The Fourth Judge
(Editor’s note: While Doc Octagon and I strive to bring you the best fight coverage on the East Coast, we do worry that SJ may be a bit too….stiff at times. With that in mind we bring you the latest addition to our roster, The Fourth Judge, which will hopefully provide some levity around here. Please welcome our new humorist, who will remain pseudonymous at present since we can’t really afford to pay him if he loses his day job. – GN)
I love catching a man demonstratively ogling an attractive young woman in public. It makes me feel morally superior to that man, a feeling which I enjoy immensely. I’m not particularly successful in life, you see, so I need to take comfort wherever I can find it.
On my walk to work this morning I was blessed with the sight of a filthy garbage man checking out a lithesome blond at least 6,000 times his physical superior – though I’m sure they both had diseased souls – and it couldn’t have made me happier.
He put on a bravura performance, completely emptying his bag of predatory tricks. There was the full-body turn around, the cartoonish smile, and even an honest-to-goodness tongue wag. It was like watching a live action cartoon.
To sweeten the pot a bit, he was also a repulsive physical specimen, which made me feel even more superior to him as I clock in at a spindly 6'0", 160 pounds.
“Look at this filthy slob!” I thought to myself with unbridled enthusiasm. “His squat, gnomish body, his receding hairline, his 70s short shorts, knee-high socks, and crusty, sweat-stained headband. My God, what an odious slice of humanity! What a cowardly, slovenly beast! Could I be any better of a human being than this garbage man!”
Then a pregnant lady bent over to pick up a quarter and I snuck a peek down her blouse. Pretty sure I saw nip.
Anyway, check out this story about a British pervert (redundant, I know) who wore a mask while spying on a bunch of chicks in the shitter.
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I’ve only been to Vegas once, and I didn’t particularly enjoy it. I didn’t have any money to gamble, I’ve never liked fake tits, and my translucent Irish skin was no match for the searing desert sun.
I was there for a bachelor party and, in a misguided attempt to save money, took the red eye back back to New York Sunday night after a weekend-long bender. It wouldn’t have been so horrible if I hadn’t been seated next to/under a 350-pound cowboy who suffered from night terrors.
I think he had an eye patch, too, though my mind might have retroactively added that detail as a coping mechanism to make the horror that was that flight worth living through.
The moral of this story is that I just found some pretty awesome footage of a creepy weirdo dressed as Batman getting his ass kicked in Vegas. Give it a look.
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Words to live by.
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Hey, is Mr. T still alive? Does he have children? I wonder if he ever sings them lullabies. Do you think he cooks? If so, do you think his favorite ingredient is shallots? I’ve been using a lot of shallots in my cooking lately.
Speaking of Mr. T, here’s a drawing of him day dreaming about a version of himself with bodacious knockers
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Speaking of bodacious knockers, I guess this happened. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, but you guys might be interested.