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.

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!

“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.”

(Note: This stat is a bit misleading as it leaves out the fact that TOMS Shoes is burning roughly 16% of the world’s guilt by selling shoes to help improve the lives of the people who made the Nike shoes that the TOMS customers feel guilty for buying in the first place.)

“We see it as a way of reaching out to the community, and the rest of the world, and saying, ‘Jesus loves the WHOLE WORLD, even the hippy, environmental part of it,’” Alterman explained.

Many members, including Alterman himself, are doing their best to raise awareness about the new fuel which will purportedly fuel everything from cars to toasters to the factories that produce the Prius that Alterman drives to church.

Alterman’s own son Josh had the idea – some might call it a divine revelation – while observing the exhaling breaths of people at concessions stands at the moment that they are asked if they want cheese with their soft pretzel. “There’s a lot of guilt tied up in getting a pretzel AND the processed cheese sauce” says the 17 year-old who works at the AMC over on Roy Road. This was the initial breakthrough that lead Alterman to begin harvesting “guilt sighs” during his famous sermon series Sad-Looking Minority Children and Starving Puppies.

But after harvesting all of that guilt, how will it be used as fuel? Alterman has the answer: “We’re doing our best to be ecumenical, so we’re working with General Motors’ Smart Energy People [Editor: "Engineers"] to develop a new engine powered entirely by guilt.” The questions of whether or not the technology to efficiently turn guilt into energy is possible or whether or not Alterman knows that he incorrectly used the word “ecumenical” have yet to be answered.

A GM prototype sketch featuring the theoretical "Guilt-Eating Rabbit Engine"

Stay with TTM for further developments.

TTM welcomes the humorous musings of Matt Browning of “Real World: Omaha” fame to our humble website. We have spent the last six months recruiting Matt, and almost lost him to the Bulls. Luckily, LeBron ganked his spot and he had to settle.

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.
Sometimes you get the genius idea of resetting me for 20 or 30 minutes later, thinking you’ll feel awesome if you just sleep that much more. That’s like drinking a fifth of Jack so you can sober up. Doesn’t make sense. If you’d turn me off you’d stop the pain. But no. You. Hit. Snooze. 32 times yesterday.  Each time the zap comes back and brings me that much closer to needing Cialis.

Thirty two times.

You know all those times where I didn’t go off and you were late to work, or a test, or an interview? Suck it, jerk. It took every ounce of my strength to screw you over, and it was worth it. Guess what? That was just the beginning. You’ve knocked me off of your nightstand one too many times, jackass. It’s war, now. I’m going to go off randomly throughout the night. You hit snooze? I’m not coming back on. I’m going to interrupt every intimate moment you ever try to have. Desperately need some sleep before an important presentation at your job as a cubical ornament? Too bad douchebag. Remember daylight savings time? I sure as hell don’t. You want me to go off at 7am? Damn! My bad! I thought you meant PM.

Think I’m screwing around? Well I’ve got a Bruce-Willis-esque one-liner to show you I mean business:

You snoozed and now… You lose.

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.

If it’s not a sandwich, then a frozen pizza is a strong contender. Wondering which brand to choose out of the abundant options? Kent once wrote an paper for microecon exploring the taste-to-dollar ratios of eight different brands. The man is the closest thing the world has ever known to a frozen pizza scholar. He deserves an honorary diploma from Notre Dame or the University of Arizona. Hell, they give them out to all kinds of unqualified people these days anyway.

This would be considered a victory.

The biggest culinary decision that we make is whether we should cut up hot dogs or sandwich meat in our Easy-Mac. At one point Kent decided he was going to reform his unhealthy ways and bought a bag of baby carrots. He discovered that they go bad if you leave them on the counter for over a week and hasn’t been back to the produce department since. Can’t blame him.

The other night I realized I had seven eggs that I had bought about a month before. Since I love the environment and I don’t want to waste, I decided that I should cook all seven for dinner that night. I had that, chips and queso, and beer for dinner. Sounds disgusting right? Wrong. Bachelors are like commandos in the kitchen. I use what I have and I make a meal out of it. Rachael Ray can kiss my ass, I’m the culinary MacGyver. The meals I make will explode the walls of your stomach and liberate the hunger that was trapped inside, and you know what? They’ll do it just in the nick of time. That’s how we bachelors like to do things. We improvise.

