Money.  It’s what makes the world go round.  It’s the root of all evil.  It talks.

The reason there are so many clichés about money is because it’s one of the most talked-about topics on the planet.  Almost everyone needs money, almost everyone wants money, and absolutely everyone likes to discuss money.  Money is one of the foundations of society.

But you shouldn’t base your life around money.  Why?  Because if you do, you will eventually end up looking like these guys.  Yes, those guys in the picture above.  That picture was taken this morning on Wall Street, where the stock market made a record increase and might have just kicked off a comeback from one of the worst economic crises in history.

It’s a great thing for Wall Street and it’s a great thing for America.  But it’s not THAT great.  Check out the goofy smiles and the awkward thumbs ups.  They’re obviously screaming something too; I guarantee it involves the words “yeah” and “baby.”  Let’s cut to the chase:  They look like clowns.  Oh, that’s not a metaphor.  They actually look like circus clowns.

There are few situations in live where you’re allowed to be this over-the-top excited, and they are pretty much limited to:

-The birth of your first child
-Your son scores his first goal/touchdown/homerun/whatever to win the game
-Your daughter tells you she’s engaged to a doctor
-Your husband/wife awakes from a long coma, like in a Lifetime Movie
-You’re a Chicago Cubs fan and they finally win the World Series in 2037
-You attend a frat party and the hottest sorority on campus decides to have an impromptu wet t-shirt contest
-You get kicked in the face at a Slipknot concert and you need to let everyone know you’re alright
-Sarah Palin becomes President, your name is Todd Palin, and you just realized you’re about to have the greatest 4 years ever

That’s it.  And as you can see, none of those situations involve your portfolio having a tremendous day and slightly bouncing back from a massive previous downfall, thus leaving you still in the hole by a solid margin.

What you’re looking at are the smiles of two men who have based their entire life around money.  They’ve tied so much of their happiness to the accumulation of money that now they need money to experience even the slightest amount of joy.  I don’t care if I was living in a gutter somewhere, and out of nowhere some guy handed me a billion dollars, it still wouldn’t make me look like these guys.  Oh, I’d take his money, and I’d buy myself a yacht, and I’d hire a midget servant to pour Cristal over some naked strippers as a group of supermodels fanned me and fed me grapes.  But, and this I promise you, I would NEVER do the over-the-top smile combined with the awkward thumbs up while screaming “Yeah baby!”  Some things are more important than money, and not looking like a fucking clown is one of them.

[PS - Sorry the picture is so tiny.]

[PS 2 - What do you want to bet those guys in the picture are actually really great guys?]

With all this talk about Hurricane Gustav lately, you can’t help but think about the debacle that was Hurricane Katrina. The 2005 disaster not only destroyed one of the greatest cities in America, but exposed a massive class system divide that exists in our country. Remember Kanye’s “the President doesn’t care about black people” speech? That was hilarious. Not the racial injustice; that was bad. But the speech… priceless.

Anyway, I’m not here to expose injustice in our country. In fact I’m not here to expose anything at all. It’s not my place to discuss such a difficult and complicated issue, and plus, the judge told me last month that if I expose anything else I’m going to jail for 5 years. God, that 12-year old girl was such a tattle-tailing little bitch.

Where was I? Oh yes. I want to talk about the forgotten victim of Hurricane Katrina, and how that forgotten victim illustrates the indomitable American spirit (and to a lesser extent, the spirit of Britain).

Let’s say, hypothetical, you were part of a 1980s pop band. And let’s say you have one hit song, let’s say a power-pop ballad that, oh I don’t know, was featured on the “All Dogs Go To Heaven” soundtrack. You’d need a little luck to stretch that one-hit wonder status into a full-fledged career, right? Of course you would. But then, let’s assume a natural disaster came along and wiped out one of America’s favorite towns, and that natural disaster had a name that was extremely similar to your 80s band. Now, whenever people say your band’s name, they immediately think of a disaster that killed thousands of people and tore a country apart. Crazy, right?

Well, thus is life for the members of Katrina and the Waves.

