Pizza Comedy

I really thought this day would never come — I mean, certainly, I’ve thought about it — but I just always thought I’d have warning or that somehow, they would never figure it out. But it’s done, over. Gone.

My parents are on Facebook.

Seriously, I was convinced my parents would be too technologically inept to figure it out. How could they?? And sure, I’ve talked a big game. That part is easy. Saying that if my parents EVER sent me a friend invite on Facebook, I would soundly reject it in one swift click of the button.

Ignore.

But when that moment came today, I was forced to come to grips with reality. There was a little box with (of course) a blank picture on it (since clearly there’s no way they’ve figured out they need to put their picture in it), and next to that was my dad’s name. The friend request.

For the last 6 years, I’ve enjoyed a Facebook free of rules and adults. When I originally joined, it was only for college students and scouring for attractive chicks in my classroom. Perhaps even a “poke” or a drunken message that I would have forgot I typed until being confronted about it the next day in class. “Why did you say you wanted to slap the skin off my ass?” Followed by my sheepish reply, “Ummm…Because?” Those were the days. So carefree, so young and unadulterated.

But that’s not reality any more. The reality now lies in my inbox, with that blank silhouette.

Who am I to not accept my dad’s friend request? I like my dad. But I also like being able to post pictures where I’m drunk and I may or may not be grabbing the boob of my girlfriend. I like my girlfriend. And her boobs.

But then again, who am I to deny a friend request from the people who gave me the ability to be on this earth to accept that friend request? I came from my dad, from his penis. How could I not be friends with that? OK, that came out weird, but you get the point.

I struggled with this notion. I called my brother to see what he thought — I assumed (correctly) that he had also received a similar friend request. I knew what he would tell me. I just needed to hear it in person. Then I consulted my mentor, who’s helped me deal with important life issues since I was 7 years old. And Seinfeld told me this…

Facebook George will kill Independent George. A George divided against itself cannot stand. So I took a deep breath, then grabbed one last look around the old Facebook I knew so well. I contemplated, and I’m sure you all know what I did…

Accept.

I had to. And you know what, it didn’t even feel all that bad. At least not as bad as I thought. My dad has 5 friends currently, and I’m proud to be one of them. It had to happen. And I challenge anyone who is faced with this situation to do otherwise. You dicks.

As for me and my family, we are now, happily, FFF. Facebook Friends Forever.

It’s been a crazy, groundbreaking year here at Pizza Comedy. And I just thought I’d take a quick moment to answer a few questions the fans have asked, and to address the awesomeness of this past year.

Much like the White House — or Tiger Wood’s “to do” list — 2009 has been a year of historic change. We started out the year under our classic moniker PMPcomedy (which had been our keepsake for the past year and a half) — and around May relaunched and upgraded all of our funnies to be Pizza Comedy….aka “the balls.”

Thanks for stickin’ with us through the transition — it’s proved to be a much nicer, easier-to-remember, and more viral success. And I promise to not change it any more.

I’ve gotten a number of people asking “when is your next sketch coming out??” and “what’s the deal with this ‘Pilot’ shit?” Easy there, Sanchez. Let me take a moment to just give you the skinny:

The deal with the “Pilot” is this — we are currently in the process of shooting a full, 22-minute TV pilot based around running the Pizza Comedy website. It’s called “The Pizza Comedy Program” (aka The PCP). Think of it like Always Sunny in Philadelphia meets 30 Rock. The show’s about running a shitty website and podcasts…but really, it’s just based around our absurdity and craziness. With some sketch comedy mixed right in.

We’ll be releasing the pilot early this year, in 3-5 minute internet webisodes (probably about 6 of ‘em), and then compiling them into the full show at the end. But it’s been written as one whole show, with a continuos story, so the webisodes will fit together like pieces of a pizza pie.

As to the WHEN? question…we’ve shot about half of it so far (and edited a little less than that), but since this is such a massive undertaking and no one pays us shit (and we’re doing it all ourselves), it will still be a little bit before we release these episodes. My guess is late January, we will start releasing the first few webisodes, then keep that flow going.

So yeah, SOON. And when it comes, It will be like a wave of comedy.

