An open letter to grammar nazis, comma fuckers, or Pilkunnussija out there … You know who you are. We ALL know who you are. You lurk, ready & waiting, drooling with anticipation at the opportunity to spring into action at the incorrect use of ‘there’.  Or when someone leaves an ‘o’ off of ‘too’. You see it as your responsibility to save the world from an improperly used ‘hear’.  I understand your frustration … spelling rules were not made to be broken. (xcept some ‘ei’ thing when a ‘c’ is involved, but I’m not going to use that sort of language here).  But here’s the thing …

Fuck you.

And I’ll tell you why.

Congratulations on knowing the correct form of there/their/they’re to use. I stopped getting excited about that when I realized that my breasts could make boys do silly things for me. I’m so proud of you for knowing which here/hear goes where. As soon as my teacher stopped being impressed, I stopped showing off with it. I’m thrilled for you that you possess this great handle on third ( second?) grade spelling. The thing is, nobody you correct is sitting there thinking, “Thank god this random internet stranger has assisted me in furthering my knowledge! I’ll definitely make a note of this shit now so I don’t look like such a fool again.”

They’re thinking, “What a complete doucheface, too bad they don’t get any sex.”

Nobody cares. Nobody is impressed. Nobody thinks you’re a giant brain hiding behind your @DrWhoNerdgasm name. They think you’re a tool who has no useful social skills.

For years, back in the mid-90s, I ran around AOL (*pauses here until the riotous laughter eases up*) like some self-appointed grammar cop, mocking people for using “effect” when they meant “affect”. Then one glorious night, someone replied with, “I really appreciate your help with that. In my defense, I’m just really tired. I was up all night nailing your mom.” After making sure that, in fact, my father wasn’t on AOL, it struck me that perhaps my attempts to assist this Internet stranger in his education were not appreciated. That moment changed my life.

Let me be that person for you. Let this be the moment you stop acting like a twat. Really want to impress me? Know the proper time to use ‘who’ or ‘whom’. Panties off for anyone who says, “To whom were you speaking?” instead of “Who were you talking to?” Nobody’s knickers melt for the person who says, ‘HAHAHA YOU MEAN TOO NOT TO, YOU PLEBE.’ Want to really blow minds, and possibly cocks? Know when to use ‘Rebecca and/or me’ instead of ‘Rebecca and/or I’.

Trust me, we all care about grammar and spelling. Those of us who aren’t douchey don’t jump on people for mistakes, we just sit and quietly judge, basking in our superiority. Believe me, it’s a much richer way to live.

If you feel the need to comment on any of the mistakes in this, I’ll be sure to show your mother how smart you are after I’m done bangin her out.

I just returned from an excellent trip to London last night.  Those of you who know me from Facebook and/or Twitter may have seen some of the photos I posted from it.

My return journey took me from Heathrow to Dublin to JFK.  As the owner of a colon that despises emptying itself into foreign toilets, I found myself loaded down with some extra “colonic baggage” that was content to stay exactly where it was until the time and environment were in complete alignment.

Needless to say, my flights were not without their share of discomfort; nothing a stud like me can’t handle, of course, but not an ideal situation either.  However, I was somewhat consumed by the thought that releasing some pent-up methane would go some distance to easing matters until a more permanent solution could be found.

At one point, when the vacancy of the plane’s restrooms, the dimmed “fasten seatbelts” light, and the gaseous critical mass were just right, I made my way to the toilet, thinking that a piss would be just the thing to coax a healthy fart or two out of me.  I was wrong, of course.  That would have been far too convenient.

This morning, I happened to stumble across this article which seems to suggest at least three things:

1. Flying at an airplane’s cruising altitude, even when the cabin is pressurized, can cause increased flatulence due to the effects of decreased air pressure on the colon.
2. Holding in farts for long periods can, in some instances, cause diverticular disease, where pockets inside the intestine walls form.
3. You should just pass the gas when the mood strikes you, regardless of how many people may be repulsed by it.

