Dear Dirty Dergs,

In what amounts to the slowest seduction in the history of mankind, I have been building rapport with a guy I see at a weekly entertainment gathering featuring one of our many shared interests. (No, gerbils are not involved.) Things were going splendidly until last night. We simultaneously reached for the same drink coaster, and I couldn't help but notice that his fingernail was kind of long. That seriously grossed me out. I didn't get a good look at his whole hand, so I don't know if it was just that one nail or all of them, or if this is the norm for him or just a chance oversight on that particular night. So I started thinking about it, and my question is - does it make me an awful person to be put off by a long fingernail? Or am I justified in my mild disgust, since long fingernails are likely indicative of lax personal grooming habits in general?

- Don't touch me with those

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Dear Don't touch me with those,

I like this question for two reasons. First, it's going to permit me to make a joke involving dead skunks and cabbage. Second, it touches on a basic difference in the way that boys and girls are socialized. From a young age, women are force-fed the bullshit notion that they will be blessed with a perfect mate in their adult lives. Prince Charming, Ken (of Ken & Barbie fame), and Lindsay Lohan's dad reinforce the archetype of the Dreamboat Male. Men who fail to achieve perfection in their personal lives, and more importantly, in their wooing of a particular woman, should be discarded immediately. Seriously, God was obviously hungover when he let that one slip through Quality Control. Boys, on the other hand, are not indoctrinated to hold such lofty ideals. We hear sitcom dads lament, "Women, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em." We're told that all women are crazy. We're told other things that can only be described as misogynistic. The result of all of this is that the archetype of the Perfect Woman doesn't exist. (Not for males in American culture, anyway. Women are still slapped around with the archetype of the Perfect Woman, but that's a story for a different post). And, while most reasonably intelligent people learn to dismiss the conventional wisdom about the opposite sex, I think women suffer a worse hangover from the Prince Charming Myth. The idea of a perfectly tuned mate, companion, and lover is, after all, a rather compelling idea, and one not easily parted with.

Which brings us back to Captain Fingernails. If long fingernails are this guy's biggest red flag, well... nail clippers make a great stocking stuffer. Perhaps more to the point, if you haven't noticed his long fingernails before, then it's entirely possible that he doesn't often sport long fingernails. Additionally, lax grooming habits tend to manifest themselves in other rather obvious ways. For example, smelling like the fart of a lion who just ate 6 cabbage-stuffed dead skunks might indicate that your would-be dreamboat doesn't bathe as frequently as perhaps he should. Or maybe he has a pound-and-a-half of partially chewed Tootsie Rolls stuck to his teeth. If you haven't noticed these things (though I don't claim I've provided you with an exhaustive list), then perhaps his personal grooming habits do generally meet your standards. In any case, if you've enjoyed this person's company for several months, I recommend that you give the bloke another shot. If his nails are too long for your taste the next couple times you see him, then you have a choice. You can either toss him back into the pond, or you can try to alter the behavior you find troubling. (Agree to flash him every time you see him with recently clipped nails, for instance.) Sure, it's not as much fun as a perfectly-groomed Prince Charming arriving on your doorstep. But, it beats the obvious alternative (making out with an 8" x 10" glossy of Lindsay Lohan's dad).

-Joe

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Dear Don't touch me with those,

I’m picky as hell. All manner of things put me off when I’m around women. For instance, I absolutely hate the disgusting taste and odor of any kind of coffee or tea. If I smell this on a woman’s breath, it’s about as off-putting as the thought of Willie Colon in a pink tutu. And don’t get me started on women’s pants that have those super-high waistlines. The pants themselves might be fine if women didn’t feel the need to tuck shirts into them to show off the fact that their waistlines are halfway up their abdomens. Why would a woman want to look like Cameron Diaz as that ho Christina Pagniacci in Any Given Sunday? And finally, I have to say that, yes, long fingernails put me off too, even clean ones. They’re just so impractical. I’m all for giving props to fashion, but seriously, those things just get in the way of everything: typing, cooking, even reaching into one’s pockets. Who has time to fuss with that?

