Super Bowl Sunday for the Non-Fan/Significant Other and the SB Drinking Game

Super Bowl Sunday. A real MAN’S holiday, not like that wimp-ass Valentine’s Day designed to rip the testes off of any man unlucky enough to have access to a bank account and a pussy that demands recompense for the privilege of using it. The only days that compare are St. Patrick’s Day – a day to celebrate the act of getting drunk – and Halloween – a day to celebrate getting drunk while watching girls in slutty costumes get drunk. Truly, Super Bowl Sunday is in the Pantheon of Manly.

What, though, is a man or woman to do if they do not care about/understand football and are viewing the game with/dating someone who is more rabid than Cujo about it? Well, we’re going to offer you a little bit of help on this most holy of football days. You know, to take the edge off.
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The first – and most important – piece of advice is at least pretend that you give a shit about the game. Too many Super Bowl parties are ruined by “outsiders” pissing and moaning about how it’s boring and why are we watching this and how about we turn it to the History Channel instead because there’s an utterly fascinating program on the mating cycle of the African I Don’t Fucking Care Bird. Relationships have ended with less reason than that. Fun fact: it is legally accepted that if someone is bitching about having to watch the game, spectators are allowed to A) headbutt them in the face (if they are male) or B) take them into a different room and rape them (if they are female). Do yourself – and your face or vagina or ass – a favor and at least act like you care. Well, that or don’t come. Don’t watch. Stay at home and let fans have their fun.

Secondly, it is advised to learn the basics about the game and teams before the game. While the complainer is one of the most annoying of guests, the questioner is right up there. The enthusiasm and desire to care about the sport is welcomed for sure, but nothing saps the energy out of a room faster than having a critical play missed due to asking “Why did they call timeout there?” or “So the guys in the striped shirts don’t get the ball?” or, God forbid, “Why doesn’t that team in the red just walk up and take the ball from the guy holding it?” Please. For the sanity of those around you, either attempt to understand the basics beforehand or just suffer in silence and ask during the commercials.

Speaking of which, for the love of all that is holy, don’t ignore the game by doing other stuff but run into the room and shush everyone because the commercials are on. Yes, we understand that for whatever reason the commercials during the Super Bowl aren’t hated and muted like all others but are held up as exciting and fresh. Yes, we understand that you may not care about the game and the commercials are the only reason you’re watching. Yes, we understand that you want to feel involved with what’s happening. But come on. If you don’t give enough of a shit to pay attention to the game, don’t act like you have the fucking right to quiet everyone – probably pissed or excited about something that happened – just because a fucking eTrade commercial has a damn monkey.

Next – and this one does depend on the audience you’re seeing the game with – know when to cheer and when to boo. If you’re watching a game with all – let’s say – Saints fans, don’t cheer for Peyton Manning of the Colts unless you are goddamn sure you are rooting for the Colts. An innocent mistake by someone who doesn’t quite understand what’s happening is fine and glossed over. Mistakes happen. But if you are cheering against the team with the overwhelming support in the room, you are treading on dangerous ground. Devil’s Advocate is fine in some situations. Political discussions for example. But actively cheering against the supported team because you think it’s funny to make them angry is a bad, bad way to go about things. Since parties usually include a lot of alcohol being poured and consumed around the house/room/bar, if you don’t get your face bashed in by a drunken biker you pissed off because you wanted to, you got lucky. You fucking cunt.

Along with that, please, please know why you are cheering for the team you are doing so for. It is acceptable to cheer for a team because A) you have always supported them, B) you live in the general area and they are the team that is the closest by, C) they are a great success story and a win would cap off a remarkable year, D) the opposing team is so hated, so reviled that unless you live in that area, you have no right to like them, or E) the opposing team is a direct rival of your favorite team. You are allowed to “adopt” a team in the case of E. However, it is NOT acceptable to cheer for a team because A) you like their uniforms, B) everyone else is cheering for the other one, C) the other team’s colors are ugly, or D) because you think players on the team are attractive. That last one applies mostly to girls. Jesus Christ. Having “cute players” is absolutely fucking unacceptable fandom rationalization. We men don’t support a WNBA team because their players are “hot”. If “their player is hot” is the best reason you have to back a team, you are not a fucking football fan and don’t have any right to call yourself one. Other fans of that team should be ashamed to have you as a fan. It’s the truth.

Finally, don’t act like you’re above it. This is a development off of Point 1. We understand that you may not want to be there or are there to support someone. That’s fine. Pissing and moaning will bring bad things upon you but there is worse that you can do. You can act like everyone else is silly for caring about the game. “It’s just a game” should never fucking leave your mouth. We understand that. We don’t care. For the length of time we are watching it, nothing else matters to us. “This is so stupid” is another one that should stay at home. If you think verbalizing that is a helpful thing, YOU should stay at home. You are there so just enjoy yourself. Seriously. It’s an excuse to get drunk, cheer and lose yourself in a moment. If you can’t enjoy that, take the stick out of your orifices and let yourself be human.

Follow these and your Super Bowl experience will be a happy, healthy, fun one!
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Alternatively, you can get hammered as balls drinking. We’re going to offer a bonus with this article and give you some basic drinking game ideas!

Field goal (your team) – Cheer and drink

Field goal (other team) – Curse and drink

Touchdown (your team) – Stand up, cheer and drink

Touchdown (their team) – Throw drink, curse, make another drink and drink

Turnover (either team) – Finish your drink and refill

Missed field goal (either team) – Pour out half your drink

Shot of owner (either team) – Give the finger and drink

Shot of players’ wives (either team) – Groan, complain about how you don’t care and drink

Beer commercial – Kill your beer

Financial commercial -Call your financial planner

Repeat commercial – Drink until the commercial is over

Controversial commercial – Drink until you can see both sides of the issue

Win (your team) – Celebrate and drink until you black out due to happiness

Loss (your team) – Swear repeatedly, maybe cry and drink until you forget that the fucking game even happened

There we have it! Please don’t die, readers!

