My name is Eric Filipkowski and I was a victim of child molestation

Yes, it's true. Before this moment, there were 3, maybe 4 people who knew the truth. Two of them were professional therapists. My parents didn't even know.

I was molested. I was raped.

God, you can't believe how good it feels for me to say that. For 17 years, I've had that horrible secret bottled up inside of me and now it's out. It's gone.

Up until now, I haven't been able to move on. Not completely. There was always a part of me that was the same, scared little boy who had his innocence ripped from his grasp, so many years ago.

I feel that part of the healing process is to tell my story, but I warn you, it's very graphic. If this kind of thing bothers you, I implore you not to read any further. It doesn't make you less of a friend and I really do appreciate you listening so far. I wouldn't be at this place I'm at now, where I am healthy enough to stop blaming myself for what happened, without you, my friends whom I love so much. Thank you.

OK, well if you're still reading, hold on, cuz it's a bumpy ride.

My story starts when I was just 13 years old. I was a happy kid. I had friends and I did well in school. I remember feeling like I was standing on the edge of a world with limitless possibilities. I truly believed that I could do anything I put my mind to. But that was all about to change.

My attacker was older than me, around 20. She was about 5'11", maybe 120 pounds at most. One of my few clear memories of the incident involves me staring at her enormous 34DD breasts through my tears and wondering how a woman that skinny could have such large breasts.

I know a few of you are probably snickering right now. You think a horny, 13 year old boy would love to have sex with an insanely beautiful 20 year old college sorority girl who worked as a topless dancer on the weekends to help pay her tuition and you would be right. But that doesn't change the fact that I was raped. You should be ashamed of yourself. I was a child.

If things were different and I was a 13 year old girl getting molested by that gorgeous 20 year old stripper, would it still be sexy to you?

Yeah, I didn't think so. You didn't think of it like that. Nobody does.

They say most victims of sexual assault know their attackers and this was true in my case. Who she was and how I knew her aren't important. I'll leave it at "she was a family friend." She was home for the holidays for a few days before she went to a regional gymnastics competition.

My parents had a Christmas party and she snuck up to my room where I was sleeping, safe in my bed.

I remember the faint aroma of alcohol on her breath as she kissed me awake. If you've ever wondered why I don't drink, well, now you know.

I sat perfectly still as she got under the covers and removed my boxers. If you're wondering why I didn't yell out for help, let me point out that it's easy for you to say, safe in your home, staring at your computer screen. I was terrified. I literally couldn't move a (voluntary) muscle.

She took me into her mouth for close to half an hour. The first time I orgasmed, I thought it would end. She got her sick thrill from raping this sweet, young boy and now she would be on her way. "OK, that was terrible, but I've survived."

But I was wrong. So very wrong. Every time I came, she'd just swallow it or shoot it all over her face or naked breasts. After the seventh time, everything seemed to blur together. I lost track of time. I think this was a self-defense mechanism.

Finally, her voracious appetite for my semen seemingly satiated, she ceased her aggressive felating. I told myself that this wasn't happening to me, I was somewhere else right now, this couldn't be real. I was snapped back to reality when she informed me that this nightmare was not over yet. Though her voice was sweet and sexy, her threat to "fuck my brains out" was taken very seriously by yours truly.

As we repeatedly engaged in hot, steamy sex in every imaginable position, I began to pray to God. I had never been a religious person but I felt that if there was a God out there, he needed to hear my prayers and help me.

Well if there is a God, he's a sick bastard, because he cursed me with an erection that just wouldn't go away. No matter how many times either of us climaxed, my phallus was paralyzed. All the prayers in the world wouldn't make it go away as she raped me repeatedly. The most humiliating part of the experience was her affinity for "doggie-style" sex. I pounded away at her from behind until we were both, quite literally, sore from the effort.

I thought that perhaps her screams of intense pleasure would alert someone downstairs at the party, but the revelry was simply too raucous. When you're having a good time with your friends, celebrating the holiday season, you never imagine that such an awful crime could be committed in your own home at the very same time. I don't blame you, mom and dad. I did, for a very long time. But I have forgiven you. I love you both. You weren't the best parents a kid could have, not by a long shot, but you did your best. Well, you tried to do your best. You'd think that one of you would have checked on me at least once during that party, but no--

No, forget it. It's over. It's done.

Anyway, after what seemed like hours, but which was only 3 or 4 hours in reality, she kissed me on the cheek, got out of bed, put her clothes on and walked out of my room and my life forever. To add to the humiliation, she left with me a casually tossed off "Merry Christmas" as she closed the door. Once she was gone, I immediately burst into tears.

I didn't sleep much that night, even though I was exhausted emotionally and physically. I felt dirty and sat down on the floor of the shower, sobbing. The warm water cascading over my body, taking away some of the physical evidence but none of the deep hurt I felt inside.

I tried to go on with my life as normal after that, but it was impossible not to associate the sex I had with thousands of other women to the traumatic experience I had gone through as a child.

