here and there to get from place to place, or to have a place to stay.)

I know you’re in debt…
(From college, because me and your mother blew your college fund when we ran up huge credit card bills in the late 80’s. Did you know a Camcorder cost like $1,000 back then?)

But you need to work harder to get yourself out of it…
(I know you already work 50 hours a week, but have you considered a second job?)

One day you will want to buy a house…
(Speaking of which… You want to buy this house? It only cost your mother and I $40,000 in 1977, and we’ll sell it to you today for the discounted price of $650,000.)

And have a family…
(Of no good rotten slacker children like yourself and a reformed whore/former feminist like your mother for a wife.)

And settle down…
(Like we did after you were conceived in a heroin fueled haze at an Allman Brothers concert.)

And be a law-abiding, successful member of society, like your mother and I…
(If you don’t count the insider stock trading tips we receive and use to pad our retirement account, and the bogus charitable contributions we claim at income tax time. Oh, and by the way, your mother and I haven’t had sex in 11 years. I’m about two weeks away from being interviewed by Chris Hanson on “To Catch a Predator.”)

You seem to need structure in your life, you should join the Army and go off to Iraq…
(Unlike me, who hacked my pinky off to avoid a bullshit war.)

Anyways, I’m glad we had this chat. Now get off this computer and go out there and get a second job.
(And leave me alone to find Jimmy Buffett tickets and porn on the internet.)

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, get an earful from the Unsolicited Advice Giver.
For more of Crazy Carl Himself’s musings, click here.
Email the man at CrazyCarlHimself@gmail.com

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Yo, yo, yo! Where my dogs? Just got pimped the fuck out at Marc Ekko, kid. I’ll line that up with my Fubu, gear, knowm sayn’? Gettin’ chingy this weekend, dog. I gots my grills, full platinum and ice rockin’ those shits. We gonna be popin’ Cristal and the Goose will be flowin’ like my rhymes do when I gets a phat beat.

Sucks though, Sunday I gots to head up to Westchester for family dinner with my pops and my moms. Probably be getting the usual “Blain, where’s your direction in life?” or some shits. My brother just made another milly on an IPO and shit and moms thinks it’s time for me to “take things seriously.” I hate my home. My true home is DA CLUB, yo.

Interests: Slang, The Dirty South, Paul Wall (My Hero), Eminem before he sold out, Grey Goose, Grillz, wearing my Yankee cap “just so”

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, check out the Pseudo Punk.

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If the three walls of my office cubicle could talk they wouldn’t say a word. They’d SING! You see my collection of knick knacks, doodads, and wacky conversation starters makes Pee Wee’s Playhouse look like an exercise in minimalism.

My collection of Family Circus comics cut from the newspaper tells my coworkers that I know how to read and can operate scissors. I don’t usually “get” the comics, but I just love cutting things.

The Mardi Gras beads tell you that I have a wild side. How did I get them? Wouldn’t you like to know!? I actually bought them at the party store to hang in my cube.

The collage of my vacation pictures tells you that I’m well traveled and invites people to inquire as to where I’ve visited. However, I’d rather not talk about the awkward casual sex I had with various locals on my many trips or the resulting venereal diseases I brought back as souvenirs.

I also have more motivational posters per square inch than anyone else in my department, which indicates that I’m a hard worker with a love for Grand Canyon sunsets and kittens dangling from branches. What’s not to love about an animal in peril? Hang in there, Pussy!

I recently saw some coworkers with action figures posed in their cubes. Not one to be left behind the trends, I ordered a complete set of Star Wars figures off of Ebay. It cost me $2500, but it pays for itself in the amount of young males who flock to my desk to talk about the adventures of Lou Skywalker and Darth Vapor. Live long and prosper, fellas!

For more office idiots, click here.
While you’re there, share a meal with the Co-Worker Who Eats Your Food in the Fridge.

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Some women like to sleep their way to the top to achieve career success. Not me. I’m not nearly smart enough to figure out who could help me advance in my job. I’m merely content to be known as the office slut.

Don’t believe me? Todd from accounting fingered me during a staff meeting and I got a stiff meating in the kitchen from Jim in HR. I jerked off Kenny from the mail room in the men’s room and got an Eiffel Tower from Lamar the janitor and David in Sales behind the dumpster in the parking lot. And just last week I let Stuart the intern give me a Dirty Sanchez during a sexual harassment seminar. Yeah. I’m that slutty.

Hobbies: Shopping for inappropriate work clothes and smudge proof lip gloss, wearing short skirts with no underwear and walking very slowly up the stairs, blacking out at office holiday parties and waking up in the middle of a gangbang

For more office losers, click here.
While you’re there, shoot some rubber bands at the Office Funny Guy.

What is Contemptster.com all about, you ask? Click here for our handy FAQ section.

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Where to start? I love music. It deeply touches my soul, but if more than ten people like a certain band, they can have them. Arcade Fire, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Bloc Party, Arctic Monkeys… I liked them before you. Now when I hear those bands I cringe while looking at the Middle American, Wall-Mart dressing, nothings who listen to them.

Currently I’m onto this little Brooklyn banjo, harpsichord, synthesizer group. They play acid pop you can dance to. Not that you’d understand their sound. I have 15 bootlegs of their shows. You can have them because I don’t like them anymore. I just decided. I shouldn’t have told you about them, but that’s my burden. The coolness that I possess places a bull’s eye on my back and every 20-something succubus wants to steal my essence.

