A Letter From Ethan Albright To John Madden

To: John Madden
CC: Electronic Arts Sports
From: Ethan Albright
Re: Being the worst rated player on Madden '07

Hi, John, my name is Ethan Albright. I play line for the Washington Redskins. You probably already knew that, so I'll continue. I am writing in regards to the overall player rating of 53 that I have received in Madden NFL Football 2007. I feel that this is fucking bullshit and you should kiss my mother-fucking ass. Ahmed Carroll was rated a 78 and the Packers just cut his ass on a Tuesday morning after his performance in a Monday night game. That is pretty terrible. The worst part is that his overall rating was sniffing 80.

You know what, John? Two can play this game. I rate you a fucking 12. I rate you a fucking 12 in Ethan Albright Football 2000-ever... except for in the category of ball-licking. That is where I will spot you a 98 rating. You will receive this score because I will never give your blubbery ass a 99 in any category. Take that, pencil-dick. Go do Al Micheals or something. Boom. Score one for Red Beard.

It's also pretty wonderful that my awareness rating was 59. You make it sound like I wake up in the morning, helplessly shit and piss myself, then lose three of my teeth before I discover that I am trying to eat a rock for breakfast. Fuck, John, I understand you saying that I am slow and lacking athleticism, but a rating like this pretty much labels me as retarded. Rod "He Hate Me" Smart has a 52 in this category. Electronic Arts is saying that seven rating points separate me and the breathing embodiment of the perfect oxymoron. Rod Smart struggled to arrange words in sentence form. Cave men had better hold of the English language. The only actions that separate point values of ignorance at this embarrassing level are things like using your own toothbrush to wipe your ass. I basically edged out Rod by my lack of shit teeth. If I take a night school class, could you bump me up to a 60?

I guess I just can't fathom the fact that I am the absolute worst player rated out of the entire NFL. Fuck, man, there are some shitty guys out there. Amongst everyone, I was rated the absolute worst.

I have received the impression that you feel that I am lacking in the agility category. I should consider a walk through my living room where I don't crash through a wall or kick over furniture a resounding success. My agility rating on your game is 33. It makes it sound like I just topple over if I start walking too fast. Ted Washington is rated a 40 in agility. He is listed at 365 pounds. If Ted Washington tied a white lady up and made her wear a metal bikini, he'd look just like Jabba the Hut.

John, you are such a fucking dick. I also noticed that my kick return rating was a 0. I was rated a fucking zero? So you feel that I shouldn't even receive a 10, or even a 5? You are pretty much saying that I couldn't even fall forward on a ball kicked in my direction. I would just stand there and let the ball bounce off of my fucking face. Fuck that, John, I returned an onside kick 6 yards in 2002. You should have just slapped a - 4 on me and had the EA staff ambush me with paintball guns.

Finally, I would like to comment on an unlikely topic, my pass coverage ratings. I see that I am a better at man-to-man coverage (31) than zone (21). Fuck me sideways with a lunchbox. Where did these scores even come from? How much time is spent coming up with the pass coverage ratings of offensive lineman? Can I have that job? Let's see here, I think that Orlando Pace would be slightly better at jumping intermediate routes than Larry Allen. While I'm at it, I can assign the passing ratings for offensive lineman as well. I can use mine as a guide.

I was rated with a throwing power of 17 and accuracy of 16. Orlando Pace has a 22 power and 17 accuracy rating. Did someone at EA really put time into figuring out that Orlando Pace edges out Ethan Albright in both throwing power and accuracy? I will challenge him any day. My horrible passer ratings are of greatest misfortune to my son, Red Beard Jr. The poor boy is not only hideously ugly and covered by freakishly large freckles. He also has to suffer through playing catch with me and my senile-elderly-woman-type passer ratings. A session of tossing the pigskin usually consists of me missing my son by thirty yards in sporadic directions. I led him in front of a fire truck once and my wife kicked my ass. This is because of my 76 toughness rating. Yes, a 76 is far better than the other ratings, but I'm a fucking lineman, damn it. NFL Linemen are considered to be synonymous with toughness. According to your game, I am a retarded, uncoordinated, pussy-ass fuckwad that can't fall on a kickoff, throw, or spell. I am, however, slightly better at manning up on a receiver than dropping into zone coverage. You lose your mind more and more each year, old man.

Fuck you, John. Please expect to find red pubes in various meals you consume for the rest of your life. If you fuck with Ethan Albright, you call down the thunder.

Rot in Hell,

Ethan Albright

Run To The Hills

Those who know me in real life know that, despite being a big music lover, I do not go to many concerts. Those who know me in real life also know that I have the worst speaking voice in the history of mankind and so prefer for all my interaction to occur via email, text message, or dance. But we will save this for another time.

I’m not exactly sure why I don’t go to concerts more often. I’d like to give an understandable explanation like, "When I was little, my uncle took me to a Bon Jovi concert because I loved Bon Jovi and then, long story short, Bon Jovi killed my uncle. Twice. So I don’t like to go to concerts."

But unfortunately (or rather, fortunately), this did not happen. Instead, I think the main reasons why I don’t like to go to concerts are because a) I am lazy and b) rarely does the musician/band live up to my expectations.

Concerts are a lot of work - you have to find someone to go with, buy the tickets, travel to wherever the hell the show is, find your seats or stand the whole time, pay $7 per beer which makes you have to piss, then halfway through you’re checking your watch and sending text messages to your buddies about your date, like "I think she has hairier balls than I do" and "She smells like a little like cat piss and a lot like old sex" - it’s just unpleasant for everyone.