Some might read this and say this is all just an invention in my mind and they could very well be right. I'm not going to sit here and say it's not wishful thinking and a complete fabrication from someone who never came within sixteen feet of a real naked woman until he was in college, but that doesn't mean I'm not a victim.

So if you see me some day casually making comments about rape or child molestation, maybe you'll think twice before you jump down my throat about it. Because when someone has been through what I have (or more likely have not been through), sometimes the only way they can deal with it is through humor.

Thank you for listening, I wish you all the best.

The Adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms

When I was a kid, Chad Robuckle used to love to play this game called "Wealthy Industrialist". It wasn't so much a "game" as it was an excuse for Chad to dress up in his father's suit, put on a fake moustache and try and scam old people out of their money.

I'm not proud of the fact that I tagged along with him on many of these occasions. In fact, not only was I a "criminal witness" to these crimes, but I actually could have been branded a "felony accomplice," in some cases. But like Chad says, the statute of limitations has long since passed on anything we've done, at least from that period of time, so I feel like I can finally share these awful secrets.

Chad's parents would leave him alone for weeks, sometimes even months, as they went globe-trotting all over the world on one of their lavish vacations, so I spent a lot of time at his house. It was paradise for a 12 year old: no adult supervision, all the cable channels, a pool table and an absent father with a monumental-sized porno collection.

Inevitably, Chad would get bored and start looking for some excitement. That year, his brand of excitement was playing wealthy industrialist. Now, of course, a 12 year old boy with a fake moustache does not look anything like a wealthy industrialist. What the hell is a wealthy industrialist anyway? What kind of 12 year old kid gets his kicks pretending to be J.P. Morgan? The kind who kept his stash of baseball cards tucked away in the back of his closet, underneath some stolen uranium he got from the nuclear plant that they closed down.

The kind named Chad Robuckle.

Luckily for Chad, the primary target of his game (or scam) was the elderly. If you've ever been to Florida, you know old people can't see too well, so I guess it's not too surprising that they usually didn't catch on. That last sentence was confusing, I was just trying to make the experience relatable, not imply this took place in Florida.

So one day, we pull up to the local senior center in Mr. Robuckle's Ferrari and me and "Arthur Q. Pennybottoms" step out of the car to try our luck with the bingo crowd.

Arthur Q. Pennybottoms may have been short and ill-fitted to his suit and his fake moustache might have moved around way too much, but he sure was able to walk into a room and find a mark.

We sat down next to some rich dowager and immediately he starts with the sweet talk. This lady had one of those fake glass eyes that didn't quite focus on you when she was talking to you. I kinda got this vibe that she used to be really hot, so his attention probably took her back to a better time, before her grandson threw a firecracker at her face, or whatever.

He starts in with his usual rap, he's Arthur Q. Pennybottoms, wealthy industrialist. He had this whole script he would follow though he claimed to improvise and tailor what he was saying to each individual "player". He told her he had made millions in soybeans and now spent most of his time traveling the world in his yacht. Which would explain why he was in the middle of Connecticut at a senior center playing bingo, but whatever.

By the time we're done having dinner at Sizzler, we've invested a good six hours in this broad. I'm bored out of my fucking skull. She's telling us stories about FDR and doing the Charleston and god knows what else. Chad, excuse me, Arthur is acting like he's eating it all up, he couldn't be more fascinated and on her side of things, she probably hasn't had anyone listen to a word she's said in 20 years. What's the harm, right? Well, I'm getting to that.

Finally, Arthur decides that the three of us, Mabel, I think her name was, him and me, his personal attorney, Jerry Leibowitzstein, should all go back to her place for some warm milk. I thought we were off the hook, because at first she looked pretty offended but then she patted her arm and called him a sly dog.

I don't know if you've ever ridden in a 1988 Ferrari Testarossa, but if you have, you know there's no back seat. There's barely a trunk, so I really just wanted to go home, at this point. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, ran over to the pay phone and called Mr. Robuckle's cell phone, which we brought along to make it seem more plausible that I was lawyer. Well, I run back to the table to answer the phone and pretend to have a serious conversation. I tell Arthur that, unfortunately, we're going to have to cut the evening's festivities short, because I have pressing business back at the law firm.

Well what does ol' Arthur do? He tells her that I'm a liar and I'm not even a lawyer. As I'm sitting there, this kid has the balls to tell this old woman that he feels sorry for me, because I'm not as successful as he is, so he lets me pretend to be a lawyer because I'm jealous of him. He apologizes profusely on my behalf and tells her that we'll bid her adieu right now, so embarrassed he is by my behavior.

Of course, this only works to play into his favor even more, because she laughs the whole thing off and insists we both come back to her place now. As I'm sitting there, squatting over the hump in the middle of the 3 inch space behind the seats, she tells him that she has many friends who are jealous of her, as well and that people like me should be pitied and not judged too harshly because the poor didn't have the advantages of a moral upbringing like the moneyed classes.

I know what you're thinking, but at this point, I'm keeping my mouth shut just to see how far this whole charade is gonna go.

