You're welcome readers

Be back soon kids. I love each and every one of you like you were my own children. Except you reader #27. I hate you. You were adopted. And a mistake. We mistakenly adopted you.

Spin cycle

My brother is a prick. Not because he is an asshole, but because he is always right. And when he is right that usually makes me wrong. He has a way of cutting to the chase like nobody Else's business. And he knows me so well that he can push the right buttons. Unlike me, he is succinct. He is a data driven guy and his analytical mind delivers biting commentary like the following:

You should be spinning like a top, but instead you are like two dirty work boots tumbling in the drier. You need to get your shit together.

Hmmph. The defense rests. 10-4. Roger that. Message sent. That's a copy.

I don't know if you guys read the twats on the right column, but I was in 7-Eleven last night at 7:30pm on my lunch break and legitimately considered getting arrested on a misdemeanor charge so that I wouldn't have to go back to work. That's insane. I wish I were lying, but I saw the cop in line and wondered what kind of commotion I could stir up so he would have to put me in a pretzel and slap the cuffs on me.

As I reflected about that comment, forever indelible on the www, my friend Chris inboxed me (the Gen Y term for someone sending you a message on Facebook) wondering if I wanted to go surfing. Of course, I couldn't but offered that he use one of my boards. He did, and said he had a blast just getting out there on the water. I was psyched, but also became very sad about not being able to join him.

So my plan, although not financially sound, is to become a mediocre employee. I've given this place (don't mention the name because our attorneys are threatening termination for any employee who disparages the family) too much with little in return. Sure I get a paycheck and that is a fair exchange, but it seems a little too one-sided recently. I am like a girlfriend who is dating a good looking dude who just wants to hang with his boys rather than watch Netflix and order Italian food. So I am going to give it my all between the hours of 9-5, but peace the hell out knowing full well that I can't change him. He is what he is. And yes, I chose a man as my metaphor because it feels very much like I am being dominated. And when I say man, I mean a horse of a man. OK, I mean a horse. He's a fucking horse.

I lost the entire summer of 2008 to him, and I sure as hell won't repeat that mistake again. Considering that we've traded weather patterns with Seattle I haven't lost too much time. And September is the new August.

I am going to have the best summer. You can find me at the beach, with my shirt on, soaking up the sun. I won't look like Powder again. Nor a guy who still has his hospital bracelet on after being discharged from a two week stay in the ICU.

It's on.

I fell into a well

Actually, that might be a better alternative than my current existence. I could at least ask the rescue workers to divert their flashlights while I masturbated at the bottom of the well.

Instead I am advertising the shit out of things. Like, a lot. In a cubicle. It's awesome.

Also, here is a photograph of a Zorse:



See you on the other side folks, and thanks for reading. More posts to come. I swear.

Julia's Ark

We all remember Noah. He took a picture of himself everyday for six years. One of the coolest modern art exhibitions I've ever seen. His little clip really had an impact on me. It forced me to question my own mortality and the reason for my existence. The music was spot-on too. A complete grand slam in both concept and execution.


But fuck that guy. Julia Roy just posted this video of herself, and like Elisha Grey with the telephone patent I don't know who Noah is anymore. She is my Alexander Graham Bell.

I would pretend to like cats for this girl.

Extra starch

This morning, on the way to one of the saddest funerals I've ever been to in my life, I had yet another embarrassing experience. I was driving with my parents, and my aunt to make it extra awkward, over to the church. We stopped off at Starbucks to get our caffeine fix. Tall Pikes Place with two Sweet n Lows, a LARGE (he refuses to say venti) black decaf. LARGE, for good measure. And of course the venti iced black.

The place was packed. I had a nice exchange with a customer as we waited in line. The man behind the counter was pleasant and efficient. I made eye contact with a woman who was typing away on her laptop. I smiled as I poured half and half into my aunt's coffee. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw a handicap man limping his way to the front door. I decided to double time it and open the door for him.

Because I was carrying a tray I kicked the door open and held it wide open with my foot.

My pleasure, sir.

I smiled because it felt nice to do something good for someone—especially someone in need. I took in a deep breath and counted my blessings as the crisp spring air soothed my body. Despite being devastated by the loss in the family—I felt alive—and skipped to the car. I felt loose. Free.

I handed out coffees as I climbed into the car. I placed my coffee on the floor and that's when I noticed my balls sprawled out on the passenger seat.

Those are my balls.

About 7 seconds later, alarm signals rang out. Someone pulled the fire alarm. We have an emergency on our hands, but dumbass isn't getting the full picture.

Those are MY BALLS!