You Don’t Have To Take My Word For It, But…

Greetings faithful readers (and totally unfaithful commentors, you whores)! We have a special treat for you today – a piece from The Archives! No, not the archives of this set, but The Archives of my past. As we have reached February, we will be experiencing not so much technical difficulties as drunken, lonely, cynical, pissed-off vitriol – also known as my reaction to Valentine’s Day. The closer we get to that damned day, the nastier the entries will be. So let’s start out the festivities with a piece written – and performed – back in the spring of 2007. Enjoy.
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Stop. Freeze frame. Halt. Silencio, por favor. Whatever phrase you choose, use it. Just listen. I come to you concerned about the state of the world at large. No, I don’t care about Darfur. No, I don’t care about Iraq. No, I don’t even care about saving baby seals from oil-soaked killer whales with AIDS. Fuck those seals. I’m much more concerned about something more insidious, something that’s infected the very core of our society.

I’m talking about Valentine’s Day.

Picture, if you will, the following scenario. A man in the seventeenth or eighteenth or whatever century gets himself thrown in jail and is taken care of by the jailer’s ugly son who falls in love with him. Before the man is executed, he writes a note to the son telling him to “piss off” and signed “Your Eternal Despiser”. Now, imagine if years upon years later, a day becomes commercialized honoring this man and, in the spirit of the day, people tell each other to go fuck themselves. Pretty ridiculous sounding, right? Then why the blue hell do we have a holiday that exists as the polar opposite and nobody is concerned about it? How is this not seen as a blatant hypocrisy?

Oh, oh wait. I think I understand it now. Because the day is something positive! It’s something that makes people feel good about themselves! It’s a day where people say that they love to love loving love! Ugh, okay, I couldn’t even make it through that last sentence without feeling sick to my stomach. Excuse me a moment.

That’s better. As I was saying, the general consensus is that this holiday is something good, something that makes this world a little better place. But is it really? I would tend to argue otherwise. Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. I’m too cynical. I’m too bitter. Someone will find me someday and then I’ll change my view. Okay, sure. Let’s set aside my crippling emotional issues for right now and actually delve deeper into the holiday to try to figure out whether or not this day is worth anything more than a date on your calendar.

Let’s first start off with looking at exactly what the holiday means to people. It means one of two things and two things only, the determining factor being the current relationship status of the person in question. It is either a day to get closer to your partner, to cuddle up, watch chick flicks, eat chocolates and show affection in public…or a day to get completely bombed/blasted/smashed/toasted/tanked/ripped/shitfaced/fucked-up…in other words, drunk as an Irishman at a split wake and wedding while cursing the day and wishing everyone involved in it gets stricken with a curiously strong case of herpes. It’s one or the other, no exceptions. Thing is, it doesn’t always stay consistent throughout the years. One year, it could be the first, the next it could be the second. Usually though, the longer it goes without being the first, the more the second tends to be exacerbated.

But why does the second happen? Shouldn’t those of us who are single revel in the fact that we don’t have to clear out our bank accounts to make a significant other not leave us? You’d think so, but no. Comforting yourself by staring gleefully at a bank balance of more than thirty bucks can only work for so long – I’ve found it to be about two and a half hours, personally. After that, you realize you don’t have anyone to spend that money on save yourself and you sink further and further into what I like to call “VD Pissy” mode. VD Pissy is different than Normal Day Pissy in subtle, but various ways. First, NDP is random, it can happen at any time. You might get a bad test grade or it might be raining or people in class won’t shut up even if they clearly have no clue what the hell they’re talking about and it eventually leads to NDP, where you just kind of want to avoid people in order to calm yourself and get back to neutral. It’s a pain but it’s natural. VDP, however, is unavoidable. It’s the one day of the year when it is known fully in advance that the state is going to happen. You can feel it coming about a week away – almost like that ability cats have to sense earthquakes – and prepare for it. You stock up on booze and violent movies, check to make sure your black clothes are clean and ready for wearing, and slap a sneer on your face, silently hoping (or maybe not) that something will stop you from careening into full-blown “Jackassery” mode, a logical extension of VDP wherein anger and frustration at people is no longer passive but active. Once in “Jackassery” mode, there is no turning back. You are bound by duty to be, if not outright mean, outwardly disdainful of anything and everything in the holiday.

Let’s put out a sort of practical application scenario, shall we? Our subject will be named Eric. Eric is a typical college student with friends and grades and all that normal stuff. He’s also been entirely single for nearly three years (ed. -four and a half years now) and has been alone on Valentine’s Day since his freshman year of high school. He’s either rejected constantly or simply can’t nut up and ask a girl out. As such, he’s the perfect subject for this little fact-finding mission. Every other day of the year, he is generally contented. Sure, there are problems, but everyone has those. But when February dawns, his mood darkens. An ever-growing thunderhead rumbles on the horizon as he sees the storm begin to come. To his credit, he tries to fight it. He stays out of stores, unless it’s to buy beer. He avoids TV so he can evade those love-drenched jewelry ads. He tries to keep things light, to laugh more. But it keeps coming, rolling towards him like a swirl of red-and-pink stained dust from Hell. And when it hits, it hits with the fury of God Himself.

Waking in the morning, he feels the dread weigh on him, an invisible bear sitting on his chest, slapping him in the face, claws bared. Don’t wake up, man, it growls. Go to sleep and miss the hassle! You know what will happen. He’ll hear the voices in his head…and hurl his more-than-likely massively hungover ass out from under the warm, comfy blanket anyway. And why? Is he masochistic? Or is he…God forbid…optimistic? Nah, nothing quite like that. He doesn’t like getting beat on or think the world farts roses just for him. All that drives him out of bed is plain, generic, overriding stupid habit. He’s a great guy, but he’s stuck in a routine. And since he doesn’t listen to his rational side or even to its fallback plan (fixing cranberry and vodkas until he feels comfortable dancing around his room like an asshole in his Spongebob boxers – don’t judge), he’ll go through the day withdrawn and quiet, silently boiling inside – keeping in the raging desire to throw the seeds of discontent into relationships like a perverted Johnny Appleseed- until he has no more responsibilities. That is when he abuses his liver to the nth degree. Seeing all the happy couples flirting and kissing and being more cute and adorable than a puppy with its head caught in a C-clamp makes him want to suffer cascading organ failure just so he can avoid it all. Bravo, Eric. Chase that drunken, vomiting star.