Could you imagine being in that band’s predicament? When you write a pop song as catchy as “Walking On Sunshine,” you expect to milk that shit for the rest of your life. I know I would. Ideally you’d sit around waiting for producers of a Cameron Crowe movie set in the 80s to call and request that “Walking on Sunshine” appears on the soundtrack. However, since bills tend to pile up quickly, a more realistic strategy is to loan the song out to advertisers, thus fattening your bank account and saving you from having to get a job at Burger King. It’s a great strategy, since advertisers are willing to fork over huge sums of money for a song. And since branding is everything, what advertiser wouldn’t want customers comparing their product to the feeling of walking on sunshine? It’s a beautiful feeling, one that would make any rational person want to buy Charmin toilet paper instead of the store brand.

Now, what if, all of a sudden, the greatest natural disaster the United States has ever seen occurs, and its name just happens to be shockingly similar to your band? Now, no one can think of your band or your music without equating you to a horrendous disaster. It’s like starting a band pre-2001 called “The 9/11 All Stars,” or an early 1930s jazz group called the “Burning Hot Jews.” Terrible, and terribly unfortunate. Surely, no advertiser will ever use your song again, correct? Certainly you’ll be doomed to a life of menial corporate labor as your sure-fire cash cow is set out to pasture? Right?

It is at our darkest times when we must have the most faith.

This little pop band from the U.K. taught us a valuable lesson. Did Katrina and the Waves give in and change their name, or accept new lives as secretaries? No. They forged ahead, continuing to offer “Walking on Sunshine” to any advertiser looking for a bright, vibrant brand image. And did America give in and banish the song from radio and TV? Hell no we didn’t. Since Hurricane Katrina, Katrina and the Waves have been featured in a number of ad campaigns (guess which song!), for companies like Huggies and Claritin. “Walking on Sunshine” is also being used for an upcoming line of ads for the new Ford Flex crossover SUV.

I think it goes to show the real power of this country, and how we refuse to give up in the face of danger or disaster. Oh sure, Huggies could have chosen another 80s power-pop anthem for their ad campaign. They could’ve told you how Huggies flex-grip diapers provide an “Invisible Touch” that prevents them from sliding around on your baby’s bottom. Right now, you could be watching Ford Flex commercials where Billy Ocean tells you to get out of his dreams and into his car for only $1,000 down, now through Labor Day! But that’s not the American way, dammit! We don’t let a little thing like a natural disaster stop us from using bands with extremely similar names to said natural disaster in ad campaigns for prescription-strength over-the-counter medication! That’s something the Swiss would do! Those neutral pussies!

You know what? Throughout the course of America’s history, we haven’t always been walking on sunshine.

But damned if we’re not trying.

Fuck you, Switzerland. “Walking on Sunshine” would be perfect for Swiss Truffles, and you know it.

Hello boys and girls. I know this website is usually all fun and games, but today I want to talk to you about an experience that changed my life. This is the story of how I hit rock bottom, and how I pulled myself up from those depths to achieve a fulfilling and satisfying life. I am sharing this story not because I want to brag or put myself on a pedestal, but rather as inspiration for any of you who feel your life is not as great or meaningful as it should be.

I grew up Catholic, going to church every Sunday morning. Both of my parents were pretty heavy into religion, and each week my family would pile into the minivan and head off to hear a sermon about the miraculous workings of Jesus Christ. I would sit there for an hour, listening to the priest talk about God and his creations.

It started off innocently enough, just a way to spend time and bond with my family each week.

But as habits tend to do, it slowly spiraled out of control.

It was pretty inconspicuous at first, just a weekly sermon and maybe a communion here or there. Oh sure, I knew I hadn’t done confirmation yet, and I shouldn’t be accepting the sacrament, but I figured, “what’s the big deal, it’s just a piece of bread.” Soon I was taking communion every week. Unconfirmed. And that’s not all. I began attending Sunday School sessions in addition to the usual sermon. As the years went on, things got worse, and I found myself skipping out on school to go to church and attend religious retreats. My grades slipped as I gave more and more of my time and attention to God. A former straight-A student, I was nearly flunking social studies. My best subject. At least three times a day, I would lock myself in my room and pray. I can vividly remember blasting “The Chronic” in order to make my parents think I was in there listening to gangsta rap, but really, I was in there praying. Praying for relatives, praying for myself, praying for world peace, praying for any and everything I could think of. It eventually got so bad, I couldn’t even make it through a family dinner or a game of Super Mario 3 without praying. I could beat Mario 3 with my eyes closed, and yet, I still prayed every game. That’s when I realized that I had become a full-blown God addict.

