Evil Has A New Name

Black leopard and her cub. Evilest of the moms.

I experienced my minor league epiphany while reading an article on the Internet that could be summarized as "people think black is bad." The article was going on and on about how society conditions us to view the color black as a negative. The theory goes that, racist or not, we assume the worst about anything black. Black people, black birds, black eyes and black holes are all victims of our anti-black prejudice.

I don't know if I agree with the article's premise. I wasn't even convinced after some fancy online test from Harvard flashed a bunch of words and pictures at me and declared that I hate black people.

I like black people. I like black cars. I like Darth Vader and night time and those vinyl pants hot chicks wear in action movies. I could go on forever. Paint it Black, one of the best Stones songs. Blackwater is my favorite mercenary company.

You get the picture. Black is just fine with me.

Regardless of what Harvard said, black wasn't my bad word. Maybe the article had a point in there somewhere. Maybe some other word or concept was the hook on which I hang all of my negative prejudices.

I searched my mental dictionary.

Colors were right out. I have mixed and complex feelings about every color other than aquamarine, which I have a longstanding rivalry with completely unrelated to any stereotypes.

Good going, Inukshuk. We here in the civilized world just type /pizza.

Political affiliations tend to be either too general or too specific. I don't dislike most Republicans, but I hate every single neocon. Neocons are demonstrably evil, so that word doesn't really work. The same goes for nationalities. My infamous hatred of Eskimos is based on the way they treat seals: they eat their eyes. Call me Mr. Biased, but that's one step away from eating souls and I think that qualifies as bad.

No, if I wanted a suitable "bad" adjective it had to be almost as universal as a color. I was wracking my brain and coming up with nothing until, as usual, the TV provided me with my answer.

Domino's Pizza, the second worst pizza franchise in the United States, was airing an advertisement for some grotesque version of a bread stick. It was covered in melted cheese and oozed oil like a strafed tanker truck. Purchasers of this delight were instructed by an excited voice to, "Try it with our ranch dipping sauce!"

The thought of bathing that sodden log of cheese-topped bread in ranch dressing was about as appetizing as spooning vomit off the floor of a gym shower with a Dr. Scholl's I pried off the underside of a medical waste bin. Just like that, I had it.

My evil word.

Ranch.

Ranch = Evil

The Domino's commercial started me down the right track towards understanding my aversion to all things ranch. I didn't accept ranch as the answer right away. I subjected it to rigorous analysis. Some Harvard level shit you might have heard of called "social science." It's like science, only you do it however you want.

Hypothesis: Fuck "Ranch."

Experiment 1: Legitimate Usage

Method: Identify and evaluate legitimate uses of "ranch."

Examples:

I'm pretty sure this is what they serve in the cafeteria in 1984.

Ranch: A rural compound for the confinement and work of live animals. These are usually then shipped elsewhere for large scale slaughter. SEE ALSO: Uh, just the fucking Holocaust, dudes.

Ranch House: A house only worse. Built as tract housing mostly during the 1950s through the 1970s out of brick facades and ornamental window shutters. Was replaced in the 1980s and onward by wood pulp, vinyl siding, and value-adds.

Ranch Dressing: A dressing made from mayonnaise, cream, bile ducts, processed horse gelatin, owl beaks, corpse hair, and aphid pressings. Popular throughout the Southwest and Midwest United States as a condiment for stuffed-crust bacon pizza.

Dude Ranch: A ranch for Europeans and big city types to get out into the country and live exactly like real cowboys lived in the Wyoming Board of Tourism brochure. The experience usually includes a real ranch meal catered by the El Paso Olive Garden and a stay in a real "ranch room" complete with wagon wheels, old cow skulls, and five channels of HBO.

Conclusion: Ranch bad.

Experiment 2: Word Association

Method: Listen to "ranch." Start a 60-second timer. Write down every word that enters you head.

Examples:

Conclusion: Noooo RANCH! Ranch!!!!

Experiment 3: Redeeming values.

Method: Search Google for "ranch" and attempt to find any place where the word "ranch" is used in a positive context.

Examples:

You know that smell your car gets on a really hot day when that 2 year old french fry in between the seats starts to bake? Yeah, all of the girls at the Bunny Ranch smell like that, latex, and body spray.