But should he have to do this? Should he have to drown his anger and frustration in massive quantities of low-grade Jamaican rum? Well, no, but it sure does help sometimes, I bet. But surely, you ask, one day – no matter how lovey it is – cannot drive a man to such depths of blackness, can it? That’s a…fair question. The simple answer is that the day is fine. The day in and of itself can be ignored through some careful planning and movement, or if not ignored, only absorbed in small enough amounts that it means nothing. Kind of like the emotional equivalent of cyanide. You eventually build up a tolerance to it. Or die. But either way the problem is solved! Anyways, avoiding more tangents, it is the people involved that make the holiday such a vile endeavor.

But, you ask again, people are good and just love being with each other – they can’t be the real problem, right? Wrong. With a capital W. They would be fine if they treated the day as something passive – a day to just show their significant other how much they care. In. Private. But it’s not private, is it? Oh no. Dogs in heat don’t draw as much attention as couples on Valentine’s Day. Attacking each other’s faces like zombie badgers. Bodies so entwined that you’d think they were Siamese twins that got into a fight in rubber cement. Cutesy little butterfly kisses that make you wish spiders were around. Drippy terms of endearment that would make even Shakespeare vomit with rage. Flowers in such high abundance that you’d expect rainforests were razed. Enough chocolate to send a diabetic into a coma just for breathing in. Balloons, limo rides, fancy dinners, those terrifyingly emasculating Build-a-Bears. Even the dreaded “hands in seat pockets” makes an appearance. How is this love? It seems more like one dropped pen away from public indecency.

But if this Public Display of Affection overload was not enough to trip your trigger, there’s also the wonderful side benefit of people (generally couples, but not always) deciding that since you’re single, you must need comforting. Lines such as “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone” or the closely related “There’s someone out there for you” get thrown around with “Be happy for us” and “Don’t be such a grouch, it’s a great day”. Degrading. While the general intent behind such throwaway phrases can grudgingly be acknowledged as helpful, the implementation is not nearly so positive. Single, bitter people don’t want to hear stuff like that. They don’t see it as being nice. They see it as being condescending and smug, a sense of superiority drenching the words with insincerity. Lines like that are what nearly provoke violence from the less-controlled populace.

Let me be clear that if you’re in a couple that does not automatically mean that singles hate you. Some couples are very understanding about what the day does to bitter singles and will choose to keep things private. Others won’t even bring it up in public. And not all singles are bitter. Some are cheerful and celebrate the day with good humor (privately, the bitter singles consider these sorts to be a bit mentally unstable…or traitorous). But the simple fact that is trying to be proven here is this: stop making such a big deal about nothing. If you’re happy, be happy but don’t rub it in. If you’re bitter, try to at least be civil and, barring that, just be too intoxicated to react. Let the world turn as it may and roll with whatever happens. Or, if that simply happens to be too much work, firebomb Hallmark. Either one is good.

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Yay, I guess. We’ll be back soon with another installment of “I need a girlfriend or to get laid before I go postal” Theatre. Or…something like that anyways.

A Quick Break…for COMICS!

Howdy all you wonderful DECF readers. Got a special treat for you today! As you all know, I’m sure, today (February 1st) was Hourly Comics Day in which people the Internet over drew little comics detailing every hour of their day. Well, I joined them! My art sucks and it probably isn’t funny but…well, it’s all you’re getting right now. Enjoy!

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Sorry for some of the text not being at the optimal reading level. In order to fit all the panels onto the page, I had to compress things down. If it’s a big enough problem, I’ll edit in transcripts of the panels at a later date, if so desired.

So…have fun, I suppose!

TV Pilots For The Network With No Credibility Left

Alright! I’m half drunk on Hypnotik and cough syrup so why don’t we do a little roleplaying? Alright, how about you be a Catholic schoolgirl who just HAS to have a good grade and I’ll be your strict yet warm priest fighting with his sexual urges combating his oath to celibacy due to his unconscious designs on your maidenhead?

No? Fine. Prude.

How about this? Let’s say that you’re…how about a sinking TV network who just got rid of one of your biggest stars in a boondoggle of epic proportions and subsequently had to deal with your network being slammed near constantly in the media for weeks and I’m a hot young producer pitching shows that you have to at least consider to avoid bankruptcy?

No?

Well fuck you. We’re doing it anyways. You’ll love it, I promise.

Let’s get to it, Stuart! (Stuart? The fuck? I guess that cough syrup is kicking in now)

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First up, we have Who Wants to Be a Drunkulaire?. Think shots. Think Regis Philbin. Think awkward flirtation with sorority sluts and young men questioning their sexuality. Think a fucking gold mine.

If that doesn’t float your boat, we can always go with Karaoke Wine Funtime Express!. We take the worst of Japanese culture, mix in some box wine, throw in some American Idol and we have ourselves a great show! Who DOESN’T like watching talentless assholes embarass themselves on TV? I know I do!

Taking off the success of Jeff Foxworthy’s inexplicably popular TV show as well as the horrible failure of a human being that was Darva Conger, next up is Who Wants To Marry a Fifth Grader?. We bring in pedophiles in from around the globe to compete in various tests of physical and mental skill in order to find who is to win the hand of a burgeoning prepubescent. The victor then engages in hand-to-hand combat to the death with the girl’s father to determine if she is to remain with her father or be passed on as property to the filthy beast. Oh and the father is a Marine. You know. For legal purposes.