I’ll be perfectly honest, I’ve never been more excited or thrilled about any projects we’ve done before. It’s like the perfect combo of all things Pizza Comedy. And much like you, I’m anxiously awaiting it’s release. I’m like this kid painting his mom’s preggo tummy to welcome home his dad. I’m that excited. For the real fans, here’s a tiny, tiny taste (which probably makes no sense out of context), but it’s a cutaway sketch from the beginning of the show — our first silent film — about “The Great Aquadeuce.”

As for the remaining 22 minutes, it’s almost here, be patient…

But all in all, it’s been a great year here at Pizza Comedy. We got dirty with the iPod Anus commercials, brought the Reporter/Cops back into action, got depressed with our Failed Screen Tests, went Old School with rap phenomena D2daP, and whore’d it out with Frankenslut.

We also got internet savvy with some brand new, super-cereal Podcasts (more coming soon, I promise!), cooked up some crack to some addictive music pixx, and road-tripped cross country with our Pizza Comedy Coast-to-Coast. Oh yeah, and we gave away Pizza t-shirts like Time Whore gives away blow-jays, with over 35 Caption Contests and givaways!! If you haven’t gotten a free shirt, you’re seriously not trying.

And most recently, we started a Pizza Comedy fan page on Facebook for all you intraweb whores. We’ve been slowly uploading all our old sketches, in new glorious high-quality, to Facebook over the last few weeks, and will continue to do so up until our Pilot is released. So make sure to become a fan, and have a laugh at some great Pizza sketches from 2007, 2008, and 2009.

Great times, knee-slappin’ laughs, and you know what girl? We’re just gettin’ stahted.

And so, I’ll close out the ’00s with some sound advice from a good friend….

2010…I hope you got a big trunk, cuz I’m putting my whole pizza pie in it.

With Christmas in our rear views and New Years on the horizon, it’s time to sit down by the fireside and reflect on some thoughts kicking around the ol’ noggin. Call it a “Fireside Chat” if you will, only instead of issues of national security, I’d like to address some matters of personal scrutiny.

Here’s some stuff to think about…

1. Single-Ply Toilet Paper At Home

I never thought the high point of being an “adult” would be the ability to purchase two-ply toilet paper for myself, but after this last visit home, I’ve never felt so re-affirmed. You see, my parents live by (and always have lived by) the “Singly-Ply” code of conduct.

I remember as a kid giving my parents a hard time for buying the cheapest toilet paper known to man. 50 cent toilet paper is 50 cents for a reason — it leaves your ass sore and makes your colon cry for better days. Like actual tears, made of blood.

Somehow, rest stops and port-o-potties have managed to spend more on toilet paper than my parents. Compared to the single-ply Marcal brand sand paper I have at home, shitting in a public restroom is like powdering my ass with fresh flowers and pillowed kisses from an angel. It’s a vacation.

When I confronted my Dad about such injustices this past week — as well as my total amazment at how he has been able to live with such TP — he simply says that “the septic system requires it.” And then proceeds to call me a bitch for whining about it.

Touche, Dad. You’re probably right. Maybe I spoil my anus. But then again, maybe you’re ass is just so calused and chapped from all those years of 1-plyin’ it, that you could wipe your ass with a porcupine and feel fresh. But more likely, I’m probably just a bitch.

So here you have it– brush aside all my accomplishments — one of my most proud, crowning achievements in life is my continued, personal use of 2-ply toilet paper. I now find myself deeply satisfied, even beaming, that I treat my asshole so well on a regular basis.

I deserve it.

2. People in airports are fucking weird.

“If you see something, say something.” Right? Isn’t that what the TSA is always preaching? If you see something suspicious, you should report it to the authorities.

Well, I’d love to. But when I go to the airports (especially in New York), I have no idea what the fuck I’m seeing. I see SO MUCH weird shit, I wouldn’t even know where to start. I can’t go into an airport WITHOUT seeing something mind-blowingly weird.

Usually in the men’s bathroom.

I swear to god, on my flight back to LAX yesterday, I went into the bathroom and saw a guy barefoot, in a towel, holding his jeans up to the air dryer. He had no pants on. Just a towel. Air-drying his totally soaked pants under the air-dryer.

I did a double take.

The guy was in his fucking towel! Did he shit his pants? Piss his pants? I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to hand wash them real quick in the sink, because, you know, why not.

He was like 40s, white, balding — not a typical terrorist. More you’re typical guy with Irritable Bowel Syndrome that just let a mud monkey loose in his pants by mistake. But I saw something. And it was not pretty.

