And before we get back into the full swing of things, check out the comment on this post (here). I know, right? Holy fucking shit, someone actually put a comment on a post! But then you click on his name, and you discover that the ‘ShamWow Guy’ actually runs a ShamWow related website!

And now back to your scheduled programming (this is a screenshot taken off another website):

Dan Motherfucking Erwin

I didn’t actually read the comment because my eyes started to hurt. This is what I think he wrote though:

Hey everybody, Dan Erwin, PhD here.

Just wanted to check in on the old internet, make sure that all of you are having a good time. Krishna above me had a great, albeit pedestrian, comment that I’m hoping to clear up with what I have to say. By the way, I’m a successful entrepreneur several times over, and have a PhD. Also, this being the internet and all, what I’ve said about myself is completely verifiable. One hundred percent true.

If you doubt how successful an entrepreneur I am, just look over at my picture. Can’t you see how old I am? That’s definitely NOT a stock photo of some old dude there. It was most certainly taken by a photographer who has taken pictures of other sucessful entrepreneurs, none of whom have reached success as many times over as I have.

Dan Erwin, PhD,
Successful entrepreneur,
Several times over.

Since Dan Erwin is the type of person who has Google Alerts set up so that he gets an email every time his name appears somewhere online, I fully expect this to find its way to him.

Dan Erwin, PhD, feel free to comment below. Your opinions will be valued until they aren’t, motherfucker

So I’m sitting here with a bad case of pizza mouth, which drives me up more than a couple of walls and I’m thinking: who has wronged me enough this month to earn the distinction, nay, the honour, of winning the most prestigious award on the internet, the MFOTM.

And then just like that, it came to me. There is this guy in Chicago who is the most delinquent piece of shit in existence. He can’t hold a job. He can’t pay his bills on time. His girlfriend is constantly pissed off at him. His ex-girlfriend is even angrier at him. His mother calls in tears at least once a week wondering when he’ll drag his sorry ass home.

We’ll call this man Miguel, for that is his name. Miguel has never been able to hold a job for more than a month or so. He has terrible credit. He is one of those people who defaulted on their sub-prime mortgage. Just reading all that information makes the steam come out of my ears. I hate people like that, but I don’t motherfucking hate them.

But I have Miguel’s phone.

No, I din’t steal it or find it or anything like that. When I bought a Chicago phone, the number that was assigned to me used to be Miguel’s. So, every day, this group of creditors, debtors, mothers, girlfriends and angry bosses call me. And they don’t believe me when I tell them that Miguel, the biggest, steamiest turd in the 312 area code, no longer has the phone.

Way to go, Miguel, you’re the winner of this month’s challenge. You beat out some real competition this week and you should be proud. The Motherfucker of the Month award will be waiting for you whenever you want it.

Call me; you know the number, bitch.

I looked back at the last two Motherfuckers of the Month and realized something. Ryan Seacrest is a dirty little weasel with a pointy face and blonde hair. And so is Vince Offer. And then I thought: “hey, that’s kinda cool how two people who look the same are back to back winners of the most prestigious award on the internet. What are the odds of that happening?”

And then I did the math. I crunched mad numbers here, and it turns out that the chance of those two weasel-fucks NOT getting the nomination were slim to none. I mean, really slim to fucking none.

But it turns out that the odds of Ryan Seacrest and then Vince Offer and then Rosie O’Donnell happening were so outrageously low, that I had to make history. I mean, it’s really hard to go skinny blonde weasel, skinny blonde weasel, fat-ass brunette hippo. That’s not the way it works at the zoo and it’s not the way it works on the internet, until now.

Rosie, darling. You lesbian (not that there’s anything wrong with that) comedian, fat-ass supreme, cruise-ship operator (and just plain old cruise-ship), welcome to the Motherfucker hall of fame. There is nothing more I can say.

Except that last time I ran into you, a chicken wing flew out of your mouth. That’s just fucking gross.

Anyway, welcome. I hope you enjoy the company, Rosie. Also, feel free to send me an email and I’ll photoshop up a trophy for you. Though it won’t be edible, you fat fuck.

And then the strangest thing happened, Shlomi emailed me last week*. I know it’s pretty exciting when an F-list, pointy-faced, nasally, late-night informercial pitchman sends you a personal email, but hold back that excitement because I’m printing it below.