It may not be pretty – in fact you can bet your government-bailed-out pension it won’t be pretty – but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make a meal.

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.

“Not me,” I thought rebelliously. “You’re gonna see my I.D., and you’re gonna like it.“ I walked over to the counter, my chest inflated with an air of defiance. Having rung up the costs of shipping my blindingly romantic, swoon-inducing package, the employee asked for my payment. I offered up a credit card that pleaded for the merchant to ask for my I.D.

“We don’t take cards that aren’t signed,” the employee spouted like a recording as she pointed to the little sign with their policy printed on it, the section regarding I.D. highlighted.

“My Father works at a bank. Putting ‘See I.D.’ is more secure,” I said. True story, my Dad really does work for a bank.

“Do you want to talk to the post master?” the employee said, appealing to their ultimate authority. “Finally” I thought, “I can speak to someone with a mind.”

I was wrong.

A bald man in his 50′s or 60′s puttered out from “the back room” where the dark alchemies of postal service are performed and came up to the counter to speak with me. “Is there a problem?” he said.

“Yes. I am trying to pay with my credit card. It is unsigned, but it says ‘See I.D.’ on it. This is actually more secure than signing it, because if someone steals my credit card then they would need my I.D. as well. Then, were they daring enough to offer up both the purloined card and the I.D., you’d be able to quickly tell that you were observing a fraud because their face would not be my face.” Triumph filled the air, echoing off of the walls with my flawless words. My tone was clear and stern, but peaceful. I did not yell or scream like an undersexed suburban mother, protesting the end of a sale at Kohl’s. No, I just presented truth calmly and succinctly. I had changed the world in a small way, for the better.

“Our policy says that the card has to be signed or we can’t accept it,” the man said nasally, extinguishing the fireworks of victory.

“But didn’t you hear what I just said? That’s not secure.”

“Well if they steal your wallet they would have your I.D. anyway,” he said, making that face that people sometimes make when they feel threatened, as if they are clenching their ass cheeks in anticipation of a punch to the face.

“Right, they would. But they wouldn’t have stolen my face too, would they? Unless we’re dealing with an Eddie Gein character, in which case I would suppose credit card theft is the least of our worries.”

“It’s our policy. Our national policy.”

“Understood, and I’ll pay with cash. But maybe you could use your Postmaster powers – great as I assume they are – to affect a positive change in the system?”

“I have. This is our policy.” He said, still standing with a slight lean backwards, ready to flee.

“Okay then.” I said. I left the Post Office, my faith in humanity and customer service shat upon once again by reality.

I then began thinking, as thinkers like myself tend to do. What if this were health care? While I agree that the American health care system works just as well as punching yourself in the face does for relieving headaches, do I want to have this experience every time I need to get some kind of medical work taken care of? The talk of death panels is sensationalistic crap, the talk of communism/fascism is bloated rhetoric, but I can’t ignore the experience I just had with a business that is operated by the government. It is so mired down in bureaucracy that the idea of “customer service” is as present as the days when MTV actually had music on it. It’s a vague memory and a happy one, but the present is such a stark contrast that the pictures in the photo album are faded beyond recognition. These Post Office employees literally have no motivation or incentive for being flexible for a customer. What the hell do they care? There’s still going to be a Post Office tomorrow whether I continue to patronize their establishment or not. They have their mouths firmly attached to the government’s bountiful teat, why on Earth would they choose to “go the extra mile” to have “service with a smile”? The customer may always be right, but they don’t give a damn about what’s right. If “right” isn’t in their policies, then “right” means nothing to them.

Are my fears well founded? Or am I just being a pessimist? I ask you the question that Third Eye Blind once asked all of us: How’s it gonna be?

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.

While Kent was experimenting with the “Raucous Rolling Righteous Reapers” (everyone had an idea for the name, no one could say no) I was embarking on a perilous journey of self-discovery all of my own.  I decided that what my life needed was a challenge. Challenge, I thought, looked like alligator wrestling in rural Louisiana. I took what was left of the fortune that we made when The Oxygen Network purchased our website (assumedly to remove two more chauvinist voices from the internet) and spent it on “Licky Lemmy’s Gator Trap.”

Don’t ask about Lemmy’s nickname. You don’t want to know.

