Guys like to deal in statements, in commands, in Jen Aniston cleavage references.  We’ll be the ones asking the questions, thank you very much.  Everyone else can shut the hell up – including and especially every late night host not named Conan O’Brien.  Don’t ask us where we want to go for lunch, what we’re wearing tonight, or what time we should leave for the funeral.  If we knew/cared, we’d be doing it already.

There’s no question that questions suck, but, as with all societal ills (and Shia Labeouf movies), there are some that suck more enthusiastically than others.  For example, “Do you like it when I do my hair like this” isn’t necessarily as bad as “How come your Facebook status still says ‘single’” but it’s a far sight worse than “What day is it?”  And don’t even get me started on credibility killers like “why do guys think it’s hot when two girls kiss” or “do you think you could date a girl who was still in high school?”

And yet, even these are not the worst offenders.  It gets much, much worse.  Allow me to present, for your consideration, the worst question in the English language.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

For starters, it’s a question about asking a question, and, as such, is meaningless and entirely unnecessary.  But that’s not the worst of it.  I can deal with unnecessary.  Katy Perry is unnecessary and I still like her.  No, the problem with this question is the specter of doom that comes with it.  It never comes alone and it never comes in peace.  No one ever says, “hey can I ask you something – are you gonna eat the rest of that?”  Or “hey, can I ask you something – how bout them Packers?”

When you hear “hey, can I ask you something”, especially within the context of a dating relationship, you can be sure that a heavy conversation is on the way.  She wants to talk about her mean boss, her hot sister, or whether or not you’ve read that Joshua Harris book she gave you.  Or maybe it’s not that.  Maybe she just wants to talk about “us.”

“Hey can I ask you something – how come you never use your ‘pookey-poo voice’ when we’re at Buffalo Wild Wings with your friends?”  “Hey can I ask you something – if I was paralyzed in a car crash that totally wasn’t my fault, would you still find me attractive?”  It’s like the 4^th Horseman of the Apocalypse – “Its rider’s name was Death, and Hell followed close behind him.” (Rev. 6:8)

This is why, when asked “hey, can I ask you something”, everything inside a guy wants to scream, “No.  NO!  A thousand times, NO!!  In the name of all that is pure and holy, please do not ‘ask me something.’”  But we can’t say that.  Saying that would be an admission of guilt.  So we say “yes” and we turn to face the firing squad.  For my money, I don’t know if there’s a more terrifying moment in human existence than the seconds that pass from the utterance of “hey, can I ask you something” to the asking of the actual question.  Maybe being buried alive.  But probably not.

And it’s all so easily avoidable!  Got something serious to talk about?  Did we say/do/drink something that’s been eating you up inside for the past month?  Just come out with it!  Skip the intro, skip the solicitation of permission – just ask the damn question. We don’t want to talk about it.  We don’t even want to think about it.   But we’re going to anyway.  This is your world; we’re just living in it.  You know it.  We know it.  The people sitting next to us at Panda Express know it.  So let’s just get it over with.

Because, honestly, can I tell you something?

We really don’t care.  Really.

Chicago native of Korean descent also knows no martial arts

HOUSTON – The employment of James Kim as youth pastor at Mt. Olive Baptist church here has resulted in some disappointment among church members, but not for the usual pastoral dissatisfaction reasons.

“When I saw that we had hired him, I was so excited,” said church treasurer Lilly Rudd. “I thought we could finally start an outreach to the Chinese and Filipino populations of Houston, but when he opened his mouth I noticed there was no accent at all – even his l’s and r’s were all pronounced right. That’s when I had to ask him if he even spoke Chinese at all. I was completely speechless when he told me he’d never even been outside the US.”

Kim’s great grandparents emigrated from Korea to Northern Illinois in the early 1920’s. Despite persistent ethnic misconceptions from new acquaintances throughout his life, Kim says that he actually knows very little about Asian cultures.

“Well, I went to high school on the north side of Chicago, I root for the Bears,” Kim said. “My dad’s an engineer, not a convenience store owner, and I don’t really know how to cook any special kinds of food.”

But while he may be completely comfortable in his fully Americanized skin, Kim’s ambivalence toward his heritage is causing some problems in his new position. Kurt Eisen, a longtime member of Mt. Olive Baptist who served on the search committee that ultimately hired Kim, says that he feels Kim misrepresented himself.

“We had a lot of good candidates for the job,” Eisen said. “It was a really close race between some really good guys, and the slightest considerations ended up making the difference. While we may not have discussed it directly with him, the committee talked a lot about how great it would be to start some karate outreach programs with the youth group and how it would be cool to do some Kabuki drama skits on Sundays. Now, it looks like none of that is gonna happen. Needless to say, we were quite disappointed.”

