Yahoo Answers: Keeping People Stupid Since 2005 (Alternate Title: Don't Kiss Strippers.)

You know how sometimes you find some weird growth on your hand or worry that one of your eyes blinks too slowly and you think to yourself “I bet the internet can help me identify this!” and you rush over to your computer and type in (what you think to be) a fool-proof description of your situation, anticipating a useful, informative, intelligent series of answers and instead you end up on Yahoo! Answers, wondering what the fuck is wrong with the world?  Yep. That was all one sentence.

While I don’t currently have any strange growths on my hands (sorry to disappoint!), I *do* have a passion for spotting ignorance on the internet. Even though it gets my blood boiling and makes me want to punch someone in the crotch, it also makes me laugh and gives me that ever-sought-after feeling of supremacy that I aim to attain on a daily basis.  Thanks, internet, you complete me.

Without further ado, I present to you this week’s Favourite Finds on Yahoo! Answers.  (I’ll include some of the ‘best answers’ according to Yahoo, but sometimes they’re just not funny. Fuck those non-funny answers. NOT ON MY BLOG, Yahoo.) 

* My comments are in blue. The questions are direct copy/paste. Don’t bitch at me for typos. 

  Q: What are the benefits of marrying an ugly man?

Yahoo Answer: Females never marry real ugly men unless the following holds true:

A. They are really fat.

B. They are really ugly.

C. They are mentally ill.

If you’re lucky, they’re all three! 

Bonus points for stinky feet and early onset female pattern baldness.

Q: What does it mean when a stripper kisses you during a lap dance?

Introducing: The Herp. A musical.

 

Q: How drunk can you get before peeing yourself is safer then walking to the washroom?

Oh honey, it’s called ‘crawling’. Please don’t pee yourself.

P.S. You’re not invited to my house. 

Q: How does sex between a teacher and student affect the teacher-student dynamic/relationship?

Awwwkkkwwwaaaarrrrrd...

 

Q: What animals are best for having sex with, how should it be done, and what precautions should be taken?

Yahoo Best Answer: I like Porcupines best.

Har har har. That’s funny because it would hurt. I get it. 
*I'm going to sweep right by the 'highly disturbing' factor of this question. Bestiality is not for me, folks. Just say no.

Q: What happens if you get drunk during the day?

The possibilities are endless, young Padawan.
Expect a lot of awesome, possibly some jail time and probably some unexplained bruising.  Make Jimmy Buffet proud!

Q: What's the difference between cheap sex and expensive sex?

Expensive sex costs more. Cheap sex costs less.
Both make you a whore.

Q: After sex and eating your girlfriend out, is it safe to use mouthwash to clean out mouth?

My Favourite Yahoo Answer: NO! NO and thrice NOOOO!!!! Your head will explode in a minty vagina explosion

My. New. Best. Friend.

Q: Can a drunk handicapped person, who is operating an electric wheelchair, be charged with a DUI?

I have no witty comment to add to this. I just love it so much.

 

Fin. 

 

P.S. Having an internet browser open at work that reads “What animals are best for having sex with, how should it be done, and what precautions should be taken?”  is probably not the best ‘career move.’

 

Making my parents proud, one day at a time. 

I'm Probably Watching You

Fall has definitely arrived. It’s time for padded bras, hot toddies and butt warmers. But, as it were, Fall happens to be my favourite season because of the glorious smell, the crunchy leaves and the promise of Halloween. However, the cold weather also means that I’m probably getting lazy and my overall enthusiasm for getting places using my body (ie: walking and biking) has greatly diminished.  This unfortunately means that I am frequenting the Toronto subway more than I’d like.

I know I’ve touched upon this before, and those of you who know me have likely heard me lose my shit on more than one occasion when I recount my latest subway encounters.  Lucky for you, today is not just about me complaining about Mr. Standonyourfeetandtrytograbyourass or Mrs. Imighthavejustpoopedmyself, for yesterday I got to experience one of my favourite subway occurrences.

If you are at all familiar with the Toronto subway system (or any subway system, for that matter), you’ll know that the rate at which they open and close the train doors is completely random.  Sometimes they stay open for 6 seconds, and other times for 10 minutes. This has proven to make the population batshit crazy when operating in the godforsaken underground.  There’s a constant look of anger, panic and irritability smeared across everyone’s face. This is where I get the most pleasure out of walking with a smile. It’s a sneaky way to piss people off and I’ll admit it, sometimes I get pleasure out other people’s misery. (I don’t mean that I laugh at homeless people and play monkey-in-the-middle with heroin addicts’ needles…just a little harmless ‘ha. ha. ha. that bitch looks miserable and it’s probs because her iphone doesn’t get reception here.’)

Similar to that general sentiment, yesterday I was fortunate enough to sit in an unairconditioned, shitty, old subway car that decided to stay parked in the station for, let’s say, approximately 8 minutes. During these 8 minutes, I was lucky enough to be stuck next to a man with a stench too foul to describe. Let’s just say it was a disconcerting combination of sour, sweat and poop. Hungry yet? Me too.  This gentleman was also gracious enough to lend me some insight into his brain. This consisted largely of the word “fuck”, something that could have probably been mistaken for a dog throwing up and a string of words with no distinguishable association. What a dreamboat.

