I was surfing a series of tubes last night and came across something called the Urban Dictionary. Has anyone ever heard of this? It’s incredible. It’s a virtual dictionary of, get this, slang words. I know, right? Million dollar idea. Kind of like the guy who created this:

Anyway, I came across a whole bevy of new slang words and terms I had never heard before, like “hobosexual” and “Gary Coleman dolls”. But some words were so old I wondered how they could only now have made it into the UD, like “sike” and “dine and dash”. These aren’t new slang terms. They’ve been around since the 80s. I should know since my friend Scotty and I once dined and dashed at our local Denny’s.

We didn’t do it because we were short on money. We didn’t do it because we thought the waiter was a prick. We did it because neither of us had ever done it before and we thought it should be one of those things teenagers do. This was before I became a waiter myself and knew we had to pay out of our own pockets for any checks people skipped out on.

We hatched a plan. Scotty would leave first and go get the car and drive it up near the front door. I would wait two minutes, then casually stroll out the door. I waited those 120 seconds scared I would get caught and go to Denny’s jail, which is probably a place where you have to serve French Slams all night to ungrateful customers like us. (Yes, I used to eat the French Slam all the time.)

I then got up, made for the door, and told myself if I were stopped, I would act indignant and claim unfair oppression, kind of like the time a 7-11 manager accused me of shoplifting a bag of chips. Man, that pissed me off. It was a Twix bar.

I made for the door and as I walked outside, I heard, or thought I heard, a noise. It could have been anything. But to me, it might as well have been the po po. I panicked and ran for the Scotty’s Corvette. Scotty panicked as well and hit the accelerator. I yelled at him, “Open the door, asshole” and the passenger-side door swung open with the car still in motion.

I Dukes of Hazzarded into the car and we took off. He asked me why I ran and I asked him why he started to drive. We laughed and bonded over acting like pussies. I still feel guilty about screwing the poor waiter out of $15 or so, but I’m sure it didn’t bankrupt him.

In any case, dining and dashing is too old a term to be in the UD. Still, the web site does have a lot of other words and terms I haven’t heard of. Since it’s only a matter before these words hit the mainstream, I decided to memorize as many as possible and get a head start on being hip and cool. Like I need it.

The first word I came across was “manther”. This is the male equivalent of a “cougar”. This word was added a week ago and is defined as:

“Single, usually divorced, and at a minimum 10 years older than a cougar.”

I don’t think this word will catch on because there are already words for manthers. They’re “dirty old men”, “Peter Pan complex cases”, and “male bloggers”. Besides, a manther sounds more like some half-man/half-panther genetic freak you’d find in He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. Wait, that might have been Panthor.

A cougar, though, is not a lazy portmanteau but rather a real animal. And a real person: an older woman who goes after younger men. I dated a cougar once. I was 29 and she bought me a beer at a bar while I was playing pool with Baby Bien and my dad.

I don’t remember her exact age, but it was definitely older than 35 and younger than 40. I remember, more than her age, the fact that she had a kid. A son. Whose photo she showed me that night. It didn’t bother me, really. Probably because she was hot and she bought me a beer at a bar. I’m pretty easy when you buy me a beer at a bar. That’s how Foxymoron got me to participate in Movember.

Some people look down on cougars, though, or say unilaterally they would never date one. Why? I have no idea. One of the most attractive women at my last job was this older woman in her 50s I used to see during smoke breaks.

And recently I learned that Jennifer Tilly is 49 years old. Look at her. Does this woman look like a woman nearly half a century old? Hell, I hope I look this good when I’m 49 and I’m a guy.

In the end, though, I think the age difference would have been an issue since I wouldn’t be able to relate to watching the moon landing and she wouldn’t understand what it means to be “rolling deep”.

Hey, that should be an Urban Dictionary word!

If you’re anything like me, you spend most of your time mentally retaliating against those who have wronged you. CVS. Chinese pandas. That homeless guy you bought a sandwich for at 7-11 only to have him look at you suspiciously and ask you, “What is this, ham?” before asking you to go back into the store and get him something else.

I hope you’re not like me, though, because then that would mean being stalked by Gawker. Check it out:

This is getting out of control. It’s to the point where I can’t even walk through the streets of New York City or sing an obscenely patriotic song without being spotted and reported to the Web media. It’s starting to get embarrassing. As you can see from the Gawker Stalker I posted above, NYC-ites saw not only me during my latest trip to the City, but also magician David Blaine, that guy who plays Ryan in (and writes for) “The Office”, and something called Julian Casablancas.

