Remote work. Where you can attend a Zoom meeting while taking a dump in the comfort of one’s home. Exploding during the pandemic, working from your own living room and telecommuting became a new norm. Cutting out the commute and softening the daily rat race, working from home greatly improved most Americans work-life balance. For the better part of five years, Americans didn’t have to get up at 5 AM every day to drive to a job that they hate. Instead, they eased into the day, got to spend quality time with their family, and didn’t have to pile into their metal coffins.

With the COVID-19 hangover being over and done with, Corporate America is now demanding its workforce to get their asses back into the office. Playtime is over and most employers want to get their money’s worth on their office building leases. Human interaction is important when stimulating innovation and profits. It’s been studied and proven that GDP went down during the pandemic. Some people were productive in their home office while others openly masturbated during sales calls. The corporate overlords want oversight on their employees to keep them in line and prevent dithering while their multitasking Xcel spreadsheets and changing out laundry loads. Blue collar and essential workers didn’t have the luxury of working from home so it’s high time whitey’s white-collar workers have to show back up to the office.

I believe we won’t be going back to full time remote work. I think it’s a good option to have during winter, when it’s sick season and snow days can hinder the commute. Hybrid is the wave of the future. It’s a fair compromise in demanding 2-3 business days in the office while reserving 2-3 days to work from home. That right there is a win-win, satisfying both employers and employees. But during days of remote work, what does one wear to the “office?” Me, I personally prefer working nude. Less work clothes equals less laundry. Why the fuck do I need to spend thousands of dollars in suits at Men’s Wearhouse when I can go straight bare ass on my swivel chair? Feeling free without unnecessary clothes that restricts blood flow to my appendages when instead I can put together an amazing proposal for the Akron account with my cock in the wind. When the meetings are on Zoom, I’ll voluntarily opt out of the video segment. Nobody needs to know that I’m most productive in my birthday suit. But for some folks, that must be seen they may have to more presentable to their work colleagues and potential clients. The secret to their success is a nice work shirt with tie up top and a cock sock below.

Much like the mullet, where it’s business up front and party down below, my vision of remote work fashion is business up top and party down below. Above the equator is professional, commands respect and lets everyone on the Zoom call know that you mean serious business when conducting commerce. Below the equator the warm glove for your love gun maintains the integrity of the angle of your dangle. It isn’t just any random sock out of your sock drawer, it will be of silk or cashmere fabric sewn by a Sherpa. My line up of fashionable cock socks will preserve your sanctity all while keeping your pecker warm and providing comfort to your fuzzy warbles. Providing way more skin to fabric comfort than a traditional pair of underwear with trousers, your junk will thank you with one of my exclusive hand-crafted love gloves. So do yourself a favor and drop your cocks and grab your socks.

This trend is nothing knew, the cock sock has been around for millennia. During biblical times, when Adam was working as an arborist, he always wore a fashionable cock sock while working in the apple orchard. Eve, being a faithful wife after being created directly from Adam’s rib, went straight to work by hand sewing several cock socks with serpentine themes. Adam always sported the Rattler on Mondays and for casual Fridays he proudly dawned a black cock sock known as the Black Mamba. Tuesdays were Pink Python, Wednesdays were Camel Toe for Hump Day, and Thursday’s edition was Awesome Anaconda. Proudly covering his flesh wand for the devil couldn’t see, Adam was the first cock sock model ever documented. In the 80s, at the height of their popularity, The RedHot Chilli Peppers made cocks socks fashionable again when they played live shows. With Anthony Kiedis on the microphone, and Flea jamming his guitar, the popularity of the cock sock exponentially increased when the 4 swinging dicks of RHCP played their bass funk music. It is said that the song Give It Away Now was inspired by Jimmy Hendrix’s legendary cock sock nicknamed Yellow Ledbetter.

Here we have Benjamin. A high-profile attorney from New Jersey. Ever since 2020 he has proven that he is invaluable to his law firm Johnson and Cox by bringing home massive payday settlements to the partners. Being allowed the privilege to work from home full time, Benjamin sports a lineup of handcrafted cock socks from the fanciest of fabrics. Custom tailored by Alpha Alterations in NYC, Benjamin proudly sports an unforgettable lineup of plaids. When in depositions or interfacing with high powered clients, Benjamin’s cock sock adjusts to both his body and external temperatures. When the snake wants to head back to the cage, the microfibers adjust on this vicious trial lawyer when he’s enduring a “small week.” After getting a verdict of not guilty and saving his client hundreds of millions of dollars for negligently dumping depleted uranium into a local water supply, Benjamin celebrates by removing his intimate sock and waving his dick at the rival attorneys. Being treated to steak and fine whiskey, Benjamin continues his celebration by going completely bottomless at Keen’s Chophouse. His hard remote work has paid off, and he has earned the right to knock off the cock sock and rock out with his cock out.