I am not sure what I said, but my father looked over at his adult son sitting in the passenger seat with his balls hanging out of his pants.

OHHHH my god he shrieked as he recoiled in horror.

My mother and aunt were curious and kept trying to peer into the front seat while I begged them to not to look.

What's happening? Why are you bent over like that? Are you hurt? What's the matter?! What is happening? Do you need to go to the bathroom? What?

I had a giant hole in my pants from the seat of my pants all the way to the fly. It must have ripped when I held the door open for the handicap guy, the fucking asshole.

We decided to stop at a dry cleaners. I hopped out of the car and made eye contact with a man who was waiting for the bus. Like Brittney I showed him my junk and he shook his head in disgust. Nobody should start their day like that, but I am not used to being ladylike.

The woman behind the counter informed me that the seamstress wasn't on-duty that morning. Realizing the dire situation, she pointed me in the direction of her competitor's down the street.

We drove down the street and I hopped out of the car, legs closed this time, and ran into the cleaners. I explained my situation to the woman behind the counter. She was cold as ice. She said her seamstress wouldn't be in until 10am and there was nothing she could do. I asked if there were anyone on duty who could help out in a pinch. I reiterated the fact that I was NOT wearing underwear and I was expected at a funeral in a few minutes. Nope. Complete indifference. Not even a sympathetic shrug.

So if all of my 52 readers, 20 of which actually live in Boston, boycott Dependable Cleaners in East Milton Square we will show them who is boss. We will vote with our wallets thank you very much.

I ran back to the car and decided it was best if I head home and change out of my pants. No need going on another futile mission to find a seamstress at this hour.

My mother, however, thought my suit looked nice and wondered if we shouldn't just try just one more dry cleaners before going all the way home. So we stopped at the cleaners up the street from my house and I ran in with lowered expectations.

The kid behind the counter couldn't have been nicer. He told me the seamstress wasn't on the clock yet, but he'd take care of me. Somehow. He went in the back but I could hear him from the front.

I have this guy out front. He ripped his pants and is on his way to a funeral. Oh, and he isn't wearing any underwear. Yeah, that's right. No underwear.

They all had a good laugh.

Julio came out and told me to drop my drawers and he would sew me up in no time. I stood there like a complete asshole as I watched him work the machine. He did use brown thread on my black pants, but I was in no position to argue. I quickly put my pants back on and inquired about the cost of the repair. He shook his head and assured me that there was no charge.

I thanked him profusely and promised to bring all of my dry cleaning there for as long as I live. You should too. They are on Billings Rd in North Quincy.

They are the balls. Sorry.

Cover your mouth

Nope. I just don't think I'll grow tired of the hilarious swine flu jokes. Anytime someone coughs I cringe. Not because I am afraid of SARS II: Judgment Day, but because I know a swine flu joke is lingering just around the corner.

Out of control

Craigslist is not just for serial killers, hookers and thieves:

My worst nightmare has come true.

My girlfriend is out of town for Mother's Day and my plans for an all-night marathon of How It's Made, SportsCenter, Spike TV, any Japanese game show, Modern Marvels, Ask This Old House, Dancing with the Stars, MythBusters and anything on Adult Swim was ruined by one clumsy move from the kitchen to the living room while I tried to carry a large pizza, a beer (in a koozie,) and the remote control. The remote control slipped out of my hand and exploded when it hit the floor. Someone obviously rigged it with explosives. I tried everything to revive it, but alas, the beautiful blinking red lights indicating TV, CABLE, POWER, and the 4th thing are no longer with us. It is gone. My other remote, sadly, hasn't been seen since August. She ran away. Teenagers.

The short of it is, I am sans remote and I am willing to pay for your spare (or primary) remote. Five times the value.

If you are interested, we can meet up somewhere in Quincy in exchange for $25 CASH. Also, please show me the courtesy of not killing me, and I will reciprocate in kind.



We (Opie and me) got a few responses. All, but one, were really sweet. Most offered a extra remote for free. One woman offered to lend me her remote for the night because she was heading to bed.

I think this was a terrific learning experience for me. I need to be less jaded about my fellow man and must keep an open mind. Who knew so many people were so benevolent? In my own neighborhood no less. And who knew I was into BDSM?

Tower of Terror

Today I left my team in the lobby and took the elevator back to my floor. About 10 seconds later we heard the most horrific sound imaginable. The freight elevator had a freefall from the 24th floor to the 10th floor. The emergency mechanism kicked in and ripped the inside of the elevator to shreds. It sounded awful. Like pool stick across face gross. It souned like some died. For a few minutes everyone thought I was a gonner.