But all this doesn’t mean that I never attend concerts. My first concert was Paula Abdul with Color Me Badd opening. My second was the Grateful Dead (how’s that for progress?). I’ve seen Elvis Costello almost a dozen times, Glenn Tilbrook a bunch, then a variety of different acts, from Phish and Page/Plant to Wilco and the Who.

(Pretty smooth with the P’s and W’s, right? That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Real writer-shit, right there.)

So I occasionally go out to venues to see some live music. But it is rare that a perfect storm develops, providing the fan (or, as in my case, the jerk with nothing better to do on a Friday night) with the opportunity to see some great live music, in an incredible location, among at once some of the nerdiest and most frightening people in North America.

Last Friday, the 13th of October, was such a perfect storm. My friends and I saw Iron Maiden at the Continental Airlines Arena in East Rutherford, New Jersey. And no, I’m not joking.

Nor am I an Iron Maiden fan. I was aware of Iron Maiden just as I am aware of white women who only date black men - I know they’re out there, and I know they’re not to be taken seriously. And like white women who only date black men, everything I need to know about Iron Maiden I learned from VH1 Classic. I knew that they’re death metal, or at least heavy, heavy metal (I’ve seen them also described as "doom metal"). I knew about Eddie, the band’s mascot, a giant monster who appears on stage and randomly hangs out for a song or two, much to the delight of the crowd. And I knew they were loud. And that’s about all I knew.

The idea of going to see Maiden was suggested by my old roommate Rob. His buddy, Jeff, who can only (but accurately) be described as a Southern metalhead, was driving up from Virginia to see the show. This so humored Rob that he suggested a bunch of us go, just to check it out. The prospect of some serious comedy at an Iron Maiden show on Friday the 13th in October - in New Jersey, no less - was too much to pass up and so after work on Friday afternoon, my friends Rob, Jeremy, Corinne and I met up and soon were in Corinne’s car driving to the arena. Ten miles and two hours later, we had arrived. It was time to rock our balls off.

Before I got to the concert, I did a little research, downloading two dozen or so of Iron Maiden’s songs from some Russian metalhead website. I figured I should have at least some idea of what kind of music I’d be listening to when some guy with tattoos was punching me in the face.

And to be honest, I kind of dug Maiden’s music. Sure, it’s not my typical cup of tea, but it has its place. The song titles alone are worth it. Maiden is responsible for such masterpieces as "Hallowed Be Thy Name", "The Number of the Beast", "Sea of Madness" (not to be confused with "Can I Play With Madness"), and my personal favorite, "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter" (I’m such a sucker for internal rhyme). Another one of their songs is called "Alexander the Great" and I remember when listening to it for the first time being surprised that the song was about...Alexander the Great. Literally, the lyrics talk about Philip of Macedon and Asia Minor and the Tigris River and all kinds of crazy shit. This, for whatever reason, shocked me.

(I mean, am I a moron for not expecting the song to be about Alexander the Great? Perhaps I thought it was a metaphor or something. I brought this up to my buddy Rob and he said, "It’s like they want to teach you before they blow your brains out." Sometimes Brian can be really wise.)

Bonus points for the band because their lead singer is named Bruce Dickinson. No, not THE Bruce Dickinson.

Iron Maiden’s Bruce Dickinson, according to his website, enjoys fencing and flying planes and has written two books about a character named Lord Iffy Boatrace. Not surprisingly, Bruce is also interested in Aleister Crowley and even wrote a movie script about him. And it goes without saying that he too, when he puts his pants on, makes gold records. I don’t know about you guys, but I kinda want to fuck him.

Because traffic in Jersey on a Friday evening is deplorable, we got to the concert at 8pm, just as doors were opening. This made us kinda sad, because we were hoping to take in the hoi poloi at your typical Iron Maiden tailgate in Jersey. It wasn’t a total loss, since it didn’t take long to locate a lot of bad hair, a lot of drinking, and a lot of people who still live with their parents.

Maiden fans on the whole were not that scary. I was expecting deviants and devil worshippers. I made a point to change out of my work clothes and into something more casual before going into the show, fearing that wearing my Banana Republic slacks and Brooks Brothers shirt would be the equivalent of putting a "Rape Me" sign on my chest. Instead, the crowd was not scary but rather stuck in 1983. I’m not saying there weren’t some people there who have spent significant time in prison, but for the most part, I felt safe. I even put the "Rape Me" sign on anyway and wasn’t even approached. Which sucked.

Another downside about arriving so late to the concert was that I didn’t get messed up enough. I do not like to drink at concerts, as I have a bladder the size of a three year old girl’s. So I forego beer because I don’t like to go take a piss every other song. However, before shows I do greatly enjoy those funny cigarettes that make you hungry and happy. But my friend Corinne has some ridiculous rule about not smoking pot in her car (fucking narc), so I and a few others were only able to enjoy after our arrival. The point: I didn’t get high enough. I was not thrilled about this but would soon forgot about it. Because I was about to get my cock rocked off.

I don’t really have a joke about this but I’m not ashamed to say that Iron Maiden totally fucking rocked. They were pretty much what I expected from listening to their stuff: a singer, three (!) guitarists, a bass player, and a drummer on a set made to look like a cave, rocking the fuck out. Hard, heavy, loud. So, awesome.

I am also pretty sure that Iron Maiden was the inspiration for mockumentary band Spinal Tap. I’m sure that Christopher Guest and Co. took elements from other rock bands of the genre and era, but Maiden had to be tops on the list.

