Today's Assignment

A couple of comics from the Bay Area, Justin Alan and Aly Jones write 400-600 words every day on topics given to us by YOU! Follow us on Twitter: @jalancomedy and @theweakestbink

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Today's Assignment: Sex/Relationships by Justin Alan

Woke up next to a hot girl again. Literally she is on her iPhone right next to me. She is browsing her own Tumblr currently.

Lately I have been keeping close relations with a couple humans at a time. Not like group sex, just one partner at a time but multiple ongoing friendships/sexual partners/"love" interests. This has been quite fulfilling. I have been able to emote a lot more. I've learned some things about my own sexuality along the way. People will obviously remain nameless in this post but everyone has something of value to bring to the table.

I've been taking an improv class (I know this sounds of topic but stay with me) and working with a group of people every week to improve as a whole is awesome. It very much works like my relationships. Not all improvisers have the same strengths or weaknesses. If I'm starting a scene and I need a goofy male character I know who to grab, if I'm starting a scene and need a sassy female character I know who to grab. It's important to know the strengths of those in your life and play to those strengths. If you don't acknowledge that people are different and should be treated as individuals you might run into some undesirable emotional responses from your loved ones. If you have one person that you take with you everywhere, and they happen to NOT like your favorite activity, things like resentment and frustration can come up.

So I'm not saying everyone should have multiple open relationships, just treat life like improvisers handle a scene, play to people strengths and if you can't or won't, don't get mad when your partner messes up or doesn't enjoy the activity at hand.

We don't all love the same things, but we all love.

Thank you for reading,

Justin Alan.

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Laziness

Hello again. If for some small reason you were paying attention you would have noticed we have been dormant for many months now. This lapse in writing was due to two things. One, we set an improbable goal of daily posts. Two, laziness. We are both adults, we both have full time jobs along with the ever demanding hobby/life dream of doing stand up comedy. With that in mind it was ridiculous of us to think we were the types of motivated people that could come home from an eight hour with day and push ourselves to write a blog every day about a new topic. But we were drunk on the rush of the challenge and it wasn't long before the binge became a problem and we were now hungover and smelly with words and sentences. Aaaaallllllllll that and laziness. Laziness is powerful. Laziness can cripple with relaxation, kill with procrastination, and feel damn good the whole while. Even now I write this laying on my bed at home really stoned and haven't really done anything all day... And it felt great! It's an addictive and dangerous drug but hot damn is it sweet! Another great example, in writing this on my phone rather than my laptop because my laptop is just far enough away that I'd have to move my current laying down position AND then have to plug it in because it's dead... BUT you are still getting the entry, am I right? Ha! Boom. Totally defending laziness, wait I think I was suppose to be against to laziness... Whatever, here we are now. So listen, I think we are going to start writing again but not so strict on the rules for ourselves. We will make an entry to the assignments when we can. We love you.

Thank you for reading

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Today's Assignment: Underwear by Aly Jones

Undearwear, underpants, underoos, underclothing, undergarments, skivvies, intimates, lingerie, boxers, briefs, panties: whatever you call them, they're the stuff most of us wear under our main 'fits to keep our most private of parts in check, but their purposes and forms are greatly varied. Underpants let you keep wearing that same pair of jeans until they can basically stand on their own without the crotchal region being a disgusting mess. They protect your delicate netherparts from the insanely chafey seam that pops up in the crotch of almost every pair of pants sold in stores. If you're a dude, they keep your bait and tackle supported during physical activity, and allow you to stow it somewhere somewhat less conspicuous when you unexpectedly want some other kind of physical activity. There are even expectations handed down to us by mothers about never leaving the house without clean underwear on, lest you get in an accident. I suppose the good news is that if paramedics or other medical practitioners have time to judge your skidmark situation, your injuries must not be that serious, so congratulations on your clean drawers.

Guys have it relatively simple when it comes to choosing their base-layer situation: boxers, briefs, boxer briefs. As a lady who sees a dude in his underoos on the daily, I am partial to the boxers or boxer briefs. Boxers have a nice casual feel about them that feel like possibilities for the day are endless. Maybe we're going to go skateboarding or play basketball, but maybe we're just going to sit around all day watching the new season of Arrested Development on Netflix. Maybe you're going to take me out to a fancy lunch, or kite-flying at the Berkeley Marina, or to the city to dick around. Maybe we're just gonna kick back and get it on all day. ENDLESS POSSIBILITIES!

Boxer briefs are cool, too, but feel like there's an extra layer of sophistication, which I'm willing to attribute to the fact that I don't think I've ever heard of a dude under 20 wearing boxer briefs. They are innately the most "grown up" form of underwear. Also, Calvin Klein puts a lot of his models in them, which means they are obviously very stylish and mature. Boxer briefs are cool because they show a little more silhouette of your entire downstairs situation- not just the front, but the rear view, too. A lot of what gets missed in boxers is revealed in boxer briefs, so they're also the hottest of the undergarment options for dudes.

Briefs are hands down the worst. I am sure there are some women or guys out there that dig a dude in briefs, but I do not get it. Briefs are the underwear of little boys and old men. It is impossible for me to look at a guy in briefs and take him seriously. They get saggy in the butt and the balls, they show off your "bikini" line (which normally isn't even a thing you have to think about with dudes), and they have a strong association with Stand By Me. You know, the scene with the leeches in the swamp? Super hot, right? OH NO. NO IT'S NOT. There is just nothing about a thick cotton pubic pouch that works out.

