PDL presents: In Search Of

Those of you who tread outside the nerd-friendly confines of the internet might not be aware of this, but Google unleashed a web browser named Chrome upon the world a year or two ago. It was a very exciting day for nerds, because with Chrome you could look at the internet! This was a remarkable improvement over Internet Explorer, Firefox, and Safari, because it offered the exact same service, but with a name that reminds you of spinning rims you find in the ‘hood.

One of the things Chrome does is suggest things to you as you’re searching. What it actually does is look at what you’ve already begun typing, then suggest the most popular things that were searched when other people began by typing the same letters you have. For instance, if you type “twi”, it will suggest that maybe you’re searching for “Twitter”, the internet’s most-hyped and least-useful service, or “Twilight”, some movie about vampires that makes teenage girls moisten their undergarments.

But sometimes, you might be searching to find an answer to a question. Maybe you want to know why an asset is increased with a debit, because you have a cunt of an online accounting professor that doesn’t explain shit. I imagine that’s a common problem. So you begin typing, and Chrome gives you some help.

Yeah, that happened.

That’s not edited, folks. The most common thing search that begins with “why is” is “why is my poop green?” People are looking this up. Admittedly, I don’t know the exact answer to that question. But you never hear anyone saying, “I’m eating so healthy now that my poop has turned green!”

Now, let’s say that your hypothetical search about debiting assets has proved to be fruitless, so you decide to switch up your search terms and ask “Why does acquiring an asset result in a debit?” Well, then you’d get this.

I swear to you, internet, that is not edited. I wouldn’t lie to the internet.
The two most popular questions that start with “why do” are “Why do men have nipples?” and “Why does my vag smell?” The former, I can maybe understand. It is bizarre and confusing. But the latter is just ridiculous. You know how many women say “vag” on a regular basis? Fifteen. I counted. And it can’t be that those fifteen are so obsessively searching for the source of their vaginal odor that they are relentlessly scouring Google to find the answer.

No matter how stinky the vag or persistent those fifteen ladies are, to get that much popularity for a search would require a much larger effort. Thus, the only conclusion is that the internet’s largest demographics- Asians, Star Trek nerds, and pornography aficionados- are all googling for the source of smelly vaginas they most likely haven’t encountered. My theory: they want to be well-informed so that, should they ever come across a smelly vagina, they can offer well-researched advice on the proper course of treatment, and thus look like helpful guys. They’ll say, “Hey, I know why your vag smells, and I know how to fix it!”

Virginity retained!

They didn't account for the bunny

Even though I’m attending Christian business school, they decided that Jesus requires accounting classes as a prerequisite to taking some classes. But rather than taking those classes at the Christian school, I decided to take them at the local community college, where I could A) pay less, B) take the class online, and C) avoid quoting scripture when justifying credits and debits.

And as luck would have it, my online accounting teacher is what scientists call "a huge cunt." I think she may have decided to single me out as the asshole of the class. In her defense, I am probably the asshole of the class.

For someone who loves the internet, as I do, online classes should be a wonderful thing. Having never taken one, I assumed there would be Youtube videos of the professor teaching things, interactive tutorial whatnots, and other impressive educational tools that would demonstrate how far the internet has progressed as an educational platform. Instead, I’ve only seen reaffirmation of that age-old maxim, “the internet is for porn.”

The first assignment for the online class was to write a brief post introducing yourself. Having waited until the last possible moment to log in to the class, as dictated by my personal code of procrastination, about two dozen people had already introduced themselves. I browsed through the introductions and noticed that one person seemed to keep replying to everyone’s introduction, welcoming them to the class and inserting “zany” clip art into his posts.

I scrolled through the other introductions until I found the guy who had been replying to everyone’s introductions with overly-enthusiastic comments. In his introduction, he mentioned that he was coming back to school to learn something new, but that he was an “old dog”. He accentuated this point by adding a clipart picture of a dog wearing headphones. Then, Mr. I Just Learned The Internet pointed out that he was ALMOST THE BIG 5-0! It said this in red letters. In size 24 font. And yes, I know the exact font size. I do know the internet.

