The Nutri-Cig! By Schmokes

It’s finally here, folks. A cigarette and a meal in one! Introducing Nutri-Cig by Schmokes, trusted producers of other favorite stink stalks such as Shin-Dig Schmokes, the first 8 inch cigarette for those party candy smoke breaks at the club. Nutri-Cigs come in three mouth-watering flavors: Ham n’ Eggs, Taco Bell Taco and, of course, Bubble Gum, in recognition of your earliest smoke, the bubble gum cigarette!

7 Reasons Why Men Don’t Wear Lace

1. Cuz most straight men are pathetically homophobic and even fashion-conscious gay men don’t seem to favor lace. Thus, a scarcity of lace on the bods of the menfolk. A+B=C, get it?

2. Because blue and green and gray lace, for example, are hard to find. Those are manly colors, and manly men don’t want to forgo them for like-a-virgin white, nursemaid cream or pretty in pink. Duh. It’s a simple color diversity problem.

3. Because most men still don’t recognize what many women know to be true: it hurts to be beautiful. That’s right. Do you think women LIKE the feel of itchy lace on our tits and ass? Not really, but we do it because it’s pretty, goddammit. This is an aesthetics appreciation problem.

4. Lace is delicate. It rips easily. Many men enjoy how easily it rips from a female form, but wouldn’t stand for such flimsiness in their own choice of attire. Why? Because many men (oh boy, I sure am enjoying all these generalizations!) practically need to live in a brown canvas jump suit, or any other material that can handle profuse scratching, farting and not show grease stains.

5. Because Calvin Klein still won’t design lacey men’s underwear (I’m thinking steely gray, silk lace thong briefs- very sexy and simple). I’m not sure why. I’ve tried to persuade him, but goddammit, he won’t fucking listen. I just wanna see billboards of men in lace underwear. Is that too much to ask?

6. Because there’s no Victoria’s Secret for men. Really, now . . . it’s just pure discrimination. Hello! Ever heard of man-gerie!

7. Because Lacey is a girl’s name. Women don’t wear any fabrics called Bob or Stew or Herbert, so there ya go . . . it’s a nomenclature problem.

Picking Your Nose While Driving . . .

That's right, I saw you. I didn't want to see you, but I did, so now I have to sound off about this.

Here's a tip. If you're going to pick your nose and eat it while people may be watching, please have the courtesy not to display the fact that you obviously relish your little bout with rhinotillexomania (hey, there's a word for you- look it up and learn about yourself). I had an upset stomach this morning when I stopped at the intersection when I casually looked over at you in the car next to me and watched in paralyzed horror as you smiled after you popped a big messy one in your mouth. That almost sent me over the edge.

I know of the so-called health benefits touted by geeky, disgusting doctors about the supposed immune-boosting benefits of eating your mucus. Despite these claims, I still don't think it's necessary to snarf on your snot in public. Go ahead, pick till your heart's content, put it in a jar or hanky, even, for later enjoyment in the privacy of your home or some other place where innocent bystanders don't have to be subjected to your depravity. But please, please, please don't let me see a green goblin lurking at the corner of your mouth. Ever again.

10 Great Things about Popov Vodka

1. It may not be Hangar, but it's on sale now for only $10.99 at Long's for 1.75 liters. Let me repeat that, folks: 1.75 liters in a handy dandy plastic grip jug! This is so great, because you know how important it is to be able to easily grab the bottle from the fridge in the morning when you're crawling on the floor in desperate need of some hair 'o the dog. You really need all the help you can get at that point.

2. Because it's Russian, or at least that's what the mysterious makers of Popov want you to believe, I mean, they weren't kidding around with the black silhouettes of Russian style monasteries against a red background. Picture of Russian skyline on bottle and common, easily recognizable Russian surname = Russian. It's that simple.

3. Because you drank it in high school. Why change a good thing? You thought you were pretty cool then, maybe you can be cool again for only $10.99. What have you got to lose aside from a few brain cells? Don't be a pansy. Russian people don't like pansies.

4. It's a taste of Russia (see cultural authenticity above). Russian people drink vodka and they don't spend $50 a bottle so why should you? Drink up and save!

5. You can reuse the handy dandy plastic grip jug when you're done with the vodka. Really. Take it to the gym and share with friends, after all, you can put a whole 1.75 liters in that thing AND it has a cool, edgy picture of a Russian skyline. You'll have a whole slew of new friends.

6. While we're on the whole drinking-Popov-makes-you-cool thing, why not try sporting the handy dandy plastic grip bottle at other social events or in public? Make sure to keep only water in it, of course, as drinking in public is illegal. Also, brace yourself for the warm reception you'll receive from passerby, especially those sitting on the sidewalk with blankets and stuff.

7. We're talking about image here. Image is everything, or haven't you heard. Do you really want people to think you're one of those annoying connoisseur types with a Dean and Deluca spice kit who subscribes to Food and Drink Snobs of the World Quarterly? Or, do you wanna be cool, ya know, punk rock, urbane with a touch of real-world humility? You can either hang with the cool kids or go crying to your mama.