I went into a different bathroom later (I was very early for my flight, damn you heightened security!), and there was this guy with a really expensive camera taking pictures of the tops of urinals. Like focusing manually, squinting, and really getting into it. Needless to say, I took a piss in the stall.

But he was photographing the tops of the urinals. He was still doing it when I left. Again, suspicious activity? More like incredibly weird dude with a urinal fetish. But again, I saw something.

And then (this was last month, when flying around Thanksgiving), when I was traveling out of LAX, I walk into the bathroom to take a piss — and there was some guy with his shoes off, washing his FEET in the sink. His leg awkwardly propped up, bent over himself — washing his feet, with soap, in the sink.

And here’s the kicker: He was an employee of the TSA. He WORKED for the airport, and this guy was washing his feet in the sink. Now what the fuck? If that isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, then I don’t know.

Who am I supposed to tell? Should I have tapped that guy on the shoulder and told him I witnessed something disturbing? Him. And would he please stop it.

Probably. But I don’t know, it’s all so weird. You can’t make this shit up.

3. I need to read something in the bathroom or I feel depressed.

I’m not a huge reader by nature — books only find themselves between my fingers during airplane flights and vacations on the beach — but I am an avid reader when it come to the bathroom.

My subscription to Rolling Stone is a fantastic bathroom read, and is always an interesting page-turner that helps pass the time. And I always welcome an additional periodicals or magazines that find their way into the man throne.

But recently (while home) I was challenged with the task of having to poop without anything to read. I didn’t know what to do. I started to get depressed, nervous. You start thinking about things you’d never think about. “Are my toes weirdly shaped?” “Was that freckle on my thigh always there??”

I got bored. Anxious.

I picked up anything around me and started to read it. I read the toothpaste, the contact solution directions, and (ironically) the back of the extra roll of Marcal 1-ply toilet paper. Did you know that the active ingredient in Crest Pro-Health Toothpaste with Whitening is ‘Stannous Fluoride’, and that according to the back of the tube, “products containing Stannous Fluoride may produce surface staining of the teeth“?

Am I the only one that finds that incredibly ironic?? The toothpaste is called Crest Whitening!!! How can a toothpaste stain and whiten at the same time?

That actually left me perplexed for a half a loaf. And in case you think I’m joking, I am so fucking serious, it hurts.

And that only took me like 4 minutes. I was bored to death after that. And these are holiday shits, mind you. Big boys. I couldn’t rush through it. And worst of all, I had nothing to help them go any faster.

It was an incredibly empty, confused feeling. Like a dog that had just chased a squirrel for a mile, then stopped to realize he had no fucking idea where he was, or how to get back home. It was scary.

But thankfully, I pulled through. And from now on, I will carry an emergency article on me at all times. Maybe a novel. Just in case I need to pinch a loaf.

Well, that about wraps up my mindless thoughts for the moment. I’m now back in sunny California and safe from the cold, the airport freaks, and the 1-ply toilet paper. And I can safetly read for hours at a clip on my man throne.

So yeah, back to normal. In the mean time, 2010, watch out. I got 2-ply and I’m not scared to use it.

I don’t know how you’ve done it so long, ladies, but the let me tell you something, I’m on to your lies. For these first 25 years of my life, I’ve toyed with the notion that “women don’t poop” and “girls don’t fart.” It’s a rumor that you hear often as a man, women preach it as truth. Clearly, the laws of physics and nature make this statement an obvious dud, but I entertained the thought because, much like Santa Claus, I wanted to believe.

But no more. I won’t buy into this white lie any more. I won’t fuel the subjective fires of nonsense any longer. Because I now know one thing for absolute certain….

FACT. Women, the jig is up. I know you fart.

I was seated next to a small Asian woman on my 5 hour plane ride from Los Angeles to NYC. It was a red eye — departing LAX around midnight and arriving in New York early in the AM — so obviously the plan du juor was for me to sleep the entire time. So this woman (an Asian girl around 28 years old, didn’t speak English, petite frame — lets call her “Angel”) sits next to me in a full winter coat, hood up, and closes her eyes. She’s a sleeper.

This is a great sign. I’m not a big fan of Airplane Talkers, so the fact that she was ready for bed (or a North Pole excursion) was music to my ears. The plane takes off, I start to doze a little, she’s asleep-looking, and then something happens.