As a child, you often don’t fully understand the extent or consequences of your actions. Religion is such a seductive thing for a young man, and in hindsight it’s easy to see how I got hooked. There was the sacrament, oh that sweet, sweet body of Christ. The communion wine was plentiful and always flowing. Sunday School was a brothel of attractive pre-teens in gorgeous sundresses. It was such a natural high, what young man could resist? Not me, that’s for sure.

Well, old habits die hard, and soon I had completely lost control of my life. I knew I had hit rock bottom, when at the age of 17, I found myself curled up on the bathroom floor of my studio apartment, crying hysterically to no one but the rats that infested my current hellhole. You see, my parents had kicked me out of the house when they caught me praying instead of taking out the trash, a task which I had been assigned on the “Chore Board” (a whiteboard magnetically attached to our refrigerator). To make ends meet, I had begun selling bootleg Bibles door-to-door in one of the roughest neighborhoods in town. I knew it was dangerous, but I foolishly believed that God would protect me from the inhabitants of the local crack houses. One day, while peddling books, a stray bullet from a drive-by hit me in the shoulder. There was blood everywhere. I ran back to my apartment, my shirt soaked like a dark red rag. I grabbed a bottle of Sunny D that I had been trying to ferment into sacramental wine and splashed it all over the affected area. Nothing. Defeated, I grabbed a slice of 3-week old Wonderbread, the only food in the house. I placed the bread in a large spoon, and held a lighter underneath the spoon, attempting to create my own communion. In my demented mind, I thought it was the only chance for survival. I had successfully made this type of knockoff communion before, and although it wasn’t as good as the real thing, it was much cheaper and I was still able to get high if I took just a little more. Unfortunately, this particular loaf of Wonderbread was infested with mold, and the combination of moldy low-grade communion and severe blood loss sent me into a coma. Before slipping away, I grabbed the phone and tried to call for help, but sadly my phone had been shut off because I gave away all my money toward tithing and didn’t even have enough to pay the bill.

As I lay there, completely O.D.ed on God, I had what most people refer to as a near-death experience. I walked down a white tunnel, and at the end I saw a giant glass with ice cubes and a strange brownish colored liquid in it. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but as it turned out, this vision would prove to be a foreshadowing of the moment that forever changed my life.

I finally came to after what seemed like an eternity. I looked at my clock and saw that I had been unconscious for twenty minutes. Later I would discover that I had been clinically dead for 8 minutes. I got up and walked down the street to Jeremy’s house. Jeremy was my one and only friend; the only person that didn’t abandon me during my downward spiral into religion. Unless you’ve been there, you probably wouldn’t understand, but take it from me: When you get that deep into God, you lose a lot of friends. At first people say they want to help, but soon you notice that everyone is distancing themselves from you. It’s like I’ve said ever since, “when you’re taking 12 communions a day, you find out who your real friends are.”

When I reached Jeremy’s house, I tried to explain what happened, but I didn’t have the energy to get the words out. He took one look at my bullet wound and began to pour a strange liquid on it. It burned at first, but shortly afterwards I began to feel better. He then poured the same liquid in a glass and told me to drink it. Wouldn’t you know it, within an hour I felt like nothing had happened. I had the feeling of floating on air. My head felt lighter, ugly women suddenly appeared attractive, and I was filled with a feeling of love for everyone around (except for this one guy, who was a fuckin’ douche and I wanted to kick his ass). Then Jeremy took me to the hospital.

When I regained consciousness after the bullet-removal surgery, I woke up to see Jeremy’s smiling face. He grabbed me, walked me to his car, and drove back to his place. He sat me in the living room and proclaimed, “wait here while I get you a drink.” I will remember this moment as long as I live, because it was this moment that changed my life forever. When Jeremy returned, he was holding a glass filled with ice and a strange brownish colored liquid. It was the exact image I had seen in my near-death experience. I knew this was a sign. I accepted the glass, took a giant swig, and asked Jeremy, “what is this magical liquid you bring before me?” He looked at me, gave a half-smile, and said:

“That, my friend, is Bacardi and Coke.”