Ladies have way too many options, to the point that if I were to go into all of them, we'd be here all day talking about underwear and at some point it's bound to get weird. All I know is that when I first got into the market for real grown-up skivvies, I had to study at Victoria's Secret like I was preparing for some undergarment bar exam. High waisted vs. High waisted bikini, g-string vs. thong, low-riders vs. boy cut, and more. It's entirely overwhelming for a girl who just wants some basic shit to protect me from my pants and keep me from looking like a granny when my husband catches me in them. Is that so much to ask?! It sure feels like it. Now, because I am creature of habit, I have discovered a brand, a cut, and a fabric, and I will not waver. There are a few pairs of sexy fun time undies that lie in wait, but are completely non-functional as daytime underoos. Plus, if I follow mom's advice, I don't need to be cut out of my pants on a stretcher in a pair of black satin panties with a lace ass.

Thank you to MC for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Middle School by Aly Jones

I often make the mistake of getting excited about a topic I am really familiar with because I think I will have an endless amount to say, only to become stymied by the possibilities when I begin to write. Tonight is the epitome of that phenomena. Like many of you dear readers, I was once a middle schooler myself. For three years, in fact! But unlike many of you, the pathway of my life has led to me working at a middle school, so the pain of puberty and adolescence is my daily existence.

When people I find out that I work in a middle school, they often say “Wow! You’re one of the brave ones, huh?!” and laugh at how clever they are because they’re the first person ever to remark on what a strange endeavor I have chosen. But I can’t hate on them too much, because I used to say it takes a certain type of crazy to work with middle school kids. Little did I know that lurking deep down inside me was that very specific brand of crazy. What makes middle school so terrible that even grown adults shudder when it’s said aloud, as if doing so would open a portal to that precise moment of their past? The fact that developmentally middle school kids are trying to decide the ethical code they want to live the rest of their days by, assert their underdeveloped independence while being suppressed by their parents like they’re North Korea, and are desperate to be crowned king of their peers while battling frizzy hair (all over), cystic acne, unfathomable body odor, and insane mood swings. It is undeniably the worst time of every person’s life. Last year, a coworker brought in an article on a study that showed the brainwaves of an adolescent mirror those of a schizophrenic. Middle school kids are almost literally insane.

My kids and parents come to me almost daily needing help to get through the battles they’re having at home. The best I can offer is, “Don’t worry. It will take a while, maybe a long time even, but it will get better. All I can tell you is that my mom and I almost killed each other when I was in middle school- like police were called to stop us- but she’s my best friend now. So… good luck!” because there is no actual solution. Kids think they’re ready to make their own boundaries, which they aren’t because if left to their own devices they would do nothing but eat pizza and play Call of Duty while jacking off all day, so adults need to hold them responsible for stuff or else they grow up to be enormously entitled assholes, lazy unskilled leeches, or Albert Einstein. Yeah that last one is the exception to the rule, but 1:3 odds are not in your kid’s favor.

But middle school isn’t all awful. Yes, the bulk of it is. I cannot stress that enough. No one in their right mind would ever consent to reliving that time in their life. I’m just saying it wasn’t all a living hell. Lots of great things happen in middle school, too. You start to experience a day with great variety and discover a lot more about how your world works. You often get to start playing sports that allow you to represent a school team and provide a new level of competition. You have a chance to get a crush reciprocated and wobble in a stiff, sweaty pose to a KCi and JoJo song. Maybe you even get to hold hands for the first time, which was a HUGE deal even if you find it passe now, or go that extra step and have someone stick their tongue in your mouth for the first time. To this day I will never forget my middle school boyfriend asking me if I drank a lot of milk because that’s what my kisses tasted like. For the record, I did not, but if kisses are going to taste like something, I’m down for milk kisses. Grown ups might not ever ask each other that question, but during that middle school age of exploration, you don’t know to be embarrassed by an honest question about the person you’re kissing, and that is a underrated form of freedom. You might even find a friend or two that are yours for life, but they’ll never be the ones you give the BFF half-of-the-heart necklace to.

I guess those things and helping kids survive those things are why I wake up at 6 every Monday through Friday to go hang out with a bunch of narcissistic psychopaths. It doesn’t hurt that middle school kids are hilarious. They say things like “chicken dicks” as a curse, or “Happy Birthday” to you every single day even though you’ve told them over and over that your birthday isn’t until June. They insist on coming to use the single staff restroom that happens to be in your office every time they need to poop because they refuse to do it in a place where they can be heard and you can’t say no to that. They refer to testicles as "tentacles" without hesitation. So shine on, you crazy diamonds. Just keep the kissing off campus, please and thanks.