Alas, more stupid posts to come.

Also, the rumor mill has the elevator falling from the 47th floor to the parking garage even though our building only has 33 floors.

Sorry folks, park's closed

Dear 53 frequent readers:

Insufficient Funds will be closed* from 4/19-4/27 for yearly maintenance. Pardon the inconvenience**.

In my absence please visit The Hofbrau† for any questions or concerns.

Thanks,
The Management††

*Insufficient Funds reserves the right to make posts from the Dominican Republic should the opportunity present itself.
**It's not like I haven't left you high and dry before so this should come as no surprise to you.
† Insufficient Funds is not responsible for the content provided on The Hofbrau.
†† We don't have any management here at Insufficient Funds Worldwide Headquarters, but it seemed like the right thing to say. We have no overhead, and we expect to turn a profit in the year 2034. For investment opportunities please send any inquiries to matt617 AT gmail DOT commmmmmmmmmm.

Ear muffs!

We all know by now that I have a healthy (at least I think so) obsession with the female genitalia. Recently a friend mentioned that Barstool Sports, a blog I don't allow myself to read for fear of repeating their content, had a link to a website called Guess Her Muff.

The site is exactly as billed, and the user is presented with a non-nude before photo by which they must predict the grooming techniques of the subject. The categories are Natural, Trimmed, Patch, Landing Strip, Brazilian, or Shaved Bald.

Below is a sample of the women who participated (willing or unwilling one may never know) in the study, and brings to the forefront some of the obstacles one faces while making decisions. Are they European? Age? From the South? Fakies? Can they ride the subway for a reduced fare?


In true down and dirty journalistic fashion I decided, for the sake of my readers, to test my self-proclaimed expertise in this area. And I think everyone will be surprised by the results.

Total number of subjects 346
Margin of error +/- 7.5%.

Surprisingly, I only got 28.32% correct. Slightly less, but no more disappointing than my Calculus exam.

In full disclosure, I held myself to the highest scientific standards, and when any answer was held in question I decided not to count it toward the correct column. Because of bad camera angles, poor quality, and tight cropping I was unable to validate my findings to a precise number.

Also, I do believe there is a fair amount of subjectivity in my discoveries. For example, what I may consider to be a landing strip others may consider a patch. Sort of like pouring a gin and tonic or any other cocktail, one must factor in personal preference. As with alcohol, the same measuring techniques of finger counting is applied. In my book, a landing strip should be considered one finger width or less.

Others may disagree.

On the other side of the spectrum, some of the women had what I consider a natural cut, but in this arena I had to categorize them in the Trimmed section.

Another wrinkle in my study was the slight nuances between Shaved Bald and Brazilian. Some photos did not allow the proper perspective to gauge between the two categories while others unfortunately did. Like too much.

Below is a graph that will certainly preclude me from doing something really important in my future, but also an accurate visual of how the subjects, and arguably the rest of the world, maintains their nether region:

And what post of mine would conclude without a self-deprecating jab? In college I used to shave my pubic hair into wild shapes. Sorry Smally, Matty O, Schlichte, Smitty and Flinny. I know you guys shaved your beards and sideburns with those clippers. Hopefully, with the amount of time that has passed this little of knowledge won't sting as bad.

I did this to mess with my girlfriend at the time who already found me quite revolting. On Valentines day I sculpted a nice romantic heart. I also cropped a shamrock looking thing on St. Patrick's Day. It proved to be more difficult than expected so it looked like a club. Another time, and this was my favorite, I created an arrow pointing down to my peen. As in, here it is. Do something with it. I thought it was a riot, but it fell on deaf ears.

I would forget about my little creations, but I wasn't naked in public that often so I figured my secret was safe. However, one time after a hockey game I found myself in the showers alone. I always got undressed the slowest on my team. I have flat feet, among other attractive physical features, and my skates hurt like hell. I'd spend a good 10 minutes moaning in agony after the game as my feet regained circulation. By the time I hit the showers everybody was gone. A pleasant but unintended consequence. However, on this particular night the opposing team, who shared the same showers, came into the prison-like room. Completely unaware I was soaping up with the water hitting my back.

What's up guys? Good game tonight. Who's #14? That prick really crushed me on that open-ice check in the 2nd period. Clean hit.

My sportsmanship was met with absolute silence. I rinsed off and walked out of the room. As I left I heard an uproar of laughter. It isn't that small I thought. Certainly doesn't warrant that sort of reaction. I figured they were pissed because we beat them and were just being dicks. Then I heard one of them say:

What a fag! What was that? An arrow?!

They all laughed. Oh right. The arrow. Oh well.