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Tusday Meditations: Finding Quality Strip Clubs (A Theory)

Hey gentle readers,

I just went to Jumbo’s Clown Room for my friends birthday, and broke some shit down for him, which I also plan on doing with y’all. We are talking about finding good strip clubs, and what strip clubs really take to be visitable, let alone pleasurable. 

You see, I’m no mathematician, but I AM a genius.  So, I devised a formula that I promptly and drunkenly wrote down and shared with everyone.  It goes a little something like this:

It’s pretty fucking simple-  B, or average numerical cup size (the 34 of a 34B)  plus the average alphabetical cup size, shown here as L, plus H, which is the average length of hair extensions.  L is shown on this scale, and is added in a graduation of tens based on ascending cup size.  When you get into double DD’s, you don’t multiply, but keep adding. For example, 

A Cup=10, B Cup=20, C Cup=30, D= 40 DDD=120

Of course, you have to use your own discretion when determining averages. 

But I digress. No wait- I don’t.  I’m just explaining. Let me continue…

All of this is multiplied by A, which is the ATM convenience fee, and divided by the average cost of a Coors Lite (CL). Then, add the number of times a Britney Spears song is played (VB), and you’ve got a sum. 

So, let’s say you went to a strip club with girls with an average of 34 B cup, 12 inch hair extensions, a 7 dollar ATM convenience fee and a six buck Coors Lite, and you had to endure three Britney Spears dance routines, your formula would look something like this:

(7(34+20+12)/6)+3=  80

I would not go back to this strip club.

A GOOD strip club will put you anywhere from 20-40, but a shit strip club will be in the 60-80 range. 

So beware, readers, and let’s start using this so none of us will be wasting precious titty time. 



Tuesday Meditations: Purim Boner

Those of you who know me know I love a lot of things: RITE AID, Horses,  Indian Food, not pinterest, and tailgating, to NAME A FEW.  But you all must know that I also have a raging hard-on for PURIM. 

What’s Purim, you ask? 

Well, it’s a pretty small-time Jew holiday that celebrates how the Jews got away with doing their own holiday shit in an oppressive-ass Persian empire way back in fucking Bible Times. 

To read more, go here:

Or you could skip all that bullshit and I’ll break it down for you, right here, right now, on SSFB:


King Ahasuerus of Persia had a big fucking feast to celebrate some victory and wanted his slutty Queen Vashti to dance naked for his court.  She said no fucking way, dude, so she gets the boot and King Ahasuerus brings in a stable of new broads so that he can have his fucking after-meal sex show.  One of these girls is Esther, a Jew.  The King picks her, falls in love with her and puts a ring on that shit. Esther is raised by her Uncle, Mordechai, who is also Esther’s uncle but ALSO OVERHEARS A BOGUS PLOT TO ASSASSINATE THE KING!  Never a dull moment in the book of Esther, bitches.  Anyhow, He immediately tells Esther about the plot, who reports that shit to King A.

In a separate but equally fucking bogus-ass incident,  Haman, a high advisor of the King,  goes dick publicly and makes all the Jews bow down to him and shit.  Mordechai won’t, and so Haman- tripping on goyish power- wants to punish all the Jews in the kingdom.  He cast lots or PURIM to determine the day of jewhilation. King A is like, kind of  dickless and goes along with Haman’s idea of his Jew-purge, but then Mordechai gets all depressed and Esther finally holds a big baller banquet where she reveals she’s no shiksa and asks King A to save her people and reveals that Haman was a power-hungry piece of shit.  King Ahasuerus is all like, “what the fuck?” And then Haman has to lead Mordechai around on a fine horse.

Eventually,  Haman is slain. Jews eat this cookie in grim remembrance.

There’s a lot of lessons we can learn from this riveting tale, but just in case you skimmed through my literary genius, I’ll break this shit down for you:

1. ALWAYS dance naked if given the opportunity.

2. Nepotism is the SHIT.

3. Cookies!

4. Never plot to kill your King publicly while wearing a cookie-shaped hat. 

5.  Fuck, I don’t know. This holiday is like a big fucking three ring Jew carnival, so can’t we all just get drunk and eat Hamantaschen in PEACE?

Now, if you’ll fucking excuse me, I have to go put on my slutty Vashti outfit, grab my gragger and get to TEMPLE.

You’re welcome,


Tuesday Meditations: I’m not Pinterested.

