This article was inspired by SheWonHeWon.com, a new photoblog where you vote for who got the short end of the stick in a relationship. Check it out!

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. Read the full story

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For centuries the Catholic Church has had the market cornered on guilt, recent reports from Colorado Springs reveal that evangelicals are looking to get into the guilt business, though for different reasons.

“Sure, we make fun of Catholics. I mean, they do worship Mary and all, but no one can deny that their use of guilt as mind control revolutionized religion” said Dan Alterman, pastor of some church which members describe as “bible-based.” According to Alterman, guilt has long been used to control church-goers.

“It’s easy to throw a guilt trip at someone, and then ‘boom,’ you have your adult chaperon for your next mission trip to Guatemala.”

Catholics, Alterman says, have perfected the use of guilt, getting their followers worldwide to do crazy things like giving up chocolate during Lent or telling their deepest, darkest secrets to lonely, unmarried men.

“Statistics show that only 24% of the world’s usable guilt is being utilized as an energy source,” Alterman says, not citing any resources. “It’s time to bring guilt into the 21st century.” Read the full story

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Dear Dumbass,

You’re not a morning person. I get that. Do you think I enjoy mornings? Newsflash moron, I really don’t. Every single night you think you’re going to climb Mount Everest and you set your alarm for 6:15 when you don’t have to leave for work until 8am. You’re gonna read the paper, right? And then have a big breakfast? Some eggs, sausage, or some French toast. Maybe do some push ups, or finally start that blog about your office culture “which would be like The Office, but way funnier because it’s like, real!” Yeah. I know.

Each morning, though, you flap over from the other side of the bed like a stoned walrus and slap the hell out of me until I shut up. And you yell at me too,”shut the hell up you annoying piece of crap!” you’ll say, or “nooooo! I hate you! be quiet!” you’ll scream at me. I’m just doing my damn job, sir. You set me, and I go off. I can’t even help it. There I am, snoozing away all night, having sexy dreams of the new GE Blender you got when BAM! I get this electrical zap you-know-where and I just start screaming uncontrollably. Try connecting your nether-regions to a car battery and see how quiet you can be. Read the full story

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I’m a 24 year old bachelor. I have a girlfriend, but because we’re both God-fearing Bible-beaters and because we’re both still afraid of our parents (mostly me being afraid of her father) we don’t live together. So since my woman isn’t around to do what women were born to do, I have to “cook” for myself.

If you’ve ever had a bachelor like myself or Kent cook a meal for you, this article is going to resonate with you like Snoop Dogg resonates in the hearts of suburban white kids. Understand, though, that I mean real bachelors, not one of these Food-Network-watching yuppie bastards that took a cooking class and can cook you anything that has “a la carte” or “flambé” in the name. If he’s not a professional chef and he can cook you anything that has any kind of French in it, he’s a douche and I want to fight him. End of story.

Anyway, real bachelors like us cook… creatively. For instance, breakfast for me is frequently a Pepperoni Pizza Pocket and a Dr. Pepper. If I have juice – and that “if” is very functional – I’ll drink that, because I guess it’s healthy or something. Kent has, on a few occasions, poured excessive amounts of sugar into his cereal in order to cover up the taste of expired milk. Lunch is almost 100% fast food, unless I decide to buy some bologna and cheese for sandwiches. That’s usually complimented with a side of chips (the legit kind, none of that liberal “baked” crap) or popcorn or candy or french fries that have been under my desk since last Tuesday, but who’s counting? Not me, and not my stomach either. Read the full story

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This article was originally written for www.gapersblock.com. You can see the article there also.

So I was at the post office the other day, mailing something to my special lady friend. It’s long distance so you really have to send letters and what not to keep points on the scoreboard, so to speak. I had tried FedEx and UPS, but their prices were astronomical – $60 bucks when USPS was $10 – $20.

There I was, putting some stuff in a box and filling out all the appropriate forms, when some girl came in to ship something. It was only the two of us there at the Post Office, so I could easily hear her conversation with the USPS employee. The girl was trying to pay for her purchase with a credit card that said “See I.D.” where the signature bar is on the back. The USPS employee was not down with that. You see, their policy is that you have to sign your cards. “You can sign your card right now, but we won’t take it if it’s not signed,” the employee told the young lady – the damsel in distress, you might say.

Logic isn't in their policy.

“I work at a bank,” the girl protested. “We tell all of our customers to write ‘See I.D’ on the back of their cards because it’s more secure. Your I.D. has your signature and your picture on it. It helps protect against theft.”

“Hard to argue against that logic,” I affirmed her silently in my mind. This was, after all, the same policy that I myself practiced.

“Our policy says that you have to sign the card,” the employee persisted.

“But you can just see my I.D.” the girl continued in futility.

