Mom hires stripper for son’s 16th birthday, wins Mom of the Year award.


The New York mother who hired a female stripper for Tucker’s sweet sixteen party has won the coveted Mom of the Year award, and has been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physiology. Naomi Tinybush raised the ire of the other attendees’ parents by exposing their minors to such “horrible” things as an oil-slicked buttocks and tassels instead of more appropriate things like violent video games and bloody MMA fights to near death.

“My son came home walking funny and spent nearly thirty minutes in the shower,” mother of little Tommy told us. “He had a crazed look on his face when he walked in, and we knew something was up. My husband suggested he may have dipped into our Jack Daniels supply again, but when we confronted Tommy, all he could mutter is something about a woman named Destiny. My husband demanded an explanation, but Tommy showed him a Polaroid instead. I’m not sure what was in that picture, but my husband assured me everything was OK. Come to think of it, we sure fucked a lot that night. Hm.”

At the mall, we ran into a group of the boys who attended Tucker’s party. The popular sentiment was that the event was “epic.”

Spencer said, “Tucker is like the coolest fucking dude ever. I used to think he was a dweeb because, like, his lips are always stained Slurpee blue, and he picks his ears a lot. But, dude, his mom … totally hot. She tongued kissed that stripper. Fuck. I almost fainted.”

Jordan added, “I got to touch Suzie Cartright’s boobs at the fall dance, but they were nothing like Destiny’s. Hers were like huge. She stuck my head between her gazongas and told me to motor boat her. I don’t fucking know what that is, but fuck. Suzie’s tits suck. I hope they grow.”

Max commented, “Destiny bent over and I seriously could almost see her axe wound. It was fucking awesome. She didn’t have much hair on it either. Damn. Have you ever stuck a finger in one? I bet it feels like warm pudding. She almost let me. Man, I can still smell her perfume. Gives me a boner just thinking about it.”

Marcus told us, “I mean, she was hot and all, but like, you know, I’ve had better. You know what I’m sayin’? Shit. For my sixteenth, my neighbor Laquinta let me put it in, like the whole way.”

When asked if the boys were in the mall to get the popular new video game, Crisis 3, we were surprised by their response.

“Nah, I’m done with killing things,” Spencer told us. “It’s kind of a fucked up thing to expose teenagers to, isn’t it? It tries to make violence cool. Fuck that. I want to see more titties.”

“Yeah, and I want to learn how to give a girl a blowjob,” Jordan added.

The other fellas laughed and slapped him in the head, knocking off his flat-billed cap.

“You dickweed, Jordan,” Max corrected. “Chicks don’t get blowjobs; they give them. They like grab your junk and blow cool air on it and it feels good.”

“Shut up, asswad,” Marcus redirected. “Y’all are fucking stupid. You gotta turn a shawty over and shove a thumb in they butt. That’s what they like.”

Tucker’s mother, Naomi, could not be reached for comment as she was busy baking marijuana brownies for her daughter’s graduation party.

The Elf on the Shelf is a creepy stool-pigeon.

The object of this “toy,” as I understand it, is to convince your children that the doll is watching them to make sure they behave, otherwise it will tap into your home’s WiFi and let Santa know. If this works in your home, you need to ask yourself if the ends (good behavior) justify the means (your deception and the kid’s gullibility).

I have a great idea: How about instead of a doll talking to an imaginary being, put a fucking WiFi camera in the room? Yes, they make those. Then, show your runt the video feed on your iPhone. The stupid toy costs $30, so the camera is only a few dollars more, and here’s the hook: it’s REAL!

Stop lying to your kids now so they don’t spend their late teens strolling around my neighborhood in black pants and suspenders, interrupting my workday while handing out silly religious propaganda. Stop with the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Pedo-Claus.

Imagine if children of today fully embrace this Elf on the Shelf thingie, and begin developing adult prototypes. It would be worse than Mormonism.

  • Elf in the Backseat – Making sure you don’t pinch Susie’s boobies until they’re ripe.
  • Elf in the Dorm Room – Reporting home to your parents that you spend the book money they send you on pot, cheap beer, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Oh, and you masturbate too much.
  • Elf on a Bar Stool – Telling your wife or girlfriend that you continue tipping over 30% in a futile effort to have sex with the bartender.
  • Elf in the Workplace Bathroom – Telling all your coworkers it was you.
  • Elf in the Cubicle – Yes, she is shopping and he is looking at celebrity tits.
  • Elf in the Shower – Nothing goes down that drain except soap and loose hair, Mister.
  • Elf at the Gym – Texting from the elliptical is not a fucking exercise.
  • Elf in the Shopping Cart – M&Ms are not vegetables.
  • Elf at the Lakers Game – Shoots foul shots as well as Dwight Howard and he costs over $19 million less.
  • Elf in Kate’s Womb – “King me, motherfucker!”

I’m going to steal two of these silly dolls, pose them in various sex positions, take pictures, and post them on my blog in an effort to desensitize the Republicans about gay marriage. If Santa’s elves can wear such devilish grins while invading each other’s innards, maybe it ain’t so bad.