After deciding he was the man of my lesbian dreams, I took a few moments to glance around. Everyone was fucking miserable; I was as giddy as a schoolgirl.  Suddenly, this man flew through the open doors with a leap that would make a gazelle blush. I kept my eyes on him, because this, my friends, is the favourite experience I was talking about ^^ up there.

There is a moment, upon successfully landing in the train, where you will see the door-rusher congratulate themselves for making it through the doors. It may be subtle, it may be drastic, but I promise that it’s there.  On that glorious evening, with the 8 minutes of wait time, you can imagine how many of these self-congratulations I witnessed.  I can hear you asking ‘What do these people look like when they congratulate themselves? Do I do that?’ Please, let me enlighten you.

• There’s the Sly-Smiler.  As soon as they clear the doors, a small, often one-sided smirk washes over their face. They feel pretty cool, and break into a casual swagger as they look for a seat. You can tell they’re thinking “Way to go, rockstar. You totally nailed it.”   

• There’s the Over-Grinner.  Once these cheerful asshats clear the door, they look around the train to catch the eye of other travelers, to try and share the victory in this transcendent moment.  You can tell they’re thinking “Did you guys see that? Gee that was a close call! Typical Monday, AM I RIGHT, Girls?!”
  
• There’s the Cool-Shit-Nodder. These cocky sons of bitches act like they own those doors; like the subway conductor was their own personal chauffeur and they just like to “live life on the edge” by barely clearing the doors. But they knew they’d make it. You can tell they’re thinking “Fucking duh, bro.”

• There’s the Awkward-Winner. This last one is the toughest to spot and identify. Differing in many ways from the previous characters, the Awkward-Winner is weary of its triumph. As a result, you will often see them gazing down at some form of electronic device to appear distracted, aiming to divert the attention they just attracted through soaring through those doors. Keep watch, because a faint congratulatory smile will tickle the corners of their mouths in due course. You can tell they’ll be tweeting, “Almost got squished in the subway doors today… FML.”

Now that you’re aware of these classifications, and potentially reconsidering your general demeanor when entering a subway, let’s continue with my story.

As I sat in the stagnant subway car, a train coming from another direction must have pulled up. Herds of cattle people flooded from the staircase. Please take a moment to imagine my enjoyment and elation when, for approximately 8 minutes, I got to see people running for those doors like Jesus was having a book signing. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes in groups. Each of them sporting one of the above fuckle-puff reactions, only to realize that we were not going anywhere.

Celebrate that, easyrider.

And while it’s only going to continue to get colder, effectively guaranteeing that my subway time is going to increase immensely, it doesn’t seem so bad, so long as I’m keeping my eyes out for the door-rushers, and smiling at the miserable fucks as I reapply my lipgloss.

It’s strawberry, sunshine. 

The Spanish Inquisition Gets Physical.

I decided about year ago to kick my ass into shape.

About six months ago, I actually started going to the gym.

I was initially quite perplexed by the whole thing- namely the smell and how the fuck people managed to squeeze themselves into shorts 5 sizes too small.

For all of our benefits, I’m going to steer away from talking about the eldersnatch I’ve had the misfortune of witnessing on a far-too-frequent basis.  Just know that it’s a very real phenomenon, sweeping women’s changerooms nationwide.  If I wanted to know what a white-bearded crotchpocket looked like, I’d use the internet. Privately. In shame.

Old lady bits aside, the gym is a fascinating place. On your left, you have the girl that has negative 65% body fat, weighing herself relentlessly as she struggles to lift her stick-figure arms above the gaping holes where her titties should be. And on your right, you have the man who lost his balls to steroids, and has made up the difference by letting out audible, disheartening grunts and emitting offensive body odors. Thanks, bro. Appreciate it.  

Itching to be able to kick some serious ass, I decided to take on the “no pain, no gain” mentality and signed up for Boot Camp.  I don’t know about you, but when I think of Boot Camp, my first thought is this guy:

Oh, hell to the no, motherfucker.

Yell at me like that, and I’ll turn your P into a V. If you know what I mean.  

To my surprise, not only was the instructor nothing like that dude, he was old, Spanish and pretty fucking small. My first thought was I could take him.
Wrong.

Turns out: he’s a shitstorm of freaking crazeballs.

This Spaniard has clearly encountered one too many fucking bulls in his day and has decided to stop taking shit from anyone. He also apparently ate a dog at some point, because the barks that come out of his mouth are both alarming, and shockingly authentic.  He mutters to himself, promises a cookie* if you ‘shut your freaking mouth’ and declares that he’s a monkey, ‘unlike you bunch of fucking slackers.’  I guess being a monkey is a good thing...? 

*The cookie thing is a lie. There are never any goddamn cookies.

While he may be slowly kicking my ass into shape, I still don’t feel prepared to fight a Matador and I constantly have cravings for enchiladas. I may not be as tough as your ‘grandmami’, José, but I’m pretty sure you’re 70, and if that bitch is still alive, she’s a goddamn champion. And also, probably a zombie. Jussayin’.