Hey Max,

You should really write more often on the site,
Vince

Damn, what a piece of shit. That email easily qualifies him for Motherfucker of the Month.

*He may not have actually emailed me

To all the ladies out there who complain about your once a month lady issues, let me counter with my once a day man issues. I’m not trying to trivialize what’s going on down there (in there?) or anything (eeeeeeeeewwww); I’d just like to say: “hey, we have shit to deal with as well.”

That shit is known as morning wood. If you didn’t know this already, guys wake up with ‘happy’ dicks. Guys also wake up and have to pee pretty badly and herein lies the conundrum. What do you do? How do you do it?

To say that morning wood is an inconvenience is sort of the understatement of the century, or the nine first years of a century but who’s counting? And here’s why: it’s all an aim issue.

You can take me drunk and dizzy, cut one of my feet off so I don’t even stand upright, poke one of my eyes out so I have no depth perception, and I’ll still hit the toilet bowl. Seat up or seat down. SWISH! (Know what I mean?) Nary a stray drop.

The minute you throw a boner into the mix, that percentage is shot. When standing and peeing while happy you can do any number of techniques and the one that most guys are familiar with is the ‘force-down.’ Sometimes you just have to grab it and point it.

It’s a little uncomfortable (but not more uncomfortable than sitting down and realizing that your ‘junk’ is now your ’stir stick.’) It’s terrible for the aim though. Droplets everywhere. What’s more is that any guy will tell you that there is a ’sweet spot’ on the toilet. It’s around where the water meets the back of the bowl; if you aim your stream there, you minimize sound, splash and catastrophe. The force-down sweet spot is much much broader.

It’s the toilet.

The whole bowl. Some mornings can be seen as victorious if you can land your stream on porcelain. Man V. Dick: a battle of epic proportions.

But here’s a solution to two problems, and I’m offering it up to you guys for free. It’s called ‘The Superman.’

I got that image from this very on topic and amazing webpage. (WARNING! Cartoon dicks!)

The Superman solves two very important problems:
1: No more peeing on not-the-toilet
2: It lets you pretend to be a super hero. Everyone wants to be a super hero.

However, it does not quell my motherfucking hatred of morning wood.

1: A friend of mine told me that he may have seen her walk into one of his classes. He now keeps his balls in check.
2: I still motherfucking hate her.

The motherfucker this month is someone who I have never met, though that doesn’t mean I can’t hate him.

Ryan Seacrest. Get out of my life. Get off of my TV, my radio, my internet. I hope American Idol dies the fieriest death possible for a TV show. I hope you die in the fire with it.

And you know what? The above paragraph would have given him a pass this month. There were a lot of motherfuckers this February who would have made the cut above Seacrest. I mean, let’s face it, before I saw the YouTube video below, Seacrest was just a lame cheap-ass singing version of Ty Pennington, right? Right?

But that was before he tried to high-five a blind dude. Think about that. All the power to the blind singer, though; it’s time Stevie Wonder had some competition in that sector.

Ryan, congratulations, you have been dubbed ‘Motherfucker of the Month: February’ over here at Things I Motherfucking Hate. Feel free to contact me and I’ll send you an e-trophy; it’s a little more prestigious than that MTV award for ‘Best Shaved Chest’ that you won in ‘06, or your unprecedented follow-up to that, the MTV award for ‘Lowest Sense of Self-Worth for a Faux-Celebrity with a Shaved Chest’ in ‘07.

Though you should probably save room at the top of your trophy cabinet for the Teen Choice award in 2007’s ‘Best Kiss’ category for the impressive and previously thought impossible feat of kissing your own ass. Seriously, I haven’t seen that much self-love and agenda-setting since the last Michael Moore film I saw. Now that’s saying something!

Why are Ten Dollar Words so good to me? I can think of two reasons, and they both deal with intelligence: Let’s say you are talking to somebody who isn’t as smart as you and you are arguing with them and they are still biting at your ankles with that sort of idiot resolve. You know what I’m talking about, I’m sure. So you’re there, talking to this person and you just want to stop talking to them. BAM! Slap them with a T.D.W. Call on your friends that exist deep in your vocabulary and that’s the end of the argument. The dazed look means you can walk away.