If game shows aren’t your thing, not to worry! We have plenty of other ideas for shows. How do you feel about reality shows? Good? Good! Well, we have a dynamite show for you. It’s called Live Porn. Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “How could we possibly get away with it”? That’s a good question. I haven’t thought that far ahead but I have total faith in the writing crew to make it tasteful and ready for primetime!

We could also go with Tits for Sale, following the travels of real life prostitutes trying to make a living on the mean streets of New York City. We could hound them at every stop, even when they do coke or blow an undercover cop for cash money! And let’s be realistic here. It wouldn’t be any trashier than Maury or Jerry Springer.

If you want to stay away from the “potentially FCC-inflaming” territory in terms of reality shows, we could do a “Big Brother” style show where ten college students are stuck in a frat house for six months and those that make it out without becoming alcoholics or getting STDs gain admission to a grad school of their choice. We could call it Every Fucking College Student In America Right Now Except These Kids Have More Hope or EFCSIARNETKHMH for short. Big ratings!

I suppose you COULD always go with The Tonight Show With Jimmy Fallon…wait, what the fuck am I saying? You want to MAKE money and not have your network crumble into nothingness like Air America. Scratch that one. Forget I said anything. I can hear the cries of the damned in agony because of that suggestion. Mea culpa, damned.

As for more traditional programming, we have some ideas that could really do well there. The first – and best – one is A Half Hour Of Uncomfortable Bigotry. It would revolve around the interactions of characters designed to be cultural stereotypes. There would be the smart, submissive Asian who ‘talka rikea dis’ and can’t drive, the uneducated inner city black, gold-grilled thug with a penchant for crack, ‘bitch-ass honeys’, fried chicken and rap music, the fat chill Samoan who would be constantly eating and calling the others “brotha”, the pot-smoking Jamaican blaring reggae music at all hours within the wreath of marijuana smoke around his long, dirty dreads, the flaming, tight-shirted homosexual who would be caught in HILARIOUS misunderstandings with phallic objects all the time while talking in a fey, high-pitched lisp, the old-timey racist and bigoted white Southern neighbor bound and determined to catch the thug stealing his TV, Snooki from “Jersey Shore” and Carlos Mencia. EVERYONE would tune in to get pissed off. Guaranteed!

Now if it’s cheap, low-budget ratings you want, the next idea will be wonderful. It’s called Taylor Lautner’s Abs. It’ll consist of that smug, tanned mongoloid standing around or doing menial tasks with his shirt off. It’ll bring in the “tween” and “Twilight fan” audience or what I like to call the “absolutely assured blockbuster money but at the expense of not only your soul but the very soul of literature and film as we know it” crowd. You will make money, but is it worth it? I’m just the pitchman so I can’t tell you either way.

The last idea I have for you today is a big one. It’s called Jerry the Pervert. It follows the life of Jerry, a self-proclaimed pervert who has to cope with the non-perverted world around him. Awkward situations abound when he helps a woman find her dog…and he becomes aroused! Watch him find love as he meets a cute waitress…and becomes aroused! See him sink into depression and contemplate suicide…as he becomes aroused! It’s a sure-fire winner.

So you see, it’s not that hard to come up with hit TV shows after all! Take a cue, networks! Don’t be like NBC! Be like DEC…F!

Tips For a Happy, Healthy Christmas

Are…are you serious? We’re still doing this? We’re still trying to make this blog limp along like a raccoon with its leg caught in a beartrap? Let it die already, you idiot. Clearly you have issues with deadlines so…

Oh, hello. Sorry about that. You…um…weren’t supposed to hear that. I just was talking to my producers who have informed me that Dan Eats Cat Food is NOT, in fact, deader than Brittany Murphy after a three-day coke binge. [Oh, topical humor...and within a week, too. That's not going to piss people off at all. -ed.]

Pause for angry hatred. 3…2…1…okay, we’re good. [I hate you so much. I hate you with a burning fire. - ed.]

As I was saying, apparently the braindead asstards who run this site still believe there is something of literary value to be gained from keeping this bastion of poor writing alive in whatever unwashed, pee-stained corner of the Wendy’s bathroom that is the Internet it exists in this week. And speaking of this week, we’re on the fasttrack to the most controversial holiday of year, save Black History Month and Rape an Electrician Thursday: Christmas. It seems as if every year, we as a human race are bombarded more and more not with joys and tinsel and happy little reindeer dressed in Santa hats with their jingle bells painted a festive red and green but with shitheads on both uber-Christian and atheist sidelines throwing vitriol on everything they disagree with that comes from the other side, customers throwing others through Walmart front windows and an inexplicable sense of dread about the entire holiday. It’s enough to make one wish [redacted - You're an asshole, not a heretic - ed.]. That being said, we here at Dan Eats Cat Food are nothing if not benevolent and love-bringers [Are you DRUNK? -ed.], so in the spirit of the season, we’re going to give you tips on how to make your Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Eid/Tet/Festival of Lights [Enough - ed.] the most special-ist season of them all and maybe we’ll even find ourselves having a little fun along the way!

[Editor's Note - People. Let me take a second to talk to you. You apparently still read this which concerns me in ways I can't explicate but as a readership base, you are important to us. So for that reason alone, I cannot make it any clearer than this: do not under ANY circumstances follow any of the advice this man is about to give you in this article. Not one piece. The writer of this piece - and really anyone who writes on this site but this man in particular - is borderline criminally insane. We only allow him to write here because he has photographic evidence of some very important people doing some very illegal things with very underage persons. I repeat: do NOT listen to this man. This statement is a warning and absolves us of any damage - property, civil or human - that may occur henceforth. Good luck.]

