We’re going to be changing formats soon, giving the reader (you) pretty much the reign of the site, which is, BTW, going to be changed to a blog layout.

WE NEED: Guy Stories from you, written by you.

* Have a story about a drunk and idiotic friend?

* Dated a really psychotic girlfriend/boyfriend?

* Want to rag about your ex? (Girls, you can do this too! And quite well, from what we understand.)

* Had a close-call with a celebrity guy?

* Involved in a frat prank gone awry?

* Punk’d your bestfriend?

* Lost your load in Vegas?

* Had a threesome with Mary and Kate Olsen? Or some broads from Sweden?

Anything goes, as long as it’s entertaining.

Stories will be edited for content, punctuation, etc., and all stories belong exclusively to The Guy Report once you submit them.

A few submission points:

1. Keep your post to under 600 words.

2. Keep real names out of it. Make one up, or call them Mr. A, or Miss B, or whatever.

3. Don’t be stupid. In fact, if you are stupid, we don’t want to read it.

4. Spell Chek!

5. Embed all submissions (no attachments please) into an email and send to infoATtheguyreport.com with “GUY STORY” in your heading.

6. Include your real name and the city you live in.

Thanks! We look forward to hearing all about your wild and crazy lives!

Is it any wonder we like watching professional strippers and hoopers strut their stuff? That’s entertainment, baby!

Whether it be a mean, over-the-shoulders slam-a-jamma, or a spin-around-the-pole, spread-for-the-front-row “dance” maneuver. They’re two acts that will continue to fascinate us. Why? Two words: Alpha humans.

Yup, we’re talking the cream of the crop (and we do mean cream) who have more in common with each other than we ever thought about. Why are we thinking about it now? Dunno. Just are. But check out these similarities:

Superior genetics

Unless you happen to play in Arkansas. Or, you’re this guy:

Men salivate over them

“I got a boner!”

“OMG! She’s got a boner!”

Great shoes

An actual shoe that is a whore.

They make lots of money

Enough to buy you a nice car and a trip to the (not so) free clinic.

STDs

Or not!

Failed SATs

“Who needs skool? I’m going to play in the 53rd state of Toronto.”

Perform in uniform

“He just wants to touch it, man.”

“Touch this and the only road side bomb will be in your pants.”

Work focuses on balls

“Oh my, it looks like you’re ready for the back room, Mr. Nowitzki.”

Majority have less IQ than a stripper pole

“They say you can get high if you lick one.”

“For reals?”

They preen while performing

At least the night before they do.

“Practice? Who needs practice?”

And sometimes they come together to perform a beautiful union

“I ain’t a bust in this situation room.”

“I’d be lovin’ his situation room.”

*

Recommended reading: 7 Effective Strategies for the Pro Athlete

The Economy

Not doing so hot, eh? Kind of like that old grandparent of yours that looks like they might not make it down the hall on their walker for one last celebration. What is there to celebrate at a time like this?

Change…

The Bad

“There are two kinds of people in the world, my friend. Those who have a rope around their neck and those who have the job of cutting.”

Change…

Because when things fall so far, there can only be one way up. And that’s up.

Sure, it’s a pretty scary time to be living in, financially, and we really f*cked things up royally. Not “they”, We f*cked up, every one of us is partially responsible for the current rope around our necks.

Simply put: as a country, we let greed and entitlement get the best of us. (Remind us how much credit card debt you have again?) And just as we’re all culpable for the crash, we’re all responsible for turning this thing around. What can you do to help?

Change…

The Good

“Two hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. We’re gonna have to earn it.”

We humans have been re-inventing ourselves for centuries. It’s what we do: A-D-A-P-T. So how is this mass adaptation going to play out?

Best case scenario: The thousands of people out of jobs and “let go” by the factory are going to have to find work. Where? Look no further than the Internet. It’s staring you in the face, exclaiming: “Use me! Use me! Use me!”

So why not use the motherf*cker? To start a business. Because where else can you set up a shop for the entire world to see?

There is no excuse. If you put a little energy into it, you can start your business now and tell the company to f*ck off later. When you have taken the responsibility into your own hands, because you have realized the company doesn’t give two sh*ts about you or your livelihood. They only care about their bottom line, and they will never care about anything else. Ever.

Your company will! Because it’s your company. So, at the very least, your company will care about you.

What would a massive shift to more individual business owners do to the overall economic picture? It’s going to put more power in the hand of the individual (hooray!), and take away from the enormous hold big business has on every facet of our lives. No mas!

Why not? Why can’t this happen? The individual has already changed the face of entertainment forever (e.g., music file sharing, TIVO, OnDemand), why not the economy? Why can’t the economy not flow in the same direction, into the control of the individual? What is stopping us from making that happen? We’ll tell you: laziness and complaining.

It’s time to roll up our proverbial shirt sleeves, stop whining and get out there with our D.I.Y. attitude and help turn this thing around.

Seriously, what do you have to offer the world? What can you make? What can you sell? What can you teach? What can you learn? Getting the picture of our re-invention? Hope so, because we’d hate to see you in a bulldozer marked Soylent Green.

