Rizzo's Mancouch

High Fives Totally F**cking Rule

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 02:09:08 GMT

In this modern world, where technology such as the internet and cellular telephones have slowly robbed us of physical connection, it is easy to succumb to feelings of malaise and alienation. Such is the postmodern condition.

But fuck all that noise. You know what rules? High Fives. More Here...

Hamburgers are Amazing

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 16:58:09 GMT

I’m not what you’d call a fine food aficionado. I’ve never had escargot, pan-seared salmon makes me want to puke, and when I take a sip of wine I make a face like I just got punched in the dick.

That being said, I do know something tasty when I taste it. You know what’s almost always tasty? Hamburgers.

My apologies for all of our vegetarian readers, but I think the good old-fashioned Hamburger warrants himself a rate in this space. I’m a meat eater, and I have been a meat eater (with one ill-advised hiatus) since I was born. When I look back over my history of meat-eating, I think I have ingested one meat in particular the most.

Ground Beef. My favorite form to ingest ground beef is Hamburgers. So there you have it, I think I have eaten more hamburgers in my life than other type of food.

It’s not just the frequency of hamburgers to stomach; it’s more than that. Think about it, when’s the last time you had a bad hamburger? I don’t know about you, but I can’t really remember a time when I’ve had a bad hamburger. Sure, I can remember some hamburgers that are better than others, but not a single one has been “bad”. Even frozen hamburgers from fast food joints taste delicious. Even hamburgers in other countries are serviceable. It’s the one food that you can’t fuck up. Always a safe bet wherever you may be eating.

Not only are hamburgers almost universally delicious, they are usually always one of the cheapest things on the menu. They are an affordable option for those of us on a tight budget. My ideal hamburger price is free, my usual hamburger price is 8 dollars, my manageable hamburger price is 10 dollars, and I don’t go to places that are nicer than that. Even if you somehow get sucked into a restaurant where a hamburger costs 12 dollars, the hamburger is still cheaper than just about anything else that that restaurant has. And if said restaurant has the gall to be charging 12 bucks for a hamburger, at least take solace in the fact that it ought to be a damn good hamburger.

Not to mention, Hamburgers are also the food of choice at perhaps my favorite warm weather activity, outdoor BBQ’s.

So thank you, noble cows, and thank you noble machine that grinds cow innards into easily moldable meat, and thank you noble grill or pan that turns said meat into my hamburger. You have performed admirably in my eyes, and more importantly my stomach for the past 23 odd years. Here’s hoping for many happy returns.

How 'bout it couchsters, let's hear it for the hamburger...

Germs.

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 19:47:56 GMT

I have a confession to make.

I rarely wash my hands.

Not before preparing or handling food, not after using the bathroom, not before and after helping someone who is sick, not after blowing my nose, coughing, or sneezing, not after handling an animal or animal waste, not after handling garbage, and certainly not before and after treating a cut. More Here...

I Kinda Feel Bad For Tiger Woods

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 17:55:20 GMT

Look, I get it. Tiger Woods is a public figure, and as a result of being a public figure he puts himself in a position of intense scrutiny. I understand. But c'mon could we give the guy a break?

So he probably had a few affairs over the years. He's not the only one. Bill Clinton, David Letterman, there is even widespread evidence that suggests Martin Luther King had a few affairs in his day.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that it is ok or excusable for you to cheat on your spouse or significant other. That's really for you and your partner to decide. My problem is that in Tiger Woods' case, he's not really been given the chance to sort things out in a quiet, rational matter with his wife.

Picture this. You and your lady have a fight because she's found some questionable text messages on your cell phone. There is some shouting, some door slamming, and finally for the benefit of all parties, you decide to get out of the house.

It's dark out, and you've been crying a little bit. Not to mention you're dealing with some pretty heavy shit here, so you're mind is understandably elsewhere. You get behind the wheel and step on it. You've just got to go somewhere, anywhere.

You're not paying attention and you smash into a fire hydrant and then a tree. You bash your head on the steering wheel. Next thing you know you're in the hospital.

Shit.

