February 4, 2009
Sure, there’s the forbidden attraction of the Meissner’s and Auerbach’s plexus in the enteric nervous system; the gastric parietal excretions of the exocrine; the sheer hedonic bliss of riding a G cell gastrin wave through the enterogastrone paracrine system as the enterocytes infuse the chromaffin with a seismic plethora of enterohapetic circulatory umph.
But for Grade A balls-out enjoyment of gastrointestinal physiology, few processes delight the Asshole as much as peristalsis.
What is it about this contractive action that delights the dickhead? Perhaps it’s the rhythmic, musical pulsations of the smooth muscles as they extroject the bolus through the esophagus and onto the neighborhood. Or perhaps it’s the circular initiation of the contraction, followed by the longitudinal dilation of the hepatular ordinal process.
Then again, some Asshole docs have pointed to the unidirectionality of the spasm – so like the prick, to prefer a one-way conversation with their GI tract, not to mention their dining companions. It’s as though they liken the squeezing of the pyloric value into the small intestine to the way they squeeze their enemies until they beg for abdominal release.
Whatever the fundamental lure, there’s no doubt the particular group of individuals who are the subject (and the writer) of this blog enjoy treating everybody else to their own excretions.
January 26, 2009
Perhaps the most hated man in the world is not an investment banker, New York State Senator, anti-Super Hero or Chinese agricultural inspector – no, he’s a dog trainer. And his admirable ability to attract player haters comes not from an inability to do his job well or a lack of personal charm. Far from it. We hate him because he’s slick, credible and skilled – and, more to the point, because our wives, girlfriends and ho’s continue to point it out to us, often during sex.
We refer, of course, to Cesar Millan – Dog Whisperer. Magical reformer of errant canines and dream lover to thousands of potentially errant humans. But enough about us.
Assholes adore Cesar for a different reason. Some of them remember what dog training used to be before the emasculation nation was formed at some point during the presidency of Ronald Reagan. Back then, canine instruction consisted of the human shouting and jerking a choke chain. Repeat until the dog figured out what it could do to stop this random psychopath from doing it again.
Then came the treats, the so-called school of “positive reinforcement,” the dreaded – ahem – clicker. Non-assholes jumped into the training ring and decided dogs would be a lot more likely to do things because good things happened when they did them. Softness ensued. Assholes adopted cats, whom they could beat mercilessly behind closed doors without anybody telling them different.
Cesar changed all that. A strong proponent of dominance theory, he thinks most behavior problems in dogs are caused by owners who have lounged too long in the La-Z-Boy of positivity. Tell them who’s boss, he says. Lead the pack. Do the “alpha roll” and growl and clench your hand into a claw. Then hand out a treat – to yourself. You’ve been a good boy.
Assholes love this man and think he’s rescued dog training from the spineless wonders who would probably be more comfortable with goldfish anyway. And dogs? They’re phenomenal judges of character, of course. They never liked assholes anyway.
January 10, 2009
If assholes agree on anything – and, being assholes, they rarely do, – it’s that the very finest of financial instruments is the credit default swap. This nimble form of legalized gambling, only about a decade old, holds an almost mystical attraction to dickheads across all globally diversified risk portfolios.
Why?
Perhaps it’s the credit derivative’s ability to hedge exposure in a volatile marketplace. Or the informational advantage of assessing default risk and recovery rates to enable investment based on assessments for a diversification of operating cash flows. Or perhaps it’s the instruments’ indemnification of the risk-free yield curve premium to the T-bill default credit spread, which extrapolate to an enhanced correlation with inherent interest rate kurtosis on the hyperbolic distribution.
Whatever the driving factors, pricks the world over just adore these things. Nothing fires up an asswipe’s Bloomberg terminal like a newly-input buy order for an uncollateralized credit default swap in an environment of contracting liquidity. Ask any jerk and she’ll tell you: There’s no equivalent to the feeling of extending a fixed-yield benchmark off-balance sheet to lower devaluation of the float, with the possible exception of diversifying that float across a spectrum of bilateral-contract credit risk derivatives.