Specifically, guitarist Janick Gers, is the real life David St. Hubbins. And not just because they look the same, but because Janick was acting like quite like David does in Spinal Tap, throwing his guitar in the air, swinging it around, pointing it at the crowd with his tongue out, sticking it between his legs - pretty much every ridiculous on-stage move you can imagine. My buddy Jeremy and I decided that there was no way he was actually playing guitar, because when he wasn’t carrying on, he was strumming out of time and he was barely doing so anyway. It’s like they turned off the volume on his guitar and said, "Go and have some fun out there."

(Worth noting is that minutes after Jeremy and I finished having this discussion, Rob tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Corinne and I were just talking and there’s no way that blonde guitarist on the right is actually playing." So it wasn’t just us. Good job, Janick. Way to sell it, way to sell it.)

The Metal Chick is a type of woman I had been previously unfamiliar with. She’s the oldest, lamest sister of the Heroin Chic Girl and the Hipster Fucker. She’s got some tats like her youngest sister the Hipster Fucker and loves drugs as much as her middle sister the Heroin Chic Girl, but she’s drastically different in other ways. Her hair is out of style, but not in an ironic way like her baby sister’s. She’s crazy, but not in the "I’ll kill myself" way of her middle sister (indeed, her type of craziness is more "I’ll kill you" than anything else).

But the Metal Chick is not without her charms, and first and foremost of these is her sexy-ass body. I know, you may be shocked to read this, but I was surprised at how many mid-30’s Metal Chicks at this concert had very good bodies, nice boobies and heinies built from years of being angry and rocking. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a fair share of 200-pounders sucking on bongs with vast stretches of inked-up pale flesh exposed from their ill-fitting Maiden shirts, but on the whole, I was surprised. And happy. Because I like good bodies, you know, because I don't have one.

My friends and I sat in front of one of these good-bodied Metal Chicks and by the end of the concert - between her gyrating and rocking the fuck out and the speed and intensity of the music - I was planning on committing a sex crime. The thought of going back to that Metal Chick’s dingy apartment in Westfield, New Jersey to fuck her on her kitchen floor while listening to "Run to the Hills" was too much to bear and I asked my buddy Jeremy to start making out with me to turn me off. He complied. Without getting too into it, talk about your all-time backfires. Let’s just move on.

Another group of fans near us was a family of Mexicans, maybe a dozen of them. What’s so interesting about this was that they were all exactly the same. I don’t mean that they all looked the same, but that they were the same. It was impossible to differentiate not only their ages, but also their sexes. It was thirteen of the same exact person. The only reason I know that some of them were women was because couples were paired off and cuddling. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known. There were all the same height (maybe 5′0") with the same hairstyle and all wearing similar clothes. It was both fascinating and nightmarish. And when the lights came off, after Maiden had the crowd on its feet through its raging encore, I couldn’t get away from those little Mexicans fast enough. Scary little motherfuckers, they were.

While it took us two hours to travel ten miles on our way to the arena, it took us only about fifteen minutes to make it back home. We were all pretty pumped up and so decided to go out that night. We split up, each of us retreating to drop our shit at our homes, shower, change, and then head out.

It was your typical Friday night for the most part. I started drinking after the concert and fixed myself a way-too-potent vodka red bull while showering and singing "Fear of the Dark" and soon was at the bar with the rest of the crew and some additional friends. Rob’s buddy, Jeff, the Southern metalhead whose idea it was to see Iron Maiden in the first place, was so happy that I actually enjoyed the concert that he kept buying me drinks all night. I thought, based on their color and taste, that these were vodka tonics. In my inebriated state, I was confused. They were vodka red bulls.

Remember, I am a pussy with caffeine - one diet coke will keep me going all day long. I had already had a red bull that night. Then I had at least four between the hours of 2am and 4am. Not good.

The result? After getting home, I was up until 7am. I sat in the shower for an hour reading (or rather, trying to read), then, like I normally do when I'm drunk, decided to cut my own hair. As you might guess, I did not do a very good job and so had to get a haircut yesterday to fix my mistakes. Of which there were several.

When I finally fell asleep, I slept for only three hours before waking up, feeling like I could run a marathon. This feeling lasted only a few hours on Saturday, and when it went away, I crashed hard - so hard that I didn’t even make it out Saturday night. Ugh.

(Though I made up for it by drinking from 1pm until 11pm on Sunday.)

All in all, Iron Maiden was a great experience. So much so that while I don’t think I’d follow them around the country, I would probably go see them again. Next time, I’d get there earlier, bring a lot more weed, and study up on what turns Metal Chicks on. Because I want me one of those.

(Except if those Mexicans are there again. I’m not going near those sons of bitches. Because that shit was messed up.)

My Friends

Yesterday, a buddy from NYC was in Jersey for a meeting, so we had lunch. I met him on the corner of my office building, and saw him first walking across the street toward me, decked out in a nice suit, looking all professional. As he got closer, I noticed something else: he had a giant black eye.

Businessman/fighter.

I love my friends.

Play By Play Pedophelia

If you guys haven’t seen any of these Mark Foley IMs, you’re missing out. While I don’t like to do any real news, as that is for nerds, this is worth it. Below is most of the transcript. As I am a cybersex expert, and not so much in the "safety and prevention" way but more in the "hobby and addiction" way, I have provided my comments on Foley’s work.

[Editor’s Note: It might help if you read my commentary in the voice of your favorite sports broadcaster. Feel free to use whomever you like.]

The teen is "Xxxxx", Foley is "Maf54". Remember, this is the actual transcript between Mark Foley and the teen page. And we’re underway...