Thank you to Cara D. for today’s assignment, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Superstition by Justin Alan

POP QUIZ HOTSHOT! You sit down for dinner and you knock over the salt-- what  do you do? If you are the average chump, you grab that shaker and shake some of that sodium snow over your left shoulder. Why? Because that is the way it has been for years. Someone spills, that someone tosses the salt. You might call this superstitious, you might call it tradition, I might call it silly. There are so many common superstitious beliefs, especially if you REALLY know the definition of the word "superstition".

su·per·sti·tion  

/ˌso͞opərˈstiSHən/

Noun-

1. Excessively credulous belief in and reverence for supernatural beings.

2. A widely held but unjustified belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice...

Synonyms-

prejudice

So your typical salt tumble, your average broken mirror, maybe crossing under a ladder, are not the only ones! We can even lump in some of the classics people always say "have been around for thousands of years", such as: Tarot card reading, palm reading, Voodoo, and, my favorite to poke holes in, Astrology. It is a good ol' hoot to point out Astrology is a superstitious belief around large groups of people; one is bound to get all scrunchy-faced and start babbling about how it is a "science". Science is fact; Astrology is superstition.

Let us continue before I get too off track via my unrelenting distaste for Astrology. The most popular superstition in the whole world is probably locked away in your brain even if it is only in tiny pieces and you don't subscribe to all to mainstream hoopla. The most commonly practiced superstition on this big blue spinning ball is religion. Religion is an unflappable certainty in the supernatural. It is a widely held, but unjustified, belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice. The part that tickles me is the fact that most people with the strongest superstitious beliefs (religion, Astrology) are often the first to call something else of the same validity "silly superstition". I mean, if a damn flaming shrub can communicate with a mammal, or a bullshit artist can convince an entire religion he read gold tablets out of a hat but that no one else could, or arbitrary groupings of stars and when someone is born on a completely man-made calendar system can affect someone's personality and future, why can't someone poke a doll and hurt the person it was made to look like? Why can't I have a "lucky" pair of underpants? Let's ignore the fact that those underoos have monstrous holes in them.

Listen, it's all fake. Luck, religion, Voodoo, spilt salt, walking under ladders, splitting poles, breaking mirrors, Tarot cards, palm readers, psychics, Astrology, Numerology, and any others I am too lazy to dig up off Google, the point I am trying to make is that you can believe any and all if you like. Just don't try to make me believe it, and don't look down on others if you have one yourself.

Thank you to Tiffany Melvin (my girlfriend) for today's assignment and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Fathers by Justin Alan

My father story can be quite depressing. Seeing as this is typically a humor and/or comedy oriented magazine I will get the bummers out of the way up front, and then we can all have a nice fart and be on with the article. When I was 16 years old (25 now) my father killed himself. Thoughout his adult life he had attempted and failed this deadly serious act many times. (Was that too soon to add a joke?) Now that the sadness has been aired out, we can get on to the article. My dad was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan so who could blame him for the depression. He left the midwest for the warm California girls shortly after going awol and subsequently being discharged from the U.S. Navy. Skip a few steps and he met my mother in the San Francisco bay area, namely the east bay. They fell in love, all that gross business. They lived in Oakland for a bit, cranked out a baby (my brother, Erik), moved to Union City shortly after that first baby, then they cranked out the pimpin' ass baby who grew up to write this artcile. This is where things get good, or relatively good. In Union City, we lived in a mobile home park by the name of Central Park West. A mobile home park for those unfamiliar is a fancy trailer park, that is all. Most of the homes have sold the wheels out from under them and therefore are not mobile. Growing up there, we were quite poor. I remember when kids at school would show up to school with a new bike they got for Christmas, and I remember more vividly when my dad affixed three bicycle tires to a large plank of plywood (two on the sides near the rear, one on the front center) similar to a chariot. He built this and then realised that he did not sand this wood, so it might be dangerous for small children to play on. For safety he used some tin tape to tape up the edges. Funny thing about tin tape, it is as sharp as sheet metal. He hands it over to my brother and I and says "watch the edges, don't cut yourself." Good plan Dad! We then inquire how this fine contraption is to be propelled, to which he answers "you can ride it down hills" ...we lived in a mobile home park in Union City, not a hill in the place. So we pushed it around over speed bumps. He had a lot of imagination, with a hilarious lack of follow through. We had a hot tub for a couple summers. Let me clarify though, we had a hot tub, only the hot tub, no housing on it, no deck or wood structure, bare tubing and wiring around the sides, in a backyard that was dirt and dead rose bushes. That is how we class it up in Central Park West! Dispite the awesomely poor lifestyle we were living, the addiction problems, and consequential drug dealing problems my father faced, he pulled off being a good dad. He didn't buy us the newest and best toys. He didn't take us on vacations every summer. My father did something most fathers have trouble with, HE WAS THERE. He took us kite flying, he took us to soccer, he cooked with us, he played, he laughed, he joked. He totally slept for like weeks at a time when he was detoxing but come on now this is the Daddy Issue, not the Faggy Saint of Some Lame Church Issue. Love you, Dad. Thank you for being in my life. Thank you to Savage Henry Independent Times for today's assignment, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Facebook and Family by Aly Jones

Back in the day, Facebook was the intellectually pretentious version of the kids’ table at Thanksgiving. You needed an active .edu email address to join up, and while it was sad because all of your high school friends who were working at the drug store couldn’t join the merriment, it was safe from people like your parents. Unless, that is, your parents are those “perpetually enrolled in college” types, in which case the pain I am about to describe has been your entire existence and this piece does not apply to you. But it was safe from prying eyes; an internet orgy of angst, meals eaten and blurry pictures of toga parties. And we liked it that way.