Bunny Ranch: Seems like a good time if you want to pay to have sex with former porn stars. Overpriced and under-serviced, you'll be lucky if you can talk some whore with an ironic name like Charity down to 600 bucks for a hand job while she farts in your face. If you want her to cry afterwards they up-charge you for a "girlfriend experience." Total bullshit.

Cancer Ranch: For kids with cancer to ride horses until their bodies are devoured by the ravenous monster clinging to their ruptured cells. Feel good moment of the week: Tuesday pick up, when the man in the big car comes to pick up all the kids "sleeping" in the basement.

Conclusion: Ranch is where all good things are remade as bad.

I did not come by my conclusion easily, but I think it is clear: nothing is worse than ranch. I wear my prejudice gladly. If you've come this far, I think you will agree.

Ranch is blacker than the darkest black. It is empty and devoid of life, joy and happiness. It'll suck your soul out and turn it into blu cheese. Ranch is evil.

Congrats Michael Phelps!

Congratulations Michael Phelps!

At the halfway mark of his last individual race, Phelps seemed tired, defeated. He was in seventh place. The crowd had turned against him. He phased in and out of existence in our dimension.

Then he seemed to gather his focus, to gain strength. Abruptly, his human form morphed. He became elongated. His torso stretched the entire length of the pool with his feet still clinging to the far side. His distended body bridged the gap between defeat and victory, and he held the gold medal up triumphantly after recompressing his spine.

Congratulations Michael Phelps! America is so proud of you, they can't wait to eat terrible cereal out of a box your likeness is on! Don't worry about that DUI a couple of years back. Like Robert Downey Jr., any past run ins with the law are forgiven, You're an American hero now!

Michael Phelps eats 12,000 jars of mayonnaise a day. With his hands.

Michael Phelps set another world record today at a Taco Bell in Lexington, Kentucky. "We've had people come in here and eat a lot of burritos at once with some Mt. Dew, but nothing like this," said night manager Denise Franklin. "That boy ate a whole mess of burritos tonight. He really did."

The muscular swim god strode into the fast food franchise ten minutes before closing time, and ordered twenty burritos and a medium soda. "He was real calm," said Franklin. "He could see what he wanted to do and that he was going to do it. No question."

Phelps worked his way through the burritos at a blinding speed, starting out strong by eating three at once and then washing them down with only a small gulp of Sprite. "There was some hesitation round about number fourteen," said his coach, Bob Bowman, "but he pushed past it and did the job. That's why he's the best."

As he gulped down the last burrito, Phelps let out a howl and pounded the small plastic table, then he left so the employees could mop the floor and go home. The former holder of the record for most burritos consumed at this location of Taco Bell in Lexington, fifteen year old Jeff Duncan, expressed suspicion that Phelps is practicing post-burrito purging, but Phelps insisted that his burrito record is clean.

Congrats to Michael Phelps!!! You're an American hero!

Killing With Extreme Prejudice

If the Bible has anything to say about the world ending then I'm pretty sure we'll be seeing a lot more of this.

I hate wasps.

I don't think that makes me special. Given enough time and a confined area a wasp will make monsters of the best of us. Leave Gandhi alone in a Prius with an agitated hornet and even he would be wielding a rolled-up copy of Hustler trying to brutally rupture a wasp between a passenger-side airbag and the thighs of some girl named Haley. Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Gandhi. I leave you in the car for five minutes to return some DVDs and you ruin my copy of Hustler? There's stinger all over this taint.

Wasps are bugs. Giant, ugly, pissed-off bees. They don't make honey and just ceaselessly build half-assed portions of a hive at the right-angles of your house's exterior. Go out and mow the yard and they will pull some Hound of Tindalos shit, all coming at you from under the gutters and the eaves.

It's hard to guess what motivates them. It could be the vibrations of the lawnmower, it could be they don't like to see someone enjoying some taco and s beer in a public park, or they just might have the same sort of hatred for us that we have for them.

Having been stung twice by wasps in the first week of July I made their extermination something of a personal crusade. Brooms handled most of their nests and after a few clearance missions I learned that a well-aimed blast of the hose directed at their grotesque mockery of a beehive would drown them before they could even come buzzing at you from their hexagonal corridors. Things seemed to be moving along pretty well, but the wasps were still appearing whenever I would go into any park.