I was in shock. This liquid that eased my pain, that blurred my vision, that made the average-looking chick next door to Jeremy appear very do-able… this is what saved my life?

Don’t get me wrong. I had heard of Bacardi before. Oh, I had even tried it a couple times, at parties in the woods or at some kid’s house whose parents were out of town. But I had never fully embraced the idea of Bacardi before. That’s when I realized there was a massive void in my life, that could be filled only by delicious alcohol. All my life, what I had been searching for was right in front of me, up a couple feet and a little to the right, in the kitchen cabinet where my father kept his alcohol stash. For years I had tried to fill that void with things like God and prayer, but I was only living a lie. In actuality I was just hiding from what I really wanted: booze.

That day, I vowed to change my life around. I began drinking every single day, going to bars as often as possible. I got drunk frequently, met tons of new people, had lots of fun, and hooked up with a bunch of chicks. Life was truly amazing. I was doing it. I was living the dream. It was a life I never could’ve imagined just a few years back, when I was lying to my family and holding up Bishops at gunpoint just to steal a little sacrament so I could get high. Sure, it was a tough transition. I won’t lie, I thought about God a lot at first, but eventually I was able to banish those thoughts, to the point where I could go months without even wanting a communion, instead focusing all my attention toward alcohol and partying. As my liver’s capacity to function properly dissolved, so did my desire to pray. It took a lot of effort on my part, as I had to leave my old ways completely behind and commit to a life of getting plastered on rum n’ cokes. I had to leave behind all my Godaholic friends. It was difficult, but I just couldn’t be around those enablers anymore. I had to start a brand new life. But I did it. Now, I wake up every single day and thank the Bacardi Corporation for my newfound, meaningful existence. Without their succulent light rum and delectable flavors, especially Limon, I might not be here today. Hell, I probably wouldn’t be here today.

The point, kids, is that there’s always time to get back your life. A few years ago, I was an absolute trainwreck and I wouldn’t have given myself much chance of living past 21. Unfortunately it took me hitting rock bottom before I realized the error of my ways. But I made a change, and now here I am. Not just alive, but living well. And I owe it all to alcohol.

No matter how bad things get, no matter how bleak the future may appear, always remember: It’s never too late to turn things around.

If any of you are trying to change your life, hopefully this story has inspired you, and I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor. Before I go, I just want to thank my lord and savior, Carolina Bacardi. In the name of the father, son, and the holy mojito.

If you’ve ever been to New York City, you’ve probably seen the street vendors that sell hot dogs.

If not, there are two things you need to know about these hot dogs:

1) They’re delicious.

2) They’re most likely made of rat.

One might think that rat meat in the form of a hot dog would be disgusting, but to the contrary, few dining experiences match the ecstasy that is eating a rat dog.

The reason for this is two-fold. First off, no one ever gets a rat dog because they were in the mood. It’s what you eat when you’re starving, and you’re pressed for time, and you just happen to pass a vendor. Say you have to catch a train, and there’s no time for dinner. Or maybe you got out of work incredibly late, you don’t feel like cooking, and you pass a vendor on the way home. No one ever seeks out the rat dog. But the rat dog is always there, beckoning to the hungry like a beautiful Siren singing its sweet, sweet song. Thus it becomes a tremendous experience, a lifeboat rescuing you from the harsh sea of hunger.

Secondly, they really do taste good.

Now here’s the problem: Although the rat dog is absolutely delicious going down, it makes you feel like death shortly afterwards. Once you eat a rat dog, you have about a 30-minute window before your insides start to reject the rat meat and your stomach starts turning itself inside out to spew the vile hazard from your system. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a glorious 30 minutes, but then you feel like crap for the rest of the day.

So knowing the dire after-effects of the rat dog, people are apt to avoid it, right?