During holidays and special occasions, remote workers around the country continue to sport my exclusive lineup of cocky stockings. For Thanksgiving we have the limited edition Turkey head with knitted gobbler. When you’re working late nights in late November your bosses can rest assure that your partaking in the festivities with your wiener filling out the turkey neck and turkey head. The little gobbler hanging off makes the whole ambience both cute and creepy. There’s even a fashionable lineup of cock socks paying homage to ugly sweater parties. Bad plaids and fuzzy fabrics designed to cover up your short and curlies. For Christmas the sock apparel is crafted with pine trees in mind. The accessories of wraparound lighting and ornaments will make this particular cock sock the best decoration on the block. Whether you’re member is having a big day, or the bow of the trunk is limpish, the inner lining will keep you warm during that cold cozy season. The fashion accessory can also double up as a Christmas stocking for that dog and cat in your life. From St. Paddy’s Day, to the Fourth, to Halloween, my exclusive line up of cockwear has Ralph Lauren jealous.

Remote workers love to represent for the shameless act of virtue signaling. Whenever something happens in this country or around the world, you can count on millions of Americans to portray a worthless display of solidarity, pretending that they care. Social issues that are so important, certain corporations let their workers proudly display their covered cum guns to show that they are down for the cause. When Russian tanks crossed the Ukrainian border blue and yellow cock mittens flew off the shelves becoming a best seller. With millions of tech workers flaunting the blue and yellow on their little fellow it proved they were against the Kremlin and taking sides in a conflict that they know nothing about. Come June you can guarantee an uptick in Pride Flag cock socks. Sporting rainbow colors on your proud boner, this righteous act of docking cock socks shows that you are on the right side of history and support the LGBTQ community. It doesn’t matter if you are gay or straight all that matters is that you have a layer over your love weapon while cock jousting. And let’s not forget about the month of October for cancer awareness, with everybody sporting pink cock socks to recognize the scourge of breast cancer. With pink socks covering up the genitals of the nation’s remote workforce, I guarantee a cure is upon us. And for the month of November, the NFL partners up with the Armed Forces in a Salute to Service cock sock extravaganz. Custom making penis sheathes with digital camo and your team’s logo, the National Felon’s League show’s their support for the troops by marketing cock sock merchandise. Now remote workers can feel part of a cause bigger than themselves.

And for all the lady remote workers out there, where socks simply won’t work, palm tree leaves are the best option. Why should men get to have all the fun when the ladies out there also don’t feel the need to wear restrictive underwear. A hard working medical billing specialist would like very much to air out her cooch while dealing with medical insurance inquiries. Up top will be professional with a cute black blouse. But since her bosses can’t see below her torso, she is using a palm leaf to cover up her sex while working away. Looking like Eve in the Garden of Eden she can be telecommuting all the way from Sweden since she be hard working woman with a twat knot.

Cock socks are no longer being used as dream catchers, they are a legitimate form of fashion. Some are happy while others are sad. It’s how remote workers make a fashion statement since nobody can see their genitals while on a Zoom call. Let one of our sweatshop Sherpas crochet you a custom designed willy warmer to your liking. Cover up and stay warm while doing remote work from the comfort of your living room or at the local coffee shop. You may still be bare assed and exposed from the rear but at least your moose knuckle won’t be shifting around. When your boss finally gives you the ultimatum to get back into the fucking office or face termination, rest assure that your elephant themed cock sock will stay snug as a bug on your knob goblin.

Brian Ss

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It’s that time of year again. When conspicuous consumption takes center stage and Help Wanted signs spring up for part time workers. When retail and holiday events start to swell, there is always the need for some people to help out and make a few extra bucks in December. Holiday helpers aren’t just elves in Santa’s workshop, they are volunteers ringing the bell for the Salvation Army, people helping their local community sponsor a Christmas parade, and plenty of part-time folks getting paid to deliver presents for Fedex, UPS, and Amazon. Without this influx of part time help from Thanksgiving to New Years many orders would go unfulfilled.

Shopping malls aren’t what they used to be. Big box stores are dying with the rise of online retail. The traditional American Mall isn’t as major a hub for commercial activity as it was decades ago. Though a few still remain, you can still witness Christmas season festivities on site to attract kids and entice parents to open up their wallets. Santa Clause will always be a major attraction since everybody under the age of 8 wants to see him and it has a reviving effect on their parents’ childhood nostalgia. There has always been and will always be job security for Mall Santas. This may be the most important part time title of them all. Most people take this job profession for granted and don’t herald these brave men every winter season. Though it may be a tough go, listening and having little kids sit on your lap all day is never easy, but it’s all for a noble cause. White Santas may have it tough, but Black Santas have it even tougher.

