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.

I hate to leave this year behind me without a few brief thoughts. Mostly, they involve lots of obscene gestures and various locations in which to place a pineapple. And if you don’t think 2009 has an asshole, you clearly weren’t paying attention during the Madoff scandal.

If I may be so grotesque (and I will, as this is our site and you were dumb enough to visit), I’d like to share a few parting shots to everything and everyone I hated in 2009.

Tiger Woods – Every husband, fiancee, boyfriend, what have you is now left out in “I know he’s cheating on me” territory despite any and all good will, casting us all in the doghouse. So thanks for fucking us all over. Well, not me, I’m still flying single. Crisis averted there! Also, all sexual puns about golf jokes have been completely exhausted for the next 5 years.

My underwear is now classified as a dangerous weapons. Laaadies?

The attempted Detroit pants bomber – We had the shoe bomber several years ago and they started making us take off our shoes to check for incendiary devices. Do we gotta drop our skinnies now? Let’s just cut out the middle man and ban pants, ok? It’ll save me a lot of excuses/court appearances.

Death – Patrick Swayze AND John Hughes? Really? I will never have a perfect sweet 16 nor be swept off my feet by the man who had one of the greatest 80s mullets around. I swear, if you come anywhere near Johnny 5 from Short Circuit…

Pinnochio – Quite frankly, I blame everything that Jeff Dunham has done this year on you. Jiminy Cricket can kiss my ass.

The Boston Red Sox – No real reason, I just hate to pass up the opportunity to rub our Yankees World Series win in your dumb faces. Booyah.

Vince “ShamWow/Slap Chop” Shlomi – After punching his girlfriend, I can’t look at any absorbent materials the same way again, nor will I ever love nuts quite the same way. Wait, that last part came out wrong. I love nuts just as much as I ever did, if not more so. 2010, bring on the nuts! There, all better.

Snuggies – My ass is cold cause I’m not wearing pants. Where’s your solution to that? Lazy bastards.

Jersey Shore – This is some kind of 80’s douchebag renaissance that needs to stop. If Billy Zabka makes an appearance, I’m going to go Karate Kid all over his ass

Zombies – Because you deserve mentioning on this list every year, as both an undying (or, really, undead) love of brains and as the source of my eventual demise upon your apocalypse. Be warned – Left 4 Dead 2, World War Z and Zombieland were all in my wheelhouse this year. I’m training.

Hollywood – speaking of movies, a list of the crapfest we had to endure: Bride Wars, Hotel for Dogs, Paul Blart: Mall Cop, He’s Just Not That Into You, The Pink Panther 2, Confessions of a Shopaholic, Jonas Brothers: The 3D Concert Experience, Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun Li…Ok, I’m giving up. That was just the movies up to the end of February. If I list any more, I might bludgeon myself with my laptop and not make it to 2010.

The Year ‘09 itself – for being 60 years too early to be funny for 5th graders and idiots with their own blogs

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through my house

Not a creature was stirring, especially not my spouse.

Ladies stockings were hung by the chimney with care

By all the women with whom I’ve had affairs.

The sluts were nestled all snug in my bed

While visions of fame and fortune danced in their heads.

And them in their nighties and I in my Nike cap

Had just settled down after hours of hearing them yap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

It reminded me of when my SUV windshield was shattered.

Away to the window I flew like a flash

To make sure it wasn’t Elin threatening my head to bash.

Jolly old Jack Nick took time to swing by Tiger's place (we wish he had changed his sweater first).

The moon shone on the chests of my newly acquired hoes

And the luster of their midriffs made me content with the path I chose

When what to my wandering eye did appear

But an Escalade and eight senior golfers.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be Jack Nick(laus).

One by one, out of the car they came

They all could shoot eagles and had courses bearing their names.

“Now Daly, now Duval, now Palmer and Strange

On Couples, on Curtis, and the two who staid at the driving range.

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall

Let’s hurry up, so we can get back to hitting balls!”

