You’d think the galvanizing force behind an election might be the strong ethics of a candidate. His stance on the important issues of the day or the depth of his character. Perhaps you even might guess it the “anyone but that other guy” attitude might strengthen a core into voting a person into the highest office in the US.

Or it could be a seven foot tall yellow fowl.

After a performance that could be considered anemic by a twice dead Iggy Pop, POTUS Barack Obama was sent reeling from the first of three debates courtesy of Mitt “Zingers” Romney. The left in response has been shifting blame to Jim Lehrer, a man whose moderation of the debate could be compared to Lenin (dead, embalmed and horrifyingly put on display for the world).

Still, the left is rallying their party around the central Democratic tenets – the fuzzy logic of Mitt’s tax plans for America, his attack on Obama’s health care plan and of course, the tried and true barometer for the country, the Public Broadcast System. If you were to read anywhere on the internet Wednesday night (and God help you if you did), you’d see more comments, tweets, blog posts, and other assorted foofaraw complaining Mitt’s attack on PBS is the worst crime he’s committed since his failed audition for Mr. Fantastic in the last Fantastic Four movie.

In an attempt to see both sides of the crap pile we have to sort through to make an “informed” decision this November, I attempt to make sense out of Romney’s many qualms with the non-profit network.

Bearing a strikingly similar eyebrow line, Romney begins to question who his father might actually be…

• A lengthy copyright infringement case against Bob Villa that met with a bitter end as conservatives attempt to trademark Barbara Bush’s nickname “This Old House”.
• A confusion in the Republican party as fear of the “big red menace” leads many to question Clifford the Big Red Dog’s real intentions.
• Repeated episodes of Downton Abbey contributing to PTSD as high ranking leaders in the Republican party are reminded of battles they fought in the Revolutionary War against Britain.
• A continued admonishment from the network that “a jug band complete with washboard” still does not constitute classical orchestral music.
• Fears that adorable sidekick Snuffaluffagus’ lack of inclusion in the Bible is further proof of Satan’s involvement in disputing the 6,000 year Earth belief.
• An attempt to satisfy constituents who remark “Reading Rainbow? Sounds like one of dem dere gay liberry’s I pass by on mah way to the drive in liquor store” to say nothing of Kermit’s “Rainbow Connection”.
• Contrary to popular belief, no one believes Bert is secretly in a homosexual relationship with Ernie. That rubber duckie of his, though…
• Ghost Writer encouragement of America’s youth to constantly be writing is a bitter reminder of the lack of letters seniors are failing to receive , yet they never receive a single letter from one of their grandkids.
• 3-2-1 Contact’s “Bloodhound gang” is nothing more than another example of TV encouraging inner city kids towards violent streaks. Also, their mysteries were bullshit.
• Bob Ross painted happy little trees, hills, and lakes. Would it have killed him to create one painting with some dynamite fishing?
• Grover’s “Monster at the end of this book” really scared Paul Ryan when Romney read it to him before bed the previous week.
• Antique Road Show was another entitlement program by which those lazy 47% grandparents could sell their 1950′s porcelain candy dish and continue to suck at the teats of America

The NFL , like a Clint Eastwood stump speech, can be confounding (he and the GOP do have something in common: both produce million dollar babies). For instance, Payton is out, while Peyton is in. The former was a Saint, although he didn’t behave like it, while the latter is a Bronco, yet it would be more accurate to call him a foal, and he’s not interested in horsing around after the team ponied up to acquire him. Ochocinco was eighty-sixed by the Dolphins. Super Bowl winner Eli Manning appears as comfortable on the field as self-professed “sport” fan Mitt Romney does releasing his tax returns. Consult Concentrated Awesome’s pigskin predictions, which should at least make as much sense and be as funny as the Budweiser ads you’ll soon be besieged by.

Carolina: After getting off to a slow start, center Ryan Kalil switches from taking out ads in newspapers talking about the Panthers, to using Craiglist’s “Rants and Raves” section. Meanwhile, a disgruntled Steve Smith writes scathing screeds to Cam Newton on the “Missed Connections” page.

New Orleans: Still scarred by the Bounty scandal, the Saints will ban a certain brand of paper towels from their facilities, which will prove to be ironic because they’ll need something to mop up the mess of their season.