Check out this POS bullshit that wasps call a house.

On the home front, about a week I finally managed to locate the last redoubt of the wasps, a sort of hidden bunker located inside an unused plastic shed that makes up an empty building next to my house. I hesitate to even call it a shed. It's more of a Tupperware closet nestled between my place and the half built pile of shit in the empty lot next door. It stores four plastic tools and a couple of boards Oh, and it also stores about a dozen really touchy wasps that don't like it when you open the door and poke your head into their secret lair.

Five minutes and one sting to the eyebrow later and I had retired to my office to draw my plans for a final solution to the wasp question. I might have also done a lot of holding a paper towel full of ice cubes to the throbbing pain in my face. Their base of operations in the plastic closet was a problem. Their nest was located above and to the left of the doorway and could not be seen from the outside. It wouldn't be easy to vanquish this last colony. This was war, but I was not alone.

I was in my garage searching for a secret weapon when my Arab neighbor Kafir pulled up on a motorcycle. He was decked out head-to-toe in white leather, with a white scarf hanging around his neck and a white helmet on his head. He looked like something out of a Saudi Arabian techno video.

Kafir and I aren't close, but I consider him a friendly acquaintance. Hardly the sort of person I would expect to ride up on a motorcycle and offer to help with something as daunting as the extermination of wasps.

"Grass a problem?" He asked, noting the weed whacker I had taken up to feel the heft of as a wasp-crushing implement.

"No," I replied. "Grass is fine. It's the wasps."

He shrugged, so I pantomimed a buzzing insect landing on my eyebrow and then stinging me.
"Ah," he said, understanding. "The hostile bee! He is a beast!"

"Yeah," I said.

I hung the weed whacker up on its hook and continued my search for some sort of weapon. I fantasized about a morning star made out of lava. Something that would simultaneously crush and burn the wasps almost instantly.

"I help," Kafir said. "The wasp, he not sting through this."

Kafir slapped his leather jacket.

"Too thick!" He exclaimed.

It was true, the wasp's stinger seemed unlikely to penetrate the hard leather of Kafir's ridiculous motorcycle costume. A plan took shape. A plan that resulted in me standing three feet away from the plastic closet with a hose dribbling water onto the lawn.

The only thing more horrible than wasps are their horrible babies. Look at them. They're pretty much asking for the hose.

Kafir edged closer to the door, his helmet's visor down. The idea was that he would slap the door open and I would hit the surface of the door with the hose and deflect the water into the shed at the proper angle to douse the wasp's nest.

In retrospect I should have just burned my house down and collected the insurance. People throw around the phrase "utterly inept" a little too much. They use it to describe bad baseball teams or accounting errors. Utterly inept should be reserved for those almost magical moments when a human being (or two) is so completely bereft of any trace of eptness that nothing but calamity can follow.

I definitely should have burned down the house.

"Ready?" Kafir asked.

I took carefully aim with the spray attachment for the hose. I nodded my readiness. Kafir made his move, lunging forward and slapping the door with his splayed fingers. It slammed open and I squeezed the sprayer in my hand, unleashing a solid stream of liquid death on the wasps. Only the door had hit the side wall of the shed and had bounced closed again.

The stream of water rattled the shed like a drum and the door swung open very slightly. Just a tiny crack really, but it turned out to be more than wide enough to allow something as big as, say, a large bee to come rocketing out through the opening. Okay, it was more like ten giant and enraged bees. And they all made right for Kafir, who began to scream and flail his arms.

"No, no, no!" Kafir shouted. "No, back! Fuck shit! Get back! Ah! Back!"

Sure enough, the wasps that landed on his arms and chest could not pierce his leathers with their stingers. The interesting thing about motorcycle helmets is that they aren't air tight. For a wasp the size of a lima bean, a sliver of exposed flesh around Kafir's throat must have been like a red carpet. I didn't realize it at the time, but nearly half of the wasps had almost instantly flown either inside the helmet or straight down the front of his motorcycle jacket.
A stream of muffled Arabic expletives and the occasional "fuck shit" emerged from behind Kafir's visor.

The neighbor I had talked to three times in the past was suddenly screaming and flailing his arms. I shot him with the hose almost instinctively as he collapsed in my neighbor's delicate flowerbed and began thrashing around in her pink and white perennials. I sprayed Kafir again with the hose as he struggled to open his visor and get at the wasps that were punishing his face with their insectoid anger.