The Google tells me Casablancas was born on the same day as The Princess and is the lead singer for something called The Strokes, which, given my recent invitation to join the AARP, I find an insensitive name choice.

Still, I’m sure Casablancas is entitled to point his finger at photographers just as much as I’m entitled to drink Heineken and awkwardly hold a microphone. Gawker has come under fire this year for this “Stalker” segment, which some celebrities compare to paparazzi-like harassment while the New York-based blog defends it as light-hearted, citizen journalism.

Since I can’t make my own decisions without doing something I call “research”, I watched a yesterday of Jimmy Kimmel (who I hate for schtuping Sarah Silverman) lambasting Gawker co-editor Emily Gould on the YouTubes. I tried to balance both sides of the argument but I was distracted equally by Kimmel’s pompous attitude (did I mention he’s schtuping Jew goddess Sarah Silverman?) and Gould’s defiant good looks. I weighed the arguments and decided that Emily is prettier so I agree with her.

Nearly two years ago, The Princess and I spent a few days with my best friend Blue and his girlfriend BK Broiler in the City to celebrate the New Year. We were walking up Fifth Avenue (this one is an avenue, right Becca?) when we spotted Andrew McCarthy playing with his son.

We all looked at each other to confirm that, yes, this was the same dude who fell in love with a mannequin and acted like a dick toward Molly Ringwald. It was definitely him. I had my camera and my brazen attitude in tow, and was considering walking up to him and asking for some sort of affirmation and photographic evidence that WE SAW AN ACTOR!

I watched Andy (I feel like we’re on a first-name basis now) play with his son, happy with his privacy yet aware that four people were staring at him like vague fans often do. I realized he did not want to be disrupted. I imagined playing with my son, laughing, enjoying our time together, and having people invade my privacy. So we left him alone.

As we walked away, The Princess, sensing that I had wanted to approach him, turned to me and said, “It probably would have made his day.”

Maybe I should put Gawker on my speed dial.

At a house party several years ago, I engaged a lovely young lady in the finer points of political discourse. I told her how I felt. She told me how she felt. I told her she was wrong. And then she started to cry.

Now before you admonish me for making this woman sob at what was supposed to be a fun housewarming for a friend, consider this: she was a Republican.

I don’t remember what I argued that now infamous night, but I’m pretty sure I threw out terms like “GOP scum”, “Fascist pig”, and “Look at that guy do a keg stand!”.

But it became clear to me that night that opposing one’s political views can be a dangerous game, especially in this city. I know where I stand on most issues and, though I am open to new ideas, I remain steadfast in this respect.

Which is why my inability to choose a presidential candidate is mystifying me.

This is the first year where I will make a real choice. In 1996, the first election year I could vote, I of course helped re-elect Bubba. In 2000 (a year when I actually uttered the words, “How bad can it be?” after the Supreme Court awarded Bush the presidency), it was really no choice when I voted for newly crowned Nobel Peace Prize winner Al Gore.

In ’04, it was John “Anybody-But-Bush” Kerry. Which brings us to 2008.

Barack? Hillary? Colbert? I have no idea. For some reason, which is not grounded in policy or voting record, I think I like Bill Richardson but I really have no idea why. This is idiotic, since selecting a candidate because you like his haircut or you think he looks like a nice person is an absurd exercise in mindlessness.

So I turned yesterday to the only thing that could help me decide: an Internet quiz that took less than 5 minutes to take.

The first quiz I took was by something called the Internet Straw Poll. I answered 14 questions regarding the death penalty, the war on drugs, and Social Security. After carefully calculating my answers, it then told me I favored this guy:

Tom Fucking Tancredo! A xenophobic fuckwad who would have personally chased my family back to Argentina back in 1979 despite our green cards.

I found this an odd result considering I answered a resounding (I clicked hard on my mouse) YES to the question, “Do you think illegal immigrants should be able to earn citizenship?”

I decided that the Internet Straw Poll was a biased mechanism bent on proselytizing its right-wingers. So I looked for another quiz.

I took this “Candidate Calculator” test on a site called VaJoe, which sounds especially funny when you sat it out loud. This one asked me 23 questions that varied in topics and allowed you to “weigh” each answer.

I answered with more thought this time, taking care to consider my stances on topics like “U.S. sanctions against Iran” and “ANWR drilling” (drilling is bad, right?).

My top match?

Dennis Fucking Kucinich.

