Who Writes This Stuff?

A girl I know called me early one morning. She sounded upset. She skipped the formalities and got right to her reason for calling. “Mike Leon, am I a slut?” she asked. She called me because she knew I would tell her the truth.

I don’t know what brought this on. I can only guess someone else called her that and it upset her. She did get around quite a bit and I know people said things like that about her. I don’t believe in bizarre subjective terms like that though.

“What does that mean?” I said. “I don’t know what that word means. What makes somebody a slut?”

I still don’t get it. Is there a magic number of sex partners that makes you a slut? Who is bestowing this title? Is there a committee to determine the requirements of slutdom? If there’s a committee to determine which planets still count as planets then there must be some kind of slut committee. Right?

There isn’t. Try asking people you know what makes somebody a slut. I ask people all the time and everyone gives me a different answer. I’ve got news for you. If everybody has a different definition of a word then that word is bullshit.

The truth is that slut is just a bullshit word people throw around when they’re sore about something the slut did. Slut has about as much meaning as assface or peniswrinkle. It’s like when someone beats me at Starcraft and I call them a faggot. It’s not because they have sex with men (though they probably do). I’m just angry because they’re better at Starcraft. If a girl calls another girl a slut that means she’s just angry because that girl gets more sex than her. If a guy calls a girl a slut it means he’s angry she has sex with other guys instead of him.

Slut is like the new witch. In the middle ages, if some hot girl made the fat girls jealous they would tell the whole village she made a pact with Satan and the villagers would burn her at the stake. This is the same thing, and it’s another reason fat girls suck.

I told my friends about this a few nights ago and they told me that I’m wrong. Nate Shryock said that I’m completely insane. He said it’s just a relative definition and if people use the word then it must mean something. A slut is somebody that has more sex partners than the average people in their region.

I asked around the room and Kreso’s girlfriend had a math formula for determining if a girl is a slut. She said to take the number of sex partners and divide it by the age of the slut to get value x. If x is higher than the average x value for other girls that same age plus the standard deviation then that girl is a slut. That’s all fine and good, except for the average number of sex partners.

What exactly is that number?

I googled it and found an ABC news poll which said women in the United States have an average of 6 sex partners in their lifetime. The same poll said that a more accurate number would be 3, which is the median number found in that study (midpoint or cutoff between the high and low numbers). I asked the two girls present at the time and they both had more than 3 different sex partners. I called them both sluts. If you account for age then they are super duper ridiculously slutty, because 3 is a median for a whole lifetime and they are both only in their twenties. In fact, just about everyone I know has had 3 or more sex partners. Obviously, 3 is not a good number.

So should we use the average instead? I consulted Eddie Herrmann, super genius extraordinaire. He said we could use the average but we would need the entire number set of the study in order to determine the standard deviation. I couldn’t find the standard deviation in the study.

I did find another question showing that 90% of women answering the study have only had one sex partner in the last year. I suggested a formula where number of sex partners/years sexually active=x and x > 1 = slut. The problem with that formula is that people could potentially have a different sex partner every year and never be called a slut. Elderly people could be well into sixty sex partners and still not be sluts. We know sixty is well over the lifetime average, so that formula doesn’t work.

I checked Wikipedia to find the average life expectancy in the United States is 77.5 years. Then I divided 77.5 by 6 to get 12.91, which is the average number of years between sex partners for a woman. That means you can divide your age by 13 (rounded up from 12.91) to find the average number of sex partners for a woman your age. I’m 25, so an average woman my age has had 1.9 sex partners, not accounting for a standard deviation.

But what about the standard deviation? The poll results didn’t include one (or the entire number set), but with the numbers they did publish and assuming a standard bell curve I was able to estimate a standard deviation of about 4. The results are not actually a standard bell curve, as numbers of sex partners drop off sharply after 10 for women (further evidence of my theory that most women have been with 1; 3 or 9 men). That means 4 is probably a slightly high estimate, so I’m giving you dirty trollops the benefit of the doubt. With all of that I was able to produce this formula:

This is the slut formula. I wrote it all chalkboard style so I would feel like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting.  X is age in years and Z is the maximum number of sex partners a woman that age is allowed before she is a slut.

But what about men? They can’t be sluts? Sure they can. You just adjust the formula for the average number of male sex partners, which is 20…

Wait, what? American women average 6 sex partners and American men average 20? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to show you what’s wrong with that idea. If I’m locked in a room with Jack Bauer, Adriana Lima, and Christina Hendricks and Jack and I both have sex with both of the girls, then the girls average 2 sex partners and so do Jack and I. If I nail both of the girls, but Jack only taps one of them, then the girls average 1.5 partners and so do Jack and I. If Jack and I each shag one of the ladies, then they average 1 partner and so do Jack and I. No matter what happens in that room, the men and the women come out with the same average number of partners (unless the girls pack a boxed lunch… if you know what I mean).

