Malcolm: Sex! It’s fun, everyone wants it, and there are any number of ways to get it. But where can you go if you’re creepy, spastic, ugly, or just generally unfuckable? The Internet, of course! The Internet is choc-full of creeptastic homebodies hungering after a few sweaty minutes with the person of their choice; some of them are women, most of them are men, and they’re all downright terrifying!

Lucky for you, TLG is on the front line, keeping you safe from scary old men who want to fondle your parts by making ass-fun of the terrible personals they post. For every installment, two TLG contributors will make accounts on one of the many dating sites that populate this web of ours, be immediately inundated with moist fuck-mail, and reluctantly pick out several choice profiles to riff on.

In this inaugural installment of TLG’s newest feature, Michael and I will be examining Seeking Arrangement, a charmingly upscale little slice of webspace dedicated to connecting hot, lazy, young people with rich, horny old people in a process that is just this side of prostitution. In other words, it’s where sugar daddies come to find sugar babies, and that means some truly alarming personals. Let’s jump right into it!

“Muy intersante!  Verdad?”

Michael: Oh… oh man.

Michael: He’s almost 70.

Malcolm: The description of the type of arrangement he wants is what terrifies me the most.

Malcolm: “Satisfying.”

Malcolm: That could mean any number of gruesome things.

Michael: It could mean pumicing his feet for all these unassuming women know.

Malcolm: Or it could mean feasting thrice nightly on the blood of virgins pure.

Malcolm: He looks almost a little too proud of that boat, you know.

Malcolm: I am willing to bet all the cash in my wallet that it was carved from the bones of orphans.

Michael: “I will expect you to fuck the boat. Fucking the boat is a must.”

Michael: “And I will watch.”

Malcolm: “Fucking not of the boat will have consequences. The boat will ANGER.”

Malcolm: “The boat will fuck YOU.”

Michael: Was the boat made in Soviet Russia?

“Metal Guy”

Michael: This man describes himself as “metal.”

Malcolm: Well, “Through the Fire and the Flames” came on just as I clicked that link, so I think he might be onto something.

Michael: Somewhere, Dee Snyder feels a great disturbance in the force.

Malcolm: I wonder what “self-employed” means?

Malcolm: Does he live in the woods?

Malcolm: Michael, I think he lives in the woods.

Michael: Lives in the woods, fighting bears with the power of rock.

Malcolm: You know what, I think he might be a druid. The more I look at this picture, the more convinced I am of how awesome this guy is.

Malcolm: Look at that smirk. That is the smirk of a man who knows that at any given moment he could summon forth a Gargantuan Earth Elemental to smite his foes.

Michael: I can completely picture him wailing on his axe during a thunderstorm, somehow harnessing the awesome powers of nature as an amp.

Michael: Standing atop a mountain, buxom nymphs clambering at his feet.

Malcolm: His “Arrangement I am Seeking” section is a little vague. I bet he’s looking for a second party member to tank for him while he casts Harness Nature’s Rock IV.

Malcolm: Wicked long casting time on that.

Michael: Probably about as long as it takes to play the solo in Freebird.

Malcolm: “Freebird” is totally this guy’s druid name. Agamemnon Freebird of Elad’ras.

Malcolm: He describes himself as a “light smoker.”

Michael: He literally smokes light.

Malcolm: I think we need to move on, or one of us is going to marry this guy.

“Play with Daddy in His Paradise”

Malcolm: You know, on the one hand, I want to slap him heartily on the back and congratulate him for being so sure of what he wants at his stage of life.

Malcolm: On the other hand, Jesus.

Michael: I don’t know, I think he’s got this whole life thing figured out. Here we all are toiling away like chumps when we could be whisked away to this island paradise and live like goddesses. Er, sorry, I get a bit too caught up in my alter ego.

Malcolm: You have to admire his willingness to admit that he can’t get a boner. “Unsuccessful with all viagra-type medications.”

Michael: He finally found the cure men have been seeking all along: hot, bisexual women.

Malcolm: Is it odd that the thing I find most worrisome about this profile is that he used single apostrophes to form quotation marks?

Michael: Freakshow! What does he think he is, British?

