NEWSFLASH: Ladies, makeup can turn you from a “4” up to an “8”

The makeup industry exists for a reason—to make women both look and feel prettier.

Let’s face it—have you ever seen a woman in the morning with no makeup? It’s like looking directly into the Predator’s bunghole.

(pictured: the “Part of Me” Katy Perry will never ever let you take away from her)

Here’s a tip to the guys: marry a woman who you think is beautiful without makeup. Trust me. Unless she’s a clown, you’ll spend more time seeing her without makeup than with makeup–so you may as well both enjoy it.

The following woman took a picture of herself with no makeup and uploaded it to Reddit. And after looking at it, she deserves the Nobel Prize for bravery more than the “Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons” (who apparently can’t find Syria on a map) and that poor girl who was shot by the Taliban (shit, 50 Cent didn’t get no Nobel Prize for getting shot by thugs).

Before you women get your panties in a bunch, I’m not a huge fan of the numbers system because there are no standard measurements and your weird friends always have 9s and 10s because they’re into “athletic girls” (read: chicks with abs) or “Asian chicks” (read: massage parlor handjobs) or “athletic Asian girls” (read: Strap-on City). But I can safely call this girl a 4.

Now, look at her with makeup.

I can now safely say this girl doubled her rating with a few minutes at the mirror, so let’s say she’s an 8.

But not everyone is comfortable with that, and by “not everyone” I mean some bitchy dude who sounds like he got an unwelcome surprise in one of those Bangkok bars:

Reddit user plokoonismyfave initiated the war of words when he wrote: ‘The left is uglier than the right, but beauty is subjective. The right is her wearing a (figurative and literal) mask.’

plokoonismyfave pointed out the fact that a man who artificially altered his appearance would be seen in a negative light, too.
‘If a guy wore prosthetic muscles under a long-sleeve shirt (à la Superman costumes), you would likely feel as if you had been deceived, regardless of what you thought of the person,’ he wrote.

He then went on to accuse the woman in the photo of disguising her insecurites with cosmetics.
‘The girl in the photo is apparently not satisfied with the way she looks without makeup,’ he said, ‘and uses makeup to artificially portray a person more people would find attractive.’

You can’t make a call on beauty but then claim that it’s subjective.

You also can’t compare this to a guy wearing prosthetic muscles. I’m no mathematician, but I can assure you the prosthetic muscle industry remains well behind the makeup industry. It’s like claiming that you’re mad the dog peed on the lawn and backing it up by saying “I’d also be mad if a giraffe peed on my lawn!”

Third of all, the girl is a makeup artist, so it’s her job. If she worked as a seamstress and also sewed herself a dress, you wouldn’t claim that she is disguising her insecurities with fabric and using thread to artificially portray a person more people would find attractive.

There’s nothing worse than male concern-trolls, also known as Male Feminists.

These are the guys who support abortion (it’s a woman’s right to choose!) to get laid, despite the fact that more men support it than women (shouldn’t women be making decisions about their own bodies?).

The guys who bullshit about “natural beauty” but still jack to Megan Fox.

The guys who are all about the pointless 70-cents-on-the-dollar statistic on women’s earnings and then wonder why you didn’t hand-bleach their shit-stained tighty-whities for them.

I am not one of those men, so like our President would say, “let me be clear”.

Ladies, makeup can turn you from a 4 to an 8. You know it, other women know it, and guys know it. Let’s not fool ourselves and pretend that by wearing makeup you’re hiding a secret boner you’ll surprise us with back at the Motel 6.

Because obviously I’d opt for the Red Roof Inn.

UPDATE 9/15: Obviously, The Daily Mail picked up on this piece (I’m flattered guys, really) and released an article today showing how a St. Petersburg makeup artists transformed some pretty average looking Russian women into complete supermodels.  Worth a look/fap.

Application for Pope

Congratulations to Pope Francis I. I’m sure it’s totally safe to have an Argentine in unusual clothing speak to a large group of fanatical people.

