Feels like just yesterday I was half ass-ing a post at the end of January by commenting on Marc’s birthday. But, history repeats and I have a startling lack of self-respect for my writing ability and a near unfathomable depth of loathing for you poor suckers who think I may say something funny one of these days. How else would you explain my aspirations to keep this out of control train wreck of a website continually updated?

In any case, I’d like to celebrate Marc’s birthday the best way I know how: pointing out what an old fart he is at the ripe age of 28. No longer the spry, young pup, he is now a leather faced ghoul of a man, clinging on desperately to the shreds of youth as they pass through his bony fingers. As he places one foot in the grave, I hope I can offer some solace in these his waning years:

Denim’s the pits – So our campaign to ban pants altogether failed. C’est la vie. I say ride those suckers up to your armpits and completely buck the “low riders” trend. The alternative is to let your slacks fall to the floor, but I’m informed by the internet you’d be “lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the ground”. You can also get away with calling them pantaloons without admonishment.

I also know of a llama who does windows.

Monkey see, monkey do – Despite what the inbred masses of West Virginia would tell you, the civilized world believes in evolution. Every year older you get, the better chance you’ll see our chimpanzee brethren take up their rightful place in butlering. The day we see a monkey fling his poo and immediately clean it up is just around the corner, with its odds approaching 1 on a long enough timeline. If that’s not a reason to rage against the dying of the light, I don’t know what is.

Steel hips in a steel cage – Van Damme’s kickboxing at 50, which is clearly the new 30. Being 28, that would mean you’re only about 8 years old in terms of martial arts skills, so your fighting prowess can only improve over time. As JCVD’s alias “the muscles from Brussels” has garnered him fame, so too might a pseudonym help build your mythos. I suggest taking up the mantle of “The Curry Fury”, “The New Delhi Devastator” or the “Calcutta Clubber”. Peaceful civil disobedience my ass, Gandhi.

Grave Robber – Speaking of “steel”-ing, Nick Swardson’s right, get old and just rob the shit outta places. When you’re 90, you should be going 90. Right now at 28, though, you’re not going to get so much as a speeding ticket except driving around a hospital zone.

Golden Years = Golden Showers – Only two groups can void bowels and bladder alike without condemnation: Old people and children. Your perpetual 5 o’clock shadow excludes the latter. Break 65 and you can break wind wherever you like. Personally, I’d like to poop myself in the White House, what with secret service scrambling to handle a “dirty bomb”. I guess that “depends” on what you dream is, though.

Drugs – I may be wrong, but when you’re a senior citizen, the government gives you money to get whacked the fuck out on all sorts of sweet prescriptions. Who’s going to question an 80 year old needing a pound of your best medical grade marijuana?

Creeping out kids – Since you’re now back in the South, I don’t think you can get away with being an outright asshole (unless you’re in the KKK and I somehow don’t see there being a strong Indian chapter). You might as well go for the asshole neighbor shtick. Pop a couple footballs that land in your yard, sic your dog on trespassing kids, or go for a casual nude stroll on a Tuesday morning if you’re feeling particularly saucy.

Here at Concentrated Awesome, we often obtain exclusive scoops — and we’re not just talking about the experimental ice cream flavors we get to try at Baskin Robbins because our ex is the assistant manager (Darryl Strawberry, with its cocaine sprinkles, was truly addictive). However, this may be our biggest one yet: a transcript of the speech President Obama plans to deliver tonight during his State of the Union address.

Good evening, my fellow Americans. Before I begin, I’d like to thank the Vice President  for warming up the crowd with a Lady Gaga medley, which I know was a hit with the troops on his overseas visits. It’s important to have, uh, light-hearted moments once in awhile in these otherwise somber times. I’m not sure the wig was necessary, Joe, but it was, uh, colorful.

Many of you watching on TV may be wondering why the Congressmen seated before me are wearing 3-D glasses and, well, it’s because I’ve asked them to. I’ve reached across party lines, as I promised to do during my campaign, and sought out their help. You see, 3-D worked for Avatar, turning an otherwise mediocre movie into an amazing, memorable experience. I’m hoping the glasses can do the same for my Presidency. I took office over one year ago, asking the American people to don rose-colored glasses. Well, that hasn’t worked. I, uh, fully acknowledge that. The prescription in those lenses, so to speak, wasn’t strong enough. I understand now that only 3-D spectacles using the latest technology offer a way to see my true vision for this country’s future.

Van Damme was gunning for Gam-gam, but Obama’s death panel idea was killed by Congress.

In fact, the 3-D effects in Avatar were so distracting, no one even bothered to mention the film’s astronomical budget. With any luck, we’ll get people to ignore our ever-growing national debt, which is why I not only plan on distributing a pair of these to every person in America, but more importantly, all Chinese government officials will receive them.

I know there has not been much reason for optimism these last 12 months. The conflict in Iraq drags on. The economy has yet to rebound and our experts on the matter, such as Ben Bernanke, are borderline retarded. The housing market continues to decline. The Mayweather-Pacquiao fight has been called off. Rush Limbaugh’s heart attack was a false alarm. Conan won’t return until at least next fall, and even then, we, uh, have no idea what network he will be on.

In the face of all this unrest and uncertainty, I’m here to reassure you that hope is around the corner. The season premiere of Lost is less than one week away. President’s Day is in February, so that’s one less day you have to, uh, work, assuming, of course, you have a job. We may not have prosecuted members of the Bush regime for torture, but Balloon Boy’s father is in jail as we speak, so on some level, justice has, uh, prevailed. The Salahis have grown silent, and, fingers crossed, the Gosselins’ 15 minutes of fame appear to be expiring.  The price of both the PS3 and the Xbox 360 have been reduced. All of these are signs of societal progress and all have come under this administration.