Michael: Oh snap, he has a newsletter:

Michael: http://www.pepeshideaway.com/newsletter.php

Malcolm: Huh. That’s actually pretty well-designed. Way to web, creepy metrosexual seventy-year-old dude.

Michael: I’m beginning to think this might not even be a sexual thing.

Michael: This reminds me more of that Simpsons episode where Kang and Kodos whisk the Simpsons off to share with them the wonders of their culture. I believe Pepe is just trying to share that magic he feels everyday with a few nubile bisexuals chicks.

Malcolm: Didn’t Kang and Kodos also want to devour the Simpsons in that episode?

Malcolm: …ooooooooooh.

Michael: No, no, Lisa only thought they wanted to. It turned out they were on the level.

Michael: In the same way, you and I are skeptical of the joys Pepe wishes to share.

Michael: You think he may want to… devour us, metaphorically. But I think there might be more there.

Malcolm: He also has a six-foot-tall statue of what looks like a hippogriff, Michael.

Michael: So, he has a hippogriff. Big deal.

Michael: More and more I find myself pining for this island Xanadu, cursing my father for giving me that damned Y-chromosome.

Malcolm: Dammit, this is supposed to be a “look at these creepy old men” article, not another “Michael wishes he were born a woman” article!

Malcolm: I think we’d better move on before any more uncomfortable epiphanies are reached.

“Gentleman”

Michael: I would certainly say he’s an unforgettable character.

Malcolm: This is what Oompa-Loompas grow into.

Michael: Oompa-Loompa Doompaty-Doo
I have got another riddle for you
What do you get when you make lots of cash?
The ability to buy yourself ass

Malcolm: I know he looks like such a sweet, cherry-cheeked old soul, but make no mistake: he will cut your throat and step over your cooling husk.

Malcolm: As he says, “There’s plenty of time to sleep in the grave.”

Michael: That is essentially the only advice in his book, the rest is just eyebrow grooming tips.

Michael: Step 1. Disembowel your competition and place their head on a stake outside your skyscraper.

Michael: Step 2. I suggest using geri curl for that “interested yet in control” look.

Malcolm: I don’t know why this punk is expecting anyone to respond to his ad. I mean, he’s only got a SMALL library named after him in Oxford University. Pssh.

Michael: You know what they say about guys with small libraries.

Malcolm: They don’t not know too much?

Michael: Also that they are grotesquely wealthy, cherubic millionaires seeking protege/fuck buddies online.

Malcolm: And, presumably, somebody to hang out with their 15-year-old daughters.

Malcolm: That must be one well-adjusted kid.

Michael: “Misty, look! I bought you a friend online.”

Michael: “I’m also totally going to ream her later, hopefully this isn’t weird for you at all.”

Malcolm: “You can play with her just after I’m good and done dragging my moldering sack across her brow.”

Malcolm: I love how we went to the exact same place with that. There is no way this guy doesn’t tell his daughter all about his freaky sex habits.

Michael: It’s pretty well the logical conclusion.

Michael: Imagine that dinner table.

Malcolm: It’s probably shaped like a map of Earth, with a flag planted in every country where he’s banged a hooker.

Michael: “Honey, did daddy ever tell you about his trip to Thailand?”

Malcolm: gestures to thick clump of flags

Michael: “It was when I first discovered my taste for ladyboys.”

Malcolm: impish wink

Michael: “Daaaaad!” *rolls eyes*

“Iron hand in the velvet glove”

Michael: Here’s one I’m sure you already have, but he sent me an e-mail, so it’s important.

Malcolm: What did his e-mail say?

Michael: You me he didn’t e-mail you?

Michael: I feel special.

Michael: “I am intrigued by your profile. Would you consider a dominant man in his late 60′s that would spoil you when good and spank you when bad? If interested write back.

Michael: “Master Mike.”

Malcolm: Holy shit.

Malcolm: It says here he’s a consultant. Do you think he shows up to meetings wearing a leather corset and assless chaps?

Michael: “Gentlemen, the key to any effective corporation is the principle of ‘iron hand in the velvet glove’”

Michael: “If you would allow me to demonstrate.”