Unbeknownst to me, the wasps on his body had been successfully dislodged by the hose and all of Kafir's flailing. These turned on their new enemy with the ferocity of tiny beavers with miniature knives tied to their tails. I dropped the hose immediately and began a hysterical dance as the wasps abused my body in ways indescribable in a decent society. How one of the wasps ended up in the leg of my shorts is something I'm not proud of, but for the next two days my groin was decidedly asymmetrical.

This is my shed, only replace the beach toys with angry wasps and all the plants around the outside with me and Kafir rolling around on the ground.

Kafir managed to get the best of his wasps first, and he helped me defeat the last of mine by stomping on my chest with a white cowboy boot. A little fun fact on wasps: they can sting multiple times while being crushed beneath the toe of a cowboy boot.

An hour later, Kafir and I sat defeated on the old couch in my garage. We held a beer to various parts of our body, groaning and whistling as each sting reasserted its domination of our nervous system. Kafir didn't even open his beer. Despite his embrace of American culture, he still doesn't drink.

"We not talk of this again," Kafir advised.

He looked at me with his one good eye, the eyelid of his other eye having swollen to the size of a decorative gourd and become useless.

"Yeah," I agreed. "This never happened."

The next day I did what I should have done from the beginning. I closed the door of the shed, tipped it onto its front, and dragged it, construction equipment and all, to a retention pond just down the block. The pigeons that like to cover our sidewalks in a thick carpet of their excrement scattered as the shed splashed into the murky water. I folded my arms across my chest and watched with satisfaction as the shed began to sink.

Only it wasn't sinking. Whatever asshole designed the shed apparently made it seaworthy. I had just launched the wasp ark of my suburban subdivision. Going by the buzzing echoing from within the shed the passengers of the vessel seemed agitated.

I did what the situation called for at that point. I whistled nonchalantly and walked as quickly and as innocently as possible back to my house. Surely some sort of animal exists in retention ponds that can eat a shed full of construction equipment and angry wasps.

The Wolf Is Back to Attack Your Questions

Ahhhh-Wooooo. Wolf here, you may remember me as that brah who hooked you up and got you laid, oh yeah! With that loser Javier at some gay comic book convention and your massive pile of e-mails you guys sent me, I have enough questions to write a dozen of these. But since I got me a second grade education, I have to admit I'm reading them slowly. Don't worry, I'm keeping the bag of questions in the attic right next to that stripped down, tied up, and gagged chick I bought PBR for at the bar. I tell you, when I buy you a drink, you best put out! So no worries, brah and please don't contact local authorities, those letters wont be escape..There is no way anything is escaping from my attic, that shit is locked up tiiiiight. Anyway, let's get started. Oh and if you have any questions or if you've seen two Haitian teens, you can email that wuss Javier and he'll pass the info to me.

Ive never done a girl in the butt before cause that kinda thing doesnt interest me, but i am also curious as to why guys like to do girls in the ass? i just dont get it. pls shed some light.
-Rainier

After Poison released their album "Native Tongue," I had to wait like seven years until their next release and in that time I found some other decent shit. I got an LL Cool J cassette that I still jam to every once in awhile. A lot of press during that time talked about a new wave of music called indie. I didn't really like it. It seemed poorly rehearsed like the recording was on accident and the people were always complaining about how much everything hurts. So like, anal sex is the indie of sex. Sure it's new and cool and fun to try, but once Poison reformed, I never looked back.

Mr. Wolf What's the point of getting into a relationship?
-Benjamin

I met a lady-ho named Katsuri while stationed in the Philippines. She was hot and she'd let me brush her hair and stuff and she'd wear the clothes I brought her, which was awesome. We met up a few times a week for a few months and I bought her a little ring for her birthday. Anyway, her pimp tried to give it back to me and we got into what the official investigation called an "unwarranted attack on a local," but I think Katsuri was screaming for me to kick his ass during the whole fight. I'm really not sure though since it wasn't in English. Whatever though. I didn't see Katsuri after that. Long story short, I've never been in a relationship, but if I had a special someone with me that night, they could've used the pliers to get that glass lodged behind my ear. That shit hurt.