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Create gifts from the heart (or other body parts): Store-bought gifts are just so impersonal. Sure, an iPod might be a really neat thing for the music lover in your life, but wouldn’t a song written just for them mean more? Or how about a hand-carved bird feeder for the yard? And what about that special someone that requires the best gift of all? A to-scale plaster replica of your dick says “I cherish you” more than a necklace or a diamond ring. [Sonofabitch. - ed.]

Replace those boring old Christmas lights with something that has a little more pizazz to it: Gasoline in your rain gutters with a long fuse can help light up the house for everyone to see! Plus, it’ll help you meet some new people. Specifically, new, pissed-off people wearing funny red hats and cursing the ground you walk on. Invite them in for a cup of hot cocoa when it’s all over!

Spice up that eggnog with something special: Tailor the drink to fit the mood of the party. 2:1 girl to guy ratio – Use Captain Morgan to kickstart those panties. 1:2 girl to guy ratio – Use Everclear to blast away the fact that spitroasting is not only an option, but probable. 1:1 girl to guy ratio – Use brandy to get people the hookup. Work Christmas party – Strychnine.

Christmas caroling can be annoying. Why not use different songs?: For example, “Fuck Tha Police” by N.W.A. is a rollicking piece that will certainly get the neighbors talking. As are “Bitches Ain’t Shit”, “99 Problems” and “The Dreidel Song”. All Christmas favorites the family is sure to enjoy!

Volunteer to be a Mall Santa: That way you can have all that sweet, sweet five [redacted - COME ON, MAN! - ed.]

Avoid mistletoe at all costs: It’s not only poisonous to animals and humans alike but it can lead to accidents. A kiss session under the mistletoe can lead to a makeout session in the Miata can lead to a sex session in the apartment can lead to an abortion session in the three months. See how easy it is to fall from a holiday tradition to destroying a life? Chilling in its simplicity, really.

Don’t accept those shitty-ass sweaters anymore: Seriously, man. It’s not funny anymore. If your wacky aunt or grandma is sending you this sort of thing, look into a nice home with lots of orderlies to make sure she’s nice and taken care of. If she still insists on sending you those sweaters, at least demand that they be sewn from the hair of a grizzly bear. One way or another, someone’s getting mauled and isn’t that what Christmas is about?

Spruce up those dry Christmas cards that you send each year: Does your girlfriend/wife/sister/daughter have nice tits? Well, don’t bogart them, brother! Share them with the world! I can promise you that old Uncle Reggie will praise you endlessly for striping HIS candy cane. [That doesn't even make sense - ed.]

Speaking of candy canes…: Just keep this one fact in the back of your head as you suck on a candy cane. Be you male or female or some gross transitional period in between…you look like you are giving fellatio. Sorry, but it’s true. You suck the red off of one, you look like you blew someone so hard there’s blood. I say don’t touch ‘em now.

Christmas stockings are so passe now.: Why not try a Christmas bra? Or Christmas briefs? How about Christmas tube sock dangling precariously from the semi-erect penis of a alt-rock/funk bassist? I know some people can get behind that one! Or have that one get behind them at very least. That was an ass sex joke if you didn’t get it. [We got it, thanks. -ed.]

If you’re going with a Christmas tree, avoid spruce or pine or fir: I know, I know, these are the “popular” ones. But everyone gets them. Everyone. Do you want to be part of the herd? I didn’t think so. If you want to be really fancy, go with a elm tree or a cactus. Hell, if you want to be really original, avoid the whole tree thing altogether and make your Christmas display revolve around a chained-up, pissed-off Bengal tiger. I promise you that nobody would have that one, for sure.

As for Rudolph…: Let’s get one thing straight here. This is a reindeer – a wild animal without its shots – that is landing on your roof with a glowing red nose. I wouldn’t call this “cute” or “charming”. I’d say it’s more along the lines of being a catastrophically rabid creature with a cruel owner who has access to a forklift. Don’t feed that thing carrots. Be its Angel of Mercy and use a 20-06 to end its eternal torment on Earth.

Finally, the Fat Man himself.: Now, if I know Santa like I know Santa – and I KNOW Santa…carnally, in fact [Goddamnit! - ed. ] – he’s not going to want “milk and cookies” sitting out for him. What is he? Fucking seven? No. You really want to get on the Big Guy’s good side, you set out a fifth of Jack and a skin mag. That’s the sort of offering that gets you a PS3. Or so I’m told.

Well, that’s all the advice we here at Dan Eats Cat Food can offer you this holiday season! Take them to heart and have a very Merry Christmas!

[I'm going to drink until I vomit and pass out on my living room floor. Maybe I won't wake up and I'll finally be happy. - ed]

How To Name Your Penis (Or The Penis of a Friend) By Using Presidential Figures As Examples

Ladies and gentlemen…

Penis.

The very word arouses laughter and causes embarrassed ejaculations of…okay, enough puns. There are going to be PLENTY later on.

Anyways, as men, many of you realize the definite importance of naming your wedding tackle appropriately. You can’t do something like “Fuzzles”. That’s fucking weak-sounding. As does ANYTHING that is just a first name. John. Mark. Paul. And so forth. These are weak and impotent names that make you sound…well…weak and impotent. You need manly names. Proud names. Names that will make you stand erect and say “I am man! See my cock!”

Yet, this can be difficult. Much effort goes into the decision-making process, as it should. However, we here at DECF are here to help by giving you a comprehensive guide to naming your penis. This entry is United States Presidents. Come and join me as we get started.

If you enjoy having sex with virgins, name it George Washington. Think back to what he cut down in urban legend. You’ll get it.

If you have a sexual fetish for extraterrestrials, name it John Adams. Sedition Act, what?

If you have ‘jungle fever’, name it Thomas Jefferson. This also works especially well if you’re into BDSM.

If you have a special affinity for women in New Orleans, name it James Madison. Hookers are even better.

If you like making women feel good, name it James Monroe. Yes, this is obscure. Fuck you.

If you feel inadequate when compared to your father and want to make up for it, name it John Quincy Adams. You know HE did.