Hey fuckfaces,

I’ve been busy as shit so many apologies for the skipped week. Oh wait, I’m not.  Because instead of reading my fucking bullshit, you SHOULD be reading like…the news.  Or at least some creative non-fiction, for fuck’s sake. Or at LEAST this Benjamin Franklin picture with some text on it:

You see, I was at a party the other night. Naturally, I was getting my Coors Light on when an old friend came up to me and told me that there was a website about art and architecture that I should totally check out called “Pinterest.”

Little did I know I was in for a world of LAME. 

First, I had to get an invitation and go through this whole fucking song and dance about my “INTERESTS.”  There was no boxes to check for “binge drinking,” “horses” or “Rite Aid Points Program,” so I was at first concerned, then wary. 

And it was DEFINITELY NOT about art and architecture, unless your artistic standard was that fat chick in your high school who wove her own yarn hats.  Seriously, this site was made for, designed by, and jacked off too a scope of women that range from every unpopular, bottom-heavy “artsy nerd” types who gave themselves bangs and bought n’ wore the bottom halves of Men’s leisure suits to the slightly more popular, boring girls who dreamed of buying the right wicker endtable for their canopy marital bed and shuffled through Taylor Swift quotes to PUT ON THEIR DREAM BOARDS. 

So I guess what I’m saying is that the site was a big hot mess of anthropomorphic baby animals, quotes about Kelly Clarkson’s lowlights and wedding shit. 


It also had a TON of shitty tattoos by women, for women, all over their woman-parts.  As many of you know, there are three things I do well in this world:

1. obliterate my mind and body with drugs and alcohol

1.  rock cutoffs

2. write poetry

So I’m going to write the shit out of some poetry, with a special Pinterest edition of my patented “Bad Tattoo Haiku.” But first- I’ve got to get on the INSIDE. 

SO, I MADE MY OWN PINTEREST PAGE.  It’s going to be updated near constantly for the next couple of days, so fucking check this shit OUT:

You’re welcome. 


Tuesday Meditations: Martin Luther Day

Hey Senors and Senoritas,

Just back from a fucking awesome weekend, and naturally I’m a little bummed to get back to work.  THANKFULLY-One of my favorite holidays was yesterday, Martin Luther Day! 

Look- his name was painted into the piece! Ingenious!

It was super exciting because  I could reflect upon the fast and impacting changes Martin Luther made on our society, culture and religious views.  He was such an important man to so many people-  protesting injustices with rousing oratori and volumes of writing on civil  and religious inequality. 

I don’t watch a lot of television on Martin Luther day. I get out my copy of the 95 Theses and write a letter to Johan Tetzel, or some years I vary my shit and write a letter directly to Pope Leo X or Charles V! 

I would share these letters, but my thoughts on this shit are extremely personal. 

After a light lunch of chowder,  I’ll switch it up and read some Erasmus, but then I usually get a little worked up and have to nap.  After napping,  I’ll translate books n’ bits of the old testament to keep up on my verses (I prefer Numbers!).

Sometimes I sneak a peek at the television, and it’s good to know that the world seems to appreciate the impact on social justice that Luther had on history. 

Hell- we get a day off for this shit!

I concluded my day with looking at printing presses on craigslist, saying some nasty shit about the Jews and singing twilight hymnals while I slowly simulate apoplectic stroke. 


I know some of you may not celebrate Martin Luther day like I do, but I got pretty burned simulating the sensations of heat and cauterization that come with a properly apoplectic stroke.  So, I ask this of you:  please don’t judge me by the color of my skin, but by the content of my character, ok?

You’re Welcome.


Tuesday Meditations: Resolutions Can Suck A Dick

Hey assholes-

Hope you had a swell new years!  I was pretty fucked up, but I distinctly remember bandaging a bloody wound and a sweaty ex getting in the way of my game.  Or was I bandaging a sweaty ex and a bloody wound was getting in the way of my game? Fucked if I know. I love drugs! 

But, gentle readers, that’s neither here nor there. I know you know I know that you know people who always make a lame-ass list of shit they’re going to change for the new year, and then the never fucking do it.  You know, they want to loose 15 lbs or find love or take better care of themselves. 

Well, I want to stay EXACTLY THE SAME. 

And, I want to do it HARDER. 