Note: On the right panel of this site, look and click on the flashing purple YAHOO AD. It’s there to help you start your new business. What are you waiting for? Change awaits. The NEW American Dream is in no one’s hands but your own.

*

Recommended viewing: 10 Things to Bail You Out of Depression

1. White men do have smaller penises.

2. That’s some good sh*t, man.

3. The National Union of Wizardry just got downgraded, heavily.

4. Those COPS are f-ing way overweight.

5. Those COPSs are f-ing way stupid.

6. There were a lot of cameras present.

7. If Wizard Boy was black, all hell would’ve broken loose by now.

8. Somewhere, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton are giggling.

9. Somewhere, Obama is letting out a sigh of relief.

10. Everywhere, the National Guard is released for a weekend furlough.

11. Rodney King: “No comment.”

12. Americans are a wee bit squeamish about public nudity.

13. White people like to stand on the sidelines and watch.

14. No one even threw a paper airplane at the COPS.

15. The COPS look like those PIGS in Fritz the Cat.

16. Wizard Boy should get to audition for the next Fritz.

17. Somewhere, there’s a publisher who took a meeting about a possible Wizard Boy book deal.

18. Somewhere, Joe the Plumber’s “people” are wondering if Wizard Boy would make a good opening act.

19. Public Enemy (not an opening act!) suddenly became Public Enemy No. 2.

20. X should have been held for questioning.

21. Cage the Elephant must have been wondering if this might not have been the safer option.

22. Noah and the Whale offered free, untased, blubber chips to the first 100 people that signed up for their whalemail.

23. Superchunk got out-chunked by 4 to 1.

24. The Horrors seemed tame compared to the COPS.

25. Fucked Up wins the most appropriate band name of Coachella 2009.

Watch the uncensored video at the Huffington Report.

*

Recommended viewing:
25 Random Things About Guys
25 Random Things About Death

It used to be that cell phone terrorists mainly came from the younger generations. That has certainly changed. Now, everyone from Junior to Grandma wield these things around like they’re Luke Skywalker in a light saber duel to the death with Darth Vader.

The battle is loud. Too loud. As in: “Yes, we can f*cking hear you now!”

And because we can hear you now, and are growing sick and tired of hearing you now, TGR has made the calculated decision to raise our terror alert level to ORANGE. And before we all see RED — and someone gets maimed, or worse: death by cell phone suffocation — we’d like to suggest a few pointers to try and calm the enemy chatter.

1. Unless you’re Sir Richard Friggin’ Branson: You’re not important! Your life is boring. We do not want to hear about it. Anywhere. Stuff a tampon in it. Seriously.

2. If you’re one of those dickwads who goes to a ball game simply to position yourself in view of a camera and phone everyone you know, it’s time you and Mr. Sign Wielding John:13 moved to Utah to start your own cult. The Cult of the Clueless. Go Mormons! Or whatever religion wastes a precious ballpark seat.

3. When at a public event — ballgame, theatre, orgy — do us a favor: BEFORE you enter, learn to turn the ringer off. Call your carrier for directions. Just f-ing do it! If you can’t go without your cell jones for two hours, we say: Get thee to a rehab center! — where the possibility of an orgy is not out of the question. Especially if you mention the two magic words: David Hasselhoff.

4. While hanging out with friends, refrain from making, or taking, any calls that aren’t emergencies. Like your license plate frame affirms: everyone knows you are loved. Why the need to barrage us with self-importance like you’re Dennis Miller accepting the award for Pontificator of the Year? Here’s a tip: Look a friend in the eye and say something. Anything. They’re right f*cking there! Hello? Can you hear me…oh, f*ck it.

5. Please stop trying to be a comedian and saying: “Can you hear me now?” to every “friend” you phone with. This credo is about as tired as, well, Dennis Miller. In fact, shouldn’t VH1 be doing a show on him right about now?

6. To quote the immortal Billy Joel: “It’s all about soul.” Time to squelch the enemy chatter and find yours. Otherwise, goodbye innocent Luke, hello Darth’s doorstep.

And how good will we look then? More importantly, how will we sound? Especially when we’re chattering away on our cell phones.

Oh yeah, when they’re embedded in our brains.

I haven’t played a high-stakes game of poker since I lost my brand, spanking new Schwinn bicycle to Keith LaCabe in the seventh grade. But that won’t stop me from suggesting what’s most likely missing from your game: It’s all about the Zen, dude.

What is Zen? Well, the old adage goes: “If you can define Zen, you don’t know its meaning.” With that said, I’m going to give it the old college try. Zen is about being in the moment. Once you learn to “let go,” and live in the moment, balance will be struck and your reactions will come naturally, with no forced effort or thought: you will be in a place of “knowing.”

By that, I mean, you will have gone beyond your ego and given your life over to a higher power (nothing like Scientology). Your intuition will be what drives you, not your mind.

Imagine a baseball player who has practiced his swing all his life. Do you suppose he’s thinking when he’s up against a 95 mph fastball? He’s reacting. And, in order to react effectively, you have to trust in yourself.

