“GOD—YOU MUST watch way too much porn,” I told my date. It was three in the morning on New Year’s Eve, and I was in a strange bed in Long Island City, naked and disappointed. And our second date had started out so well. New Year’s Eve was a strange night to have a second date, sure, but after my first date with John had ended on a chilly December evening with evidence that he was a great kisser, I decided he was perfect for me.The guy I thought I was going to marry had recently left me for someone else, and John’s good lips and good looks were, I thought, just what I needed.

Last Night at the Whole Foods in Union Square I stood behind a couple doing kissy-face while waiting their turn at the registers. I was seized with envy, loneliness and an unexpected homesickness for my life in the Persian Gulf. When my husband and I had lived there two years ago, we refrained from even holding hands. At first I’d hated the restrictions, but after my other half left me because he didn’t “feel like being married anymore,” I was grateful not to see fawning lovebirds at every turn. Knowing I’d be bombarded with images of sex and coupledom, I delayed returning to the States. First I went to India to study yoga and meditation, the “new black” in mid-life crises.There I found one lover after another willing to help me scratch the itch of my loneliness from the inside out. Then monsoon season hit and I could no longer delay the inevitable. An old friend emailed; did I know anyone who might want to sublet a one-bedroom in the West Village for $1,000 a month? A dishwasher was invoked. I relocated with head-spinning speed.

Are you sure you don’t want to come up for some hot chocolate?” the text message read. It from a girl I’d just had a date with. I was confused; I thought the date had gone terribly. I’d met her on New Year’s Eve as she was bartending, and I shyly asked for her number. She was absolutely stunning: thin and leggy with chilling blue eyes and long black hair. I figured she’d given me a fake. Much to my surprise, the number was real and after two weeks of back and forth, we met up. I’d shown up at a crowded Lower East Side bar where she asked me to meet. Its patrons were bearded and skinny, with upturned noses and thumping garbage was playing too loudly over the sound system. As a 22-yearold nerdy New York neophyte who listened to Buddy Holly and made $10 an hour labeling video tapes at a rarely watched TV station, I didn’t come close to fitting in.Twenty minutes passed before I got tired of waiting and called.

I knew it was weird when my invitation to the “no boys allowed” office party was sent via text message and followed by a grainy picture of a shirtless guy with a banana sticking out of his fly. I had just started interning at a PR firm for school credit, trying to make my way through the swirl of city life in my second year of college. Despite my better judgment and the strictly female invitation, I went to the party and brought a friend, as well as a male intern at the firm who was finally allowed to come. After about seven shots of leftover-from-someparty Svedka, I was beginning to get as drunk as my co-workers. Seeing as how my first conversation with the boss, let’s call him Alan, was about how coincidental it was that I was from the same small California town that he and his wife were just recently married in, I wasn’t expecting him to try to fuck an employee about half his age. But then he started going on about how fond he was of the interns.

ALTHOUGH THE PROMISE of orgasm was available in every direction, my dick was as soft as an old banana. Visiting a sex party in the Meatpacking District called “Oktoberfist” was not my debut appearance in the illicit gay underworld, but it was the first time I’ve ever attended such a party without feeling an ounce of sexual desire. It was also the first time I’d brought along my friend and unrequited love Jean-Paul, putting at serious risk the fantasy of convincing him to sleep with me. As a travel writer, my first big break after college was writing a vacation guide to Paris, one that focused on the city’s queer scene.The research required visits to all the nightlife hotspots, which included an alarming number of saunas and sex clubs. The proverbial dream job, it was quite an eyeopener for a short, geeky, half-Jewish kid still figuring out how to chat up guys without spilling a drink.

Casseroles had always been our sore spot. A baked dish of pasta and protein bound together with cheese or cream of mushroom soup. When Emily and I were dating, I tried to like them. I really did. But when she started working on a cookbook about them, suddenly there was more casserole chatter than I could bear. Of course there were plenty of other factors that lead to our breakup, but the casserole continued to symbolize a fundamental difference of ours. So, when I showed up for her annual casserole party—a soirée she’s been throwing for transplanted Midwesterners for four years running—I wasn’t expecting a hot-from-the-oven reception.

