The Joy of Flex

Something happens when you turn thirty, we all know it girls, am I right? What many of you don’t know is that it can turn you into a drunk 60 year old from West Palm Beach. Just take one of those things they use to child-proof kitchen cabinets, pop it in your mouth and crank the Andrea Bocelli.

High Hangin’ Fruit

You can always count on The Daily News to serve up hard-hitting, life-changing perspectives and insights.

Here, they tackle ‘Short Penis Syndrome’, the scourge of American men (and women, duh) everywhere. Cock experts around the world weigh in, even the prestigious Mayo Clinic, which serves up stunning scientific conclusions such as “A lot of pubic hair around the base of your penis can make your penis look shorter.”

Personally, any feelings of inadequacy I may or may not have are assuaged by Larry David, who flipped the script on the whole issue…methinks the lady doth protest too much.

Three Square Beers a Day

 

 

 

 

 

So, an Iowan man went on a 46 day fast, drinking nothing but beer for sustenance, and broke the fast with a bacon smoothie. His weight niether rose not fell, and doctors measured no change in his overall health after the ordeal.

Suck it, Libs.

Prius Envy

For me, one of the biggest demerits about NYC living is the lack of car ownership. Driving fast (AKA “like an asshole”…thanks mom) is a man’s most accessible act of pseudo-rebellion, and boy is it fun. As this video demonstrates, it’s hella funner when you have a modified Audi S4 and a deft left foot.

via Jalopnik

They See Me Rollin’…

The Bring Your Own Big Wheel (BYOBW) Derby, held every Easter in San Francisco, deftly combines everything wrong and right about California, today’s youth, and American culture at large. It is exactly what it sounds like: thousands of whacky, carefree, radical-conformist trustafarians hurtling down a hilly SF street on Big Wheels, tricycles, and garbage cans.

Mock HipsterHatingTM aside, it looks pretty darn fun.

via Fark

Power Chord Fridays

Power chords are not the exclusive domain of rockers—OH NO! In the hands of skilled synth-beat spinsters with saccharine voices, power chords can elevate us to new heights of pop euphoria.

With that in mind, please enjoy “Easy Lover” by Phil Collins (with a vocal assist from a
Mr. Phillip Baily…yes, I had to Google it).

Want less sound quality and more 80′s shlock? Here’s the video.

It’s been a banner week at wheeeeeeee!, and as always we thank and honor our devotees, mammal or otherwise.

BOO, HEAD SHOT!!!

Yesterday I was on an overseas flight sitting behind a French family—two brothers and a mother. The brothers were about five and seven years old. During the flight, the boys got antsy, and the younger brother began running up and down the aisle antagonizing the seated elder, laughing and squealing all the while. During the course of this horseplay, the mother did nothing, and because I was in the aisle, my seat, leg, arm, and head were glanced several times by the little rascal. It was nothing too egregious, and to be honest I don’t blame the kids for being restless…we were flying fucking Continental. Those seats blow.

About 50 minutes into this episode, the rambunctious child stopped next to my seat and peered into my face. He really got in in there and had himself a look. What I almost did next shocked and disgusted me. I almost screamed “BOO!” right in his face. I swear to you, dear readers, that the “b” sound had formed on my lips and was about to escape before my emergency reserve of human decency kicked in.

So the question I pose is not “Am I a bad person?”, because most certainly I am.
My question is, what would have happened afterward? Obviously, anyone within a 3-row radius would have heard me. And it’s very likely that the kid would have started wailing, causing a prolonged scene…and prolonged scenes are never pleasant on an airplane. But what next? Would someone have ratted me out? Would the mom have assailed me with a jar of pâté? Would the flight attendants have formed a polyester-knit coup? Would we have made an emergency landing in Halifax, whereupon I would be sentenced to a lifetime clubbing seals and growing a lush, filthy beard?

These are the conundrums of Plato.