I get this whiff of a foul smell. Nothing too overpowering, but uncomfortable enough to force my weary eyelids open to see if a moose carcass had been laid in the emergency exit. There was no dead animal (despite the fact I smelled one), so I did what any male in this situation would do — I asked myself a serious question: “Did I just fart?”

I didn’t think so, but who can be sure. Not me. I figured maybe I let one slip in my mid-sleep state, even though the fumes seemed a bit foriegn. So I pushed the scent from my nostrils and closed my eyes. About 10 minutes later, I get another breezy blow of this fart smell. Did I just fart again? No, i couldn’t have. I would have felt it. I would have noticed. But it IS the same smell, so there’s consistency in the air. Someone was dropping bombs.

Another 10 minutes pass, now I can’t sleep. Eventually, I close my eyes, start to nod off…and there it is again. That smell. Something between egg yolks and wonton soup. It lingered. And this time, I knew it wasn’t me. I was paying attention.

My eyes dart over to Angel, who’s “asleep” in her winter coat next to me (I put “asleep” in quotes because I hypothesize that she may not have been sleeping at all, just closing her eyes and farting. The “sleep” may have been a cover up). I look her up and down, disgusted. It’s got to be her. The scent was pungent, yet not vomit-inducing. Consistent, almost dignified. The scent of a woman? WHOO-AHHH! You betcha. I’m hypothesizing that this was the very scent that made Al Pacino blind.

“OK,” I say to myself, “So she’s farting. Must be a digestive thing.” But let me tell you something, that little girl sprayed farts every 15 minutes for the first 3 hours of that flight. It was almost like it was timed, every 15 minutes. Just when you’d forget about it and start nodding off, psssstttt. You’d get sprayed. It was like on of the bathroom air fresheners that dispenses a burst of air freshener every 15 minutes. Only I was getting fresh squeezed wonton butt, right onto my left sleeve.

So what do you do in a situation like this? She was pretend sleeping (or maybe real sleeping). But the sleeping was awful fidgety — almost as if she shifted every time she let one loose. So I did the best thing I could. Any time she made a movement during her sleep, I’d be at attention — both wait for the next onslaught of nasal raping, and also waiting to see if she would “wake up” to go to the bathroom. If she wanted to, I was ready to hop up and let her out.

Hours passed, at this point I was saturated in farts. My sweatshirt felt heavier. I was convinced that sometime, anytime, she would HAVE to get up to use the bathroom. This fake sleep nonsense wasn’t fooling anyone. At least not me. I wished that, for once, I could fart on command. Give this chick a taste of her own medicine.

So I did what I could. I started fake coughing. AAHH-HhEMM!! Jolting my seat as I fake coughed, she started moving around, fumes shifting with her body. Her hood was still over her face, so I kept coughing and moving around until she as definitely awake (I must pause to pat myself on the back here, as the polite thing to do would be to let this stranger sleep. Oh no. Not a chance, Angel). And now, I just played the waiting game. Waiting until she asked me to get up to use the bathroom.

It didn’t take long. And I can’t even tell you the silent joy that went off in my brain when this chick took her hood off, and made the broken-English mention for me to move aside so she could use the bathroom. I was up in a heartbeat. I jumped up like Christmas morning.

She was in there for a solid 15-20 minutes, unleashing whatever demons were trapped within her bowels (please note that this also disproves rumor number 2, that girls don’t poop. They do, and from my experience here, they probably should more often). Well, Angel gave that toilet a run for its money. Angel proceeded to exorcise her demons through a series of space-injected airplane flushes, at least 3 or 4, not that I was counting. At this point, it was far too late for them to be courtesy flushes. There was no courtesy involved with this story.

But thankfully, the horror was over.

The rest of the flight was as blissful and crisp as a winter’s morning. The musk was gone, sucked away into the septic void of an American Airlines 767 port-o-john. And I, finally, deservingly, was able to sleep.

So I think the biggest lesson to be learned from my olfactory adventure is this: Girls do fart. Girls do poop. And it’s not nearly as funny as when guys do it.

written by Doozy

Let’s say there’s this girl you grew up with in high school. She’s a cute girl—a little awkward and nerdy, but she’s cute enough to fool around with a couple times. You guys graduate and go off to college for a year. When you see her again the next summer, you notice the girl got hot. Like, super hot. She shed off the nerd image and now wears chic designer dresses. You’ve fallen head-over-heels for her, and now you want to date her.