There is only one way the numbers could be skewed this much. Someone is lying about how many sex partners they had. Is it men or is it women? It’s both. Men lie up and women lie down. You’re all a bunch of lying liars, pants blazingly on fire.

After we determined that everyone in the world is full of shit, Nate decided that the magic number is 10. If you have sex with more than 10 people, you are a slut.

I still stick to my guns from the beginning of the whole story. Slut is a bullshit word and I call bullshit on it. It’s bullshit like the bullshit numbers people give in surveys. It’s bullshit like the bullshit formulas I came up with in this article. It’s bullshit.

Still, getting back to my promiscuous lady friend, I think she wanted a more definitive and reassuring answer.

“Fine. Whatever,” my friend said, dismissing my confusion over the word slut. “Am I a whore then?”

That question is easy to answer.

“Have you ever had sex for money?” I asked.

“Mmmmm…” she thought about it. “I did it for weed once. Does that count?”

“Uh. Yeah. I think that makes you a whore.”

“I don’t wanna be a whore!”

She should have thought of that before she performed sex acts in exchange for goods and/or services.

“At least you’re not a slut,” I said.

It was the most awkward moment in the whole history of moments. It was the grand daddy of them all. That is to say if Gilgamesh had walked in on his mom in the middle of an H-clap between Grendel and Odysseus that awkward moment would still come in second to the one I created myself some five thousand years later. This is the story of that moment.

It was a snowy Saturday night in December. I got off work at closing time and got a call from a friend that some friends of his were having a party. I didn’t know these people and I really didn’t feel like trekking to a party through the snow when I could sit at home in front of the TV and stay warm, but my friend gave me an address and I realized the party was barely a quarter mile from my house. He also said there would be girls there. I would have been sort of a poop not to go.

So I shaved and put on some decent clothes and headed out through the snow to the party with strange people I didn’t know. It was only when I arrived at the party that I realized just how strange these strange people would be.

Everyone there except my friend and I had multiple pieces of metal stuck in their faces. Elephant pants were a staple and chains were practically a requirement for entry. For the record, I don’t approve of any of these fashions. Elephant pants are impractical. Chains are just extra crap to get caught on something (worse than ties). Unusual piercings mean you got molested as a child. The crazier the piercing, the worse the molestation.

My friend introduced me to the people at the party. Some of them had ICP tattoos. I should have left when I noticed that. I didn’t. Instead I walked around trying to get to know people. One of these people was the host of said party. We’ll call him Steve. Steve didn’t like me. I didn’t know why Steve didn’t like me. I hadn’t said anything to offend him (yet). I tried a couple times to make Steve laugh or bring up some common interest. I failed at all these attempts. Steve just inexplicably hated me. I could sense it.

Now about the same time I realized Steve hated me, a very attractive girl walked into this party. She had the whole suicide girl look going with the bottle black hair and the tattoos but, all that aside, this chick was smoking hot. She had a body like a work of fine art. Thing is, there was something very familiar about her and I couldn’t help but stare from across the room trying to figure out where I had seen her before. Did she know someone I know? Did she shop at one of my stores? I did a stint at Hot Topic. I bet I met her there. I couldn’t quite place it.

Another twenty minutes or so went by and another girl walked in fitting almost exactly the same profile. Tattoos. Body piercings. Figure like a battle axe. I knew I’d seen her before. I thought about asking her where, but that sounds like a line and I don’t like to be the line guy. I’m more creative than that, even when I’m obviously hitting on girls.

So I sat down at a desk chair in front of Steve’s computer. As I was sitting there, pretty much in the way of the computer, everyone stopped fiddling with the iTunes playlist as they had been. As a consequence of this, the screen saver started up. Steve’s screen saver featured a long series of pictures of a model following the same peculiar trend as the other girls I had noticed at this party. As I sat watching the bizarre pictures of this strangely familiar model I began to put the pieces together. It was when I saw a photo in which I could clearly see her name tattooed on her body that I realized exactly who she was. She was a stripper. They were all strippers. I didn’t recognize them because they had clothes on.

I shouted across the room to my friend while pointing at the monitor “Isn’t that the stripper that gave _____ a lap dance that one time?”

The room fell completely silent. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. Faces fell ghostly white. You could hear iron oxidizing in the vacuum of my comment. I swear even the stereo stopped for that moment as if it somehow knew that I had just stabbed the massive African elephant in the room with the stone spear that is my glaring insensitivity.