Is the mind a bad thing? Well, no, obviously it’s not — how could I be typing on this computer if it were? But we do have a serious problem of brain-overload, too much inner chatter going on. And, because of this chaos, when it does become time to swing, we become paralyzed.

Fact: The longer it takes you to react, the worse off your chances are of getting it right. And that includes when you’re playing poker — especially when you’re engaged in reading and bluffing other players.

But keep in mind, intuition can also work when it comes to the cards being dealt at your table. Though, you gotta be f*cking Yoda to pull that one off. And you will need to start training diligently, now, Luke.

Let’s consider “the Zone.” You’ve heard it used in sports, numerous times, and you’ve probably tapped into it while engaging in your own favorite game. It’s what every player strives for: to remain as long as possible in that zone, that place where nothing else matters except the task at hand. And there’s no reason you shouldn’t be shooting for that zone when you’re playing poker.

On a personal note, one of the most incredible zones I ever reached was against Sugar Ray Leonard. No, not boxing, but basketball. We were playing three-on-three in L.A., Sugar and his two kids against myself and two friends. I must have hit 27 out of 30 shots in Sugar’s face. Okay, well, Sugar is a few inches shorter than I am, and he kind of sucks at basketball. But it was a magical place I’ll never forget. And every time I step onto the court, I am open to the possibility, and I believe, I can get back to there, to that zone, and even improve upon it.

Here are three things to think about when it comes to Zone Technique.

1. The Ego

This alone could take up volumes by Sigmund Freud. I will sum it up by saying: It is the ego that stands in the way of you and your ability to accept life as it is (read: not think you are in control of everything). It’s when you realize that control lies somewhere outside ourselves, that you begin to learn how to actually gain control, by tapping into the source which dictates all action. To flow with the Tao.

Your job is to do a lot of self-work, AKA introspection, e.g., What are your faults? What do you represent in life? How could you be a better person? What wasted ideals/energy can you let go of? Etc.

Over time, with the proper work, your intuition will develop into your trustiest guide.

2. Focus

I’ve interviewed a lot of athletes. And one of the main things they all touch upon is the ability to stay focused. Former, bad-ass reliever Eric Gagne says he simply focuses on the ball hitting the glove, and nothing else.

He zeroes in on his task at hand, doesn’t complicate things, and just throws the damn ball. And, this is important, without any thought of the outcome.

You’ve heard it said countless times: “It’s about the journey, not the destination.” That’s entirely true. If your mind is constantly on the prize, the journey will be jeopardized. The prize is not for you, or Eric Gagne, to decide upon. His only job is to do the best he can: hit the catcher’s mitt and let the chips fall where they may.

You need to find an avenue to work on your focus. That could be meditation, yoga or martial arts. It could even be a cognitive therapist to help you form new thought patterns. It’s been proven we have that potential.

Focus is important because it is crucial to the birth of major accomplishments — whether being the best reliever in the game, or the best player at the table.

3. Practice

Poker is a people’s-person game. Not only does it depend on the luck of the draw, but it also hinges on the other players, an ever-changing dynamic that must be mastered before you succeed. That means you need to learn how to read people. And you can’t read people until you’re focused.

Assuming you’ve got the focus-mojo going on, you need to take it to the streets. Get out into the public and just observe, observe, observe. Sit on a busy street corner sipping coffee and people-watching. What do your feelings tell you about the individual passersby? Can you sense sadness in one? Mischief in another?

Do this a lot, and carry it over into your everyday life. One of the biggest advantages you’ll find, in practicing daily observance, or “out-focusing,” is that it gets you outside yourself, and away from the mind chatter that stands between you and a successful, happy existence. You see how it all comes together?

Unify all these elements in your life, and your poker game will follow.

As the woman walked through the beach parking lot, a Hispanic man tried to get a word with her.

“Excuse me. I really don’t mean to bother you like this. But I had no one else to turn to. You see -”

“Sorry, I don’t speak English.” She kept walking.

“You spoke pretty good right there.” He was on the pudgy side, wore a San Francisco Giants cap, semi-nice tan slacks and a light-blue button-down.

John Walker watched the action from his car, an 85’ Buick sedan. He stood 6’2” 205 pounds, with bushy dirty-blond hair and a thick mustache to match. His face was weathered, from too many years in the sun, the lines also revealing his share of pain, even though he was only 37. He sat sucking on a Winston, observing the man as he hit up the next passerby, an older lady out walking. She didn’t bother to stop either.

Walker saw the look of frustration on the man’s face. He also saw the man had a steely-eyed determination, and it didn’t appear he was going to let a couple of failures throw him off his path. Walker knew the type.

Next, the man was onto a German tourist couple — they spoke just enough English to understand him. Walker kept his eye on the transaction. It took all of about two minutes. At the end, the German man opened his wallet and out came a bill. The Hispanic man smiled graciously, thanked the couple and they were on their way. The smile affirmed Walker’s suspicion.

As the man strolled past Walker’s Buick, a waft of smoke blew right in his face. He fanned it away with his hand, before looking down and noticing the burly man sitting in the car.

“Oh, hey, sorry, pal,” Walker said. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s all right.”

“Yeah. My bad.”