So there are my two choices for next year, people. A guy who would deport you for being too dark-skinned or a guy who has no shot in hell at the nomination, let alone securing an invite to the Democratic Convention.

I wonder if I can still vote for Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner.

In the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy “trilogy”, protagonist Arthur Dent learns that the Ultimate Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything is, succinctly, this:

42.

Of course, knowing the answer precludes him from ever knowing the Ultimate Question.

This philosophical paradox was what was going through my head recently while perusing my own Deep Thoughts about , a community-driven knowledge site that allows anyone – and I mean anyone – to ask and answer questions that run the gamut of human curiosity.

Why are we here? Does God exist? Why do we drive on a parkway but park on a driveway?

These are the great questions of life. But Yahoo! Answers is a world full of “people” seeking their own strangely prioritized answers to a laundry list of interminable questions. These people look to strangers to answer their deepest inquiries, which is not much different than spending 7 1/2 million years computing the Ultimate Answer.

Some of these Yahoo! members’ questions are legitimate queries of objective measure, such as:

What can I do to increase my breast milk production?

Others come from ambitious seekers of subjective information that transcends human thought, such as:

How many years away are we from being able to colonize another planet?

But my favorite questions are the ones you would never dare ask your friends. The ones you’re almost embarrassed to even think about. So you posit these questions in the safest way possible — online.

Here are eight of my favorite recent questions asked on Yahoo! Answers, along with my unpublished replies:

I have had a penis for 32 years and I’m not sure I have ever “worn” it. Though when I reached puberty, like most boys, I suppose I did wonder about which way it should hang or why I could only hit the toilet 40% of the time in the morning. All these questions seemed to sort themselves out as I aged and the one thing I am the most thankful for was that MY MOM DIDN’T ASK THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ABOUT IT.

As a grotesquely giant English boy, you have no need to worry about waiting much longer for your voice to break. I would worry, however, about your “man bits” that “have sticked”. You have socialized medicine across the pond, go to a urologist who specializes in sticking man bits.

I think you need to speak English to first be excluded by Spanish people who want to gossip about you. Still, I understand your concern, which is why whenever I get my hair cut at my primarily Latino hair salon in Silver Spring, I pretend not to speak Spanish so I can catch them talking about me. Know how many times I’ve caught them? Zero.

We’re busy tomorrow, check in with us on Friday. Next week, at the earliest.

The Princess, who is a middle school teacher, already has had a 14-year-old student who was pregnant when she was 12. It didn’t work out well. Get her a Cabbage Patch Doll.

Dictatorphiles like you are rare. So are real-sounding names like Joey Stalin.

I’m not a woman. I also rarely ask women about their periods. But I’m pretty sure they don’t “go off” like an alarm clock. I could be wrong, though. But don’t put it in the Lord’s hands, I bet he doesn’t know much more about them than I do.

I wish I could help you with this one, but my girlfriend is perfect. She told me so. But I think you’re on to something in asking whether the measures of true love can compensate for the complications incurred by the deterioration of daily life. That was your question, right?

If anyone has any further answers to these poor souls, these wisdom-seekers, these erudite dreamers of life, search them out and help them.

I know I will.

I am really close to terminating my Facebook account. I opened one up months ago only because some of my co-workers were on it and they said it was “the next MySpace” (like that’s a selling point) and that we could share photos and videos.

Since then, though, it’s been one Vampire Invitation/Superpoke/Status Update after another and, frankly, I’ve been getting sick of it. Hell, I even discovered recently that my former campers have disturbingly grown up when I found their Facebook profiles.

Still, as fas as entertainment value goes, it has its benefits. Like finding this:

This Facebook group, which as of yesterday had 161,711 members, 4,817 photos, and 6,645 Wall posts, has been, as the young kids say, “blowing up”. It features photo after photo of women in their 20s in various undignified poses of drunkenness and overall skankiness.

Among the 30 reasons, the group’s founders advise:

“#22. You think you’re in bed, but your pillow feels strangely like the bathroom floor.”

…and…

“#27. One minute you’re strutting your stuff, the next minute you’re rolling on the ground, and you can’t seem to remember the transition.”

Even FoxNews has deigned to report on this important issue, illuminating the world to the fact that, yes, women get drunk and vomit on each other’s shoes. Social networking as absurdism has hit an all-time high (or low, depending on your view of things).

Believe me, I am not looking down at these inebriated girls. I feel a sense of pity for many of them for having their humiliation broadcast in such a Web 2.0-way. Who hasn’t gotten so trashed that jumping off a balcony or peeing off an eight-story roof sound like great ideas?