Black Santa don’t reside at no North Pole, he be coming straight out of Compton, Harlem, or out of the ATL. He hates the cold but will come out of the woodwork to deliver presents to all those cute little cracker children. Always swinging fat sacks, Black Santa always be breaking his back in bringing fat stacks to his fellow blacks. Instead of going down the chimney, he’ll walk straight in the front door heading to the fridge to get some of that turkey and high end corvossier. After leaving a few presents under the tree, Black Santa doesn’t hop in his red sleigh, he hops back in his red Caddy. No reindeer needed, when he has Keisha chauffeuring him around suburbia.

Black Santas became more prominent in American Malls in the late 1960s. Their empowerment and representation were seen as a win in the Civil Rights movement and African American kids were able to better identify with a black Santa. The first ever documented case of Black Santa in the modern era was a gentleman named Bill “Bojangles” Robinson who was hired on at Blumstein’s, a Harlem Department store in 1943. Even MLK and Jesse Jackson got in on the holiday action when they put their energies towards the Black Christmas Parade in Chicago in 1967. Threatening boycotts of segregated department stores, inroads were made when the nation’s malls started featuring Black Santas as a way to attract black customers. Even the Black Power Movement adopted their very own version of Santa nicknaming him Soul Santa. The rise of Black Santa is a definite footnote in the Civil Rights movement and viewed as the removal of a racial barrier.

Before he found commercial success as an actor, Samuel Jackson was his local mall’s Santa Clause for years. Performing as a Broadway actor throughout the 1980s, Jackson didn’t have Hollywood knocking until the latter part of the decade. Having to make ends meet, St. Samuel dawned the Santa suit for a secondary source of income in order to purchase his daughter Christmas presents. For several years, this high-grossing actor had to put up with and listen to the wishes of thousands of muthafuckin’ white children. Day in and day out, Samuel L.’s (the L stands for lap) lap took a beating while an endless supply of motherfuckers popped a squat and moistened the ear of this most famous of Black Santas. Despite the muthafuckin’ abuse, Mr. Jackson took his job responsibility seriously and took compassion on the wish giving of the children. Starting a program to assist underserved communities SLJ started a program similar to the Marine Corps initiative of Toys for Tots. Delivering thousands of wrapped packages to needy kids, Mr. Jackson coined his operation: Toys for Muthafuckas.

Like any other profession in America, Black Santas are oftentimes overworked and underpaid. Put yourself in his black boots, it ain’t easy going to the Mall of America every day and putting up with a bunch of spoiled, sniveling children. After a hard day of hustling and bustling, Black Santa takes off his suit and pours out a little liquor to take the edge off. Turning on the TV, Black Santa doesn’t watch BET, he gets wet with WET. Black Santa feels White Entertainment Television is more intellectually stimulating than Black Entertainment Television. Watching classic shows such as Seinfeld and The Office, Black Santa howls in laughter as he takes steady sips of the finest Courvoisier. Lighting up a cigarette, Black Santa only smokes Marlboro Red hardpacks, since it makes him feel like a cattle rancher. Kool and Newports play into racial stereotypes, and Black Santa’s black ass won’t be having any of that. Exhaling and blowing smoke rings, while he watches Kramer and Mickey work in Santa’s workshop debating communism, Black Santa be maxing and relaxing before he has to do it all over again tomorrow.

Once the season’s over after earning all that extra loot, Black Santa takes a well-deserved sabbatical in January. Whether he goes on a vacation or a simple staycation, you find most Black Santas at the local strip club with strippers sitting on their lap. Instead of the lap dancer telling them what they want for Christmas, it’s Santa’s turn to do the well-wishing. Most Black Santas like their women like their turkey meat, white and moist. Making it rain with two-dollar bills, the lineup of Santas get their turn to be the recipient of presents. An endless supply of boobies and booties, complimented with the finest Courvoisier, has Black Santa feeling like every day is Christmas.

Most people make the mistake that Black Santa only delivers to the ghetto. This is simply a falsehood. Ever since 2020 he is welcome in any white neighborhood in and around the Minneapolis area. Since he’s bigger and blacker, delivering wrapped Amazon packages to crackhead crackers, Black Santa is welcomed as the main enforcer against Somali porch pirates. Whenever some Somali gets out of line and thinks it’s a good idea to thieve junior’s Minnesota Vikings blanket, Black Santa serves as a protector and pistol whips any would be porch pirate. Putting the smackdown on those hoes, Black Santa is seen as the patron saint of upholding the commandment, Thou Shalt Not Steal. After doling out street justice, he detains the Somalians and forces them to go ICE skating.