This ridiculousness called for a response. And since I know the internet, I knew the proper response: pancake rabbit. For those of you who aren’t as versed in the internet, allow me to explain: back in the days when there were a lot of Mr. I Just Learned The Internets discovering forums online, they would post ridiculous things. Conspiracy theories, nonsensical ramblings, child pornography, etc. Those who knew the internet invented this clever meme:

Of course, putting the pancake rabbit with the conventional “I have no idea what you’re talking about, so here’s a bunny with a pancake on its head” text would have been too obvious. Since grades were involved, the proper approach called for pretending to be enthusiastically responding to Mr. I Just Learned The Internet, while casually inserting pancake rabbit.

But just a few days later, before the pancake rabbit objective could be completed, the professor posted a special announcement to the class that read, “I don’t normally mention when students withdraw from the class, but (Mr. I Just Learned The Internet) was special. He has decided to drop the class, and I wish him well.” I was left with nothing to say other than, “Yes he was special. I’ll miss his wit and insight.”

Well, that and a pancake rabbit for emphasis.

Like the laws of gravity, but with more sodomy

As I’ve mentioned before, I recently enrolled in business school at a private Christian university. Among other things, this allows me to entertain myself by adding “…for Jesus!” to the end of any class name. Thus, my schedule will include “International Business Law…for Jesus!” and “Advanced Accounting Principles…for Jesus!” That Jesus sure knows how to balance his general ledgers!

But since my school is Jesus-based, they can offer things that other schools can’t. For instance, the wife was checking out the school’s web page and found out that they have a policy on homosexuality. A policy, you say? Yes, a policy. On gay.

Now, I don’t know how your workplace operates, but at my job, they have policies in order to instruct you how to do your job. Thus, you would assume that this policy would be about how to go about your gayness properly. Perhaps it would offer techniques on the finer points of proper lubrication, maybe even an addendum devoted to scissoring. Alas, this particular policy could be summed up in three gramatically incorrect words: “Don’t gay here.”

The university is kind enough to offer help to those who are “struggling with homosexual thoughts.” The phrasing is a little odd, since “struggling with homosexual thoughts” could mean “having difficulty coming up with gay fantasies.” And the word struggling generally conjures mental images of two guys wrestling, which is vaguely homoerotic (and coincidentally solves the problem of coming up with gay fantasies). But I digress. In the spirit of my return to school, I offer you this multiple-choice question:

What does the Christian university offer to its gay students?
A. Alcohol
B. Ball gags
C. Tickets to “Rent”
D. Prayer

Did you say D? Because honestly, I didn’t hear you. The correct answer, of course, is that the school will have people pray for you. They actually gather a group of people together, who all bow their heads and say, “Jesus, please make this person stop being gay” in the same way they might pray for someone to stop suffering from a disease. Only the symptom of this particular disease is orgasms.And sometimes a love of musical theater.

In the university’s view, gay is a temporary condition that can be fixed with some prayer. Heterosexuality, however, is a permanent condition. You can’t just pray straight away; that shit is for life. Like herpes.

Adventures in business school

In order to more effectively manage the sprawling PDL empire, I’ve decided to get my MBA. That’s a master’s degree in business, for those of you who aren’t familiar with the term. The “M” is for master’s, the “B” is for business, and I think the “A” is for analrape. Or something. I really should’ve paid more attention to the brochures the school sent me.

So where exactly am I going to learn about business and analrape? To a Christian university, of course! After all, if there’s anyone who belongs at a school that combines a love of crushing the proletariat with an unquestioned devotion to Jesus, it’s me. Although since it’s a Christian school, I’m pretty sure I know where they’ll land on the analrape issue (hint: against).

To get into this Christian school- which, in a totally unrelated note, happens to be the cheapest and most convenient legitimate business school option for me-I had to complete an application to the school. That, of course, includes transcripts, a résumé, references…oh, and an essay about how much I love Jesus. The essay actually asked me to describe how Jesus had affected my life, and the requirement that the essay be at least one page made it really hard to just write “Not much, really.” Even if you use a really big font.