If this happened to you or me, no big deal. We'd have to tell our friends, relatives, maybe neighbors, but it'd blow over pretty quick. We could lie, say we weren't fighting, say everything was fine, just fell asleep at the wheel or something. Easy.

But if you're Tiger Woods, it's the start of a nightmare. Over the next few days there are pictures of you with the other woman. There's a phone message you left on her cell phone. There's people, all sorts of people, people you don't even know coming forward and saying that they hooked up with you, that they had a relationship with you, whatever.

It's being talked about all over. The newspapers, the internet, this is front page news nearly everywhere you turn.

Meanwhile, you've still got to come home every night and try and sort shit out with your lady. You're in the middle of a messy fight, remember? Add all this other stuff on top, and boy, talk about a high pressure situation to resolve an argument/.

So, like I said, I think I feel bad for the guy. I know he's a multimillionaire, that he's famous, and this is the life he chose for himself, but still. Nobody really deserves that kind of pressure and humiliation. So, Tiger Woods, I'm sorry. I hope that you and your wife can sort things out, and that better things are ahead.

Whaddya think couchers, you feeling bad for Mr. Woods and his wife?

Surviving Thanksgiving

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 19:04:29 GMT

Ohh boy. I can't wait. Thanksgiving is hands down one of the best days of the Calendar year. What's not to love? Gorging yourself along side friends and relatives, collapsing into a post meal stupor, watching the Detroit Lions get killed? It's got everything, I tells ya.

However, in order to properly enjoy Thanksgiving, you've got to prepare. You can't just rush into it, lest you end up too full to finish that third helping of mashed potatoes. No, no. Thanksgiving requires practice, patience, and commitment. Some say it's harder than running a marathon. And by some I mean me. I say it's harder than running a marathon.

But never fear, Rizzo is here. Follow my simple steps to ensure yourself that you are able to enjoy all that Thanksgiving has to offer.

1.) Eat a Huge Lunch On Wednesday

Your stomach is a muscle. Wait, what's that? Sorry my producer is telling me it's not a muscle, it's an organ. Fuck that. This is my post, and I say that the stomach is a muscle. Anyway like any muscle, your stomach has to be trained. It has got to be pumped up to do what you want it to do. Fortunately, training your stomach is a lot more enjoyable that weightlifting.

It's simple. On Wednesday afternoon it is essential that you eat an absolutely enormous lunch. Doesn't matter what it is, just put enough stuff in your belly that goes well beyond your normal limits. This will stretch the walls of your stomach, making it larger. That way, when it comes to do the Thanksgiving deed, you won't crap out in the middle of your second helping.

2.) Begin fasting

After your enormous lunch, you're done till Thanksgiving dinner. Nothing goes in. I don't care if is only one Ritz cracker, it's not going down your gullet. Seem a little cruel? Whatever. You know what they say, "no pain, no gain". You'll thank me when you have room for another bite of stuffing.

3.) Wear Loose Fitting Pants

No fucking skinny jeans here, pal. Anything with an unforgiving waistband will cause unnecessary strain on your stomach. He's got a big day ahead of him, and you've got to make sure he's taken care of. Your stomach needs it's space and it's your job to give it to him. I usually opt for a nice pair of sweatpants. They can double as a great napkin!

4.) Take a Gratuitous Nap

On Thanksgiving Day, I usually opt for a nice long mid-afternoon nap. This is like killing several birds with one lazy-ass stone.

First, you make sure you are well rested. Your stomach, like any athlete, functions best when you are well rested. A nap guarantees that he'll be ready to go come game time.

Second, nothing gets my appetite up like a nap. Plus, if you've followed all steps accurately, you haven't eaten anything for 24 hours. You should wake up craving a small horse.

Finally, a nap helps quickly pass those pesky pre-meal hours. There will be no awkward socializing with distant relatives for you. No, no, you will be fast asleep, dreaming away the hours with cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.

5.) There Is No Such Thing As Too Much Gravy

It's mealtime. I'll say it again, there is no such thing as too much gravy. Put it on your turkey, on your potatoes, on your stuffing. Hell, just take that bowl and drink it straight. Who cares about your cholesterol level? It's the holidays, live a little!