But somewhere along the line, Mark Zuckerberg got greedy (see The Social Network) and he decided we needed to open it up to everyone. And for awhile even this was acceptable. It meant your 26 year old buddy who lived in his mom’s basement and had just gotten fired from Jamba Juice had a way to follow along with the life he could have had. This was great! You could trade stories from home and the road, but it was basically your age group. And then out of nowhere, anthropologists are still trying to pinpoint when the first Aunt Linda joined, your family got on board. No, not your age-appropriate siblings. The old people. And they came in droves.

It was a way for them to reconnect with their old friends, plan high school reunions (suck it, classmates.com!), share pictures and stories of their grandkids, and inform each other of their new, horrific health problems. Sure you knew they were there, but they did not seem to share your awareness, and life was good. But then one day, your aunt added you. Some of you might be experiencing PTSD just recalling that moment, and I would love to tell you it will all be okay BUT YOU KNOW IT’S A LIE. That moment was the beginning of the erosion of a social network so powerful it will never be stopped. Because it started with your aunt, but then it became your uncle, and then your cousin and before you knew it, your parents were showing up in your “suggested friends”. It was just a matter of time before they put their bifocals on and saw that a sidebar even existed, and better yet- you were the star!

Now your inside jokes and inappropriate pictures are no longer the well-kept secrets of your adult life. They are posted on your wall for your entire family to be dismayed and befuddled by. Occasionally one of these posts will garner a well-intended but wholly inappropriate comment from a family member, which only serves to egg your friends on. The stakes are ever more serious, and there is nothing you can do about it. Even the sparse status updates you do provide in order to say, further your comedy career, become the basis of an internet family reunion. I knew my use of Facebook was a lost cause when my mom used a post I wrote letting people I now had an email list to wish my nephew a happy first birthday. Why there? Why then? Because two days prior my brother-in-law, and father of said nephew, posted an encouraging comment. Simply seeing his name on the day of my nephew's birth triggered an irresistible impulse in my mother to shower her love on the young man. If only there were a more appropriate place for such a sentiment to be expressed... surely none of you have any ideas to offer?

So this is where we stand. Originally born as a place to showcase the darkest depths of your soul, Facebook is now a constant reminder of who you come from, and what you will inevitably become. Well played, Zuck. Well played. At this point all there is to do is have some kids of your own, get them a smart phone and hope that you can one day troll them hard enough to end up on Failbook.org. Best get to knockin' boots, but keep it to yourself unless you're cool with the constant nagging about where are my grandkids taking over every aspect of your life.

Thank you to Rhys Jones for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Nipples by Justin Alan

If you are reading this chances are you have nipples. If this post has reached and offended the very small percentage of nipless humans then I am sorry but try not to be so sensitive, Kyle XY. Seeing as I have had 25 years of experience with those pink buttons I figure it may be time to speak my mind about them. First on the docket: animals have nipples. We may disguise them behind terms like "teat" or "utter" but those are nipples my friend. I suppose it may be because saying "the kittens are sucking the mama's nipple" sounds creepy. Seriously though, we have all seen that worn out old female dog (bitch) who has the chewed up saggy nipples and we are just suppose to ignore them. The other most ignored obvious fact about nipples is, your parents have nipples. Both of them, and they have enjoyed each others many times most likely. Hell, some of your parents out there probably have even had them pierced or clamped sometime in their lifetime. Being that your parents have live much more life by volume alone, chances are they have had many good times with the lovely nips that you choose to omit from your brain. Here is the one that blows peoples minds, even though I know that this is a common knowledge fact, you (yes, you) have sucked on your mothers nipple (well statistically you most likely have sucked on that mama nip). It is weird to think of but it is true. We all have nipples, and we all need that sweet sweet tit milk. Therefore we must partake in this seemingly unsettling activity. Lastly I would like to get on to a more fun look at the nipple. FUN! Nipples can be very fun. There are so many things that can be done with them. Pinch, twist, rub, lick, tease, suck, pierce, pull, flick, caress, sooooooo many things can and should be done with nipples. Of course you must first see to examining boundaries of what verbs you are practicing and how intensely you execute them. Much, MUCH fun can be had. Nipples have a lot of nerve endings, and due to that awesome anatomy fact nippies are extra sensitive to all sorts of playful or potentially mean activities. Reach out and experiment with someone to find what sort of attention your little (or big) nips like. Listen I'm not saying we should all be flaunting our nipples out in public every chance we get, but every damn human has them, can we at least acknowledge them a little more. Maybe if you read this and start touching a nipple by the end, I have won. I'll take that for a win. Thank you to Brooke Peterson for today's assignment, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Toenail Fungus by Aly Jones

Onychomycosis, or nail fungus, as it is more commonly known, is an infection that can target any of your 20 (give or take, depending on what life has offered you) nailbeds at any moment. According to entirely accurate, user content driven Wikipedia, it affects anywhere from 6-8% of the population, who are all obviously dudes. In reality it likely affects closer to 25% of the population, but 17-19% of sufferers live in communities that only have smokin' hot female podiatrists and they are embarrassed to reveal their hideous feet. Good call, gentlemen.