8. Once you really get down with your 1.75 liters of Popov vodka, you can then enjoy Popov 100 proof! Another member of the Popov vodka family! Whoo hoo! You're gonna need it to get your party on anyway, as once you finish that handy dandy plastic grip bottle of the beginner's stuff it's going to take a wee bit more to cop a buzz. That's just the breaks.

9. It goes really well with Camel cigarettes, or any other quick burn smoke. Really, give it a try, even if you're not a smoker, you can always start, I mean, you DO wanna be one of the cool kids right? Besides, once you drink a french jelly jar full of the Pop, you'll smoke anything.

10. I drink it, genius. So get with the program and party barbiturate bimbo style!

Hipster Complex

Hipsters, I know what you're thinking. You think you're so cool. You have greasy hair, big sunglasses and a fine collection of skinny jeans and vintage T-shirts. You like vinyl. You stutter when you talk. You have cultivated a dead look in your eyes that is partially due to the totally cool, hip late night you had being a scenester hipster and doing a shit load of designer drugs. Your voice is horse from too many cigarettes, the almost-empty package of which is rolled up on your skinny arm in the folds of said vintage T-shirt.

But guess what, hipster. I know where you shop. You have to shop for your clothes just like everyone else, and that belt looks awfully similar to something I saw at Target. It's okay. Don't be ashamed that you don't always have the dough or the cunning to sniff out hipster fashionista ensembles out of the dumpster or the couture boutique. You're only human. And let's face it, sometimes you just need a package of white socks.

You see, hipster, I sympathize, because I'm not a hipster. I know hipsters. I have hipster friends, but I am not of their ilk. I am familiar with your materialistic trappings, your vague and cutting edge raison d'être, your vegan shoe collection and indie sensibilities . . . and I won't judge you for buying Starfucks frappuccinos or caring about politics or secretly worshipping bubblegum hip hop princesses. I won't judge you because I know you suffer from a particular malady known as the hipster complex. It's okay to talk about it. Let it out. Maybe, just maybe you can reconcile your need to be hip and crass with your softer, fodder-for-the-masses loving self. One can only hope.

The Dark Friend

My dark friend and I have become fast friends once again. You know, we were on and off for a while, seeing each other sporadically, but now it's hot and heavy . . . err, actually, it's over ice, three shots that is, topped off with more ice.

Me everyday at the local coffee hole: "Hi. Three shots of espresso over lots of ice topped off with more ice. I like it ICY! Please."

In short, I like the dark friend cold. I like the dark friend fresh. I really like the dark friend to be organic, too. But mostly, I like three shots of the dark friend each and every day.

I started drinking coffee at the tender age of 15 when I discovered two of my true passions in life: coffee and books. At age sixteen I discovered what at the time seemed like a normal occurence in the coffee world: the most divinely perfect iced mocha in creation. I went to high school in a one-horse town with a hippy deli/coffee shop walking distance from campus. The husband-wife team who owned and ran the establishment put a lot of love into all of the things they made, most notably, the coffee drinks. Little did I know that such a perfect iced mocha was a rarity to be deeply appreciated and cherished. In my innocence I assumed that divine iced mochas were readily available, especially beyond the podunk reaches of my hometown. I have since confirmed, over and over again, that I was mistaken. Even in the most worldly of locations I have failed to find an iced mocha that has matched the perfection of those early days. The deli/coffee shop responsible for such a magical creation has long since closed upon the divorce of the couple . . . sometimes, I feel like tracking them down for an interview to see if one of them would be willing to impart the secrets of that perfect balance of espresso, chocolate, milk and ice that was strong but not too strong, sweet but not too sweet, rich but not too rich . . . each and every time.

You see, it is that iced mocha that truly sparked my life-long love affair with the dark friend. Of course now, with the perfect mocha remaining ever elusive and high in calories and sugar, I opt for three swift, unadulterated shots. Mmmm . . . . dark friend? Will you be mine forever?

Beer Delivery Service

Okay, I live in a rural area and I'm lazy. And I like beer. Fine beers, that is. I'll take German and Belgian beers over the micro-brewed crap that is pervasive. Heck, I like Mexican beer more than American beer, which is inspired by German tradition. When it comes down to my desire to have beer delivered to my front doorstep, I'd take just about anything. Am I a beer-aholic? Probably, but that question isn't relevant here. What's relevant is my keen desire for beer delivered to my front door. I know I'm not alone. I know there are others out there who desire similarly. Why doesn't this business exist? Please, if you're reading this post (which I know no one is) can you please start a beer delivery service in the Northern San Francisco Bay Area? Please? Send me an email. Let's chat. Shit. I might even be a good business partner. Let me end this post with a prayer: "Please, please beer angels . . . help me to realize this all-important dream of having beer delivered (in tandem with pizza, authentic Mexican tacos, Indian food, Korean food and other delicious food items/cuisines) to me in the COMFORT OF MY HOME! For Chrissakes! This isn't that hard! Business people/entrepeneurs: TAKE NOTICE! I need beer at home. Now. Shit. If you're willing to bring me beer in Petaluma, I will promise to tip handsomely and even offer you a toke, or a free song. Sound good?