6.) Always Save Room For 2 Pieces of Pumpkin Pie

No matter how hard you go, it's important that you leave room for dessert. That doesn't mean you have to pussy-foot your way through dinner. It just means that you need to be mindful of the fact that no matter how full you are, you still have to stuff your face with two pieces of pie. Just pray that you've trained hard enough, because this is the final sprint.

Once you get 'em down, take a satisfied sigh. Congratulations, You made it! Your prize? A two hour session on the toilet. Make sure you've got something good to read.

So there you have it. Good luck, and happy thanksgiving!

War On The Holiday Season

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 14:59:53 GMT

Look, I love Christmas, ok? Caring, family, gift-giving, that's all good things in my book. My problem is all the time leading up to Christmas. The now-infamous holiday season.

Every year the holiday season seems to creep up earlier and earlier. For most of my life, it seemed to me that the day after Thanksgiving was sort of the official holiday kickoff. Black Friday and all of that. Even that strikes me as a tad premature, but that's fine, I'm a big boy I can deal with it.

Then slowly black Friday was no longer good enough. If black Friday is one of the best retail days of the year, then surely they have to get the ads running before black Friday so you know what to buy. So then it ends up being the week before Thanksgiving. Then a few days earlier, then a few days earlier.

All of a sudden, Christmas decorations are going up in my neighborhood on the 1st of November.

You early-holiday bastards are killing Christmas. I am sick of hearing Christmas music already and it's not even fucking Thanksgiving yet. And don't even get me started about poor Thanksgiving. Arguably one of the best holiday's on the calendar, Thanksgiving has been relegated to nothing more than a precursor to Christmas. And that's just not right.

The worst is, it's innocent people that are caught up in this rush to Christmas. I don't know a single person who is happy that Christmas begins on Halloween. We all sit there complaining about it, then we start humming along to the tunes, then we start thinking what all of our loved ones want, then the next thing you know you're standing in front of Target at 4 in the morning on Black Friday punching some old lady in the back of the head so you can be first in line to get that Tickle Me Elmo doll.

It's madness.

So, in honor of my Father, perhaps the ultimate Grinch, I hereby boycott the Holiday season. I will not shop, I will not make snowmen, I will not ice-skate nor hum jingle bells to myself. I'm gonna go Scrooge for this one. Sitting in my freezing cold room, looking out my window and bah-humbugging everyone while I count my money. My sweet precious money...

Do you hate the holiday season? Lemme hear ya,

I Love My Car

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 17:15:07 GMT

Ahh there she is. My baby. Go ahead and take a good look. Nice, right?

No, no. Not the girl, behind the girl. That's right, the car. Yeahhhhh. That's what I'm talking about right there. I worked seven long, overtime filled years bagging groceries to afford that bad-boy right there. It was worth every second. Made a lot of sacrifices and just kept saving up. Now she's mine. All mine.

Aww, who the fuck am I kidding. I don't drive a Chevy Stingray. I drive a 1995 green Ford Escort Station wagon. It looks a little something like this:

Now, you'll notice that there is not a scantily-clad woman dry-humping the hood. That's because scantily-clad women don't usually dry-hump the hoods of cars like these.

But you know what? I don't care. I love my car. In fact, even if you did offer me a shiny new Corvette, I might turn you down.

Sure my car might not have the horsepower, and sure the muffler is being held on by a combination of wire and duct tape. So what if the heat doesn't work, and neither do any of the lights on the dashboard? And who cares if there are dents on every side of the car, the floor on the passenger side is missing, and none of the seatbelts work? None of that matters because my car has got it where it counts. It's got soul.

It's taken me everywhere I've ever wanted to go. It's seen me laugh, it's seen my cry. I've slept in it, it's driven me halfway across the country more times than I care to count. I'm going to be behind of the wheel of that thing until that day it dies. Or I die. Whichever comes first.

And when it's finally ready to go, I'm going to drive it right up to the edge of a cliff. I'm going to get her going, drop a brick on the gas, open the door and tuck and roll. And that thing is just going to go flying off the edge of a cliff and into a better place.