“I’ll let you fuck me under one condition,” she said. “You have to fuck my mom first.” Her name was Star. And yes, she was a stripper. I was drunk, alone and depressed. I had just been dumped by a chubby girl with a pig nose; she was a bitch and an awful lay to boot. And she dumped me. I needed something quick. I went to the strip club on a whim. Walking through Times Square, the intense display of flamboyant commercialization guilty of obliterating the American spirit wasn’t cheering me up. So when I was handed one of those strip-club flyers that those scummy-looking guys pass out to other scummy-looking guys, I accepted my apparent creepiness and went to the strip club...

I HAD JUST been dumped by another leather clad, black-haired, silver-ring wearing, Im-full-of-angst-please-love-me musician type. I had checked out of my hotel room, my flight back to Toronto didnt leave for six hours and it was starting to pour.This latest musician had hit on me the month before when I was in the city for work.

The annual CMJ Music Marathon has been a bastion of undiscovered talent for 28 years. The untold story is that it’s also a hotbed of hookups, and my mission this year was to take part in the less-reported aspect. I was going to find myself a boyfriend at CMJ. It’s common knowledge that Friday night is the best night of the festival. Tuesday and Wednesday everything’s just warming up, Thursday’s a school night and by Saturday, everyone—except the college radio station managers—is too exhausted and hung over to do anything crazy like talk to strange girls in tight jeans.

SOMEWHERE ON New York City’s streets, there is a homeless woman who has my vibrator. The first sex toy I ever bought, I accidentally parted ways with it while moving out of my Hell’s Kitchen apartment. Fortunately, “losing it” can be very liberating.

“One of my resolutions is to be the biggest slut as possible in oh nine,” blogger Perez Hilton (formerly Mario Levandeira) confessed at the launch party for his new book Red Carpet Suicide

Despite the all night conceit, by 1 a.m., the air was thick with the need for some end-of-year-action. A mod Japanese girl with a Twiggy haircut was sliding fivedollar bills into the blue, peacock-feathered bikini bottom of Melissa-Anne the Hula Hoop Harlot,.

I had high hopes going into the New Year’s Eve bash at Santos Party House. Featuring an all-star cast comprised of indie/electro group Gang Gang Dance, motivational partier Andrew W.K. and the infamous Misshapes DJs, it promised to be, at the very least, a good place to dance with my friends and drink free champagne. Besides the DJs themselves, there was nobody I recognized from the Misshapes parties of yore, and with the exception of some girls in sparkly dresses, a smattering of cute dykes and two statuesque men (obviously off-duty drag queens), the crowd skewed toward fellows of the “Where do I go for bottle service?” variety.

Out with the old, in with the new. But it was one more year and none of my friends, quintessential New Yorkers, would commit to plans for the twilight of 2008. No one was throwing house parties, they were too expensive and everyone’s place was too small. So, for the second year in a row, I’d celebrate New Year’s Eve at Brooklyn warehouse parties.

The party was starting to pick up at the bar, but it was still hard to get a fix on the divided anti-scene. A retroid from Greenpoint, wearing wire-rim glasses, assured me she was just passing time. I dont get down at all, she tutted. I like 60s folk and women yodeling.

I’m no Goth chick. I’ve never worn lipstick-red Latex and I live on the Upper East Side. But I love black fingernails and Depeche Mode, and I’ve been to Hot Topic at the mall. And I did have a black vinyl vest in my closet I could wear with an angel-sleeved sheer black frock last week when I went to the monthly, Seven-Deadly-Sin-themed Goth party Paradise Lost at East Village hotspot Rehab.

In the beginning there was The Saint, an insanely popular nightclub where ’80s debaucheries reigned supreme. Then it died. But resurrections are always possible—sort of. From the ashes of the near-spiritual venue arose the Saint at Large, arguably one of the original organizers of “circuit parties.” Now the party organization—most well known for organizing the annual Black Party held near the Spring Equinox—is attempting to spread the partying gospel to a new generation. Circuit parties were once the main event, purporting to foster a tribal brotherhood among gay men. And while under-25 homos may not be able to define it, they still hear stories of the weekend-long bacchanals that sprung up in the 1980s after The Saint’s popular “Black” and “White” parties. Current incarnations of these dance festivals spot the globe: Montreal has an annual Black and Blue Festival, Sydney’s Mardi Gras attracts millions and various independent White Parties take place in Palm Springs, Las Vegas and Miami, attracting hedonistic hordes of participants from all over.