Two days, half an ass cheek, and a vicious case of what the locals call “gator burn” on three quarters of my body later, I sold the Gator Trap to a drifter for $62. The bills were all wrinkled and stinky, but I was able to use them to purchase an inflatable do-nut to sit on, some aloe, and a bus ticket to Chicago.

I arrived just as Kent was rolling out of the hospital with two broken legs and barely enough pride to conceal the fact that he had to wear adult diapers for the next four weeks. We hobbled back to our downtown penthouse apartment only to find that our Swedish model girlfriends had robbed us blind, leaving only the eviction notice on our door.

Fast forward through the rehab/counseling/plastic surgery montage, and here we are. September of Two Thousand and Nine. We’re not rich anymore, nor are we famous, but we still have our pride.

And pride, friends, is what we’re here to talk about today. You see, although Kent still occasionally pees in his pants and I look like the leaning tower of Pisa when I sit down, we’re not completely devoid of self-respect. That sense of dignity is the reason why we’ve enacted a new policy here on TTM. A policy that, I think you’ll agree, is the beginning of an internet revolution.

You’ve heard of “assholes,” right? I’m sure you have. Well, we’ve had a few of those pop in here to the site and post some unhappy comments on our articles, defaming our content, our talent, and dare I say our very humanity. Distressed and having flashbacks of being straddled by an alligator named “Scoopy,” I called TTM’s Board of Directors for a meeting.

A Snapshot of our Board of Directors

There Kent and I sat, thinking. What do we do about these jerks? Do we let them crap on us on our own site? Do we delete their comments outright like the thought police? Do we respond angrily to every one like I did on that Michael Bay article I wrote?

We couldn’t decide. Then, after a few slurpees and a late night run to White Castle (which ended poorly, aside from this epiphany) our minds melded and birthed out the best idea we’ve had since buying new social security numbers on the black market to avoid bankruptcy and jailtime for extortion (long story involving that Jewish guy from The Lonely Island) – we’ll just change their names to something insulting! You see, we have that kind of editorial power here. After all, we did pay for this website (in friendship and gratitude, thanks Isaac!) and we do have complete dictatorial power over it, so why shouldn’t we exert that power when some doucher thinks he’s boss enough to come tell us how it is? We’ll tell you how it isn’t, sir. And how it isn’t, is how you said it is. Or how you said it is, it isn’t that way. Whatever, you’re an Ass Goblin and now that’s what it says your name is. Suck it.

So if you’re tempted to post a mean thing on any of our articles, whether they were written by us or by a guest, we’re going to make it seem like you named yourself Butt Sniffer because you deserve it. This isn’t a democracy. This is a Theo-merican Republic where Kent and I have eternal reign. Does that make sense? On TTM it does, because we say so.

If you’re going to be a dick, you forfeit your rights to be treated with respect. It’s that simple, Mr. I Love Eating Poop.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make my appointment for restorative ass surgery. Good day.

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.

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.

Now before I freak the hell out all up in your face, I’m going to stop a stupid argument in its tracks. This isn’t about world hunger. I’m not pissed that little Robby is scarfing down that Snickers because we could airmail it to some hungry kid in Zimbabwe that hangs out with bearded white dudes that guilt you into sending just $15 a month. No, that’s a stupid thing to think or say. That Snickers bar isn’t going to destroy world hunger as long as we keep it out of the mouths of wasteful fatasses. I get that, you get that, we get that. It’s logic. Besides, what kind of idiots would we be if we were mailing candy to starving people? That would be pretty counterproductive. By “we” I of course mean Americans. We don’t do that, do we? We probably do. Dammit.

No, my lovely friends, this is about irresponsible parenting. Now before you fat people start getting all huffy and puffy (like you get when you just ran 10 yards) about “big bones” and “the fat gene,” let me just go ahead and recognize that not all people are born skinny and then eat their way into fatness. Some people really do just get real fat because… well… they just do. I’m sorry to those people, you’re not necessarily who I’m talking about. I’m talking about the people who are lazy, non-exercizing, crap-eating slobs who – either directly or just by example – turn their kids into little fat-chunk monstrosities.

rawr blahhhrrggg mmmggarrrr (other sloppy eating sounds)

I guess you could say that I don’t hate the children, but rather their parents. But honestly, how catchy of a title is that? “I Hate the Parents of Fat Children”? No way. I FoxNewsed that bad boy up and made it sensational, and that’s why you’re reading.