R.I. Mothafuckin' P.

Do you have a beater you love? Let's hear it...

Shit Happens When You Party Naked

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 17:48:58 GMT

(Source)

Yes, all of us at one time or another have heard the famous phrase, "shit happens when you party naked". This timeless truism has been handed down from generation to generation, both as a warning to keep those pants on, or for some perhaps an invitation to let it all hang out.

But let's be honest here people. How many of us has actually done the deed? Unless you've had an embarrassing run-in with the folks over at "Girls Gone Wild," I'm guessing very few.

Which brings me to the point of my post. What exactly happens when you party naked. Surely shit happens. But what kind of shit? Crazy shit? Awesome shit? Bad shit? Bat shit? Really cool shit? Illegal Shit? Sexy shit? Or just regular old you're naked and partying and you shit yourself in front of everyone and they laugh at you shit?

Well, dear reader, worry not. I am here to take you into the belly of the beast. To learn exactly what shit happens when you party naked.

1.) You Are Probably Completely Hammered

Since most parties I know of take place in public, you're gonna have to get naked in public to allow the shit to happen.

I'm not really sure on this, but I think it is illegal to be naked in public in almost every state in the Union. Except maybe Montana. Anything goes in Montana. Not only is it illegal to be naked, it's pretty much universally seen as a social "faux-pas". You are probably going to get a few funny looks due to your brazen nudity.

Therefore, in order to actually achieve the correct amount of nakedness you must either be very, very brave or very, very drunk. I'm gonna go ahead and wager that you picked the latter.

Liberated by that feeling of freedom that only copious amounts of alcohol can bring, go ahead and go nuts. Let loose. Take your pants off, take your underpants off. Wave your wang around a little bit. That fresh breeze must feel good!

2.) You Try To Get Everyone To Go Streaking, Nobody Follows You

Now freshly freed from those pesky clothes. It's time to party. As we established earlier, you are probably totally hammered. I don't know about you, but when I'm totally hammered, I'm big into community. I'm having fun, so I want everyone to have fun. What better way to share the naked-love then for everybody else to take their clothes off?

Streaking.

Come on everybody, we're going up through the quad and into the gymnasium.

3.) You Get An Ill-Advised Tattoo On Your Ass

(Source)

I hope you remembered to take your wallet with you before you streaked out of the party. Why? Because you've got a little sketch in there that you've always wanted to have permanently inked on your body, but you've never had the guts. Now that you find yourself drunk, naked, and downtown, why not?

Nothing says "I make good life decisions" like a drunk, naked asshole in a tattoo parlor.

4.) You Get Married. Naked.

(Source)

As the tattoo artist is finishing up that portrait of your mother you commissioned on your left asscheek, you look up and notice a very attractive female patron. She, like you, is both drunk and naked. You strike up a conversation which, due to your inebriated condition, consists of mostly unintelligible slurring and run on sentences. Somewhere in that garbled mess of conversation the two of you find you actually have quite a bit in common.

In a moment of extreme chivalry you drop to your knees and propose. Your mother, now permanently enshrined on your ass, would be proud. Naked wedding!

5.) You Pass Out and are Tea-Bagged Without Mercy

(Source)

Well, those fifteen shots of Jaegermeister you did with your new wife have finally caught up to you. You pass out naked in the middle of some party. You are then subjected to an endless stream of embarrassments and insults of which you aren't even aware. Photos of people posing with you are snapped. You are tea-bagged more times than I'd care to count. Someone busts out a permanent marker and draws all over you. Even in near-death, you manage to be the life of the party.

6. You Wake Up Disoriented, Alone, Naked, Tattooed, Married, Covered In Marker and Vomit

But hey, free t-shirt!

(Source)

And now you know what shit happens when you party naked. Anyone else have naked partying to share?

I F**king Hate Skinny Jeans

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 21:46:55 GMT

I'm not what you would call a "fashionable guy." In fact, if I manage to change my shirt once every three days that's a banner fashion week in the Rizzo household.

