Reassurance at its finest.

The Science Corner: “Why is this picture so amazing?”
Well I’m glad you wandered over to the science corner to inquire. I’ll break it down for you:

1. Thumbs Up: The “thumbs up”  is the absolute classic example of bestowing confidence to fellow members of mankind. Maverick dares to push it farther. He is giving you a thumbs way up. To the skies. Maverick is bringing his thumbs so high up for you, that he bought a plane just to tell you how much you rock.

2. The Look: The expression of Maverick’s face lets you know that he is proud of you, while still respecting you as a peer.

3. Color Scheme: America.

If you were depressed before this, now you aren’t. If anyone is ever feeling down upon themselves, simply send them this picture in a card (unless they are from some nations in the Middle East or South America… it has a slightly different connotation over there)… or you could always just send them to this page (I’m aware my shameless plug is hanging out, I like it that way).

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A Perspective from the Male Mind:

Phase 1: Suspect
You know, she’s always hanging out with that guy Larry. I wonder what the deal is. I’m starting to get nervous. They have been to the disco together every Tuesday. How come he gets to go to girls-night-out, yet I don’t? That’s really not fair. She must be fucking him. That has to be it. They have so many inside jokes. He must be inside her. Right now.

Phase 2: O RLY?
What’s that? Larry’s gay? Oh… haha…. of course… right… his love for Kiss Me, Kate makes sense now.

Phase 3: Take Advantage
Oh hey, Cindy, go hang out with Larry, yeah, have a great time! Whenever you’re thinking of hanging out with Bill or Butch, why don’t you just hang out with Larry instead, you guys are such great friends!

BRB.

I BELIEVE IN HAPPINESS AGAIN!

Phase 4: Come Home from Epic Mountain Trip Early
and find out she has been boning Bill and Butch the entire time. I really should have suspected this considering “Bill and Butch” sound like either hitmen, or guys that fuck your girlfriend.

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I could make a joke about procrastinating writing this article, however I’ll wait. I’m sure I’ll get to it later. Don’t worry about it.

The beauty of procrastination comes wrapped in instant satisfaction. Why would one punish themselves willingly? To have fun later? If an evil Nazi doctor is about to pluck your eyes out, wouldn’t you attempt to persuade him to give you just a few more seconds with your lovely eyes? Procrastination is like that, and you get to keep your eyes!

Another amazing thing about procrastination is that it makes everything absolutely beautiful; it’s the miracle that allows me to stare at a wall for an hour… and make it feel great.

"I'm... admiring the masonry for my... uhh... masonry class I might be taking next year."

It will also most likely make everything on this website that much more hilarious, because it’s simply better than doing work! It’s science! As a human, we have quite the large intellectual brain, and we’re expected to work because of that (damn you dolphins for keeping under the radar!); by not working, and just enjoying ourselves, it’s like slapping Mother Nature in the face with your own free-will. You’re taking your brain back and doing what YOU want with it… which is not using it. And now you, the reader, are getting a few mentions of science, anatomy, and other smart things to make yourself feel productive while procrastinating! The perfect excuse to tell yourself!

Now go read the rest of this website, it’s educational!

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I don’t know about you, but I submerged from the womb as a completely pristine young lass, with a worldly view on life and a neatly trimmed Tom Selleck-style mustache. With my Olympic gold medal for Hockey (GODDAMNIT, CANADA) in one hand and a White Russian in the other, I simply strutted out of my mother’s vagina and onto the streets of Compton. It was there that I ended the War on Baggy Pants (which actually would’ve been done singlehandedly had my hands not been full, you see).

So, when I stumble upon my array of websites that I created when I was 14—Xanga, Livejournal, Deviant Art and the like—I’m obviously not ashamed. I don’t even mind when these websites deny my requests to delete my account (really, Deviant Art? You’re just so fucking attached to those overly manipulated, copyright infringed photos I posted of the Olsen Twins?)

Depicted: Years of our lives attempting to hide itself.

I have to admit, at 14 years old, I was undeniably insightful. I quoted Bright Eyes lyrics that I’d never actually listened to (CONNER O’BURST 4EVER), joined “BlogRings” on Xanga that promoted diligent moral high ground, such as “I’m So Glamorous I Piss Glitter” and “Degrassi Owns Me” (it was 100% intense, you guys!). I was a civil rights activist, armed with the brilliant retorts I’d crafted in middle school:

I think I’m gonna start saying, “that’s so straight” [even though I'm straight myself], if i keep hearing “that’s so gay,” etcetera… anymore. seriously, people. there are better adjectives out there. like fuckhead. i’m very fond of that one.

you bitches are so straight.

how’s that, bigots?