I don’t work, wash my hair, care about world issues, smile, shop at chain stores, wear sleeves, or concern myself with you.

I do party, dance, snort cocaine, love getting my picture taken, have a trust fund, possess unbelievable fashion sense, stare you up and down when you walk into a bar I hang out in, laugh at you afterwards, dabble with meth, get tattooed, understand irony, and listen to the kick-assiest bands that you can’t understand.

Interests: Good hair cuts, music, Sparks, cocaine, Williamsburg, Don Hills, The Cobrasnake, Paper magazine, McCaren Park Pool

For more everyday assholes, click here.
While you’re there, check out Poseur.

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Not sure why Yahoo! is reporting this:

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This ad was in the bathroom of a bar I stumbled into at some point last Saturday afternoon (after fleeing the G Train AKA crime scene). I don’t know what it’s for, and I don’t get it, but I thought it was funny.

“Kind of an awkward question, friend, but yes. Yes, I have enormously huge balls.”

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Here’s one of the more disturbing images in a weekend filled with disturbing images. This could very well be blood. Decide for yourself. Seriously, what happened here? Did Danny Glover’s character from Witness make an appearance on the G Train?

Note the lame attempt of dropping one napkin on the bloody streak.

Oh, I, nor anyone else on the train called the authorities. Hey someone else must have done that already, right? Right? No, no it was paint, just paint. At least that’s what I’m forcing myself to believe. Just to be safe, steer clear the ol’ G train for a while.

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Every once in a while celebrities write in to get something off their chest. Here is one of those letters.

Hello everyone, or should I say “hey ya?” It’s me, Andre. Andre 3000. You may remember me from such acts as Outkast, and films like Four Brothers, Idlewild, and the soon to be released Semi-Pro with Will Ferrell. I’m just writing to say hello, and ask whether or not you noticed my cover of New York magazine. No, you didn’t? Well I’m pretty sure you’ve seen the issue, heck, you probably own it. You may know it as the “Lindsay Lohan cover“, or the “nude Lindsay issue“, but my friends, I grace a cover of that issue too.

I’m not bitter or anything. Hell, everyone’s been talking about that issue. And hey man, girls got some nice breastage, a little too freckley for my tastes, but definitely SpottieOttieDopaliscious. I just wanted to clarify that I’m on there too. See, there’s a neat little trick that magazines do sometimes, they have covers on both sides of the magazine, so when you flip the magazine over, it looks like another issue. You see it a lot with that magazine Complex. Ever heard of it? No? Fuck, because I’m on the cover of that too.

Don’t believe me about being on the New York cover? I am for real! Give this a try, take the magazine you have with Lindsay Lohan on the cover and flip it over. Ready, do it right…now

O HAI!!1! Expecting a Jack Daniels or Dior ad weren’t you? Nope, it’s me! ME, ME, ME, ME!

Yo, that’s it. Nice chatting with y’all. Be sure to check out Semi-Pro when it enters theaters sometime after waaaay too much promotion. Peace.

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Last week I traveled around the Midwest driving from Tulsa, OK to Wichita, KS, and finally to Kansas City, MO. I wanted to post more often however I ran into an old problem - Websense. As mentioned previously, Contemptster is marked with the red letter “T” for we are The Tasteless. As such, we’re banished from any computer employing Websense and marking “tasteless” as one of it’s banned criteria.

The Wichita Marriott allowed me to post simple and easy, though they clearly have their own issues to deal with. The Double Tree and Embassy Suites were not so kind. Ironically, these are both Hilton properties. If they want to keep their computers free of smut they may want to have a talk with a certain heir that they may know fairly well.

But for serious, what is more tasteless: The Top Ten Worst Celebrity Boobs Part 1 & Part 2 or The Hottie and the Nottie? You decide. To be honest, I’m on the fence. Top Ten Worst Celebrity Boobs is pretty damn tasteless. Wouldn’t you agree, Founder?

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Somehow, Brad Renfro didn’t make the cut last night at the Academy Awards. Unless I missed it, he wasn’t included in the tribute. My wife didn’t even know he was dead, was somewhat devastated and immediately jumped online to read about what happened. Brad Renfro should have been included. It’s a shame he wasn’t.

I’m re-reading The Informers, a book that is being adapted into a movie, Renfro’s last. He’s perfect for a Bret Easton Ellis novel, and I have a feeling The Informers will create some buzz when it’s released. Perhaps Brad Renfro will get his due at next year’s awards.

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The mall food court is a common fall back lunch spot for many, and Bryan is no different. Although the food stars as the main attraction, apparently the trays are the true commodity. Check out past columns at the Premature Exasperations Archive.

The Tray Collector
By Bryan

Nothing satisfies that noon hunger like a trip to the bowels of Manhattan Mall. My food court routine consists of convincing myself that I will not make the same mistake with the Bourbon chicken, making the rounds for free samples of Bourbon chicken, and then making the same mistake with the Borboun chicken. It’s fatty and oily and afterwards takes me by the hand like I’m an ill-behaved child and sits me down in the time out stall.

However, this is not about the food. Nor is this about the lingering stale rag smell on the tables or the smelly lingering loiterers on the tables.

This is about food trays and the mall that loves them. I’m not one to just make up stats, but I would say the food court devotes 87.4% of its staff to collecting trays. The 0.4% refers to the trace amounts of staff left on the trays, e.g., staff hairs, staff nails, staff staph.

The collectors have no mercy for leisure eating. If half of your food is gone, the tray is fair game. Hell, I’ve had them approach right after paying for my food. True story.