Cleveland: In an act that will become known as “The Dawgcision,” the Browns will announce that they plan to take their lack of talent elsewhere, but definitely not Baltimore this time.

Indianapolis: Halfway through the season, top draft pick Andrew Luck will abandon the Colts for a job in his major,  architecture, reasoning that it’s easier to build a skyscraper than it is to build a winning team in Indy.

Uncovered and streaking: The Jets are “desperate” at receiver.

New York Jets: The Jets wideouts are so woeful that within weeks Mark Sanchez will recruit his girlfriend to play. When he wants her to run a deep route, he’ll simply shout, “Go Longoria.”

Philadelphia: Michael Vick will clarify his comments about the squad’s potential to be a “Dynasty,” explaining he didn’t mean an empire, rather the  ’80s soap opera. Confused, millions of misinformed women will tune in to the team’s head-to-head meeting with Dallas.

Houston: RB Arian Foster, a recent vegan convert, won’t understand that the tomatoes being thrown at him during a poor performance are sarcastic, not supportive.

Baltimore: When the Ravens defense is decimated by injuries, Ray Lewis will lobby for Madden commercial partner Paul Rudd to come aboard, figuring if the actor has comedic instincts and timing, then he must have football ones as well.

Dallas: Courting celebrity, as usual, Cowboys owner Jerry Jones hires Jonah Hill to be The Sitter who looks after the troubled Dez Bryant.

Jacksonville: Training camp holdout Maurice Jones-Drew will furnish William Shatner with a seat next to the new owner’s box, on the stipulation that Shatner screams, “Shahid Khan!” at least once per game.

New England: Coach Bill Belichick will receive recognition from the homosexual community for having more tight ends than a gay nightclub.

Atlanta: Matt Ryan will  lose the respect of his teammates when they discover that vice presidential candidate and workout wonder Paul Ryan benches more than him. The situation will worsen when it’s learned that Meg Ryan can also out-lift him.

I won’t belabor the point and I’m certainly not going to argue against it – gamers are dicks. At least most of the time. We’re short tempered and demanding and in the rare moments when we are calm, rational people it’s short lived. Anonymous nature of online play with the constant deluge of inputs and all.

About a week ago I was clicking my life away in Diablo 3, as I have been for the last few weeks. Apologies in writing to the girlfriend if she’s still around.

Anyways, I pulled myself from firing fireballs up a demon’s ass to check on a work email. Within 30 seconds, two more joined our party. And within 30 seconds of that, I was immediately called out for being AFK, despite the brb I’d messaged on their arrival.

“I fuckin’ hate AFKs. Don’t you know you’re making the game harder for us!?”, one groaned, the other agreed. I’m well aware of the difficulty increase, yes.

Diablo would probably comment “First!” on this. ‘Cause he’s a dick.

I respond, perhaps not in the most convivial way. “Chill out a sec, I’ll brb “. The specifics of what would be generously described as a conversation that followed are not worth repeating. Back and forth we went, things getting heated (there were mentions of what I might be performing on a goat while AFK) until I stopped a second and said “Hey guys, Wheaton’s law”.

As we should all be cognizant of whenever we can, the law simply states “don’t be a dick”. Awesome and to the point. Just ’cause it’s the internet and you CAN be a jackass doesn’t mean you should.

Met with stunned silence, I affirmed that they knew said mantra and clarified that I’m not trying to ruin their game, but just needed a minute. The momentary effect after said invocation wore off and they returned to grumbling through their loot lusting rather than agree that I wasn’t trying to make their lives more difficult. Because they thought I was being a self-righteous dick.

There in lies in my humble opinion the flaw with Wheaton’s law. It’s antagonistic, or at least it shouldn’t be but is more often than not interpreted as such. Sometimes it is intended. People hear “You’re being a dick, stop it” and people hate being told that they’re dicks, believe it or not. Probably more so anonymously on the net.

So here I am proposing an addition to Wheaton’s law – Wheaton’s corollary. In essence, it states “no dickishness intended”. How often do you get into an argument (certainly a euphemistic description) rather than just think “maybe this dude on the other end of this text box is just looking to understand why I’m being a dick”.

