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Which is better, boxers or briefs?

The man who invented briefs should have his manly parts pounded into a muffin tin with a three-pound mallet every day for all of fucking eternity. Now look, briefs are okay for about twelve men on the planet. But if no one except a leprechaun can see the waistband of your briefs past your gargantuan, sweaty belly, you aren’t one of those men. When most of us drag on a pair of those miserable white testicle-stranglers, our hairy asses look like the twin moons of Mars. If you look like Michelangelo sculpted you from the nipples down, you might be one of those twelve men, but only if you don’t mind getting your dick crammed into your shorts like a giant toy snake into a god damned peanut can. And even if you aren’t hung like a Brontosaurus, you should worry that if you twist your willie up like that it may stay that way. So if you think wearing a straitjacket for your damned groin makes you look like some unstoppable cyclone of sex, you’re wrong. And if you think you’re charming when you get drunk and spray tequila fumes into a woman’s face from two inches away, you’re not, so cut it the fuck out.

I couldn’t find any pictures of briefs that didn’t make me nauseated, so here’s a picture of a kitten. Its face looks like mine did while I was searching for pictures of briefs.

If you want me to answer a question for you, just leave it in a comment. That would be polite of you, and I’ll remember you in my prayers along with Sir Sean Connery and the Laphroaig distillery.

Why does beer make you happy?

Because we don’t know what the fuck is going to happen next. We can’t control a damn thing, but beer lets us think we can. Oh, if you think we control the shit that happens, tell that to the bastard who jogged five miles a day for 20 years before his heart blew up like hand grenade while he was taking a god damn lavender-mango bubble bath. Tell that to the lassie who remembered to wear  her seat belt every day, and then a short-landing 727 smashed her car flatter than a damned frisbee. But beer lets us think we’re in control. We can buy beer that’s domestic, imported, cheap, expensive, really fucking expensive, dark, stout, low calorie, low alcohol, dense as a damned fudge brownie, and all around beer for getting blasted and going home with anything that has two legs and a hole. But none of that matters, because in reality one beer is no different from another when it really counts, just like a Rottweiler with a floppy ear is no different from a Rottweiler with an extra-floppy ear when they’re both clamped on to your damned groin. No matter what beer you’re drinking, this is what happens: buy beer, drink beer, feel good, drink more beer, do shit you wouldn’t normally do, drink more beer, act like a fucking idiot, drink more beer, puke so much that your friends would rather burn their house down than ever use that bathroom again. That’s not going to change, but you get to choose from a constellation of beers that make you think something different may happen this time, and that’s why beer makes us happy.

Happiness is a cold beer and a blind refusal to accept reality.

Why are shoes like crack for women?

Some people will tell you that not all women like shoes, but they’re full of shit. Every woman I’ve ever known would hit a puppy with a sledgehammer for a pair of stiletto heels that made her look like Catwoman—and I mean Julie Newmar, the real Catwoman, and not one of these other half-assed catwomen that Hollywood has shoved down our damned throats like a chunk of rancid sausage. Women like shoes because a sexy shoe is a sexy shoe, and they don’t call them fuck-me pumps for no reason. And it’s not that they want to get groped by every dumb son of a bitch with a big belt buckle and a tiny dick. It’s that looking like liquid sex with flames on top is its own reward. The universe can take its spoiled milk, and bird shit on the windshield, and grunting boyfriends who’d rather talk about cars and baseball than spend 10 more minutes in the sack tickling the old kitten, and the universe can go fuck itself as long as she’s got a red patent leather boot strapped half-way up her thigh.

Julie Newmar on Broadway. Not exactly Catwoman, but look at those shoes.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

What’s wrong with kids today?

Not a god damn thing. But there’s a hell of a lot wrong with adults like you and me. First of all, let’s get the “that’s not real music/sparkly vampires are stupid/what’s up with that damned Frankenhole?” crap out of the way. None of us is going to like what our kids like, so just take a pilates class and lower your blood pressure before the top of your skull shoots off like a fucking champagne cork. We think kids are unmotivated, ungrateful, lazy, and ignorant, right? Well, yes the little fuckers are all that, but that shit didn’t just happen to them spontaneously, like pubic hair sprouting, did it? They didn’t wake up one day and decide to eat Count Chocula for breakfast and then turn into a lazy ingrate. You and I led them down this path by giving them every electronic doo dad except an iMasturbtor, and teaching them they’ll do fine in life as long as they don’t think, keep their locker tidy, and check the right boxes on their tests. The good news is that kids today have massive frontal lobes, and whenever they figure out that being an unmotivated, walking lobotomy gets in the way of eating and buying shit off iTunes, they’ll get past it in a cracking hurry without any help from us. So we might start thinking about dropping all this damned indignation before we get old and our kids decide that nobody over 60 deserves a house with running water, or surgery when his heart starts tearing itself apart like a fucking blender with a fork in it.