If Bush wanted to get information out of Gitmo detainees, he would send over tray collectors. They will break a man down, steal his food, and leave him for dead. This is all done within ten minutes of your arrival. They have no time to waste. I imagine a nebulous shadowy figure (like the Mastermind in Police Academy 6) that controls all of his Manhattan Mall minions and if the collectors don’t deliver their quota of trays, consequences ensue.

“Come, come and show me your spoils.”
“Hiya boss…uh…I only have 100 trays”
“Oh this disappoints me greatly since you know you need 105 trays or else…”
“Oh no…not…not that.”
“Yes! It is to the Bourbon chicken sample post with you!”
“No!!!”
“This amuses me! And I will kill you!”

After that, I imagine it starts to go downhill. And if it was just one collector making the rounds it would be one thing, but once you shoot one down, another is close on her heels. Each successive collector is more persistent and more vindictive than the last. Once one of them asked me for my tray to which I responded that I was not finished. He then asked for the one on the bottom, since I had the trays stacked.

He had a hawk’s eye.

Then he took the tray and used it as a shoehorn to slide me out of my chair and onto the table. He then called over some tweens to make fun of the stains on my pants.

I hope he gets his in Hell. But then again they are collecting trays in the basement food court of Manhattan Mall. Perhaps he’s already getting enough of his…

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Here’s a sign that was on the door of the Wichita Marriott.
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Cartoonist, Brad Neely, who can be found tearing shit up at Super Deluxe, first gained attention for this ridiculous George Washington cartoon that he accidentally sold for only $200. Not to worry, in addition to his Super Deluxe cartoons he’s also worked for South Park.

So in Honor of George Washington’s birthday (which really isn’t until the 22nd), here’s Brad Neely’s “Washington, Washington”.

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It was a wet one out there this week! Although a Bryan rarely makes it out of his cave, he peeked his head out long enough to notice that one particular gender welcomes the rain (Hint: Aliens would never describe them as “Tripods”). Check out past columns at the Premature Exasperations Archive.

Rain Boots, Hooray!
By Bryan
A rainy day does not excite me. I understand that what I’m saying goes against the sensibilities of ecologists and livelihood of some wild life. Sure, I can get on board with an apocalyptic frog rain or even a Weather Girls rain of men (just to see it happen), but soaking rain, rain does little for my emotional well-being.

However, this particularly rainy week made me realize that my seemingly universal opinion about rain is clouded by factors like my gender (male), my hair (curly and frizzy) and my underwear (super absorbent Brawny towel diaper). My gender would seem moot in this discussion, but many a female rain boot wearer would attest to the contrary.

For me, rain breeds a foul mood, but for many females it brings joy. Far be it from me to turn this space into a misogynistic playground, but a woman’s excitement over rain boots seems really, really, really stupid.

“Yay, 2 inches of rain! I get to wear my rain boots!”

This common female refrain on a rainy day (or “God’s Wet T-Shirt Contest”) just sounds selfish and short-sighted. A female rain booter prays for rain. The sky sees a woman donning a pair of retro, calf-high rain boots in the shape of a rocket ship with a retrospective collage of Scott Baio images and it can’t contain itself. It forces them down and shoots liquid all over them because they are literally asking for it. While the rest of the population miserably plods through the sky’s sick, females happily trudge through it with ridiculous looking footwear making it clear to all that their rain prayers helped cause the day’s weather.

Some have whales on them and some have puppies. Some are riddled with pre-seizure spots and some have seizure inducing stripes. It appears that the uglier the style, the better. The practice of tucking the pants inside the boots (normally a prevention technique to combat a pack of mice on the loose) only highlights the gaudy footwear in a way usually reserved for male strippers’ cheetah thongs stuffed between inner thighs.

The question is why? Why would ladies get so excited to wear ugly, bulky shoes in bad weather? The only reason I can figure is because they are godless. A zany, colorful abomination is a direct affront to God and his miserable weather. Would you wear a “Toga! Toga! Toga!” to a funeral? No, unless it’s the long overdue, final goodbye to the Latin language.

So what’s a man’s option to cope with the rainy weather out in the real world? I figure one of these three things work:

1) Whiskey
2) All day Port-o-potty lounging
3) Rain boots (steal a gal’s rain boots and make sure you aren’t the only one miserable in the rain)

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This headline cracked me up:

Here’s the full article. I wish they had put an ellipsis in between “Long” and “Contract”.

“The Real Housewives of NYC” review by Linda Stasi was accompanied with a little “getting to know you” synopses. I’ve added some notes in red and think that my briefer descriptions fit to a tee.

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The world’s largest Christ statue, which ironically overlooks one of the world’s most crime ridden cities, was struck by lightning. The event was captured in this amazing photograph that will probably be exposed as Photoshopped, so enjoy it while you can.

But what does it all mean?

I think it means that lighting tries to find the fastest way into the ground, and a giant fucking statue resting on the top of a large hill is a pretty juicy target. Actually, I’m surprised is hasn’t been struck by lighting hundreds of times.

It could also be a sign that the rapture is upon us.

Meh, six of one, half dozen of the other.

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Bryan went to court this week without getting thrown in jail or being held in contempt(ster). Here’s his account of spending time with that little rascal, civic duty. To check out past posts look at the Premature Exasperations Archive.

The Fuhrer of Juror Furor
By Bryan
I once had a youth group leader called Dr. 80’s. Looking back this had everything to do with his thorough use of denim clothing and less to do with him having a Ph.D in the decade. He also once made the most salient declaration of my youth.