If you like referring to it as ‘Old Hickory’, name it Andrew Jackson. This also works if you like raping Native American women and making them cry.

If you like people asking what’s so special about it, name it Martin Van Buren. Seriously, does ANYONE know what he did?

If you are a premature ejaculator with weak erections, name it William Henry Harrison. This might be one to…you know, keep to yourself.

If you like taking Texan girls against their will, name it John Tyler. Also, if you fill in where WHH up there fails sexually.

If you have had it referred to by They Might Be Giants, name it James K. Polk. /end obscure music reference

If you like it rough and are always ready, name it Zachary Taylor. Good gravy, nicknames are helpful for this.

If you are quite well endowed, name it Millard Fillmore. Get it? Because you can “fill more” pussy…never mind.

If you have a Prince Albert, name it Franklin Pierce. Yet another one I’m not proud of.

If you are so lame that people can’t even make fun of you, name it James Buchanan. Pain in my ass…

If you refer to ejaculation as ‘freeing the slaves’ and/or go au naturale with the ‘forest’, name it Abraham Lincoln. Probably a log cabin joke there too.

If you have been thrown out of bed for being terrible, name it Andrew Johnson. This one already fits with the genital puns anyways.

If you have had ‘crotch rot’, name it Ulysses S. Grant. See, because you had ‘corruption’ and HE had corruption.

If you have ‘yellow fever’, name it Rutherford B. Hayes. Holy BALLS is this one obscure.

If you hate Mondays, name it James A. Garfield. Wait…fuck.

If you have managed to convince people to sleep with you even though they hated you, name it Chester A. Arthur. The history! It burns!

If you can come twice in fairly rapid succession, name it Grover Cleveland. And if you can’t come at all…you shouldn’t be with a woman.

If you…you know what, I can’t even fucking FIND one for this. If you name your dick Benjamin Harrison…well, good luck.

If you have had your prowess referred to as the ‘gold standard’, name it William McKinley. This also works if your ex who hates you is Polish.

If you have been called a ‘bull moose’ in terms of fuckin’, name it Theodore Roosevelt. Also appropriate for if you like her riding you rough.

If you have one that’s fat but ineffectual, name it William Howard Taft. You should totally ask her if she wants to take a bath, as well.

If you are willing to go with a cheap joke instead of doing actual witty research, name it Woodrow Wilson. Oh come on. Like I wouldn’t go with a “woody reference”.

If you enjoy getting ‘dome’, name it Warren G. Harding. Just make sure you sing “I’m A Little Teapot” which getting it.

If you stay silent during sex, name it Calvin Coolidge. Yeah…you lose. I guess.

If you suck at what you do, name it Herbert Hoover. I…I am so sorry.

If you have ever had sex so good you couldn’t walk after, name it Franklin Delano Roosevelt. I was not going to go for the cheap incest crack, thank you very much.

If you come with the force of an atom bomb, name it Harry S. Truman. Also if you come during doggy-style (aka ‘behind’)…yeah, I know.

If you have named it affectionately ‘Ike’, name it Dwight D. Eisenhower. Longer name implies longer penis. True story.

If you absolutely love getting head, name it John F. Kennedy. Oh thank God…finally an easy one.

If you have gotten yourself into a situation with no good way out of it, name it Lyndon B. Johnson. Um. Yeah. Moving on.

If you like having sex with squirters, name it Richard Nixon. Because the vagina is the gate to the female soul. Get it?

If you have ever been a substitute because a boy couldn’t quite make it, name it Gerald Ford. And you, of course, can’t stay too long.

If you like exploiting the homeless for your own selfish needs, name it Jimmy Carter. Or you could, you know, be doing good with it too, I guess.

If you like girls snowballing each other with your seed, name it Ronald Reagan. Gahhhhh…okay this one is gross.

If you enjoy going down on a girl, name it George H.W. Bush. See, because you’re “reading their lips”…

If you have an unnatural fascination with cigars and apparently Freud, name it Bill Clinton. This one actually had too many jokes to make with it.

If you have fucked a girl and she’s said ‘Your dad’s better’, name it George W. Bush. Again, way, way too many to make with this.

and finally,

If you have gotten a date with the hottest girl you know and have been hyped way the fuck up but just can’t quite deliver the goods, name it Barack Obama. Also if you’re a black guy.

Guh. Two months later, this damn one’s finished. I gotta tell you, ladies and gents. We have had some shitty, shitty Presidents in our country’s history. But surely we won’t ever make that mistake again…right? Right?

Enjoy this thing.

Oh, and tits.

Truth in Advertising

You know, I really like masturbating. It’s just so…what? What are you talking about? But I thought that the hiatus…what do you mean we’re live? You’re bullshitting me. Don’t pull this crap, man! I will fucking gut you, you stu-

/feed interrupted
/insert peppy music with a sheepish looking cartoon me shrugging
/feed resumed

Hello everyone. Apparently, my writing block is dissolving slowly like a kidney stone in an acid bath, so I’m here to entertain you. Lucky me. We’re here today to talk a little bit about truth in advertising. Now, as we all know, advertisers are slick, world-savvy businessmen and women who want nothing more to sell you cheap or expensive goods to pad their own bank accounts. As such, they lie like a politician on the witness stand. Every day we are inundated with loud, flashy ads designed to inflame our senses and overwhelm our judgement center, leaving us flailing in the grasp of our own ids, paralyzed by over-stimulation and a demand to indulge our most base, retarded instincts. Children and adults alike are damned to an unending stream of moving, yelling, colorful Hell. As each progressive ad occurs, we in the world are sent closer to oblivion as The Unending Ad swiftly approaches, borne on wings of burning dollar bills and screaming its Deathsong to consume all the peace, love, hope and joy in the world. Beware, children, for the end is well and truly near.

Uh, ahem. However, we here at Dan Eats Cat Food are here to deconstruct what it would be like if brands were legally required to tell you the truth, no matter what. Enjoy.