What's the best sex position?
-Chris

According to Bret Michaels, all of them

Yo The Wolf Guy,I know this guy who's into guys, but that doesn't make him less of a guy. Got any guy-on-guy advice?Also he's not me.
-Straight

What up Strait. Hey man. It's Wolf, not The Wolf Guy. I wouldn't call you "The Straight Guy." No biggie though. Anyway, yeah I know a lot of dudes who like dudes. We call them bros (slang for brothers.) A lot of dudes call me bro too. Hell if you don't have four of five dudes callen you bro, you aren't a man. Bros before Hoes you know??
As for advice, we bros always follow that line we learned in the army; Go Hard or Go Home. Hell yeah. It's really hot out so we're having a cookout in the sun. You gotta take your shirt off so you get a good tan and designate a beer of the month. This month it's Blue Moon. Then after we get sweaty and a good buzz, we put on Poison's greatest hits and just eat meat together. Hope this helps.

my best friend confessed to me just the other day that hes gay -i dont know, i should have noticed earlier cause hes always talking about really strange things- and i dont know if i should hang out with him any more or not... what is your advise?thanx in advance
-Daniel

Daniel? Are you still hanging out with him? I hope this isn't too late, but you should stay away from this loser. That's what he is. A LOSER. How did you not notice earlier? What is the strange stuff he is talking about? It could be terrorist material. Have you contacted FBI? You should. But don't tell the Feds that I sent you. In fact, don't mention me at all.

Wolf. Out.

Strip Club Manners

I've never been to a strip club. I was ordered to meet a contact in one a few hours into Grand Theft Auto IV, but I was able to close my eyes and turn off the console about three seconds after receiving the mission so I came out of the situation relatively unscathed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude by any means. Naked women don't bother me at all so long as they don't call me names or come anywhere near me.

My aversion to strip clubs is purely philosophical in nature, partially because the billboard for my local gentleman's establishment reads Socra-tease: Come Ogle Our Aristotles And Eat Platos Of Our Free Buffet.

I completely understand man's primal need to see the female form in all its penis-less glory and rub one out in the kitchen sink. What I don't understand is the need to pay for the privelege of sitting in a room full of dudes while looking at naked women with emotional problems who won't have sex with you when you can see other naked women with emotional problems who won't have sex with you on the internet for free.

Even if I don't get the appeal of strip clubs, guys will continue to patronize them so I might as well make the best of a bad situation and offer up a few simple rules of etiquette. It's true that I don't have any firsthand experience to base this advice on. I did, however, see Kiss Of Death, which featured Nicholas Cage living in a strip club and choking David Caruso. That makes me something of an expert.

No Touching!
Every strip club has a strict "no touching" policy, and violating it will get you thrown out by a greasy dude with a ponytail and a fanny pack strapped around his pot belly.

Training yourself to deal with this isn't too difficult. Order several glasses of water, then use your face to tip them over on the very edge of your table. Now maneuver your mouth to catch the liquid as it pours out. In no time at all, you'll be ready to drink the adult beverage of your choice without using your hands.

Safety First
Small children should be strapped into their car seat, facing away from the stage.

Tipping
The young ladies who dance in strip clubs make the majority of their money from tips, much like waitresses and congressmen. How do you know when it's appropriate to tip? Wait until your stripper has just finished an impressive feat, such as doing a backflip or intentionally separating her shoulder then popping it back in. If it helps, imagine that she is a seal at Sea World. Move in to tip when it seems as though she should be clapping her flippers together and barking.

Knowing how much to tip can be tricky. You don't want to be stingy, but then again you want to have enough money left in your wallet to keep any potential muggers from pistol whipping you.

As a rule of thumb, you want each tip to start out at $5. Deduct one dollar for every tooth that your stripper is missing, then add three dollars for every child at home that she tells you about (adding three dollars for every kid with autism/blindness/gigantism).

Reading The Signs
if a dancer flirts with you after you've tipped her, she has chosen you as her mate. If you decline her marriage proposal, you will insult her culture.

Silver Where?
Reaching for the wrong utensil during the business man's buffet can be downright embarassing. Remember, from left to right the order goes: salad fork, seafood fork, normal fork, steak knife, butter knife, spoon, speculum.