Xxxxx (7:41:57 PM): ugh tomorrow i have the first day of lacrosse practice
Maf54 (7:42:27 PM): love to watch that
Maf54 (7:42:33 PM): those great legs running

Nice - starting off with something playful and innocuous. Lesser perverts would go right into "cock" or "tell me about your cock" or "take out your cock and rub it on the computer screen" talk, but I like the way Foley starts with the legs, a non-taboo part of the body. And when he does so, notice how it seems to happen organically - all on its own.

Xxxxx (7:42:38 PM): haha…they arent great
Xxxxx (7:42:45 PM): thats why we have conditioning
Xxxxx (7:42:56 PM): 2 days running….3 days lifting
Xxxxx (7:43:11 PM): every week
Xxxxx (7:43:14 PM): until the end of march
Maf54 (7:43:27 PM): well dont ruin my mental picture

Again, notice how Foley stays in control of the conversation, bringing it back home with another playful remark. Foley knows what he wants - teenage boy penis - and he’s going to get it. This is just textbook internet pedophilia.

Xxxxx (7:43:32 PM): oh lol…sorry
Maf54 (7:43:54 PM): nice
Maf54 (7:43:54 PM): youll be way hot then
Xxxxx (7:44:01 PM): haha…hopefully
Maf54 (7:44:22 PM): better be
Maf54 (7:46:01 PM): well I better let you go do oyur thing

Following one of the basic tenets of seduction - that we pursue that which retreats from us - Foley ignores the boner that is no doubt raging in his creepy pants and plays it coy, removing himself from his target. The hope is that the target will only become more interested, but as we’ll see below, this backfires.

Xxxxx (7:46:07 PM): oh ok
Xxxxx (7:46:11 PM): have fun campaigning
Xxxxx (7:46:17 PM): or however you spell it
Xxxxx (7:46:18 PM): lol
Xxxxx (7:46:25 PM): ill see ya in a couple of weeks
Maf54 (7:46:33 PM): did any girl give you a haand job this weekend

Wow - this is a bush league move by Foley. Obviously, the teen did not bite and quickly initiated an end to the conversation. Foley loses his cool and behaves like an amateur, using a shocking remark to get a rise out of his victim (no doubt accidentally typing an extra "a" in "hand" because of the shakes as he’s unable to control his all-consuming need for underage male genitalia in or around his face). This is the ploy of a desperate pederast. Bush league, Foley - bush league.

Xxxxx (7:46:38 PM): lol no
Xxxxx (7:46:40 PM): im single right now
Xxxxx (7:46:57 PM): my last gf and i broke up a few weeks agi
Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): are you
Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): good so your getting horny

Now Foley’s just thinking with his penis and testes. Pressuring this early on the conversation usually only leads to failure. He’s going to get burned. Not a smart call at this juncture of the conversation.

Xxxxx (7:47:29 PM): lol…a bit
Maf54 (7:48:00 PM): did you spank it this weekend yourself
Xxxxx (7:48:04 PM): no
Xxxxx (7:48:16 PM): been too tired and too busy
Maf54 (7:48:33 PM): wow…
Maf54 (7:48:34 PM): i am never to busy haha
Xxxxx (7:48:51 PM): haha
Maf54 (7:50:02 PM): or tired..helps me sleep
Xxxxx (7:50:15 PM): thats true
Xxxxx (7:50:36 PM): havent been having a problem with sleep though.. i just walk in the door and collapse well at least this weekend
Maf54 (7:50:56 PM): i am sure
Xxxxx (7:50:57 PM): i dont do it very often normally though
Maf54 (7:51:11 PM): why not
Maf54 (7:51:22 PM): at your age seems like it would be daily
Xxxxx (7:51:57 PM): not me
Xxxxx (7:52:01 PM): im not a horn dog
Xxxxx (7:52:07 PM): maybe 2 or 3 times a week
Maf54 (7:52:20 PM): thats a good number
Maf54 (7:52:27 PM): in the shower
Xxxxx (7:52:36 PM): actually usually i dont do it in the shower
Xxxxx (7:52:42 PM): just cause i shower in the morning
Xxxxx (7:52:47 PM): and quickly
Maf54 (7:52:50 PM): in the bed
Xxxxx (7:52:59 PM): i get up at 530 and am outta the house by 610
Xxxxx (7:53:03 PM): eh ya
Maf54 (7:53:24 PM): on your back
Xxxxx (7:53:30 PM): no face down
Maf54 (7:53:32 PM): love details

Well, I stand corrected. Obviously, Mark Foley is a cybersex child molester to be reckoned with. His gamble pays off and through a seemingly sincere and yet scientific Q&A session he gets the teen to engage in what feels like an almost normal conversation. Impressive series by the Republican out of Palm Beach Junior College.

Xxxxx (7:53:34 PM): lol
Xxxxx (7:53:36 PM): i see that
Xxxxx (7:53:37 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:53:39 PM): really
Maf54 (7:53:54 PM): do you really do it face down
Xxxxx (7:54:03 PM): ya
Maf54 (7:54:13 PM): kneeling
Xxxxx (7:54:31 PM): well i dont use my hand...i use the bed itself
Maf54 (7:54:31 PM): where do you unload it
Xxxxx (7:54:36 PM): towel
Maf54 (7:54:43 PM): really
Maf54 (7:55:02 PM): completely naked?
Xxxxx (7:55:12 PM): well ya
Maf54 (7:55:21 PM): very nice
Xxxxx (7:55:24 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:55:51 PM): cute butt bouncing in the air

Notice how - watch this - Foley starts turning the conversation a little risqué. Remember, only thirteen minutes ago we were talking about legs - now Foley’s got him talking about his ass flopping around in the midst of an orgasm. You can see that he’s really starting to come on strong and dominating the younger target.