To the critics who say I have not accomplished much, I submit the following acts as evidence to the contrary. I have already Twittered more than any President in U.S. history. I picked a puppy, albeit with significant input from my daughters. I planted an organic garden. Ok, that was mostly Michelle, but I do water it occasionally. I toiled tirelessly to draft a universal health care bill and convinced Congress to pass it, even revoking the death panels, which, for the record, would’ve employed two super-human Universal Soldiers to carry out the executions. Look, perhaps I could have used some of my time more wisely, but I’m pleased to say I have not spent a single second of my Presidency clearing brush, and that is a fact everyone — liberals and conservatives, Democrats and Republicans, blacks and whites, heterosexuals and homosexuals — can be proud of.

There are many reasons some ads never air. Some are simply too cool for public consumption, like this one (Nike  found focus groups couldn’t stop stiff-arming each other and people became preoccupied with picking up the blitz).  Others are too topical or insensitive , such as this commercial based on a recent event (although it’s still not worse than the current Domino’s campaign where the company admits they’ve been selling you an awful excuse for pizza for countless years — we think their new slogan should be “Now more edible than ever!”).

Hi, I’m Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. You might not recognize my name, but I’m the one who had the balls to carry a bomb in my underwear (let’s be honest, sticking it in your shoe is for sissies). And there’s only one brand I trust for the task, Fruit of the Doom, the tighty-whities tailored with terrorists’ needs in mind.

Briefs have been added to the no-fly list.

When you want to cause calamity, you need to be comfortable and Fruit of the Doom understands that. The elastic waistband stretches out enough for you to store almost any explosive device alongside your genitals. Yes, that is a stick of dynamite in my pants; it’s not that I’m happy to see you. If you’ve got to stash TNT, don’t bother with BVDs, only Fruit of the Doom has enough room. A special pocket sewn on the inside lets you tuck the fuse for your bomb in — because you don’t want to walk around with your wick hanging out (that would be embarassing).

Hanes may work for Michael Jordan, but if you’re from Jordan, you want Fruit of the Doom. Would a wealthy Nigerian, whose words you’re reading on the internet, ever steer you wrong?

Not only are Fruit of the Doom briefs functional and durable (they’ll last Yemeni years), they look great, too. I’m just nuts about them. When I wear my Fruit of the Dooms, there’s at least one group of police I don’t have to worry about being arrested by — the fashion police! In a recent survey, 68 out of 72 virgins agree they prefer their martyrs in Fruit of the Doom, instead of the leading brand. The days of waging Jihad in Jockeys is over.

Fruit of the Doom — I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything else.

Bad news for all the ladies out there (“out there” extends beyond our audience consisting of a cat walking across a keyboard and randomly hitting this site). In a recent Journal of Sexual Medicine (no, not Playboy) study, researchers claim that the widely popular “G-spot” on women does not exist. Of course, they released this study several days after the New Year to avoid the ever embarrassing “Worst Lovers in the field of Science” award (the best, once again, going to Stephen Hawking for his Theorem on Booty Shakin’ in a Zero G Environment).

This whole study sounds like a bunch of crap to me. Who am I supposed to believe, years of women’s magazines telling me “73 different ways to get your boy to be a MAN in the sack!” or a bunch of scientists from England, quite possibly the most frigid locale outside of Antarctica? Let it never be said that I’ll hold back on our faithful readers. I’ve taken it upon myself to do some investigative work (unfortunately this was not a physical “hands on” experiment but merely a theoretical one).

Here now, my queried subjects and the results from my own personal study:

Online porn – Getting a woman to achieve an orgasm apparently requires little to no effort on the part of the man, as every inch of a woman is her G-spot. To keep it in PG-13 terms, a man need only be anywhere in a four block radius, have a body weight and thickness of hair slightly less than Chewbacca (see Ron Jeremy) and occasionally ask if she “likes that” (which, without exception, she does). Oh, he also possesses a phallus rivaling the monsters from “Tremors”.

Google Maps – “Turn East towards the Atlantic, 100 miles.” This may be a Darwinian protocol embedded within the app.

Television – I need to tease and gel my hair 5 inches straight up, gain enough muscle mass to carve the Grand Canyon with my bare hands, and wear enough fake tan lotion to put me next in line for the Syracuse Orange mascot. I don’t care if that is the answer, nothing’s worth it.

Video Games – “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBS!”

Medical Doctor – “Son, I’m a proctologist. Wrong end.”

Cosmo – As far as I’ve extrapolated, It’s always in the next issue, but doesn’t matter since he’s a dirtbag and doesn’t deserve you. Also, I’m a fat fat fatty fat and need to tone my buns if I want to get the ring from Mr. Right.

Genius at the Apple Store – “We’ve still yet to understand the two button mouse on a computer. You really think pushing the right buttons on a girl is our forte?”

Recently Divorced Neighbor – “According to my hag of an ex-wife, I couldn’t find it if my life depended upon it. But as she has no soul, that heartless bitch is merely a succubus put on this earth to steal my very life essence, so she probably doesn’t count.”

Mom – Mostly tears and incoherent bawling of “her baby growing up too fast”.

Dad – No response, just a smack to the back of the head and mild threat of a boot up the ass. I don’t think that’s where it is.

My Own Personal Sexual History – After contacting several ex’s (they exist), uncontrollable laughter didn’t seem like positive data to include.