Try as I might, I am not a whiskey girl

I’ve always wanted to be one of those girls who drinks whiskey straight out of the bottle and isn’t fazed. When I say “whiskey girl,“ I am picturing a beautiful woman who chugs the brown booze like it’s water, and can drink a man under the table with much aplomb. Am I one of such girls? No, no I am not. I can drink vodka until I turn into a potato, but one shot of whiskey and I have the tolerance of a Mormon school teacher.

Despite my efforts to become accustomed to this alcoholic beverage, I always become a stumbling, bumbling hot mess of a wastoid — black tears streaming down my face; red lipstick smeared around my mouth; making out with a gay man, or a woman, for that matter; starting a fight with a random man who walks by; and strutting about like Elaine Benes dances.

Mistakes that I can attribute to being whiskey-drunk:
Making out with my friend’s ex boyfriend
Puking under the bar
Illegible text messages
Calling guys who I don’t even like
Driving drunk

While I enjoy a whiskey ginger on occasion, shots are a definite no. If ever I take a whiskey shot I puke — either immediately, later on that night, or the next morning (something that I never did until whiskey entered my life.)

I should have known the moment my friend and I bought I bottle of Jamo that I was going to be in trouble. Although we only had one double before we left, we continued to drink whiskey at the drag show at X Bar, and again at Chi Chi and Cain’s wedding reception. Throughout the course of the evening, I saw my partner in crime dash into the alley to puke, I burned myself on the chin and the thumb with my own cigarette, and at one point I fell completely down on the ground outside of Club M. My friend also walked back to my house without telling me, as if she was going to somehow be able to break into the building or climb into my window.

Upon realizing she didn’t have a key, and that the dog wouldn’t let her in, she walked back to the club. We then ventured to 7-11 and drunkenly purchased two hot dogs, two pizzas, and two ice cream bars. Home girl passed out while the pizza was cooking, but then the smoke alarm starting going off, so that woke her up. We spent about 10 minutes trying to fan the air with towels and pillows and an actual fan before I finally was able to smack that fucker off the ceiling. Then she and I both passed out.

When my alarm went off this morning, I looked at my phone like you’d look at a man whose gut is hanging out of their shirt: disgusted. One thought crossed my mind: WATER! Desperate to quench my thirst, I grabbed the closest cup to me. In my still-drunken haze, I had accidentally grabbed last night’s whiskey ginger. Luckily the smell hit my nose before the liquid hit my mouth. Shivers coursed down my spine and my gag reflex awakened. I got myself water and then looked around. My apartment looked like a tornado had blown through it — a 5 foot 6, teal-haired, big-assed tornado. The thought of going to work was about as appealing as the thought of chewing on glass, eating out an asshole, or seeing another teen mom on the cover of US Weekly. I begrudgingly walked my dog (picking up dog shit while hung over [or still drunk] is especially revolting), and drove to work, somehow evading an early morning DUI (thank god drunk driving is perfectly legal during the day.)

Now I sit here at work, counting down the 6 hours, 22 minutes and 45 seconds until I get to lock the door, unfreeze the forced smile, and stop being convincingly sincere. All I can think about is greasy pizza and weed delivery and doing absolutely nothing tonight… and maybe taking a nap in my car… and being really mortified about falling down like an asshole.

“Do you do couples?”

Out of boredom the other day, I decided to bury my pride six feet under and join a typical, clichéd, and slightly frightening dating site. Considering that I recently saw the documentary Catfish, I’m not sure why I would practically solicit a prospective stalker. I guess if I had to name a reason for joining said site, I would say: A., I like to flirt; B., my ego could use the occasional validation; and, perhaps most importantly, C., it’s like shopping for sex (albeit most likely in the irregulars section.)

Dating sites are kind of like eBay, only for fucking and/or finding a relationship of any magnitude. You can check out an item (man/dong) and see if it looks damaged or weathered from use; make assumptions based on photos; and negotiate a fair price (date/casual sex/etc.) — all the while competing with other individuals for the grand prize.

In the mere three days I have had this account; I have been approached in a variety of ways. One man messaged me, “hey, you’re online, I’m online. Fuck this, let’s fuck. Dub palace is on 1390 and I have a boner,” an especially amusing offer since DJ Segue is a good friend of mine. Another guy messaged me, “Are you in love with me?” to which I sarcastically replied “head over heels.” And yet another attractive man messaged me, “Do you do couples?”