Well we get back to her place and of course it smells like moth balls and Aspercream, but at this point, I'm pretty used to that. Arthur called it "the scent of money". No wait, it was Chad. Let me reiterate that both these kids were loaded. He had a $1500/month allowance when we were in sixth grade, so he didn't need this money at all, he just liked to rip people off.

Arthur isn't through the door more than 2 minutes before they start making out. I took this as my cue to start searching the bedroom for loot. I found the usual crap: stock, bonds, jewels, pearls, shit like that. Nothing too interesting. If he wanted any of that, he could get it for himself. I wasn't a thief.

As I was about to leave, though, I spotted a wall safe poking out from behind an old portrait of this lady's great-granddaughter. For some reason, the picture was painted while she was dressed up for a 1920's theme party. Anyway, I put the painting on the bed and take a shot at the combo.

I try the old standby: 61 19 26.

Bingo! First try! Matlock's birthday. I'd need the hands of five people to count the number of times I opened an old person's safe by knowing Andy Griffith was born June 1st, 1926.

Well I peek inside and there's nothing staring back at me but a curled up piece of old parchment. I pull it out of the safe and carefully roll it out on the bed.

A pirate map.

Is she kidding? What hell is an old lady doing with a pirate map? Nowadays, I would have ripped it up and put it back in the safe with a note telling her not to be a fucking moron, but you have to understand this was a different time. We were just a few short years out from the Goonies, at this point, so the lure of a pirate map in the hands of a 12 year old boy was just too great to resist.

I snuck out the door unnoticed while Arthur was busy fumbling with this old woman's enormous bra/girdle contraption and ran the few blocks back to Chad's house. Luckily, I knew his parents were one of the few people back then to have their own Xerox machine, so I made a couple copies of the map, ran back to the old folk's home and returned the map before anyone had a chance to notice. There were clothes all over the floor in a trail to the bathroom and I could hear the two of them splashing around behind the closed door, so I figured I wouldn't be missed.

I went back to Chad's house to examine the copies in greater detail. I knew enough to make sure to copy both sides and scoured them all for clues. Around 3 am, Chad showed up with a smile and a big bag of goodies. He actually seemed pleased that he didn't have to steal anything this time, seeing as the old woman handed over anything he wanted. I wouldn't attribute that to relief on his part, for avoiding any criminal activity (besides the obvious fraud and statutory rape), but rather because now he would spend the next few hours bragging about how great he was in bed, going into way too much detail about his exploits.

I told him to shut the hell up and showed him the map to which he made a big show of producing the original from his satchel of booty. My annoyance was quickly forgotten as he launched into the story behind the map. Apparently, it had been a family heirloom stolen from a pirate captain by the Spanish back in 1655. The map lead to a cave on a remote island in the Bahamas that was said to hold a magic lamp.

Sounded like a bunch of bullshit for me, but I was gonna say so. Not when I knew I was getting a free trip to the Bahamas out of it.

We boarded the Robuckle's personal Gulfstream III. We took the Gulfstream III because the family's main jet, the Gulfstream IV was taking Mr. and Mrs. Robuckle to a Japanese island at the time, so we got what Chad referred to as "the filthy leftovers".

As we took off, he spent quite an amount of time mocking the wide leather captain's chairs we were sitting in. Apparently the ones in the other jet had heat and massage, these only had massage. Chad was so angry at his parents that when he got sick on all the Dom Perignon we were drinking, he threw up all over his parent's private bedroom.

I started to yell at him but he assured me there were three other cabins available and we would be landing in a few hours anyway.

So we got to Nassau and our charter boat was waiting to take us to the Island. In addition to the crew of six, Chad had hired a local to follow us around and be our manservant. I guess this guy had a regular name but Chad liked to call his manservants "Jub Jub". At first he objected to the moniker, but five hundred dollars in cash tends to smooth things over quickly. Jub Jub it was.

I asked Chad if Jub Jub was a sentimental thing, because he always called these people he would hire to carry his bags and spare bowler hats "Jub Jub". No, he explained, it was simply more humiliating that way. Touché.

After a few days on the yacht, Captain Chad finally located the island in the exact spot the crew had told me it would be, but he wanted to get there on his own, without anyone's help, save that of the US Coast Guard and the $40,000 satellite navigation system the boat had.

We set down anchor in a harbor and me, Chad and Jub Jub got in a dinghy and headed for shore.

Immediately, Jub Jub started asking for more money as Chad had brought a considerable amount of crap ashore with him and expected this 120 pound man to carry it all. Chad told Jub Jub to quit whining, threw another wad of hundreds at his feet and we were off.

We walked around the island for a while, it wasn't that big. I didn't see any cave, though Chad kept referring to the map and his portable GPS while insisting it was just around the corner. There really was no "corner" to speak of, it was just a small island. I think it may have actually been an "atoll", I'm not sure.

You might be reading this and thought to yourself, "Chad Robuckle had a portable GPS device in 1988? That sounds like bullshit to me." You might think that only the military had access to things like that back then and you'd be right. They were also the only ones with submarines and jet-packs. So when Chad threw a fit and demanded something like that, that’s where his parents went: the military. But good eye, nonetheless.