  After all, how serious could nail fungus really be? It's not like it's possible to die of disgusting! So your nails are flakier than a fresh croissant from the most authentic Parisian bakery, no big whoop. Who cares if they're so florescent green it looks like you let your 4 year old daughter "paint your nails" with a hi-lighter? That one peeling off from the base to the tip? Snakes shed their dead cells in thick layers, why can't humans? Well, while it might not kill you, toenail fungus is a real pain to make disappear, and once you have it, you might have a frenemy for life. BUT CAN IT HAPPEN TO ME, DOCTOR?

  Yes. Yes it can. Especially you. The one who thinks it's acceptable to wear the same pair of socks 12 hours a day, 3 days in a row without washing them. Normally I make my guests take their shoes off, but with those stank puppies, I'm happy to make an exception. While it's definitely better for me to have a muddy swoosh imprint on my white carpet than smell what your socks are cookin', you are now seriously screwed. Shoes are the Studio 54 of toenail fungus: they're dark, full of damp air and packed so tightly the friction is almost pleasurable. When you're out trying to stay in shape at the gym, walking the halls of your high school after hours wondering where it all went wrong, or just getting some goddamned work done for once, your shoes are hotbeds of fungi getting funk-ay. In other words, your shoes are trying to kill you.

  But Aly, isn't this all a bit much? Hey, it can be as simple as an inconvenience, and as serious as amputation or death. Think of all the situations you experience during your day, and how many of them require you to have your toes smashed into your kicks like some sort of salty fish packed into a tin can tightly to ensure maximum fish in minimum space. Once you get the fungus, unless you can take a few weeks off to work to sit around in your house on a shoe-cation, you're constantly putting them at risk of reinfection. There are a billion different ways to strike back at this ailment, which is both great and terrible news. If they had found an effective way, you wouldn't have need for 2 different formulas of oral medication, an anti-fungal lacquer, and a multitude of topical applications to exist in the market. Even the most extreme treatment- surgery- isn't guaranteed to work. Yep. After having your nail surgically removed and the area cleaned up by a medical professional, that whore of a fungus can still return, for she is a stubborn mistress.

  As far as the death thing, it was kind of an exaggeration, but not entirely. People with diabetes and poor circulation are exceptionally liable to have fungal infections, especially in their toes. If this infection becomes bad enough or goes untreated, it could enter the bloodstream and lead to gangrene, which can lead to death. So while we've had a lot of fun tonight with toenail fungus, let's end it on a serious note. I urge all you guys and gals out there to keep your eye on the ball. Of your foot, and then look up and make sure your toes and nails are healthy, smooth, and free of cuts and cracks. Because while I would hate for you to die, I would hate it even more if we were together at the pool and then I looked down to see your 10 (give or take) hideous foot-talons. 

  Thank you to Mark Hurty for providing today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Automatic Flush Toilets by Justin Alan

When I was 19 I got my second real job, I was a sewer and drain technician. During the two years I worked for Roto Rooter clearing clogs out of sewers and drains, I got an interesting point of view of toilets and urinals. People will put anything in public toilets, I do mean anything. From cigarettes and condoms to ID cards and diapers. My favorite thing to see though when I walked into a public restroom was automatic flush toilets and/or urinals. Reason being was it was an easy out. Working on a automatic flush toilet valve often meant something electrical needed fixing and I was just a drain tech. I was then able shove the job onto a plumber, MWAHAHAHA! There are other ups and downs to these porcelain robots. A downside most obvious would be if you accidentally drop something in the toilet and it flushes before you can fish it out while trying not to touch your own poop. Another downside is the urinals let it flow prematurely when someone simply walks by, like a puberty riddled teen and his hot science teacher. This, of course, is a big waste of water. When I was young I could even pretend to care about wasting water, now that I am paying my own bills I will put hurt a guest for letting the faucet drip after they wash their hands. Uh-oh auto-flushie, your down 2-1 better get back in the game. Of course now we must get to the most blatantly obvious up side to the wonderful world of automated waterworks. If there is one public place even bums and hobos use their sleeve to open the door, it has to be the public restroom. I’m not sure what causes the strange layer of, what I like to politely describe as, organic adhesive all over the terra cotta tile floor and the hand dryer push button start. I’m not sure how gang members get the massive balls needed to touch a public toilet seat and carve your “crew” name into it. Personally I think it would make more sense to carve your enemy gang’s logo on a toilet seat, that way you are naught shitting on ‘em. Oops I digress. Point is that public piss palaces are the last place one wants to touch, and with the auto flush fixtures assisting with the evidence disposal one can make a hasty retreat. Automatic flush toilets are handy and hurtful, gifts and curses. Treat them well and they may help you avoid touching the piss soaked handle. I think overall though, today’s post has taught us all that if we just act sane in public loo’s then maybe we don’t have to worry about not touching anything and we can ditch the mildly wasteful auto flush toilets. Well I don’t know bout you, but I sure need to poop now. DROPPIN’ DROPPIN’ LOADS GIRL! Thank you to my girlfriend’s coworker for today’s assignment, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment crew!