Of course, it may just be the invigorating knowledge that the value of these risk-hedging instruments ultimately derives from the possibility of something bad happening to somebody else – something like, say, bankruptcy, default, failure and contract repudiation. Making money from other peoples’ pain is always appealing to the dick.
The only thing assholes might love more than credit default swaps is something they tend to create – that is, big deficit-inducing bailouts.
January 5, 2009
Yes, assholes dearly love the Fourth Gospel – so-named because it differs in style and substance from the synoptic gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke in exotic ways. Not only is its figuring of the parousia deeply appealing to the dickhead, but its resonant Logos Christology, with its description of Christ as the Word, or Arche, fills the prick with a massive, abiding sense of their own personal greatness.
When the asshole looks to Mark, he finds only an alien eschatology; to Matthew, a profoundly first-century Jewish attachment to the typology of the Hebrew Bible; and to Luke, a fine storyteller, certainly, but more a prophetic than a divine milieu. Only in John does the figure of Christ emerge as fully divine, if barely human, reflecting the prickwad back onto himself.
Assholes don’t take time to wonder at what the clear signs of redaction in the narrative, abrupt shifts in pronoun and sense, the odd placement of the eucharistic scene, mean to the integrity of the claims to apostolic authorship. They just assume it was written by an eyewitness – although written in philosophical Greek by a man who calls himself (in the Book of Acts) illiterate, John the son of Zebedee, who as a resident of Palestine would have spoken Aramaic in any case.
Far more important is the self-awareness of Christ, for it is in this gospel alone that he betrays an obsession with his own divinity and a desire to tell anyone and everyone about it, and in this gospel alone that he performs the ultimate act of infusion by raising the dead. Pricks also think they’re pretty special and like to tell people about it. Some believe themselves to be divine. None, however, speak Aramaic.
Ultimately, it’s the maverick-cum-rogue like sensibility of the Fourth Gospel that draws the dickwad into its pseudo-Gnostic orbit. It’s the odd man out but the most self-satisfied – characteristics that limn the asshole’s aura to perfection.
December 30, 2008
It’s difficult living in this so-called world as an egomaniac with low self-esteem. Just ask an asshole. Every day is another challenge to her ability to maintain a healthy sense of who she is and a realistic perspective on her abilities, meanwhile acting like a prick and not having a clue how she really feels. Psychic stress mounts. And then comes the self-help.
Dicks love self-help because it involves one of their favorite activities – that is, extending a helping hand to a person they love. Egregious wankers relish nothing more than listening to a plea for help from a fellow traveler on limo Earth and saying, “You know, bro, God helps those who help themselves. So I’ll help myself to another piece.” And: “Only in America can what happened to me happen to me. And it can happen to you too!”
After the obvious, the second-favorite pasttime of the dickwad is self-obsession. Learning to love yourself is the greatest gift of all, they say. Baby cried the day the circus came to town. Nobody knows what that means. But the asshole knows one thing: She needs a lot of help, and she knows who’s going to give it to her.
Therapists don’t have enough hours to lavish adequate attention on the putz. Nobody has enough time but the man himself. He wants to think about himself, ponder himself, meditate on himself, fine-tune himself – and otherwise self-scrutinize until he explodes all over himself. Selfish isn’t capacious enough to capture the essense of the pricktard. There’s no “ish” about it.
Yes, the asshole truly loves self-help. But it’s not about the help.
December 19, 2008
Nothing gets an asshole’s juices flowing harder than a good spigot of digital marketing analytics. The pleasure of placing a spotlight tag on a homepage to enable DoubleClick ad server tracking, especially if customer parameters are URL-passed driving conversion segmentation – well, that’s just about the sweetest mambo in the world. To a total dickhead.