Finally, after a few hours of searching and several fainting spells by Jub Jub, we were ready to take a break. The sun was beating down pretty hard and though he was holding an umbrella to block the sun from Chad's face, Jub Jub was pretty tired and couldn't hold up his arm that well. Chad was pretty annoyed with the whole thing and took his anger out on Jub Jub.

Jub Jub was pretty pissed off too and threatened to walk. As Chad took out his wallet, Jub Jub told him to shove his money up his ass. No amount of money was worth the humiliation and hardship he had suffered.

Chad tried to reason with him, pointing out that not only was Jub Jub hundreds of miles from home on a deserted island, he was hundreds of mils from home on a deserted island with two 12 year old white American boys with active imaginations and a working knowledge of Bahaman sodomy laws. This seemed to work.

We took refuge under a palm tree and Jub Jub went about laying out our picnic lunch, but after that many hours in the sun, our cucumber finger sandwiches didn't taste too well. Chad started chucking them at a giant tortoise that was lumbering past us, maybe 20 yards away. One of the sandwiches took a weird bounce and disappeared from sight.

Chad and I looked at each other in disbelief. Could it be? We ran over to the spot where the sandwich had disappeared and there it was: the cave! It was little more than a 2 foot wide hole in the ground, but it was a cave, nonetheless.

Chad clapped his hands twice in rapid succession and summoned Jub Jub. He was to lower himself into the cave first, to make sure it was safe. Well, it wasn't.

From the darkness, we heard Jub Jub scream out in pain. Apparently the floor of the cave was covered in sea anemones and Chad had demanded Jub Jub remove his shoes so as to make sure he didn't crush any of the pearls or valuable gold trinkets with his feet.

We scurried down after him and even in the little light drifting down into the cave we could tell there was blood everywhere. Chad remarked that it was too bad they hadn't brought any morphine, which was a lie. There were three or four bottles of it up with the picnic basket, I think he just didn't want to waste any time going back up to get it.

Chad urged Jub Jub along, promising they would take care of his feet after the treasure was found. I can't help but think that if he hadn't been so eager to find something so he could go back and tend to his horrible wound, he would have easily seen the tripwire that had been laid along the floor of the passage, but he didn't.

Real booby traps aren't like the ones you see in the movies. They're kind of lame. At least these were. The large wooden spike was not even traveling that fast when it pierced poor Jub Jub's abdomen. If his brain had been getting the blood that was instead dripping out of his foot and covering the ground, he would have had the mental wits to dodge it or at least put up his hand to deflect it. That's probably all it would have taken. Like I said, me and Chad easily defeated the next six or seven booby traps we encountered and we were only 12 years old.

As Jub Jub clung to life, we promised him we would find the magic lamp and use it to save him. He gurgled something about not leaving him there alone and that we were a couple of pricks, I'm not sure exactly. Anyway, we raced ahead, merely jumping over the trip wires and walking around the deep pits with spikes in them. We encountered a dead end where there was simply a wall in front of us. We noticed there was some sort of clue or riddle written in Spanish on the wall that I think we were supposed to solve, but instead we just kicked at the bricks until the wall fell down.

And then, we saw it. The magic lamp. I nearly shit myself out of surprise. I was almost as sure of the fact that there was no magic lamp as I was that there would be only two (living) people riding that dinghy back to the yacht that afternoon. I began to question myself, as I often did when I hung around with Chad. Had I misjudged him? Maybe he wasn't so bad, after all. I knew I was lying when I told Jub Jub we would be back to save him with the power of the magic lamp, but Chad had seemed to believe in the lamp all along. Maybe he really meant it?

Chad walked up and carefully pulled the lamp down from its pedestal in the middle of the room. We heard some rocks moving around in a side compartment somewhere but whatever booby trap they had been designed to power, it was had long ago stopped functioning.

He held the lamp up and examined it in the streaks of sunlight that managed to shine through from a mysterious outside light source. He took the lamp in his shirt and lovingly caressed the side of it with the fabric when suddenly, smoke poured forth from its end a giant bald man of Middle Eastern origin appeared out of nowhere.

I shit you not, it was a fucking genie. He launched into some big spiel about how he was the seventh son of Agra bah, king of Arabia, and he had been entombed in this magic lamp for sixteen centuries, yadda yadda yadda. Apparently, Chad sensed the urgency of the situation and told him to shut the hell up. He cut to the chase and asked if we were getting a wish or not. The genie said that we did indeed get one wish that he would grant with his magical powers, not three like we were thinking we were entitled to. I'm sure if there had been more time, Chad would have wished him back in the lamp until we got three wishes or a million wishes or better yet, infinity wishes, but like I said, time was of the essence.

Chad looked at me and gave a sigh. He told me he knew what he had to do. I had never seen Chad so serious in his life, but this was a big moment for him. He was about to do the one unselfish thing he had ever done in his whole life.

Or so I thought.