Since my options on areas that Jesus has influenced me were as limited as my knowledge of The Jesus Book (which the Jews cut in half and call “The Torah”), I had to stick with what I knew. I decided to compare myself to Jesus, since I figure that strategy had worked out well for the Beatles. I wrote about how Jesus once gave a prostitute a blanket or some bandages or something, and his followers had given him shit for helping her. Jesus then said to his followers, “Hey, she’s a human being, assholes!” or something along those lines. Similarly, I once gave a prostitute money. But unlike Jesus’ prostitute, mine was more grateful, and she sexed me. We even engaged in a little bit of what was known in Jesus’ time as “sodomy”, but is now apparently known as “that’ll cost you $50 extra.” And when my friends gave me shit for that, I said, “Hey, I’m a man with needs, assholes!”

That inspired essay convinced the Christian school that they had a good Christian man applying, and they let me in. But before I took my first class, I had to meet with a person in admissions who would explain everything I needed to do to get registered and start learning how to effectively crush the spirits of the working poor. I brought the wife along for this, mostly because she was bored and wanted to see the campus.

At the admissions office, I met a woman who made sure all of my paperwork was completed and informed me of everything I’d had to do before my first class. While she was doing this, she raved about the business school, which she is probably contractually obligated to do. Then she informed me that there were a lot of international students this year.

“Really? That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, there’s one from Russia, and even a few from Turkey. And th…you’re Christian, right?”

Without missing a beat, I said “Uh huh!” Here’s a free bit of advice for those of you who have never been south of the Mason-Dixon line: if you’re ever asked if you’re a Christian, just go ahead and say yes. Trust me. I don’t know exactly what happens if you say no, but I’m pretty certain it’s nothing good. Also, it helps if you know the secret white people handshake. But of course, if you’ve been to the white people meetings, you already know that one.

“The students from Turkey are Muslim. Would you believe they’d never heard The Word?”

(For the heathens among you, I’ll point out that when Christians give you a two-word phrase that starts with “The”, and both words need to be capitalized, they’re talking about Jesus. The capitalization means it’s the truth. Or rather, The Truth. In this case, The Word refers to The Message of The Jesus, son of The God. She’s informing me that the Muslims had never read The Bible. See all that capitalization in there? Remember, capital letters = truth. Now back to our story. I’ll repeat her last line for posterity.)

“The students from Turkey are Muslim. Would you believe they’d never heard The Word?”

At this point, I’m thinking, “Yes. I would believe that. That is not remotely surprising to me. Why would you not believe that?” So of course, I respond appropriately:

“Really?”
“Yes! So while they were here I gave them all Bibles and shared a few verses with them.”

I imagine that must have gone over well. If there’s one thing you want after traveling halfway across the globe to come to get a college degree, it’s to be told that your entire system of spiritual beliefs is wrong. Nevermind the fact that this woman would be livid if she flew in to Turkey to get a degree for her job, and they informed her, “Hey, that crap about Jesus? All wrong. Let me tell you about Allah and the Prophet Mohammed.” So again, I gave the only appropriate response:

“Oh!...Good!”
“Well, normally I’d say a prayer with you guys, but you’ve got to hurry over and pay for your classes and finish getting registered, so I’ll let you go. Good luck! You’re going to love it here!”

Oh yes, I am.

What a novel way to reference vagina!

When SuperBestFriend came to town for a visit, he brought along a game called “TIME’S UP!”. For those who haven’t played it, it’s a game where you attempt to get your teammates to guess the person you are describing. The twist is that the game has three rounds: in the first round, you can use any words or gestures to describe the person (other than the person’s name, which would kinda defeat the purpose); in the second round, you can use just one word to describe the person, but may gesture as much as you’d like; in the third round, you no longer get to use words. You’re describing the same characters in each round, so it helps to have a good memory of the names that come up in previous rounds.

In our game, there happened to be several different authors that we had to describe. One of them was Charles Dickens, which evolved into a gesture towards a penis (or “dick”, if you will) followed by miming of opening a book. The only female author we had to describe was Jackie Collins. Females, you may recall from your biology classes, have no penis. So as BookHookup mimed Jackie Collins, she shook her head no, made a penis gesture, then made a triangle with her hands and placed it right on her crotch. And thus, we guessed Jackie Collins. But what it actually sounded like was this:

“Dickens! No penis! Vagina! JACKIE COLLINS!”