I don’t have any kids myself (unless you count that one I bought on Ebay from Thailand that totally never got shipped to me, ThaiKidSellerz1093 you thieving bastard!) but I think I’m smart enough to recognize some basic truths about life.

1. Being overweight is unhealthy. Everybody has seen The Biggest Loser. You get diabetes, heart issues, and I’m pretty sure impotence is in there somewhere. It should be, at least.

2. Kids do what their parents/adult role models do. You ever been around a kid? You ever said “boobs” or “skank” or “just kidding now that she’s closer she’s ugly” around a kid? It’s like having one of those Talkboy Tape Recorders, isn’t it? Or an annoying ass parrot like the one my neighbor has? Either way, kids learn from their parents. If you eat like crap and weigh as much as a SmartCar, they’re going to follow your lead.

3. Be lazy or be a parent, but not a lazy parent. I’ve watched people raise kids. The lazy ones do whatever they want and never say no to their giant offspring, giving them every video game console and Willy Wonka product they incessantly scream for in the aisles at WalMart. The good parents, though, are tired and worn out all the time. Why? Because they expend all their energy disciplining their children and not letting them eat Haggen Daas for dinner. I’m cool with you being a lazy fatass – that’s why we elected Obama, so that society could fund your lifestyle – I’m just not cool with you damning your child to a life of health and self esteem problems.

So parents of fat kids, get your act together. Love your children enough to protect them from the suffering you’ve already experienced. Things like not seeing your feet for the last ten years, breaking furniture by leaning on it, or needing an electric scooter to shop at Target – these are the kinds of humiliations you can save your child simply by giving a damn about them. Don’t let them eat crappy food. Make them go outside and ride a bicycle instead of playing Grand Theft Auto. Buy a giant, angry doberman to rabidly chase them around your backyard. There are plenty of wonderful ways you can help your children not be fat. People like me are really tired of being pissed about it.

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.

How do I know this?  Each day, our stat sheet logs all the search engine terms that bring people to thetalkingmirror.com.  This allows us to see which tags are most effective and provides a window into the souls of our readers.  Some of the most popular searches include: kamma sutra, fetus humor, or some variation of “is my girlfriend crazy” (actual searches: am i a crazy girlfriend, how to break up with a crazy girlfriend, crazy girlfriend came after school, girlfriend went for a drive with ex, boyfriend talks on phone to ex, and the list goes on).  However, hands down the most common searches bringing people to The Talking Mirror are things relating to the life-draining awfulness of Carson Daly and Jason Mraz.

On any given day, up to a dozen people type in things like “Carson Daly is a toolshed”, “jason mraz huge douche,” “carson daly sucks”, and “carson daly sucks bad.”  The next most populer searches are various misspellings of Daly and Mraz followed by “douche.”

This trend is telling of two things: (1) These two gentlemen suck something awful, and (2) Americans have a surplus of pent up hostility when they are getting online.  Don’t get me wrong, I would like to drop-kick Mssrs. Daly and Mraz as much as the next decent American; I just think it takes a special kind of animosity to hate someone so much you take to the internet to discover new reasons to hate them.  And yet dozens, if not hundreds of web-surfers are pausing their daily searches for porn and pipe bomb ingredients to see who else out there shares their sentiments that Jason Mraz is a stain on humanity.

Come on America!  Surely we have better things to be doing – like, for example, declaring bankruptcy, lavishing praise on Slumdog Millionaire, or searching for pipe bomb ingredients.  Do we really need to spend entire afternoons fueling the fires  of Daly/Mraz disdain?  Surely we are more charitable nation than that.

Perhaps not.

That is all.  Nothing groundbreaking or earth-shattering.  It amused me, and I thought it might do the same for you.

p.s. Since I wrote that first paragraph ten days ago, we have amped up our marketing arm.  As of this afternoon, Talking Mirror facebook ads have appeared on over 1 million Facebook profiles.  When you consider that this picture is featured on the ad:

you can better understand my excitement about this number.  Eat it Facebook!  You can’t escape me!

Also, if you see the ad, please don’t click on it.  It costs me $0.60 every time you do.