Math for Men

Men have been plagued by one simple question over the ages; should or shouldn't I hook up with this chick? Well lucky for the men of the modern age, I have taken a concept from Barney Stinson and made it into a faultless way of answering that question.

The normal decision of whether or not to plug a woman's hole with your trouser snake can be made by utilizing this simple graph.


Those of you who remember middle school math may recognize this as a simple y = x + 7 graph. The y axis here represents the hotness of a chick on the normal 1-10 scale. The x axis represents how crazy a chick appears to be on a scale of 0 being completely sane to 3 being totally bat-shit crazy. To determine whether or not you should sleep/date a chick, you should plot her coordinates on this graph. If she is on or above the line, go ahead buddy! If she is below the line, you'll be sorry, in one way or another. Now if she is below the line, please understand that I am not telling you to not sleep with her, I am simply warning you that regret or unhappiness is sure to follow.

Now depending on you condition, the graph can be altered. We all know that being drunk radically alters your perception of a girl's attractiveness, point proven in my case. In these circumstances, it is necessary to get assistance from your friends in determining her 1-10 hotness value. Also being drunk will alter your graph to the following:


Notice here that y = x + 4.5. This is because if you hook up with a girl that is a 4.5 or 5, you can still always use the excuse that you were wasted, and still get your dick wet.

Another situation where you may need a different graph is where you are sure that you can hook up with a chick and never see her again. This may be the case if you are headed to her place in her car, and she never gets your real number. If that is so, use this graph:



Notice here, she can be as crazy as it gets, as long as she is a 6 or better. Be careful though, crazy chicks have man-hunting skills that even the federal government does not have. You may have to live in a cave in the Appalachians for a few years to avoid baby mama drama or female plagues on a biblical scale. You have been warned.

In addition to these three basic charts, there are several factors that can move a broad around on the graphs. I have listed some, but it is up to the individual man to come up with his own factors based on his preferences.

-having a star wars tattoo +1.5 hotness
-saying shit like "my dad never + 2 crazy, +1.5 hotness
danced with me like that!"
-willing to get it on in public + 1 crazy, + 2 hotness
-farting + 1.5 crazy, - 2 hotness
-telling you she has kids - 1 hotness
-telling you she has kids (drunk) + 1 hotness

Please print out these graphs, and bring them and a pencil wherever you go.

Totally unrelated, but I need votes on my next tattoo.
1. A bad ass Beer (bear snarling with antlers)
2. Darth Vader holding a lightsaber hilt, and the lightsaber blade is done in black-light ink
3. Bad ass Celtic eagle thingy that I'm gonna draw up
4. Unicorn with a rainbow

The Darth Vader thing is trademarked by me, so you better not use it or I will kick your ass after I sue you for all you have.

Story of My Life

To begin, I must apologize for not being drunk when writing this post. I am however loopy from being bored out of my mind and not getting my 14 hours of daily beauty rest for the past couple of weeks.

To understand my story, it is important to know where I came from. I derive from a long line of Irish immortals, popularly know as the "Uplanders." A couple of my notable ancestors are Fox Mcloud, and William Wallface, who fought the British to free the British from the terrible oppression of the British. We all know that story, and sadly Wallface was executed by the British for being British. You may ask yourself, how was he executed if he was immortal? Well stupid, a few generations before William, my family lost it's immortality because the gods did not appreciate having their sacrifices pooped on. Who knew? Anyways, not being immortal is not so bad, every day is more precious and all that shit, plus my legend will live on forever.

It all started one fateful day when my green eclipse with a paint job done by a retard topped out at only 140. Shit! I got Harry to hook me up with a couple of the big bottles of NOS, and I was off to the races. After standing beside my car for a few hours in a California racing alley and being called extremely racist terms like snowman, I met the big dog. His name was Ben Gasoline, and I had to throw up my pink slip to get in a race with him. He won, but I almost had him! He then schooled me by saying something about inches and miles, but winning is winning. I had to give up the car, and right at that moment, the cops busted up the party. I was instantly recognized because of my many arrest warrants out for being a fucking ninja.

I was sentenced to 459,682 consecutive life sentences for my crimes, but I soon was presented with an opportunity to clear my name. The government had detected a large alien fleet headed our way by using their fancy radar and listening to REM. They needed my help. I was to take an advanced pilot training course, and lead the attack on the extraterrestrial foes. I reluctantly agreed, and started training in the course commonly know as Top Gun. My instructor was some broad name Kelly McAverage. I know, a chick instructing an elite group of badasses sounds far fetched, but trust me, all this happened. Oh yeah, Kelly and I totally got it on to 80's music because she was turned on by my risk taking style of charisma. My attitude did not go along well with everybody, however, and it was not until graduation when my nemesis, Hal Killmenow, finally accepted me as his wingman.

The attack had been planned and we were ready to launch. The government had acquired an enemy vessel that crashed into the World Trade Center in 2001 (alien terrorists were also involved in case you don't read the news). I was to infiltrate the alien mothership, and plant a virus in its control systems to kill all those slimy fuckers. Myself, that guy from Jurassic Park and The Fly, and about 300 Spartans from the HALO games flew up to the mothership, but we crashed soon after entry. A warm breeze rolled in and made me jizz in my pants, sorry guys. We all emerged from the wreckage unharmed to see 9 billion alien warriors ready to attack. We quickly bolted for the nearest narrow canyon to defend ourselves (in case you didn't know, the inside of alien motherships looks like the landscape of ancient Greece). After weeks of sexy, slow-motion battle, enough blood and goo was shed to fill the oceans three times over. Only myself and the alien leader, Herpes, remained.

Herpes was an elite alien warrior, as he possessed a laser cannon on his shoulder, invisibility powers, and heat vision. To counter his sight advantage, I covered myself in mud. Whilst he was adjusting to not being able to see me, I constructed a trap made of hundreds of alien dicks (they're fucking sharp!). I then lured Herpes into the trap by running around and screaming, "kill me, I'm here!" in an Austrian accent. The trap worked and Herpes died a horrible death by being sodomized by his own kind many times over. I managed to find the alien control center, and located the self-destruct button (I guess a big red button really is universal for self-destruct, stupid aliens). Narrowly escaping the craft in an escape pod, I had saved the galaxy from sure destruction.

Expecting to return a hero, I was dismayed to find only two weak-minded government agents waiting at my landing sight. Like idiots, they explained the governments plan to me. I was to be killed, and all traces of the incident were to be covered up. Luckily, I knew a few Jedi mind tricks, and told the agents that I was not the droids they were looking for. I made my way to the airport at Las Eisley, where I found a renegade, smuggling pilot named Juan Solo. Juan, his first mate, Masticatie, and I became great friends blowing up Death Stars and fighting over my sister.
Nowadays, we run around murdering government agents because God told us to. Masticatie used to be a package boy for many of the agents, so he knows where they live and who they're fucking! Very advantageous. There is one FBI agent who is getting close to us. It shouldn't be a problem though, because he is a fan of our cause, and he is usually to busy screwing faggy asian dudes to actually catch us.

What lies next in my great adventure is still a mystery... Maybe one day, I will command a starship and defeat the evil race of Formulans and Dingdongs, or save the world from zombies and robots who want to use humans as batteries. Whatever may lie on the horizon, on thing surely is true, I'm fucking awesome!