“I can tell you one thing, I ain’t goin’ down for statch again!”

Not only did it point to a crime to avoid (statutory rape), but also that one must learn from their mistakes. Yes, a mix of creep and a plea for self-preservation in one statement.

It was with this in mind that I attended jury duty this week. A dizzying amount of uncertainties envelop a potential juror and in my confusion I relied on the memory of one man.

WWD80’sD. The good doctor seemed like a man who had been on both sides of the juror’s box. I figured that, although he had a suspect Ph.D and no mention of a juris doctorate, I could draw on his memory to benefit my experience.

First order of business was sitting outside a room to wait. Dr. 80’s would abide.

Second order of business was entering the room to wait in a larger room. Dr. 80’s would grudgingly abide in the back of the room. And advantageously use his reflective shades to undress the Polish talent in the front row, who would soon be dismissed for not knowing enough English.

When the surly court rep told the room that those who thought they met the requirements for dismissal should stand, about half the people immediately stood. She then commented,
“I don’t know why you are all standing when I haven’t even told you the requirements!”

An unspoken “touche” pervaded the room. Dr. 80’s would have been sleeping through this and dreaming of Lee Dungarees and Espirt on taut teens.

Apparently there’s a curious symbiotic relationship between courts and movies in the civil court of Kings County, New York (more on this later). As standard procedure, an informational video was shown to get the room revved up for civil service. The mood improved like a Kaddish pep rally. At first I thought the video was a morality play shown to help sway us toward guilty decisions and make the city more money. Then I thought it was a horror film because Ed Bradley was hosting it from beyond the grave!

Then I realized it was a propaganda film for civic altruism. For all his foibles, Dr. 80’s had an 80’s altruistic streak which included handing out free coke and helping people stretch their quads. Also he would have perked up for this part since it interspersed interview clips from the 1980s regarding the merits of jury duty. In his honor, I tried to work up excitement, but I think the court rep knew I was faking it. She told me to stop looking so happy.

As she listlessly read our names and room assignments, I realized Dr. 80’s would have a theory about her; That someone was in the back room running a racket of 80’s proportions whereby her brain’s dopamine was sucked out and taken via a Delorean to Michael J. Fox in 1985.

Third order of business was to wait in a court room in the juror’s box. The room was plastered with legal themed movie posters, like Philadelphia and The Client. I guess movies get people excited for the law and the law gives movies plot lines, and the thin line between reality and fantasy snaps like Norbit’s thong.
Dr. 80’s would’ve preferred Fletch and Can’t Stop the Music posters.

Finally, I was grilled over the next two days by five different lawyers as to whether I could be impartial. They all asked the same thing in five different ways. They kept invoking the blind justice symbol and even went as far as to draw what the scales of justice look like. In one of the lawyer’s drawings Dr. 80’s would have said that the scales looked more like one of the Golden Girl’s hanging flapjacks.

So I said this and got dismissed. Sure I could’ve used the standard dismissal actions like saying, “I’m racist” or stabbing a fellow juror with a fork or admitting, “I can do this but I have to be back home by 6 or my blind wife will be very upset…she’s literally a mole and she will literally root under the floorboards and tear that shit up in under an hour, but I love her and that’s all that matters.”

Dr. 80’s would’ve wanted to keep it on his terms, in his decade, and always pervy. In court the only justice I hope I meted out was the justice I did to Dr. 80’s ways. I think I served it well.

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I just love those hilarious headlines on The Onion.

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It’s Thursday and I’m happy, want to know why? Because today is the last night that I’ll be watching TV and have to endure endless Fool’s Gold ads. I mean what happened to Kate Hudson? She hasn’t come out with a good movie since, since, ever. Yeah that’s right, Almost Famous fans. That movie blows too. Somewhere, Goldie Hahn is spinning in her hyperbaric chamber.

In case you’ve lived in a cave the last 3 weeks, and for that I’m jealous, here’s the Fool’s Gold trailer.

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Take a look at the registry of dicks on Dikipedia.org.

via The Triumph of Bullshit, pretty much the best Tumblr blog out there.

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The contempt I have for this play can not be measured. An amazing play, but I hate it with all my being.
UPDATE: Here’s a new video. We’ll see how long this one stays up on the YouTubes:

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If you hate local news reporters like me you’ll enjoy this:

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Last Saturday, I went to see a matinee of Cloverfield. I walked into the theater just as the previews were winding down and found a seat using my foolproof system for maximizing comfort and avoiding Movie Theater Dicks (see terrible diagram on the left): sit on the aisle, no one in front of me, no one behind me. This provides a buffer from those who like to kick your seat, slam into your knees, rustle with plastic bags, and talk to their friends. I also timed it so I would be one of the last people to enter the theater. But, like all good plans, it works great on paper and not so great in real life where assholes abound.

Two minutes into the movie and one last man stumbles into the theater. He’s carrying two large plastic shopping bags and talking to himself. Fuck. “Please sit down, sir. No need to make your way towards the back of the theater” I say to myself hoping to connect with this man via ESP. As he slowly ascends the stairs he gets closer and closer and I’m beginning to accept my destiny: he will sit behind me.

As I try to concentrate on the beginning of the movie, he kicks my seat several times while planting himself down in the chair behind me. For the next five minutes he plays with his plastic bags, taking out stuff, shoving them under his seat, repositioning them, and repositioning them again. At the ten minute mark he says, to no one in particular, “this is some boring shit!” which, though true, was the first of many loudly pronounced opinions about the movie. A seat kick here, a drunken mumble there, and some random remarks about the monster killing Republicans sprinkled in, the movie finally ended. Cloverfield’s 80 minute running was a godsend.