—————
Viagra = You’ll be able to fuck until either your pelvis or your heart gives out.

Nike = There’s only like an 85% chance that a poor Asian kid made this shoe.

DeBeers = South Africans died for this so she goddamn well better say ‘Yes’.

McDonald’s = Yes, it may be horse meat but at least it’s not Taco Bell.

Taco Bell = Fuck you, McDonald’s. Oh and have fun shitting out your colon.

Charmin = What? We don’t own shares in Taco Bell! That would be…silly…and not at all like our business plan.

Budweiser = We actually get a cut of all DUI arrest fines.

Macintosh = I bet we could get even more hipsters by selling the iPot.

Nintendo = The Wii is selling? That was made as a joke! We haven’t had an original thought in years!

Sony = Wii has the mothers and kids, Xbox has the retards. Who is left for Sony to exploit?

Microsoft = Our dicks are bigger than Mac, Sony and Nintendo combined!

Tampax = Yeah, we think this shit is gross too.

CNN = Fuck the right!

FOX News = Fuck the left!

MSNBC = Fuck you both! But fuck the right a little more!

Twitter = Because the world really cares what color your urine is!

Facebook = We were big long before Twitter and will last long after. Who doesn’t want to talk to old kindergarten enemies?

Myspace = /extended glittery pink drooling

Yahoo! = Quiet, elegant, understated. We are the gentleman’s search engine.

AOL – Ahahah! Ahahahahahahah! Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah!

MSN/Bing! = What the hell? We could get into this.

Google = We are GOD!

Target = How have we not been bombed yet? I mean, we’re practically asking for it.

Kmart = H-hello? Is anyone out there? Will someone please buy from us? We have families too.

Walmart = Ph’nglui Mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!
—————

And there you have it. Yes there are more products to attack but to be frank, we’re drunk and don’t really give two shits anymore. So, I guess keep coming back in later days to actually see DECF take off once more. Unless somehow I die.

/uneasy silence

Finito.

Hiatus

Alright, I’ll just keep this short and sweet. Life fucking sucks right now. I won’t get into why, but suffice to say, it does and being funny is about the last thing on my mind at present. I can’t come up with anything funny idea-wise and if I do, I can’t follow through. Therefore, Dan Eats Cat Food is going to go on a bit of a hiatus until I get shit figured out. Hopefully this isn’t permanent. Hopefully stuff starts falling in an awesome way and I can get back to stuff that I actually enjoy. But until then, I can’t in all good conscience keep stringing the three or four of you who read this along any longer. Hopefully Raybestos or Pred3000 can get something up, but I can’t promise a thing.

So, adieu for now.

KT

The Doctor Is In #3

He kicks your problems' asses! With advice!

Doctor Awesome McKickass is back and ready to banish any thoughts of anything not awesome from your minds. And for the record, he thinks that tits ARE awesome, but dough sex is most definitely not awesome. The doctor…is now in.

Did you read that entry about the sex with Thai people and the Russians and the bread sex?
Bill in LA
- First, answer me this. Are you legally retarded? Do you have problems forming cogent sentences? Or are you just playing at being stupid? Bad show either way. And yes, I did. Well, my lawyers did and have advised me to stay silent on the matter. Legal purposes and all that. I will say, though, that once the hammer comes down, it’s coming down hard on some of the staffers here. By which I mean Raybestos, the sick fuck.

I don’t believe you have a dinosaur.
Ian in Madison
- And I don’t believe your mother had any children that lived.

Ignore him. Does Ruffles actually exist? And if so, can we see him?
Virginia in Roanoke
- He does exist and yes, I in fact have a picture of him right here.

Best. Pet. Ever.

So FUCK YOU, Ian! How do THOSE nuts taste?

Has Ruffles ever…eaten anyone?
Allen in Memphis
- Yes. Once. He tried to eat a homeless man back in ‘54, or so I’m told. Unfortunately, his sensitive little tummy couldn’t handle it and he ralphed the guy back up. He goes by the name Michael Moore now, whoever the fuck that is.

You seem to be getting less awesome as time goes by. Is this just a low spot or is Dr. McKickass losing his touch?
Sophie in Montreal
- What are you talking about? I am no less awesome than I have been. In fact, I’m even MORE awesome now because I’m an independent man who doesn’t need a woman to get by in life. I can walk around the house naked, jack off in the living room, watch sports and drink beer any time I want. I don’t have to kowtow to some needy bitch who wants me to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond or Black and White or…Sears, I don’t fucking know. I can ride my fucking DINOSAUR around town, for God’s sake! Why in the hell would that make me anything less than the most awesome person on the planet?

So what you’re saying is that you’re in a dry spell.
Ron in North Carolina
- Absolutely not. I am waist-deep in any kind of ass you can think of. Latina. African-American. Asian. Indian. Middle Eastern. Jewish. Caucasian. Inuit. Blonde. Brunette. Redhead. Pink hair. Blue hair. Green hair. No hair. Doctor. Cop. Nurse. Lawyer. Firefighter. French maid. Latin maid. Basketball star. Softball star. Volleyball star. Basketball COACH. Stripper. Hooker. Call girl. Escort. Barista. Construction worker. Nuclear Regulatory Commission Inspector. Circus performer. You name it, I’ve done it.

…circus perfomer?
Liza in Milan
- Of course. Some of the most rockin’est tail comes from the circus. Once you’ve been inside a contortionist flexing every muscle in her body, well…plain vanilla sex is just hard to swallow.

And are YOU hard to swallow?
Mindy at UCONN
- You’re now my favorite mailbag person! (And for the record, not as long as you relax your throat).

So what adventures are on the horizon for Dr. McKickass?
Zach in Calgary
- I don’t know! That’s the fun of being me. I go where the wind takes me. I could be snowboarding down the Alps wearing a live cheetah or I could be filling up my car with unleaded gas! I could be battling Wizard Lizards with ancient weaponry or I could be cooking a nice dinner for four! I could be riding rhinos in Russia tomorrow or I could just be sitting back and watching TV!