Because the old guys don’t move around so well

They didn’t bother climbing the roof and instead rung the doorbell.

Jack Nick was dressed all in plaid, from his head to his foot

It would’ve been an improvement if his clothes were covered in soot.

A bundle of clubs he had flung on his back

Nothing but Titleists were in his sack.

His face — how it wrinkled — his arthritis, how scary!

I said, “Jack Nick, I hope you brought me Katy Perry.”

He spoke not a word, but before getting to his work

He looked at the 14 stockings and then called me jerk.

And laying his finger on my chest he chided,

“You can’t stay inside until the scandal’s subsided.”

He hobbled to his vehicle and as he drove away I heard him holler,

“How many of your women would sit on Jack Nick’s lap for a dollar?”

Tiger's transgressions have some teed off.

Tiger’s alleged extra-marital affairs might cost him many of his endorsements (and we’re guessing Fidelity won’t ask him to be a spokesman), but we see an opportunity to plug a new product, which was at the center of the scandal. Expect to see this commercial soon:

Hi, Tiger Woods here. You know what I like, besides sleeping around? Long drives, on and off the course. And there’s no better vehicle to take them in than the all-new 2010 Cadillac Escalaid, specially designed for swingers of all sorts. It’s spacious interior contains enough room for your clubs and the women from the clubs. The leather backseat, which folds down flat, is both large and comfortable. Believe me, I’ve spent a lot of time there. Yes, the stylish and improved Escalaid assures I have game even away from the links.

The Escalaid has exceptional speed, whether you’re running late for tee time or running away from your enraged spouse, you’ll get going fast. GPS with turn by turn navigation helps you find what you’re looking for with ease, be it a new course or a new hotel to meet your mistress at. It delivers on safety, too, with shatter-proof windows and front and side airbags to protect you from harm, in the form of an accident or the wrath of your wronged wife. A padded brake and accelerator are perfect if you prefer to drive without shoes, like me. My favorite feature is the rear-view camera that lets you see objects behind you. It won’t help when you back out of tournaments, but it will help when you back out of the driveway in the early hours of the morning. The Escalaid is the best way to get around after you’ve played a few rounds or slept around.

With all these amazing amenities, there’s a “hole” lot to love about the 2010 Escalaid. What can I say, I’m fond of caddies. And cocktail waitresses.

Cadillac Escalaid, the car cheaters choose.

The holiday rush is upon us, and we’re no different here at CA. While normally prostituting ourselves on street corners at 2am, this past weekend we switched up to commercialized whoring through crass consumerism, because that’s what Christmas is about. Go, Jebus, Go!

Anyway, we’ve knocked through a couple gifts and thought we’d share some deals we’ve found, most notably for…

And yet this picture is still 100 times less creepy than any picture of Helen Thomas

…the first black President in your life, a copy of Wedding Crashers. Secret Service has their hands full, so clearly Obama need to start figuring out how to spot unwelcome guests himself. Also, I kinda want to see him get blitzed one press conference and call Joe Biden a “motor-boating son-of-a-bitch, you ol’ sailor you!”, maybe even going as far as demonstrating on Helen Thomas.
Price: Christopher Walken will stalk the White House for the next few months. Equally dangerous as random people off the streets, but a lot more entertaining.

…your socially dysfunctional genius friends, a season of Mythbusters and a season of Jackass, possibly the smartest and dumbest shows on TV, respectively. With some creative film editing, we could use Johnny Knoxville as a test dummy and finally blow his ass up.
Price: Most likely a few extremities, some brain cells.

…the film aficionado, Nicholas Cage. I don’t mean his film collection, I mean the actor himself. Dude’s been in movies for decades, but is now flat broke. That’s what you get after buying a bunch of dinosaur skulls. And, ya know, for playing the lead role in “Knowing”. I just find it hard to understand how he doesn’t have any cash after starring in several Japanese commercials for Pachinkoooooo!