Holiday helpers. They make the world go round from late November to December. Lending a helping hand to their families and local communities we owe these folks a debt of gratitude. They are the ones who are delivering the presents, entertaining your kids, and braving the elements to make sure the spirit of Christmas stays alive through your mindless consumption and materialism. But the highest recognition needs to go to Black Santa. Breaking down barriers, gift-giving to both black and white kids, and manhandling Somalian porch pirates with the assistance of SEAL Team 6, Black Santa keeps the cheer alive during the Christmas season. So Merry Christmas to you all and to all a good night.

Brian Ss

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Coming off of the January fires, Los Angeles is looking for a morale boost. After burning nearly 60,000 acres, destroying more than 18,000 structures and killing possibly hundreds, the wildfires wreaked havoc on the proud people of Southern California. All they wanted was to protect their properties and livelihoods, but instead Mayor Karen Bass and Governor Newsome became do-nothing politicians and most federal emergency aid didn’t make it to the intended victims. After much soul searching most residents came to the conclusion that their so called leadership could care less about them. Many long time residents yearn for the time when L.A. was on top. Back when the motion picture industry was humming along with Ronald Reagan and John Wayne calling the shots. Popularized by the song I Love L.A. by Randy Newman, the modern version of the City of Angeles has fallen off a cliff and had a cactus shoved right up its collective ass.

Aside from the natural disasters, Los Angeles is reeling from a self-perpetuating homelessness epidemic. With estimates ranging from 60-100 thousand, local and state governments are enticing nomadic zombies to set up shop in the Los Angeles metro area where they engage in intravenous drug use and lower property values. No longer is Los Angeles one of the mouthpieces of culture it is now a shining example of urban decay and societal rot. Sodom and Gomorrah called and informed everybody that L.A. is cutting in on its action.

Back in the good old days, when Los Angles was a beacon on the hill for blasting American soft culture to the rest of the world, you had classy venues. Places such as Whisky A Go-Go, the Viper Room, and Academy were always a place to have memorable experiences and bump into Hollywood celebrities. But ever since crime became legalized in LaLa Land, things just aren’t the same. Reeling from the fires and incompetent Democratic politicians, L.A. needs a reason to have hope. An institution needs to be resurrected to bring the beautiful people together once again where everyone can have a good time and flirt with the whims of hedonism. Recently the Kardashian sisters have decided on a business venture where the three eldest sisters will pool their money together to start the hottest nightclub to hit the city in 50 years. Utilizing the first letter of each of their first names, Kourtney, Kim, and Khloe have decided to start a nightclub called KKK. It will be hotter than any L.A. fire and much hotter than a Mississippi bonfire.

The vision of KKK is to be the intersection where too many White Russians can lead to accidental blackouts. With booths draped in purple velvet and bottles of tequila are flowing like wine, the aim of KKK is to be a magnet for male black celebrities. Everybody from NBA basketball players to up and coming rappers will flock to KKK in hopes of becoming one of the Kardashians next boyfriends. The saying once you go black, you don’t go back will be the first line in KKK’s vision statement. Once you’ve had a few cocktails in you and hit the dancefloor you will clearly see that besides being tolerant, KKK is the hottest nightclub for interracial hookups in all of Los Angeles.

Since she is the wealthiest and most famous of the Kardashian sisters, Kim has been knighted as the imperial wizard of Klub KKK. Being the middle child and the center K, Kim is kalculating, kalibrating, and kaptivating when it comes to the day to day operations of KKK. Being the kommendable mother that she is, always bringing along her African American kids to the KKK, she lets them roam the grounds where they can ku-ku-kachoo and kluck around with their play buddies. Always serving up an order of Krispy Kremes to the children, she always opts to get ying yang designs in the doughnuts with both black and white chocolate. Kim is fully kommitted to all of her projects and hopes to meet a future kind, kunning, and kompelling black stepfather that can truly bond with her kkkids.

At one of the celebrity studded galas, Kim and her sisters Kourtney and Khloe decide to host an anonymous all-white party. Since it is a Roman themed event, all attendees are expected to dawn flowing white robes sporting a white hoody to prevent the paparazzi and TMZ from sneaking snapshots of the uber famous celebs. Maintaining their privacy for the night’s entertainment, all attendees make their way to the outside with a special appearance by Kanye West. After explaining that the true Jews were black people from King Solomon’s Nubian Kingdom, Kanye burns a letter K in effigy as a sacrifice to Black Jesus. With the white robed guests dancing to EDM music and sipping P Diddy’s Ciroq Vodka, the burning K lights up the night sky as the city of Los Angeles continues the healing process.