Xxxxx (7:56:00 PM): haha
Xxxxx (7:56:05 PM): well ive never watched myslef
Xxxxx (7:56:08 PM): but ya i guess
Maf54 (7:56:18 PM): i am sure not
Maf54 (7:56:22 PM): hmmm
Maf54 (7:56:30 PM): great visual
Maf54 (7:56:39 PM): i may try that
Xxxxx (7:56:43 PM): it works
Maf54 (7:56:51 PM): hmm
Maf54 (7:56:57 PM): sound inetersting
Maf54 (7:57:05 PM): i always use lotion and the hand
Maf54 (7:57:10 PM): but who knows

This is important: after an entire half of listening to the teen’s masturbatory habits, Foley starts opening up about his own nasty masturbatory habits. He feels like perhaps he’s got the teen riled up and it’s time to introduce him to his own world of illegal, immoral, and forbidden carnal delights.

Xxxxx (7:57:24 PM): i dont use lotion…takes too much time to clean up
Xxxxx (7:57:37 PM): with a towel you can just wipe off….and go
Maf54 (7:57:38 PM): lol
Maf54 (7:57:45 PM): where do you throw the towel
Xxxxx (7:57:48 PM): but you cant work it too hard...or its not good
Xxxxx (7:57:51 PM): in the laundry
Maf54 (7:58:16 PM): just kinda slow rubbing
Xxxxx (7:58:23 PM): ya...
Xxxxx (7:58:32 PM): or youll rub yourslef raw
Maf54 (7:58:37 PM): well I have aa totally stiff wood now

He raises his level of play right here, elevating the stakes by admitting his own erection. He’s hitting on all cylinders now. It’s Foley Time!

Xxxxx (7:58:40 PM): cause the towell isnt very soft
Maf54 (7:58:44 PM): i bet..taht would hurt
Xxxxx (7:58:50 PM): but you cn find something softer than a towell i guess
Maf54 (7:58:59 PM): but it must feel great spirting on the towel
Xxxxx (7:59:06 PM): ya
Maf54 (7:59:29 PM): wow
Maf54 (7:59:48 PM): is your little guy limp...or growing

Foley is moving in for the kill here. You can almost see him sitting at his desk in the Holiday Inn, slumped over his laptop and breathing heavily, one hand rubbing his old balls and the other working the keyboard.

Xxxxx (7:59:54 PM): eh growing
Maf54 (8:00:00 PM): hmm
Maf54 (8:00:12 PM): so you got a stiff one now
Xxxxx (8:00:19 PM): not that fast
Xxxxx (8:00:20 PM): hey
Xxxxx (8:00:32 PM): so you have a fetich
Maf54 (8:00:32 PM): hey what
Xxxxx (8:00:40 PM): fetish**
Maf54 (8:00:43 PM): like
Maf54 (8:00:53 PM): i like steamroom
Maf54 (8:01:04 PM): whats yours

Quickly turning back the conversation to himself, Foley again is trying to engage the teen, inviting into his world of nasty sexual fantasies, mostly involving young boys. Then, in a quid pro quo moment, Foley asks the teen what his fantasy is. Again, textbook pedophilia. This is real a statement seduction for Foley.

Xxxxx (8:01:09 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxxx (8:01:14 PM): lol
Maf54 (8:01:21 PM): i am hard as a rock..so tell me when your reaches rock
Xxxxx (8:01:23 PM): i have a cast fetish
Maf54 (8:01:27 PM): well tell me
Maf54 (8:01:32 PM): cast
Xxxxx (8:01:44 PM): ya like...plaster cast
Maf54 (8:01:49 PM): ok..so what happens
Maf54 (8:01:58 PM): how does that turn you in
Xxxxx (8:02:02 PM): i dont know
Xxxxx (8:02:04 PM): it just does
Xxxxx (8:02:08 PM): ive never had one
Xxxxx (8:02:16 PM): but people that have them turn me on
Xxxxx (8:02:27 PM): and if i had one it would probably turn me on
Xxxxx (8:02:29 PM): beats me
Xxxxx (8:02:32 PM): its kinda weird
Xxxxx (8:02:50 PM): but along with that i like the whole catholic girl look...thats our schools uniform
Maf54 (8:03:02 PM): ha thats wild
Xxxxx (8:03:14 PM): ya but now im hard
Maf54 (8:03:32 PM): me 2
Maf54 (8:03:42 PM): cast got you going
Maf54 (8:03:47 PM): what you wearing

Foley allows the teen to rile himself up with his own fantasy [Editor’s Note: a cast? WTF?], but again, stays in control, bringing it back to the here and now. Foley is dominating the possession in this conversation and it’s having great results so far. It seems like this is all but over, and in no time Foley will be wiping the semen from his Dockers.

Xxxxx (8:04:04 PM): normal clothes
Xxxxx (8:04:09 PM): tshirt and shorts
Maf54 (8:04:17 PM): um so a big buldge
Xxxxx (8:04:35 PM): ya
Maf54 (8:04:45 PM): um
Maf54 (8:04:58 PM): love to slip them off of you
Xxxxx (8:05:08 PM): haha
Maf54 (8:05:53 PM): and gram the one eyed snake
Maf54 (8:06:13 PM): grab
Xxxxx (8:06:53 PM): not tonight...dont get to excited

This is where champions separate themselves. The teen is obviously reluctant to masturbate for the 52 year old from Newton, Massachusetts, but Foley, realizing he has momentum, changes tact.