(:

Alas! There’s more insight from where that came from:

my boob hurts. but i think i’ll be emo and tell you my heart hurts.

All from the same entry! Holy mackerel, shit is some powerful political ammo. Entry to entry, I dedicated my time to not using the space bar on my keyboard, evidently, and to exploring the different uses to every cuss word I had ever heard (not much has changed there). Somewhere along the lines, however, I stopped utilizing so many different fonts, font sizes and formatting styles that I stopped creating  virtual collages of words – images so magnificent that I think my eyeballs just began menstruating. I bragged about holding up conversations with boys who actually ended up in juvenile hall or in boot camp, begging for nudes of underage asians in both circumstances.

I was one certifiable indie motherfucker. I had heard of Death Cab for Cutie once. I wore “vintage” clothing (more than a year old, duh), and I checked my dental rubber bands in rearview mirrors of occupied cars. I had to make tough decisions, like whether headgear would really be worth wearing in public, and I like, totally needed LJ to process my thoughts. Every blog entry was issued as publicly as settings would allow, because there were masses to be catered to (I’m pretty sure one time I got three unique commenters on one post).

I peaked at 14, hovering over an ancient Windows monitor. What have I accomplished since? Puberty? Barely. Gaining dignity? Perhaps in comparison. Truly achieving unclouded understanding of contemporary society (also jazz music)? Clearly, no future attempts at social commentary could ever measure up.

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Sir Nils Olav is Colonel-in-Chief of the Norwegian King’s Guard. How is that better than sex? Well he’s a fucking penguin. A king penguin to be precise (and ironic).

He has been in the service since 1972, despite the minor setback of dieing once in 1987, he has been kicking ass ever since.

His latest accomplishment was being knighted on August 15th 2008 with a statement from the King of Norway himself that Nils was “in every way qualified to receive the honour and dignity of knighthood”

Like a good Colonel-in-Chief, he gets to inspect the troops to weed out the weak. He is simply a badassery detector. You better cover up your love for Happy Feet around this gangster.

He has accomplished more than you ever will.

Don’t believe me? Watch the ceremony here:

Did you tear up? I teared up.

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I just got back from Utah and I gotta say: Utah rocks! I can’t believe I had never been there before! Now as we all know, Utah doesn’t really have the best reputation, being described as a breeding ground for “inbred retards who eat nothing but salt and placenta,” but let’s be fair, not everyone can have different families. Differences aside, allow me to explain why my experience in Utah was so dank.

Me and my Dad arrived Thursday night ready to get our party on. I was going to accept my choir trophy and he was going to meet up with his Sister/Uncle. We parted ways and I headed over to the VIP area of Utah to grab some of their famous greased meats. I knew it was party time because they were pumpin’ that Utah jazz and it really started to smell like period.

No matter where you go in Utah, you can always really get a sense of the culture by indulging in their controversial, yet profound modern art and religious influence. It was a little intimidating at first to be one of the only people without a Swastika tattoo, but it quickly passed because I’m really down with diversity.

I think my favorite part of Utah is how relaxed it is. I thought it would be really strict, but in Utah they don’t mind when people litter because it’s already covered in filth and garbage water. Also, the people in Utah are really comfortable with themselves, and are open to publicly talking about their rashes and cysts while other people are trying to eat. They also play fun games like Opposite Day where people shit on toilet seats and leave it there, which is the opposite of having any regard for normal people who don’t live on a fucking farm. Another cool thing about Utah is that it’s apparently okay for other people to park extremely close to you on both fucking sides so you can’t fucking leave and have to spend two more hours in fucking Utah. While I’m at it, I might as well tell you that the food in Utah is fucking terrible and disgusting.

Fuck Utah.

UPDATE: Upon completion of this article, I realized that I confused Utah with Red Robin. Whoopsies. :-O

UPDATE: To reiterate, Utah is also a shithole, but better than sex because of its jazz. Red Robin still sucks.

UPDATE: To make this more clear: Utah > Sex > Red Robin

UPDATE: I ACTUALLY HAD SEX. I am proud to bring forth a new era of credibility to ThingsBetterThanSex.com. With this shocking turn of events I will finally bring clarity to this debate: Utah > Red Robin > Sex
Sex was uncomfortable and embarrassing. I am so alone. :-O

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Antidote.  Antidote is all that matters now.  All that will ever matter since those things came…since The Disease.  I’m stranded here, don’t have much time.  They’ll find me soon…they’ll kill me if IT doesn’t kill me first.