When we got back to the yacht, some of the crew members inquired about Jub Jub, but Chad threw some cash at them and said he wasn't familiar with anyone named Jub Jub. They seemed to catch his drift and didn't bring it up again. For my part, I didn't speak to Chad til we were back on American soil and I knew he couldn't strand me in some foreign country to explain to the local police and Jub Jub's widow what had happened.

I was fed up. Sure, I laughed when Jub Jub cut his foot in the cave, but murder was something else. And that's what it was to me: murder. Chad had the power to save someone's life, but instead, he used his one wish on himself. Not only that, he wished for something so ridiculous and stupid, I can barely repeat it. If he had wished for a giant penis or the power of flight or something like that, at least I wouldn't have been that surprised. But to let a man die just because you want the ability to tell which celebrities are secretly gay? That's just plain awful.

Of course, eventually I forgave him. He agreed to send Jub Jub's widow a letter explaining what happened on the island and where she would be able to find his corpse. I made him put in some stuff about how he was a great guy and he died valiantly, saving some babies who were trapped down in the cave. Chad didn't like that but he knew I was seriously pissed about it, so he did it.

In the end, I think I've come to terms with the fact that Chad will always be my best friend. More than a best friend, he's like family to me. Not in the hokey sense, of "you're my brother and I'd do anything for you", but in the real way. You can't choose your family. They may be terrible murderers who cheat old women out of their retirement savings and laugh hysterically when a man's stomach is punctured by a sharp wooden spike, but they're family.

Chad Robuckle is my family. Sure, Jub Jub had a family too: a wife, six kids and several infirm old relatives he took care of, but he wasn't my family. And while I'm sad he's gone, you've gotta look out for your own family, not some immigrants who you barely know.

Buy my t-shirt

OK, I admit it. I bought a "vote for pedro" t-shirt. In my defense, though, it wasn't for me. It was a gift.

Well then I went to this website and they pointed out that there are 8 million websites trying to profit off the success of "Lazy Sunday" already and I just lost it.

Oh, you've got some cupcakes on a shirt? And it says, "Snack Attack Mutha Fucka"? Just like in the song? Oh man, that's great. That's so clever. You know, that was kinda funny when I saw it the first time, on the show, but you wearing it on a shirt? That's hilarious!

What's that, you tell me? You've got another shirt with Chuck Norris on it? And it says his tears cure cancer or he can karate chop a pigeon in mid-flight and turn it into two seperate pigeons without the pigeons even knowing? That's awesome!

Oh look! Here's one with Mr. T! Do you want one with the Smurfs? Or Alf! Remember Alf? He's back. In t-shirt form.

Yes, I know I just ripped off the Simpsons, but I don't care.

The point is, this shit has got to stop. Do you think I like being this cranky? Well I don't. Sorta.

In some ways, this is a good thing because it makes it that much easier to spot morons walking down the street. But in a different way, it's terrible.

I know you think you're the first person to like the Snorks. I believe you when you tell me, "No dude, you don't understand, I loved that shit back in the day and I never really stopped liking them, I was just looking for this shirt for a long time, that's all, everyone else is jumping on the bandwagon, but not me." I believe you, I do. You're the only one. Except, of course, for the people who made that shirt. And the other 50,000 people who bought one, but besides them, you're the only one.

Maybe I'm full of shit. Maybe people just like to buy these shirts cuz they think they look cool, not because they're trying to make a statement about their originality or individuality. I have a shirt that says, "tastes like chicken" written in 70's block lettering. Doesn't that make me just as bad?

No, it doesn't. Shut up.

Let me tell you why: first of all, I am smart and you are stupid. Every reason you have for why I'm wrong, I've already thought it up. Second, all joking aside, this is a serious problem.

People really do think this is what passes for humor these days. Look at Robot Chicken or for that matter, anything on Adult Swim that isn't Family Guy or Futurama.

80% of those shows you think are "totally awesome" are nothing more than some guy saying, "Hey, remember these obscure cartoon characters from your past? Well we're gonna change them and make them have sex with each other and talk about poop and stuff."

And as far as "web comedy" goes, that's even worse. Sure, the G.I. Joe PSA's were funny. The Shining trailer? That was amusing. You dubbing new words over some lame TV show from the 70's? Not so much.

The point of something being a "cult classic" is that nobody got the joke the first time around. If you know it's a cult classic when you're making it, or worse yet, that's what you're aiming for, the results will predictably be terrible.

Wet, Hot, American Summer? That's a cult classic. It was a huge flop when it came out. It's a great movie and it's hilarious but you saying, "Hey JJ, save me a waffle" makes me want to kill you.

I mentioned Family Guy, which I love, but the new episodes can't compare to the first three seasons. Now, it's just painfully obvious that they write these episodes, fully aware that they're looking for Stewie's new catchphrase. Which is why the Simpsons is now unwatchable. I knew that show had lost it when they did a whole episode about Ralph.

