FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part II

Well, we’ve taken the Girl to the beach and gotten sand in each of her orifices. Maybe we can use her to sand down the house molding later on.

I forgot my camera this trip, so all photographic recollections come courtesy of Google Images! Because rights protection is for pussies! Let’s see what else there is to admire out on the lovely coast of Delaware! Yeah, fucking Delaware!

-Gay Man in Thong (not pictured for obvious reasons)
Rehoboth Beach in Delaware is famous for two things: gay men and taffy. Makes sense. Both require an awful lot of pulling. The man I saw at the beach was sporting a Canadian Grape Smuggler and had a perfectly even tan across his legs, back, and buttocks. It was actually kind of impressive. This also means the guy must have had one of those really cute t-back tan lines. I’d eat sushi off of that!


-Fat People
The beach had a surprising number of fat people this year. I don’t get this. If you’re fat, isn’t the beach the absolute last place you want to go? It’s hot. Hermit crabs can nestle into your folds. Children might try and skip rocks off of you. How long do you think it takes someone like this to apply sunscreen? Do they start immediately after sunset? There’s a Grotto Pizza mere yards away, tubbies. There you can spend your day engaged in a veritable orgy of cheesy, doughy delights. I also saw at least three fat women who were all sporting mysterious thigh bruises. Are all fat people hemophiliacs?


-Happy Drunk People
Next to Rehoboth is Dewey Beach, where college students and young professionals go to get drunk and accidentally knock up a sharemate. “Does this make you feel old?” Mrs. Drew asked. And the answer to that question is, of course, “Good Lord, Mr. Brain and I need scotch!” We both felt old because we couldn’t get loaded. Yet the desire was there. And the desire to get inappropriately drunk and shit your bed is what will keep us all young. Mrs. Drew said she noticed younger guys walking by me and looking at me with that, “Oh fuck, you have a kid? Sorry, Dude” look. Don’t feel sorry for me, man! I still rock! Don’t I? Don’t I? Please, tell me I haven’t stopped rocking. I don’t rock? Fuck.


-Girly Drinks
I like girly drinks. I’m not ashamed to say it. They taste like candy! And sometimes you get a pineapple wedge! In fact, the girlier, the better. I’ll take the strawberry banana pina colada margarita daiquiri with the penis-shaped straw, please. Note to all girly drink orderers: never get the pre-mixed drinks. Your frozen margarita has less alcohol in it than an O’Douls brewed in Utah. You need the margarita on the rocks. Or the rum runner. Ah, the rum runner. So fruity. So delicious. And so very, very feminine. I could slurp you down all night long, big boy!

-Odd Ice Cream
We walked the boardwalk and got some kickass ice cream. But there were two flavors on the menu at the Ice Cream Store that really stood out: Bacon and Barbecue. That’s right. Someone makes bacon ice cream. And someone pays money to eat that bacon ice cream. I assume they spoon hollandaise sauce on top of it. I’m also assuming the person who buys this enjoys eating their pancakes and sausage on a stick. See, fat people? See what your missing out on when you go to the beach? There’s ice cream with barbecue sauce and hog fat in it!

-Sunblock
When my dad puts on sunblock, he squirts a bunch onto his hand and slaps it onto his chest. He doesn’t even bother rubbing it in. Thus he ends up getting sunburned all over, except for a giant white handprint in the middle of his body. I always miss at least one or two areas of my body when putting on sunblock, which is how I end up with third degree burns on the bottom half of my earlobe. I also cannot apply sunscreen or bug spray without getting a generous portion of it in my mouth and eyes. The burning pain lets you know it’s working!

And with that, I’m off for more beach adventures. It’s a full week vacation for me. Back with all new bits on July 10. Happy 4th. In the meantime, enjoy this kid breaking his leg on a trampoline.

FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part I

There were two things I forgot to bring up with regards to the best number of kids to have. First thing: if you have a shitload of kids, you increase your odds of having one who’s a real superstar. It’s like scratch tickets. You’re bound to hit paydirt sooner or later. Oh sure, 60% of your brood will turn out to be worthless fuckups, and you’ll be miserable. But who cares about that shit if you end up squeezing out a multi-millionaire? For example: Stephen Colbert is the youngest of 11 children. Imagine if his parents had stopped at 10! Boy, would they have been nonplussed when God told them they missed out on the genetic equivalent of filling out an entire Subway card!

Also, if you have two kids, you’re only compensating the Earth for you and your spouse when you both die. For example, let’s say Mrs. Drew and I are fucking badasses (true). If we only have two kids, we won’t have added to the world’s Badass population. We will only have kept it level. And we need Badasses to fight all the douchebags. Wyatt Earp had no kids. Selfish dick. We need more Earps and less Frankie Munizes. Not the other way around.

Anyway, let’s go to the beach, everyone! It’s both sandy AND windy! Shit yeah! Hooray!


I’ve done many dumb things in my life. One time I was at a department store and purposely walked into a mirror because my head was down, and I thought I had encountered someone who was stubbornly refusing to get out of my way. Whenever I tell Mrs. Drew this story, I need to show her pictures of burn victims to get her to stop laughing. And really, that story is just the tip of the iceberg.

But bringing a four-month-old baby to a beach has to rank right up there on the stupidity scale. If you’re going to the beach, it better be because you want to go into the ocean. The ocean is fucking sweet. It’s cool, refreshing, and can kill you at any second. I love that shit. There is no other reason to go to the beach. Without the ocean, going to the beach is the same as camping in the fucking desert. To accommodate the Girl (who is not yet old enough to appreciate the virtues of coastal real estate), Mrs. Drew, and myself, here’s a list of what I had to bring:

-Diaper Bag
-Water Bottle
-Beach Bag
-2 Beach Chairs
-Towels
-Sheet (to lay under towels)
-Sun Umbrella

(Let’s pause right here to talk about umbrellas. I fucking hate umbrellas. You know what an umbrella is? It’s a kite with +10 Impaling ability. The only useful umbrellas are the ones they have at outdoor cafes, and you know why? Because they’re attached to a fucking cinder block, that’s why. Rain umbrellas are dogshit. You burn 5,000 calories just trying to hold the thing steady in the rain. And once you’ve made it shelter to put the umbrella away, all the water still on top of the thing slides back onto you. We can’t do better than the umbrella in this century? And we’re supposed to be close to having hydrogen cars? My ass.)

You’ll notice that beer isn’t anywhere to be found on that list. Memo to the kid who was born with three arms, one of which was removed: you just lost out, kid. That third arm would have been a fucking godsend. You had an extra hand available for beer, ass-grabbing, and meat-rubbing. Instead, some know-it-all, asswipe doctor took it away from you. Sue.

But hey, we’re at the beach! Weeee!!! Let’s have fun now! Oh, wait. What’s that? I forgot the extension for the umbrella? So I have to walk all the way back? Someone find me a mirror to walk into.

(Come back to Part II Thursday.)

The Proper Number of Kids for Optimum Awesomeness

Here’s a question I get a lot:

“So, how many kids do you think you want to have?”

Why do you care? Do you find the number of people like me on Earth alarmingly deficient? Do you want to see how many kids it takes for me to go into financial ruin, so that you can then adjust your own number accordingly? Are you planning on stealing Mrs. Drew’s eggs if she has no intention of using them? Questions like this make me think about shit, and I fucking hate that.

It seems odd coming from me, but sometimes I wonder if Mrs. Drew and I should go all batshit Mormon and just try and have as many kids as possible. Here’s why. Britney Spears has already announced that she is having another kid. That’s a second extra jackass of hers that will now join the population. You can’t just let that stand. You have to balance that shit out. This country is already headed in a seemingly inescapable downward spiral toward complete and utter douchebaggery. It’s up to people like Mrs. Drew and I to restock the human trout farm with sane, capable human beings. People that can do things like point out water on a map, or unwrap a straw. There’s no way Britney’s children will be able to do that.