Kim seems unfazed by the nonplussed nature of his new employers.

“We’re talking about starting a basketball ministry to reach out to some of the poorer youth in the African American neighborhoods,” he said. “Then we were talking about some kind of Halo 3 party to draw the kids in, but we’ll have to talk about that, because I’m not very good at video games.”

As far as satiating the hunger of church leaders for some eastern flavor from their youth leader, Kim says that there are a few things that may stand him in better stead over time.

“I’ve had acupuncture a couple of times, and I really liked it,” he said. “Oh, plus, I took some violin lessons as a kid, so I think I’ll be OK.”

HEAVEN – Sources close to Jesus say the Lord has grown weary of greeting lukewarm Christians with the traditional “well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Christ was seen Monday rolling his eyes at new arrivals who filtered in after Hope Chapel’s bus crashed on its way to a Michael W. Smith concert in Temecula, Calif. “He just sort of looked exasperated when He sighed and waved them over, a la some dock worker helping a trucker back in his rig.” one angel said.

Martin Jones—who got saved at 21 and spent most of his life making millions of dollars while attending Hope’s truncated early service—was stunned. “I was a little embarrassed,” said Jones, 58. “He put His hands on His hips, shook His head, looked me square in the eyes and said: ‘Well, that was real half-assed.’”

Luckily, even though the closest thing I’ve had to a child was a flower some chicks gave me in college that died because I forgot to water it for a week, I’ve been inspired (probably by God, but no guarantees) with a few hundred words of wisdom to guide you through the crap-caked puberty maze that is child rearing.

Part 1: Babies

Let’s get one thing straight. You hate babies. I get it. They don’t talk, they force you to abandon sleep, which you love more than almost anything, and their digestive tract is connected directly to hell. Babies are dumb and selfish and mostly no fun. And super, super breakable. One second the baby is having a good time with the weed-eater, the next second child services is trying to tell you how to be a parent. The hell do they know, right? After nine months of sitting on their asses and literally leeching off of you, you’d think babies wouldn’t be such… babies.

Here are two easy steps for handling these useless nightmares until they’re old enough to contribute:

1. Neglect:
If there’s one thing I learned growing up in an Irish home, it’s that you have to fend for yourself. Teach that lesson to your baby. Why should you have to change a diaper? You didn’t crap your baby’s pants did you? No. That baby knows damn well where the toilet is, it’s just being lazy. A few days of wallowing in its own filth will teach it to get up and take its nasty-butt business to the commode, where it belongs.

And breast feeding? Yougottabekiddingme! First of all, Oedipus, gross. Second of all, Maxim has taught us that boobs are for smashing into bras that are three sizes too small. That is NOT for you to munch on, munchkin. Toss your baby a Powerbar and a half gallon of milk. When the baby gets hungry, it’ll figure it out.

Got something to do? Got a TV? Problem solved. Plop that baby in front of the TV with an episode of Skins and go take that much needed siesta, my friend. TV is the baby opium that moms have been praying for since opium was outlawed. It really doesn’t matter what you put on the TV. Babies don’t give a crap, they’ll watch anything. No standards, the monsters.

2. Take Your Baby Everywhere:
Babies don’t know anything about the world. They’ve spent the first nine months of their lives sitting around and mooching off of their moms like some sweaty WoW addict. No more of that, kiddos. Going to see the latest horror flick, “The Exorcism of the Haunted Scream Halloween Saw: REAL3DTOtheMAX”? Bring your baby along. Everyone in the theater is going to respect you for it. You’re making the hard decision. Sure, maybe your baby will cry, scream, and beg you in baby language to take it home, but you’re the parent that clearly knows best. Stop crying and learn English, baby, and then maybe we can have a real conversation about how watching demons explode out of people’s eyes will put hair on your chest and prepare you to be a well-rounded, non-cannibalistic, non-satanic, non-serial killer when you grow up.

Pretty much every other place you might go is a good place to bring a baby. Crime scene? This is real life. Get used to it. Gym? You’re fat, baby. The world hates fat people. Booby bar? I know you love boobies. Look but don’t touch.

If there does happen to be a situation where, for some weird reason, you decide you’d rather not bring your newborn child, just leave it in the car.

And that’s it. Two easy steps for getting by until your baby becomes a human. Give me a week or twelve and I’ll hit you up again with the next step in How to Cope with Parenting: A Guide. Until then, get out there and show the world a new standard for parenting.