Lap Of Luxury
Some strippers may attempt to harness your body heat in the cold winter season by grinding in your lap all weird-like. A few controlled sprays of mace will deter them.

The Boner Situation
Once in a great while, looking at naked women can make a man excited. This can be embarassing for those of you unlucky enough to have erections that aren't large enough to be noticed. The solution?

Before going to a strip club, tape your penis up in several layers of bubble wrap and stuff everything into a Pringles can, then put your pants on over the schwanz containment unit. To casual observers, the tremendous bulge in your pants will appear the same when you're flaccid and erect.

Somewhere A Little More Uncomfortable
You may be propositioned by a stripper to join her in a private room. Tempting as it may seem, do not accept! She only wants to make you move heavy boxes around the office and rearrange the furniture.

Leaving Gracefully
Removing yourself from a strip club after hours of drinking with half a boner is a difficult maneuver that ranks right up there with Operation Market Garden and Forcing Yourself To Eat Your Girlfriend's Parent's Veggie Chili That Featuring Some Sort Of Meat Replacement That Tastes Like Pickled Peanut Butter.

The best way to extract yourself from the building is to make three quick tugs on the rope that has been tied around your waist, signaling the day workers you hired to reel you back into the parking lot.

Lessons From The Inside: Prison Tag

Welcome to jail. Did you ever see yourself here? No, no one ever does. But don't worry about being left out of the group; you can join in at any point.

PRE-GAME

---

Join a Team

The first step is finding a group to hang out with. Making friends in prison can be difficult. At first, it seems that there are so many people that you'll never meet anyone, but eventually you notice the subtle differences. Soon you will see which group is best for you. The entire prison is divided into separate "teams." Instead of different colored jerseys, it is based on skin color. Let's take a look at the four major groups you'll be dealing with here

Aryan Brotherhood
Traits: White, Angry, Dangerous
Main Enemies: Hispanics, African Americans

Mexican Mafia
Traits: Hispanic, Angry, Dangerous
Main Enemies: African Americans, Whites

Black Guerilla Family
Traits: African American, Angry, Dangerous
Main Enemies: Whites, Hispanics

Prison Guards
Note: Due to your string of armed robberies and arson towards a local chain of Circle Ks, admission to Team Prison Guard is denied.

Get a Tattoo

Now that you've been drafted, it's time to spice up your jersey. Every convict needs an outside source for inspiration, so find your own muse. Pick three from this list and tattoo them on your back or any remaining, visible skin

Popular Choices

More Options

• Hitler

• Woman with Tear Rolling Down Cheek
• White Power
  
• Black Power
  
• Latino Pride
  
• Child/Children (preferably your own)
  
• Fishing
  
• Another Swastika (if applicable)
  
• Black Panther
  
• Knives
  
• Dead Friends
  
• Current Friends
  
• Future Friends
  
• Dragons
  
• Nude Woman
  
• Create your own
  
• Any combination of above

Are you ready to play yet?

The Game: Prison Tag

Advanced Gameplay

Without doubt this is the most popular game in prison. Remember when you used to play tag all afternoon with friends outside of the school? Well, it's a lot like that except you're not allowed to run or have shoelaces. There are a few other differences, but it's basically the same.

Objective:

Hurt as many people as possible.

Rules:

1. Do not look anyone in the eyes

2. Do not look at anyone

3. If you are caught looking at someone you are tagged "IT"

4. You cannot tag someone on your own team

Special Tip: Staring at a wall is the most effective way to avoid an attack (unless the wall is a one way mirror and your enemy is on the other side.)

Uh oh, looks like someone is IT

---

Expert Tag Technique

Making a Shiv

Using a shiv is like extending your reach by three inches. It also allows you to rip holes into the side of enemies. If you follow this easy guide, you'll rule the courtyard (for the hour you are allowed out of your maximum security cell each day.)

Step 1: Acquire a human arm (Image 8)

Step 2: Carve excess flesh and bone to a point

Step 3 (Optional): Boil toilet bowl stew or flush arm carvings down drain

Step 4: Enjoy (Image 9)

I hope you learned a lot in this chapter of Lessons from the inside, Written for and by Convicts. Good luck in your first few weeks of Prison Tag, and remember to watch your back!