So I’ve given up. Like fighting a giant monster with no discernable weakness, planning is fruitless when trying to combat the Movie Theater Dick.

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The New York Post, ever the dignified publication, is pulling no punches attacking the Patriots in its pre-Super Bowl hype.

First, the Post columnist who defines “face for print”, Andrea Peyser , goes after the “boring and vapid” Tom Brady. Always forcing her ugly mug into other people’s business, Andrea accuses Brady of crimes against humanity including, but not limited to, going out to dinner and visiting his girlfriend.

Oh, Andrea also professes her love for the “real man” Eli Manning. I have to say he’s looking fly in the khakis, red Lacoste shirt, and docksiders he’s definitely wearing. I guess she likes the Judge Smails type.

Next, the Post runs pictures and descriptions of all the Patriots who have been arrested in the past. From traffic altercations to dropped charges, the Post stops at nothing to sling a little mud. Fucking unbelievable. I’m sure the NY Giants are all saints who help old hags cross the street. Have they ever helped you Andrea?

This is quite the turn around for the local rag seen in this link bashing one of its own. Over the summer the paper relentlessly slammed, defamed, and humiliated Giants DE Michael Strahan during his divorce trial.

Keep up the inflammatory work, fuckheads!

Photo doctored from a photo originally on Sports by Brooks

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This week Bryan discusses why introduction games should meet their end. To catch up on past columns, you can find them in the Premature Exasperations Archive.

Ice Breaking is for the Titanic
By Bryan

In the annals of bad group activities, one type ranks as the worst. It trumps Uncle Milton’s Bedroom Marco Polo and certainly beats a room full of hookers doing it with each other on a table I refer, of course, to ice breakers.

It goes by many names such as “Shoe Pile” and “M&M Game.” Yes, even the popular drinking game, “Never Have I Ever” falls into this category; a testament to their shape-shifting abilities. They are all intended to spark interactions and facilitate conversations filled with ego inflation.

Circles are always involved; I guess circles make the activities more ritualized and allow everyone to see each other, but that does not justify them. I don’t trust circles, never have. Human sacrifices happen in circles. Death Stars happen in circles. Wagons attack Indians in circles.

And they are liars. The games are liars and it makes liars out of people. They lure participants in with fun names like, “Silly Scrumples” and “Toilet Paper Roll.” In “Toilet Paper Roll,” all the idiots sit in a circle (of course) and are told to pull as much toilet paper as they think they’ll need. What the leader doesn’t tell everyone is that for every square pulled, you must tell one fact about yourself. There’s always that one asshole, who pulls half the roll and has to lie about his favorite color and then accidentally digs too deep for his 64th fact about how he almost went to Tibet but decided to work that week to save money for a ticket to see Hootie and the Blowfish. I should know since I was that asshole the first time I played, and I figured they were telling me the truth about the TP. And I had a bad case of Mexican food.

I took an informal survey of 100 people asking if they enjoy ice breakers. Ninety-nine unidentified respondents said “No” or open- handed slapped me in the face. One guy named Bill Mueller from Delaware said he loved them and his favorite car was a Saturn.

Perhaps you’ve attended a party where someone tries to make these games risqué. That doesn’t help and in fact only leads to awkward, morning after encounters and social worker involvement. Ever played drunken, sexy “Light Sabers?” A corollary question, ever had to register as a sexual predator after a nosy neighbor spies you doing it in their gated backyard?

I was wrangled into one called “Ice Cream Flavor,” where each person has to describe themselves as an ice cream flavor. Have you ever heard of such a thing?! What kind of world does this breed? Sketch artists drawing criminals that look like banana splits? Christian Children’s Fund kids reading letters from a same-sex bucket of rainbow sherbet sponsor? The blind being duped into marrying pint-sized Peaches n’ Creams but actually coupling with gallon-sized Rocky Roads?

In ice breakers—particularly “Two Truths and a Lie”—everyone’s either a bore, braggart or comedian. One guy with particularly bad posture said, “I have one brother, I once stayed up for a week straight, and I’m an invertebrate.” Turns out he had perfect posture; he was just playing the game and playing us all for fools in the process!

In the future when a group of new people are meeting each other, let’s keep it simple with a little game called, “Cereal.” Everyone stands up and walks to their respective places, and if you find yourself eating a morning bowl of cereal with a person you’ll get to know them. No one likes anyone in the morning so if you’re eating breakfast with them, then you’re probably friends. All of the others can stay in their own circles.

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I was looking at my old blog and found this post with the above headline. Apparently, with our looming recession and a housing and loan crisis, the obvious answer to that question was “YES!! Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie!” Here’s the original post (and I don’t feel bad recycling from my old site. No one read that either.):

Here’s an ad I found on Yahoo! today from Lowermybills.com. You may recognize that name as it’s usually found in-between a “penile enlargement” and a “nude pictures of Lindsay Lohan” email in your spam folder.

I realize tattoos are all the rage in this “alternative-style-to -look-like-everyone-else” age, but a cartoon needle inking a “Calculate New Payments” tattoo on your arm? It comes across as slightly, if not, obscenely ridiculous. Not to mention sleazy. This is not the place I’d go to sign 30 years of my life away. I don’t know, something about it just screams, “predatory lending!”