My friend dashed across the room to shut me up. He leaned over and said “That’s Steve’s girlfriend. She killed herself. Blew her brains out like two months ago. Don’t talk about it.”

He even had a kid with her. There were pictures of the baby hanging around the place. I just figured he split up with the kid’s mom or something. No wonder the guy seemed cranky.

It turns out Chris Rock was wrong. No matter what a stripper tells you, she might kill herself and leave you to raise her child alone.

There’s a new sensation sweeping the country that has rap fans cheering – and some parents groups in outrage.

Faggot Bruce, touted as the first homosexual hardcore gangster rapper, is at the top of many kids’ lists this Christmas season with hits like “Turd Tickler” and “Mash That Dinner” – hits that many parents say are too racy for kids to listen to.

“I can’t believe they’re into this,” says Charlene Hildeburger of Price Hill. “When we were kids it was ‘I wanna hold your hand’, now they’re singing about gay butt sex. I can’t believe it!” Hildeburger, a school teacher and mother of three, first heard about Faggot Bruce on the playground. “The kids are just walking around repeating this stuff, and I’m not sure they really understand what they’re saying.”

For the uninitiated, some of Faggot Bruce’s music can be heard here. Warning – Faggot Bruce isn’t safe for work. He often references racism and prison rape as well as consensual homosexual acts in his lyrics, lyrics like:

It’s big brucie from the blacktop

used to love pussy but now I’m into bangkok

I’m the angel of dick and you’re a sinner

spread that ass I’ma mash that dinner

verse two coming through with a thickness

fuck females I’m all about the dickness

Despite the adult content, Bruce’s music has proven especially popular with youngsters. “Bruce is about the way of the world,” says Dontez Evans, 11, of the west end. “Before I heard Bruce I was bein’ about the bitches and then I heard Bruce and I’s like damn doin’ gay shit is real hard. It is what it is.”

Hildeburger was so upset when she heard Bruce’s lyrics and his effect on impressionable kids that she formed a parents group. Families Against Prurience claims that Faggot Bruce turns kids into racist homosexuals. “This guy is out there singing about these things and kids are hearing it and then they think it’s cool to do this stuff.”

We asked Cody Phelps, 10, a fourth grader from Indian Hill, about Faggot Bruce. “At recess you go out with your crew and lay some tracks down and pound some man ass. Sometimes I suck the dick, but usually I’m up in those cheeks balls deep cause I’m a real hard nigga and I’ll shank you.”

Perhaps more disturbing is the noticeable large scale effect. “The boys don’t talk to us anymore,” says Laquisha Johnson, 14, a junior high student, “they just hang out behind the dumpster doing gay shit. It messed up.”

“Straight kids be trippin,” says Evans. “There ain’t no straight guys here no more. Anybody can be straight. That don’t prove nothing.”

“Prison rape is a part of life, but what bothers us is that he uses the n word so much,” said Rev. James Howlett III of the west end when we asked him about Bruce’s impact on the community. ” Does he have to use that word? We’re not even sure he’s black.”

Howlett touches on a sensitive subject among Bruce’s fans – the reclusive nature of the artist himself. Faggot Bruce does not do public appearances. There are no pictures of him available and he doesn’t do interviews. No one knows what he looks like or if he’s even a real person. We certainly weren’t able to secure an interview.

White, black, real or imaginary, parents beware. Faggot Bruce is a revolutionary force in today’s youth culture – and he doesn’t appear to be going anywhere soon.

I think one of my friends might be a serial killer. I haven’t seen any evidence of course. And I’m not going to tell you what I’ve seen, specifically, to bring me to this conclusion. I’ll only say that this person has a certain vibe that says serial killer to me.

It works like this. I can tell you exactly what is wrong with every person I know. Yeah, myself included (I have a massive superiority complex – way bigger than yours). I know, for instance, that McBlankedy has a drug problem and Blankeypants is stuck in the closet and Blankette has serious daddy issues. Everybody has some kind of major flaw. No one is excluded.

But then there’s one guy. This one guy is just the coolest guy I know. There isn’t anything wrong with him. He’s never in trouble. He’s always agreeable. Everybody likes him. He looks good. He keeps up with pop culture.

I started thinking about this and it didn’t add up. You can’t always be positive and agreeable. You can’t like and be liked by everybody. Every person has their own viewpoints and just in the course of every day life you must meet SOMEONE who doesn’t agree with at least one of yours… Unless you’re a hollow man – someone who moves through the masses as nothing more than a facade – a wolf in sheep’s clothing if you will. The hollow man simply nods and agrees as many times as necessary to lure in his prey. Then, when they least suspect, he strikes.