But though all of these things (and many others) put me off, but I try to stop short of judging the woman in her entirety because of this kind of stuff. I mean, I don’t want to turn into Elaine from Seinfeld. If a woman drinks coffee or tea, she might still be worthwhile. If she wears high-pants, maybe she just couldn’t find any others that fit, or maybe they didn’t look as high in the fitting room mirror. If she has long fingernails, maybe her friend made her get some kind of makeover, she had them put on, and she’s planning to take them off as soon as she can. For all I know, this girl went on a date last night with Chris Kemoeatu and he forced her to put them on.

What I’m saying, Don’t touch me with those, is that I think you should give yourself the chance to get to know this guy better instead of letting this one (admittedly disgusting) thing sour what might otherwise be a pleasant seduction.

-Brian

5 Reasons the Steelers will win Super Bowl XLIII

Yesterday, I offered 5 reasons the Cardinals will hoist the Lombardi Trophy on February 1st. Here’s why I was wrong:

The Good Big Ben will show up: If you don’t follow the Steelers closely, you should know that there’s Good Big Ben, and there’s Evil Big Ben. Evil Big Ben throws late over the middle into triple coverage while 350 pound yinzers in Blawnox simultaneously choke on whole pierogies and have heart attacks. Good Big Ben makes smart decisions, has an uncanny ability to sense pressure, and hits receivers in stride 35 yards downfield while big-haired chicks from Crafton-Ingram jump happily and spill out of their pink ladies’ cut Hines Ward Starter jerseys. Here are typical box scores comparing the two:

Good Big Ben: 12 for 14, 184 yards, 3 TD
Evil Big Ben: 21 for 46, 326 yards, 2 TD, 4 INT

Please, Santa, all I want for the Super Bowl is the Good Big Ben. The lives of obese Pittsburghers depend on it. (I’ll admit this is more of a hope than a reason that the Steelers will prevail).

Steelers strong safety Troy Polamalu will do Troy Polamalu things: One of these days, he’s going to intercept a pass by spontaneously growing wings and flying towards the ball. We can only hope that Gus Johnson is calling the game in which this happens.

The NFL has finally agreed to the Harrison rule: A recent (and unprecedented) midseason rules change now makes it easier for the officiating crew to identify when James Harrison is being held. Here’s the rule: “If James Harrison is not being double- or triple-teamed and he fails to record a sack on a passing play, then offensive holding must be called. It is the only possible explanation for such a sequence of events.”

Steelers defensive coordinator Dick LeBeau has two weeks to gameplan: By the time the beginning of February rolls around, the good Mr. LeBeau will have devised three dozen new blitz schemes with names that sound like 80’s hair bands or Star Wars bounty hunters. How good is he? The man is such a master of defensive schemes that there are people in the Steelers organization who still believe that he can turn Anthony Smith into a reliable NFL safety. (If you’re not familiar with Anthony Smith’s body of work, just know that believing in his defensive ability in his 3rd pro season is akin to believing in Santa Claus at the age of 37.)

The Steelers are the more tested team: Of the Cardinals 9 regular season wins, 6 of them came against the 49ers (7-9), the Seaturkeys (4-12), and the Rams (2-14). Their remaining three wins came against the Cowboys, the Bills, and a week 2 win over the Dolphins. Among these teams, only the Dolphins qualified for the playoffs. (Even this is something of a ruse, as the Cardinals caught the Dolphins during a lousy 2-4 start. Miami didn’t play good football until the end of October.) The Cardinals’ regular season losses came to the Redskins, Jets, Panthers, Giants, Eagles, Vikings, and Patriots. Of these, only the Patriots (an 11 win team), the Jets (9 wins), and the Skins failed to qualify for the postseason. Four of the Cards losses were by double digits (margins of defeat: 21, 28, 21, and 40 points). Give the Cards this much: they beat the teams they’re supposed to beat. But when they’re supposed to lose, they have a tendency to get beaten like red-headed stepchildren.