Of course not. People devour rat dogs. Rat dogs are consumed in mass quantities on a daily basis. And don’t think it’s only naïve tourists eating these rat dogs. Oh no. Veteran New Yorkers love them as well. They willingly accept the death-like feeling just to have those fleeting minutes of joy that come along with eating a rat dog.

This is why the rat dog is a metaphor for life. We all know the rat dog is terrible for you. We all know that, when you consume a rat dog, the feeling of death is inevitable. And yet, so many of us eat the rat dog on a regular basis anyway. The rat dog represents the choice of smart planning vs. instant gratification.

Everyone wants to make the smart decision. We all want to do what’s best for ourselves in the long run. We all want to save for retirement, develop an exercise plan, go to church on Sundays, work with a charity and become a better person. But when it comes down to it, what do we do? We blow all our money on things we don’t need, we eat a bunch of ice cream, we get drunk on Saturday nights and sleep in late, we watch reality TV and we stay the exact same person we always have been. Why? Because it’s easier. It’s quicker. It offers an immediate result. The long-term plan might be smarter overall, but it doesn’t help us right now.

So what are we supposed to do? Do we choose instant gratification, or the more rewarding long-term plan? What will you do next time you’re put in a difficult predicament? Will you take the easy way out, or will you sacrifice short-term pleasures for a better and more meaningful existence? Will you eat the rat and ravage your stomach, or will you go hungry and save your soul?

I think I speak for all Americans when I say: I really want a fucking hot dog right now.

[Note: Most of the NYC street vendors also sell rat-flavored chicken strips. Those are somewhat better for you. You can get those instead of a hot dog, if you’re a pussy.]

A 24-year old woman from Colorado was hiking in Germany last week, when she got lost in the mountains during a storm.

Luckily, it turns out she was the smartest woman ever, and she was able to get help by taking off her sports bra and using it as a signal to get help. She attached the bra to a timber company’s cable and after a bunch of lumberjacks discovered it, a rescue helicopter was sent in.

Ladies, I think the lesson is clear: If you’re ever lost or in danger, just get naked.

Is it a coincidence that this woman spent three full days lost in the mountains, and then was discovered after removing her bra? I think not. Or what about the fact that an 80-person search and rescue team was scouring the mountains for this girl with little success, but after the removing of her sports bra, a helicopter was able to rush in and sweep her away to safety? You can’t argue with history, girls. I think it’s imperative that, next time you find yourself unsure of which direction to go, you immediately take off your top.

I used to live in Manhattan, and while I was there, many people asked me for directions. A lot of these people were women. None of them ever removed their bras. And guess what? None of them ever figured out which way to go. Now, some would say that’s because I was still relatively new to the city, and didn’t own a car, and therefore didn’t know dick about giving quick and accurate directions to the West Side Highway, so I ended up inadvertently sending everyone to Spanish Harlem. That’s one theory. But let’s keep in mind, one of the main reasons so many people asked me for directions is because I’m a friendly guy from Upstate NY. It’s tough to get anyone’s attention in New York City because everyone is so busy and hesitant to offer assistance or even stop for a second. If you want directions, you need to get someone’s attention first. And how do you get attention? You guessed it. By taking off your top. I guarantee if those women asking me for directions disrobed, a bunch of guys would have come running over, and one of them would have known the correct directions to wherever that woman was going.

It’s just common sense.

And don’t think this advice is limited to actual scenarios in which you are lost. Even when you’re feeling emotionally or mentally lost, it helps to take off your bra. Let’s say you’re feeling metaphorically lost, and you need someone to talk to. Well, nobody wants to hear about your issues or struggles. Sorry, but we have our own problems. However, if you make the first move by taking off your bra, you’ll undoubtedly find people willing to sit with you and listen as you sort out your life crises. One hand washes the other, and you have to give a little to take a little.

This is Philosophy 101, ladies.