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Today's Assignment: Charles Ramsey by Justin Alan

Mr. Charles Ramsey of Cleveland, Ohio. What a interesting month it has been so far for this man. Okay, first a little bit of background. in 2002, 2003, and 2004 three different young ladies vanished from the face of the earth, or, as investigators thought at that time, caught a case of dead. Those three girls were Michelle Knight (21 years old at time of disappearance, 2002), Amanda Berry (16 years of age at time of disappearance, 2003), and Gina DeJesus (14 years old at time of disappearance, 2004). The horrible rotting pile of scrotum scabs barely passible as a human that pulled off this 9-11 year kidnapping and multiple rape and restraint against will and assault and what i can assume to be the smallest penis in the known universe, Ariel Castro. With a name like Ariel Castro all I can picture is a mermaid with a burly beard and a Cuban cigar, but he doesn't stack up to figments of my imagination. This is the scum, this man is a human on the outside but a demented demon on the inside. The scariest part, everyone around knew him and never thought twice about his morals. He was able to fool countless neighbors and if not for this hero, Mr. Charles Ramsey, he would still be living out his ludicrous fantasies for who knows how long. Well now that I have vented some of my anger toward Anal-Wart (that is Ariel's name for the rest of the post), on the the hero part.

May 6th after Ramsey traveled via bicycle to the local Mickey D's for a Big Mac and had returned home to eat, he heard some white broad screaming and crying like someone was dying. He dashed outside holding onto the Big Mac, thats good food right there no need to waste, he saw that his other neighbor had ran toward the screaming as well but could talk the screaming lady down due to a language barrier. The hollering woman was stuck inside Ramsey's next-door neighbor's house and had been for 10 years now. Without question the two grown-ass men kick the crap out of the door until the lady was able to crawl out with her 6 year old daughter (who had been birthed in that house). After escaping the Temple of Doom, she asked to call 911 and told them her name, Amanda Berry, and that there were still more captives held up in Anal-Wart's home-sweet-home. After some frantic banter with two different 911 operators (one of which was reported to have hung up on Berry) the Po-Po were on there way. After everyone was rescued and Señor Psycho (new name for Anal-Wart) was arrested, Mr. Ramsey was interview by local and national news. He quickly became an internet hero and was praised and meme'd by many. My favorite interview has got to be a tie between Anderson Cooper's interview where Ramsey told Cooper regarding reward money "ya know what, give that money to them [the victims], as you already know I got a job." and the phone interview with Snoop Dogg were Ramsey told Snoop that he was going to kick the crap out of Anal-Wart and that Snoop should be present for that event. Now because this is the age of information many people have found and posted that Charles was convicted of domestic violence in 2003. He has since served his sentence in jail and not repeated any of those offenses. People can change and by the way he was so quick to help a woman who he thought was merely a victim of domestic violence at first I feel that he has cleared his name. Now I think it is time for McDonald's to get off there cop orate high horse and give this man the "Free Big Macs for Life" card. He endorsed their product while also saving some lives. Here is to you Mr. Charles Ramsey.

Thank you to Anthony Beavers for today's assignment, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Polar Bear Gravity Machine Disaster by Aly Jones

My actual topic is: "A world where gravity is powered by a giant polar bear on a stationary bike at the North Pole. But the bear is getting sick," but it felt extreme trying to fit all that in my header. So let's get to it, shall we?

You guys, I have terrible news. As we ALL know, the Earth's gravitational pull is powered by an enormous polar bear pedaling a custom Schwinn stationary bicycle connected to the Earth's core by a series of cables installed eons ago by sentient bacteria, working together like a team of ants that teach at MIT. The energy transferred by this tireless ursine's pedaling is all that has been keeping us grounded for the entirety of human existence. Countless gallons of a top-secret salmon flavored Gatorade have been consumed by our gravitational hero as he worked without ceasing to ensure we didn't float off aimlessly into the stratosphere, but CNN is now reporting that Albeart Einstein has fallen ill with a rare case of Bear AIDS and is losing his ability to keep the bicycle going.

It seems that some years ago, during an Elf Basketball Association All Star weekend, there was an orgy centered around Albeart where copious amounts of egg nog, the real kind, not some bullshit you get in the dairy section for children, were consumed and things got a little out of hand. No one is sure whether Al contracted the virus through a hypodermic needle used to inject heroin between his paws or from Santa, who we all know gives a "gift" to more than just the children on Christmas Eve, but regardless of the source, Albeart is fading at an alarming rate.

If it were possible to find another gargantuan bear capable of pedaling a bike connected to the Earth's core, then we would have less to fear. Unfortunately, Albeart is a carry over from prehistoric times and bears of his size are now only found in books of North Polean mythology. People of Earth, we must find a way to save Albeart. Our life on this planet depends on it.

In order to save Albeart, and in that ourselves, we must find a cure. That is why I am starting the Bike Across the World for Life Saving, or BAWLS. Each rider that cares about BAWLS enough to participate will be raising money to fund scientists that are working 24/7 to discover a treatment to keep Albeart alive. In the meantime, the Gatorade factory has gone into hyper-production of the salmon flavored beverage Al holds so dear. They are asking all fishermen to please donate their hauls in order to keep up with the demand necessary to fuel Albeart through this difficult time.

To learn more about the Bike Across the World for Life Saving event or support a rider, please call 1-800-SAVEAL. If not for yourself, then for the children.