Now let’s say you date her for a while. At first you were having the time of your life. You’re going out every night, partying, drinking, and staying up until four in the morning. But time has passed and she’s getting weird. She stops going out and stops drinking and partying. All she wants to do is stay home and watch reality TV. Yeah, you still like her, but now it’s nothing like what it used to be when you started dating, back when she was way more fun.

Now at this point, you’re asking yourself, “What the fuck does this girl have to do with Weezer?”

And away we go.

Back when I first heard the Blue Album, I was impressed by how solid all the songs sounded. It was fun to hear, but with songs about sweaters and surfboards Weezer seemed like more of a novelty act. I wasn’t as floored with it as all the kids in fifth grade were (and believe me—that album was MADE for kids my age, whether the band knew it or not) but I enjoyed their music.

Then the Green Album came out, and I was floored.

People forget how unbelievable that album was. All the songs are pure candy—perfect pop in two-to-three-minute-long doses. “Island In the Sun”, in my opinion, is the best pop song of the decade. I remember the controversy of the whole album being only 28 minutes, but when you listen to it, do you even care? Even the weaker songs are perfect pop in structure and hook. It’s my favorite album of all time and solidified Weezer as my favorite rock band of all time, sailing past Van Halen, Queen, and The Beatles.

But now, after listening to Raditude (yes, they’re album’s called “Raditude”), I find myself reevaluating the relationship. Did Weezer get weird on me? The Red Album was a disappointment, filled with songs of self-indulgence and reflections on the past. Raditude, sadly, continues Weezer’s recent lyrical trend. Instead of neurotic, self-loathing lines like in “Perfect Situation” and “El Scorcho”, we get songs about going to the mall and riding on highways. The subject matter, at its worst in songs like “Love Is the Answer” and “In The Mall,” is about as intriguing as a PBS special. Rivers Cuomo’s vocals, which used to travel up and down scales so melodically and beautifully in songs like “Hash Pipe”, now contains himself to a range of a couple notes for much of the album, most notably in the verses on their big single, “(If You’re Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To”, focusing more on the words and rhythm. This is as far from the Green Album and Make Believe as you can get.

Artist: Weezer
Song: “(If You’re Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To”
Album: “Raditude” (2009)

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That being said, the album is pretty good, even when it’s one of the weaker albums. The aforementioned single is catchy as all hell with its Fratellis-esque beat and vintage Weezer hook. The next three songs on the album (”I’m Your Daddy,” “The Girl Got Hot” and “Can’t Stop Partying”) are the most varied and unique songs in the entire Weezer catalogue. “The Girl Got Hot” has a killer shuffle beat and the rest of the band adding hollers as background vocals brings back memories of the “hip hip” hook from Island. The ultra-hard club banger “Can’t Stop Partying” has the first-ever rap performance by a legit rapper—Lil Wayne—creating that Weezer/Weezy partnership I’ve been waiting for since I first heard Tha Carter III.

There’s a significant drop in quality of the last half of the album. The biggest disappointment has to be “Love Is the Answer,” where Weezer mixes in a sitar and an Indian vocalist to mixed results. At best, the song is Rivers playing a poor man’s George Harrison but without Harrison’s sensitivity to the traditional Indian music he’s ripping off. There’s something unnatural and inorganic the way Rivers puts his style of songwriting to sitar and drum, and I feel it would’ve been better off without it. The same can be said about the last track, “I Don’t Want To Let You Go.” Rivers’ demo of the song was released on his Alone series of home recordings with just a kick drum and guitar. Somehow Weezer made the song WORSE on Raditude by adding too many things—organs, strings, synths, you name it. Where we could’ve had an answer to “Butterfly,” we instead have a fiasco on the scale of Phil Spector’s tinkering of “Let It Be.”

Just like the Red Album, Raditude was released alongside a deluxe version of the album with four extra tracks. And, just like the Red Album, the extra tracks outperform a lot of the songs on the non-deluxe album! “Get Me Some” and “Run Over By A Truck” are terrific songs that easily beat out the two worst tracks on the regular album. It’s like this one deleted scene in Boogie Nights where Dirk Diggler has a hard time saying “suspicious individuals” on the set of Brock Landers. It’s so good and so funny it makes you wonder why it was left out, since it would’ve only made the finished product stronger.