Antidote…antidote…there’s gotta be some here.  Goddamnit!  There has to be!  The blind man said that it was here!  He would be here too if…if…oh no, I just hope he’s taking care of the kids.  I just hope they’re safe.  That way they can rebuild.  Rebuild what man has destroyed.

Nonononono, I can feel the changes coming.  Think, think!  Why would they have a government building if there wasn’t any fucking Antidote!?  But I guess the government said a lot of things.  They said IT couldn’t get in the water.  They said the cities would be safe.  They said we could regain our humanity.

Humanity.  A word that lost all meaning when I realized that man are the real monsters, even more so than the monsters.  Makes you think.

…Why is antidote better than sex, you ask?  Sex, haven’t had sex in so long.  Not since…not since Martha… Oh God, Martha!  I didn’t mean to kill her!  I didn’t want to!  All I can see is her beautiful moon shaped face ripped apart in a mass of blood and nails.  Ooooohhhhh God oh God oh God oh God.  I’m sorry.  Oh God in Heaven, I’m sorry!

What was that noise?  FUCK MAN, WHAT WAS THAT NOISE?  …oh, a cat.

THE CHANGES!  Oh shit the changes!  It’s too late, I can feel my blood coagulating.  If I had only found the antidote!

MARTHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Now I know what you might be thinking, handjobs are the one thing that is specifically worse than sex, therefore you immediately ruined the integrity of this website.

That’s where you’re wrong. Stupid and wrong.

Chances are if you use the Internet, you spend all of your time fapping (masturbating). What if someone else could fap (masturbate) for you? Then your hands are free to do all kinds of things. Handjobs are the Bluetooth of intercourse. Unlike sex where you have to exhaust all of your effort into plumbing (‘gina fapping), handjobs allow you to multitask, freeing up that arm to do new and exciting things, like fly a kite or fencing. I mean sure, when you’re jerking it you still have that other arm free to do things like arm wrestle or play Yahtzee, but c’mon, who wants to play board games with that guy who’s always cumming everywhere.

And c’mon, fencing.

Not to mention, a handjob doesn’t have to be as formal as sex. Handjobs are the tuxedo shirt of intercourse. For example, say you take that special someone on a real classy date. You two really hit it off and it’s clear that tonight’s going to be your lucky night. All you have to do is take her back to your dad’s house (in this hypothetical situation your mom was murdered) and you’ll be in Soak City.

But nay! No need to go through the trouble of finishing dinner and waiting for her to drive you home (because you’re also handicapped). You can get a handjob right at there at the dinner table! And you won’t have to cut short that conversation you were having about the terrible wheelchair accident that killed your mom (like I said, you’re really hitting it off).

Of the several things you’re probably wondering about this article, you’re main concern is obviously that: Valentines Day is almost here! How in God’s name will I get a girl to consent to doing ANY of these things. Ever. Fencing. Well, here’s what you do.

First, you approach the object of your affection with an introductory question to set the mood, such as “¿Que Paso?” If she isn’t already giving you a handjob at this point, take a seat next to her at the bus stop. Now that she’s a little more comfortable with you and your social conventions, strike up a conversation about what you have in common, such as what day it is or what’s today’s date. If you aren’t getting a handjob right now, then you can’t follow simple fucking directions.

Sure, maybe handjobs aren’t for everyone, but for those of us who have to work 9 – 5 to feed our families and pay our bills (Whites), we need to have the option to mix business and pleasure. Because that’s what America is all about. Handjobs are the America of intercourse. Handjobs are awesome. The only downside is getting cum all over your shit.

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I am officially declaring Narwhal Awareness Week. Actually, screw that, I’m declaring EVERY damn week as Narwhal Awareness Week, because they just kick your shit that much. If you don’t know what a narwhal is, here’s a reference:

I'd say "the best thing since sliced bread" but Narwhals were the thing that sliced the bread in the first place. Sliced it hard.

You see what that is? A horn. Its a whale with a horn. You know what’s even more kickass than a horn? The fact it’s not a horn, but really a giant tooth. Now thanks to Twilight stripping away the coolness of vampires, and turning them into sparkle-fairies (or glitter-pixies in some states), we need a new long-toothed badass. I propose a narwhal.

Narwhal Cullen. I now understand the lust girls have over this man.