Meanwhile, the Steelers’ only losses came to the Eagles, Giants, the Colts, and the Titans, all playoff qualifiers. Of these losses, only the thrashing at the hands of Tennessee was a double digit defeat. In the regular season, they beat playoff qualifiers San Diego, Baltimore (twice), and thumped an 11 win Patriots team. In the postseason, they throttled the Chargers and beat the Ravens for the third time this season. As with financial assets, past performance is not a guarantee of future results. And, these postseason Cardinals don’t much resemble the team that got spanked in New England on Thanksgiving night. Still, I’ll take the Steelers on this one. They keep games close. They win close games. And, they’ve done it all year. You can’t say the same for the Cardinals.

5 Reasons the Steelers will lose Super Bowl XLIII

Like it or not, your average Steelers fan should admit that the upcoming tilt against the Cardinals is going to be a little tougher than most suspect. Here are five reasons the Cardinals will notch a W on February 1st:

1. The Ike Taylor - Larry Fitzgerald matchup: If you’re a Steelers fan, this one’s going to be more uncomfortable to watch than the Biden-Palin VP debate in which the Republican party’s new flagship did everything short of pretending to not understand English in an effort to avoid directly answering a question. The only hope is that Steelers defensive coordinator Dick LeBeau comes up with some really crafty solution to the Fitzgerald problem, like a defensive pygmy. You know, little dude pops up from the sideline, blows a tranquilizer dart into Larry Fitzgerald’s neck, and then hides in Casey Hampton’s rear end for the rest of the game. Because if there’s one thing of which we can all be certain, it’s that no one on the officiating crew will have the stones to conduct a full cavity search on Casey Hampton.
2. The Ken Whisenhunt - Russ Grimm brain trust: If the names Ken Whisenhunt and Russ Grimm sound familiar to Pittsburghers, its because they were integral parts of the Steelers coaching ranks for a number of years. Whisenhunt spent 3 seasons as the tight ends coach and another 3 as the offensive coordinator. His ascension to offensive coordinator coincided with the arrival of Big Ben, and he’s generally credited with helping develop the franchise QB. Russ Grimm also spent 6 seasons with the Black and Gold, holding the titles of Offensive Line Coach (all 6 years) and Assistant Head Coach (for the last 3 years he was with the team). They know the Steelers personnel very well. They tangled with the vaunted Steelers D on a daily basis and had the joy of dealing with Dick LeBeau’s weekly schematic mind f**ks. Yes, I know, the Steelers system and personnel have evolved somewhat, but I think it’s folly to conclude that the Cardinals coaching staff doesn’t enjoy at least a small tactical advantage in the upcoming game. And, oh yes, both Whisenhunt and Grimm were passed over for the Steelers head coaching position when Bill Cowher “retired.” Methinks they remember that sequence of events.
3. Will Big Ben drink like a champion again? Some pictures are worth a thousand words. Others make you want to vomit your chipped ham sandwich. I know, these pictures are now 3 years old, and yes, I know that Ben was only 23 when they were taken. How mature is your average 23-year-old male, honestly? But, here’s the problem. Big Ben’s only 26 now. How mature is your average 26-year-old male, honestly?
4. The Mitch Berger experience: It blows my mind that one of the most devastating injuries of the year for the Steelers was the loss of punter Daniel Sepulveda. He’s been “replaced” at various times this season by Paul Ernster and Mitch Berger. Mr. Berger is the current punter, and unfortunately, I can’t print the nickname my brother and I have assigned to him. I can tell you that it involves a penis joke and is intended to be derogatory. Mitch, though he would probably be one of the better punters in your average Turkey Bowl, is not a very good punter by NFL standards. Mark my words: the man will shank at least one punt in the Super Bowl.
5. Santonio Holmes is due for another arrest: What? Someone had to say it.