Malcolm: “If you don’t leverage your synergies in accordance with Cisco 4.1 while tonguing my dusty taint, I will leave you in the harness overnight.”

Michael: When I first saw his picture two thoughts occurred to me.

Malcolm: Do share.

Michael: Thought 1: What the hell are the white spots in his picture? JPG artifacts or lice?

Michael: Thought 2: Holy shit this guy looks like the minster from the Baptist church my family attended when I was young.

Michael: Which just makes this one a bit too uncomfortable for me.

Malcolm: Well, that, and the fact that he’s got the same name as you.

Malcolm: Hey, maybe this is you from the future!

Malcolm: You have to admit, a lot of it fits.

Michael: Well, I do get sexually excited when I electrocute a woman’s nipples.

Michael: I figured that was normal.

Malcolm: And I remember you frequently expressing your fondness for over-sized old man indoor-outdoor sunglasses.

Malcolm: You know, I’m feeling better now. At least we know that in the future time travel will be developed, and that you will steal the machine and use it to go back in time to score some submissive tail.

Michael: Good God, I’m having a very existential moment. I’ve seen the path in life I will inexiorbly follow.

Michael: I’ve seen this dark future of knife play and rubber hoses shoved up colons.

Michael: And I’m loving it.

Malcolm: This has been a good entry for everyone, then. Moving on.

“THE HOLLYWOOD PARTY KING”

Michael: Hey! It’s Pat!

Malcolm: Pat?

Michael: It was a Saturday Night Live skit about an adrogynous person and no one could figure out their gender.

Michael: It was turned into a movie.

Malcolm: Yes, but this is very obviously a clay golem in human shape. Duh.

Malcolm: Don’t bother using magic against him, by the way. They’re properly immune to that shit.

Michael:

Malcolm: Okay, I find myself slightly swayed.

Michael: Is he hanging out with Courtney Love in that second picture?

Malcolm: Is he? Is Courtney Love the horrible mockery of the human form that appears to be undergoing an agonizing melting process?

Michael: Yes. That’s Courtney Love.

Michael: He obviously already has a hideous, empty gold digging harpy in his life, why is he on this site?

Malcolm: I hear that if you leave Courtney Love out of the freezer for more than a week, she starts growing mold and smelling like wet leaves, so he probably needs someone for every other week.

Michael: So we’ve established his motivations. I think we should discuss how incredibly WACKY he is. I mean, look at what a fun guy he is, he’s sticking his tongue out! Will wonders never cease.

Malcolm: I also like how he used ALL CAPS in every possibly place where you could enter text.

Michael: In that first picture he’s STANDING AROUND LOOKING AWKWARD WITH A DRINK IN HIS HAND ALSO SOME TACKY CHRISTMAS LITES ARE ATTACHED TO A PILLAR BEHIND HIM. Haha! I want to party with this wild and crazy guy.

Michael: I IMAGINE HE’S ALWAYS TALKING LIKE HIS WORDS ARE IN CAPS! GOSH GUYS THIS PARTY REALLY IS SWELL! I’M THE PARTY KING!

Michael: REALLY! I KNOW COURTNEY LOVE!

Malcolm: The other fields might’ve been dropping him subtle hints about his typography, but FUCK THAT SHIT. THE HOLLYWOOD PARTY KING IS BIG AND LOUD AND IF THE INTERNET CAN’T HANDLE THAT THEN HE’LL FEED IT TO COURTNEY LOVE.

Malcolm: Maybe we should move on. Courtney Love is starting to seriously unnerve me.

Michael: LOOK AT HER FEET! HAHA WACKY!

“Like No One You’ve Ever Met” (Picture split into two parts because… well, you’ll see.)

Malcolm: B-Ben? (Note to casual residents of the internet: you’re probably going to want to check out the videos we link to have any idea of who Mr. Metzger is.)

Michael: If not Ben Ryan Metzger, it’s his spiritual successor.

Malcolm: PLEASE BE SERIOUS ABOUT MEETING (atop the mountain where I have planted the flag with your name on it.)

Michael: Note the numbered list at the bottom where he explains that he’s the only genuine man on SA.

Michael: Admittedly, his list is incredibly accurate.