Most days of the week KKK is usually in full rally mode, but every Thursday night is designated as Baby Daddy’s Night. You’ve heard of lady’s night now it’s time for the fellas to have their own designated night of the week. It’s a weekly tradition for Scott, Kanye, Tristan, Travis Scott, and Travis Barker, along with Caitlyn Jenner to meet up and talk about the importance of fatherhood and going on rants about the Kardashian womens’ latest chocolate stallions. Not only are most of the Kardashian women (minus Kourt) world class ebony admirers, they can only remedy their jungle fever by hooking up with a man with melanin. Not giving into the green technologies that California so graciously subsidizes, the founding partners of KKK have decided to energize their exclusive night club by burning coal nonstop. Going with what they know they will continue to burn coal to fuel their nightclub and their libidos.

Since they are members in AmeriKKKa’s most famous family, Kendall and Kylie have decided to join Klub KKK as brand ambassadors. All across their social media mediums, the two younger half sisters do their best to promote the family brand. Asides from pro-KKK posts, the two other Ks have decided to start their very own line of KKK Klothing and Kosmetics. Continuing to sell young misguided women Krappy merchandise. Their cute little black bags fashioned with a diamond studded, KKK have caught on across the country. From coast to coast women of all ethnic backgrounds sport the handbags which are perfect for attending a bachelorette party or a David Allan Coe Show. For the bros in your life, Kendall and Kylie have now fashioned KKK hoodies. With the world renowned logo emblazoned across the chest, young white men are reporting an uptick in racially motivated violence across the country. Apparently black men across the country are no longer infatuated with the Kardashians and attempt to destroy their apparel whenever possible.

It is the hope of the K Sisters that KKK will be the hottest club in the country. Forget New York, forget Miami, Klub KKK and their BLK themes will be the epicenter of clubbin’ in the United States. With it’s white marbled tables and black powered clientel, resident DJ Jimmy Krow will turn that mother out, all day and all night. With asses shaking and the Hennessy flowing it is the hope of the Kardashian women that this will allow L.A. to rise from the ashes. After the hot fires caused largescale damage, it was only fitting they opened up the hottest club on the West Coast. The long term hope is to start a series of KKK franchises across the country and eventually become one of the biggest political blocs for the DNC. KKK clubgoers would become rank and file Democrats and the irony of history repeating itself. So the next time you find yourself in West Hollywood, wanting to know where the black flesh is, make sure to check out KKK. Let the style of the Kardashian women continue to captivate your attention and bankrupt your morals. Kourtney, Kim, and Khloe’s hospitality will show you a good time, so much so you may black out and wake up in Lamar Odom’s house.

Brian Ss

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Whenever find yourself in an unfamiliar town or area you don’t always have the best sense of direction. It may take hours if not days to gain your bearings when trying to navigate on unfamiliar turf. Not all cities and towns are laid out by Mormon city planners where everything is a perfect grid square, and streets flow in perfect harmony. When you find yourself in a beach or foothills community, it can be hard when trying to zero in on an address that is on an unconventional foundation. Your GPS and MapQuest apps aren’t always accurate, and you can find yourself driving in circles trying to find the local In-N-Out Burger. Men don’t like to admit that they are lost but sometimes they have to the honorable thing and ask a local for directions.

The skill of pathfinding and seeking directional coordinates is a skillset that has steadily gone out the window for the last 25 years. No one reads analog maps or city guides when trying to find a cute boutique store or shop that sells BDSM equipment. Starting with OnStar and graduating to the Smartphone, you now have onboard electronics assuring you get to your destination without any hiccups. This convenience can come in handy when trying to locate your Cousin Sanjay’s pad in the greater L.A. metro area, but we’ve exhausted this technological tool when we use it every day. Finding an objective based on verbal directions and instincts is as admirable as the sixth sense. Humanity is losing their intuition when it comes to locating the local Hooters for awesome chicken wings and breasts galore.

It’s been documented that men are better navigators than women. It’s believed individuals with higher testosterone are better at the spatial task of finding their way out of a maze. It’s biological not an epic battle between the sexes. Men don’t like to admit that they are lost and only stop at a gas station for local directions as a last resort. Their female partners plead with them to admit their mistakes and pull the car over and do the emasculating thing by asking for directions. Living in a mountain community in a narrow river valley, where neighborhoods are resurrected on hillscape terraces, people come up to me all the time asking to set them on the righteous path.

This one time at a grocery store, as I immediately exited from my Toyota Tacoma, a confused middle-aged man asked me if I lived around these parts and where the local Walmart was. Being the good ambassador that I am, I obliged in helping the man. Telling him to head west out of the parking lot and getting on Chapel Street until you hit the Frontage Road, I noticed that he was wearing a T-shirt with the imprint It Won’t Suck Itself. Slightly deviating from my directional spiel, I recognized this man wasn’t just physically lost, he was also mentally and morally lost. Continuing on pointing him in the right direction I told him to head past the roundabout, curve around the commercial plaza, and Walmart will be upon the hill. Thanking me for the advice he hopped back in his 77 El Camino, with the bumper sticker Shit Happens, and went on his merry way.