That being said, I'm not totally oblivious to the world of the chic. I know that a nice button down shirt is probably better to wear out on a Friday night then my usual nacho cheese-stained t-shirt. I'm O.K. with that. I have come to grips with the fact that the fashion world has long since passed me by. But every once and a while a trend strikes me as so foul that I need to take a stand. I have already done it once with capri pants, now it's time for skinny jeans.

Fuck you, skinny jeans.

DISCLAIMER: This post only applies to men wearing skinny jeans. Ladies, you keep doin' what you're doin'.

Got it? Good. Here goes.

Oh skinny jeans, how I loathe thee. Let me count the ways.

1.) How In Christ's Name Do You Put Them On?

Let's start at the beginning. How do you get these pants on? Seriously. I have let myself go a little bit since my High School days, and I struggle sometimes to get into my loose-fitting Levi's. I can't imagine the hopping-on-one-foot and the cursing that would accompany trying to squeeze myself into a pair of pants I could've worn when I was seven.

What do you do, go out and buy a relatively tight fitting pair of jeans and then go soak yourself in a bathtub for three days until they've practically welded themselves to your legs? Perhaps a better question, how in Christ's name do you get them off?

2.) Skinny Jeans are Often Accompanied By a Studded Belt of Some Kind.

So, we've already established that skinny jeans are freakishly tight. So, tell me Emo McEmosen, what gives with the belt? According to Webster's dictionary, and I'm paraphrasing here, a belt is used for holding your pants up, or beating your assorted children without mercy. That nice studded thing 'round your waist is doing neither of those things.

In fact, the other days I saw a kid wearing a pair of skinny jeans sagged halfway down his ass, AND he was wearing a belt. Listen pal, make a decision here, pants up or pants down. Your flip-flopping is just killing me inside.

3.) Most People Who Wear Skinny Jeans are Insufferable Douchebags

I'm sorry to offend the three of you skinny-jeaned readers who are not pricks. The rest of you, go fuck yourselves. I interviewed for a job at a coffee shop today, and the guy conducting the interview was wearing skinny jeans, canvas shoes, and a slightly ironic too-small sweater.

Yikes. He called me "brother" for the duration of the interview. And not in a cool, Hulk Hogan way. No, I'm talking completely affected hipster bullshit. Over the course of the interview he managed to diss my hometown, make a bad thinly-veiled sex joke, and revealed that he had been making extra-dry no-foam cap's for the last 8 years. Needless to say, I am not going to accept that job.

4.) What Happens if You Pop Wood?

This last one was really the impetus for this post. I am a man. When I am out and about in the world, sometimes I see something, or think something that gets me a little antsy in my pantsy. In my comfortably loose-fitting jeans, I am able to disguise this pretty easily. In skinny jeans, what do you do? It leaves absolutely nothing up the imagination. The best remedy I can think would be tying your ripped Hot Topic sweatshirt across your waist, but then everyone will just think you pissed yourself. So um, good luck with that.

So, Couchketeers, I put it to you. Do you wear skinny jeans? What is wrong with you?

Hi, I'm Rizzo

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 18:59:53 GMT

Actually, my name is Joe. I have also been referred to as "The Golden Bear", "Jewbacca", and "Samuel L. Jackson". Say anything about a button factory and I will rip your balls off and feed them to your grandmother.

I have been brought on to the Mancouch team to do a little blogging, so that's just what I've been doing. Neil asked me to put together a little "get to know me" post, so here goes.

I am 23 years old and have really, really sweet facial hair. I need a real job, so if any of you want to hook me up that would be fucking awesome.

I am a three time defending champion in the awkward Superbowl that takes place in South Dakota every President's Day. My interests include partying naked, long walks on the beach, and licking people's toes when they're not looking. I can't stand the Yankees, the letter "W", or people who mispronounce the word "spaghetti".

I spend my days sleeping until noon, writing long hate-filled letters to the Hamburglar, and arbitrarilly rating things on a blog I run with my best friend.

My goals for my time here on mancouch are to make you all laugh, get famous, and make tons of money. I probably will succeed in none of the three goals, but it won't be from lack of trying. I am looking forward to getting to know all of you, especially the ladies. Especially the ladies.

So yeah, hi everyone.