God! This is why I drink. It's not your mother, though she's the one I take it out on, but it's really you. You're the reason. Cuz you're stupid and you make me embarassed that you carry half of my genes. Now go to your room before I tell your grandmother what you wrote on your Myspace profile.

The Andrew McCarthy Award

The 17th Annual Andrew McCarthy Award for Excellence in the Field of "Nobody Gives a Shit" goes to this guy, Leyan Lo, who set a new world's record for solving a Rubik's Cube in the fastest amount of time, just 11.13 seconds.

That's right, just 11.13 seconds! That's pretty fast. The last time I picked one of those up, I would play with that sucker for hours and only get one or two sides.

Of course, I was like 7 at the time.

Hey, I hate the 80's as much as anyone does, especially this recent "80's resurgence" that's been going on, but still, this is pretty fucking stupid. Read the article, it's ridiculous. Here are some quotes that I liked because they don't make any sense.

Leyan Lo is part of Caltech's Rubik's Cube Club, a student group that hosted the competition at the Exploratorium museum in San Francisco.

Cal Tech? Isn't that like a real school? If this was my kid, I'd have him invent a time machine so I could go back in time and give my wife an abortion.

His time of 11.13 seconds broke the previous record of 11.75 seconds, set by Frenchman Jean Pons at the Dutch Open competition last year.

Not to get all "elitist" and "macho", but any "sport" dominated by the French that doesn't involve the speed in which you can hand over the keys to the city to the Germans isn't a real sport.

Lo went up against the teenager widely considered the fastest Rubik's Cube solver on the planet -- Shotaro "Macky" Makisumi, a 15-year-old from Pasadena.

Ditto if a 15 year old can be considered the best. A 15 year old named "Macky".

"I don't know. Faster first two layers," he surmised, referring to solving the first two layers of the cube's colored tiles before moving on to the last.

What?

For his victory, Makisumi won a Rubik's Snake puzzle, one of several variations of the basic cube which has sold more than 100 million worldwide, according to the manufacturer.

All he won was another puzzle? Basically a toy? And what they forgot to include in that statistic is the fact that 99,574,283 of those Rubik's Cubes are now clogging up landfills.

In other news, my eye doctor hates me.

Once again...

Once again, I have predicted the future/had my jokes stolen.

I shit you not, on March 28, 2004, I wrote a sketch about a pregnant woman getting pulled over by a cop for driving in the car pool lane and arguing the ticket on the grounds that if abortion is murder and fetuses are just people then she should count as two occupants in a vehicle.

Well, it happened.

I'm not saying it's good or it's funny but it did happen in real life and that's gotta count for something.

So buy me my fucking iPod already.

Buy me this!

Come on, do it!

I'll be your best friend! I'll take my top off! You can see my scars!

It's the special edition Harry Potter iPod that comes loaded with all six audiobooks!

You know how much I love Harry Potter!

It's only $548.00! You can totally afford that. You've got that new job and all.

You did miss my birthday and Christmas. And that's ok, I didn't say anything cuz I was out of town and I knew you were busy, but now...

Look, I hate to even bring this up, but you owe me. I kept my mouth shut for a long time and now it's time for you to return the favor..

What? Whoa! Who said anything about extortion? DON'T TELL ME NOT TO GET LOUD.

Oh, so now I'm embarassing you? You're embarassed? Well I'd hate to make a scene in front of all your hotshot, phony, Hollywood-player friends. God forbid I upset Bob Seger or Steve Guttenberg!

You know what? Fuck it. I don't even want it now. No, don't even bother. Seriously, I'll throw it out. Fine, I'll donate it to a needy kid or someone with cancer. I'm serious.

I'm over it. I'm over you.

If you see me walking by and the tears are in my eyes, look away
Baby, look away.

I hate Carly Simon - By Chad Robuckle

Hey everybody, Chad here, sorry I haven't written in a while. I had this phony worker's comp claim going and my crooked, Jew lawyer told me it wasn't a good idea to be posting blogs if I was gonna say I couldn't work cuz of my carpal tunnel. Anyway, some shithead ratted me out and now that I'm not getting any more free money, I'm back here on Eric's blog to bring the occasional bright spot to this douchebag's otherwise dreary collection of anecdotes.

In case you didn't know, I hate working. I've always hated working, which brings me to the subject of today's lesson. Back when I was 24, my scam was entering sweepstakes. I had recently gotten fired from this job I had at IBM after only a few days because I "padded" my resume a little bit and said I knew how to work with computers. Well, I kept my key card and what I would do is sneak back in there, late at night and use their bulk mail stamp machine to send out tens of thousands of sweepstakes entries for free. It didn't cost me a dime cuz I had also stolen all the envelopes and paper and pens too.

Normally, I'd just win little crap here and there; gift certificates, lame-ass 3 day cruises, stuff like that, but I did hit it big once. I won the "Always Stay-Free Maxi Plus Carly Simon is My Mom For-A-Week Sweepstakes". I was stoked even though I didn't know who the hell this broad was, but then someone showed me one of her records and she looked hot.