The man thought about asking Walker for help, but then thought better of it, a weird vibe pulsing through his skin. “No problem. Have a good day.”

“Hold up.”

The man stopped.

“What’s going on?” Walker asked.

“Not much.”

“You need some help or something?”

It was hard for him to resist. “Well, now that you bring it up…”

“Yeah? What can I do you for?”

“I really hate to bother you…”

“Oh no, no, bother away.”

“I don’t want to trouble you. But I just had the worst luck.”

“No?”

“Yes. I just had this very bad car accident.”

“Yeah? Shit. I’m sorry, guy.”

“Thank you. I was having lunch with some friends and as I was driving out of the parking lot: boom! Someone rammed right into my side.”

“Fucking A.”

“Totaled my car. I suppose I’m lucky I’m alive.”

“Amen, brother.”

“But now I’m stuck. My friends are long gone, on their way back to L.A. They were only up for the day. And I don’t live around here. So I have no family or friends to help me out.”

“No shit?”

“No, I live in the north county. Up in Lompoc.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yeah. And so they towed my car and now I have no way to get home.”

“Sucks when that happens.”

“Yes. It does. I only have about seven bucks in my pocket. I tried to get on the bus that drives that way, but they charge twenty-two dollars and the guy wouldn’t let me on without the full fare. I told him I could get it to him at the end of the line, but he wasn’t buying it.”

“That’s the problem with the world today: no one trusts anyone else.”

“I agree. I definitely agree. So I have no idea what to do. The last bus takes off in…” he looks at his watch, “about an hour. And that would give me just enough time to get back to the ranch in time to shut off the irrigation system.”

“A ranch, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m the foreman. And I’d call up there, but everyone is already gone for the day and the owner and his wife are off in Hawaii.”

“Don’t you hate that? It’s always the boss man who is off having fun while the little men stay behind and get all the tough work done. Not that you’re a little man or anything.”

“Yeah.”

“So it appears you’re up an irrigation creek without a paddle.”

He smiled. “Yes.” John Walker was definitely throwing him off his game.

“Well, what can I do you for, guy?”

“I really don’t want to trouble you.”

“No, go ahead, like I said, trouble me.”

“It’s just, I don’t know where else to turn.”

“I understand your predicament.”

“Thanks. Thanks so much. Maybe if I could just borrow enough to get on the bus? I could pay you back in full, mail you a cashier’s check right when I get back. With interest.”

“Now that’s mighty nice of you. You see, I can tell you’re not one of these folks who just cares about himself.”

The man smiled at Walker. “You would be my savior.”

“Well, I don’t know if that’s what I’d call it.”

There was a slight pause. The man had played his hand and he was waiting to see what Walker would show in return.

Walker pulled his wallet out, opened it. Clearly no money in it. “Damn. I just went to the ATM yesterday. That’s the problem with money, just doesn’t grow on trees.”

“That’s okay. Thanks for listening, though.” He was about to walk away.

“Wait. I’ve got an idea.”

The man stopped, more than eager to listen.

“I could either drive to an ATM and get you a twenty-spot. Or, wait…hell, I ain’t doing nothing. I could give you a ride to your casa. To your ranch. I could use the drive anyway, give me a chance to clear my head.”

“No, that’s okay, I don’t want to put you out like that.”

“It’s not putting me out, guy. Got nothing else to do.”

“I couldn’t.”

“No. Really. You could. It’s no bother. Hop in.”

“No, that’s okay…” The hair on the back of the man’s neck began to stand at attention, he didn’t have a good feeling about this. “I can just…go try and ask some more people for help. I appreciate your listening though. You’re a very kind man, sir.”

“Hey, guy. I’m offering just what you need. What’s up? You got a problem with me or something?”

“I got no problems with anyone, sir.”

“Shit. ‘Sir.’ It’s John. John Walker.” Walker stuck his hand out the window for the man to shake.

The man hesitated to take it. “I just don’t want to take up all your time.”

Walker kept his hand out. He wasn’t withdrawing it until it was shaken properly. When the man finally took the bait, Walker used his overpowering grip to pull him closer. “Get in the car, guy. You see, I’ve got plenty of time to kill.”

That’s when he saw it, the .45 in John Walker’s left hand, and it was pointed right at his rib cage.

*

The Buick let out serious exhaust fumes as it pushed for strength up the 154 Highway. The passenger almost mirrored the Buick, letting out intermittent sighs, his anxiety level rising with each chug of the car.

Walker hadn’t said a lot, up to this point. Only asked him his name (Hector) and how old he was (45). Other than those couple of pleasantries, nothing else was exchanged, just a dead silence.

Walker still held the gun on Hector, as Hector stared out the passenger window helplessly, wondering what would become of him. Had he fucked up for the last time? And Walker wasn’t a fool: he held the steering wheel with his right hand and the gun in his left. That way, if Hector made a play for the piece, it would give Walker time to react — with a bullet in Hector’s gut if need be.

“May I please - ”

“Shut up. You been talking out of your ass your whole life. I don’t wanna hear no fucking sob story. Your shit doesn’t cut it with me. You just sit there and see if you can keep quiet. Not one word. Because I ain’t biting. Not easy for a con man, eh — shutting the hell up?”