Adults have book clubs and fantasy football. Kids have this. I know which one looks like more fun to me.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Aren’t all songwriters just plaigarizing Chuck Berry?

Full Question: If there are just 12 “tones” in music, why haven’t we reached the point where music starts repeating tunes? Other than plagiarism?

We haven’t because some smart bastards who could count said so thousands of years ago. I know it seems like we must have run out of ways to put songs together, and I swear K.C. and the Sunshine Band wrote the same fucking song over and over. You’d think every possible song has been written by either Mozart or Chuck Berry. But through the miracle of third grade math we can demonstrate that we’re full of shit. Here’s how it goes: say every song is as simple as “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Forget that laddies like Wagner wrote songs that last 11 hours and can kill a damned rugby team on PCP. Say all songs are that simple, and you can write one using just your twelve “tones” in any order that makes you feel like you’ve spent three hours in a Bangkok whorehouse. Some of those songs would sound like a yak trying to shit a pair of boots, but to hell with it, this is math, so take your god damn beating. How many possible songs do you get? Try 6 Vigintillion songs. That’s a real fucking number, and it’s a 6 in front of 45 zeros, which are enough zeros to make Pythagoras gag. Most of us can’t balance our damned checkbooks, so we can’t begin to comprehend that number. So ask yourself this, if each of those songs was a millimeter long, would they reach all the way around the Earth? To the sun and back? How about to the closest star? Fuck that. They’d reach across the 46 billion light years of the observable universe. And they’d do it 14 quadrillion times. Hell, I can’t imagine that shit either, so try this. Say each of those universes was a grain of sand. Would they cover a football field? You’re god damn right they would—4 miles deep. All that to choose from, and Ringo Starr couldn’t write Octopus’s Garden without ripping off Yellow Submarine? Fucking Englishmen.

Chuck Berry has only written enough songs to reach across two and a half universes.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Why couldn’t the Romans and the English ever beat Scotland?

Full Question: Why could the Romans and the English never totally beat the Scottish in war?

The Romans and English were too damn smart for their own good. They both invaded the shit out of Scotland for hundreds of years, and they gave the Scots a good ass pounding almost every time. Then after some vicious stealing and murder and burning people’s houses down, most of them looked around, got bored, and wandered back south again. The ones who stayed behind built big houses and castles, and they tried to tell the Scots what to do. But when they figured out you can’t get a Scot to do a god damn thing unless you cut his fucking nuts off, they got homesick for the lands of soft beds and stupid peasants, and they dragged their asses back south too. The only ones who invaded Scotland and made a go of it were the Vikings, which is why so many of us have hair redder than a baboon’s ass. They Vikings were stupid as hell, and that’s why they won.

The symbol of Scottish resistance: obstinate, hairy, and happy to just stand there and chew cud until you take your ass home. Photo by Peter van der Sluijs.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Why do celebrities annoy us with their opinions?

Full Question: What force makes celebrities think we pay good money to hear their political views at concerts and shows or events?

Because we’ve seen them sitting on the toilet. Seriously, what big celebrity hasn’t been grunting on the crapper when some moron with a camera bigger than his fucking head popped out from under the sink and snapped off a dozen shots and some jerky video? Thirty minutes later fourth graders are looking at the celebrity’s dangly bits on NationalEnquirer.com, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Google+, Pinterest, YouTube, Drudge, and what’s left of MySpace. Hell, by dinner time your god damn granny will be talking about how they should get that mole on their ass looked at by a dermatologist. So celebrities figure if it’s okay for every son of a bitch on the planet to examine their genitals whenever the fuck they want, then it’s okay for celebrities to spend ninety seconds at their show saying how much they think Rush Limbaugh sucks dick.

Paparazzi burst out from under Jude Law’s bed to shoot photos of his vasectomy scar.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Why are bad things always happening to me?

Bad things are always happening to you because you’re always breathing. Let me rephrase that. Bad things are always happening to every human because they’re always breathing, you dumbass. The same bad things don’t happen to every person on the same day. So when you get fired and the guy next to you doesn’t, you feel like all the bad shit dropped on you. When he gets his face caught in an elevator door the next day, you don’t see it because you’re at the Apple Store buying an iPad with your severance check. You just think all the bad stuff happens to you because you’re a damned whiner. Really, count up the number of times in the last month you’ve posted something on Facebook about how horrible your day is or how mean people are to you, and how you hope the universe turns it around. Is it more than zero? You’re a whiner. Is it more than three? You’re a big fucking whiner. So cut it out. Stop whining, fix the shit you can fix, and help somebody else fix their shit while you’re at it.

Do you think it couldn’t be worse? Maybe just over the hill the same thing is happening with elephants.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Where does rain come from?