Have you ever gone to a friend of yours – someone you trust to care for and embrace you in your time of need – and bitched about that bad day, as unextraordinary as it might have been? You groggily stumble over to their desk/cubicle/house or lethargically shoot them a text message and talk about the excruciatingly verbose and unnecessary lecture you just received about the company’s policy on section whatever-dot-whatever in the procedures for whatever-the-hell-it-was, hoping to receive a little emotional “I got your back, bro” from your friend. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, really.

But, somehow, it apparently is too much to ask, because that asshat of a friend just has to respond with the most annoying that-doesn’t-help-at-all response:

“It could be worse.”

No way? It could be worse? Damn, I hadn’t thought about that. I feel so much better now that you pointed out that my crappy, frustrating day could be even crappier and more frustrating. You’re so right. I could be crippled. Or bald. Or Rachel Maddow/Sarah Palin (take your pick based on your political preferences). You’re always getting me to look on the bright side of things, friend.

Well...

Except that’s not at all how you feel, because that’s not at all a helpful thing for someone to say when you just want to have a bit of an innocent bitchfest about something that anyone would call obnoxious. In fact, it’s rarely ever a helpful thing to say. It doesn’t make something crappy better to know that there is something crappier out there. If I just broke one of my legs in a wild break-dancing related accident, it won’t make my leg hurt less if you tell me that I could have broken both of my legs. I still broke my leg you stupid jackass. That still sucks.

If you happen to voice this concern to your mentally inanimate friend, you may receive the following defense:

“It happens to everybody.”

If everyone got kicked in the balls at the same time, that doesn’t make getting kicked in the balls feel good. It’s still a kick to the balls. The fact that it happens to everyone just means that everyone has a pretty legitimate reason to piss and moan, not that they should just shut up about it because “it’s the standard.” If the standard sucks, then complaining about the standard becomes the standard.

Think about it. You’ll get it.

What you've missed since last we spoke.

Have you seen those commercials for the new Dodge Durango where the voiceover guy is all like, “Where has the Durango been for the past two years?  It went to Europe to get better at driving on curvy roads.  It went to college to get better at technology.  It’s been working out and losing weight.  It’s been…blah, blah, blah…(insert other activity which can apply to both humans and cars and which suggests that the Durango’s two-year hiatus has been intentional and not a result of market forces and that the time off is going to result in the new Durango being better than ever).”  Have you seen that one?  Well, apply all of those things to The Talking Mirror.

No we haven’t been to Europe.  No we haven’t been working out or going back to school or anything like that.  In fact, pretty much all we’ve done is somersault blindly through our mid-20s while striking out with women in every time zone from Hawaii to Heathrow.  But, like the Durango, we have been out of production for awhile.  And, also like the Durango, we’re now back and better than ever.

We’ve learned bigger words and funnier jokes.  We have updated our cultural references and discovered new euphemisms for intercourse – all of which will be employed in future posts.  Will it be the funniest and/or most insightful thing on the internet?  Not likely.  Will it be the sexiest thing you can access from your work computer?  Probably not.  Will it be funnier than My Name is Earl and sexier than Rebecca Black?  Absolutely.

That’s what we’re all about here at The Talking Mirror version 2.4.1 – lowering the bar until we can practically rollerblade over it.  We’ve borrowed our motto from Barak Obama’s newly unveiled 2012 campaign slogan (“Expectations are low, but optimism is high.”), and we look forward to occasionally not disappointing you in the weeks and months to come.

But enough of that. Let us dispense with the introductions and get on with the business at hand.  Welcome (back) to the new Talking Mirror…like the old Talking Mirror but without that scrolling picture thing.

Ruth (Jenna Jameson) and Boaz (Michael Cera) have promised themselves and their Facebook groups to lose their virginity and have torrid sex on their wedding night. They’ve made it through the courtship, through the engagement, and through the Joshua Harris conference, but now they’ll have to make it through the wedding…and what a wedding it will be!  From a unity candle that won’t stay lit to an uncomfortable reading from Song of Solomon, events seem to be conspiring to keep Ruth and Bo from the blessed consummation they have heard so much about on the cover of Cosmopolitan.

True love has waited long enough!

When, at long last, the ceremony concludes and the reception begins, the mishaps and mayhem only get worse.  With no alcohol and no dance floor Ruth and Bo thought they were playing it safe and paving the way for a long night of necking and heavy petting.  They didn’t plan on Bo’s best man, Jeremy, having a few too many sparkling grape juices before his toast.  His graphic retelling of Bo’s church camp van encounters throws the assembled guests into fits of indignation.  Relationship Defining Talks and readings of Proverbs 31 ensue.  And that’s only the beginning!