Hmm… do I do couples? I’m not completely opposed to the idea of a threesome. In fact, I may or may not have already had a threesome… and it may or may not have been with two men. Maybe yes, maybe no. But, as a woman who can be somewhat jealous at times, could I share a man, neigh, a penis with another woman? A woman who gets him full time, no less?

And, I can’t help but wonder: Could I hook up with the woman and to what extent would I be expected to do so? I’ve made out with a woman before, and I’d switch teams for Ginger Perry in a New York minute, but I’m pretty confident that tongue and tittie action is as far as I could go (although I bet a woman is better at going down on a woman than a man). Besides, I get dressed for other women, not undressed.

Then again if one was to “do” a couple, two strangers would certainly be the ideal. You could fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em and go on with your life. Whereas if I were to enter Smashville with a couple who are also my friends, I would have to think about them naked every time I’d see them from that point forward. “Oh, there’s curves to the left, and little miss three nipples,” or “Remember that guy I told you about who shouted out ‘Tammy Faye Baker!’ during sex?” And I don’t even want to know what they’d say about me.

And yet another issue, perhaps the most important one yet, is the fact that I’m an only child. As a result of this, I’m not necessarily accustomed to sharing. I don’t share my toys — be they legos or vibrators — and I don’t share my power tools either. Picture it: The other women grabs her boyfriend’s cock and I grab it away from her, “Hey, that’s mine! It’s my turn! I’m telling my mom!”

While getting down with a couple could be a complete blast, and make one hell of a story, I don’t think I could do it. With all these little hiccups and hang-ups in mind, I think that, for me, a ménage et trois with a male/female couple is a ménage et nah (but if you know two hot tattooed men who are interested, let me know.)

"Fuck me like you mean it!"

With my ear pressed firmly against the wall, I could hear a woman calling out “Fuck yeah, harder!” “Yeah baby, just like that!” The expression on my squished face could best be described as an amalgamation of amused, disturbed and voyeuristic. I considered rubbing one out real quick (I mean, c‘mon, it‘s free porn), but I didn’t like how I could only hear the woman’s voice and, to be honest, my neighbor seemed like kind of a choch bag.

I had just met my new neighbor Jake two days previous, and smoked a bowl with him one day previous… which had seemed promising. It had taken the maintenance team more than a month to completely renovate the crack head hoarder’s apartment, and I was relieved to find that my new neighbor seemed normal. However, during our smoke session he had waved a few red flags: 1. He said he had sold Buffalo Exchange a bunch of Ed Hardy t-shirts; 2. He kept bringing up this older woman who was trying to tie him down; 3. He didn’t have a fucking bed.

I listened to Jake fucking this woman — or this woman being fucked be Jake — for about five minutes. Then the woman who Jake had the day previous described as “35-year-old,” “blonde,” “wants me to move in with her“) shouted out an encouraging “Fuck me like you mean it!” and I busted out laughing — a guffaw I could not suppress.

While I’m sure this was said amid a moment of passion, and/or a seemingly convincing yet over-played fake orgasm, it isn’t necessarily a testimonial to someone’s dick giving abilities. When I heard her shout this out, what I really heard was, “No, seriously though, fuck me like you mean it. Please? Would you mind? Is it even in there yet? Can you try to fuck me like you mean it? I mean, I came all the way over here to fuck you on this mat on your dirty floor that was once lived in by a crack head hoarder. The least you can do is fuck me like you mean it.”

At that point, I decided to be a complete creep and tap slowly and purposefully on the wall, so they would know I was listening. It was around this time I heard him smack her ass through the wall (and/or one hell of a ball smack,) and it echoed outside the door of my apartment. I tip-toed to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, undid the chain, and slowly cracked open the door, peeking out as if I was scared to see them fucking right there with the door open (it was that loud). It sounded like they were filming a porno in the hallway and broadcasting it in stereo. I could hear every move they made and the images in my mind were quite graphic: an ass slap here, a deep throat there, and more commands from the cougar.