About several weeks ago, I was approached by a woman that was looking for the local tire store. With her tire steadily deflating she was adamant about finding a tire professional in quick fashion. Recognizing that time was of the essence she approached me in a parking lot at a local strip mall. “Pardon me sir but do you know where I can find Big-O Tire,” she said in an urgent manner. Telling her to get back on Highway 6, heading east for approximately two miles, the store would be located on the left hand side next to the carwash. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that she was wearing a ballcap with the phrase Show Me That Butthole proudly emblazoned on it. Thanking me repeatedly I found her headwear a bit humorous and hoped she was able to locate Big-O and the random booty hole she was seeking.

Procuring some sandwiches for a work luncheon the other day I was out and about without a care in the world. Walking with swagger since I know my way around the local townships, I cruise in my vehicle with conviction. Being approached by a lost tourist, the man was adamant about finding the local Starbucks for he could caffeinate, urinate and defecate all at the same location. “I’ve been driving in circles; can you help me out buddy?” Informing him that he was only about two blocks away, he would have to backtrack heading north. After the second roundabout taking a slight right, he would see the 2 Starbucks locations on his right. Shaking my hand and telling me I saved the day; I couldn’t help but notice that this gentleman was wearing a cutoff T-shirt with the words Beggin” For a Peggin’ front and center on the stitches. This man was moving with a sense of purpose for coffee and advertising on the go. I didn’t matter if he was light in the loafers or let his girlfriend dominate him in the bedroom, I was proud to give this man the directions he so desperately needed.

Walking down the sidewalk the other day, minding my business, I was flagged down by two senior citizen sisters. They were lost and didn’t have a clue to get a venue called the Agave to experience a Lynard Skynyrd cover band called The South Rises Again. These two hexagenerian Texan broads looked like they had some hard miles on them and partied hardy during every year of the disco era. “Scuse me sweetheart,” one said with a raspy voice from decades of smoking and drinking Southern Comfort. “Which way to the local amphitheater.” Addressing them both as mam I told them do an about face in their 77 Ford Bronco and head east for about 2 miles on the U.S. Highway. Poking in ever so closely for they could hear me I noticed the attire on these Exes from Texas groupies. Proudly sporting a Throat Goat cutoff T-shirt, the vehicle passenger was also casually wearing a hat with the message Moister than an Oyster. “Thank you for the directions sweetie, you lookin’ to party,” the driver said thanking me. As I said, “No mam,” I couldn’t help but notice that her top had Sagging but Still Gagging proudly pronounced and her hat was stenciled with Shaking Tits and Taking Shits. Peeling out in a three-wheel motion, these two lounge lizards were on their way to a good time.

Working the graveyard shift at Maverik’s Gas Station, you always get people coming in for directions for something. Taking the exit off from Interstate 70 all sorts of lost souls need your assistance in helping them get somewhere. It’s as if a whole lost generation lost their intuition and can’t figure the fucking way out on a mobile device. The guy the other day that needed vape cartridge refills was also curious to know where the county airport was. Pointing him in the right direction his T-shirt was proudly displaying the phrase Suck It, Fuck It, or Leave It Alone. Him, his wife, and his daughter all seemed like lovely people, and I wanted to help them out. At about 11:00 pm last Friday, a frantic stripper came in needing directions to the Highlands Neighborhood where she was supposed to perform for a bachelor party. Sexily wearing a Tongue Punch My Fart Box oversized T, I told the young lady to stay calm and carry on she’s only about three minutes away. Then there was the half-drunk frat boy needing a refresher of Zyns and directions to some local “kick-ass’ party. Seeing that he was sporting a I’m Not Gay but $20 is $20 emblazoned shirt I gave him a sound verbal description for safe passage. One that pulls at my heart strings was an older gentleman, probably in his 90s, wearing a Korean War Veteran hat. He needed directions to the local casino. After thanking him for his service and recognizing his Autism Powered Fuck Machine sweatshirt, I told him to keep heading east for 20 miles and take exit off of mile marker 157. There he will find the loosest slots in all of Central Colorado.

Whenever you encounter lost boyz and lost girlz out there make sure to function as their compass. Put yourself in their shoes, it can be confusing when you are on a road trip trying to orientate yourself to the local terra features. When your customized Arnold Schwarzenegger T2 voice preprogrammed into your Google Maps shits the bed, and you need local directives to get to a children’s birthday party, sometimes you need to correspond with a gas station clerk. There’s no shame in asking and there certainly isn’t shame when you are sporting a shirt with the phrase Cockblocker parodying the Blockbuster logo. It’s even written in the Bible to provide hospitality and directions to weary travelers. So, the next time you encounter a confused gal wearing a shirt with a ketchup bottle and hotdog stating I Squirt on Juicy Wieners be a good Samaritan and explain to her where she can find the local Taco Tuesday. Just because someone is morally lost by wearing obscene apparel doesn’t mean that you can simply blow them off. Grab them by the hand and point them to the way of the promised land.

