Vegans, homos and witches. (you just knew there had to be a connection)

This article purports that there is a tight link between homosexuals, lack of meat eating (too easy -- not going there) and vegetarianism. My favorite passage:

But add another a/k/a to that list - homos. You see, veganism offers a place of solace for sodomites every bit as attractive as a Catholic confessional. Fruits and vegetables are what housewives and sissies on Weight Watchers eat, whereas meat, cheese and butter are what real men eat. If every meal you eat doesn't contain something that lives in, or comes out of something that lives in, a barn, you aren’t a real man. Jesus warned us that the men who would one day call themselves “vegans” are nothing more than nancy-boys looking for refuge somewhere. “For one believeth that he may eat all things: another, who is weak, eateth herbs” (Romans 14:2). Just take a look at these losers - thin as a rail, pale as a ghost. The kind of men we used to beat up every day at school. If you asked any one of them, he would probably admit he supports feminism. The only protein these marys consume was created for a completely different purpose, the misuse of which is precisely what got Onan struck dead by God.

The Ultimate underwear?

It could very well be.

For those of you that have known me for a long time, you know that I am realtively scientific about most decisions. The more important, the more analysis. So the decision of what holsters my nuggies is a decision of almost supreme importance.

About 7 years ago, I went through an exhaustive sampling of the current offering of boxer briefs, trying no less than 9 brands and evaluating them on things such as ride, support, durability, fashion (you never know when you are going to be walking around in your underwear with observers), value, and so on. There was a spreadsheet. So, I found one brand that worked great -- Polo Ralph Lauren Sport. I bought a bunch of pairs and was happy.

Eventually, I needed new underwear, and I was harshly reminded that underwear is just as subject to fashion as everything else. Polo no longer offered the underwear. I went on another hunt but did not find a good replacement.

I had pretty much given up hope, resigning myself to the cottony comfort of Calvin Klein boxers, when I happed across Under Armour's boxer. (I am attempting to rid myself of all cotton workout clothes. I sweat like a pig, and in about 30 minutes my shirt transforms into a cold piece of seaweed on my chest unless the fabric breathes) So after two wears, I do believe I have a new winner. Now all I need to do is spend one month's salary so I never have to go through this process again.

My new favorite phrase

From an interview with Joss Whedon.
Sweet Muscular Jesus

My dog's 15 minutes of fame

So my blue chest ate up my 15 minutes; Max gets his 15 minutes.

Here, you would never know that he got sick all over the two carpets in our living room and dining room Sunday morning. On the way to the kitchen -- still a little bleary eyed -- I stepped in dog shit. M. held in his belly laughs until about 3pm, when he couldn't hold it any later.*shrug*. He is lucky he is so cute.

Smashed smurf

So, despite claims that it was water soluble and would wash off with soap and hot water, I still looked like I smashed a smurf on my chest. I don't mind really -- it doesn't itch, but I do feel a little self-conscious at the gym and pool as most people look at me and think that M. beat the shit out of me.

Oh yeah, and I now have boob stubble. Very strange stuff..