The funniest part, to me, was that I knew this guy didn’t own a bed yet and had been sleeping on a camping mat for the past week (he did own a ginormous “$200” mirror and a barber chair, I should note). I could just imagine this woman on all fours and screaming directly toward my wall. I mean, I know a bed isn’t required for sex, but in my opinion, if the person you are fucking cannot afford a bed, you shouldn’t be fucking said person. It’s a fucking bed. That should be right in there with the basic necessities of food, water, shelter and oxygen. No bed is a deal breaker, you must at least have the option (and please note: a case of “mattress on the floor” comes in as a close second.)



Next time I hear the cougar in action, which I really hope is never, I intend to blast the most annoying, dick-limpening music possible with my speakers turned toward Jake’s wall. If that doesn’t muffle the shouts, I guess I’ll have to call someone over to try and out fuck them. I’ll post a sign up sheet outside my building.

The more sensitive a man is, the smaller his penis

  “I’ve always wanted to ask a tall guy, ‘Is your dick in proportion to your hands and your height?’ I seriously wonder about that,” said a friend the other day. Obviously we’ve all heard speculation that tall men have long penises, men with big feet have large rods, men who drive huge diesel trucks and tiny sports cars lack a stack, and men with blonde hair have no merchandise whatsoever. Personal experience, however, invalidates this gossip. Yet there is one rumor that I would like to spread: that sensitive men are strapped with small shafts.

Big dick = big dick

If you’re a woman, gay man, straight man or voyeur, you may have noticed that the larger a man’s penis, the larger his head and, in turn, his “I’m the shit” attitude. If a man is “cocky,” he’s most likely cocky; if a man has a huge dick, he’s probably a huge dick; the more smug and vain, the more throbbing veins (and so on).

Now, obviously these are not hard-and-fast rules, so allow me to clarify that not all men are assholes — specifically not all black men (since we‘re all aware of their assets.) And, on a side note: not all black men have ginormous schlongs. I’m sure there are a few poets, clothing designers, artists, and nurses out there who prove to be an exception to the rule. Roses are red, violets are blue, your penis is a joke, so fuck you! And I’m sure there are also serious douche bags with itty bitty members (little prick = little prick.)

It seems to me that whenever my friends are “dating” a man with King Kong’s Dong that he’s a conceited jerk who gets away with murder because of his hose. While I have encountered one man who seemed sensitive everywhere but his shaft, he was just, ugh, too nice… plus I’m sure deep down he was a jerk and I just hadn’t realized it yet. Then there’s the other extreme: the sensitive sally. As one friend stated, “the most emotional guy I’ve ever dated, also the biggest guy physically I’ve ever dated, and the smallest wang of anyone I’ve ever dated.” (Men take note: Out of consideration, a woman will lie about the size of your penis to her friends… until you piss her off.)

Big hands, big feet? Big deal.

While I’ve yet to witness a man with small hands and a stick of salami between his thighs; I’ve definitely seen men with monstrous feet, or catcher’s mitts for hands, but without an equally large fifth appendage. In fact, my very first interection (sic.) with a dipstick disproved the big hands big feet theory.

Hanging from the 6’5” football player with size 11 shoes was the smallest, saddest excuse for a toddler dong I have seen to this day. In an effort to illustrate my point, I will now as you to peer down at your thumb (with your palm facing you). This penis was the size of the cushy tissue that runs from the heel of your hand to the point where the thumb finally extends from the hand. It was like a little gherkin dwarfed by two kiwis.

Was this guy sensitive? Well he cheated on his girlfriend (unbeknownst to me [I‘m not a complete whore]) and then cried about it, so you tell me. He also had a “thing” for Scooby-Doo and I may go so far as to suggest that he wore Scooby-Doo pajama pants too. So. Very. Sexy. Although this man refutes the big feet/big cock theory, others confirm the hypothesis, however, I won’t name names.

So consider yourself warned, girls and gays, the next time you find that sensitive man you’ve been searching for, you may be unpleasantly surprised. Be careful for what you wish.

It’s my job to live my life uncensored and say “fuck, shit, balls!” in front of your children; its your job to teach them that those are bad words.

My mother has always said that her daughter had “a mouth that could make a sailor blush,” an adage I have always cherished, embodied and flaunted. Ever since I could talk I‘ve been cursing up a storm. At the age of one, my first words were “cupcake, bitch;” at three I learned how to flip the bird; and in kindergarten I was sent home with a pink slip because I had given my best friend a black eye. Why? “Because the bitch said she had more Barbie’s than me.” (And the bitch lied.)