Brian Ss

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Waiting on snow. It can be detrimental to a region’s snowpack and supplies the lifeblood to a mountain town’s local economy. Having lived in Colorado for the last 20 years, I have come to realize the vital importance of having consistent snowy seasons. Residing in the Eagle River Valley, this waterway is a major contributing tributary to the Colorado River which is the source of the Southwest’s water supply. Without a consistent flow, there will be no golf courses downstream and the Michelangelo statues at the Bellagio in Vegas won’t have a consistent urine stream. Asides from being a valuable commodity, snow depths are a major contributing factor to Colorado’s winter tourism. Without the promise of some of that pow-pow gnar-gnar in the forecast, prospective out of state skiers will decide to book a vacation elsewhere. The bottom line is that the snowman needs to make an appearance and come in waves throughout the winter.

When it’s Thanksgiving, and the grass outside is green, you find yourself wondering if and when winter time will come this year. Did Al Gore have a point, or was he was he full of shit and simply grifting and exploiting a natural cycle? Winters aren’t what they used to be, but they are still here in full force. Sometimes they can shock you as early as October, others they can be delayed until December. They always arrive, and some are better than others. When wrapping up an Indian Summer and there’s doom and gloom about a once in a 500 year drought, you find yourself praying for snow. Nobody wants to see brown grass in December. That’s when you turn to superstition and the spirituality realm to get those snowflakes cranking.

Snow dance rituals have been part of ancient cultures for thousands of years. Whether Native American, European, or even the godless Chinese, ceremonies are performed to provide relief for agrarian economies and hunting seasons. The first holy men were in fact weather men. Take the surname Cohen. In the Hebrew language it translates to high priest. In the Akkadian-Sumerian version of that name, Gahan, the literal translation is guardian of semen. Back in ancient Mesopotamian times, the clergy emerged to appeal to the gods for heavenly precipitation to water the crops and make the land fruitful. God’s seed was the essence of water. Besides mastery of plants and animals, monotheistic religions also emerged as a divine appeal to shape the weather. The nations in Mesoamerica all had their dress and dance traditions to make it snow up in this motherfucker. With their feathered headwear and ceremonial jewels, the priesthoods of various tribes dressed the part and would dance a jig to influence weather patterns.

At the 1960 Winter Olympics, held in Squaw Valley, the initial dry climate worried the hosts and sponsors. After commissioning Great Basin tribes to do a snow dance at the opening ceremonies, 12 feet of creamy and dreamy snow fell on the Sierras, thus rescuing the games. This proven tactic has been effective in the past but simply won’t work in the present. Dawning buckskins and moccassins is so second millennium. Sitting here on the cusp of the 25/26 winter season, with a slow start to winter, I sit here pondering on how to make it rain white up in here. After deep prayer and soul searching, a divine message was delivered to me on how to boost the snowpack to 150% for Western Colorado. After recruiting a midget and placing handles on his posterior we simply toss the little guy on the dance floor, forcing him to do a choreographed dance, to bring much needed snow to our mountains and rivers.

The snow gods love this. After a stubborn start, with desperation setting in to get the chairlifts cranking, I locate a “little person” named Jason White. Going by “Whitey” this Caucasian-American dwarf is perfect as an offering to the gods. Getting him to agree and paying him 20 bucks, we toss his ass on the dance floor where he is expected to perform the Funky Chicken. Flapping his stubby little arms and entertaining a wedding audience, Whitey has summoned the weather gods to send forth back to back low pressure systems to the Colorado high country. After nearly two feet during a five day weather cycle, this provides a solid base for Colorado ski resorts can start opening. With a midget busting a move there is no stopping the incoming wintry weather.

To guarantee a second wave of snow to keep on building up the much needed base, I locate a Mexican midget on the street. Luiz is dressed from head to toe in cholo wear, all three feet of him. Looking like a Vatos Locos gangster from Blood In, Blood Out, I convince the cute, cuddly little guy to take one for the team, and to meet me at the local YMCA for a formal snow dance. Tackling him and forcing him against his will, we apply impromptu handles to his shoulder blades for he is easier to heave on the dance floor. Once he is tossed onto the wooden panels like a rag doll, Luiz busts out the Macarena in textbook fashion. Doing all of the hand gestures while shaking his hips, Luiz does his best to represent the smash hit song/dance from Los Del Rio. His moves are so sexy he attracts female fandom and nearly three feet of snow on the peaks of Central Colorado. The snow gods love Latino dance moves and have thoroughly blessed the high country after a Mexican midget’s gracefulness while bailamosing.