Now, before all the Steelers fans elect to use the comments section to recommend unsavory and/or physically impossible activities that I should perform on myself or my mother, please know that tomorrow I will offer 5 competing reasons why your beloved Stillers will prevail in Super Bowl XLIII.

We're all professionals here (3)

Another job listing gem:

You have have a bachelor’s degree in Mechanical Engineering or Physics and 3-5 years of Mechanical engineering design experience. You enjoy working in teams and have outstanding communication skills.

No, I think you have have outstanding communication skills.

What happened to the “cheap date?”

In case you haven’t heard, recent San Diego State graduate Natalie Dylan wants to auction off her virginity to the highest bidder. The deed will occur at the infamous Bunny Ranch in Nevada, one of the few remaining legal brothels in that state. She figured that she’d like to get $1 million, but as you can see here, the bidding has already reached $3.7 million.

The first thing I wondered when I saw this last week was why Google would sort it into the Science and Technology category. I sat down to read about Microsoft’s latest bug-ridden piece of garbage, but instead I discovered the current price of Natalie Dylan’s virginity. Does Dylan have some kind of high-tech anatomy the likes of which no one has had sex with before? As far as I know, she does not intend to introduce revolutionary fuel-cell technology to the sex toy industry...

But really—$3.7 million? How could one sexual encounter with the supposedly virginal Natalie Dylan possibly be worth that? There’s no denying that she’s fairly good-looking, but she’s no Emma Watson or Penelope Cruz. Surely some of the Bunny Ranch’s regular employees are equally attractive, and they would have the advantage of having more experience with their craft. Plus, they wouldn’t charge $3.7 million. So why Dylan? Is it supposed to be a publicity stunt? If so, it’s pathetic—the auction gets most of its attention in small-time, alternative media while the major news outlets have ignored it. I don’t even remember reading anything about who’s doing the bidding.

As inexplicable as I find the bidding end of this thing, I’m still fascinated by it. Every day, I google her name to find out the latest: maybe she’ll stay a virgin if a rich Christian donates the money in her name to a charity; now that she has a book deal and a movie deal, there are rumors that she doesn’t want to go through with it; etc. If you don’t understand how I could find such a stupid thing compelling on a daily basis, then clearly you have never seen the inside of a law school classroom.

Catholic roots and party fouls

Once the act of dropping has begun, some items should not be attempted to be retrieved midair. Knives come to mind. Perhaps small pets as well, as they’re probably better off tussling with gravity on their own at that point. To this list I would add beer bottles. But, the instinct to grab, to save, and to preserve is so strong that is simply does not matter. In your infinite lack of wisdom, you’re going to stab stupidly at the air and your beer bottle in some quixotic, doomed effort to prevent the inevitable spillage. Not unlike I did on a recent evening while relaxing on a friend’s couch.

An errant hand gesture, my own in this case, set the events in motion. The bottle fell only about a foot before I batted it toward my left hand with my right before pinning it against the left side of my lower torso. This conveniently, and much to the amusement of my peers, showered my shirt and my right thigh with beer, miraculously sparing every other surface in play, including the couch. Naturally, I apologized to everyone for the incident, prompting Brian to remark, “That was such a Joe party foul. You harmed only yourself, failed to spill a single drop of beer on the host’s property, and then apologized to everyone for the episode.”

And, If you fail to realize why I should apologize after committing an act that yielded no victims (save myself), harmed no property, and generally amused those around me, then you were obviously not raised in a Catholic family.

We're all professionals here (2)

Dear readers,

Once more I offer you an excerpt from a carefully crafted job posting:

Salary leval and bonuses will be very high, in accordance with this posiiton's value.

I know neither what a leval nor a posiiton is, but I’d be lying if I didn’t claim to be intrigued by this opportunity.