But it’s not just tagging on the server side that gets the true asshole lathered and ready to roll. No, it’s also embedding Google Analytics, Omniture and WebTrends analytics coding to optimize site architecture and offer delivery. There is also a certain sphere of utter bliss penetrated by a fractional factorial discrimination of page design to structure creative elements. No denying it.
Sure, your major assholes will go on and on about pathing techniques and online-offline tracking for accurate media attribution. But the more sophisticated pricks – the edge of 2009 crowd, assembling in the jetway on their way to Vegas to avoid their ailing parents for the holidays, yet again – those guys and girls are more likely to extol the orgasmic thundering they get from appending panel data to a site-served click tag log to enable actionable behavioral targeting to increase ROI.
If you find yourself asking, “Who cares about this stuff?” – well, I have the answer: Assholes, that’s who. Nobody else.
December 18, 2008
When do Carl and Ty meet? During the big match, how many shots of Danny golfing alone are cut together in one montage? What other incredible comedy film was released the same year as Caddyshack? What is the name of one of the caddies that leaves with Lou when Danny watches the office?
Who does Ty put his arm around during the big match? Is it Dr. Beeper? What does Maggie do when Lacey walks by her at the pool? What color pants does Tony like to wear? What is the first sound heard in Caddyshack? Is it a gopher, a sprinkler, or birds chirping happily contemplating the hilarious mayhem about to unfold on the golf course?
Has there ever been an actor greater than Bill Murray in the history of the film arts? Who is his female equivalent? Has ever a mirthful wingman so filled the screen with his ribaldrous antics than Rodney “D-Rod” Dangerfield? What adorns the top of the Caddy Day tournament trophy? What the heck is Caddy Day anyway? Should this be a national holiday?
Where does Al’s ball hit Judge Smalls? Why are there so many continuity blunders like balls rolling past holes and then, in the next cut, dropping into those same holes, in a film that is supposed to be, after all, of professional quality? What does Carl mount on his gun? Is it a beer holder? Is that not funny?
If you’re wondering who would care about this marginally interesting film released in 1981, and continue to care long after it has been eclipsed by other miraculous wonders of wah-wah like Wedding Crashers and Meet the Fokkers, the clear answer is: Assholes. They love trivia of all types, because it makes them feel special without requiring them to know anything worthwhile. But they especially love trivia about broad comedies of yore. Yes, only an asshole loves Caddyshack enough to care about the answers to all these silly questions.
And only a master asshole poses all these questions without giving any of the answers.
October 25, 2008
We’d like to get something straight between us.
The A$$hole has taken a break from his self-imposed exile – during which he was formulating the super-secret Step #11 – because these times demand straight-shooting, and it takes a jerk to really tell it like it is. That’s why Stuff Assholes Like is proud to endorse Governor Sarah Palin for President of the United States.
Despite rumors to the contrary, we are not entirely ignorant. We once read a book that wasn’t illustrated, and we are aware the Governor is not running for president. Not yet. Consider this a pre-endorsement: eight (or four) years early, we declare ourselves balls-out for this impressive pre-candidate for our highest office. Nobody on earth has thrust herself into our consciousness the way she has.
Consider the facts:
(1) She has five children. This is an impressive feat that requires moments of preliminary work and years of dealing with the consequences.
(2) She hunts. This is an incredible, very American sport that requires deep knowledge of how to pump a gun and squeeze it off.
(3) She was governor of an entire state. Think this is easy? Not quite. First, she had to bone up on governing. Then she had to ramrod legislation through the corridors of power. And finally, she had to mop up all those messes that erupted while her hands were on the tiller.
It would be entirely appropriate for Governor Palin to climax her impressive career with a layover on the White House. We know she’ll do a bang-up job.
Vote Palin! Stand Up for Truth!
Assholes love all parties, of course, since they are a license to act like what they are. But they’re especially fond of this time of year because their partying can take on a new dimension of spirituality that kicks it into a nethersphere of offensiveness that can push the prick into the territory of office legend.