What’s next, a flash animated lip piercing promoting doctors in your area?

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Please go to FindMichaelBresnahan.com and see if this guy is familiar to you. If you’ve seen him, call 1-800-KAPTURE (1-800-527-8873). Thanks.

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If you have six plus minutes and haven’t seen this Scientology video before (which you probably have) check it out and become my slave! I mean become enlightened to the farce that is Scientology.

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Hoop sent in this interesting study about rude behaviors. Pretty good list. Some of them (#1 & #5) aren’t so much rude as they are blatant discrimination, but it’s a good list. Number nine could qualify as a rude smoker, or a militant non-smoker. If we’re in a smoking area I’m not asking permission for shit, you PC lap dogs. Don’t stand in a smoking area.

Hoop, if you have the link to the Boston.com article that went with this graphic please send it to us. UPDATE: Here’s the accompanying article.

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After a long hiatus Premie E. is back! In case you haven’t used this downtime catching up on past columns, you can find them in the Premature Exasperations Archive. This week Bryan asserts his theory about Pacman Jones’ insatiable appetite for gentleman’s clubs.

Pacman Jones to public, “Arrrgh, Strippers! My Only Weakness!”
By Bryan

I’m convinced Pacman Jones is an alien. The NFL star, embroiled in legal trouble generally stemming from various nightclub incidents, cannot be from Earth. He was recently accused of an incident involving assault at a strip club earlier this month. Although the charge was dropped, it raises the question, why continue to visit a place that’s wrought so much harm? His continued failings frustrate me as a football fan and as a believer in free-will. What rational Earthling could continue to frequent gentleman’s clubs when they consistently lead to the stymieing of his abilities?

None; Pacman’s an alien.

Adam “Pacman” Jones was born on the planet Stripton located in the TittyWay Galaxy right next to the Pasties star cluster (these stars look flashy, but their brightness partially conceal the gorgeous globes located in TittyWay). Stripton was an unstable planet that rotated about a gigantic heeled axis. The planet subsisted by rotating near its sun, exposing its South Pole and accepting the sun’s resources in its equatorial belt. However, the planet had a penchant for shedding atmospheric layers and getting dangerously close to its excitable sun. One fateful day, Stripton slipped on its heeled axis, ripped off its atmosphere and rolled uncontrollably toward the sun. Obviously the sun lost its shit all over Stripton, leaving the planet’s tiny moon to fend for itself. Adam Jones luckily escaped in a rocket to Earth where he landed in Georgia, and grew into young adulthood. Upon reaching maturity, Adam’s superhuman athletic ability developed, and he transitioned to a life of playing the Earthly game of football under the heroic name, Pacman. Nothing could stop him—so it seemed.

One substance hailing form Pacman’s home planet could defeat him. Stockpiles of the substance are kept in establishments around the world, set as traps to slow Pacman down.

Strippers. Strippers of all sorts: Thai strippers, white strippers, barely legal Eastern European strippers, big-bootied strippers, Eskimo strippers, and octogenarian strippers. The kind doesn’t matter, as long as they take their clothes off consistently and thoroughly, preferably near a pole. Pacman keeps falling for the trap, and the strippers immediately weaken his good judgment, rendering his athletic ability useless.

Pacman Jones and I have three things in common. One, neither of us played in the NFL this past season. Two, we both carry dollar bills sometimes. Finally, we have both gone to a strip club. The “sole” club I’ve ever visited was Southern Exposure located in West Virginia; a place I’m sure Pacman sampled at least once when living in Morgantown. The building, a seemingly gutted and converted Lowe’s, looks like the product of a sexy and corrupt Flip This House episode. The girls get fully nude and smell like a Sonic drive-thru and lavender. While watching one particular lady take off her clothes, I realized how weird the concept of stripping seemed.

Then it clicked. For Pacman Jones stripping isn’t weird, it’s just a reminder of home. He doesn’t want trouble; he’s just a homesick alien. It’s like me getting soul food to relive childhood memories of the South only for Pacman the food has swinging titties, the serving tongs are thongs, and the cobbler is a no holds barred lap dance in the manager’s office.

Alien nostalgia, that’s the only reasonable explanation.

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Here are the Top 3 things annoying me this week:

3. I just found out there’s birth control called “Yaz”. Why would you choose to name your birth control drug “Yaz” when that nickname is already taken by Red Sox Hall of Famer Carl “Yaz” Yastrzemski? Just weird. Up next, the Hammerin’ Hank Sponge.

2. Gawker commenters in general. Their self importance, pouting, and complaining about the site’s new direction while at the same time using Gawker to promote their own sites, specifically. Like these guys.

1. “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that bling. Ba da ba da ba da ba da bling” This is just a horrible commercial. These guys agree. If you have this New York State Lottery “BaDa Bling” commercial please post it on YouTube and send us the link. UPDATE: Ah, here it is:

What else should we be on the look out for?

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Our voting system is fixed! No, not the 2000 Presidential Election kind of fixed (or 1960 if you want to be a dick about it), but repaired fixed. You can now vote on the Contempt-o-Meter at will. Thanks for your patience.

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I can’t even put together my thoughts on the Creation Museum without getting really ranty and probably offensive so I’ll leave it at this: in order to gain access to any of the “answers” the Creation Museum and its sponsored literature provides you need to pay upwards of 20 dollars. The Smithsonian? Free. Read through the website, it’s one big tease to get you to visit or buy a book. If they cared so much about spreading The Word surely they can explain on their website how exactly humans and dinosaurs co-existed free of charge.