There are no rhinos in Russia.
Matthew in Salt Lake City
- Just like Raptorsaurus Rex doesn’t exist? Or how I totally didn’t bang your sister in April?

That was uncalled for, Doctor.
Reese in Tampa
- He started it. Besides, I may not have banged his sister. That WAS a while ago. Who really remembers that sort of thing?

You don’t actually remember?
Taylor in Michigan
- Too much awesome happens in my life every day to just remember who I did and didn’t fuck, Taylor. For all I know, I could have fucked YOU.

I’m married, you jackass!
Taylor in Michigan
- In the grand scheme of things, that falls somewhere between meaning “jack” and “shit”. The Awesome doesn’t care about the sanctity of wedding vows. It wants what it wants.

Wait…did you just refer to your penis as “The Awesome”?
Austin in Austin
- Maybe. Why? Do you have a better name for it? I think not

And with that, we’ll end the chat talking about my penis. Thanks for chatting, everyone. Until next time, stay awesome. If not, well…maybe your mom will. Peace, love and bitches!

Top Ten Reasons Tits Are The Tits

I didn’t think it possible but last entry proved that, in fact, I CAN reach a point where I am uncomfortable showing some humor to the public at large. And all it took was doughy bread sex and murder. Betcha wanna read that entry now huh?

Anyways, since I clearly have not pissed off enough people with this site, what with the rampant rape jokes and alcohol abuse, let’s get to a Top Ten entry, shall we? As the title clearly states, today I’ll be commenting on the Top Ten Reasons Tits Are The Tits (read: awesome sauce with bacon). Yes, it’s sexist. Yes, fuck off. Let the countdown begin!

10. Wet T-shirt contests: Imagine, if you will, that you (or a male surrogate of you if you are a woman…a straight woman with no bisexual curiosity and…you know what, forget it) are at a bar in Tijuana or the Bahamas or…I don’t know, Switzerland I guess…and all the women there are sitting quietly, sipping their Coronas or wine, chatting about the day’s events. You know what we call that? FUCKING BORING. Now, if instead of a quiet chat, you throw in a fire hose and drunk coeds with loose morals and tight white t-shirts practically designed to showcase nipples…well, you have a party. QED.

9. Engrossing video game characters: Lara Croft. Samus. Jill Valentine. The chick from Portal. What do all these characters have in common? Yes, they may have addictive and lasting games that may stand the test of time. But why is that? I’ll give you a hint. It’s because of the guns they’re carrying…and I don’t mean the pistols they have strapped to their hips.

I’m talking about their breasts, if you didn’t figure that out. They all have wonderful digital breasts.

8. Give insecure women the confidence they need: Some women fall into that sad area of personality known as “fragile”. They don’t have any confidence in themselves or their looks. This is a shame because most are beautiful to someone in some way (I’m most assuredly not saying that for myself, of course – but someone has to love them). However, there is a trick that is quickly gaining momentum in society which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Feel insecure? Breast implants! Feel alone? Breast implants! Guess what? Now they feel better and, due to breast size, are gaining male attention they could only dream of before. Everyone wins!

7. We can rub our faces in them.: What? We can. Ask any straight male and he’ll tell you that tits in the face would be an awesome way to die. The next best thing to dying of a heart attack while being inside a hot, young woman is to die with their tits smothering you, whether it be at a strip club, a regular club, or simply just out of blind, stinking luck out somewhere where booze is around.

6. Proof positive of puberty as a scientific phenomenon: This one is fairly simple. Before puberty = no tits. During/after puberty = wonderful tits. Now, this is obviously not to say that all tits are the same size during and/or after puberty, but they ARE are wonderful just on the basis of them actually being.

5. PORN.: In this scenario, tits are not only a necessity, they are a founding ethic. Without bare tits, there would be no Playboy. There would be no Marilyn Monroe. There would be no Deep Throat or Debbie Does Dallas. No teenagers sneaking around, furtively trying to sneak a peek at wrapped magazines in gas stations. No late night masturbation marathons made that much more exciting through the fear of parents catching you, creating an entire generation of exhibitionist perverts. Jenna Jameson would be a gas station attendant. Ron Jeremy would be in jail. Hugh Hefner would be dead. You see? Tits have not only created an industry, they have created decades of careers, money and desperate, horny, barely legal teenagers with an insatiable thirst for cock.

4. We have something to stare at when we’re talking to women.: Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just say them.

3. Aid in bachelor parties: This one is a critical one. Some men like their bachelor parties to be lowkey. They’ll go out for the weekend to a cabin or something with their closest friends, have a few beers and chat about the good times they had in college or what have you. These men are fucking pussies. A real bachelor party almost ALWAYS starts in Vegas and involves mass gambling, an unhealthy amount of alcohol consumption and fake breasts as far as the eye can see. If you take away even one of them, the party collapses into something still awesome, but not nearly as awesome. Hence, the need for tits in helping create rockin’-ass bachelor parties. A public service!

2. They create a very reason for men to live: What do boys want when they’re young? Breasts to hold on to. What do they want when they hit puberty? Breasts to look at sneakily. What do they want in high school? Breasts to feel and play with. What do they want in college and early to mid-twenties? Breasts hanging in their face or potentially wrapped around their cock. These continue all the way to the grave, and maybe even after, although I can’t speak for the existence of zombie leches. Not liches, D&D fans. Leches.

And the last, and certainly most important reason that tits are the tits is….drum roll please…

1. They provide nourishment for our young, ensuring the continuous survival of the human race.: Did you expect anything different?

Thank you for reading! In this article, I no doubt broke the shit out of many search engines through the use of the word “tits”. There’s no possible way I could cram any more in this article.

Tits tits tits tits tits tits tits tits tits tits tits tits.

Just checking.