While I kid (except for the Barbie thing, that actually happened), I know that’s how some of you envisioned me as a young whippersnapper. The truth is, I got popped one for saying a “bad word” as a child and I learned my lesson… that is, until I grew up and no longer gave a fuck about such shit.

“You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

One day, the eight-year-old daughter of my friend Robyn heard me say “fuck,” or “shit,” or some other popular expletive frequented by charmers such as myself. Just as annoying as me at that age, the girl and I had the same name, some junk in the trunk, and an identical hair cut (the cursed little copy cat). She was basically my mini-me — only clad from head to toe in purple, like Violet Beauregard (“Violet, you‘re turning violet, Violet!”).

“Oooohhhh, you said a bad word!” the chubby cheeked cherub lisped through missing teeth. “Yeah… and?” I replied. “You’re not supposed to say bad words,” she proudly informed me, quite the know-it-all. “No…” I pointed at her, “You’re not allowed to say bad words.” I then pointed at myself, “I can say whatever the fuck I want because I‘m an adult. You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

“Uh!“ gape-mouthed and offended, she stared at me for a second — the expression your parents wear while giving an, “I’m disappointed by your behavior” speech. She immediately called to her mother to tell on me, the little narc, and I watched with a grin on my face. Her mother Robyn gave me a face reading “You’re an asshole,” but said nothing. Aggravated that I had not been punished for my crime, the dwarfish purple people eater’s immediate response was to test the boundaries and say “Shit!” It was at this point she was punished.

You are so grounded!

While I may be presenting an obstacle with my dirty little mouth, isn’t the joy of being a parent teaching your child right and wrong, and making sure you don’t create a monster? C’mon, you know you love a good challenge. And, when it comes down to it: It’s your choice to raise children; it’s my choice to raise hell.

If a little smack is not your style to keep your kids from saying "fucktard," "douchebag," or "dick smack," lock the little ankle biters in the closet or something; I don’t know… is that legal? Either way, it depends on your discipline style,I suppose. Perhaps you can get tips from The Dog Whisperer. Cesar is brilliant with animals of all sizes. If all else fails, just pretend I have Tourette’s Syndrome and tell your kids I’m a sick, sick person. You won’t necessarily be lying.

Now, on a side note: Anyone need a babysitter?

My next door neighbor should be the spokesperson for the Faces of Meth campaign.

*Note: This was written before this neighbor's eviction, he was finally locked out two weeks ago and today three men are attempting to clean out his disgusting apartment.


Picture it: I’m a hot, dirty mess and I’m bringing in the last load of my belongings into my apartment just over one year ago. I’m precariously juggling A.) the last box of my shit, which is sharply jutting into one hip; B.) my eager, pulling dog; and C.) a heavy door above me, at the top of the stairs; which, of fucking course, pulls toward you. I finally get through the door, (although the box is starting to slip) and am beginning to shuffle the final steps to my apartment. Within feet of my final destination, I hear “Need any help?” I think to myself, where was this asshole the past five hours? Then I look up and see what must be a pirate. Thank fucking god this is the last of my shit.


He was more than 6-feet tall with long, scraggly, dingy brown hair and baggy clothing. His face was red, sunken and weathered, and looked to be the texture of paper. He had skin speckled with scabs, deep set eyes, and protruding cheek bones. He was wearing a bandana on his head… and a mother fucking eye patch. An eye patch! My neighbor > an eye patch.


I then picked up the lower half of my jaw off the floor, jammed it back in place, and said as politely as I could muster, “No thank you, this is the last of my things.” I shimmied my ass through the door as the box dropped to the floor, and I mentally listed the many cruel acts I have performed to have earned such karma.


Part One


Not too long after, I saw the pirate without an eye patch, but wasn’t sure which I found more disconcerting — my initial belief that this man is without one eye, or the realization that this was a person who got himself into situations in which he sometimes required an eye patch. I was soon to find the latter was the more frightening conundrum.


This pirate, sans patch, is a hoarder of sorts; and, much to the other tenant’s dismay, he insists on keeping his door wide open. His apartment is a catalogue of crap, enveloped by a tapestry of crazy, and smothered in bad news. The fact that his life is just a thin wall away from mine sends shivers down my spine.