We're all professionals here (1)

I’m presently engaged in what feels like the most protracted job search in the history of Western civilization. Things have degenerated to the point that I actually considered the possibility that another US citizen who shares my name committed some heinous crime involving children and farming equipment two years ago, confessed to said crimes, but was spared the death penalty or jail time due to some arcane legal technicality. And, all the prospective employers who are reading my resume are mistaking me for the degenerate who used harvesting machines on the innocent. Because, let’s be honest: unless you’re playing middle linebacker for the Baltimore Ravens, employers tend to get a little edgy about murder raps.

One of the first rules of resume writing is that you must avoid typographical errors. Hiring managers spout the claim, “I will stop reading a resume or cover letter if I find a single error” the way John Madden offers insights like, “That’s what it’s all about, right there” or the equally thoughtful, “Boom.” The reasoning is as simple as it is compelling. If my cover letter is riddled with errors, it’s likely my work will be conducted in the same mediocre fashion. Unfortunately, the very same hiring managers who stress the importance of correct grammar and spelling rarely subject their own efforts to the same scrutiny they foist on others. Beginning today, in an effort to slowly bleed some of my bitterness, I will be highlighting some of these job listing gems.

Required: BS/MS in Mathematics, Physics or Engineering with 0-5 years of experience using applied mathematics to solve problerms.

Yeah, I think I found your first problerm. Think I know the solution, too. Use a f***ing spell checker.

Parking aplenty

There are some movie scenes that are a little tough to swallow. Perhaps the action is completely unbelievable. Maybe the dialogue is absurd. Or, in the worst case scenario, Katie Holmes’s boobs come flying out at a time when you can’t enjoy the visual because you know she’s about to get deleted.* All but the last of these things can be abided because the viewer is often willing to suspend disbelief in the interest of entertainment. Recently, however, I have become obsessed -- obsessed -- with the wholly intolerable way that parking is handled in movies.

Here’s the problem. No one in movieland spends any time looking for parking. It doesn’t matter if our protagonist is looking for a spot in Times Square on New Year’s Eve or outside Wrigley during a Cubs playoff game. A parking space materializes from the ether, and the charmed movie world spins on axis. And, while the director, actors, and most of the viewers move on, I’m left to stew about the injustice of the whole thing. No one -- NO ONE -- gets parking at 9:07 AM on a Tuesday in midtown Manhattan without saying the Rosary three times, sacrificing a virgin, and then taking no fewer than five hostages.

Before I go any further (and don’t worry, there’s not much more space to explore here), I want to emphasize that I don’t want footage of all 32 minutes of someone’s desperate search for parking in crowded urban areas. In fact, I emphatically don’t want that. Just don’t show me a character effortlessly, and absurdly, finding parking in a major city on a weekday. Alternatively, perhaps it wouldn’t kill the writers to acknowledge the parking problem by having a character bitch about how difficult it was to locate parking, or complain about far she had to walk from her car to the trendy flat where she’s going to have an orgy with the Affleck brothers, the Olsen twins, and Jack Black. Because, ultimately, while I don’t know how hard it is to arrange an orgy involving a bunch of b-listers, I do know how hard it is to find parking in Manhattan. Dear Hollywood, please don’t insult my intelligence on the latter count.**

* Oh, don't get upset with me because I went broken arrow and spoiled the ending of The Gift for you. You were never going to watch the movie, unless you happen to love Keanu Reeves in wife-beater roles. But -- and this is important -- if you like Keanu Reeves in wife-beater roles, you absolutely, positively must see this movie.

** One last thing: I should emphasize that cartoons are exempt from this complaint. I firmly believe that your average cartoon character should be permitted to park with tremendous ease in his or her cartoon world. Some days it’s the only thing I believe in.

Please...help me get my queso!