Thank you to @primawesome for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Woman's Shoes/High Heels by Justin Alan

“Click, clack, click, clack.” You wouldn’t think that such a simple sound could turn men on but if that repetitive, hard sound is coming from a pair of high heels snug on the footies of a lady, you can bet it is at least turning me on. Women’s shoes come is an uncanny amount of styles. My favorite of these being high heels, pumps, wedges, etc I love ‘em. High heels came in countless forms prior to the shapes and styles we are used to today. Egyptians had some of the earliest shoes that could be traced the now-a-days boner inciting stilettos. Only royal “Mr./Mrs. I’m-super-important” jerks got to wear them, and for (what historians assume) ceremonial purposes. Well, royals and butchers that is, though butchers used them for much gnarlier reasons, to wade through the blood and carcasses. Skip a few millennia and the Turks made things called chopines, ranging from 7-8 inch heels all the way to a retarded 30 inch heel which often required either a cane or A SERVANT to assist with F***ING WALKING! After that silliness got the chop Frenchies were playing around with the idea of heels, though they were not as functional as today’s heels they certainly beat the hell out of those ass-crazy Turks. Seeing as the sewing machine wasn’t invented yet all these shoes had to be hand made, which was the height of tedium. This prompted the creation of the “straight shoe” or as I like to call them the “OUCH!” shoes. See, these “straight shoes” were made to be able wear them on either foot so that shoe makers didn’t have to create two patterns per pair. Seriously, that had to hurt. Heels went through crazy amounts of good and bad media through their birth in French fashion. Hell, puny lil’ Napoleon even banned them to show equality (personally I think he may have needed a pair to look anyone in the eye). Other parts of Europe caught on and so did the good ol’ U.S. of A. We weren’t as embracing as Europe at first, the stick-up-the-ass puritans banned them and burned chicks that wore them to attract men claiming those poor broads were witches. Eventually ‘Merica straightened out and build their first heel factory in 1888. Since then, an insane amount of attention in fashion has been paid to the leg and ass lifters. Fetishes were born, subcultures were founded, but even more important (in my opinion) they were accepted by more and more women. I’m a huge fan of a woman in heels. I doubt I will ever be able to shake that. I know it most likely has more to do with the cheek lifting power rather than the rich historical importance but now that you know a little bit you can play it off cool and intellectual. Hey intellectual is usually favored over drooling and stuttering. Listen ladies, I’m not saying you should exclusively wear these foot murdering shoes, but now and again why not don a pair, you know, for history. Yeah, history, that’s it, history.

Thank you to Heidi Krauss for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Bikes on BART by Aly Jones

Bay Area Rapid Transit, aka BART, is 104 miles of railway connecting cities throughout the East Bay, San Francisco and Peninsula enabling people to get from place to place while standing in a pool of vomit and listening to the latest 2 Chainz track as it crackles through the cell phone of a thoughtful teenager. The fifth busiest rapid transit in the United States, BART is best known for their "police", who will at the very least harass you and at worst murder you and get away with it. While BART isn't exactly the most affordable form of transportation, it's a great way to avoid the hassle of parking at your destination and really get some work done on Angry Birds. It's also a much more environmentally friendly option than driving, which means it's the choice distance transit method for cyclists throughout the Bay.

I admit I am using the term "cyclist" loosely. I refer not to your Lance Armstrong types: bespandexed ladies and gents in aerodynamic helmets and Oakleys, pushing themselves to the limits of their physical capacity atop an 8 pound carbon fiber miracle of modern technology. BART cyclists are just people who happened to ride a bike to the BART station and either need it at their destination or know that their seat will be missing when they get back to MacArthur if they leave it there. This means that these fine folks decide that their bike needs a seat on the train, often to the detriment of those around them. There are many different types of bikes one can see on BART, which for a lady that grew up working in a bike shop can be fun and triggering.

I love the kids with the BMX bikes ready to go tear it up. Partially because they remind me of me as a kid, but mostly because their bikes are small and therefore much easier to navigate around. There are the folding commuter bike people, who despite my own undeniable nerdiness, make me want to give them a swirly while stealing their lunch money. There are the people with the K-Mart bikes that just need their wheels to get to work, and are generally pretty considerate because they are as annoyed with their carry on as you are. And then there are the worst people in the world: fixed gear riders.

There is nothing inherently wrong with riding a fixed gear bike. The problem is that this specific model of velocipede has been usurped by hipsters. These skinny-jeaned, fashionably four-eyed flannel-wearers wield their bicycles on BART trains as if they are the only ones there. Sorry, pregnant lady amputee. You're going to have to stand because the asshole convention on the Fremont train needs to make sure everyone can see and hear how cool they are as they prattle on about the latest house show they went to, oblivious to the fact that they're blocking the handicapped seating. Oh, did you need to get out at Civic Center? Better get up and walk through to the adjoining train because the Steel Frame Army is not interested in moving anytime soon. What do you mean it's peak hours and they're not even supposed to have their bikes on the train? We don't need no rules. Fuck the establishment, and fuck your ability to get on a train so you can get to work. You're just a cog in the system, man.

These are the riders that give all cyclists on BART a bad name and make people cringe when they hear the phrase "bikes on BART". As a bike lover, BART rider, and decent human being, I urge you, fixie riders, pull your head out of your ass and let an old lady sit down. It will definitely alleviate the general desire of all around you to "accidentally" shove you onto the track, and it might even manage to melt a little of that ice heart you're lugging around.