Here’s how you invoke such. You say “Hey, Wheaton’s corollary” or maybe just “NDI”. It succinctly says how about we, together, not be dicks. On the receiving end, they can either ack that fact or continue to be a dick. Not much you can do about that. But maybe they’d stop and agree. Perhaps we can realize that someone else you thought was a douche is actually pretty chill.

Except for Diablo. He keeps shooting this, like, lightning at me? And then captured me in a bone prison? Man, that guy’s a huge dick. Let’s go kick his ass.

A lot of people have been asking where we’ve been for the past month-and-a-half (mostly debt-collectors). Well, Will and I were busy developing a sexy Secret Service shooter, but we couldn’t decide whether to call it Call Girl of Duty or Ass Effect (we were at least able to rule out Diablow, Grand Theft Autoerotic Asphyxiation and Mario Sex Party).  After a period of heated debate, we agreed to begin working on the conservative horror game, President Evil, which will (zom)be available by November on CD-ROMney.

“Metal Gear” is Secret Service code for ‘dildo’.

Also, Newt Gingrich invited us on a trip to the moon. Along for the ride was Lance “Buzz” Armstrong, who plans to bike the moon, marketing a  new line of bracelets, Dopestrong. Why is Gingrich so obsessed with Earth’s satellite? It turns out he’s anti-gravity. “It’s always holding us down,” he explained. We learned so much on what he would refer to as our “honeymoon.” For starters, the moon is neither made of cheese nor of moon pies. Secondly, despite what he promised us, the moon does not yet have wi-fi, which, as you can imagine, poses a problem at the moon Starbucks, because people on computers have a hard time pretending to be more productive than other patrons sitting in the coffee shop. To make matters worse, moon Starbucks was out of scones. They live like savages.

We – and by “we” we mean one of us – has a sister site. A totally hot sister site that we’ve been staring at way too often, NBA (B)All Day. Yes, it does cover pro hoops, but it’s about so much more: love, basketball, the 2000 Omar Epps film Love & Basketball. Ok, we’ll admit, it’s mostly an outlet for our seemingly, shall we say, Linfinite supply of Jeremy Lin puns.

Thanks for reading. We know it’s a struggle, since most of you never finished middle school (we too thought that the problem solving we’d be doing in Algebra would involve removing seaweed bikinis from mermaids). Remember: We’re what you get when you combine a think tank with a drunk tank, with a little Tank Girl thrown in for good measure.

What has Concentrated Awesome been up to in 2012? Besides funneling all of our internet millions into off-Pauly Shore accounts (where the Weasel will never get them) to dodge taxation, we have our hands in many cookie jars – literally, not figuratively (and it’s nothing to snickerdoodle about). Emerson once wrote that “God screens us evermore from premature ideas,” which was true in his time (with the Lord acting as a bouncer for your brain; as for other parts being premature, well, he’s never protected us from that), but now God outsources the screenings to the TSA, so we were able to sneak these right past Him effortlessly.

Invented a texting language to express regret, remorse code.

Manufactured an instrument under the label “Viable Vocations,” the Jeremy VioLin. If you have Chinese-American child, they’re still more likely to be a music prodigy than an professional athlete. Have your kid start with learning the triangle and then work their way towards learning the triangle offense. Unfortunately, Lin’s teammate wouldn’t agree to approve a Carmelo cello.

Founded a combination BBQ eatery and computer center, Hog-n-DOS (for fast service, use our hard drive-thru Windows). We served no ice cream, which really confused and angered customers. One even pulled out a Magnum on us (the covered in chocolate kind). Don’t worry, he’s behind bars now – ice cream bars.

Wrote the titles for Mitt Romney’s Presidential campaign tome, should he win, Mittigating Circumstances, or lose, AdMitt Defeat.

Pitched a marching band make-over show, Sex Cymbal.

Recorded the blanket ballad, “Teach Me How to Snuggie.”

Fermented an Asian wine, Filipino Grigio.

Produced a movie about proposing while plastered, The Five-Beer Engagement.

Brokered deals for two Donald Trump-endorsed e-readers, the Amazon Kindle You’re Fired and the Barnes & Noble Crook.

That's a wrap: Our hip-hop sandwich shop folded.

Developed a swearing Scrabble-esque game, Curse Words with Friends because you can’t spell “fun” without ‘f-u.’