So how many to have? Well, zero’s out. Having no kids is stupid anyway. If you’re married for 40 years and have no kids, what do you talk about? I’ve had friends that meet new girls and then tell me, “God, I could just talk to her all night.” Oh yeah? Not ten years later, you can’t. And who’s gonna pay for my funeral? I want to be blasted out of a Navy battleship while a live orchestra plays “Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC. It’ll be like Hunter S. Thompson’s funeral, only awesomer. You need a kid to foot that tab.

What about one kid, which is what we have now? Meh. I’m not down with the whole only child thing. I made this statistic up, but only children are 97% more likely to have an imaginary friend who wants to murder you. That’s a fact. Damien from “The Omen”? Only child. Rosemary’s baby? Only child. Only children also get all the attention, which makes them think they’re “special”, and that’s a lie. Plus, what if it dies? You need that extra kid to punish with your grief.

Two kids are a little more sensible. Two kids can make their own fun. They don’t need me. I can leave them to claw each other’s eyes out while I go lay in a hammock. Mrs. Drew comes from a family of four. You will not find a more normal human being in this lifetime or the next. Plus, four is two squared. And numbers mean shit!

I happen to come from a family of five. Here’s how a family of five often comes to pass: a couple has two children of the same sex, so they reluctantly decide to try one last shot at balancing out the gender count, which is like staying at the blackjack table after you’ve already lost the deed to your house and pawned off your blood. The other problem with a family of five is the restaurant factor. Restaurants love to squeeze a family of five at a four-top. Which means someone gets that end-of-the-table bitch seat. That’s bullshit. I want the round table, dammit! Or the long booth! Five people equals a six-top. Period. You fucking maitre’d assholes.

As for four kids or more, forget it. Three is tempting fate already. You have four kids or more, one of them will be a fuck-up. Guaranteed. They’ll end up like Tom Hulce in Parenthood, where they move to Peru and have a kid they name Cool. And that’s just a 1980’s douchebag. Douchebags have evolved into far worse in this century. One of the kids will slip through the cracks and land straight in the douche. Parental attention has a half-life. The more kids you have, the smaller share of attention each gets. In fact, let’s do a mathematical hypothesis of it:

If (100% of Your Attention)/(Number of Children) < 33%, that means > 0 Fucking Losers will be produced.

Two to three kids it is.

The FKS Children’s Book Review – "Hey, Diddle, Diddle!"

Before Mrs. Drew had the Girl, we spent one Saturday night hanging around at Barnes & Noble looking at children’s books. I have many tests to determine whether or not my life is truly over, and this is one of them. It was 10PM on a Saturday night, and we were in a bookstore. What. The. Fuck.

Before the Girl, I only knew the B&N children’s book area as the section that had the cleanest shitter, which I would then promptly go ruin with a 500 lb. neutron bomb. But now here I was, actually looking at children’s books. Quite a leap forward. You’d think that children’s books were all the same. Some barnyard animals. Some little drawings. And a solid lesson about counting, or spelling, or how much your uncle in prison loves you. But no, you’d be shocked at the disparity in children’s books. Some are great. Some make you want to sit on a corncob. It’s a wide gulf, to say the least.

I also love the fact that half the books in the section were written by celebrities. You can just picture Madonna or some other jackass calling their agent and saying, “Hey, I’d love to write a book! But not one of those adult books, with lots of words and thoughts! I think I’m really good at writing children’s books, yeah! They’ve got lots of pictures I don’t have to draw! And really big font sizes! And only six sentences! And I don’t have to use my brain so much! Because using my brain makes my tits hurt!” Actually, that quote right there would make a terrific children’s book. Someone call Random House.

Anyway, I’m here to steer you through the maze of children’s literature. Any asswipe online can review movies and CD’s and books. But only I am Badass enough to venture into kiddie book land. This won’t be like one of those dipshit New York Times reviews, where you read 500 words and still can’t figure out whether or not the critic liked it. I hate that shit. Rather, I’ll be using my patented Kid’s Book Rating System:

4 Poopy Diapers – Classic
3 Poopy Diapers – Decent
2 Poopy Diapers – Whatever
1 Poopy Diaper – Coaster

Today’s book: “Hey, Diddle, Diddle!” by Salley Mavor.