Price: Sizable debts, the stench of his recent bombs in the box office, the eventual insanity in trying to fathom how he secured so many leading roles in action movies.

…the city that never sleeps, a legion of bandwagon Yankee fans. Where the hell were you sons of bitches 5 years ago when we needed the Heimlich maneuver? Nowadays, you’re too busy patting yourselves on the back. How many are Red Sox Fans in sheep’s clothing?
Price: 12 for $.10. That’s right, they’re a dime a dozen.

…the pro golfer, a new Cadillac SUV and a set of clubs. You may have escaped with some scratches on your body, Tiger, but we all know you don’t go out at 2:25am and crash your caddy because you had a craving for some Ben & Jerry’s. Pretty sure it was a different kind of BJ you were looking for.
Price: Get out your check book, it’s going to cost you. Probably want to add some car detailing to get out the stripper perfume and glitter from the back seat too. Be warned, Tiger goes through Cadillacs like he goes through…well, fire hydrants and trees.

…your favorite football coach, a copy of Madden 2009 for the Wii. If Belichick’s going to go for it on every 4th down in every major game, at least we won’t have to see Tom Brady cry afterward during the post-game. Unless they added that in for Madden 2010 (fingers crossed).
Price: Any hope for winning Super Bowl XLIV come next year. Just ask the Jets/Giants how cheap that comes.

As the holiday season approaches, we’d like to take a moment out of our busy schedules of general buffoonery to point out how other people on the web are even bigger idiots, making us seem normal in comparison. Thanks for being the pariahs, social outcasts, and abhorrent human beings so we don’t have to. Most notably, we’re thankful…

Little-known fact: turkeys are the easiest animals to high-five.

• for a trusted telephone service for turkey troubles (let’s call these experts “master basters.”
• that we don’t act out our ninja fantasies (unless playing Ninja Gaiden while listening to “Ninja Rap” counts).
• the NHL is transitioning from Gretzky to grizzlies (the Boston Bruins never looked better).
• for what has to be Lance Armstrong’s favorite brothel (it’s pedaling filth).
• states are continue to draught stronger beer bills (the economy’s tanked and so are we).
• the vigilant people of Iowa are protecting us from zombies — especially during breakfast, the most important meal of the day (by “vigilant” we mean ‘inebriated’).
• we weren’t at this meeting, which put the ‘dive’ in “Maldives” ( by all accounts, it went swimmingly).
• for Pepperdine’s Keion Bell for demonstrating the only acceptable way to slam your teammates (for him, ‘09 was a leap year).
• we’re not on the road in South Korea (they have a saying, 950th time’s the charm).
• this man’s efforts weren’t fruitful (though they were fruit-full).
• for pro athletes who understand the value of a dollar (we’ll bet he sips Crystal Light, not Cristal).
• there’s a way for Santa to make (rear) ends meet (it’s been dung before).
• one establishment is serving a vodka-infused turkey (next up: the Grey Goose goose). We’re tired from the tryptophan, not the 100-proof alcohol, really.
• we’ll always keep the gin and juice next to the milk and cookies during Christmas time
• that we’ve managed to embarrass both Christians and the rap community in one goofy youtube video
• for design companies that use MS Paint to brings AOL (already an embarrassment of a company) to new depths in asshattery.
• that Paula Deen has proven about as capable as the Browns when it comes to catching a pigskin — or skinned pig (don’t worry, she wrapped her face in bacon and she’s fine now).
• Kermit the Frog has finally decided to embrace the Queen in himself. Now if he can only grow a mustache…
• you’ve managed to gorge yourself on this filler post right before Thanksgiving. The EMT will be around shortly. Still, it’s a small price to pay for defeating your cousin in the gravy chugging contest (as well as besting him in a bitter butter battle that would’ve made Dr. Seuss proud).

These are stories ripped (off) straight from the headlines.