The winter season has gotten off to a good start but we need that gravy train of snowy snow to keep on coming. 60% of the mountain is now open but we need to get to 100% by Christmas. With that in mind I chloroform and kidnap a black midget named Malik Shabazz. After dumping him from the gunny sack and briefly subduing him, I convince him that the more snow we get the more tourism revenue can be generated. Such economic correlations could greatly benefit his mountain taxi cab business that he co-owns with a white midget named Dennis. Dressing him up in preppy wear, with a white sweater and white slacks, Malik is expected to perform the Carlton Dance at a night club. Popularized on Fresh Prince of Bel Air by Alfonso Ribeiro, the dance is modeled by the character Carlton, consisting of full body swings. Shoving him on the dancefloor with big person force, the black midget is fully expected to have more rhythm than his rival white midgets. The multiple moves that make up the 90s nostalgic dance attracts a flock of fat white chicks, seeking some of Malik’s sexy moves and sexual chocolate. After he’s done dancing the night away the skies open up in true Snowmageddon fashion. By first tracks the next morning there is a solid 30 inches on the ground with no end in sight. Thanks to Mr. Shabazz’s super sexy moves, the entire mountain is open with tree skiing taking shape.

With thousands of people flocking to Colorado’s mountain towns business is good and the skiing is gooder. Refills are much needed to replenish the integrity of the snowpack and to continue the non stop face shots from skiing the deep powder. To keep the atmospheric rivers flowing and for them to dump copious amounts of snow down below, another snow dance is in the cards. Bribing a pygmy named Gwen with a large amount of cocaine, I have convinced her to dance for 12 hours straight at the ice skating rink while yakked out on that yayo. Gwen is usually employed at Santa’s workshop in the local mall this time of year, but for free cocaine she’ll make it snow up in here. After a quick date with Frosty the Snowman at a nearby public bathroom, Gwen takes the escalator since it’s much easier than traditional stairs. Taking center stage at the ice skating rink’s podium she busts out the Billy Ray Cyrus classic Achy Breaky Heart. Line dancing with her little feet shuffling at 3x speed, Gwen moves her shitkickers so fast that her motions are recognized by one of NOAA’s geospatial satellites. Since all weather and cloud layering is manipulated by the geoengineering sector of the Department of Defense, the scientists decide to reward her for her pinpoint turns and sexy hip gyrations. Deploying a high energy weapon over the California Coast, the trajectory of the massive storm system is then redirected to Central Colorado where record snowstorms strike for 10 days straight. For the first time in years, the snowpack is on pace to hit 200%, the drought will officially be over, and come spring the CFS of the Colorado River Basin will be at an all time high.

Some seasons aren’t as memorable as others. When El Nino winters take place, with lazy ass La Nina trends not taking shape in the Pacific Ocean, drastic measures must be taken. That’s when you have to take things up a notch. When desperate times call for desperate measures there is a specific ritual to appease the ice crystal deities. The centuries old tradition requires an Asian midget and specific steps to satisfy Ullr, the Norse snow god. Convincing local Chinese-American midget Harry Wu to partake, through bribery and the allure of showering him with black strippers, Harry decides that he is all in. Forced to strip naked down to his underwear, Harry then performs Gangam Style to a gathering of Vail Resorts board members. Hopping and mock lassoing to PSY’s magnus opus, Harry is entertaining the executives and giving them hope for short-term snowfall. In attendance is CEO Bob Dawgz who is desperate to make the snow fly after abysmal share valuation reports. Removing a butterfly knife from his coat pocket he performs the last step of the ritual by slitting the Asian midget’s throat and bleeding him out as a sacrificial offering to the snow god Kuraokami. By martyring Lil Harry the entire Mountain West receives well above average snowpack for the season and people in Los Angeles have the luxury of flushing their toilets after going number 1.

The roots of snow dancing go back to the time of ancient cultures and are now more relevant than ever. With variables such as global warming and Bill Gates manipulating global precipitation, consistent annual snowpack isn’t what it used to be. Water is the essence of life and we need it to grow food and brew beer. Without freshwater access, be it rain or snow, we are truly fucked. We need super-cooled water droplets to deepen the powder fields and feed the hydrological basin west of the 100th meridian. When winters are lagging or well below average, we must turn to forcing little people to engage in the appropriate snow dance. This guarantees water security and economic prosperity for mountain towns. When all other options are exhausted, after little or no snow falls even after Bridget the Midget dances the Stanky Legg, then we must turn to midget sacrifice. There is no greater gift when a half-pint lays his life down for the greater good of his community’s snowpack. So, the next time you find yourself skiing in balls deep powder, make sure to thank a local midget for doing the Crank That dance popularized by Souljah Boy.

Brian Ss

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