Love Advice From The South

Hello all, the last write up took a lot out of me. Add in I'm away right now filming, so I'm letting my friend do an article. I'm not one to shy away from work, but this guy has been bothering me for a few months. Did I say friend? I meant the gross Gulf War veteran who works in a warehouse down the street. Don't ask how we met. Apparently, he has always wanted to be a sex columnist. "A lot of experience is all you need," he says. He has also declared that he has it. So here goes.

That's me. Wolf.

Yo, this is the Wolf. If you met me before the 1999 Poison Tour in Cincinnati you would have known me as Stephen "Tiger" Davidson, but now it's just Wolf. Anyway, Wolf here and I'm on the prowl for questions. Not teenagers. NOT TEENAGERS, ONLY QUESTIONS. Sorry, the courts make me put that disclaimer in any public messages I write. Anyway, the Wolf has heard that there are a few nerds lost in these woods. Instead of wasting your time reading another whiny page from that pussy Javier, let the Wolf train you. Ahhhhh-Wooooooo, that's my wolf call, it's my signature. Learn it, love it, howl it.
Let's roll out.

My girlfriend and I have completely different desires in bed. Is there a way that we can both find satisfaction? - Kevin

No. Absolutely not. Being in a relationship is like driving a car in rush-hour traffic. Other cars are at a standstill so you just kick your Grand-Am into the emergency lane and zoom outta there. Things are flying by and people are yelling but forget them. Then, in a second's flash you realize that you're almost at your exit ramp so you

swerve over seven lanes. A massive pileup ensues and you lose a hubcap, million dollars in damage the news says that night, but at least you made your exit. So, really, sex is like driving onto an exit ramp. It doesn't matter about anyone else, as long as you get off. Get it? Hell yeah. Ahhhhh-Wooooooo

A girl I know is thinking about getting breast implants, is that a good idea or not? - Cindy

A few weeks ago, I got so drunk at the bar that I fell asleep in the pisser. The bartender locked me in for the night and I couldn't get out until a Miller deliveryman unlocked the door. I had to show up at my next job hung over. My pits were stinking and the toilet water I had been barfing into made my hair freeze up like a Mohawk. It was pretty badass looking though so I kept it. During lunch I tried to wash my shirt and a few girls at the laundry mat, real hotties no less, said it was a nice faux-hawk, but I didn't see what was so faux about it. So like, tits are tits. Some people call them real, some people call them
fake, but they're all nice. Ahhhh-Woooo

What's so important about foreplay? - Phil

I had to do some masonry work on the weekend last week and I didn't get home until the afternoon. I opened up a Bud and turned on TNT. The race had already started and I was pissed that I missed the first fifty laps. It was a good race, but I wasn't that revved up.

On the other hand I was totally revved at the Pepsi 500 that Dave got me tickets to (Thanks Dave. Oh and Dave, if you're reading this at the library, go see if they have Predator on VHS.) Prior to the start of the race the opening ceremony included:

• Pledge of Allegiance
• Someone Singing Amazing Grace
• Some Gay Poem (this part kinda sucked)
• Shit Load of Troops Marching on the Track
• 21-gun salute
• Some Solder Playing Taps on a Trumpet
• A Few Boring Speeches (this part sucked too)
• Three Bigass Jets
• An Eagle.

I was wooting before the race started.

So one of the races made me proud about traveling half way around the world to kill people, while the other failed to relieve me from my crippling post-war depression. Guess which race made me feel good? That's what foreplay does.

Let's give an Ahhh-Woooo to the Pepsi 500 and another Ahhh-Woooo to Dave for the tickets. (If they don't have Predator just renew Lethal Weapon and we can watch that again.)

Me, Wolf and My dog Woof

When I asked how to confront my boyfriend on the fact that I am H.I.V. Positive, you answered, "Winners go home and fuck the prom queen." I don't understand. - Beth

Have you ever seen the movie The Rock. It's a quote from that. I'm saying you gotta stop being such a wuss and face up to your fears and shove a huge needle in your heart to fix the virus. GOD DAMN Nicholas Cage is so badass. WOO now I gotta go watch that.

Ahhhh-Wooooo

Wolf. Out.

Alright, well there you have it folks. The Wolf has spoken or whatever. If you have any questions, E-mail them to me and I can forward them onto Wolf and he can give out some more slurred words of wisdom. I'll be back for some regular update once I get back.