It seems like the quality of the Weezer albums have diminished since Make Believe, which is both sad and, at the same time, expected. How can one band keep churning out classic album after classic album? Even the Simpsons, one of my favorite shows of all time, dipped in quality after four straight perfect seasons (seasons three through six). If I flick on a more recent episode (or the movie) I’ll be entertained, but I really can’t compare it to the monorail episode or the Be Sharps episode. They can’t reach the high standards that their old seasons established. And that’s where I am with Weezer.

Don’t feel bad, Weezer. You’re still my favorite band. I’ll still listen to this album 20-30 more times. But let the record show that I’m on my 1,121st listen of the Blue Album and my 2,073rd listen of Green. Raditude pales in comparison to the rest of the Weezer catalogue (except for Red, which is still my least favorite) but is still worth a listen if you’re a fan.

Weezer and I aren’t breaking up, but we’re not having as much fun as we used to.

This past weekend was the annual trip to Oktoberfest in Lake Arrowhead. I learned a lot from my trip last year — mostly that German people aren’t all that bad. Well…except for that 10-year blip in history. Oh yeah, and there was also that time during WWI. That was pretty bad.

OK, so maybe OLD German’s aren’t great. But Germany 2.0, that’s a reboot I can drink to. At least for one weekend of the year. And no, Germany, I’m not interested in 150 free hours of AOL.

Last year we went with a crew of 9 people. This year, we doubled that, and rolled into town with 18 people — 5 chicks and 13 dudes. As you can imagine, it was a sausage fest — but hey, it’s Oktoberfest, that kinda comes with the territory.

But even still, there was this haunting question that lingered over us the entire weekend:

You know what this party needs?

More dudes!

The ball-to-giny ratio was a bit lopsided — but this is what us men live for. Beer, sausage, music, and partying.

And farts.

Lots and lots of farts. But we’ll get to that shortly.

So we arrived in Lake Arrowhead around 10pm on Friday night. It’s about a 2 hour drive from Los Angeles up into the mountains — and I mean up into the mountains. Lake Arrowhead is this little community nestled tightly at the top of the tree-cloaked slopes — and you know it’s far away from L.A. because there’s actual weather there. Like, it gets cold at night and smells like naturey-things.

We arrive separately in 4 cars. The house we’ve rented is massive. Think: a quaint woodland cabin meets The Shining. It was huge, old, and narrow. The hallways were like a maze and there were little doors and closets where I suspect they keep the twin girls that roam the hallways at night.

But even with it’s red-rummy feel, it was delightful. There was an entire library of movies on VHS tapes (including Kindergarten Cop and Sister Act). There was Jenga, board games, and a pool table. And it could pretty much sleep all of our degenerate asses in some way or another. So we were set.

And in proper homage to German culture, we rolled up with about five 30-racks of shitty American beer — Bud Light, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and Naddy Ice. You know…the good stuff.

It seemed like a lot of beer when we first got there, but by about four in the morning, it was looking like 150 beers wasn’t enough. There is something about Jenga that makes a man thirsty. Between the beer pong, acoustic guitar circle (complete with trumpet), and the excitement of being out of the city, our gullets overflowed with Germanic excitement. We thought about storming our neighbor’s house and forcefully taking it over. Perhaps imposing our will upon them and confiscating their womens.

Instead, we did this:

That just happened

Great picture, right? I would remember taking it the next morning. So the evening went, the German spirit alive in us all. Some people even felt it kicking around until the sun came up. But I ducked out before Mr. Sunshine and hit the sack.

And for good measure. We needed our rest for the meat and taters of our journey: Ocktoberfest!

The debauchery continues –> Continue Reading…

According to a new investigative report conducted by the U.S. Census Bureau, the homeless population is getting progressively more intelligent. As reported by the survey, the age-old tactic of “begging” appears to be on it’s way out — instead, the impoverished are turning towards more thoughtful, interactive situations. The result is paying off.

Said John Morrison, head of the Bureau conducting the report:

“The homeless used to just shake cups of coins and ask apologetically for change. Now, you can see them gaining confidence, creating clever signs, and engaging passerbys.” He added, “They’ve also begun to take off their pants to urinate.”