I have some thoughts on these matters; thoughts that will likely interest you very little.

The first is that I couldn’t possibly care less about the comfort of my fellow passengers.  If you happen to be experiencing a bit of uncomfortable pressure on your innards, hold that shit in.  I’m already dealing with the stench of the Italian woman next to me who seems to believe that showering is something for only the most spectacular occasions, as well as the old snoring dude behind me who releases noxious, vomit-inducing vapors every time he breathes.  The last thing I need is my neighbor beefing it up next to me.

The second is that I have no idea what a pocket in my colon might feel like, nor if it’s something in which I might be able to conveniently store some spare change, but if I’m willing to run the risk of creating one, I suggest strongly that you do the same lest I crack your head against the seatback TV.

Ignore the scientists, people.  Farting in my company will be far more damaging to your physical well-being than holding it in, I assure you.

As I’ve always said, if you want your genitals to look like those of a 10 year old, you’re going to pay the price.  Well, I haven’t always said that, but it’s a fun thing for people to overhear at a cocktail party nonetheless.

Long gone are the days when a boy would open his father’s Club magazine only to have to squint at the models’ pubic regions to catch a glimpse of pink.  No, no, now all the models are offering a hair-free sight line into their uteruses, instantly making every horny teenage boy an amateur gynecologist.

Life has gotten so good that we are now able to use a Pantone color palette to discuss, at length, the relationship between the color of a lady’s facial lips and her vaginal ones.  To make matters even more interesting, we know with absolute certainty what a prepubescent girl with breasts looks like and I’ve no doubt we’re all much better for it, right?  Right?

Over the past decade, the number of emergency room visits precipitated by pubic hair “grooming” has risen 500%.  Now, with those figures, we’re left to ponder whether genital owners are getting increasingly clumsy, or if more people are ridding themselves of the tremendous burden of pubic hair.  In order to answer this question, I suppose we’d have to know what percentage of people were shaving their sexy bits ten years ago versus how many are doing it today.

Of course, we could do a little informal poll in the comments section where you let us know if:

1. I didn’t shave my bush 10 years ago, but I do now.
2. I shaved it 10 years ago, but I don’t now.
3. I shaved it 10 years ago and I’m still doing it.
4. I have alopecia.

56% of 2010′s 11,704 emergency-room-worthy genital slicing injuries were made by women.  So, I guess that means that 44% of them were dudes…and that astounds me, being one who has never entertained the notion of mowing his junk, or anyone else’s come to think of it.  I guess that probably cuts down significantly on the chances that I will be tea-bagged, but I’m strangely okay with that.

The age of the average patient was 30.8 years old, so you can probably stop assembling the mental image your grandmother’s, or grandfather’s, shaven bits now.

83% of the injuries were doled out by non-electric shaving razors.  I’m going to go ahead and assume that 17% were caused by scythes because that’s what I want to believe.

As far as I’m concerned, I can’t imagine even attempting to shave my wrinkly old ball sac.  In fact, I’ll likely have a nightmare about that tonight, thank you very little.

I am now going to take this opportunity to come out as a male who is not turned on by hairless vaginas, and as one who believes shaving his own junk would be a completely emasculating thing to do.  That said, I’m certainly not averse to a little bikini-line action for the ladies.  After all, I have no fantasies about jamming my schween into Fidel Castro’s face.

I may be totally wrong about all of this.  Perhaps all this hair removal is not an aesthetic thing at all, but people are simply harvesting organically grown pillow stuffing.

Sweet dreams, my lovelies.

Dear Michael,

I feel a deep need to apologize for all of the insensitive jokes I’ve made about your horrible case of Parkinson’s Disease.  When I browse back at some of the things I’ve written, like “It must be hard to give Michael J. Fox a haircut,” I shudder a bit.