I thought I was having one of my many paranoid delusions when this theory first crossed my mind. Then a few weeks ago I was driving somewhere with another mutual acquaintance when possible hollow man’s name came up. “You know, I think there’s something a little off about #####,” he said. So I inquired further. Turns out we both feel the same way. ##### is just that guy we’re going to see on the news in ten years because they found eleven dead prostitutes in his house. And when it happens everyone will say how shocked they are because he was such a nice guy.

So this led me to a brief ethical dilemma. What does one do when they have a sneaking suspicion their friend may be a serial killer?

I know my answer. Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m pretty sure I don’t fit the victim profile, so I’m safe. And I like to have quirky friends. It makes life more interesting.

Went to mall at three. Walked through sea of filth on way to Hot Topic store. Mall cries with pain of dying woman raped to death by blacks and Mexicans. Not enough of me to kill all blacks and Mexicans.

Bought team Edward shirt. Got I like boys that sparkle pin to affix to face. Jacob too brown. Brown people plague upon society reigning down destruction like mortar blast crashing through roof of school building to kill hundreds of innocent children. Can only hope another smallpox comes to wash away ocean of sin made with brown godlessness.

Went to Friday’s. Waitress asked if came from costume party. Told her have looked down into pit and seen screaming faces of thousand burning souls. Ordered petite sirloin from right portion right price menu. Anything else too much food.

Used Friday’s bathroom. Was out of seat covers so had to line seat with tp again. Had blowers instead of paper towel dispenser. God has given up on us.

Saw New Moon fourth time after Fridays. Is awful compared to books. Leaves out so much. Still not as bad as last Harry Potter. Girl in front of me texted during movie. Broke six of her fingers. Girl doesn’t text anymore.

Stopped at Borders to grab new Teen Beat with Jonas Brothers on cover. New Miley CD was on sale. Couldn’t resist. Saw fat guy pick up Al Franken book. Force fed him paperback Fountainhead till blood shot out his eye sockets.

Stopped at dry cleaners for extra trenchcoat. Forgot ticket. Had to go back. Got home just in time for Glenn Beck. Beck too easy on Obamacare. Sent him crucified baby rabbit with note. Said shape up or you’re next.

Today I went on a job interview. For my job interview I suited up so that I would look like a real power player. I’m not a suit guy at all, even though I do look good in them. The damn things are just too uncomfortable. You can’t stretch in them. You would definitely be at a disadvantage in a karate fight. They have impractical buttons and cuffs and pleats and a jacket that doesn’t keep you warm, but the dumbest part of the suit – the DUMBEST part – is the necktie. It always gets me wondering. What the hell is the point of a necktie?

I’m serious. Have you ever thought about it? People wear them every day but they don’t stop and think “what’s this thing for?”  They should. It’s completely pointless. It’s a long strand of fabric that you tie around your neck to make your chances of having an industrial accident increase very slightly. That’s all it does. It makes you just a little more likely to be sucked into a lathe or press or baler or some other heavy machine you might be standing near. Why do we do this to ourselves?

The best theory I can come up with was that the tie was originally intended as a hands free handkerchief of some sort. You could use it to blow your nose or wipe up a spill with something conveniently hanging from your neck. Over time, people got tired of seeing mucus encrusted on each other’s chest ornaments and the tie evolved into an entirely asthetic device. I checked the repository of all knowledge (Wikipedia) for evidence that supports my theory.

According to Wikipedia the necktie began life as the cravat. A cravat is one of those frilly things like George Washington is wearing on the dollar bill. Apparently, in the 1600′s the French hired Croatian mercenaries to fight for them (insert joke about the French hiring other people to fight for them). The mercenaries wore frilly cravats tied around their necks as part of their uniform. French citizens in Paris became enamoured with these things and simply had to have them. Cravats began popping up all over France and soon the trend spread to England much like the Rage virus from 28 Days Later.

The cravat evolved into the necktie at the beginning of the industrial revolution because men wanted something that was easier to tie at work. This sounds to me like a terrible idea. You can only imagine how many people died because their necktie got caught in a machine. No one cared enough to keep any statistics though, because they were all factory workers and back then factory workers weren’t people (they were like prostitutes are today).

I had some trouble finding out why the Croatians wore the original cravats in the first place. I asked my friend Kreso, who happens to be Croatian, and he said that the women would tie cravats on their men when they left for war so that other women would know they were spoken for. That means Croatians wore cravats for basically the same reason guys wear their pants low in prison: To let everyone know they’re a bitch.

So I learned two things today. First I learned that I was right all along about the necktie. It’s stupid. Second I learned that, as with many other completely retarded things, the French are largely to blame.