Who says parties in New York suck these days? They’re wrong wrong wrong. I’d planned an Xmas jaunt to visit family, but the snow at the airport nixed that. Instead, I’d party until the wee hours here in NYC. You know it's bad when two nights in a row, you're caught in broad daylight wearing a club kid outfit and the neighbors look at you funny in the elevator.

Anticlimactic” was the theme of the evening at a Saturday night Christmas party thrown by Saint At Large at Pachita. I arrived to find an empty dance floor and nobody under 30. Christmas-themed decorations went along with a lot of white confetti (snow or blow?) and go-go elves wearing fake ears and pilgrim-style collars, apparently hand sewn by drag diva Epiphany. “You look familiar,” I said to the leather jock-wearing go-go boy hanging around the tranny seamstress. “Were you at the Oktoberfist party at the Woodshop?” I said loudly, trying to attract his attention. He responded by placing my hand on her crotch.

Last week at Housing Works, Lou Reed read from his omnibus of songwriting and poetry, Pass Thru Fire. Bookish hipsters of all shapes, sizes and ages were packed in tightly on both floors. It was quiet as a church except for Reed’s steady drone. “This is a rewrite I did of Poe’s ‘The Raven,’” he intoned, taking a swig of water. “And it’s long.” A gorgeous 20-year-old redhead—a black bandanna hanging out of the back pocket of her faded and torn jeans—looked disappointed. This type of audience abuse might pass for S&M with the older set, but it’s not “Venus in Furs.”

Want to see how a rumor gets started? Here it goes: Last week, Laura Bush confirmed that the First Couple plans to replace living in The White House with living in a white town. Situated in Dallas County, their new neighborhood, Preston Hollow, enacted a covenant in 1956, which among other rules, states “property shall be used and occupied by white persons only…” Furthermore, a search of the National Sex Offender Registry using the Bush’s new zip code, 75229, reveals that there are 621 convicted sexual criminals living within driving distance of the president’s new $2.1 million estate. When asked how he felt about his new home by the Dallas Morning News, George W. Bush “played coy” and deflected the answer.

During the friendly warmth that was Thanksgiving week, Americans were again reminded that the world is still one screwed-up place.We owe our thanks for this reminder to 10 machine-gun wielding, hand-grenade-throwing and homemadebomb- planting terrorists straight outta Karachi who went buck wild in the Indian city of Mumbai, killing 179 innocent people. Like many, I thought “Oh, my God,” as I watched in disbelief at the site of hotel guests using bed sheets to escape their attackers and heard reports that British, American and Jewish residents were being singled out for death. But as day one turned to day two and then day three and still the carnage continued, my earlier OMG became more of a WTF??!! Just days before the terrorists struck, I read that the Indian navy had destroyed the mother ship of a bunch of Somali pirates thousands of miles away, and yet it was taking three days for their forces to take out 10 punks holed up in a few luxury hotels located in the heart of their largest city. The Economist reported that not only were the police who initially responded to the attacks “unprepared and outgunned” but that the commando units who eventually succeeded in stopping the terrorists took two days to reach the scene.

The holidays are upon us and that means we’re all prepped to spend some quality time with the fam. In my case, this requires me to hop on a southbound flight and head to the milder climes of the Carolinas. As with all things holiday-ish, it can be a little complicated: who has to sleep on the couch in the family room (me); who gets to wrap all the last-minute presents (me); and who gets to avoid talking about his homosexual lifestyle in front of his younger siblings? Yep, you guessed it…me! It’s not like I’m in the closet; my parents have known just how gay I am for almost a decade. It’s just that Mom and Dad prefer that I keep my 18-year-old brother and 11-year-old sister in the dark when it comes to my sexuality (as if in the age of Bravo TV they can’t spot a gay boy a mile away).The fact that I am not allowed to tell them definitely speaks to the discomfort my sexuality still causes my parents. That I acquiesce to their unreasonable demand suggests that I may not be entirely comfortable with it either. I mean, here I am, someone who has organized and trained volunteers to fight for gay and lesbian rights in four different states; yet in my own childhood home, I tolerate losing the right to be honest.

This past Wednesday, the nations Secretary of State ended a press conference by saying that, On a personal note, as an African American, I am especially proud of the recent election of Barack Obama. The pride, the joy and the history of the moment were all extraordinarily displayed via her beaming smile.