Working on her (sa)tan line: Last week, Britney Spears’ twitter account was hacked, so she was sending messages saying she worships the devil. It’s still a step up from Kevin Federline.

Something waffle has happened: Due to a factory flooding, there has been a severe shortage of a certain kind of Kellogg’s breakfast food. Naturally, people are panicking, standing in line for hours trying to buy the product. We call these folks “Eggomaniacs.”

Pros and (Fal)cons: The Heene parents have plead guilty to a felony charge in the balloon hoax. It would’ve worked, if not for their son’s letting slip on TV that the stunt was “for a show.” The lesson: Children should be Heene and not heard.

He’s hair to the throne of heartthrobs.

Speed’oh: A group in Australia failed in its attempt to achieve the world’s largest bikini parade. Talk about not pooling resources properly.

Seoul searching: President Obama is encouraging China and South Korea, along with the U.S.,  to engage in a dialogue with North Korea. In other words, he’s hoping for some il communication.

His locks are key: Actor Robert Pattinson jokes that in the movie New Moon that 75 percent of his performance is his hair. If only the rabid fans would twilighten up.

Stamped out: The U.S. postal service has ended a program where volunteers responded to childrens’ letters addressed to Santa. The reason? Professional jealousy. Kris Kringle does something easily the USPS has never been able to: deliver thousands of packages overnight.

Write wing perspective: We’d like to answer the question what books are better than Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue with a phrase that should sound familiar: um, all of them.

Rest in piece: Jeanne-Claude, an installation artist who co-created “The Gates” in Central Park in 2005, died Wednesday. Her next project is redecorating the pearly gates.

Charleston Chewed out: Actor Seth Green is feuding with bloggers making fun of him for a viral video ad for Butterfingers. It seems he can’t stand all the snickers.

Winfrey at last: There goes Steadman’s steady source of income. Oprah announced she will end her talk show in 2011, so in two years you can expect Pontiac to go bankrupt, Dr. Phil to file for unemployment and 80% of women to stop reading.

Take this to heart: If you want to avoid the sick bay, pass the Parrot Bay. A major study in Spain showed that drinking alcohol daily significantly reduces men’s risk of heart disease. We trust this information as the Absolut truth.

Halo/goodbye: A Chicago-area teen called 911 to complain after his parents confiscated his video game system. The strange reaction was just his way of thinking outside the Xbox.

Sousing it up after a long week of work sometimes isn’t enough to get you by (I’ll let you compose yourself after such a bombshell. Better?). If my 20’s have taught me anything, it’s that the best way to blow off steam is to just do something really stupid and reckless: rob a liquor store, set fire to a day care center, date a Kardashian (my condolences to Lamar Odom, we hardly knew ye).

Bad news: I was out of firearms, incendiary devices and lies to tell Kim.

Good news: my bosses invited me out to Atlantic City, which I’ve learned will do in a pinch.

As this was my first time to AC, I decided to keep a running diary of it. Before you ask “Isn’t this like a bunch of Sports Guy’s columns on Vegas, namely one he wrote just three weeks ago?”, let me differentiate: He has a huge fan base that digs his writing, thoroughly enjoys casinos on a regular basis, and most importantly is a seasoned pro writer/gambler. I, on the other hand, will be lucky if this post is accidentally clicked on at 3am by a furry on the other side of the world looking for “Concentrated Opossum: Where furries go to yiff”. If you don’t know what a furry is, please don’t look it up. It’ll only make you sad.

For those not looking for said twisted porn, prepare to gamble with 15 minutes of your life you’ll never get back.

12:00pm – Woo! AC here we come! I’ve got my fanny pack full of fruit rollups and I’m ready to cut loose!

12:01 – My fanny pack is immediately thrown out the window by my boss. Lucky I brought a spare Fruit by the Foot in my back pocket. Start contemplating if a Canadian “Vegetable by the Meter” could work.