If I am invited to any house parties this year (unlikely, since I took an upper-decker last year and drew penises on the mirrors using bar soap), I’ll hunt for the Elf. I’ll kidnap that little creep, torture it, send pictures, and demand ransom. I’ll bury that prick up to his saggy cap in cat litter. I’ll microwave the munchkin. I’ll tie the brat to the bumper of my car and parallel park. I’ll tape it to the fence of Middle School playground, and taunt it. Don’t think I won’t. I have a dark side and low tolerance for magic tricks.

(Don’t buy yours here.)

Only 365 shopping days left until Christmas.

Did Santa bring everything you wished for? I took the lazy route this year and mailed gift cards. Much as I have become a “White Elephant” gift expert (booze always wins), I predict my gift cards were some of the most highly appreciated. The worst gift is usually clothing. In fact, clerks at Macy’s should be trained to discourage it so they don’t have a stampede of returns tomorrow.

“Hello, Sir. Is this lavender cardigan a gift?” she asked knowingly.
“It is.”
“Put it back.”
“Turn your blind ass around and put this back where you found it.”
“But it’s for my mother.”
“I don’t care if it’s for your poodle. Put it back and I’ll start processing the gift card you’re going to send instead.”
“But …”
“No ‘but.’ If you give this to your mother, she’ll smile, thank you, and need to waste gas and time returning it. She’ll stand in line with a group of similarly annoyed mothers, and yours truly will suffer the brunt of her attitude as I process the return.”
“She likes sweaters.”
“Ah, I don’t doubt you. Here’s the thing: She likes sweaters that she picks out. You don’t want her to pick out your jeans, do you?”
“Well …”
“You don’t. When you give her a gift card, she can toss it into her purse and not think about it until she happens to be shopping. A return will wear on her as she reminds herself to bring it and the receipt the next time she’s in the area.”
“Maybe I could buy her perfume.”
“Are you not listening? Your choices are cash or a gift card. Cash shows no creativity or thought and it will probably go toward her electric bill. Hence, a gift card.”
“Good boy.”

Another fine gift is scotch. It never spoils and actually improves with age–good stuff. In these rough economic times, I’ve fallen in love with mini-bottles. I can easily load my pockets with a few and save $7 a drink when I’m out. Sure, road sodas are a bit ghetto, but a man has got to drink and pay his mortgage. Did you know that Bailey’s now comes in mini-bottle size? Fo’ shizzle! Pick up a few and bring them to Starbucks. Twist off the cap and dump away into your burnt, brown morning speed. It’s such an improvement and so festive! If the barista tries to charge you a corkage fee, kick him in the gonads and run.

There are only 365 shopping days until Christmas, my friend. Remember: booze or gift cards.

P.S. Before you’re tempted to correct my math, note that 2012 is a leap year.


The decisive moment arrives after a few dates when it’s time to adjust your strategy. Depending on how much you like the person, you should pursue, trail slightly, or lay way back. Be careful though as you can scare away your prey if you’re reckless. Then again, if it is your intention to ditch the datee, your actions could inadvertently create a love leech.

For example, if you are frightened and falling for this person, your tendency to overdo it could leave you sobbing. Therefore, men, if this is you, don’t:

  • Buy her jewelry.
  • Say those three words.
  • Book any fancy vacations for two.
  • Tell her or any of your male friends.
  • Buy her a puppy.
  • Introduce her at a work function as your girlfriend.
  • Ask her father anything other than which scotch he prefers.
  • Send flowers to her workplace.
  • Tell her she’s the best lover you ever had.
  • Over-call or text her.

Ladies can play this game poorly as well. It’s OK to tell your mom, sister, and best friends “he might be the one,” but for fuck’s sake, don’t tell him. Also, don’t:

  • Leave anything at his house other than a hair pull. That means no underwear, toothbrushes, or lotions.
  • Show up unannounced at one of his boys’ nights out.
  • Discuss finances.
  • Forget to take your pill.
  • Touch his penis while he’s driving. Wait. OK, scratch that one.
  • Ask strangers to take pictures of the happy couple, and if you already did that, never freaking ever make said picture your mobile phone wallpaper or profile picture.
  • Book a couples massage.
  • Rearrange his stuff or clean anything.
  • Ask how many lovers he has had. You don’t want to know and he’d lie anyway.
  • Email him love quotes.

Trailing the object of your desire is the most successful method. It keeps the other person engaged without feeling pestered. Do this by:

  • Not sending more than two unanswered texts or anything over 140 characters.
  • Maintaining nights where you are unavailable.
  • Leaving before breakfast.
  • Resisting the urge to check his or her cell phone and keeping yours inaccessible.
  • Leaving your online dating profiles visible, but inactive … for now.
  • Using the “I was drunk” excuse to cover your ass when doing or saying something stupid in the heat of the moment.
  • Suggesting you each do your own thing and maybe meet up later.
  • Maintaining radio silence while attending a bachelor/bachelorette party.
  • Insisting there is separation of lovers and relatives.
  • Leaving some of the ex’s belongings around the house to be discovered.

Chasing the next ex away is simple. Be sure to add a sprinkle of meanness into the breakup so the person doesn’t become that stray animal that follows you everywhere. Here’s a great line you can borrow:

  • “There’s no chemistry so if your phone doesn’t ring, it’s probably me.”