I’m sure Jackie must be proud.

Sometimes slogan parody is just too easy

Dunkin Donuts, home of the world’s greatest cup of coffee, was giving away gift bags at a Miami Dolphins game. Even though I was only there to sell my tickets, I picked up one of those gift bags, which had a small hand towel inside with a picture of two helmets- one a Dolphins helmet, the other a helmet with a logo featuring a DD cup of coffee.

The towel was of the approximate size and quality that it brought back memories of similar towels that hold a sentimental place in my cold, blackened heart. The type of towels that one might need around when, say, one is a teenaged boy who has the house to himself. And perhaps that teenaged boy has some porn available. Maybe the teenaged boy even has some lotion nearby. But a moment will soon arrive for that teenaged boy when he’ll need a small towel that the family won’t miss. And if that teenaged boy happens to use this particular Dunkin Donuts branded towel? That teenager can then utter these words:

America cums on Dunkin.

Thank you, everyone. I’m here all week.

Merry Jesusmas!

Yes, I realize I haven't posted anything in forever. But guilting me will get you nowhere. Bribery is the key to greasing the wheels at PDL, Inc. Bribery and handjobs.

And on that note, I bring you the following context-free highlight from an email I received today. ThirdMusketeer, SuperBestFriend, and I regularly email each other while at work (I can only assume they are as bored at their jobs as I am at mine), and today I was treated to this gem from ThirdMusketeer:

"If over the past 11 years I've ever given you the feeling that I had anything to add to a conversation on butt pain then I'm sorry because I've really misrepresented myself."

Eat the rich!

There are a lot of stories in the news designed to make you angry about how well certain people are doing financially during the recession (and yes, stickler macroeconomic nerds, I realize that the recession technically ended last quarter). The idea is that you’ll get angry and there will be public outcry against these bastards who dare make money while you are sitting on your couch watching Oprah and collecting unemployment checks. After all, it’s hard for the average working person to feel sympathy for a banker only getting a $3 million bonus this year, even though it means his “girlfriend experience” hooker will be downsizing into a 2000 square foot Manhattan apartment.

But there are far more worthy targets of your venom, dear readers. They have somehow slipped by unnoticed to this point, but I’m going to display the journalistic excellence that has won 2 Pulitzer Prizes for PDL (most recently for “A Lighter Shade of Starfish”, my shocking exposé on the rapid growth in the anal bleaching industry) and expose these men who should be ashamed of their riches. One would not begrudge the makers of the Snuggie for his millions, because his product has brought joy to so many. Yet there are some who are raking in money despite adding no value to society.

I refer, of course, to the Geico Cavemen.

Geico came up with their caveman-themed advertisement in 2004, meaning that as of this writing those ads have been inflicted on America for five years. Even then the ads weren’t particularly clever, and they did little to improve Geico’s brand image. In fact, most people despise the caveman commercials, and have despised them for all five years of their existence.

Not only do the ads do little to help Geico, they actively inspire hate in current and potential customers. And yet, the men who star in these commercials still have a job. The closest equivalent to this that you could achieve in your own workplace would be to smear a message of “Fuck you, customers” in human feces on the front door of your store. If you did that, you would be fired (unless you have truly epic job security, like a federal government employee). But the Geico cavemen have been smearing their metaphoric feces all over television for five years and continue to pull paychecks.



It’s not like there aren’t other options for advertising insurance, either. They could outsource the ads to India for pennies on the dollar, and just have a Bollywood song-and-dance routine about Geico for 30 seconds. Or for the same amount they pay for a 30 second spot now, they could have ten separate 3-second spots that just yelled out “Don’t forget about Geico! They sell insurance!”

Of course, if they hired PDL to run their ad campaign (and frankly, the fact that they haven’t already shows how poorly that company is run), I would design the most over-the-top negative campaigning in advertising history: I’ll get a $2 million commercial during the Super Bowl that shows the finer moments of 2 Girls, 1 Cup- pooping, eating of poop, vomitting, eating of vomit- for 29 seconds.

The final second would say “This showing of 2 Girls, 1 Cup brought to you by Allstate.”