Well unfortunately for ol' Chad Robuckle, here, the album I was shown was from 1971 or something cuz this bitch was old! She opens the door and my jaw drops down to the floor, landing right next to her boobs.

I make nice for a while but she seems pretty pissed off that I don't know any of her music. Give me a break, I'm not a hundred years old, right? She's naming off these songs and I'm looking at her with a blank look, it was pretty funny. So to be nice and mostly get her off my fucking back, I pretend like I've heard of a few. "Oh yeah, that one about that guy, that was good," I said. I think she sang backup for Beethoven or someone, I’m not sure.

Well that didn't work for very long because then she starts hassling me about putting my shoes on her couch or something. I told her, "Lady, this contest is a joke, you're not really my mom so stop giving me static. If you want to do some mom-stuff, go make me a sandwich."

So next thing I know, she's on the phone with her manager or the tampon company or something telling them that I'm being incredibly rude and she wants me removed from her home and whatnot. Oh yeah, I had also called her a "stupid cunt", I forgot that part.

Unfortunately for her, she had signed some contract that made her legally bound to let me stay. Boy was she pissed! I was actually gonna leave anyway, cuz it was so boring, but once I heard her on the phone talking shit about me, I made it my mission to piss her off.

I figured, I'm supposed to be her son, so why not act like it? What do kids do? They breastfeed. Surprise, surprise, she wasn't down for that. Those milk sacks dried up 50 years ago, anyway, I know that. I was just busting her balls.

No matter how funny my antics were to a normal person, this stuck-up whore just couldn't appreciate them. I can understand her being sore when I let her dog out and it got run over but how was I supposed to know it wasn't allowed to go outside? It kept yappin' so I figured it wanted to go out and play. Seems like a fair assessment of the situation, no? I'm not used to living in New York City where there's cars everywhere. Jeez, you'd think she'd give me a break.

And I also don't blame her for being mad when I took those pictures of her taking a dump. Oh wait, she wasn't mad cuz she doesn't know about that. Never mind.

But what I can't understand is how when someone wins a contest where they get to pretend that you're their mother, you get mad at them for doing normal kid things. Normal kid things like shitting yourself while lying on a $15,000 couch because you're too lazy to get up and besides, you're watching TV and you don't want to miss anything. Kids shit themselves all the time. If you're going to have a child, don't go and blow 15 grand on a couch. It's just common sense that you should furnish your house in a more kid-friendly manner.

Here I am, trying to watch Access Hollywood and she's yelling at me, saying I ruined her couch and her life. I told her that if she spent less time yelling and more time cleaning me up like someone with decent parenting skills would do, then her couch would still be ruined, but I would feel a whole lot more comfortable. Plus I could finish watching my show.

I guess this struck a nerve with her or something, cuz she totally stopped yelling and sat down on the couch next to me and started sobbing. I wasn't really sure what to do in that situation so I turned the volume up and pretended not to notice. Soon it was no use, as she started hugging me and shit.

"Thank you, thank you so much, Chad Robuckle!" This was probably the last thing I expected her to say to me.

It turns out, she had a lot of guilt about being on the road when her kids were little or something, I wasn't really paying attention. There was definitely something in there about me opening up her eyes about being too materialistic... I don't know, it was all a bunch of garbage.

If this was all just a big trick to get me to leave, it worked. When she went in the kitchen to get us some wine so we could talk some more about her problems, I made a run for it, only realizing once I got to the elevator that I was still wearing the pants I had just soiled myself in, half an hour earlier. But I wasn't gonna go back in there and to be honest, I've done worse things in my life than walk a few blocks in some shit-stained trousers.

So I got home, changed my pants, unplugged the phone and wondered what the hell was up with women, anyways? Here I had been a total dick to this old bag and she was acting like she was in love with me. Go figure.

And if anybody needs any tampons, my whole bedroom closet is filled with them, so just come over and grab a few cases, if you want.

Girlfriend insurance

You see that picture? That's my hot friend Dizzles and her hot mother, Pati.

That right there is what I like to call "Girlfriend Insurance".

Let me explain: you ever see a hot chick and then meet her mom and her mom is all fat and not hot at all? And you think, "What the fuck? How the hell did that happen?" You might even wonder if your friend is adopted. Either way, you probably don't give it a second thought.

But you should.

Cuz what you're looking at there, my friends, is the future.

Like it or not, chicks turn into their mothers. It happens to all of them. Yes, every single one. I can't explain it, I'm not a scientist or nothing. I didn't go to college and I don't even know how to read or write. I have to dictate these blogs to my helper monkey, Alfonse. I'm an idiot, happy now? Send me bananas.

You're probably thinking, "nah, not my girlfriend!" or maybe you don't give a shit because you're not planning on sticking around more than a few months anyway, but if you ARE and you DO (give a shit), trust me, it's gonna happen.

Perhaps you're not super-shallow like me. Perhaps you think I'm an asshole. You could even be one of those people who thinks the world is flat and the sun revolves around the earth. Maybe you think ice cream grows on trees in the middle of Cotton Candy Forest behind Jellybean Mountain. I don't know.