I’m not bitter. It just seems the College of Cardinals lost my application for popehood (popedom? popacity?)

I’ve reposted it here in case they change their mind:

Here are my qualifications:

• 1/4 Italian
• Can speak to large audiences
• Pro-life and traditional marriage
• Experience traveling in a Mercedes
• Own multiple badass cross necklaces
• Travel not a problem
• Multilingual (Spanish, Armenian, Pig Latin)
• Read a Children’s Illustrated Bible once
• Have a Catholic grandmother
• Really likes cool hats
• Disliked by children
• Not a quitter
• Proficient in Twitter
• Pretty sure the 3rd Secret at Fatima spoke about having a ginger pope
• Already have a name picked out: “Pope Magnum I”

Why Britain took over the world

Let’s face it folks: Britain has shitty food, notably with no fruit or wine. Their women are not exactly renowned for their beauty, either.

Fruits they get from Southern Europe, the US, and Africa.

Wine comes from a four-century-old agreement with Portugal.

Women are probably imported there under more sinister circumstances.

Yet, somehow, they managed to take over the world. How?

Because they had nothing and lived on a sad little isle.

Therefore, the drive for products they didn’t have led them across the world’s seas.

Don’t believe me?

Look at Costa Rica.

What do they have? Delicious food, fruits aplenty, sugar cane liquor (not quite wine but it’ll definitely get the job done) and gorgeous women.

With a setup like that, who needs to go out and conquer anything?

Point is: you want your country to take over the world? Make sure you have awful food, no fruit-growing, nothing to drink, and ugly women.

Clearly, the only thing holding the Soviets back was vodka and sexy models.

Wet ‘n’ Wild

I jokingly thought to myself as I approached the 405 near the Getty that I was entering the Valley (of the Shadow of Death).

Little did I know how possible that was.

Photo Oct 11 4 30 00 PM

A simple trip to class turned into a waterslide adventure by sheer virtue of being on one side or the other of Sepulveda approaching the Valley.

I had to record this infamous moment while simultaneously keeping a hand on the steering wheel and not turning my adventure into an aquatic bumper cars one.

I think there should be a rule that if your car hydroplanes three times on the way to class and you have to literally slam on the brakes and pray to prevent from hitting garbage cans and Civics floating about, that the test you’re going to should be cancelled.


Also, I realized all too late that this was a terrible day to wear moccasins.

After parking in the garage, I charged the door like a bull on bathsalts and somehow, someway, they wound up unscathed.

Photo Oct 11 5 11 48 PM


Why Valets Suck, Part II

“Some” may see my seething hatred for valets as illogical.

“Some” can sexually experiment with ninja stars for all I care.

But I feel it is my solemn duty (well, not really solemn, I’m writing and I’m loud as fuck) to share my first unpleasant valet story.

Generally, I had sympathy for valets. They work a generally-thankless job for meager tips and have to deal with rude and dickish customers.

Which is fine.

Except that description could fit damn-near-anyone in the service industry. So there’s no reason for them to be singled-out for anything special.

PLUS, they get to drive exceptionally cool cars that few of us have the opportunity to, and depending on the distance of the door to the parking area, with reckless abandon and no supervision.

When was the last time a waiter felt superior to other service jobs because he served plates of expensive steak?

This story begins about a year and a half ago, when I had to make frequent doctor visits due to an unfortunate bout of strep throat. Three rounds of antibiotics later and I (fortunately for you folks) survived, but was left 145lbs and emaciated, just in time for college graduation pictures that my dad still insists on sharing with people despite the fact that I look like a melanin-deficient Aid-for-Africa poster boy.

My doctors’ offices were in a large medical plaza in Century City, with an underground garage. The garage always had plenty of parking, none of which was tandem. I thought it was kind that they offered valet service in case someone needed it (elderly, blind, querulous people) but I and most could manage just fine.

So whenever I pulled up past their booth I would always politely decline, and they would point me towards a spot. We had a good system going.