“Ma’am you can either sign the card now or pay with cash,” repeated the error message, reminiscent of the infuriating experiences we’ve all had with some type of electronics that malfunction despite all forms of reason. The customer yielded, her white flag waving as she handed over the cash for her purchase. Her head hung low as she marched out of the building, defeated. Read the full story

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A year ago when Kent and I decided that we needed to take the internet, grab it by the hair, and scream hilarity relentlessly into its face, we anticipated a fanfare-filled welcome and untold wealth and fame within six months. That all happened, but shortly after we did our guest spot on SNL completely strung out on black tar heroine mixed with some meth I made using our hotel’s mini-fridge, we began our downward spiral into shame and poverty.

Kent decided that he should make a foray into a different “art,” as he called it – the XTreme Roller Derby. Much like Michael Jordan’s short time with the Chicago White Sox, Kent broke both his legs and was incontinent for a month after his first race. He took a swipe at Donny “The DamageEater” Dean during the first 30 seconds, and quickly tasted the bitter soup of retribution. He walks with a limp, and I heard he still has trouble “standing up straight,” if you get my drift. Read the full story

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Next it's shirts with my face on them

Hello TTM Readers. this is just another installment in a long series of Self Promoting articles that have no substance in and of themselves, but only link to articles on other websites. I wrote my first “political” article for a Chicago website called Gaper’s Block. I met the political editor at Pilcrow Literary Festival, where I was a panelist with him. So if you’re feeling political and are tired of abusing your abdominal muscles with laughter here at TTM, take a jaunt over there and check out my article. It’s somewhat benign, I’d say:

Gay Marriage and Why Evangelicals Shouldn’t Care

Thanks for your undying love and charity laughs.

cheers.

-conor.

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I started a similar “article” when I was a junior or senior in high school, I think for some kind of bootlegged school newspaper or something. Back then, though, I was afraid that the subject matter – that of hating obese children – would be offensive to people, so I never finished it or submitted it. Unfortunately I am unable to track the original down now.

Luckily for you guys, though, I still hate fat children but, unlike before, I no longer worry about offending anyone. Hurray!

You’ve seen fat children before. I don’t mean fat 15 year olds. I don’t even mean fat 12 year olds. I mean fat 6 year olds. Porky little fatsos, gobbling down chocolate bars and Puffy Cheetos so quickly you’d think it was a contest to get some Miley Cyrus 3D tickets. It’s not a contest though, they’re just eating. They’re probably not even hungry. Just munching on some grub just, ya know, because. Read the full story

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Life at The Talking Mirror has been good the last couple weeks.  More people are visiting the site, fewer viruses are infiltrating our computers, and several studios have already expressed interest in TTM: The 3D Movie Experience.  This is both exciting and unsettling since we know that none of this should be happening.  The writing is still barely-legible.  Our temperaments are still offensive to women, children, and blind people.  And our first Facebook ad, having appeared on 25,515 profiles across America, has sent only 15 new readers to the site.  Not quite the tsunami we were hoping for

Conor and I have speculated about the dozens, indeed hundreds, of possible causes for this spike in traffic (i.e. Facebook statuses being whored out, non-reader friends finally being overcome by guilt, widespread unemployment, tagging posts with things like “Kate Beckinsale Nude!!!!!”, etc).  Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong.

Nay, dear readers, the answer to this riddle is rooted in two articles which appeared on this site in January.  One was about Carson Daly, the other was about Jason Mraz, both were about the degree to which these gentlemen suck.  If you have not read these articles, allow me to summarize: they suck alot.  Well, as fate and the internet gods would have it, the message of these articles apparently resonated with the teeming masses of hateful Americans who prowl the World Wide Web and has sent them flocking in droves to The Talking Mirror. Read the full story

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Anyone of my friends will tell you, I’ve hated Carson Daly for a long time. Years. Ever since he brought his doucheyness to national fruition on what has unarguably become America’s incubator for “celebrities” that are actually just awful, skanky people: MTV. If someone ever asks me the question: “Conor, if you could fight anyone in the world right now, who would you fight?” My answer is always the same. “Either Carson Daly or Fred Durst.” We’ll get to Durst later. For now, let’s focus on Carson “The Douche” Daly. I have wanted to fight him ever since Junior High. Laugh about it. I’m 100% serious. So serious, in fact, I’m going to issue a challenge to Carson here on the intertron:

CARSON DALY: NAME THE TIME AND THE PLACE SISSY GIRL. I WANT TO FIGHT YOU.

I know, I know. It’s silly to say things like that. Nothing will come of it. Not because I don’t think he’ll read this. He’s the kind of self-centered asshat that googles himself multiple times a day to see how often he ends up on the E! website. He’ll read this alright. I just know that he’s too much of a pansy to take a challenge. He knows I’d take him down in less than a minute, and not even because I’m a fantastic fighter (even though I totally am, thanks to lots of Mortal Kombat) or because he’s some sort of skeletor version of his former self. I’d lay the firm slap down upon Carson Daly because I would be fueled by a righteous, pure hatred, the kind of which that – were mankind able to harness its raw energies in some tangible form – could single handedly pimp slap OPEC into irrelevance. Read the full story

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