Operated a car detailing and rental service for criminals, A Clean Getaway.

Formed a  boy bard band, Pun Direction, whose forthcoming album is called, As You Mic It. To further taunt Simon Cowell, they all wear cowls and were cloned from Ryan Seacrest DNA (call it the XY Factor) .

Created a game show where contestants identify auto repairs, Name That Tune-Up (alternate title: Your Lucky Brake).

Designed a Michael Jackson-themed juice bar, Smoothie Criminal.

Convinced Facebook to buy our photo program, Instagrahamcracker, which through a digital filter, adds wafers to pictures (tip: be sure to turn off your browser’s cookies when using it), thus instantly making the images appear older, since no one has eaten the sweet snack since the 1950s . We can assure you, Mr. Zuckerberg, there’s S’more brilliance where that came from.

I saw London, I saw France, I saw Pipa’s underpants (the British Museum is quite thorough in its collection of Royal Family artifacts). Follow me on my European Vacation, which Chevy Chase declined to join me on, so I went with my wife instead.

I come to learn that London Bridge isn’t “falling down, falling down.” That’s the last time I trust a nursery rhyme. To make matters worse, the black sheep weren’t telling me if they had any wool, so I came home with three bags empty.

Disappointed not to find the Rolling Stones at Stonehenge. Nor did I spot Emma Stone, Sharon Stone or Stone Phillips. Realized that the only people interested in a circle of standing rocks with a mysterious origin and possibly mystical meaning are pot heads and plan for a “Stonedhenge” park in the states, where we sell Phish ‘n chips.

Despite asking several blokes on the street, no one can direct me toward The Ministry of Silly Walks.

After I accidentally get locked in a bathroom, I start writing the song, “Trapped in the Water Closet.”

Since a sign has been put up at King’s Cross marking platform 9 and 3/4, I move on to my search for duffle coat-wearing, marmalade sandwich-loving bear from deepest, darkest Peru at Paddington Station.

Even among the Brits, there’s no interest in financing my Guy Ritchie parody gay porno, Cock, Sock and Two Smoking Buttholes. Also had no backers for my musical theatre piece, Krumping with Crumpets.

Visited the reconstructed Globe Theatre. Noted the irony that in Shakespeare’s time the shape of the venue was round, while today it’s the audience who is round.

Attempt to break the concentration of the Buckingham Palace guards by asking them how white guys grew such great afros.

Joked that the only work Posh Spice can hope to get is in a deodorant ad, if she’s willing to call herself “Old.”

Hit on what I believe to be a beautiful woman. It turns out to be Eddie Izzard in drag. Time to leave London.

Saw Notre Dame cathedral. Tried to spike a football inside, but security confiscated it. Fun fact: In the U.S., Notre Dame is associated with the Fighting Irish, but here it’s connected to the Retreating French.

Conquered the French in under 3 hours. This is now the Marc de Triomphe.

Since I am a “stranger” in this land, I disguise myself as an author and philosopher, calling my outfit “Camus-flage.” I think he’d appreciate the absurdity.

Try to start an even shorter art movement than Fauvism, named “Favreauism,” where every painting is a portrait of John Favreau. It is widely panned as the ugliest style ever committed to canvas.

Went a little crazy walking along the river. Later, a doctor diagnosed me as having gone “in Seine in the membrane.”

I must admit, the baked goods here are delicious. The croissants are flakier than Brian Wilson (both the pitcher and the singer).

Expected to encounter an enormous sports store on Champs-Elysees. Then I remembered the only thing the French do competitively is smoke.

Confused a street mime when I suggested he think outside of the invisible box.

After another rude encounter, I write off the French as a people. Quickly extend it to include French Stewart and French’s mustard. Later, determine I have a Louvre-hate relationship with the nation.

Frustrated at the lack of wi-fi at a famous French landmark, write a letter to Apple, proposing they buy the monument and re-name it “The iFfel Tower.”

Spend several hours playing a game where I stop passersby and ask them, “Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”

After I vogue outside of the fashion magazine’s Paris office, I come to the conclusion I’m Bordeaux out of my mind.

Even after three days, I refuse to surrender to Paris’ charm. I’ll leave surrendering to the experts.