In his first act as President-elect of the United States, Barack Obama has named Cindy McCain to the newly created post of National Director of White Privilege. The Obama Transition Committee&

WAS COLD. It was windy. It was Illinois. The thousands of people gathered on the field had journeyed to witness something that had never been seen. Something so improbable, so extraordinary, so fantastic that its mere existence was thought to be the stuff of myth A viable Black presidential candidate.

In a moment of honesty, Andy confirmed that notion and then personally accepted the blame for the governments response to the worst natural disaster in our nations history. You wanna know Scarboroughs response? Some lame joke about how hed rather blame Andy, a Massachusetts native, for the Red Sox not making it to the World Series.

THERE ONCE WAS a governor who, despite all the odds (including losing the popular vote), was elected President of the United States. He was never described as intelligent—or wise, or thoughtful, or even moderately clever—but, boy was he ever charming. He had a way of making everyone around him—including some of the nation’s most experienced public servants—feel all warm inside about policies and practices that were directly in opposition to their own beliefs and self-interests. He convinced millions of middle-class citizens that a tax cut that provided them only $300 in extra dough was enough to jumpstart the American economy—those taxpayers all went out and bought new televisions made in Asia. He bribed Senator Kennedy with the promise of copious amounts of money for public education in return for Uncle Teddy’s support of the No Child Left Behind Bill. That bill became law, but the promised cash never appeared, creating a national school system that focused on math and reading to the exclusion of art, music, physical education and even recess.The result: Cuba still had a higher literacy rate than the United States; the best thing to happen to American music in the past decade was a smack-addicted British woman with a ratty beehive; and Disneyland had to deepen the canal on the “It’s a Small World” ride to accommodate all the chunky kids who were weighing down the boats.

BORED WITH THE idea of running his new charitable foundation and even more bored at the thought of running for governor and spending more time in podunk Albany (What? you think he’d actually move there?), Michael Bloomberg announced last week that he plans to run for a third stint as Mayor of New York when his current term expires at the end of 2009. But there’s just one small catch—the city has a law that bars most elected officials from serving more than two terms.What’s more is that this law was put in place directly by the people of New York City, who voted by referendum in 1993 and 1996 in favor of term limits.

Earlier this year I had the daft notion that no matter who won November’s presidential election, Barack Obama or John McCain, the political rancor that’s divided the country since Bill Clinton’s administration—and exacerbated greatly by the immediate, pre-Iraq, pre-Katrina loathing of George W. Bush—would dissipate and people would no longer risk rupturing friendships by debating current events in Washington, D.C. After all, even economic conservatives like myself c

NIGHT I sat next to a man who was sitting next to Robert De Niro. I was a reader on the New York studio circuit at $60 a script, with a few hundred reports logged for New Line Cinema and Tribeca Productions, De Niros company.

“MY MOM WANTS to know if you like ham,” my girlfriend asked. “Do I like ham, or will I eat ham?” I replied. Though I love porky pleasures like Wah Fung No. 1 Fast Food’s candy-crunchy barbecue, Redhead’s bacon-peanut brittle and kielbasa ropes at Steve’s Meat Market, I’m no fan of spiral-cut Christmas ham. Overly sweet. Overly salty. Overly symbolic—especially for a Hebe. “I’ll eat ham if you eat ham.” “Stop being difficult,” she sighed, unwilling to break her 15-year vegetarian vow. “I’ll tell her ham is fine.” Oh, ham. Ham! Ham! Ham would be the centerpiece of Christmas dinner in New Hampshire, my girlfriend’s home state. I like New Hampshire. It’s ball-shrinkingly cold, sure, but there’s zero sales tax. That means zesty Allagash White four-packs cost $7 on the nose—a favorable price, for I’d require cases to survive the Yuletide.

Much like my first clueless dip into the sexual waters, that start-stop fiasco of thrills, spills and errant fingertips, my initial foray into making potato pancakes was shaping up to be sheer disaster. Dont burn yourself, my girlfriend cautioned, eyeballing my cast-iron pans with abject terror, as if the gurgling oil was a hissing serpent.

The stock market is crashing, the sky is falling and the wheel of fortune keeps turning. Was the little morality play I got swept up in a couple months ago a reflection of the heightened economic tension in the city? Or just another iteration of the age-old war between the classes? I myself can relate to both the white collars and the blues.

PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T wear the mask,” my girlfriend begged. “But it makes me beautiful,” I said, fondling the blue ski mask with crimson stitching outlining eyes, snout and deformed maw—camouflage for a mutated survivor of a nuclear apocalypse. “Wasn’t it enough to wear the mask during the Black Label Bike Kill?” “That was an appetizer to today’s main course.” “But…it’s terrifying,” she said, shaking her head in the slow manner of parents whose children have failed them. I pulled on the mask, the rotten cherry crowning my Kris Kringle outfit. “And it wouldn’t be Santacon without terror.”

Its not like I have to get up tomorrow. Still, a laid-off editor friends invite was most enticing. To celebrate my return to freelancing, Ill be drinking at the Holiday, he wrote. It doesnt get cheaper. Yes, yes and yes, I responded, later adding, Sorry about your job.

In a feat of marvelous daring, damning narcissism and reckless idiocy, I decided to cook Thanksgiving dinner for a dozen. Included would be four couples (counting my girlfriend and myself) and, to my pants-wetting terror, my family. They’d fly in from Ohio, their expectations higher than the cloud-cutting plane. To my food-crazed clan, Hanukkah, Purim, Easter and Christmas are redheadedstepchild holidays. Culinary-centered Thanksgiving is our money shot. We whip up sweet-potato purée, garlicky mashed potatoes, mushroom-carrot stuffing, sour-cream coffee cake and both roasted cauliflower soup and turkey. Our annual menu is an edible antidepressant—eating it rights our mental ship, connecting us like Krazy Glue.And this would be our first Turkey Day away from Dayton.

I woke up naked in a twin bed in a room I didn’t recognize, wondering how the fuck I got there. There had been a Halloween party the night before; my friends were going as “Malice in Wonderland” and “Little Dead Riding Hood,” and I was going to be “Snow Fright” in my first slutty, store-bought costume.We kicked off the night chugging vodka out of a Poland Spring bottle while marching in the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade and then moved on to 230 Fifth, a rooftop bar where my friend was throwing a party. I had guzzled my weight in Stoli Vanil by the time we arrived and immediately got separated from my friends. I had another drink and danced with a Ghostbuster.

IN MY BLUEBERRY living room, curtains shielding my apple-red eyes from sunlight, I grasp a small, cold cylinder and release a crisp psshhhhhh. “What are you doing?” my girlfriend calls from her office, where she’s watching the acne-free antics of Gossip Girl. “Words! They hurt!” I moan, clutching ears made sensitive by too much Mama Juana, an herb- and wood-soaked Dominican rum touted as Caribbean Viagra—if you don’t swig so much you resemble a wet noodle. “Are you hungover?” she asks. She stomps into the living room like a drill sergeant. “Muhhhhh,” I mumble through a mouthful of carbonated, caramel bliss.

I got my nickname from a street character one spring night in the mid-1990s. I’d been entertaining clients at the theater.When the show let out, I put them in a cab then cut through a parking lot mid-block to avoid the post-theater crowds and started my walk home.There he was, turning out of the alley. “Looking good, Little Curly,” he said. I’d seen him many times before. He’d come out of the shadows, wiry, with cocoacolored skin and wearing a khaki jacket and dark pants that blended into the Midtown crowd.We were probably about the same age, though worlds apart. He was one of the fixtures of my old Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood, before the glass towers and trendy restaurants, before the improved street lighting.

Im responding to the Whos Been Naughty Nice in 2008 (Dec. 24-30) selections in your last issue. You gave Simon Hammerstein (The Box) a rap on the knuckles for alleged sexual harassment based on the true testimony of honest and wholesome virgins...

I truly have to say that you have the world’s biggest idiot working for you, and his name is Armond White. How can you continue to pay a man who thinks The Wrestler (Dec. 17) sucks and Transporter 3 (“Transcendent Thrill Drive,” Nov. 26-Dec. 2) was the best movie of the year? He is the worst movie critic and continues to produce horrible reviews. He is an idiot and a loser! Please fire him if you know what is good for your paper. Check out his reviews on RottenTomatoes.com if you think I am joking. I will never read your paper again as long as this idiot works for you. Please give us all an early Christmas present and fire him! —Matt James

This Week: Our Web readers begin to take on (and defend) Armond White with a vengeance; carbonated bevs get another shoutout; and casseroles have a longer shelf-life than you’d imagine.