The study specifically sighted an increase in overall homeless income and general wellbeing, as well as a general decrease in the number of homeless people defecating into public trashcans.

Morrison attributes the homeless “breakthrough” to the invent of the “God Bless You” gag — thought to have been invented in the mid-90s by the notorious “Slick” Sam Montgomery, now a retired CEO of an internet business. “This trick was particularly important because it was the first to guilt passerbys into being emotionally involved,” said Morrison. “It’s genius.”

With the success of the “God Bless You” gag, many like it have sprung up, each with their own emotional nagging. Most popular on the list are the “I’m just $1 short for my bus fare” and the clever “My dog needs food.” There’s also been some innovative breakthroughs involving humor and and shock, such as the cardboard sign staple “Need new parts for my Spaceship,” and the totally unpredicatable ambush tactic, “No Job. No Food. No Clothes!”

“Think of it like evolution,” said Dr. Harold Roberts, professor of Human Studies at UCLA. “The homeless are adapting to current trends at an impressive rate.” He sighted the recession as a particularly effective guilt tactic.

But according to the survey, this is just the tip of the hobo iceberg. If trends like this continue, homeless people will actually be earning higher salaries than conventionally employed workers by 2012. A stat that has many non-homeless people scratching their heads.

Once the subject of judgmental stares and scornful treatment, it seems like the homeless are finally coming out on top. On top of a pile of garbage, that is.

I consider myself a fairly well-versed man in the world of slang and street talk. (Hence my over-use of the terms “hard for the streets” and “gutter”, as well as our podcast staple “Slang Editorial”). I like to think I know what’s poppin’ on those hard streets, and slang, as you may or may not know, is where it all starts.

“Cougar”, for example. I was on that 6 years ago when it actually meant something (namely, a hot, old chick looking to slob on some young knob). Now there’s an ABC show called Cougar Town. It’s lost all meaning. The day a 62 year-old Network Exec thinks that the word “Cougar” is hip and daring, I’m jumping ship. From now on, I refer to Cougars as “Mom Sluts”. It’s already started to catch on. (In fact, give it 5 years and I guarantee NBC will have a show called Desperate Mom Sluts).

Which brings me to my point. What the fuck does “Nut Up” mean? I’ve seen it everywhere in ads for the movie Zombieland. In fact, not just in advertisements — it’s their tagline for this movie. Nut Up or Shut Up. And I’ve also seen billboards that just say simply: Nut Up.

I’m sorry, did I miss something? Are these snarky advertising execs privy to some serious slang breakthroughs that I’m not? Or did they just make up some term that they thought sounded cool and edgy? My guess is the latter, since I’m at every single Underground Slang Workshop in the greater Los Angeles area and I’m also a proud member of SSA (Slang Slingers Anonymous). Obviously, it’s not that anonymous, since we spit hot fire and melt faces with our witty talk.

So I say again, what the fuck is Nut Up? I know what Nut Off means. It’s the process of getting your proverbial rocks off. Busting babies, skeeting, sliding off, or in layman’s terms, ejaculating. In fact, I use the phrase “nut off” with shocking regularity. We’ve even discussed doing a PizzaComedy infomercial for a product called Nut Off that removes semen stains (and more!). I’m not joking about that.

Look, I’m no idiot, I get the implied meaning they’re going for. “Man up.” It’s not tough to understand what they’re forcing “nut up” to mean. But why go and force something like that? Nut Up could have had so many other cool meanings. Like to “eat peanuts while doing a girl doggy style.” Something like that. I just made that up off the top of my head, but the potential is endless. But now it’s all gone and ruined.

So I guess my point is this. I won’t Nut Up, Zombieland. Because I have no idea what that means. I’ve never once heard that phrase before. So if my choice is to “Nut Up or Shut Up”, I’m gonna shut right up and go to whatever other movie is playing that weekend. I wouldn’t want to disturb your zombie flick with my mindless “nut up”-ing.

But more than likely, I’ll just go and see this:

Now that’s something I can relate to. Zombielad. Now here’s a mofo that’s hard for the streets. Skeeting hot fire on zombies and, from the looks of it, that hot chick in the middle. Looks like she got it pretty rough. And I love the tagline:

Nut off and go to sleep.

Sounds like a great Friday night.