“You cannot defend her position, Barack. She’ll try anything to get out of being grounded.”

*

The Obamas New BFF 1
The Obamas New BFF 2
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The Obamas New BFF 4
The Obamas New BFF 5
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The Obamas New BFF 11
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The Obamas New BFF 13
The Obamas New BFF 14
The Obamas New BFF 15

“I love that you’re such a cheap
date. Just keep your juice off my
coat. Michelle would smell it.”

*

The Obamas New BFF 1
The Obamas New BFF 2
The Obamas New BFF 3
The Obamas New BFF 4
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The Obamas New BFF 11
The Obamas New BFF 12
The Obamas New BFF 13
The Obamas New BFF 14
The Obamas New BFF 15

“How could you, Rod?!”

*

The Obamas New BFF 1
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The Obamas New BFF 3
The Obamas New BFF 4
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The Obamas New BFF 11
The Obamas New BFF 12
The Obamas New BFF 13
The Obamas New BFF 14
The Obamas New BFF 15

We’ve tolerated the fruitcake long enough.

We are angry. You should be angry. Ever had to pretend like you actually liked a fruitcake? Ever actually had to eat a fruitcake? We didn’t think so. Well, we have, and enough is enough.

Why is this night different from every other night? Because we declare Fatwa on all fruitcakes. This is no joke, people, this is an all out war on fruitcakes. It begins tonight and doesn’t end until every fruitcake is rounded up and destroyed properly. (If nothing else, do it for the pound cake.)

So, go to a window, people. Do it now! Open it, and scream out, as loud as you can: “I’m as mad as hell and I am not going to take fruitcakes anymore.” (Except maybe if you live in San Francisco.)

*

Dear Clay,

You should know that this doesn’t mean we are forgetting about the fatwa we declared on you, just that we are refocusing our energies for the time being. But trust us, if you happen to be caught eating another fruitcake, we will not hesitate to reinstate the fatwa on yourself. Stay away from the fruitcakes, Clay. Think you can do that? Well, we’ll see, won’t we.

“Give me an F…”

*

The Obamas New BFF 1
The Obamas New BFF 2
The Obamas New BFF 3
The Obamas New BFF 4
The Obamas New BFF 5
The Obamas New BFF 6
The Obamas New BFF 7
The Obamas New BFF 8
The Obamas New BFF 9
The Obamas New BFF 10
The Obamas New BFF 11
The Obamas New BFF 12
The Obamas New BFF 13
The Obamas New BFF 14
The Obamas New BFF 15

New Year’s Resolution: Find out if this cold beeatch actually has a “G-spot.”

*

Recommended reading: Top 10 Douchebags of Year

In effort to go out on top, Pres No. 43 asks to be shot from cannon on Obama’s big day. Following the death-defying feat, Toby Keith will play his hit song “He Ain’t Worth Missing.” And, of course, Henry the Horse dances the waltz.

“Not with that ass I don’t!”

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Suggested viewing: The Obamas New BFF

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Recommended viewing: Stanford 6th Man of Year

“Well, do you feel lucky punks?

*

You might like to view Dennis Rodman’s Closet Cam.

Contrary to what some may believe, “romance” is not a marriage proposal on the Eiffel Tower surrounded by personal assistants and an army of Scientologists. This is what we call “fantasy.”

Fantasy is played out in many forms, with the story, no matter how implausible, usually ending happily ever after. But, in reality, successful love stories take a great deal of effort and sacrifice (and are not usually penned by Helen Fielding or one of the Ephron sisters). It’s not just “girl kisses toad, toad transforms into prince, prince marries princess and they spawn their own reality show.”

Okay, so sometimes it works for VH-1. But the rest of us are not living in the land of fairy tales, or fifteen-and-a-half minutes of fame, and we never have been. That’s the illusion. The illusion that “one day my prince (or princess) will come and rescue me from the drudgery of real life and complete me.” Yawn. This is the delusion that destroys relationships before they begin. Just inject Tom Cruise with truth serum and you’ll have an affirmation on that. And, yes, Tom, we CAN HANDLE the truth!

Chick flicks, and the cheesy actors and sappy writers that make them go round, perpetuate this fantasy-syndrome and make it nearly impossible for a regular Joe to live up to these expectations.

So why would a guy ever want to take a girl to one of these movies? Just so we can sit there in the darkened, lonely theater watching the bar rise before our eyes, while dreaming of the popcorn scene from Diner? Ladies, you’re killing us here. We cannot compete. And with the overabundance of chick-lit and chick-TV, to go along with chick-flicks, we’re completely overwhelmed. That’s why many of us guys choose to throw in the towel before the mating game even begins – and sometimes we just use it to wipe up with after we’re done with our porn.

Am I saying that guys only want one thing? Well, um, no, not entirely. But it’s a lot easier for us to fall back on our fantasies once the girls are so enmeshed in theirs.

The truth is: men do fantasize about sex. A lot. Okay, an awful lot. But once we’ve had to sit through a two-hour romantic “comedy,” and we’ve seen the obstacle course the suitor has to complete to get the prize, we’re not exactly sure if it’s all worth it, i.e., Do we really need to do all that for you to put-out? Sure, we’ll marry you after you put out, but for now…

BOYS DON’T CRY

The second reason we don’t like chick flicks is because we don’t want girls to think we’re pussies. Yeah, yeah, we’ve seen their personal ads at match.com and gothicmatch.com and we know the second thing they seek after “a sense of humor” is “a man in touch with his sensitivity (and for gothicmatch, preferably an androgynous chap who likes to have his blood drained). Oh boy, is this a trap. Sure, if you’re cute and cuddly, like Bon Jovi, and you play power ballads, you’re good to go. But for the Regular Joe, women see us weep and they’re out the door quicker than we can ask: “Tissue, please?”

It happened in my own life. Once. (Only once!) Boy cries, girl walks out door and wastes no time in leaving me for a dude she later described as “a rock”.

The fact is, many of us, by conditioning, are rocks. And if the femalians think they can teach a rock a new trick, by dragging us to the latest Bridget Jones Diary, or cutesy Sandra Bullock film, they’re wasting their precious shopping time, and they would be wise to just opt for in-vitro and a lover named Butch.

Because, from the time we’re little boys, we are pretty much told to “suck it up” and deal – without the girly man tears. Nope: a man doesn’t cry. A man doesn’t show emotion. Unless, of course, he’s a raging jerkaholic, which is acceptable by male standards. But not crying (except for you Bon!).

So a plea to the girls in the audience (all three of you): Stop trying to drag our lazy asses to the lasted weep-fest, and get that image out of your head of us riding in on our white stallion, with our army of Scientologists following in their Escalades and rescuing you from the reverie you are lost in. Wake up! We’re drinking beer with our hands down our pants and watching Sportscenter here.

And once you can actually go beyond that dream, and stop trying to ceaselessly “fall in love,” is when a new door opens up. And, who knows, it might even lead to the multiplex, and an improved kind of film, titled: “I Must Say Goodbye to My Inner Katie Holmes and Get Real!”