Conversely, let’s say you’re the ankle biter and are deep in a conversation about the history of tort law with a federal judge. (Uh-Oh). Now’s the time to fire back a few T.D.W.’s, chuckle, do that awkward shoulder punch and strut off, dignity (almost) intact. There have been worse conversations with federal judges, trust me.

So you see, Ten Dollar Words are useful in more than one situation; however, they are rarely used that way. There are the abusers. There are those scum bags where everything has to sound as long as possible, where if it isn’t three syllables, it isn’t being said. What a disgrace.

Don’t you guys understand? The T.D.W. is a hidden weapon; it’s the gun in the ankle holster. The one where when you run out of bullets in your hip-holstered sidearm, you can always crouch down and fire a few surprise shots. BAM BAM BAM! Toss out some of those words; you deserve them. Sneak attack style.

I hate having to talk to someone where something as simple as “would you like to get some lunch” turns into “is your stomach creating sonic evidence as to the hunger level that you now sense, and if so, would you be inclined to satiate that hunger with an informal meeting of both of us for a midday luncheon?” God. What the fuck is that? Seriously, some people talk like that. There aren’t really any T.D.W.s in there, either. It’s just diarrhoea. Out of your mouth. Onto my face.

Please. Stop. Now.

I think I know what the deal is. Strap yourselves in for some knowledge here, folks: saying the simple thing does not make you the simple person. Nobody cares that you pretend to be Peter Mark Roget on the daily. Nobody cares if you think you are a fountain of knowledge.

Also, news-flash motherfucker: ‘lunch’ and ‘luncheon’ are synonyms. The only difference between the two is that when you are talking to me, you’d say ‘lunch’ and when you are talking to the Queen, you’d say ‘luncheon.’ And then she’d bitch slap the the living fuck outta you. The Queen hates pretentiousness.

I, and the Queen, motherfucking hate Ten Dollar Word abusers.

Hey, remember that time cousin Billy with the mullet came over to the hotel room with all that booze? Aunt Margie and Grandma started pounding beers but Grandma couldn’t keep up.

That was a bitch to clean up; thanks a lot Grandma, I motherfucking hated that.

I don’t even know the name of this month’s Motherfucker. She does exist; she is a girl; I hope to never meet her again. Ever. She had a profoundly negative effect on my Thursday night (January 29th).

I was somehow roped into going to a Ski Team event at a club called Rouge on Thursday. I paid 10 bucks for a ticket to what I consider to be a pretty worthy cause, seeing as I have quite a few friends on the Ski Team and they get negative funding from the school (I wouldn’t be surprised if the school made them acquire the rights to ski under the McGill name, hence negative funding). I thought I’d donate. I’m not a very generous guy, so I guess they caught me on a good night.

Anyway, I hate clubs. Despise them. They are vacuous, soul-sucking, music-blaring sweat chambers. The people who frequent clubs are equally as vacuous and soul-sucked (if any of my readers (Mom plus two more people) frequent clubs, please stop reading. Forever.) It’s not just that you can’t hear anything, or that you wake up in your own puddle of… liquids, or that you can’t get a drink unless it’s red, pink or blue, has a mountain of ice spilling out of the glass and costs 11 dollars, it’s all of the above.

Plus, my least favourite person as of January ‘09 goes to them, so yeah, permanent blemish.

The night started out shitty, since, for some reason, Rouge thought to get the event sponsored by Coors Light. You’re telling me that I have two choices: I either get water in a beer bottle or a mixed drink that has no discernible difference from me licking a deodorant stick? I would pass on both if I could, but the heat and confusingly ever-present smell of urinal cakes was getting to me, so I needed… something. I’d save the Old Spice for later; at least the Coors was cold.

The thing I like doing when I go out to be social, is to be social. Social is sitting around a table with a few friends shooting the breeze, or spastically dancing, and embarrassing myself with a large group of people. Being social is having fun. I hate the isolation from dance clubs; shit just ain’t fun.

Anyway, I was trying to recreate my fun experiences by grabbing a beer and dancing with some friends. There was a lot of “WHAT!?!?” “I CAN’T HEAR YOU” and shoulder shrugging, but we found a rhythm. And then a friend of a friend came over who I knew, sort of, and with her came the MFOTM, Ms. January.