This Week: One woman partied with Matt Harvey (at a Penthouse event) but wasn’t happy with the consequences; Armond White inspires readers with his critique of Gus Van Sant’s Milk, including an explanatory collage.

This Week: An NYU student gets a new understanding of Condi Rice; Armond White gets a few licks; sounds like love for Mark Blankenship’s advice column “Sounds Like a Plan”; and a rea

John Aes-Nihil Speaking. I recently did an interview with Matt Harvey. I was promised a review copy of the article (The Devil and the Dow, Nov. 5-11) before publication. I received Nothing before publication and therefore did Not see that my name was replaced in the article with another name [John Cagle].

And now, here I am, accepting the fact that your career is following me, taunting me like a school bully, pointing his finger at my inadequate collection of magazine blog postings and college newspaper clippings.

Weve been watching the spirited presidential contest but our local races have been lackluster at best and devoid of competition at worst. On Tuesday Nov. 4 youll probably see a lot of names and have no idea who they are and what they plan to do.

I’ve noticed this guy Matt Harvey [in Bash Compactor] likes to name women by their hair color. I’m still trying to figure out if he prefers blondes or brunettes, but he certainly pays attention to it. And those two bitches at the Bowlmor thing (“Bowled Over,” Oct.15-21) can just suck it. Who cares about that blond bitch, Peaches Geldof? That’s right, suck it.

And now, here I am, accepting the fact that your career is following me, taunting me like a school bully, pointing his finger at my inadequate collection of magazine blog postings and college newspaper clippings.

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19) In relationships, we all should employ the campground rule: pack out what you bring in, and leave nothing behind. Ideally we should endeavor to leave everyone we’re involved with better off than how we found them. Sometimes this is impossible; nevertheless, I implore you: try your best. Naturally, they’ll still have memories, like the ashes of campfires, that you can’t do much about, but there’s no excuse for leaving behind your trash or baggage. Nor is anyone else allowed to do that to you. Make sure you’re abiding by the campground rule; then you’ll be free to insist that others do the same.

Bitter cold weather is bearable with the proper gear. Try to go out in 40-below weather wearing just a sweatshirt, though, and you´ll be a very sad panda. Don layers of long undies and a parka and you´ll be in better shape.You can handle the extreme conditions before you; you just need to make the appropriate preparations.

What would you do if you discovered that all the moments youd thought were private this past year werent? Lets imagine theyd been broadcast to the Internet, so every argument, intimate encounter, and contemplative nose-picking session had potentially been witnessed.

Youll make mistakes all your life. Thats part of what life is. Some people react to their mishaps poorly.This is how people get convinced that theyre born losers with rotten luck. Others, however, choose to learn from their errors and avoid making them again.

Ive heard red cars get pulled over more often than staid gray or beige ones.Whether or not its actually true, Im inclined to believe it.The real question is whether its simply because fire-engine red is more eye-catching than smoke gray, or because people who buy red cars tend to speed or otherwise bend the rules more than your average Joe.

Most of your preparations for the supposedly inevitable outcome have been pointless. It should be obvious by now that what you thought would happen isnt going to. Instead, youll be thrust into a totally unexpected situation, for which your careful plans will be utterly useless.

Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 22) Forget being efficient and getting a lot done this week. Ignore the Virgos, who work as if they four arms and two heads and can do twelve things at once. Multitasking is just not your friend right now. In order to get anything accomplished, be single-minded. It’s okay to have a long list of items on your agenda, but only tackle one at a time, and don’t get upset when you don’t get as far down the list as you’d planned. Working faster than a steady pace, you’d likely spread yourself too thin, and end up doing a half-assed job. Remember, having to re-do something you screwed up will end up taking way more time than it would have to do it slowly and carefully the first time around.

I despise getting up before the sun. It’s a grim feeling when you climb out of bed and the world is still dark and cold, at least for me. I think some people revel in the solitude and stillness of those hours, but not me. I love opening the door and finding a world already bustling with activity.

You've heard people say, "When it rains, it pours," but in your case the expression should be, "When it rains, it hurricanes." You don't do things halfway, do you? Why settle for just pissing off one person when you could anger or aggravate virtually everyone you know? Well, now the damage is done, and you might as well run with it.

Its not hard to guess which will have more terror, more zombies, and more masksHalloween or the presidential election...