Uncle Luke explains his fortune to his son

Some of you may remember Luther Campbell, the lead singer of the once-controversial rap group 2 Live Crew. Back in the 90s, 2 Live Crew was despised by white people who were angry that Campbell’s music suggested that men enjoyed fucking women. This may come as a shock for those of you too young to remember the days before Lil Jon made it perfectly ok to make songs about spraying your semen all over a woman’s face, but times were different then.

Campbell- also known as Luke Skywalker, Luke, and Uncle Luke- even makes an appearance in one of the greatest Supreme Court cases ever. 2 Live Crew was sued for copyright infringement for stealing a small portion of a famous song, but won the case because the Court ruled that the song was a parody, and parody was protected from copyright infringement claims, thus allowing people like me to take a copyrighted picture of a smiling Beyonce and put a giant butt plug in her hand.



(Note: It isn’t discussed much, but 2 Live Crew actually won the case because Justice Souter was a huge fan of their song “The Fuck Shop”.)

Today, Uncle Luke is out of the game. He’s moved on to raising a family with the millions of dollars he earned by making songs instructing women to bend over and spread their butt cheeks on the dance floor. At some point, you figure his children will wonder how it is that their father came into the wealth they are now enjoying. And that’s when this conversation will happen. (Note #2: This conversation has been white-washed to make reading easier for our Caucasian audience. Also because it’s way funnier to picture the man who wrote “Hey we want some pussy” speaking in perfect English.)

“Dad, how can we afford a maid and several cars when you don’t even have a job?”

“Well, son, we can live this way through the magic of royalties and residuals from my music career.”

“You’re a singer? Like Usher and T-Pain?”

(At this point, Uncle Luke delivers a backhand slap to his kid’s face so hard that you can actually see the word “SMACK!” appear above the slap as it happens.)
“Don’t ever compare me to T-Pain, motherfucker. I have talent. And I wasn’t a singer, I was a rapper. A rapper named Uncle Luke.”

“You were a rapper? What did you rap about?”

“Well, the overwhelming majority of the Uncle Luke catalog dealt with three major issues: vagina, ass, and blowjobs. You see, my target audience was people on a dance floor. People on the dance floor are usually drunk and horny. In fact, the only reason there are men on the dance floor is the possibility that dancing might get them some ass. My songs allowed men to gauge which women on the dance floor offered the greatest opportunity for casual sex and/or date rape.”

“How did your songs do that?”

“Remember, my songs were all about fucking. It didn’t matter what hole you wanted to put it in, which position you wanted it to be in, or the location you wanted to do it; I made a song describing that act. So if you see a woman on the dance floor bouncing her ass cheeks up and down while singing along to the lyrics ‘Face down, ass up, that’s the way we like to fuck’, there’s a good chance that woman was intoxicated enough to go home and do that act with you. People loved my songs. I even had songs where we talked about licking ass. In fact, the money from that song helped buy that bicycle you ride around the neighborhood. You remember that next time you’re out there on your Huffy- Daddy’s ass-licking song bought this bike.”

Fuck You Money: The saga continues

Idea #2: God’s billboards
A few years ago, there was a national outdoor advertising campaign that put “messages from God” on billboards around the country. The messages were just white text on a black background with “-God” at the end. Some were surprisingly witty, like “Hey, let’s meet at my place before the game on Sunday.” Most were just bland, non-denominational reminders to go to church, like “We need to talk. – God”.

When these things happen, the kids on the internet have a saying “Oh! Exploitable!” The opportunity for parody and satire with this one was immense, and either nobody ever got around to it, or I never saw the results. Thus, with my Fuck You Money, I repeat that exact campaign. In my version, of course, the messages are far more disturbing, offensive, and disheartening. Some examples:

“Even if you don’t eat that doughnut, your sister is still going to be prettier than you. – Mom”

“Just kidding about all that! – The Torah/Bible/Koran”

"We need to talk. – Your parole officer”

“You may think I’m bad now, but I’m going to get much, much worse. – Life”

“I’d sexually harass you if you were even remotely attractive. – Your boss”

“Don’t forget- you failed here first. – Your school”

“Does it burn when you pee lately? No reason, just asking. – Your ex”

“You’re the reason I left. – Your father”