Malcolm: Wow. The other dudes were creepy, but this guy actually manages to be a cunt about it.

Malcolm: That’s practically zen.

Michael: Somehow Roissy in DC collided with Ben Ryan Metzger and the result…

Malcolm: An incredible cunt.

Malcolm: THE incredible cunt.

Michael: Faster than a speeding tractor tire rolling down a hill.

Malcolm: I don’t think it can be overstated: this dude is a massive cunt.

Malcolm: I mean, Jesus, look at his requirements.

Michael: So I can’t think of much more to say about this guy other than, man fuck this guy and his extreme cuntitude.

Malcolm: If Obama wants to fix your economy, he just needs to tax cunts.

Michael: And disband the disastrous Bush Tax Cunts.

Malcolm: Shut up, I’m serious. Fine someone a hundred thousand dollars every time they’re photographed on a jetski.

Malcolm: Add another fifty thousand for every time they use the word “natural” in online dating ads. BAM, GNP sorted out.

Malcolm: Hold up – that photo of him standing in front of Angkor Wat – does that look Photoshopped to you?

Michael: He definitely looks like he belongs somewhere else…

Malcolm: Hm…

Michael: Hm…

Malcolm: Well, that does it for this installment of Don’t Fear The Creeper! If you have any especially creepy dating sites that you’d like us to hit next time, don’t hesitate in leaving a comment or e-mail us your suggestion! ‘Bye for now!

When I got the word from Malcolm that I had been accepted as one of The Last Gaffe’s new writers, I was pretty amped about the whole thing. That feeling lasted for a solid fifteen minutes, before it turned into an intense sense of dread at my complete dearth of ideas for what to write. I hadn’t really been doing a lot of writing the past few weeks, and while many writers would come out of such a stretch with a back-up of great ideas just waiting to pour out of them, I came out with fresh memories of how much more fun Resident Evil 5 is than writing.

It's not racist because the girl's black, you guys!

And so I found myself staring blankly at a word document that was, well, blank, trying my damnedest to come up with something that would be both funny and a good introduction to the Last Gaffe audience. Something that truly captured who I am. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a whole lot of time to come up with something good because I was also in the process of moving to a new house. And then, in the process of moving, genius struck.

In the form of idiocy.

Any schlep can move a bed from one house to another. It’s a terribly straightforward and simple task. Take the bed apart, put it in a vehicle, drive to a different place, put the bed together. That’s boring. What takes talent is finding a way to turn this simple construction project into an Odyssey of Homerian-proportions (and yes, I am talking about the Simpson variety.)

As luck would have it, I am world class in the field of Simple Task Fuck-Upery, and by following my simple guide, you too can find bed moving to be a baby-punchingly frustrating endeavor.

(NOTE: in keeping with the theme of ineptitude, I failed to take any pictures of my efforts. My six-year-old neighbor was kind of enough to illustrate some helpful diagrams with my guidance.)

Step 1: Disassembling Your Bed

This is the trickiest part of the entire operation. As you’ve already noticed, your bed’s entire construction consists of only eight of those new-fangled half-screw, half-bolt things.

Sixteen if, like me, your bed consists of two identical beds pushed together. You take those out and, just like that, you’ve got a disassembled bed.

It could be argued that this step is one that is damn-near idiot proof. So, how can we fix that? By misunderstanding what day your house is getting set up with all those fancy things like TV and internet that make a house habitable. By neglecting to figure these pieces of information out, you can buy yourselves two nights sleeping on a couch that’s two feet shorter than you are, while your beds sit in the back of a truck waiting to be moved.

Step 2: Moving the Bed

Now that your bed is safely packed to the very top of the covered truck bed without a meaningful reason to move it to your new crib, you’re ready to proceed to Step 2, and get your move on. For starters, you’re going to get a call to go hang out with your sister while her husband is at work. Since “work” for her husband entails training to beat up men far bigger than you, and you’re a strikingly attractive man that’s fond of his current facial arrangement, you’re going to want to oblige.

About halfway through the drive, you’re going to hear a thump from the back of the truck. A check in your rearview mirror will confirm that there is still a headboard and footboard resting atop the two sets of mattresses, and that everything is cool. Important: do not stop to think about that logic. It’s vitally important that you get all the way to your sister’s house before you realize that two sets of mattresses should have two headboards and two footboards.