I thought, “hey, that’s cool, we are making the group bigger.” and grabbed another beer. For some reason, when I got back, this chick tried to grab the beer from my hands, and though Coors Light is not very high on my ’safeguard list,’ I was thirsty as all hell, and kind of wanted to drink it.

Of course when I tried to pull it back to me, she tried harder to get it away. And when she tried that, I shot a ‘who the fuck does she think she is?’ glance to a friend, and he did the ‘what’s going on; I’m confused’ back. I didn’t want this to turn physical, so I just tried to out-muscle her by pulling the beer towards my body.

At this point, I am unsure as to what happened. I have different versions of the story concerning the girl’s motivations, but the same event happened: she took her hands off my beer, and moved them to my crotch. And then viced down hard. Hard as FUCK.

My friend thinks she was flirting with me (huh?), so maybe if I saw her ‘potential,’ I would just surrender the beer.

I think she was trying to get me to keel over and cry on the floor, rendering me defenceless, and then beerless.

I did neither, as at that point, I raised a swift knee into her forearm while simultaneously turning my body away. I have a strict ‘do not hit girls policy’ that was rightfully amended because of a crippling force directed on my testicles. She wasn’t even hurt.

I then, after kneeing her arm off my balls, turned and grabbed the first person behind me, moved them in front of me, and pointed and yelled at Mrs. January. My whole group of friends also froze her out and she was never to be seen again, though I did have to look over my shoulder for the rest of the night.

Congratulations, hands-like-vice-on-balls girl, you are the Motherfucker of the month.

I am not entirely sure that was English. What I can tell you is that the comment comes from a popular Hip-Hop video. That means that a 13 year old suburban girl managed to write that, because, for real, suburban 12-14 year old girls are the largest purchasers of Hip-Hop. Look it up.

I don’t really understand what that first sentence means, but I understand which words are being used and substituted for. The second line is also (unfortunately) readable but as soon as you get to line 3, well that’s just straight out of left field. Incomprehensible.

And as if these egregious spelling, grammar and well, ‘other issues’ weren’t enough, we have to deal with people like this:

I can get by without capitals, I can even understand that writing the word ‘to’ is a pretty difficult task and a ‘2′ should go in its place. But what is this kid even thinking by not putting any punctuation in? I don’t understand. I’m not even talking correct use of punctuation; I’m talking about putting commas in to break it up so I know where one sentence starts and another ends. Or, since half of this is garbage anyway, let me at least see where you pause to take a breath while reading.

Furthermore, as to the content that I can actually decipher, it seems that this guy (I’m guessing he is: white, male, 14-15, pube-stache and acne up to his glasses) has an inside perspective on the Notorious B.I.G.’s life. He says it here: “no 1 ever went into bigs life thats jus a narators perspective dumb shit” Is it just me or does that sound like he knows more than the movie? I know one thing for certain, 14 year olds from Brevard County, Florida (I’m guessing the 321 in his username is his area code, and am most definitely wrong) act a lot tougher on the internet behind the anonymity that is YouTube. You know how I know he isn’t gangasta? Gangstas don’t live near where they launch the space shuttle. You can take that to the bank.

As if it wasn’t enough that we have a Brevard County 14 year old and a suburban 13 year old posting on YouTube under assumed aliases, you have this:

And you all are going: “But Max! That sounds perfectly normal right there. thedunna07 even used punctuation, capitalization and spelled all words correctly!” You know what? That is all true. But anyone who says that the music video for Kanye West’s Flashing Lights is ‘very deep’ can be lumped in with the rest of those YouTube mouth breathers. Do you know what the video is? It is a fantastically large breasted woman who strips down to her underwear and then burns her clothes in the desert. I guess I’m not looking deep enough at that one. I’m submitting a guess here that thedunna07 is 12 years old, male, and just learned how to masturbate. ‘Deep’ is the new ‘I’m just reading Playboy for the articles.’

And before I sign off, as if the above three examples weren’t enough to convince you of my hatred for YouTube commenters, here is one more:

The poster’s screen name is ‘cakesniffer1′ which means that ‘cakesniffer’ was already taken. Who are these people? Does it matter though, because I would still motherfucking hate them.