Rain is the result of the universe anticipating your destruction. I know people talk about evaporation and condensation and angels weeping and all that bullshit. And you can see clouds up there when it rains, so you know that has something to do with it. Clouds are just the universe’s tool, like big damned sponges that hide geese from pilots. The universe flings rain down on us for no good reason at all. Sometimes rain waters crops so we can eat, and fills lakes so we can drink, and makes our lawn green so the fucking homeowners association stops sending us pissy letters. Sometimes it drowns a bunch of people while washing away orphanages and whorehouses. The universe does it for no god damn reason other than it’s fun to see us race around in circles and crash into shit. Seriously, for the universe it’s better than a cockroach race. So buy flood insurance and a canoe or something.

Rainbows are the universe’s way of saying, “Sorry I washed away your city. But hey, now you can water ski where the elementary school used to be!”

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Is there such a thing as love at first sight?

Damn right there is. There’s also hate at first sight, envy at first sight, and I think you’re a god damned asshole at first sight. Love at first sight means nothing except you think with your groin, and that makes you pretty much like every other person in history, ever since some sweaty cave man reached out and grabbed a cave woman’s tit right after saying hello. You also have “love after I’ve hated you worse than syphilis for a year,” and that’s for people too dainty to admit they liked the way each other smelled the first time they got within 10 feet. Without love at first sight rodents would rule the Earth, because during a two year long courtship you might be stomped by some huge fucking mastodon, have your skull smashed in by some other suitor who doesn’t dick around, or get transferred to a different job in cold, crappy place where none of the movie theaters has more than three screens.

Aye, that’s pretty much what it was like the first time my wife saw me, but without the bad hand gestures and her calling me an asshole.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Why are Scots so cheap?

Scots aren’t cheap, we’re discriminating. After all, a Scotsman will pay a thousand pounds for a fucking kilt, and you can’t exactly call that cheap, can you? People think Scots are cheap because they mostly see us outside Scotland. In Scotland a damn good bottle of whiskey is worth seven hundred pounds, but in Minneapolis I wouldn’t give two dollars and a shake of my dick for a bottle of Wild Turkey. And what kind of god damned idiot would pay eight dollars for a plate of chicken wings? Those are the parts of the chicken any normal person would throw away. And besides all that, when Scots are away from home we just act cheap to try to cheat foreigners because we think they’re all dim.

This is pretty much the ugliest place in Scotland. That’s why Scots don’t want to pay $15 for the Ghost Tour of Albuquerque.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

What’s wrong with sex or cheeseburgers? Especially at the same time?

Sex makes you stupid, and cheeseburgers make you fat. Together they make you fat, stupid and greasy. Sure, most of us are thinking about sex all the damned time. But that’s what makes us stupider than a stuffed wombat and lets every would-be dictator with low testosterone and a limp dick waltz by us and pass laws to throw us in jail for wiping our fucking asses. If we could stop thinking about sex for five minutes a day, those bastards would be cutting our grass and scrubbing piss off our bathroom tile instead of us hiring hard-working, religious people with nice families to do it. Hell, it’s a miracle that saber tooth cats didn’t devour every human on earth while they were humping twenty thousand years ago. And I changed my mind about the fucking cheeseburgers, go ahead and blimp up you want to.

A tower of good.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.

Why is there nothing new in the world?

Greetings. I’m Dougal Falkirk, born in Ballachulich, Scotland, a cracking fine village in the middle of god damn nowhere, and the universe loves me. At least it loves me as much as it loves any man, which is to say, it doesn’t ever think about me too much at all. Some fine people rich enough to buy a lot of whiskey have asked me to share my heaving huge body of knowledge about how the universe works, and to do it in this blog, so here we go then. Ask me questions, and I’ll answer the sons of bitches, and the mysteries of the universe will unfold right fucking there in front of us, if we’re paying attention and not thinking about sex, or a cheeseburger, or some damned thing like that.

Why is there nothing new in the world?

None of us could deal with it. Hell, we wet our damn pants if it rains and the weatherman told us the sun was going to shine today. What do you think we’d do if we woke up and there was a totally new kind of food that you had to absorb through your armpit and crap out of your ear? We wouldn’t like that too much, would we? A $500 dinner at Cordon Bleu would suddenly look as good as eating a chili cheese burrito dipped in gear grease on a filthy table at Taco Bell. What about if the universe reinvented sex so it’s as much fun as a tax audit with Charles Manson? We say we want new stuff, but we’re really terrified of shit we’ve never seen before. Didn’t you learn anything from New Coke?

The world. Full to the brim with not a single damn new thing.

If you have a question you want me to answer later on, then you’re a cheery mince pie of a person, my friend, and I’d buy you a present if I wasn’t as mean as a shark with the clap. But if you leave your question in the comments, I will answer it. I thank you, and may angels sing you to your rest.