As if the contents of his studio were not disturbing enough, he leaves random piles of crap outside his door for days at a time and has been keeping his food outside his window on his air conditioner, spoiling in the sun and spilling on the sidewalk. It’s like a trailer park garage sale within mere feet of my door. If I wasn’t too frightened to touch the sketchy stacks of waste, I’d throw the shit away myself. But clearly, he’d just find his precious treasures in the dumpster once more and bring them back to store in his dossier of rubbish. Speaking of waste, did I mention he has a woman friend?


Part Two


I eventually learned my neighbors name as a result of countless crack heads, meth dealers and crazies calling “Tim!” in haggard, raspy, desperate voices outside his window (which, I might remind you, is mere feet from my window). Tim then lets him or her in, or even better, puts a brick in the back door so creeps, scumbags and rapists can enter at their leisure. My least favorite person shouting “Tim!” in the most tiny and shrill voice imaginable, is the constantly re-appearing crack whore he let live with him during her pregnancy. That’s right: Pregnant crack whore > my neighbor. I’ve heard her screaming to be let in more times than I can count, and I have shot her evil glances more times than Ron Jeremy has shot his load on a woman’s face.


I’ve never heard the crack whore’s name; I’ve always just referred to her as “the crack whore.” She is a tiny, mousey woman, so white she’s see-through, with faded hair dyed blood red with black roots. Her face looks like she chews glass for a hobby and her eyes are black and cold. Between the two of them, these people should front the Faces of Meth campaign.


Shady, yet verbose and seemingly considerate, Tim is not the crack whore’s boyfriend, nor the baby’s father, but just someone putting a roof over her head. Once I realized she was pregnant, I almost began to pity her… almost. Me and the normal neighbor across the hall discussed whether or not we should intervene, but child protective services can’t step in until the day the child is born… which was the night before my trip to New York. I was packing and heard her screaming bloody murder on and off for hours in the next apartment. My neighbor across the hall was timing her contractions through the walls. Finally we heard an ambulance and saw nearly ten paramedics and police officers bust in and ask her about her pregnancy and possible drug use, then dramatically carry her out on a stretcher as she made a scene. She still comes around, but clearly the baby was given to a good home — not one towered with trash, and with constant creepsters doing drugs, and random early morning fist fights… or had I gotten to that?


Part Three


This morning at nine I was lying in beg, willing myself to fall back asleep. As I began to drift off, a man attempted to start his huge Ford truck with no luck. He opened the hood, frustrated, and tried once more. The diesel engine started to growl, barely running and sounding loud and wounded. I thought to myself, I cannot think of one sound that could possibly be more annoying then that right now.


“You don’t live here, you can’t park there, shut that fucking thing off,” I heard Tim yelling over the truck‘s moans as he walked aggressively over. I noticed that he had a huge band-aid taped over the entirety of his nose, like Michael Jackson wore after his nose took a tumble. He then tried to push the truck’s owner, a man wearing a Cleveland Indians cap. The Indians fan then slugged him in the face and they were at it, fists awkwardly fumbling, Tim’s long and likely lice-ridden hair flying as the man pushed him into the garage behind him. While I knew my neighbor to be a slimy, troubling man, he’s never seemed violent or provoking.


I called the police and watched from my window; it was like being invisible at a live taping of Jerry Springer. The truck owner’s friend, a short man who was missing a few teeth, attempted to stop the fighting. For a second the pushing ceased and they began yelling back and forth. Tim then kicked the truck and threw the man’s keys across the lot. After gathering his keys, the man in the Indians cap took off his glasses and ran low and like a bull, slamming directly into my neighbors torso, knocking him down. At this point, the men gave up the fight, the police arrived, and I lost interest — although I’d like to think the brawl resulted in yet another eye patch for Tim, and a new face on the meth prevention billboards.

The way African Americans have repurposed the N-word, and the Gays have reclaimed the F-word; I believe that Chad's will reappropriate their own moniker, change the C-word from “Cunt” to “Chad,” and only Chads themselves will be able say the filthy, four-letter word.