After all, you are not at all responsible for your condition, as far as I know, which makes the fact that I’ve poked fun at it deplorable, and puts me on shaky moral ground.

I suppose it’s fortunate that I do not have any morals to speak of, and that was made abundantly clear when I once falsely stated “Camera companies are now certifying their image stabilization technologies as ‘Michael J. Fox Approved.’”

These are awful things to say because I am an awful person.  They must make your fans quivery with anger.

I would also like to state, just for the record, that when I said, “My dad told my mom that she’s so loose, she needs to use Michael J. Fox as her vibrator,” I was just kidding, and that I don’t really believe every attempt you make to urinate turns into a masturbatory episode.  I also don’t think it’s likely you get car sick just sitting on the couch.

In any case, Michael, I wanted to apologize, despite the fact that I find Family Ties makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a jackhammer, and that Teen Wolf, in my opinion, is one of the biggest pieces of doo-doo ever made, and that I fail to see anyone’s attraction to Back To The Future.

I could go on, so I will.  Spin City never held any allure whatsoever for me.  Doc Hollywood was abysmal.

Oh, I’m just kidding, Michael.  You’re a good sport…as is evidenced by this hilarious clip:

Oh, and your wife’s still pretty hot too.  Let’s get together soon and play a game of Operation.

My very first order of business is to congratulate the inventors of “Movember” for the removal of the “N” from the beginning of “November,” and the replacement of it with an “M,” which I presume stands for “mustache.”  Absolutely clever…brilliant, in fact…though baffling in the absence of context.

In case you didn’t know, Movember was created by some genius in order to increase “awareness” of men’s health issues, prostate and testicular cancer in particular.  Men who choose to participate in this odd event take the month to grow facial hair, starting clean-shaven on November 1 and then bragging all month about how they’re so socially conscious that they’ve agreed not to shave for an entire month.  The sacrifice these men are making has nearly brought me to tears, but not literally.

Now, I know that prostate cancer is an issue, even though it’s about 90% curable when caught early.  The trick is actually catching it early, before it has spread beyond the prostate.  Men who are at normal risk are encouraged to be checked for prostate cancer yearly, starting at the age of 50.  Men who are at risk, those who are either of African descent or have a family history of prostate cancer, are asked to start at 40.

The test, you ask?  Glad you did; having some well-educated dude with a lubed-up rubber glove stick his finger up your poop-hole while you’re on your hands and knees wearing a cotton dress that’s open in the back.

Thanks to Movember, I now vividly envision myself on a table, being butt-violated by a white-coated man every time I see facial hair.  While I’m thankful that I’m not Amish, I am finding myself in the throes of a disturbingly tenacious case of constipation.  Thank goodness it’s apple season.

It bears mentioning that women who are accustomed to regularly putting their heels in stirrups and having near-strangers jam foreign objects up their hoo-hahs have little sympathy for men when it comes to their refusal to get regular prostate checks.

Listen, Society: If your ultimate goal is to get more men to be tested more often for prostate cancer in hopes of catching the cancer early, use whatever funds you raise to devise a less invasive, less “personal” test.  Dudes are pussies.  They’d rather roll the dice on dying a slow, painful death than have a dude stick his finger up his ass once a year.

I propose putting some of our best minds toward the development of cancer detection in airports.  If those full-body scans are capable of determining my flaccid-penis size, they should be able to spot a lump on my prostate and sound off an alarm or something.  Of course, this type of detection only benefits those of us who have enough money for air travel.  And to that, I say, “oh, well.”

I feel a little guilty about leaving women out of the whole idiotic Movember thing, honestly, even though I’ve decided I’m way too cool to participate.  And so, next summer, I will be establishing Puly.  Over the whole month of July, women across the northern hemisphere will raise awareness for uterine and cervical cancer by growing out their pubic hair and trotting around for 31 days wearing nothing but blouses, crotchless panties, and 4-inch heels.

During Puly, I will demonstrate my support by sporting a month-long boner.