I picked up this book, looked at the title, and immediately figured it was a manual for helping teenage girls learn to masturbate. No such luck. No, this is the classic nursery rhyme (which Mavor, if that is her real name, didn’t even write) complete with creepy illustrations made from like, felt and shit. Here’s the book:

Hey, diddle, diddle!
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed
To see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon

That’s the book. All of it. Yet they manage to stretch that shit over 14 pages, including one audacious page that only says, “Hey.” Try this technique on your Victorian Lit term paper and you will fucking fail, my friend. But in the children’s book industry, that earns you the tag of “beloved children’s author”. No wonder celebrities think it’s so easy.

I have many issues with the rhyme itself. What’s the first thing we see here? That’s right. Another goddamn, rabbit-murdering cat. And what’s the cat playing? That inbred mountain cousin of the violin: the fiddle. I also have a real problem with plate/utensil cohabitation. If we let dishes and spoons run off together, what’s to stop the salt and pepper shakers from divorcing and shacking up with the cheese grater? Or the fucking whisk? That is moral decay in the kitchen, and it disgusts me.

Oh, and the illustrations are like looking at a quilt your great aunt gave you for Christmas that you know was just lying around in her attic for sixty years. So, Salley Mavor, I regret to inform you that your book only gets One Poopy Diaper.


Hope you like looking at the bottom of a rum and Coke, Mr. Cow.

The FKS Guide to a Semi-Badass Father’s Day

Mrs. Drew deemed my original plan for Father’s Day to be completely unrealistic, especially the part where we have sex more than once. Fair enough. Maybe I was asking for too much. But my Father’s Day ended up being uncommonly shitty, for three reasons:

1. I had a dream the night before where a bat landed on my shoulder. It was one of those dreams where my mouth wouldn’t open, so I’m trying to tell everyone in the dream, “Hey, there’s a fucking bat on me!” but all I can muster is “Mmmph! Mmmph!” Thus, here’s how I woke up Father’s Day morning:

“Mmmph! Mmmph!”

“Drew, what’s wrong?!!”

“Mmmph! Mmmph!... BAT!”

There’s nothing quite like waking up to discover that you are both a moron and a total pussy. Thanks for that Father’s Day gift, God. Everyone says God is Love. Bullshit. God is the biggest hater of them all.

2. I realized I forgot to pay my quarterly taxes, which is like remembering date rape.

3. I had to work. And not only did I have to work, I also got to the office to discover the air conditioning was broken. It was 95 degrees out yesterday. No amount of Triple Action Gold Powder in the world was going to stop my grundle from smelling like oatmeal cookies and hot garbage at the end of the day. My assignment for work was to write ads for a local health club. Here’s the ad I wrote:

“ Go to Joe’s Health Club, because they have fucking air conditioning. Holy fuck, is that ass sweat in my pants or is it diarrhea?”

Good ad. Catchy.

Things improved at day’s end. I went home, showered, ate all the sausage I wanted, and got to play with the Girl. Solid evening all around. In fact, here are some basic rules for you ladies to make sure your man has a realistically decent Father’s Day next time around:

-Sex
Goes without saying.

-Let Him Grill
Grilling is the greatest coup ever invented. Mrs. Drew always thanks me for grilling dinner, as if it’s some kind of chore. Hardly. Here’s what grilling entails: standing around, drinking beer, and watching fire burn shit. When I was 11, I would have given anything to do this all day. And now, here I am, living the fantasy. Plus, you don’t have to wash a pot. All you have to do is scrape the grill with a wire brush. I don’t know why the standards for cleanliness are so much lower for a grill. There’s chicken fat in there that pre-dates my first wet dream. But I’m not quibbling.