Maf54 (8:07:12 PM): well your hard
Xxxxx (8:07:45 PM): that is true
Maf54 (8:08:03 PM): and a little horny
Xxxxx (8:08:11 PM): and also tru
Maf54 (8:08:31 PM): get a ruler and measure it for me

A nice compromise - Foley is not able to get what he wants right now, so he changes direction but maintains momentum. That’s a veteran play for you right there. This is where Foley’s years as co-chair on the House Caucus of Missing and Exploited Children really come into play.

Xxxxx (8:08:38 PM): ive already told you that
Maf54 (8:08:47 PM): tell me again
Xxxxx (8:08:49 PM): 7 and 1/2
Maf54 (8:09:04 PM): ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Maf54 (8:09:08 PM): beautiful
Xxxxx (8:09:38 PM): lol
Maf54 (8:09:44 PM): thats a great size
Xxxxx (8:10:00 PM): thank you
Maf54 (8:10:22 PM): still stiff
Xxxxx (8:10:28 PM): ya
Maf54 (8:10:40 PM): take it out
Xxxxx (8:10:54 PM): brb...my mom is yelling

OH NO! An appearance by the mom and the drive crashes and burns! It is all over for Foley! It is all over for Foley! What an upset!

**********

You can imagine where it goes from here - the momentum gone, the teen says he has to finish his homework and logs off after his mom acts as a sort of deus ex machina and inadvertently saves her child from the long, greasy tentacles of a pervert.

That being said, Foley is pretty fucking legit. I’ve been around cybersex since almost the beginning - 1996 - and this guy certainly knows what he’s doing. The main thing that impressed me most was the control of the conversation. The whole time we know that Foley is in control, but he manipulates the teen in such a way that he feels comfortable, even offering up information without being asked. The biggest difficulty one faces when trying to get a stranger to have an orgasm over a computer is that reluctance, that shyness. But because Foley was so impressive, there doesn’t seem to be any reluctance on the part of the teen. While I’m not in the "if" business, it seems to me that if the teen’s mom had not intervened, there would have been a mutual masturbation session within the next ten minutes.

That being said, it’s not about "if’s" but about results. Any way you cut it, Foley failed. I can only imagine that after this took place, Foley logged off and took out his frustrations on the hotel staff at the Pensacola Holiday Inn, possibly complaining about the lack of fresh towels or the poor reception on his television and maybe even throwing something at one of the Dominican maids. But again, who knows.

Mark Foley is a legitimate cybersex manipulator and pedophile. Not one of the best, since, you know, he got caught, disgraced himself and his party, and will probably commit suicide in the next week or so, but a contender nonetheless. And personally speaking, while I don’t condone his actions (as I limited my cybersex activity strictly to overweight black women who are of age), I fully support anything that might potentially harm the Republican party. And for this, Mark Foley, I thank you. And I will see you in hell.

I Am In Love With Miss May

Fame, or whatever the hell it is that I enjoy from this blog, has its privileges.The first that immediately comes to mind is the endless parade of blowjobs that receive on a weekly basis. Blowjobs, blowjobs, blowjobs - all over the place. I must confess, though, that while this may sound great on paper, it gets a little tiresome after awhile. I mean, I get it - you have a mouth, I have a bird, one goes in the other, time passes, I cry, I go to the ATM, we part, hours later I learn my laptop is missing. It actually gets pretty boring, pretty quickly.

Additionally, there is all the money that I’ve made from this site. Donations come in nearly every day, often hitting four figures per day. The money keeps me satisfied, not only because it means I will never have $24,000 in credit card debt and allows me to buy fine linens and jewelry for my women, but also because it is concrete proof that you appreciate good entertainment. Any psychologist will tell you that money equals love, so therefore I am very, very loved.*

[*This paragraph is entirely false. Thank you.]

And lastly, there is a great sense of power that comes with fame. I sleep well at night knowing that when I write, no less than three people will read my words and act on them. Of course, I mostly squander this power by writing about masturbating with slightly microwaved chicken breasts, but the point is, the power is there and I could use it, should I so desire.

But last weekend, a new development suddenly arrived. Though it was at that moment unforeseen and unexpected, I had known from a young age that it was my destiny. And my years of patience, persistence, and quietly being almost criminally sexually suggestive had finally paid off: I, Johnny Trashbag, hung out with Playboy Playmates last weekend.

I know, I know - it’s awesome. Please give me a minute to bask in my glory. Me, hanging out with Playmates.

…

[Just another minute…]

…

Ok. Thank you for indulging me.

This requires some explanation, but unfortunately, I can not say too much. Mostly because I don’t want to sound like a goober (in case, you know, I don’t already). I would like in the future to spend my time in the presence of Playmates - indeed, I don’t know of many better ways to spend time. So I apologize if certain details are spotty, but you must realize the importance of me treating this as nonchalantly as possible, when I really want to write, "I CAN’T WRITE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE MY PENIS IS GETTING IN THE WAY OF THE KEYBOARD BECAUSE OH MY GOD THESE GIRLS WERE BEAUTIFUL AND ONE OF THEM ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON MY FOOT BUT THEN MY FOOT GOT BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE IT WAS TOUCHED BY SUCH BEAUTY AND I THINK I JUST PEED MY PANTS BUT IT’S NOT QUITE PEE AND I FEEL LIKE AFTER A SNEEZE."