What carnal advice is Ruth’s unsaved grandfather (Michael W. Smith) whispering in her ear?  What PG-13 plans do their friends have for their getaway car decorations? (You can bet there won’t be any prophylactics!)  Will the two ever make it to the Holiday Inn? Will they in fact “do it again and again” like that lady from the abstinence conference said they would?  You’ll have to watch to find out!

Whether you’ve had sex before or just think about it all the time, It’s About Time! has something for everyone.  Watch it with your youth pastor!  Watch it with your parents!  Watch it with your fornicating, non-Christian friends!

Watch it again and again and again.

This article was brought to us by the honorable and venerable James King, a master of thumb wrestling, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and RISK: Lord of the Rings Edition. We’ve made him laugh many times, and now we thank him for returning the favor.

You can now tell your friends that the obscure humor site you follow gets roughly as much traffic as Texts From Last Night gets every fifteen minutes.  And it only took us 21 months to get there!  We’d like to thank all of you who have been reading, linking, and commenting over the past two years – especially Mrs. Woodyard and Mrs. McCarthy who account for approximately 65% of our hits.  We couldn’t have done it without you.  Literally.

The social universe has an unspoken balance in place that ensures that life makes sense. We hang out with people as cool as we are, we date within our acceptable range, and people that are born into wealth and status run our countries. When some son of a bitch tries to upset that balance, bad things happen. Remember the French Revolution? That happened because one of Quasimodo’s descendants landed a smoking-hot art model. The Civil War? Some mustachioed sea donkey from the North decided she wanted to date a studly land owner from Alabama.  Name any natural disaster and it can be traced back to some fugly idiot not following the rules of romance. If you mess with the balance, the universe compensates with blood.

Despite this delicate equilibrium, matchmaking is never perfect. Occasionally it is so uneven that it elicits a deep sense of injustice from our communal soul, sort of like any time Keanu Reeves gets another acting gig. You know something isn’t right. You can feel it. Someone is getting something they don’t deserve.

So, you walking dumpster, how do you make things right once you have a hottie in your white-knuckled, kill-me-to-take-it grip? How do you cope with dating someone that is hotter than you? Grab your Moleskine and take a seat, my child. We have much to discuss.

One rule: Over Compensate
She’s a 10 and you’re a 3. That’s a pretty sizable gap, almost as significant as the one between your two front teeth. You’re going to need to string a rope-bridge across that dark chasm. When people see you with your deafeningly hot significant other, the comments will go something like this:

“Damn, (he/she) is so (hot/attractive/sexcellent). Why is (he/she) with that Seth Rogen look alike? Well, I guess (he/she) is at least (fill in the blank).”

That blank can be filled with a few different things that will help even the score between you and your walking fantasy.

That is one unattractive dude.

1. Get in ridiculous shape.
You can’t help having a Haitian Earthquake for a face, but you can blast your pecks into beautiful oblivion. Work out constantly, get really into triathlons, get ab implants – whatever you want. You need to work your way into the “butterface” zone so people may be able to shrug off the 7 point difference between you and the Greek sculpture you’re dating.

2. Get rich and/or famous.
Ideally this would happen before you start dating a walking masterpiece, but if you somehow win the lottery before buying the ticket you still have options. Are you talented? You’d better hope you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re the world’s greatest tap dancer or if you start the next Google, you just need to be on top of something. It can even be something nerdy like math or writing internet humor, people won’t care as long as they have a good reason not to kill you for upsetting cupid’s system. Hell, you may even be able to get away with being a second or third string celebrity/musician/mogul, you’ll just have to deal with more public anger and ridicule than you would have if you were Seal.

Apparently he's a great musician.

3. Get a horrible disease.
If all else fails, there’s always the “Make-A-Wish Foundation” route. This is the Hail-Mary of dating-up excuses, but it is also one of the hardest with which to argue. Example:
“Damn, that girl is fine. What’s she doing with that retarded hippopotamus?”
“Bro, you’re an asshole. That guy has EbolasyphillAIDS. He’s already died like three times.”
You’re clearly not otherwise qualified to bask in the magical fairy-glow of hotness that shines forth from your spouse, but somehow you’ve earned it by suffering so hard that even Job says “yikes, that sucks.”

Follow these rules and you might be able to avoid getting hit by a meteor for dating someone that even blind people can tell is better looking than you.