There’s nothing that would make me feel safer than having a long-toothed whale watching over me at all hours of the night… always. Another reason it would be such an appropriate match is that absolutely nobody knows how old narwhals can be, some reports say they can live to be over 100; this puts them in the perfect age range to lust over high-school girls according to modern-mythos.

Let’s not forget about the tooth itself. It checks in at a whopping 9 feet, which is even bigger than Edward Cullen’s forehead, believe it or not. The narwhal is so confident in its massive horn-tooth, it doesn’t even have any teeth in its actual mouth, so get your peanut-butter ready if you ever see one.

If you aren’t charmed yet (egad!), the narwhal will conquer you with its sheer intelligence. Dolphins famously get all the credit for being intelligent animals, however, in the battle of wits, narwhals are thought to be on par with dolphins. So… Narwhals, if you’re reading this, take on those damn dirty fame-stealing dolphins… with your 9 foot arsenal of awesome.

Bonus Fact: The scientific name for narwhal is Monodon Monocerus, meaning “One-Tooth One-Horn.” It’s the only creature with an early 2000s Metal music group included in its etymology.

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There are several men throughout the course of history who have become famous for their hilariously psychotic personalities, and while many may come to mind, I am not talking about Ed Gein. Silly Edward, people can’t be furniture!

Gary Busey, man’s man, gentleman of questionable mental health, and overall badass. Few actors are given a chance to be in such a diverse array of films, most notably the best film ever created, Predator 2.

He will abusey your levels of cool.

Hypothetical Situation: I am presented with two options:
A) Sit in a throne made of solid fucking platinum while lesbians feed me grapes and wine from the skulls of your children.
B) See a Predator 3 created this year.

It would be absolutely no contest in any way, but there must be several conditions:

1. Gary Busey must play himself throughout the entire movie (Predator would indefinitely be played by Nicholas Cage)

And you thought Ghost Rider was good? Just you wait!

2. There will be no logical product placement in the movie. God dammit I fucking hate it when James Bond is shaving with a Gillete razor or actors mutter the phrase “Oh hold on I’ll just Google it”
NO NO NO A MILLION TIMES NO
Busey will be drinking Colt 45 malt liquor throughout the entire movie, and during important plot relevant conversations, he will be brushing his teeth with Arm & Hammer Extended Whitening toothpaste.
Predator will be allowed to take several Tylenol Extra Strength after an especially taxing battle with Busey

3. Predator must be foiled only by Busey succesfully poisoning him with over-the-counter cough medication (preferrably something with a high concentration of dextromethorphan). Imagine Predator slowly dieing while explaining to Gary Busey why the Spanish inquisition should be a flavor of ice cream
Taking advantage of Predator’s altered consciousness, Busey would then drive a flaming motorcycle straight through Predator’s dick. Confetti will explode out of Predator’s head as Busey dangerously swerves the motorcycle to a dramatic stop. He winks at the camera as a hawk lands on his shoulder. A crowd of well-dressed party-goers would then suddenly emerge from the surrounding area and begin clapping. Champagne is handed out en masse and our hero sweeps his love interest into his arms (also played by Gary Busey).
As he smiles, he sticks Predator’s head on the front of his motorcycle like some sick prehistoric totem, revs up the bike with his lady on the back, zooms out into the sun, and then brilliantly explodes into fireworks. As the partygoers cry, it slowly turns to feelings of extreme discomfort as they slowly get the feeling that Busey is watching them from inside their own veins. Next sequel?

END SCENE

If you don’t agree with this magnificent sequel, I’m sure Gary Busey will be glad to punch you in every testicle you own (my condolences Tom Green).

Just that man’s teeth is enough to carry a film. You could even make a fourth Lord of The Rings titled “The 24 Towers” (32 If you count molars, but molars are rarely impressive). It could all be shot with high definition microscopic cameras in Busey’s mouth to show how his superior immune system defends his jawline against sugar, coffee stains, and Hepatitis C.

Oh, and you thought your band name was cool? Busey played drums in “The Rubber Band”, which is probably the most genius band name since “Stickshift Abortion.” Get the fuck out of here with your “genius” ideas. I swear to god if you shit eating little Alternative Rockers come out with another band like, “Finger Eleven” I will personally book the band “Bodies in the Gears of the Apparatus” to come to your show and surgically remove your vertebrae with pure death metal and then vomit blood down your eye sockets.

If you’re still questioning this:

Young Busey even had a rainbow pointing towards his crotch.

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