By the grace of God, I was able to attend, with two friends, a Playboy party in Boston. The invite came at the last minute and left me in a tizzy: I had no idea what to expect, but knew it couldn’t be all bad, since Playmates would certainly be there. I had never been to such an event and had to figure out what to wear and how to do my hair, but then I realized that these were pretty good problems to have. Remember, Playmates.

And my friends and I were not disappointed. There were no celebrities there or anything - it was a promotional event - but that’s a good thing. Because, I imagine, if celebrities had been there, the girls would not have looked at, let alone spoken to, my friends and I. (Actually, I shouldn’t say that, since Alison (Miss May), Monica (Miss March), and Breanna (September Cyber Girl of the Month) were lovely gals.) So on Friday night, my buddies and I spent several hours in the company of Playmates and other employees of Playboy, having a grand old time, having a laugh. Just like old friends. Three ugly old friends, and three extremely and insanely attractive old friends. No big deal.

The next day my buddies (Mike and Bill, for those keeping score at home) got to tell everyone at the party we went to that while they had spent the previous night at the local pub, we were drinking with some of the most beautiful women in the world. What’s more, there was a chance that we would hang out again that night. Playboy was in Boston not only for the promotional event on Friday night, but also for CollegeFest on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. After CollegeFest, the girls might want to go out. Joy. But later in the evening I got a text message and the friends I had recently made were all staying in for the night, tuckered out from a long day of work. So I just got drunker, moving from a softball field to a bar. Such is life. I also sent such lascivious text messages to a woman I know in Boston that I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to get a subpoena any day now, but that is neither here nor there.

The next day I was slated to return to Jersey. I had taken Monday off but wasn’t so sure I wanted to lose the vacation day. On Sunday morning, just before noon, my buddies and I headed to bar. My plan was to hang out for a bit, then go home. Of course, after a few plates of nachos, cheese fries, and mozzarella sticks, and ten or so draft Bud Lights, I made the executive decision and decided to spend the night in Boston. So my friends and I really started drinking.

At about 7pm, after drinking pretty hard since about 11am, I got a text message from one of my new friends who works at Playboy. Though I hadn’t expected to hear from her or anyone else at the Playboy camp, the text said that she and the girls felt like going out – was I still in Boston?

…

I immediately put down my beer and screamed, "I need a Red Bull and a water asap!" My buddies Mike, Bill and I spent the next two hours rapidly trying to get sober, as we were to meet the girls for dinner at 9pm. Mike, in one of the all-time greatest pussy moves ever, couldn’t pull it together and so missed the dinner. Or rather, Mike said that he couldn’t afford to be hungover for work on Monday morning and so didn’t go to dinner WITH PLAYBOY PLAYMATES. Yes, he missed dinner with Playmates because he didn’t want to be hungover. I’m hungover at work at least two days a week, both hangovers usually resulting from me drinking too many cans of PBR at my computer alone while downloading porn. The point: dinner with Playmates is a pretty good excuse to be hungover. What a tremendous pussy.

[And you can bet that the above paragraph will appear verbatim in my best man speech at his wedding next April, although if he were my fiancée, I would probably drop him for such lame behavior.]

But Bill and I rallied, got (somewhat) sober, cleaned ourselves up, and spent almost four hours having dinner and drinks with two Playmates and three employees of Playboy (who, dare I say, were extremely lovely in their own right). Just a couple of fat guys, over 400 pounds between them, sitting around, drinking wine, laughing and talking with Playmates and other beautiful, successful women. For four hours. Four magical fucking hours.

…

And now here I am, back in Jersey, hungover at my desk because I drank too many cans of PBR last night while downloading porn. So there’s that. Which is great.

You should see my smile, dear readers. Because it’s pretty much all downhill for me from this point forward. Wish me luck, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride down. But at least I can now die in relative peace.*

*"Relative" because I never realized my dream of having sex in a rocking chair. Oh well. Maybe next time.

Profilactically

This is a conversation I had with my mother today.

"Johnny, what happened with you and your girlfriend?"

Note that she has asked me this 17 times this week.

"I'm not sure. I don't think we're together, but maybe we are. But probably not."

"But I liked her"

Note that my father convinced my mother that my (now) ex and I should never get married because the strain of bearing children would cause her to die (because she has a "bad hip")

"I don’t know mom, sometimes people grow apart, I have options I suppose."

"Did you wear the condoms?"

Oh no...I bit my bottom lip at this because I don't know what the normal reaction to this question is supposed to be. I wasn't laughing, I was just in an awkward situation. I looked up at the ceiling for guidance, but God apparently hates me, and wasn't there. This pause, (on my part) only lasted mere seconds for she continued.

"In my day, the condoms weren’t good. Now, they are good. You have to wear them."

My lip is bleeding. I can taste the bitter blood in my mouth. This is by far the worst conversation that I have ever had in my entire life. God, help me. Take me now. I’m serious. I no longer wish to be here.

"Johnny, women like responsible men. Wearing a condom is responsible."

God, a heart attack will do. Maybe a stroke. I'd like to have an open casket, so don't make me too droopy. I prefer to not have any pain, so any type of painless death would be great. Right now. Please take me. I'm ready.

"Your father didn’t like to wear condoms. Fortunately, we only had you"

God, remember that whole thing about having a painless death? Yeah, I've changed my mind. If I can die right now, at this moment, I'm ok with the pain. Perhaps a drive-by shooting? A bullet right through the chest and one in the leg. Seriously, make it painful. I don't care anymore. Just take me now.

"They have so many kinds now. My friend said there are some with little bumps so it feels better for the woman. You should buy that one."