Thank you to David Minhondo for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Breakfast Cereal by Justin Alan

Crunch! Or rather, Snap, Crackle, and Pop! When it comes to breakfast there is but one word necessary that need be mentioned: cereal. Go ahead, doubt me, i brought facts up in this piece. Close to a third (31%) of all American breakfast eaters chow down on the old childhood classic more frequently than any other breakfast food. "Mmmmmmm tastes good M***** F*****!" I can hear Sammy Jackson yelling every morning over a hearty bowl of Cocoa Pebbles and some black coffee. If you fall under that category of bowl and spoon traditionalists, like me, then you (on average) consume 10 lbs of cereal a year. The average cereal box is only between 12oz-20oz, making us seem like we may have a problem. The way I like to look at cereal, especially the sugary 'bad for you' brands, is it's breakfast, and breakfast should be your biggest and most calorie, sugar, and fat filled meal to fuel you through your day without getting fired from your job for napping because you were tired from not eating breakfast and while you were asleep someone stole all the merchandise… I digress--that is for another time. Back to the fun of the morning crunch. My favorite cereal when I was a small child was a little know ditty by that creeper Puritan fella Quaker by the name of Quisp. My first encounter with this cereal was when I was growing up in a mobile home park in Union City, California. I know this sounds redundant, but we were quite, um let's say 'on a low budget', so we frequented such fine grocery establishments as the Grocery Outlet. On one typical visit, strolling through the cereal/other boxed goods aisle, I come across a bright blue box with a strange cartoon alien that seem to have one of those propeller hats fused to his head printed on the front. I asked my mom to try it, and seeing as most cereals in that store were about one dollar, she granted me my request. I loved that damned cereal. Upon sitting down to write this, I did my normal researching for stats and whatnot, but then I looked up Quisp and found two things: 1. a youtube video of an old commercial for Quisp that really focused on calling the cereal an "ENERGY CEREAL" (http://youtu.be/8bUSt-JQdPg) and 2. that I can order some straight off of the Quaker website (http://quakeroats.elsstore.com/view/category/209-quisp/). I get paid in like 2 hours, I'm 'bout to order that so fast! Since I haven't been able to find Quisp in many years (nor did I look due to a near-fatal case of lazy) I have found many other cereals that satisfy the little fat kid deep in my soul. Blueberry Muffin Tops by Malt-O-Meal, Reese's Puffs Cereal by General Mills, along with many others and countless gallons of every percentage of milk available helped shape this lovely round belly of mine. I don't know what you are filling your bowl with, but if you are pouring a bowl at all we can be friends. So crunch on, my friends. Keep the childhood and sugary breakfast nostalgia alive, fight on through boring day jobs with the energy of Wheaties or Cheerios! Now stop reading this nonsense and get back to your bowl, that prime product is going to get soggy.

Thank you to Aly Jones for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.

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Today's Assignment: Comic Strips by Aly Jones

Some people call them funny pages, some people call them comic strips, but at some point in their lives, everyone has had one cut out of the newspaper and taped to some household surface as a reminder of something silly, profound or both. When I was a teenager, my parents would often cut out a strip of Zits and tape it to my door as a way of mocking my loud music, refusal to wear the "right clothes", and irrational confidence in my driving. For each other, they'd cut out some ridiculous Dagwood comic as a passive aggressive reminder of each other's flaws, and occasionally, an expression of the love they shared. Most of the time it was some bullshit about sandwiches or tv shows. No one read Doonesbury. It was always a little too preachy.

  Just kidding, Garry Trudeau. Doonesbury is great and in no way makes me want to eat a gun as I am reminded of how awful politics are. But that's the thing about comic strips: they can be used to addressed the mundane relationships one has with their neighborhood raccoons, their cat's insatiable love of lasagna, or the absurdly obedient circus family in town. They can also simply be bizarre combinations of images and words that make us laugh. No matter what your flavor is, there is something for you in that slim, ad-stuffed section of the newspaper. And therein lies the problem: print media is dying. With the growing popularity and access to the internet (which I will NOT capitalize as if it is an actual place, sorry Al Gore), the need for a daily newspaper delivery is rapidly decreasing. Online I can get all of the news I want, more current and ever-updating in a way that print media cannot compete with, no matter how many evening editions they decide to revert to. I have lived independently from my parents for nearly 11 years now, and in that time I have never subscribed to a newspaper because I've never needed to. No, not even from those kids who promise me the money is going to fund their baseball team's trip to Madagascar for the first ever little league game against a team of giraffes. As grandma always said: why buy the paper when you can get the news for free and with much greater speed? 

  The greatest tragedy looming over us as newspapers go extinct is the loss of the funny pages. Sure you have to wade through Funky Winkerbean and whatever the fuck is happening in Apartment 3-G to get to the good stuff, but oh is that laughter great when you get there. To this day I quote Far Side comics I first saw at age 8 that somehow find their way into my daily life. This one, for example, comes to mind far too often:

  There is a joy and a simplicity that comes from reading the funny pages that is matched only by reading an anthology of great comic strips. Some of my best moments with kids have come from introducing them to Calvin and Hobbes, even if they do insist on pronouncing it "Hobes". Maybe the solution when newspapers go the way of the Far Side itself is a comics-only mailer, because I'd totally be down to pay for that. If only Silly Putty hadn't changed their formula, because then we could make pressings to last a lifetime.

  Thank you to Justin Alan for today's topic, and thank YOU for reading.