Check our Vitale signs, March Madness is here, which means it’s time to dust off our degree in bracketology – which is only slightly less useless than our Bachelor’s in English – and make our picks for the field.

Uncertain if forward John Henson will be able to play, North Carolina commissions Jim Henson studios to make a muppet mimic, which goes unnoticed until Yahoo Sports reports on it, taking Gonzo journalism to another level. Meanwhile, Gonzaga is annoyed it didn’t think of this first.

In a move that surprises no one,  the Wichita State Shockers become the favorite of frat boys everywhere, while Xavier is supported by comic book geeks who hope the special school is full of mutants.

Harvard is disqualified after failing to emerge from the locker room of their halftime matchup against Vanderbilt because they have to cram for their mathematics exam, concluding that game theory is more important than the game.

Kentucky escapes by the skin of their teeth against Western Kentucky, which is an idiom most people in the state can’t relate to.

King of the Castlevania: The only Belmont we're experts on is Simon.

Small school sensation Murray State shows up ready for their first-round meeting, but lose because Jermaine and Bret aren’t present. It makes for a long flight (of the conchords) home.

Disgruntled Orlando Magic center Dwight Howard adds Duke to the list of teams he’s willing to be traded to. Having never played college ball, the NCAA immediately declares him eligible to suit up and asks Duke if there’s anything else they can do to help. Duke requests that the NCAA hire circus performers as referees, so it’ll be easier for the officials to swallow their whistles when it comes to making calls against the Blue Devils.

In an ironic twist, following an upset,vengeful Syracuse fans burn the UNC-Asheville campus to ashes.

Notre Dame refuses to play their scheduled contest on St. Patrick’s Day, citing “religious and intoxicated reasons.”

Your only “sleeper” selection that comes true, is when you correctly predict that your girlfriend will force you to spend the night on the sofa when you put your foot down and declare that you’re watching Creighton, instead of accompanying her to Crate + Barrel. You earn a second stay in the easy chair by choosing Marquette over a trip with her to the market.

After seeing a Hooters commercial for the 1,000th time, you still can’t decide which seems more astoundingly artificial: the women or the food.

These past few months we’ve been busy running our waterbed store, Wet Dreams.  Our buy a twin, get a set of twins promotion was highly successful. As was our commercial featuring Billy Ocean crooning, “Get out of my dreams and get into Wet Dreams.” We declared the sale Serta-fiably sexy. As far as sleep numbers go, every customer’s was a 69. Ironically, we grew restless selling beds (after a while, we lost the box spring in our step), so back to blogging we go, like a moth to a flame or a butterfly to a Tiffany lamp (they’re attracted to colorful light). This Super Bowl is a re-match of the 2007 game, making it less somewhat less than super (we’d describe it as “accepta-bowl”), but it’s still worth betting on (we have a lot of money stored under our unsold mattresses). Here are some prop bets that will probably blow up in our faces like homemade meth (we knew we should’ve used the Betty Crack-er mix). So degenerates: Are you ready for some gam-ball?

1:3 Odds a despondent Aaron Rodgers pantomimes hanging himself with his imaginary championship belt.

10:1 Odds we dub his maneuver the “discount double choke.”

1:10 Odds Al Michaels spaces out and thinks he’s calling the Indy 500 race.

1:20 Odds Giants WR Victor Cruz puts a literal spin on his salsa dance celebration but dunking a football into a jar of salsa if he scores. 1:15 Odds he does the limbo under the goal posts.

1:25 Odds Pats coach Bill Belichick switches from a sleeveless hoodie to a hood-less one.

1:50 Odds Madonna brings Tim Tebow onstage during halftime for a duet of “Like a Virgin.”

1: 100,000 Odds Tebow then converts Madonna to Christianity.

1:75 Odds a confused Harrison Ford is spotted at the game wearing a fedora and holding a bullwhip because he noticed “Indy” has been trending all week.

2:1 Odds Giants coach Tom Coughlin’s face turns all colors on the Homeland Security’s terror alert level chart before the game is over.

Aaron Rodgers has gone to the State Farm upstate.

1:5 Odds Chad Ochocinco will change his name to “Uno Super Bowl-o” or “Cero Super Bowl-o,” depending on the outcome.

1:500 Odds Pats TE Rob Gronkowski spikes the ball so hard that it leaves the Earth’s atmosphere.

1:1,000 Odds it collides with an NBC satellite, causing a temporary blackout for TV viewers.

1:20 Odds Eli Manning gets choked up after the game.

1: 30 Odds he gets choked out… by jealous brother Peyton.

1:50 Odds Pats enormous DT Vince Wilfork gets injured and has to be carted off the field by a forklift.

1:80 Odds versatile Pats WR/DB/returner Julian Edelman is asked to call plays.

1:15 Odds he’s asked to star in an NBC series.

1:100 Odds that if Tom Brady wins his third championship the Tea Party will nominate him, as a true Patriot, to run for President.

50:1 Odds Brady, should he accept the nomination, will immediately be beating Mitt Romney in the polls.

1:200 Odds New York’s game-day ritual consists of listening to They Might Be Giants, watching Little Giants and shopping at a Giant supermarket.

1:300 Odds New England counters by watching The Patriot, Patriot Games and It’s Pat: The Movie.

1:15 Odds that more Americans who DVR the game fast forward through the football to watch the commercials.

Can we all agree that popping your collar is douchey? It’s essentially the “high class” mullet, as if to say “I’m completely unaware of how fucking ridiculous this is.” I’m just waiting for the day they start creating “pre-popped” collars, followed by a series of popped collars, each douchier than the last, like how there was a double razor, followed by the mach3, then then quattro, etc.. Perhaps I’ve inspired a douchey coporation towards evil just now.

Now, before you say “wait a minute, it looks good on me!” stop yourself. Go to hotchickswithdouchebags.com and count how many guys (who actually have a shirt on) have popped collars. Notice a trend?

That being said, there have been exceptions to the rule, notably 3 dudes in history able to pull off the popped collar:

(more…)

Putting the ‘high’ in “high school,” a math teacher in Illinois was busted for smoking pot on the job. The habit explained her fascination with imaginary numbers.

XXX-Men: A woman in Virginia who bought what was supposed to be a cartoon superhero movie at Target for her son, wound up with a gay porn movie instead. She should’ve been tipped off by the title, “The Fantastic Foursome.”

Finally, Applebee’s lives up to its name: A large cloud of bees flew in front of a Florida restaurant, causing patrons to flee. A waitress came over to serve the swarm, asking, “Whaddaya want, honey?”

He’s on cloud nine: The hunt for a Brazilian priest who vanished into the sky after strapping 1,000 balloons to himself (probably not the best way to get to Heaven) was called off after four days. Authorities didn’t want to get carried away searching for him.

Hour mistake: Watch maker Romain Jerome is selling 300K piece that’s truly timeless – it can only tell the wearer whether it’s day or night. The initial batch sold out in 48 hours, so evidently buyers aren’t giving the watch’s limitations a second thought.

Mine over matter: A man in Allentown, Pa. Survived a 500-foot fall into a strip mine. When questioned about the tumble, the man asked that the subject be dropped.

No monkey business: Yoko Ono is suing the producers of Ben Stein’s pro-creationist documentary, which uses John Lennon’s song “Imagine” without her permission. Ono hopes to “Win Ben Stein’s Money.”

Prisoner 57: Wesley Snipes has been sentenced to 3 years in jail for tax evasion – one for every “Blade” movie.

Fur sure: Shakira and Pamela Anderson were both in D.C. Speaking on behalf of animal rights group PETA. They thought the organization’s letters stood for “People for the Ethical Treatment of Airheads.”

Jim Beamed: Amy Winehouse was jailed for headbutting a man outside a London bar. The man said his noggin hurt worse after listening to her music than the blow to the melon.

Bomb’s away: A World War II bomb that was scheduled to be detonated at sea after it turned up on British shores has gone missing. It’s probably washed up on eBay.

Liquid Crystal Deceit: A Missouri man tried to switch the price tag of an LCD TV and a bottle of water at a Wal-Mart and claim the set cost $3.16. Authorities have labeled him an “aqua fienda.”
Never bean done: Oklahoma City mayor Mick Cornett has partnered with Taco Bell to convince the city’s residents to lose 1 million pounds this year. The fast food chain has promised to help people with their crunches.