Here’s a list of Leib’s patented* Non-Resolutions, or shit I ain’t gonna change for fucking nobody, myself included:

*patent pending

1.  My ears.  They ain’t pierced.  And know what? I have enough of your grandma’s clip-ons off of Ebay to last me a lifetime.  The next time you see me in a line at Claire’s will be to get a tiara for your kids’ BABY PARTY, and I’ll be laughing all the way to the register.

2. Dating assholes.  You know what? Dating assholes who manipulate me is one of the THINGS I FUCKING DO BEST.  If I didn’t date assholes, I wouldn’t be setting an example for the likes of young, smart, funny teenagers everywhere, who eagerly hope for a partner who treats them right, listens to their opinions and respects their minds, bodies and souls. 

3.Lying.  FUCK YOU!  Of COURSE I’M DONE DATING ASSHOLES!  I have SHITLOADS of self-worth, and any dude who doesn’t want to date this Coors-lite filled, Rite-Aid loving Piece of Awesome can suck on A FAT RESOLUTION.

4. Drinking lots and lots and lots of Coors Lites. Why quit the one thing I love?

5.  Smoking tons and tons of weed. Why quit that other one thing I love?

So, that’s kind of it.  Oh, yeah, except for this gallery of leather newsboy hats:

You’re welcome,


Tuesday Meditations: The Power of LATER

Hey f*ckfaces,  sorry this posting is late.  You see,  I’ve been doing sh*t like arranging interviews with THIS GUY:

But probably more f*cking notably, MY FUTURE EX BOYFRIEND:

In between doing important sh*t, my new-agey Aunt  told to read this book, entitled THE POWER OF NOW.

I was skeptical at first. Next, I was disgusted. Then, intrigued. Then, back to skeptical.

The Power of Now is a book of advice in living in the moment, and uses lots of vague words witch-doctor words like “energy,” “confluence” and “healthy relationships.”

Then, I thought:  I have some advice to share that won’t cost you 12.95 on a Borders clearance rack.  YEP- THESE NUGGETS OF WISDOM ARE HOT OFF THE PRESSES, AND ABSOLUTELY FREE*

*for now. 

Here’s shit I’ve learned in the past, say, 2 weeks.  Just off the TOP OF MY GODD*MNED HEAD!:

-If your local Rite Aid is out of Coors Lights, go Tecate Light.  Same cheapness and same Rite Aid Discount

-If someone tells you more than 2 times that they’re a “nice guy,” they’re probably a complete asshole. Double Rite Aid points if they use “really nice guy.”

-If a nice guy at Rite Aid tells you to buy the expensive loofah, do it.  Your back won’t wash itself and it’s worth the investment.

 -Rite Aid guys don’t make a lot of money, so if one has a perpetual fountain in their bedroom, something is up

-Tecate Light cans don’t crush well on perpetual fountains


JESUS CHRIST, I COULD DO THIS FOR A LIVING. In fact, I just might.  Now, I have to go to some crazy important sh*t, I love you all. 

You’re Welcome,


Next week:  How I stopped an “OCCUPY WILTON” protest in my own ½ bathroom. 

Tuesday Meditations: I’m Gay.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press:

I know I have come to be known as a beautiful, talented and decidedly heterosexual figurehead in your lives, but as Dylan said, the times they are a-changing.

 And by “a-changing,” I mean I’m gay. 

Those of you who have had the pleasure of my blowjobbery and my sexual company are probably in shock. But, I’m sorry, gentle readers. You see, I do like men.  I like men very much. But there is overwhelming evidence that points to the contrary.  After a day of careful and drug-addled research, I have come to the conclusion that I’m probably a lesbian. 

Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence:

1.     My delight in Lumberjack wear    

2.     I attended Lilith Fair….twice.

3.     I think Margaret Cho is funny

4.     I listen to Bikini Kill on a semi-regular basis

5.     Shaggy haircuts seem cute to me. 

Granted, this might not be strong evidence of my affinity for women, especially compared to the fact that I’m always talking about my feelings and I’ll never completely understand sports. 

But then I found this picture from horse camp:

Sorry, gentlemen.  My lesbianism’s been brewing ever since I was a 14 year old equestrian.  I’m throwing in the hetero towel and embracing MY TRUTH.   

First orders of business: Join a knitting circle, Show this column to my mom and dad and buy some Teagan and Sarah tracks off itunes.


You’re Welcome,


Tuesday Meditations: My Credit’s For Sh*t, and I’m Ugly

Yeah,  I know. As my cats face begins to heal, grim reality sets in. 

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