That was, until, one afternoon. I was in the middle of my roughest bout of antibiotics, and I pulled up as usual to inform them that I could find my own spot. There were at least 3 or 4 available, and nobody was manning the booth.

I pulled forward, when immediately one of the valets (one I hadn’t seen before) ran over and rapped on my window. I politely informed him that I was parking in the spot *pointed towards it* and thanked him.

He proceeded to try to unlock my door and yelled that I needed to give him my keys for him to park it.

It would seem we had reached an impasse.

So I raised my voice and repeated myself. He started gesturing and yelling even more wildly, making a scene in front of everyone.

Since I was already late for an appointment and didn’t seek to waste my life in Socratic dialogue with a valet over a clearly solvable issue, I rolled my window up and proceeded forward to park into my spot.

He followed me and came over to take my keys. I stuffed them into my pocket and told him where he could stuff something else.

And then the best part happened.

Some loudmouth heifer parked next to me in a Corolla grabbed her labial expulsion by the wrist and marched over towards me, saying I parked too close and proceeded to call me a “jackass” who “thought [he] could do whatever [he] wanted”.

I put my sunglasses on and walked inside, ignoring this ghastly wench, pausing to look back to verify that I had left her more than enough room to WD-40 her enormous ass out of her clown car.

She yanked the kid with her and followed me into the elevator, complaining up and down. She tugged at the kid’s arm and forced him to say that he could “bawely get out of the dwoor” because I parked too close.

I felt like vomiting. How could someone manipulate their kid against a certain stranger? I felt sorry for the poor bitch’s husband/hopefully ex-husband/sperm donor.

I continued to ignore her, until we got to the top level, when this Biff-in-a-wig continued her tirade as the doors opened to my floor (she had missed hers just so she could follow me up 18 floors to harass me). I looked down at the poor kid, who was shifting uncomfortably on his feet, signifying that this wasn’t the first time that “mommy” had done this. What a terrifying existence.

“YOU KNOW WHAT? YOU’RE JUST A FUCKING ASSHOLE!” she shouted as the elevator doors opened and she had jiggled her way to a crescendo.

I blacked out.

On pure adrenalin, I turned around and looked right into her beady little eyes as I walked out the door.

“You shouldn’t use language like that in front of your child, you FAT BITCH.”

And as the doors closed, the only glimpse I had was the look of horror on her face.

Had the valet not put up such a goddamn fuss and tried to Gollum my keys away from me, all that never would’ve happened.

And that’s why valets are worse than Hitler.

Why Valets Suck, Part I

I’m distrustful of vehicle valets. I find it difficult to ensure any responsibility with someone so eager to abscond with my keys and my car in exchange for a ticket. That sounds like a terrible deal unless the ticket has winning lottery numbers.

I was pulling into one of my favorite local chicken joints, Zankou Chicken, when one of my Armenian brethren was not only directing where I should and shouldn’t park (like I can’t read the damn signs) but was eager to get me to park in a tandem spot so I could give him my keys.

No dice.

There’s a spot right to my left that’s perfectly available, non-handicapped, and labeled for the chicken joint. I politely asked him, “can I park here?” even though I damn well knew I was going to wrench my car in there whether he liked it or not. He ignored me. Twice.

He kept gesturing me towards the tandem spot and then commanding me to park there.

At that point I transitioned from “no” to “hell no” to “go and fuck yourself with something sandpapery, you sweaty fuck”.

I finally bellowed at the top of my lungs, “CAN I PARK HERE, OR NOT?”

He relented. I pulled my car in, parked, and watched him glare as I walked by.

I don’t need to give my keys away to someone when I’m literally eating 8 feet away from them. The last thing I need is his garlic-scented excretions left in my seat as he unceremoniously cranks my two-door into a yellow pole, then points to a “we are not liable” sign.

Valets belong in a very special circle of hell, in-between “thieves” and “redistributionist thieves”. Their purpose to society has long outlived their continued presence, and unless it’s a building with literally zero parking save for a 6×3 area where the door is, they should be made scarce.