Enjoy pointing out who got the sweeter deal in a relationship? Roll on over to SheWonHeWon.com and vote on hotness to your heart’s content!

Okay, so maybe that’s a little extreme.  Obviously there are worse places in the world than an American freeway at rush hour.  (The back seat on a Greyhound bus comes to mind.)  Can we at least agree that traffic is the most annoying thing in the world?  And yes, I’m putting it above Wanda Sykes, rainy weekends, and middle schoolers in a movie theater.

To say traffic is one of my pet peeves would be like saying that civil liberties were one of Stalin’s pet peeves or that George W. Bush “annoyed” some political science professors.  I hate traffic.  It makes me crazy.  No matter how much I brace for it or plan my trip to account for it, I always end up losing my freaking mind.  I gesture and curse, I rant and rave, I call down fire from heaven.  I go nuts.

I don’t like feeling this way.  The occasional longwinded rant notwithstanding, I consider myself a fairly even-tempered guy.  I’m not prone to fits of rage and I don’t often ponder the ways my temperament might be improved by an automatic weapon.  Traffic makes me do these things.  But why?  Why have six short months in Los Angeles (aka The Julliard School for traffic jams of promise) transformed me from Jeffrey Lebowski into a ball of rage who is perhaps only days away from (a) some serious stomach ulcers and/or (b) pleading guilty to vehicular homicide?  I have some theories.

My first problem with traffic is that it is an inexcusable underutilization of one of the great inventions of human existence: the automobile.  The automobile is a wonder of modern technology.  It allows us to travel at speeds unimaginable even 100 years ago.  Yet there it sits, bumper to bumper with its similarly impotent peers, while lesser modes of transit like bicycles and feet race ahead on nearby pedestrian walkways.  I defy anyone to show me a situation more frustrating, more enraging, more downright tragic than watching an octogenarian in a motorized cart reach your exit before you do.

And my car isn’t just sitting anywhere mind you.  It’s sitting on a freeway. Freeways are to cars what military service is to high school linebackers.  It’s what they were made for.  Sitting in a car that’s parked on an interstate is like starving at a Golden Corral.  You have a machine (your vehicle or your mouth, respectively) which wants to do only one thing (drive, eat) and here it is in the one place where it can experience the fullness of all it was meant to be (an open road, a buffet) and yet it is doing the exact opposite (idling, starving).  Inexcusable.

It is one of the cruel tricks of the universe, and an indictment of traffic’s wickedness, that the only thing more aggravating than being stuck in traffic is to be freed from traffic.  This is because 90% of traffic jams end without explanation.  One moment I’m taking a nap while I roll along at 0.5 mph, and the next I’m cruising at 70 without so much as a construction zone or escaped zoo animal to account for it.

I’m more pissed now than ever.  “WHY?” I shout to the heavens. Why did this have to happen?  To what end?  For what purpose have I been tormented?  It’s not enough that I’m going fast again.  I want answers.  I want to know what greater good was served by my time in gridlock.  I want – alright, I’ll admit it, I want an accident.

Go ahead and call me a terrible person, but don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing.  I don’t want anyone to get hurt or killed or anything crazy like that.  I just want to see some good, old-fashioned, drivers-ed-worthy wreckage.  I sacrificed 30 to 90 perfectly good minutes of my 20s.  All I want in return is a Hyundai wrapped around a telephone pole.  Or maybe an 18-wheeler on its side with Hostess products strewn across the asphalt.  Or anything on fire.  Whatever.  I’m not picky.  I ask only that it justify the delay and that it look awesome.

But no.  Nine times out of ten the bottleneck’s origin is more underwhelming than Britney Spears’ acting career.  It’s a stalled vehicle 25 feet off the shoulder.  It’s a puddle.  It’s a curve in the road.  It’s some jackass who hits his breaks for no reason thereby forcing the next 1,000 drivers behind him to hit their breaks at the same spot.  It’s nothing and no one and my precious minutes die in vain – unexplained and unavenged.

I’ll say it one final time, traffic sucks something awful.  I could go on (and on, and on, and on) but, depending on your reading level, I think my five minutes are almost up.

I’ll close with this.

Traffic is a step backward for humanity.  It is the most disagreeable symptom of civilization as well as a compelling argument against it. If I’ve learned anything from The Road, The Book of Eli, or Revelation it’s that freedom from traffic will be the coolest thing about the coming nuclear holocaust.  Will it make the cold, hunger, and roving bands of inbred barbarians worth it?  I couldn’t say.

Am I looking forward to finding out?  You bet.