Human chillaxin’ with a dinosaur at the Creation Museum

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Just below this post is a voting scale that is really fun to use. It helps us rank the Top 25 Jerks and let’s us know if we’re doing a good job. It also doesn’t work right now. Sorry for the inconvenience, but our voting system was designed by Debolt so what can you do?

The problem is that every vote cast rates as a zero or sometimes as a one. I don’t know if WordPress or our site designer is trying to tell us something, but so it goes. All of your votes, no matter how positive, are driving the rankings down. All you’re hard work wasted. Mich, I’m talking about you! We’re sorry. When we resolve this issue, we’ll probably delete all the zero votes so it doesn’t screw up the rankings too bad, so if you were actually voting zero, ha ha. I’ll let you know when it’s back up and running. Spanks!

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From the Inbox

Kelli from Oregon writes

“Hi. One thing that really bothers me is people who dress like they live in California or somewhere sunny when really they live in Oregon or somewhere not sunny. Guys who walk by in pink shirts with the collar up (you nailed that one perfect), board shorts and mandals (man-sandals) even though it’s raining outside or girls who wear mini skirts, tanks and flip flops. And then they stand there and complain how cold it is… DUH!”

Good to hear form you, Kelli. You being from Oregon I’d imagine the population of sandal wearing men to be matched only by white guys with dreadlocks and women selling patchouli from the back of their AstroVans, so I feel/smell your pain.

These people you’re complaining about, I like to call them “idiots”. Not the cool, Johnny Damon circa 2004 Idiots mind you, but the idiots they used to keep locked in cages in old west saloons when they weren’t dancing for scraps of horse meat. Big time idiots.

These are the assholes that went to Club Med when they were kids and used to brag about traveling to places you’d never heard of, like Guadeloupe. These people buy the most expensive surf boards and surf…once. These are the dudes that only drink Corona because advertising easily sways them. They think they can be the next Jack Johnson. Worse, they just bought an acoustic guitar and are “writing” music. Poseurs, Kelli, they are poseurs. Image whores and nothing more.

As for the girls that wear next to nothing on cold days, I see no problem with that.

Thanks for writing.

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See those sweet new graphics on the right hand side of the page? Well, don’t click them…yet. They are the links to all new features that we’re premiering everyday this week and for many weeks to come. The features are fun and interactive. Some you can vote on, watch videos for, write captions and comments about. It’s a virtual funhouse of fun.

Here’s our schedule for this week:

Today checkout “Trip to the Sun” and vote for which asshole to send to the sun. All expenses paid of course.

Tomorrow we premiere “Have You Seen This Jerk?” Help us track down the world’s most elusive and obnoxious people.

Wednesday we have “Caption This!” Feel like you’re part of the Contemptster team and help us come up with catchy captions to a photo that we post.

Thursday premieres “While Dan Watches” with Dan, the creepy guy that hangs out in our office. He really has seen it all, but now you can see him seeing it. Get it?

Friday, “Would You Rather…” peers deep into the dark reaches of your soul to examine your biggest fears and phobias. Then it pits them against each other forcing you to decide which one you’d rather choose.

Just tell your boss now that you’re not going to be doing any work this week. They’ll understand.

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Hide your glasses: BLOG FIGHT! Remember all this talk about how nerds are the new hip, popular people because computers (Macs), the Web, indie music and “gadgets” have taken over as the cool things? Remember? Well is it too late to go back on it because I think we need some atomic wedgies, stat, in the blogosphere right about now. I mean does someone have Ogre on speed dial? Is Alpha Beta in the mutha fuckin’ house or what? Why I ask is because I’m one blogger fight away from pushing my IT guy down a flight of stairs and living off the grid for a few years. That’s why.

You may have heard about the shake up over at Gawker, but seeing how it’s no longer 2004 you probably haven’t. Long story short, some people quit and then some people were hired (I think they have 5,000 editors and “reporters” at this point) and then one of these new people quit after one day.

Here’s the Daily Intelligencer post on Richard Morgan, the blogger who quit Gawker after one day, in an interview conducted over IM. Later, the post was updated with comments from Gawker Founder and Managing Editor, Nick Denton, with quotes also gathered through IM. So to break down the meta, that’s two bloggers, IMing with third party blog who then relays the bitching over to you. Ladies and gentlemen: the Internet!

Well, because of this I’m quitting Contemptster and the “field” of blogging. And to do it in a hip, nerdy, tech-infused, blogger fashion I’m doing it via IM. Here’s my good bye IM conversation with The Founder (of this website).

Contempty: OMG, the internets r crzy. I has invisible brain tumor. Blogs r dead kant take it no mur. We still frends tho OK? THXBAI!!!1!

TheFounder: You stay. U sing contrakt!

Contempty: WTF! Do not want!

TheFounder: KTHX 4 yur hard work Bai!

Contempty: L8R!!1!

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Moments later, tragedy struck.

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Go to hell, wind. Seriously, you blow.

Today, you turned a clear, sunny, winter day into a hike across the Ronne Ice Shelf. You helped turn 7th Avenue into an aerodynamics lab leaving hats, newspapers, and plastic bags swirling around in your wake. For an encore, you forced snot out my nose and spread it across my cheek freezing it into a disgusting icicle of mucus. Today is the day I stand up to you and call you out for what you are: a dick.