“You mistake me, sir - ”

Walker raised the gun to Hector’s temple. “I said shut the fuck up. Does that make sense to you? Do you feel that cold steel on your face? Just fucking nod if it does — make fucking sense to you.”

Hector nodded. He then looked at Walker with a hurt puppy-dog kind of expression.

“Oh fucking pulheeze. You really don’t get it, do you? I know everything about you, guy. I know how you fleece people and I know that your entire life is built on bullshit. Yet you don’t care how your bullshit affects others. You only care about the fucking grift. Or whatever the hell it’s called. It’s a game for you. It’s no longer about survival. Because you’ve been surviving long enough. It’s just another fucking addiction now. A high. How high can you go, right? How much money you can fleece people for today? You keep going further and further out on a limb because you’re drawn to danger. Well, Hector, I hope you’ve found the danger you’ve been courting your entire adult life. How does that limb feel now? A little shaky, maybe?” Walker laughed.

Hector was about to open his mouth, but Walker raised the gun to his temple again. “Ah, ah, ah. What did I say? Not a fucking word. One little itsy-bitsy word and I won’t think twice about blowing your brains all over this car. It needs detailing anyway.”

The foreboding silence which began the road trip resumed. Hector dwelled in it, afraid. And Walker, well, he wasn’t sure what would go down either, what he would decide to do with the lousy fuck.

He looked over at Hector, wondering this very thing. Then his mind trailed off. As it did, his car swerved to the left of the center line. A minivan coming down the hill honked obnoxiously loud, sobering Walker up and getting him back on course.

“Fuck you, you goddamn soccer mom,” he cursed. “You cunts think you own the whole field.” Walker cracked himself up. He looked over at Hector to see if he was joining the party. Hector knew he didn’t really have a choice, so he let out a short laugh — yup, we’re having fun now.

“You got any kids…Hec-tor? Don’t speak, just nod or shake your head.”

Of course Hector nodded.

“Bullshit. You lied again. You think I’ll take pity on you if I think you have kids. You don’t have kids. You don’t have shit. Probably live in a one bedroom apartment. All alone. You may pay for some Lompoc skank to come jack you off on occasion. But your way of life doesn’t fit family or obligations of any kind. Because in your mind, it’s all about you. Isn’t it? You’re a selfish cunt, Hec-tor. Worse than that douche bag soccer mom. You know that? Nod your head yes, you cunt.”

Hector did as he was told. Not being able to speak was hard for him. Ever since grade school, when a teacher tried to inspire him to be a writer, or an actor, some vocation in which he could wield his words in a positive fashion. But Hector never saw that light. He chose the dark. And he lived in it since junior high school, when an uncle taught him his first con — the selling phony coins to people under the pretext that they could one day get a mega return on their coins and put their kids through college.

The coins were never delivered. And, much like a hooker after the first trick, Hector was hooked by the lure of easy money. Since then, he had run every scam in the book, from phony sweepstakes notices to taking money from the Lonely Hearts Club people. And now, at 45, it appeared his nearly perfect batting average was being seriously challenged.

“I’m wondering what made you go into this line of work, Hec-tor. Did your mommy and daddy treat you like the piece of shit you’ve now become? Well, that’s fucked up if they did, I agree. But just because they victimized you doesn’t mean you have to victimize the rest of the world, tit-for-tat. Some day, that tit-for-tat shit has to stop. Why do you think that wars have gone on for so long? Take Israel and Palestine. Fucking tit-for-tat. Somewhere along the way, some soul is going to have to break that chain. Tit-for-tat is fucking Cro-Magnon man. And I fought for our country and I know how ugly war is, Hec-tor. You ever serve our country, Hec-tor?”

Hector thought about it for a second, then shook his head no.

“Good man. You’re learning. Right there, you told the truth, Hector. How did it feel? It was hard for you, wasn’t it? You see, your first instinct was to tell me you served your country. Your thinking being, if I thought you served, we would be among a band of brothers or some Spielbergian shit. But we’re all brothers, Hector. It doesn’t matter if some fought and died for our country and others stayed back at home fleecing people out of their hard-earned cash.”
Walker stopped talking, a painful memory hit him hard.

“I watched my friends die, Hector. You ever seen one of your friends die? Up close? Get blown to bits from a bomb, their legs and arms sailing off in all directions? It’s not an easy thing to see, Hector. And all you can do — because you definitely can’t go retrieve all their body parts and put Humpty Dumpty back together again — all you can do, is thank god you were spared. That you could go on living another day. That you may have a chance to make it back to the mainland and your home, your family. Because that’s all you feel, Hector. That you wanna go home. You feel it so badly it burns a whole in your gut, it aches, Hector. You wanna see them, touch them, kiss them and hug them, at that moment, when you see your buddy go up in smoke, more than anything else in the world. That’s right, Hector, big bad soldiers wanting nothing but their mommies.”

Hector was really becoming petrified now.

Walker looked down and noticed Hector’s pant leg dampening.