Once you’re at your sister’s house, you’re now free to realize that you failed to lock the window on the bed cover, and that you are now short two fairly-important parts of your bed. Quickly hurry to retrace your steps, being sure to get a false sense of security when you find the first piece a mere quarter-mile from her house and in perfect condition. This will make it all the more painful of a kick in the man marbles when you come across the second piece, and learn that somebody was kind enough to run it over with their car, leading to some boards seeking their sovereignty.

Optional Aesthetic Step: Carefully study the footboard before hammering it back together to ensure that you reattach the pieces in the correct order to ensure no visible nails. Then go to sleep, do the hammering in the morning and accidentally reverse the steps.

Step 3: Reassembling the Bed

Here we are – the home stretch. With just a few more masterful touches, you’ll have finished off a truly terrible attempt at moving a bed. Assemble the first bed without any complications, and develop a smug feeling of adequacy as a result. Repeat the process on the second bed until you’re putting in the seventh screwbolt. That’s when you want to notice the footboard on the second bed is upside down compared to the first footboard.

Take apart the second bed, taking care to unscrew the boards on both sides of the bed, not just the side that needs to be turned around. Trust me, this makes loads of sense. Flip the footboard and put the bed back together. Congratulations, you have put your beds together. Slide the drawers under the bed and call it a day.

What’s that? Something doesn’t look right?

You know what? Fuck you. I think that’s a perfectly fine bed. What, like, you’re so fucking perfect? Newsflash buddy, you’re not exactly a 10 yourself (Unless you’re reading this and also a lady, in which case I didn’t mean it. You’re beautiful, and you should message me.)

Fine, we’re not done yet. This is about the time in the operation where you realize that it was the second bed you’d put together right, not the first, and that you’re an idiot. Take both beds apart, flip both endboards and screw it all back together and you’re finally done.

Congratulations, you can now enjoy your bed with the ladies, if you know what I mean.

Fuck you, kid.

The patron saint of getting bombed in Beantown.

Wait, what? Drunk? Brawling? Are these the things we want to associate with the great island nation of Ireland? Apparently, the answer is yes. The drunken, brawling stereotype of Irishmen has long been perpetuated in literature, song, film and television. But where does it come from?

While there’s no hard evidence pointing to where exactly the stereotype originated, we can still take a look and come to a pretty strong conclusion about why the Irish have been portrayed as thugs and drunks for so many years. And who better to help guide you toward drunken, fist swinging enlightenment than a bona-fide Irishman, right? An Irish American who loves his beer and whose ancestors came over from Cork more than a century ago!

(Just so we’re all on the same page, I’m talking about myself.)

As it turns out, the rise of the drunk, brawling Irish stereotype occurred primarily on American soil when wave after wave of Irish immigrants arrived in New York. They were looking for a new start, with hopes of escaping not only their British oppressors, but also the poverty and famine that was prevalent on the Emerald Isle (and subsequently were heard to utter, “Bollocks!” as soon as they discovered that NYC was every bit as bad as where they’d come from.)

An artist's representation of the first time the Irish realized how royally they'd been fucked over. Historians would later mistake it for an unfunny political cartoon.

Unfortunately for the Irish settlers (not to be confused with Irish Setters, which are beautiful but annoying dogs), life in America sucked in many of the same ways that it sucked in Ireland, and in some cases it sucked a whole lot harder. If Irish immigrants weren’t tricked into signing up to go fight in the Civil War as soon as they got off the boat, they were being hated on by all races and nationalities wherever they went.

Many people refused to hire the Irish, and the overall hatred was fierce. Along with the Chinese and the blacks, the Irish just could not catch a break back in the 1840’s and 1850’s. They were viewed as unsophisticated and unskilled. Since no one was hiring the Irish, they were forced to take jobs performing manual labor that paid little and required little intelligence, further perpetuating the belief that the Irish were dopes who could barely out think a gorilla. (In fairness, this is often the case.)

"Aah, like we'd want tah werk at yer jerk store anyhoo, ya cunt."