Here’s an innovative “Pro vs. Con” analysis of why you suck:

Wind as Transportation
Pro: Wind was used to navigate the oceans to discover the New World
Con: Wind brought Europeans, plague, and mass death to New World

Wind as Fuel
Pro: Wind powers mills, water pumps, and is a reliable source of “green” energy.
Con: Like the corporate world, wind’s new “green” focus is façade to cover up an ugly history as a harbinger of mass death including hurricanes, cyclones, and tornadoes.

Wind as Refreshment
Pro: On a steamy July day a nice breeze is more than welcome.
Con: This, however, rarely occurs. Instead wind waits for a thunder storm so it can meet with its pals lighting and rain to bring upon mass death.

Wind as a Source of Frostbite
Pro: Nobody better suited for the job.
Con: Nobody better suited for the job…of causing mass death.

War on drugs? I say it’s time for a war on wind!

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New Year. Fuck You. Shit, man! Hey, 2008, you spawned 2007, no breaks for you, motherfucker. 2007 was a shit soaked year. Hope you do better, dick. No need to get into the 2007 monotony here. Just read one of the million or so blogs that complained about 2007. Then go light yourself on fire. It would be more fun.

Fuck this New Year bullshit. Just like retail needs to exploit the birth of the messiah (the one true God) in order to bring the books into the black, New Years exploits the 365.25 rotations of the Earth during its trip around the sun in order to supply bars with the income to keep the taps flowing throughout the year. Swell. Like I need another excuse to drink to blindness on a weeknight. The fact that I hate my job and boss aren’t enough. I need a trip around the sun to remind me how much my life sucks. As Juno would say, “some fucking catchy insult that’s clever and really fucking hip!!!!!” Whew that felt good. Pregnancy! Punk rock!

That’s alls I gots. Happy New Year time slaves.

Come back soon!!!!! We love you.

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Contemptster is coming back full force in the New Year with new segments, new jerks to make fun of, and new interactive internet insanity A.K.A polls. After Christmas, on say Thursday, we’ll get the blog kicked back up and running with some “end of the year cliché list bullshit”. Until then, bask in the warming glow of one of Planet Earth’s great talents: Heidi Klum.

Not only does Heidi have the talent of being born with great genes, but she also possesses the skill of using those great genes to marry a successful pop star. This allows her to awkwardly hire his song writing friends and use his home studio to take advantage of her other “talent”: “singing”.

Only David Hasselhoff could be more embarrassing to Germany’s musical tastes than the following Christmas song performed by Heidi Klum. Sorry, I shouldn’t be so negative around this time of year. Even though Heidi’s voice could probably cut the fog much better than Rudolph’s nose I’ll end with a compliment. She does have some fabulous tits. Merry Christmas and happy holidays everyone!

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As you may have heard, South Korea, who is hell bent on causing some major cloning disaster, cloned three cats with a “manipulated fluorescent protein gene” which could be used one day to help cure genetic diseases in humans. They also glow in the dark when “exposed to ultra violet beams” so they have that going for them too. In honor of this “breakthrough in science” here’s a lolcat/lolclone inspired by the fine folks here.

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Since 2002 football fans have debated who is better: Peyton Manning or Tom Brady. For years Manning had the mind blowing stats while Brady had the rings. The last year has seen this relationship flip-flop with Manning winning his first Super Bowl in January and Tom Brady conducting quite possibly the best statistical quarterback season in history. So the debate rages on.

Luckily, like millions of other nerds disguised as sports fans, I play fantasy football. This week Peyton Manning and Tom Brady go head-to-head in my league’s playoffs. And who gets the check mark next to quarterback? That’s right, advantage Brady.Time to end the debate.

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As if divorced people weren’t selfish enough with their needs, they are also selfishly using up more of the environment to live their opulent, commitment-free lifestyles. At least that’s what the lamest study of all time reported today. Divorced people, because they have two households put more of a strain on the environment. Fanfuckingtastic, yet another problem we can do nothing about.

So many questions need to be asked of this study such as: What of the divorced homeless? Were they factored in? What of the legally separated? Why do they get let off the hook? What of the bachelor who lives alone? Will gay marriage advocates hook their wagon to this cause? Does this make a married oil man like say, George Bush, green? Can we admit that we’ve lost it a little bit over this green stuff? Did I leave the oven on?

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Poyboy T. Nostrand and Lance “Rock” Leggs are the thin belt wrapped around the junkie arm vein of the gossip world — they have it on lock down, but when they let loose they fill your body with the warming sensation of celebrity news. They are also the newest contributors to the Contemptster Empire. Here are Poyboy and Leggs.

Thiz week Rock Leggs iz workin' alonez. Sorry Poyboy is be in Poyboy. So here's my crack: Yo, celebs y’all CELEBRITIES! I love them. Life is nothing wit out the CEL-EB-BRI-TIES dogs! My favorite celebs of the moments are the cast of High School Musical. Talk about straight up talent. They can sing and they can lip sync. Word. Shits not as easy as it looks. I once had to lip sync and it’s like your lips gots minds of they owns. They want to screw up the lyrics but your brain is like, “no get the lyrics right!” and your lips are like “dude, I’m trying but this shit is HARD!”

You know who else is on pizz-iont? 4 Strings. This dance band is the Atomic Neutron BIZZ-omb. The Enola Gay don’t drop bombs like 4 Strings, n’om saying? I can dance all night to this on only one 8 ball. ONE! And maybe some E. But THAT’S IT! OBVS OMG!!!!! Wit out furryado, here it is your Da Super Phat Hot Ass Video of the Wizz-EEK:

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