“Don’t worry about pissing yourself, Hector. I did it on several occasions in Operation Free Iraq. We all did. You’re crouching there in a fox hole, not knowing who is coming from what direction, who’s a friend and who’s a foe, your life hanging on a thread…so I know how you’re feeling right now. In fact, I bet…I bet you want your mommy, don’t you Hector?”

Hector nodded slowly.

“Your mommy alive, Hector?”

Hector nodded again.

“You’re a lucky man. I wonder if you appreciate her for what she’s given you. Namely, your life. Did you ever thank her for that, Hector?”

Hector nodded.

“You fucking liar! You have never said shit to your mother. You have never told her you love her, you have never told her how much you appreciate all the shit-filled diapers she once changed for you or all the hell she used to have to go through when the cops drove you home from school because you had fucked up again. Have you!? Have you, Hector!?”

Hector knew the game by now. He wanly shook his head.

“That’s too bad, Hector. That’s too bad you took your mom for granted and won’t have a chance to tell her you love her.”

Hector looked over at Walker, to see if he was serious. Walker was grinning at him.

“When I came back from Bush Jr’s phantom war, I wasn’t able to tell my mom I love her in person, Hector. Oh sure, I wrote her all kinds of letters from the fucking desert outpost in Kuwait. And I told her how much I valued her in those letters. Because when you’re fighting in a war, you could be there one second and the next BOOM, gone, dead. But, because I didn’t realize how vital she really was to me, until I was over there getting shot at, and watching people die all around me, and thankful for the life she gave me, I wasn’t able to do it in person. And you know why I couldn’t do it, when I returned from that godforsaken quagmire? You know why, Hector? Can you guess?”

Hector sadly shook his head.

“Because she wasn’t here when I got home.” Walker paused, the recall fresh in his mind. “The first thing I wanted to do when I got home was rush to her arms and tell her how much I cared for her, how much I really did love her. But I wasn’t able to do that, Hector. You know why? Can you guess?”

Hector didn’t have an answer.

“Because she was dead. She died three weeks before I got back from duty, Hector.”

Hector tried to show him a look of commiseration. But it wasn’t exactly truthful, it came more from a place of his own fear of dying.

“How do you think that makes a son feel? Pretty shitty, right? Like it was all for nothing. I was helping to “liberate” some backass country, so we could get their oil, and I could protect my country, our country, Hector, for my mother. And I couldn’t even come home and feel the reward of her loving arms around me.”

Walker moved onto another painful memory.

“My dad had passed just before I was sent over. For the second time. Because I had been in Desert Storm, and I supposedly knew my way around there and got promoted to Captain because of it. But with my dad passing, my mom had to be alone for two years. Oh sure, they told us it would only be a matter of months when we were going in. But I was there for two fucking years. And I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and our nearest relatives were back in Ohio. So mom generally had no one to look after her here. The only people she ever really saw were the Meals on Wheels folks. Yup. Since dad kicked it, she was pretty much alone, Hector. And vulnerable. Susceptible. To cretins like you.”

Hector looked at Walker out of the corner of his eye.

“That’s right, Hec-tor. She had the misfortune of meeting your type. Could have even been you, for all I know. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. Of course, she must have thought she was doing a good deed. I’m sure it made her feel warm to be asked to help someone out, make herself useful, after a year and a half removed from helping my old man out…He died from diabetes, Hector. You ever seen what that does to someone in the end? It takes them, limb by limb, vital organ by vital organ, until they’re a shell of their former self. My old man had two legs and an arm missing the last time I saw him. His kidney had already failed, and the kidney that a donor gave to him had failed. I just remember the painful look on his yellow face. He was all yellow and green Hector, the blood sucked right out of him. A champion of a man before it struck him. And my poor mom had to be there with him every step of the way. And, in a way, every time they took a piece of him, they took a piece of her. Because when we get that tight with someone, Hector, we mirror their feelings, their soul. And unless we’re the most unfeeling, selfish person in the world, chances are, we are going to become connected and take on everything they do. Like right now…I feel your fear, Hector. I can’t help not feel it.”

Hector looked over at him, wondering if this might be a reprieve.

“But I don’t trust you, Hector. I don’t imagine you’d change your ways if I let you out now. Do you?”

Hector looked at him. It was a trap to answer so he didn’t try.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. So, anyway, where were we? Oh right, my old man. When he died, Hector, he took a piece of my mom’s soul with him. And, I’ll tell you, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to witness in my life was the pain on my mom’s face, and watching her buckle up and scream the day they took my old man’s body away. Never, even in Iraq, did anything hurt me that badly. I’ll never forget that look, Hector. And there was nothing I could do about it. Fucking nothing.”

John Walker was not the kind of man who cried. But he felt like it now.

“And there was nothing I could do to save her when I was busy ‘freeing’ Iraq. When one of your type took her for everything she was worth. My old man’s savings, too. How do you think that made her feel, Hector? Do you suppose she was feeling all rosy and shit, when she all of a sudden figured out she didn’t have a dime left to her name? I’ll tell you how she felt. She went to bed one night with the stove on and never woke up in the morning…You probably want to know how they did it, don’t you, Hector? Being a part of the ‘biz.’ You’re wondering if you ever ran the same scam.”