Sometimes, something as simple as going to the grocery story becomes fraught with the peril of annoyance and delay. This is particularly true if you shop at the Giant Eagle in Squirrel Hill on anything like a regular basis. There, nasty old ladies prowl the aisles like grizzled owls looking for poor mice to pick off and slaughter. When the aisles narrow because of some special display or an abundance of shoppers, these ladies get particularly spiteful. They never say “excuse me” if they want to get by. Oh no. Instead, they gently, then not so gently, ram their shopping carts into my ass, as in bump-BUMP. Then comes the eye-narrowing glare.

At first, I didn’t quite know what to do in these situations because I felt uncomfortable about getting snarky with an eighty-year-old woman. So I’d just kind of look down and move out of the way. Then the mean old bird would push past me and sigh as though my mere existence affected a greater offense to grocery shopping than Heinrich Himmler’s efforts at work affected upon the Jews.

Now, when I get the bump-BUMP, I imagine shoving the cart back so hard that it knocks the lady backward onto the floor. One swift push and that little grey-haired asshole would be on her back. I smile when this thought occurs to me, then I turn toward the old woman. Usually, I say something like, “Oh, it seems that you’ve just hit me with your cart.” This causes the woman to narrow her eyes even further, maybe even to let out an aggressive sigh. After this, I say, “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to get by? You could just say excuse me.” I smile at the woman. The most recent woman, rather than saying excuse me, let out a whole series of aggressive sighs, backed up until she could turn the cart around, and proceeded to head in the opposite direction. All of this rather than saying “excuse me.” I’ll probably never know who these women are or why they act so snarkily toward me, but now I derive a great deal of amusement from being polite and smiling at them only to see how obnoxious they are even in the face of niceties.

Of course, the peril of annoyance and delay at the Squirrel Hill Giant Eagle doesn’t end with those old ladies. It doesn’t even begin there. But for the sake of quasi-brevity, I’ll skip to the final peril—checkout. If you go during the busiest times of day, this is when you’ll find the geriatric cashiers working along side the baggers with downs syndrome. I don’t want to rail against people with mental disabilities, but there is a reason that I’ve never seen anyone buy eggs during those busy times. But the most obvious thing going on is the snail-like pace at which the cashiers scan items. And if something doesn’t scan, they try to scan it at least five or six times before they enter the code manually, again at a pace slower than Kendal Simmons’ 40 time. Even when the problem is incredibly obvious, like a bent or ripped bar code, or a bar code that is clearly a manufacturer’s barcode rather than the store one and hence won’t work, the five or six additional attempts are coming. This causes the lines to back up halfway up the aisles toward the back of the store, which exacerbates the old owl problem (see above).

Then, there’s the matter of using my own bags. I have my own grocery bags, like many people seem to these days, for reasons of efficiency. There is absolutely no reason for the continued production of those awful plastic bags just so that they can end up mostly as waste in landfills. Anyway, I’ll put the bags on top of my food on the belt so as to be sure that the cashier will see them. Once, the cashier removed my bags from the top of my food, put them behind my food on the belt, then proceeded to scan everything and bag the groceries himself in plastic bags. What, I still wonder, did he think those bags were there for? I was awestruck watching him there, unable to speak. After he finished and I paid, he didn’t even hand my own bags to me or anything. I said something about how I’d been hoping to use my own bags when he handed me the plastic ones. “Oh,” he said, looking at them on the belt like they were some exotic space metal, “Huh.” More recently, I took my own bags, handed them to the cashier, and said, “I’d like to use my own bags, please.” He said, “No problem,” then proceeded to double bag everything in plastic bags, then stuff the double-plastic into my bags. What, I still wonder, did this guy think my own bags were for?

What, I often ask, if anything, goes through these guys’ heads at all? I mean, where does it end? They don’t understand what grocery bags are for. Do they understand what an ATM is for? A stoplight? And, no, in case any of you snarkies were wondering, this guy was NOT one of the employees with downs syndrome. I’m not THAT kind of douchebag.