Hey God, hi, it's me Johnny. Yeah, um, have you been listening to my pleas these last couple of minutes? No? Well, here’s the thing, my 62-year old mother is talking about condoms. I think she just finished describing a ribbed condom. Now, I'm not sure what it is that I have done to offend you, but whatever it is please accept my apologies. I am very sorry.

"With condoms you don't get the herpes. Don't forget about your cousin Nicky. He had them. He also had them on his lip, but I know he had them other places. I heard him talking about it. He wasn't a responsible man."

God, remember how you said it's wrong to kill yourself? Does it count if I just stop breathing? The reason I ask is because I haven't been breathing for a while now, but I'm still here. I don't mean to criticize your work on the human body, because you did a stand up job, really, but how long before I pass out? Isn't there a purgatory of some kind? I'd be ok with that. Do you see me lighting this candle? Yes, I'm doing this for you. I will light more. I promise. Please make this stop.

"You’re a good boy. Things will work out."

Thank you God. I owe you one, and I haven't forgotten about that $20 I owe you for those Whitesnake tickets back in '91.

Vespa, Sweet Vespa

Jose was seething with excitement. I use the word "seething" only because Jose, isn't one to smile. Actually, I've never seen the man smile. I've only seen him seethe. So, today, as he showed what it was that was making seethe, I began to seethe myself.

Jose, my dear friend Jose, bought a Vespa. It's teal. And he had the nerve to bring it to where I work.

I got the phone call around noon. "John...I've got to show you something awesome. I'll be over in half an hour, you should hear me coming"

I thought Jose bought a Lamborghini. Maybe a Harley Davidson. I mean, you could hear those a mile away.

As I'm standing outside taking a smoke break, I hear a lawnmower in the distance...and it's coming closer. I look up and what do I see? A teal fucking Vespa.

He pulls up, hops off, we say our hellos, and Jose begins by pointing at his new Vespa (did I mention that it was teal?) full of excitement.

"It's going to save me money, time, and aggravation.”

My friend Jose bought a Vespa.

We walked around the Vespa like you would a Porsche or any other car. I wasn’t really paying any attention to Jose since I could no longer take anything he said seriously. Ever. He, my friend, bought a teal power scooter. He shall be forever shamed.

I realize that it is not me who will have to be seen riding this Vespa through the pot-holed streets of Jersey, but it will be my friend Jose. Did I mention that he has a matching teal helmet? Oh, yes, he got a deal on the helmet. It's teal.

People in my neighborhood know Jose as my friend. So, as he "drives" up to my place violently honking the "horn", people will say, "Look! That's John's friend riding the Vespa. Is it blue?"

"People think it's blue, but it's teal."

I hate Jose so much.

I don't know who designed the Vespa. I could easily find out, but my money is on either the Italians or the French. Someone envisioned riding this glorified bicycle with their Armani suit through the streets of either Paris or Milan. I’m being ignorant in blaming the French and the Italians, so I'll actually look up who designed this...

Oh, look at that. Italians. My apologies to the French. Sorry. I still hate that you invented the beret, but I’ll give you a pass this time.

Yes, it gets good gas mileage. Yes, they’re easy to park. Yes, they’re cheaper than buying a car. But it’s a FUCKING Vespa!

Vespa, in Spanish (and probably in Italian) means wasp. WASP, to Jose, should mean the guy who isn’t going to give him a job or let him date his daughter. Especially now that he drives a teal Vespa.

I can see the Armani-clad, sunglasses indoors Italian designer screaming "Mama mia!" and thinking he is a genius. I then see myself kicking him in the neck. Teal. What the hell color is that anyway?

My friend Jose bought a Vespa. It's teal. It's fucking teal…that prick.

Power Alleys

First, for the first hour and a half of my day, my fly was open. This time included leaving my house, stopping at the convenience store to get coffee, walking around my building, and talking to two of my co-workers while standing in the doorways of their offices. Nice. For being totally fucking awesome, I rewarded myself with a bacon, egg and cheese bagel. It was terrific.

Second, speaking of being totally fucking awesome, you have no idea how good it feels to come home at 1:30 in the morning with a nice buzz, feeling happy, only to check your email to read something from an ex-girlfriend saying "It's been years since I've seen you, and you look great...except it looks like you're losing your hair"

Perhaps I should mention that my main priorities this weekend were not focused on my hair. In fact, if I had to put them in order of importance, my priorities would have gone:

1) Getting messed up.
2) Eating pretty much everything put in front of me, live or dead.
3) Not masturbating.
4) Seriously, getting really messed up.
5) Wearing the same hoodie all weekend because it was 55° all weekend and I was fucking cold.
6) Sorting all kinds of shit out.
…
…
11) Smoking alot
…
…
23) Telling everyone about how Wendy’s now has a vanilla frosty and saying "It blew my fucking mind" over and over again.
…
…
39) Taking long showers and pissing off my friends.
…
…
58) Not answering any calls or text messages from anyone not in my state.
…
…
83) Raving about the Wendy’s grilled chicken sandwich I ate and mentioning the vanilla frosty again. Adding, "Doesn’t that blow your fucking mind?"
…
…
597) Making sure my hair looks good for my ex-girlfriend, whom I didn't plan on seeing but I bumped into accidentally, while intoxicated.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that though my hair may appear a little bit thinning, I have lovely hair. Well, maybe not lovely, but I’m not going bald. Ok? Let’s just move on before I get too wound up.

(Also, do you know how windy it was this weekend? The answer: Lots. Lots windy. Not good for hair.)

(Also, did I mention I'm on a diet? Jerks. The whole lot of you. Buncha jerks.)