“No, sir, I - ”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, HECTOR, I NEVER GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK!”

The gun was pressing firmly against Hector’s temple now.
Hector thought about jumping out of the moving vehicle. He wasn’t sure which fate would be worse.

“Say it, Hector. Say it.”

Hector had no idea what Walker meant.

“Say it, go on, say it. How does it feel? Say it. Say it!”

Hector didn’t want to speak when he had no idea what to say. For the first time in his life, his words were frozen in time, someone had taken them right from his mouth, from his very soul.

“When there’s nothing left to be said. When you’re life’s on the line. When there’s no one to turn to for help. Who ya gonna call, Hector? And you better not say Ghostbusters, because I’ll fucking beat you silly with the butt of this gun. Who ya gonna call. Say it, go ahead. I am giving you permission to say it. I want you to say it. Now! Fucking now! Who do you wanna call, Hector? Who ya gonna call?!”

Walker rammed the gun harder into Hector’s temple, so his head was being forced against the car window. “Say it, motherfucker! I want you to say it now!”

“Mommy!…Mommy!…Mommy!” Hector completely lost it.

Walker grinned. Sadistic. He used his free hand to reach in his shirt pocket for his pack of smokes. He held the pack out to Hector. “Go ahead, take one. They won’t kill ya.”

1. Condoms

2. Mother-in-laws

3. Directions

4. WNBA

5. Cosmopolitans

6. Mazda Miatas

7. Hairy bush

8. Hillary

9. Cockblocking

10. Tupperware

11. Valentine’s Day

12. Shopping

13. Feelings

14. Opera

15. Erectile dysfunction

16. Cialis ads

17. Hippies

18. Weddings

19. Apologizing

20. Bouncers

21. Oprah

We’ll add a new item every day until, well, we get sicking of adding a new item every day. Then we might add one every other day, or month.

*

23. The “Rip Your Heart Out” Move

This goes out to you college football players (and any football player who engages in it). No need to show us you’re stabbing someone’s f-ing heart out, or slashing their throat, after you tackle them. We saw the hit, we don’t need you to put your punctuation on it with a gesture fit for only a Crips or Bloods picnic. You’re acting less mature than the six year old kids who are watching you.

“I’ll rip your heart out and feed it to your mother. On three!”

22. Republican Anger

Seriously, you cats need to go back to square one and learn some good old fashioned manners. And not the kind that includes shitting on everyone below you.

Suggestion: Don’t sit around and let the anger fester, change yourselves, your party, your f-ing country! OUR f-ing country. What a concept. And maybe next time you won’t come to the race with this:

21. “We’re Number 1!”

Um, no, you’re f-ing not. You’re number 112 out of 120 division 1 schools, and all your team did is score a touchdown. A f-ing touchdown, and you’re standing there with your “We’re No. 1″ finger up like you just took Iraq. Stuff it! You will never be number one, and we’re sick to death of watching you think you are. What you are is f-ing stupid.

“Yes, I am a goober.”

20. Negative Internet Chatter

All you punks on the comment boards who can do nothing but talk the most meaningless trash need to channel that energy into some a little more positive: Like joining the US Army. Until then, this is you:

19. The Bud Selig Dream

How many nights has he woken up in a pile of his own splooge, thinking about the possibility of a Red Sox/Dodgers world series? Answer: a lot. That match-up would be the storyline of storylines. Which would equal nothing but ka-ching. Now wrap your dream around the name “Rays” or “Phillies,” and you know the commissioner has been alternating the splooge with the cold sweats.

“Just one more big one before they wish me out to the cornfield, God?”

18. The Chicago Cubs

Each year, their sorry-ass soap gets more depressing. Time to just say: Ain’t ever gonna happen! May we suggest: consolidation?

“Fuck that, we don’t want ‘em.”

17.OJ Simpson memorabilia

‘Nuff said.

16. Serious issues

Yes, we’re speaking about the 2008 Presidential Election. Really, who needs talk about record deficits, failing education, global warming, when we have more important stuff to tackle. Like, which candidate we would rather watch football with (Obama), and who has the hotter running mate (McCain). Issues smissues, we’re number one for a reason, citizens like this:

15. OJ Simpson Defense

Let’s face it, this is one motherf*cker who needs to be sent away for a long, long time.

“Why do ya gotta be a hater? I still cut up the white women.”

14. Selachophobia

You know you’re a freak when you have an abnormal fear of sharks, and you live in Omaha, Nebraska. Seriously, even if you swim in the ocean, the chances of you getting attacked by a shark are about equal to the chance of you growing a second penis. And if you’re from Omaha, and you’re still scared? C’mon, what do you think could happen?

13. Sideline Reporters

Especially if they’re female. Now, hear us out…It’s not like the networks are giving these bimbos, er, finely educated broads, the job because of their reporting skills…

“No, they’re giving me the job because I’ve made it the number three priority in my life, right after hair and make-up.”