While the word “cunt” used to make me cringe, I now use this word on the regular. Cunt this, cunt that, cunt you very much. If you’re not a fan of this term, but would like to dabble with the usage of “cunt,” I recommend that you start out by saying, “See you next Tuesday!“ (C-U-Next-Tuesday) And, from there, move forward using baby steps. Perhaps practice on the down-low: “Cunt wait to see you this weekend!” or “I cunt believe it’s not butter.” Through these small strides, you can join me in my efforts to increase the ranking of the word cunt in one’s vocabulary. Yet, as a result of this tangent, I’ve deviated from my thesis: that Chads are destined to cock block the word they so illustrate with their very presence on this earth. The way African Americans have repurposed the N-word, and the Gays have reclaimed the F-word; I believe that Chad's will reappropriate their own moniker, change the C-word from “Cunt” to “Chad,” and only Chads themselves will be able say the filthy, four-letter word.

Thou shalt not say the N-word

I can’t say it. It just doesn’t sound right coming out of my mouth. I submit that if you’re white; or not African American, more specifically, you sound like a total dick smack when you say it — except maybe if you have a thick Asian or Middle Eastern accent… that shit would be solid. I would also laugh upon hearing the word spoken by the computerized female voice that reads my text messages to me.

I don’t want to say it. It’s not my style. In fact, when I sing Notorious BIG’s “Juicy,” I even say “… and if you don’t know, now you know, negro.“ That’s just me. Plus, I can‘t lie, I like that it rhymes.

I don’t like when you say it… except if it’s socially acceptable for you to do so (you know who you are). I will admit that I find it somewhat amusing that people have began to substitute the word, “ninja;” but I am not one such someone. In addition, it seems like a cop-out. Either have the balls to say it (if that’s your thing,) or expand your fucking vocabulary.

Thou shalt not say the F-Word

While some consider the F-word to be “fuck,” I’m personally doing my part to make this fucking word as fucking common as the fucking word “the…” mother fucker. In my humble opinion, the inappropriate F-word is (dare I say it?) “Fag.”

I must admit, the improper F-word has slipped out of my mouth on occasion. But, in my defense, when I first learned this word, I didn’t understand that it was intended to refer to a gay man; a pole smoker, if you will. I just thought it was similar to saying “asshole,” “dick,” “gomer,” or “douche bag” (my personal favorite). I think I last used the word fag to describe Fall Out Boy (which is most likely the most reasonable definition, anyway.)

Gay men, the dirty-minded little muses that they are, will throw out the F-word faster than a girl with a tramp stamp will drop to her knees and suck your dick. And, like the N-word — and, one day, the C-word — this is a term that only they can say, which is fine by me… unless Fall Out Boy is in town.

We can also credit gay men with forcefully ramming the word “bitch” all up in that mainstream terminology. They’ve snatched the “B-word,” from the remainder of society — that, along with the rainbow… those bitches.

Thou shalt not say the C-Word

Clearly the most offensive C-word is “Chad,” which typically describes a male douche bag who frequents the tanning booth; and is likely wearing a long-sleeved, button-down, striped, collared shirt at this very moment (unless he‘s feeling casual, in which case he is donning a short-sleeved polo with a popped collar). This man has a tribal arm band; and uses hair gel more often than a gold digger uses her sugar daddy. In short, “… white boy, blonde hair, tries too hard,” as my friend Jerome succinctly stated.

I’m not sure whether or not Chads know they should be offended by this term. But I figure that, soon enough, they will embrace the word as their own; take complete ownership; and forever maintain the monopoly. And, as a result, we simpletons will be left without a word to describe the Ed Hardy- and conch shell necklace-sporting fucktards. We’ll have to say, “Son of a fucker! That C-word cut me off!” And if we dare slip and say the word “Chad” out loud in a fit of passion, the music will screech to a stop, people will gasp, and women will anxiously cover their children’s ears. For shame!

Meanwhile, the overly confident Chads and their anorexic, 19-year-old sorority sister girlfriends be driving around in Audi’s with vanity plates reading “CHAD-4-69.“ Their mothers’ cars will be equipped with bumper stickers that read “Proud Mother of a Chad.” They will rock tight, fitted t-shirts announcing their “Chad Pride!” And maybe, perhaps as a salute to the rainbow or pink triangle, they’ll use the yellow square as their own personal symbol — an image which seems to echo Jerome‘s wise words: “… white boy, blonde hair, tries too hard.” I imagine some Chads will get this representation tattooed on their arm or back; while others will simply wear ball caps (with the brim to the side, of course) that proudly portray this image.

So, step as aside, cunt — there’s a new C-word in town… and it’s wearing a v-neck, argyle vest.