And you know what? You don’t even have to stop there. Why wait until you’re lost to get nude? What about being proactive with your bra removal? If taking off a bra can do such great things for someone in trouble, imagine what it can do for someone who’s already doing fine. Girls, try taking off your bras in different social settings and see what happens. Why, you could end up getting that big promotion, or winning the lottery, or reuniting with the daughter you gave up for adoption eighteen years ago, or maybe even getting those royalty checks from the Lifetime movie that was made about your aforementioned dilemma with your daughter. Anything’s possible, and the sky is the limit! Plus, who wants to wear a bra anyway? Those things aren’t comfortable, and why own a Lamborghini if you’re going to keep it in the garage, you know what I mean?

Taking off your bra works. Let’s go back to the lost hiker. Even if those lumberjacks didn’t see the actual bra attached to the cable, they still would have found the girl quickly. Lumberjacks are the construction workers of the forest, and they’re trained to sniff out attractive women with little or no clothes like police dogs sniffing out a pound of cocaine. In fact, police are also well known for finding attractive scantily-clad women in peril. It’s in the police handbook. “Always save hot semi-nude women quickly and with due diligence.” That’s actually listed ahead of many traffic laws. The point is, if you’re an attractive chick and you get lost, get naked.

Which brings us to another important lesson: Always be attractive.

A wise man once said, “if you’re ugly and you get lost in the woods, just eat random berries until you die, because no one’s coming to help you anyways.” It might have been Confucius, I can’t remember. The lost hiker in this story was training for a marathon, so she was likely in amazing shape. Getting naked works tremendously for good-looking people. But be warned, under no circumstances should an ugly person attempt it. If you’re ugly and you’re lost, please, ignore my previous advice and just use MapQuest.

I hope we all learned something here. Ladies, you can thank me for the advice by… well, I think you know.

Growing up, my grandfather Joe was an inspiration to me. My three other grandparents had all been killed in (separate) car accidents, so he was the only remaining elder in my life. Oh sure, I had my parents, but sometimes as a child you spend so much time arguing with your parents and fighting with them over various stupid issues that you aren’t able to absorb the knowledge they have to offer. On the other hand, Grandpa Joe never had to worry about disciplining me, so he was able to spend time spoiling me and passing along precious nuggets of wisdom. My grandfather was both a source of constant inspiration as well as a fountain of unending knowledge.

Some people only see their grandparents on holidays or at the occasional family get-together, but such was not the case for me. Grandpa Joe and I spent a ton of time together. When I was just a small child, I used to help him with yard work, and then we would always go inside and play a game of chess (or two). As he taught me how to use a knight advantageously, he also taught me dozens of other important life lessons. It was from him that I learned most of the wisdom and lessons that shaped me into the person I am today. My grandfather was not only a great friend; he was my hero.

Sadly, when I was 18 years old, my grandfather was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He fought the disease tooth and nail, but eventually it spread to other organs and began to slowly wear down his body. He passed away a year and a half later. On his final day, I went to visit him in the hospital for what would be the last time. I can still remember the moment vividly. As I sat there watching a story about the Bosnian civil war on the evening news, my grandfather summoned for me to move closer. He said to me, “I have something very important to tell you.” I leaned in close and he began to whisper in my ear. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget what he said: “Tom, first, I just want to say that spending time with you over these past 19 years has been one of the best and most fulfilling things in my entire life. I know I tried to teach you a lot of stuff when you were younger. Some of it was probably good advice, and some of it was probably not that great. Well, what I’m about to tell you is hands down the most important lesson I could ever wish to share with you. You’re a great kid, and I can tell you’re going to go on to big things. But if you want to have an amazing and truly fulfilling life, the most important thing you could ever know is…”

Oh, by the way, before I continue with this story, did anyone see those pictures of Paris Hilton from yesterday? Oh man! Is it just me or does she look totally pregnant? Do you think she’s faking it? She’s wearing one of those maternity shirts, but those are kinda the style right now, ya know? I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s faking though. She’s such a publicity whore! I know this girl who hung out with her once, and she told me that Paris is a total bitch! But what if it’s true? I can’t believe Benji Madden would knock that up!! Isn’t it so weird, it’s like, 5 years ago he sang about how rich and famous people suck, and now he’s rich and famous himself!!! OMG, it’s like, so crazy!!! He should totally have to give the profits from that song to charity now!!! WTF, bro!!

Anyway, where was I? Hmm, I can’t remember. Oh well, I’m sure it was nothing important.