12. Leaf Blowers

OK, we know these are the weapons of choice for you SBF: South of the Border Folk, but, really, it doesn’t take a third grade education to see that the only thing you’re doing is blowing the leaves to the next driveway, so your cousin can come along the next day and blow them on to the next driveway. Wait, maybe you’re not as uneducated as we thought. You are, however, very loud.

“Hope you don’t mind, I’m taking over for Jose this week.”

11. Tramp Stamps

Seriously, girls, we are sooooo over them. You should be too. They no longer work as code: “Yes, we bone.” Because too friggin’ many of you have them and we’re quite certain the original meaning (”Yes, we bone”) has now been diluted to: “I have one because she has one.”

Hey! Here’s a new trend: How about saving your stripper money for your kid’s college education? Or, would you prefer his/her edukation to consist of waking up in the trailer and saying: “Mom, can I read that thing above your crack again? And, oh yeah, pass the Cheerios.”

10. Raider Fans

You Nation Dudes are way too serious about your football. Ever heard of a life?

“Ever heard of my teeth on your throat?”

“Or my boot on your nutsack?”

9. Rabbit Ears

Grandpa, wake the f-ck up! There’s such a thing called “digital cable” now. Yes, it’s killed off your favorite entertainment weapon of choice: the rabbit ears. But what a novel concept: actually watching a show rather than spending the whole thing fiddling with the ears and cursing the set that has been laughing at your ass for the last twenty-five years.

8. Any show with the words “Jerry Springer” in it

Isn’t this a circus ring leader we’d like to see shot out of a cannon? Preferably in the direction of an Afghanistan cave. Let’s see him produce Jerry Springer Uncensored: Sexy, Stripped & Screaming there! He’d be the one stripped and screaming, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Two reasons I won’t let it happen? Money, and Santa’s helper on my right.”

7. Bialys

Sure, it’s more bread for your buck. But can someone please tell the bialys that the bagels have the market completely cornered in this case. BTW: Do you know how many day-old bialys have to be given away to homeless folks on a regular basis?

“Do not let me die, Luke.”

6. Paul Shaffer

If Letterman’s schtick has been getting old through the years (and, trust us, it has), Paul Shaffer’s act is beyond dead. It’s not that he’s completely gay (and, trust us, he is), it’s that he’s in his own little world, and just a horrendously boring, and glorified, yes-man in the fine tradition of Ed McMahon.

Why do these cats get hired? To make the host look that much more attractive? Letterman would be funnier, and more attractive, if he bounced his routine off a doorknob. It has more appeal than Shaffer. And it’s not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

“I got the music in me, I got the music in me…”

5. Doga

That’s right, put it together and you have yoga for dogs. We’re f-ing sorry. But people who can’t even leave their canines behind for a yoga class worry us. Hey, Yogi, or Yogini, or whatever the hell you’re calling yourself today: Your dog can already lick his own balls. Like he needs any more flexibility??

“I’m so Zen, I don’t even have balls anymore.”

4. The Mozart Effect

Trying to get a jump on junior’s education? May we suggest enrolling him/her in a hip hop class for toddlers? Because the only thing brainwashing them with Mozart will do is make them grow up to appreciate the finer intricacies of boredom that much faster.

Seriously, do you think by the time your punk kid grows up that knowing Mozart will give them any distinct advantage to, say, get into Harvard? Ain’t gonna happen. The only distinct advantage, will be to turn your kid into some fey, cultural snob and subject him/her to cruel beatings by the neighborhood gang who prefers Kayne West to some 18th Century relic. The same goes for Gilbert and Sullivan, Lynyrd Skynyrd, or even Bob Dylan. The times they are a changin’, don’t force your kid to be as backasswards as you.

“Look! Even as a child I looked like an old fart.”

3. Lou Holtz

OK, we know we picked on ESPN in No. 2. But we’re doing it again. Because listening to Holtz break down college football makes us laugh as if we just witnessed the entire male cast of La Cage aux Folles running for the wings screaming “Ssssssssnake!

Really, Lou, we don’t feel too badly saying this, because you were pretty much a dick when you were a coach, but you need to take a seat in the retirement home and learn to appreciate the fine art of B-I-N-G-O.

“Sssssettle down. You can’t all call BINGO! at once just because I’m sssssexy.”

2. ESPN Ticker

Come on! It used to be way cool with that “updates on the eight” thing you did. But, dudes, ESPN, you have developed a serious case of A.D.D. — or helped us further ours. Do you really think we want to read about something like a horse doping 55 times in the span of five minutes?

Seriously, have some class, get rid of that 24/7 f-ing ticker. Because we know what you’re up to with it: it’s solely a brainwashing technique, so sports fans will forever believe, however subconsciously, that ESPN is the ONLY place for sports. You want to turn us all into your little robots. The problem is: it’s working! M-U-S-T H-A-V-E S-P-O-R-T-S-C-E-N-T-E-R.

1. Phone Books

It seems like every day we come home and there’s a new f-ing phone book on our doorstep. Have the Yellow and White Page fuckwits completely spaced out on what era we’re living in? It’s called a computer, and it has rendered you obsolete. Oh yeah, except for the amount of paper you’re wasting, royally pissing off Al Gore in the process.