But Jesus Christ on a cracker, why do they let their friends post their photos?

Still, they’re entertaining as shit. Here are some of my favorite:

For those Facebookers who, like me, just can’t seem to quit the site, here is a 6-step wikiHow.

My best friend Blue called me last Friday to tell me he submitted an entry into the New Yorker’s “Cartoon Caption Contest”. He referred me to this page, where the Eustace Tilley-bannered magazine showcases its weekly, captionless cartoon online and asks readers to submit witty, if not often illogical, captions.

Blue said he had thought of two captions but submitted only one, which he considered the funnier entry.

“Tell me the less funny one, the one you didn’t submit,” I asked him while looking at the cartoon online (which I have recreated here as if the caption has won):

I laughed immediately, amused by the unexpected imagery of a Mr. Potato Head casually referring not to the premise that he is an anthropomorphic and empathetic Playskool toy in a bar, but only to his large size. I started to explain to Blue why his caption was funny but he interrupted me.

“Yeah, I know why it’s funny, I wrote it.”

Dick.

“Ok, tell me the one you actually submitted,” I said, expecting something even better.

“That spud’s for you.”

Silence.

“You see,” he added, “you have to imagine that the guy is telling Mr. Potato Head that the beer is a Bud and that…”

“Blue”, I said, “if you have to explain it, it’s not funny. Besides, it’s a pun. Puns are the lowest level of humor.”

Having already made his submission, Blue was chafed at realizing he could not submit more than one caption per contest per The New Yorker’s rules. I understood his dilemma and offered the appropriate degree of condolences.

And then I stole it.

“I’m submitting the ‘I’m all ears’ one under my name,” I told him.

“But I wrote it,” he pleaded as my fingers started typing the pilfered entry.

“Then you should have submitted it. I’m taking it.”

With friends like me, who needs plagiarists?

P.S. This post is dedicated to Blue, who consistently tells me I don’t blog about anything “meaningful”.

UPDATE:

Here are some additional captions that we came up with last night while drinking a Heineken keg (thanks to Kraut and J-Vo for reminding me):

“Nice hat.”

“…and then to top it all off I got sacked!”

“Your eyes are all f*cked up, dude.”

“Can you please slide that beer closer? My pathetic little t-rex arms can’t reach that far.”

“Well, your problems are no small potatoes.”

“You think he’s coming back?”

“Why are you wearing mittens?”

Some of my funniest friends don’t have blogs. But they have Netflix accounts.

And, as their Netflix buddy, I have access to their hilarious comments and synopses of movies they’ve rented.

These are written by GoPats, J-Vo, Tits McGee, and Ladder 49: Part 1 can be read here.

I care about my blog readers. I care about what they think, how they want to be entertained, and what embarrassing incidents in my life I can write about to make them feel better about their own lives.

I even care about their search queries:

• “A Christian boy wants to date a Jewish girl, where can he find one?”
• “Did Flock of Seagulls become millionaires?”
• “How to tell your mom you want sex?”

Many pro bloggers will tell you that knowing your audience is vital to the success of your blog. But judging from some of the bizarre searches some of my readers conducted to find this blog, I sometimes think the less I know, the better.

For example, these guys might want to get together to devise the best mom-banging strategy, with or without their friends’ participation:

i wanna bang your mom
i want to bang my friends mom
i want to bang you and your mother
hot mom around 38 having sex
young kid bangs hot mom

These searchers need advice on dating Jews or attending universities with a high proportion of Jewish people:

how to date jewish girls
is it ok for jewish people to date outside their religion?
my boyfriends mom doesn’t approve of me because i’m not jewish
do jewish guys like non jewish girls
shiksa looking for a jewish man
jappy colleges

These inept Internet users are just plain horny:

girl naked in sprinklers
seeing boobs of neighbour secretly
men in their wet underwear porn

Some Web lurkers want international guidance:

argentines people advice
backpack alone guatemala
brazilian fucking on river

These confused people thought these two DC bloggers were well-endowed or Jewish:

hung
roosh hashanah

And maybe these searchers just wanted some information on:

…how to eat for free…

steal from target

…whether was animated…

alyssa milano cartoon character

…or a very specific physical ailment…

what do it mean when u have tickle in my throat to make me cough when you not sick?

I hope Arjewtino.com helped these Web users. If not, then at least they entertained you.

This post was inspired by Magic Jewball’s monthly Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions posts.