Look, we're getting off the point here. I'm trying to help you people but all you wanna do is crucify me for thinking it's OK to punch a midget if he's dressed up like a baby. It's like my Nana always said, "You've got pudding pop juice all over your sweater and you're asking Grandma if you can borrow her Jet-Ski? Wake up, boy! The world ain't gonna change your diapers for you unless your poop is made of gold!"

And that old bitch was right.

My friend Dizzles is hot and she is guaranteed to stay hot because her mom is hot. That's called "Girlfriend Insurance". I mean shit, look at them! I honestly can't tell which one is hotter. Don't make me pick. Besides, we're not here to talk about whether or not I've thought about these two making out with each other in a hot tub. Because I have. And I only said "making out" cuz my mom reads this blog and I don't want any boyfriends or fathers kicking my ass.

What the hell was my point? Jesus Christ, I don't even remember. Go Red Sox?

The most offensive thing I have ever seen

If you're on my myspace page, maybe you noticed a bulletin I posted, entitled, "omg!!! this is AWESOME!!!" which you can read here.

Well, I've gotten a few complaints and mostly people agreeing with my implicit assertion that this is completely moronic, but here I will address the complaints.

I got this forward from my friend's 13 year old daughter, so I'm not gonna fault her for anything, because she probably just thought it was funny. Well it's clear she thought it was "AWESOME!!!"

Adults, however, should know better.

Why do I find this so offensive? Because I do, find it offensive, that is. I'm offended that somebody could write this and think this is a valid point or even a half-way reasonable argument to make. Let me be clear: it is not. It is moronic on so many levels that it boggles the mind that somebody could believe this yet still possess the mental agility to operate a computer, access the internet and spread these lies like a virus.

First of all, the overall message is the usual "Christians are being persecuted for their beliefs" bullshit we're all sick of hearing. I know you'd love nothing more than for the apocalypse to be just around the corner so you can hang out with Jesus and his pals instead of us heathens and Jews, but I've got news for you: you're not being persecuted.

Jesus was persecuted. Christians in the Stalinist Soviet Union were persecuted. People not wanting you to pray or teach about God in public schools is not persecution. You're not dying for your beliefs. Believe me, I wish you were, just as much as you do.

If you want prayer in school, there's a simple solution: GO TO A CHRISTIAN SCHOOL. It's that simple. There's plenty of them and they'd be glad to have you. Usually they are quite affordable and give out financial aid and scholarships to those who qualify.

This persecution complex rears its ugly head most obviously in the fact that this is clearly a fabricated example. There's no "Tommy", there's no "Little Girl" and there's no fucking teacher in the whole country who could get away with teaching a lesson like that.

Why's that, you ask?

Because the example cited in this letter is ILLEGAL. That's right. As illegal as it is for a teacher to teach about God in a public school, that goes both ways. The teacher can't say if God is real and the teacher can't say if God is not real. That's up for each individual child's family to decide and teach in their own time.

And you better believe that if one of these little bastards came home and told their parents, "Mommy, teacher said there's no God!", they would make a big fucking deal about it. And they should. Because it's not the teacher's place. There would be protests and lawsuits and action would be taken. In the make-believe world of this letter, however, only the brave little girl, with her faith in God, has the strength to stand up to the horrors of Atheism.

Ugh, that in itself is another lie. Implicitly, if you don't want prayer and God in public schools it's because you're an atheist. Of course, most reasonable religious people understand that public schools are a place for learning about things like math and science and English. They know that God is something that should be taught in church, or Sunday school or in the home. Like music or art. Or gym.

And it's not just because some people are Jewish and some people are Muslim and some people don't believe in God and you have to cater to their whims. Even if every single person was Christian and believed the exact same thing (again, completely made up), school is not the place to teach these beliefs. You go to school to learn how to be a productive member of society and not merely a stereotype for the whole rest of the world to laugh at and hate.

My other big point is the obvious flaw in the logic of the little girl's argument. I feel silly even addressing this, so I will be brief. Simply put, if the little girl were to split open the teacher's head, either literally or by using a CT Scan or MRI machine (what? science? that's the devil!), she and Tommy and the rest of the non-existant, make-believe class would be able to SEE the teacher's brain. Of course, it is not yet possible to split open the clouds and see God, but maybe one day, with advances in Bible Science being the way they are, we might get to that point.

OK, I'm sick of thinking about this but if I still haven't convinced you, then good luck with your job at the cracker factory. Because, seriously, ha ha, this is all really funny and maybe I'm getting worked up about nothing, but this kind of thinking breeds ignorance and ignorance leads to hate.

Maybe you've clicked on the other link I put up. You see, that's a real example. That's not made up, like this stupid letter. But they have a lot in common. They both have the message that if you don't believe in God, you are against "us". You are trying to hurt "us". It's hatred and it's ugly and it substitutes something disgusting for the love of God.

So don't be a fucking moron. I'd rather read a hundred surveys or unfunny jokes wrongly attributed to Mark Twain or Andy Rooney than this crap. Happy New Year.