12:37 – A chill runs up my spine. A cold wind blows through the car. Somewhere in the distance, a small child’s cries go unanswered. I look up. “Welcome to New Jersey!”. Can I hold my nose for 12+ hours?

1:30 – I’ve made my sixth rest stop since starting the trip. My highly developed urinary system goes underappreciated.

2:15 – We pull through an adjacent town…Abysmal? Abscess? Absecon, right, right. I’m pretty sure I just saw a dog looking for a place to die, stopping at a nearby Best Western, and shaking its head as it continued on.

Gimme an S! Gimme an L! Gimme a U! Gimme a T!

2:45 – We pull up to the casino, immediately spot a car window sticker stating “Cougar Cheerleadering”. Clearly, this can mean be only one of two things: older women who dress up like cheerleaders at singles bars OR cheerleaders who rally you on to seek out said older women. Both options are strangely appealing.

3:30 – I sit down at a Texas Hold ‘em table. Everyone immediately stares me down and starts laughing. People are so friendly here! I’ve got $100 to spend on this table for a while, I think I’ll do well.

3:33 – Start humming Lady Gaga. I soon regret this faux pas when the dealer cracks me over the head with a stool and continues to deal. Must be more of a Britney fan.

3:38 – I’ve got $75 left. It’s still good! It’s still good!

3:43 – $40 left. It’s still still good! It’s still good!

3:50 – $10 left. It’s still good!

3:55 – And like that, I’m done. Planned to lose no more than $200 all night and I’m down half of it within 25 minutes of gambling. Fantastic start.

5:01 – I’ve circled the casino 20 times in the last hour in a nervous attempt to find my bearings. If I skitter any faster I might turn back time in the casino a la Superman.

5:15 – We regroup, settle down for cheesesteaks. This will be the best use of my money all night. I still feel sick afterward, but at least my shame is mostly internalized.

5:45 – Coworkers return to their tables. Either the dread of losing more money or the gallon of cheese whiz I consumed is turning my stomach so much I can’t handle any more cards. I decide to play nature show host to the creatures that inhabit the casino and people watch for a while. “People” is loosely defined here.
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Sometimes, I absolutely love being a huge nerd. Minus my sex life, social life, any kind of professional nature and maturity as a man in his mid-twenties, it’s pretty damn sweet. Wear a lame t-shirt? Get my ass kicked in a bar? Spend an entire lunch break discussing how the Enterprise would win in a fight against the Death Star? It’s all good, cause I’m a geek. It’s like a “Get of Jail Free” card, but for doing anything cool.

I looked like this, but without all those ‘muscles’ getting in my way

Hell, I could even do something crazy like…oh I dunno, spend tons of cash and man hours (not to mention credibility as a productive member of society) to produce a light up green lantern ring for the sole purpose of wearing it as a small part of a Halloween costume. That’s just a theoretical example, of course.

Unfortunately, not everyone is quite so lucky. The vast majority of people are stuck in that middle area where they’re too cool to give up and say “fuck it, I’m going to play Rock Band with a plastic guitar” and not cool enough to be a John Lennon level rock star actually depicted in a Rock Band game.

I got news for you. In their lifetimes John Wayne peed himself every now and then, Bruce Lee would get untimely boner shame and JFK got shot down by girls. No one is lucky enough to have “everything come up Milhouse” 24/7.

I say embrace the times few and far between when being a goofy son of a bitch is socially acceptable. Should you find yourself in any of the following situations, sit back and enjoy the ride. You can only get away with it every so often.

Currying favor with Sports gods
This includes any sort of special dances, lucky (read: smelly and unwashed) pieces of clothing, or strange rituals that may or may not involve the sacrifice of a small woodland creature. From cheering on your fantasy team to pulling for your guys in October, the time honored tradition of acting like a jackass is far reaching. Fair warning, telling your significant other that she must leave the room because she’s jinxing the team will not be looked upon kindly.
Example: A cardboard sign reading John 3:16 and a rainbow wig. Go Giants! (?)

Halloween
Let me say again, because it bears repeating: I dressed up like the Green Lantern, complete with spandex shirt and a black mask with a glowing ring around the streets of NYC AND on top of that I wound up talking to a really cute girl at the end of the night. Explain to me in what other context I could pull that off? Magic of Halloween, folks.
Example: Slutty policewoman, Slutty cat, Slutty fire hydrant

21st birthday
Turning 21 is your “last licks” at being a teenager. Sure, your teen years technically ended when you turned 20, but there’s that nice 1 year grace period as you transition out of it, so that you can slowly stop being so damn angsty. Now, you’re 21 and legally allowed to drink. Put down the PBR and pick up a real drink (just as soon as you do a few body shots first).
Example: 21 shots in a night? Start looking forward to that first AA meeting.

Childhood
Those lucky sons of bitches just sitting around, pooping themselves and eating glue. When you’re 3, it’s all water under the bridge. I did that Tuesday and got the dirtiest looks from my coworkers. See if I share my Flintstones phone with you during Show ‘n Tell next week. Note, this also applies if you’re old and senile. Only 60 more years to go!
Example: I know I can fit this quarter up my nose. Wheeeeeeeeeee!

Performing a bar bet
Just to clarify, “socially acceptable” applies to the group of friends you’re with and the time frame of said bet. The first law of a bar bet is any act of stupidity must be met with equal and opposite respect. Newtonian physics, bitches.
Example: I bet I can fit this quarter up my nose. Woooooo!

In a porno
Anything goes in a porno. Doin’ it with the cable guy. Doin’ it with sexy aliens. Doin’ it with the lights on. Even as you read this, top men in the field of sexology (aside: that’s apparently a real word, as spell check didn’t correct me) are currently working on the effects of zero gravity on silicone.
Example: Ron Jeremy, a man who looks like Mario on a drunken bender, has slept with more hot women (at the same time!) than you will ever see walking down the street. Baffling.

Hollywood in the 80’s
How else do you explain Steve Guttenberg’s career? Ok, yes, the Stonecutters as well.
Example: Every 80’s movie (except for anything by John Hughes. 16 candles!? sigh…)

Before you run out the door with your new found freedom, let’s pump the brakes a second. While the above are special cases, let’s not forget the mistakes of those who’ve gone before us. I’d be morally remiss if I didn’t shed some light on the fact that these are exceptions to the rule. As a precaution, make sure not to fall into the trap of believing the following are loopholes when, in fact, they are even more so stringent bearing to said rule:

Being Drunk, on drugs, or intoxicated in any way.
A close cousin to the bar bet, as that bit of social lubricant (teeheehee) is what starts all the fun in the first place. Drunk shaming happens for a reason: to teach you not to be a jackass. Alcohol does not give you free reign to act like an asshole. Living in NYC does.

In Love
Just the opposite, everything you do in love can and will be held against you in a court of law (“law” loosely interpreted here as the ball busting that ensues when your friends find out). There is a reason men don’t openly talk about taking their wives to see Julia Roberts movies when their buddies are around. You may have gotten lucky with that lavender candle and quiche you made, but you haven’t paid for it until your friends find out.

Teenage years
I don’t care who you are or how cool you were in high school, at some point you tried to dress up like Vanilla Ice, Kid and/or Play, Don Johnson, etc. depending on what era you group up in. If you can find a single photo from your teenage years where you said “wow, that’s a great haircut”, congrats. You peaked in high school and are currently working in a Denny’s.

The internet
I know what you’re thinking. “The internet? Anything goes there!” False. Logic is merely twisted here. If you want to find pictures of a crossover romance between Johny Five from Short Circuit and Robocop, somewhere in the world there is a person posting said short story to their blog. The converse is, though, that you will also be ridiculed for not being obsessive enough. You confuse your rickrolling with a lemon party and you’re in trouble. If you don’t know what either are, stay out of the internet. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.