Monster has calculated that at my current rate of income and savings I won’t make my first million dollars until I’m 75 years old.

Little do they know my cunning financial planning has already started.

Some of you may remember the e-mail I received back in January from a bank manager in Burkina Faso who wanted to give me . Others may recall the time I won 1 million Euro two months later in the “Lottoria Spanish”.

Intelligent investments take longer than most people think so I’m not worried that the promises of riches have yet to come through. A less gifted financier would “panic” or “not send money to strangers”. You know what I call those people? Losers. They just don’t have my pecuniary aptitude.

Yes, I know, I still haven’t collected a dime despite these people’s assurances. But just when a less wily investor would lose hope or think he was swindled, I have been approached — again! — by yet another stranger who has recognized my fiscal talents and promised to make me millions in undeserved money!

A woman named Hajia Mariam (how could you make up a name like that?) wants to cut me in on 20% of her late husband’s deposit of $12.6 million to a security firm — a cool $2.52 million. She is the widow of General Abacha, the “former head of state of Nigeria” who died in June 1998. Here is a copy of the e-mail she sent me.

Click to enlarge.

Some readers may think I’m a sucker for even considering this offer. Some readers might say it’s just some 419 scam. What these readers don’t know is that Mariam is as honest a woman of a corrupt President as there is! Everyone should trust an African widow who’s seeking her dead crook of a husband’s millions. It’s just common sense.

Still, I’m not an idiot. I did some research. For myself and as a virtual public service announcement for my blog readers. I compared the assurances she made in her e-mail to what some cynics would call “facts” to arrive at my conclusion. Here are my findings:

As you can see, Mariam is an honest gal who’s just down in the dumps and needs me right now. After all, one man’s “obvious e-mail scam” is another man’s “long-awaited payday”.

And when my Burkina Faso and Spain deals go through, I’ll be looking at a cool $10 million. Forty-three years earlier than Monster predicted.

We each have something to which we are addicted.

For Jennifer Connelly, it was whoring herself for heroin. For Robert Palmer, it was love. And for , it was writing really pathetic poetic songs that made college girls want to kill themselves.

For me, among many other things (see Dodgers, photography, and coin-flipping) it’s blogging:

65%How Addicted to Blogging Are You?

Thanks to for this one.

Janet at Love is Blonde wrote a pithy comment last week that resonated with me when she asked whether she should avoid fantasy football this season: “…am I already overbooked on life?”

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’ve been spreading myself too thin, signing up for this and that on the web, wanting to see friends and hang out with The Princess, watching movies, listening to music, reading all the books I want, talking to my family, planning trips abroad, kicking ass at my new job, playing softball, taking weekends in NYC, improving my blog, etc. In short, becoming overbooked on life.

No? Everyone’s like this? I should stop whining? Ok, good.

Here are some things I’ve been overbooking on addicted to recently:

GoodReads

Imagine if Facebook, Netflix, and Amazon had a dirty threeway only no one’s feelings were hurt for feeling left out of the proverbial orgy. If you can imagine that, you’re sick.

What do you want to do with your life? Well, don’t tell me, tell this Web site and maybe you’ll figure out how to turn your sad life into an interesting one. One of my 43 things is “Bang Natalie Portman”.

If I could create the ideal photoblog without having to try too hard, this would be it. Ohad’s photos are vivid and creative and his presentation is as close to perfect as I have seen. Check out, in particular, his “miniature effect” of scenes, like taken at a baseball game.

Imagine if MySpace and “travel blogging” got it on because they weren’t invited to the dirty threeway with GoodReads. Plan your trips and get great advice and reviews from people who live in places you want to visit or have traveled there and not had their wallet stolen.

Paintball: The Game

I dare you to click on this, play one round, and quit. If you can do it, I’ll pretend you’re my friend the next time we hang out.

It’s not what it sounds like. I mean, it might be, but not as far as I can tell. If you ever wondered what it would be like to travel from the North Pole to the South Pole using only natural power and blog about it, this is the site for you. The Web design and customizations alone are worth the click.

Online cartoons

The first one has been cracking me up all week and has even inspired an idea for me and Chosang to create our own comic strip. It would be called Tyrone Goldstein and would be about a black Jew studying for his Bar Mitzvah. The second cartoon is pretty self-explanatory: left-handed ‘toons drawn by right-handed people.

In case you were feeling underbooked on life, click on some of these links and get busier. Or share what you’re addicted to these days.

Just don’t say Fiona Apple.

cites me for the strangest blog posts: