Happy birthday, Mister President...

My god, people. Can you believe it? It was ONE YEAR ago, today that I first threw my hat into cyberspace with a then unknown, then black and green little blog called Bad Sandwich Chronicles. The first entry, entitled Hello Blogsophere set out my mission statement of offering advice, mocking celebrities and complaining about my job, telling wang jokes and of course offering tips on child rearing.
Well, look how far it’s come. Go on, look around. Little did I know that here, just a mere single rotation of the sun around the earth later, that I’d be sitting on top of the whole internet, the sole proprietor of the single greatest source for content in all of the virtual world (except for that Ukranian website that has crack whores sucking off pigs right in their own slop…that’s awesome).
I don’t want to forget all the little people on a momentous day like today, but like I mentioned yesterday in my post entitled “The Darker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juuuuuuice!”, I broke my coffee pot over the weekend and as such, I have no coffee and, well, I think a lot of the little people are getting forgotten. Uh, thanks to my baby for being a never ending supply of content (‘content’ in this context is synonymous with ‘baby shit’, of which he is a neverending supplier) and thanks to uh…my neurotic Chihuahuas and well…who else? I don’t know, Dogs of War. Lots of things happen in a year. Shall we look back and see some highlights? Lets.
Okay, did you all just go back and read the previous 246 posts? Jesus. That’s what you were supposed to do. What do you want? Some sort of synthesis by me? You’re nuts, man. That’s not my job. This may be the internet, but I’m still playing to the highest level of intelligence, for fucks sake. And I’m lazy. And I haven’t had any coffee and it’s making my eyes cross a little bit. So, just go read em. Okay, we good? Good.
My baby is asleep, or I’d go to one of the ten thousand coffee shops within crapping distance of my front door, but hey, man, if the baby wasn’t asleep, I wouldn’t be writing this, and I wouldn’t be noticing how badly I want a cup of coffee. See how that shit works? It’s like a monkey puzzle. That’s when the jar’s opening is too small for the monkey to get his hand out if he’s holding a fistful of delicious monkey candy. It’s also a tree, I guess. And it’s my nickname for the maze that is my large intestine, but that’s another story. I got wild in college, man.
Anyway, happy birthday blog. You now have followers (the dogs of war) a place for your followers to congregate (the comments section, now known as the Sock Drawer) a name specifically for dogs of war who comment in the sock drawer (socks) and a whole other, completely separate sock drawer for the splinter cell of socks who didn’t feel that the sock drawer here offered enough features, and I think those crazy fuckers just made a whole NEW sock drawer because they were outgrowing their old one. That’s quite a lot of accoutrements for a little baby one year old blog. Good work, blog. Happy birthday. Have some cake.

Okay, it’s been a staple here at BSC over the past year for me to uh, tell it like it is, regarding how not to walk through life as a total sniveling dildo or as a complete mongaloid. I’ve done this through advice, through general ranting and I’ve done it through definitive lists. I haven’t done a definitive list in a while, but hey, in honor of the blog turning one, I thought I’d give it a go. Without further ado, here’s a definitive list of things that no self respecting man should ever wear:

Tapout shit: That’s right, rest of the world. I’m talking to you. What is this stuff and why is it so popular? I’m guessing it has to do with Mixed Martial Arts, right? Well that’s fine, but it looks like the logo of a motorcycle gang that meets up at Pizza Hut. This is the style of the times? Iron cross looking eagles and cheesy hawk shaped fonts and all this garbage just sprayed all over this shit willy nilly? The shit is beat, yo. AND it’s all just about flags and people grappling around in a mess of blood and sweat. Sounds like the gay parade, but it’s not. It’s Tapout, where idiots spend way too much money to wear shirts so gaudy that Phil Anselmo wouldn’t sell them to his fans.

Affliction and Ed Hardy: Here’s a little test. Look down. Does your shirt purport to be some sort of second skin by which you can have all the benefits of looking like you’re walking around with a bunch of cool tattoos without having to deal with tattoo parlors, pain or permanence? Then you’re a dork. You’re a dork, and while you might think that the eagle on your chest, or the olde English branding around your collarbones says ‘I’m tough,’ it really says “tiny penis.”

Rings- Are you still wearing a ring? What are you fifteen? Hasn’t a girl mocked your dumb rings yet? Look, a bracelet, MAYBE, if it’s not really supposed to be jewelry and you fancy yourself to be iconoclastic or something, but rings. Rings? You know who wears rings? The guys in Queensryche wear rings. Sleazy pornographers wear rings. If you’re not fat, old and in the mafia the ONLY acceptable ring is a wedding ring. Ah! Ah! Ah! That’s right. Anything else makes you look like the kind of guy who oils up his nipples before he masturbates.

Sandals-Your feet are disgusting. Your feet look stupid in sandals. “Oh, but they’re comfortable.” Yeah, so’s picking your nose, shitting your pants and jacking off when the mood strikes you. Doesn’t make it acceptable, bro. If your feet are too hot and you must wear some sort of open footed shoe, wear flipflops and a bathrobe and be a coke dealer and get it over with. (Actually, in this case you can probably get away with a ring or two as well).

Necklaces- What’s that? Hemp? Pukka shell? A JESUS CHAIN? Necklaces are the albatross of the painfully unaware or the overly sentimental pussy. Oh, is that locket? Well, that’s different, right? Hell, sure. You can wear a locket with your kid’s, or your mom’s picture in it if you want. Just know that it’s like a dog tag that says “Pussy-first class. Will call you everyday and cry after sex.” Get a wallet, you fucking sniveling choad.

Stocking style socks- What are you? Ben Franklin? Unacceptable. I don’t care how cool your bike is.

Jeans with crap all over the pockets or big stitching or any of that shit- Look, yeah, those guys on Queer Eye did us all a favor when they got us out of Wal Mart Rustlers, but have some fucking restraint, man. If your pants pockets look like the back cover of a Cher album, you’ve gone too far. Jeans like this are THE WORST fucking mistake you can make as a man trying to go out and impress people. At best, you look like you bathe in Axe body spray and come from the jersey shore. At worst, you DO bathe in axe body spray and come from the jersey shore. Shudduppayouface!

Okay, that was fun. Hope you’re ready for another fun filled year of Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Thanks to all my socks and dogs for reading and keeping me interested in doing this dumb thing.
Baby is awake. Time to go get some fucking coffee.
Seacrest out.