Soon not only their neighbors, but even the media began to shape the stereotype of the drunken Irish brawler. Now of course, it wasn’t without reason. There is some evidence that suggests the Irish were naturally more prone to violence than their American neighbors. History shows that violence often erupted between Irish neighborhoods and their neighbors of varying ethnic groups, but the same level of violence was almost non-existent between those other groups. In most cases, the Irish were the instigators. Kind of like Woody Woodpecker, only with much coarser language.

That's more like it.

Additionally, tired of being pissed on by pretty much everyone else, the Irish began forming gangs to take care of themselves, and soon the belief sprang up that all Irish were mob controlled and involved in these increasingly violent gangs, even if it wasn’t the case. Come on, didn’t you see Gangs of New York?

In the years since the media first birthed the drunken, brawling Irish stereotype, little has been done to stop it, or even change it. Instead, among Irish Americans it’s pretty much been embraced. If you don’t believe it, just look at Notre Dame. Do you think there would be a little uproar if they were called the Notre Dame Fighting Jews, and instead of an angry leprechaun as the mascot, it was a banker? And that’s not just because it’d be strange for a Catholic university to have a Jewish mascot, either.

They're in line for the big game against USC.

Instead, the view of the Irish being drunken brawlers has been gradually accepted, if not entirely accurate. I say not entirely accurate, because as mentioned with the rise of Irish gangs in Hell’s Kitchen (not the Gordon Ramsay show, the actual section of New York), there are things that support the stereotype. For example, a recent study concluded that of all European countries, the Irish spend a higher percentage of income on alcohol than any other country. Out of the entire household spending, 4.1% goes to alcohol. That’s more than three times the alcohol spending of any other country in the European Union. That’s a gansey-load of spirits!

Let me put it this way: even if you were to take every single bottle on these shelves and pour them into a bathtub, you still wouldn't have a gansey-load. But you'd have a pretty good evening ahead of you, all the same.

In addition, the 4.1% committed to alcohol is twice as much as the average Irish family spends on education and health. So if nothing else, we know that the Irish at least have their priorities straight.

So what does any of this mean?

Absolutely nothing. We can pretend to know why certain ethnicities are known for certain traits, and it’s clear that to an extent, those stereotypes are perpetuated by real life examples. I mean, they have to be grounded in at least some fact, right? You know, apart from the so-called “Irish Curse” myth. That’s just bullshit. At the end of the day, how the hell can you scientifically judge an entire population as being drunken, fighting bastards? That’s better left to people who aren’t sporting lab coats. You know, people like you and me.

Well, maybe not Malcolm.

Oh, and definitely not Dan.

The jury is still out on Erica and Michael.

The fallout, of course, is that due to these longstanding Irish stereotypes, days like St. Patrick’s Day completely lose their meaning, instead replaced by a rowdy spirit and some good old fashioned drunken chicanery, reflecting the stereotypes themselves. The ironic part is that, up until as recently as the 1970’s, alcohol was strictly forbidden on March 17 in Ireland.

The day itself was considered a religious holiday, remembering a man who was kidnapped from his home in Wales and sold into slavery in Ireland, only to later escape and come back bigger and badder than ever, toting machine guns and taking down the slave ring that wanted to see him dead. Okay, I made that last part up. He actually just returned to Ireland as a missionary, minus the over-the-top bloodshed and cheesy one-liners.

"And Patrick said to the snakes, 'Come then, ye benighted serpents, and meet a friend of mine. Her name's Delilah, and she loves to dance.'"

Let’s be honest; it’s just a hell of a lot more fun to get hammered and belt out Irish ditties with your favorite lads and lasses, drinking green beer colored by God knows what and pretending to like corned beef and cabbage. And remember, when you’re out at some “authentic Irish pub” with a generic Irish name:

Some may say the glass is half empty,
Some may say the glass is half full.
But the Irish will forever say,
“Are you gonna drink that?”

I bet this place rocks! SHAM-rocks, that is! Ha ha! Thanks, you've all been great.

(Here and here are a couple of my sources, if you’re interested in further reading on how the drinkin’-est, fightin’-est race on the planet got its reputation.)