-Acceptable Gifts
1. Grill tools
2. Golf equipment
3. Alcohol
That’s it. That’s the list. If you get him something that is not on this list, that something had better be Laetitia Casta in thigh-highs.

-No Discussion Of Annoying Shit
Getting new shutters. Writing thank-you notes to people who refuse to write you’re-welcome notes back. Researching preschools. The only thing worse than doing this shit is having to talk about doing it. So lay off for a day. Here are some acceptable conversation topics: football, spanking, Metallica, and people you saw trip and fall the other day.

-Let Him Turn Up The Volume On The TV Set
For once, I’d like to actually hear what the little people inside the TV are saying. Call me crazy.

-Offer Beer
But you knew that already. And bring me some chips and salsa while you’re at it, okay? Thanks, Toots.

A Father’s Day Fit For A Fucking Badass

Guess what day Sunday is? You see that calendar? You see what it says? That’s right, sluts. Motherfucking Father’s Day. This day used to be for all the other douchebags that had kids. Well, now it’s my turn. And I’m not settling for one of those half-assed Father’s Days my dad always had, when he got socks and a card and ended up washing the dishes anyway. I’m not playing that shit. In fact, I submitted this itinerary to Mrs. Drew and have instructed her to follow it to a tee.

7:00AM – Baby cries. Someone who is not me tends to it.

9:00AM – Mrs. Drew wakes me up while wearing the uniform of a service industry employee of my choosing. I’m thinking a 1920’s speakeasy cigarette girl. It’s eccentric, yet boneriffic.

9:01AM – Hot monkey sex.

9:15AM – Shower.

9:37AM – Watch news. Find out Brett Favre has been killed in a hunting accident. Cry hot tears of joy.

9:38AM – Play with the Girl until tired of doing so.

9:45AM – Tired of doing so.

9:46AM – Greet in-laws at the door and hand the Girl over to them. Bye, Girl!

9:47AM – Bong hit.

10:00AM – Eggs.

10:10AM – Boooooooooong hit.

10:30AM – Limo ride to Dave & Buster’s, where I down three boilermakers and beat the living shit out of a random 15-year-old at Pop-A-Shot. Yell to everyone, “I’m the Daddy here, bitches!”

11:10AM – Limo ride to airport. Drink a bottle of Cristal. Listen to “Master of Puppets” in its entirety, singing both the vocal and guitar parts. Come up with the idea for a cologne that smells like gunfire. Call my brother to have it patented. Develop marketing plan to sell it exclusively in nightclubs in downtown Houston, Atlanta, and Miami. Call venture capitalist. Secure a $100 million investment.

11:35AM – Have limo pull over. Have hot monkey sex on the shoulder.

12:00PM – Private Concorde to Atlantis in the Bahamas. Drink three Stoli & grapefruits while watching the in-flight movie, which is the first 40 minutes of “Full Metal Jacket”, followed by the first 20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan”. Fucking. Awesome.

1:04PM – Smoke a bowl.

1:05PM – Spontaneously orgasm.

1:10PM – Land. Limo to casino. Hit blackjack table. Immediately go up $250,000.

1:42PM – Russell Crowe enters the casino. Sits down next to me. Tells me he’s a huge fan of my work and wishes he were more like me. Rubs my thigh and tells me I’m the first man he’s ever been gay for.

1:43PM – Slap the shit out of Russell Crowe. Get another $50,000 in chips compliments of the casino bellhop staff.

2:00PM – Late lunch. Two five pound lobsters. Entire smoked salmon. Gallon of beluga caviar. Bottle of Dalmore.

2:45PM – Escorted to private suite with Mrs. Drew.

2:59PM – Act out entire sequences from the movie “Night Trips,” starring the legendary Tori Welles.

4:29PM – Shower. Play with myself, just to mix things up a bit.

4:45PM – Limo back to airport. Private Concorde to New York City. Turn on satellite television to watch the World Cup. Find out soccer has been preempted by highlights of the Vikings 31-17 playoff win at Lambeau Field two years ago, the one where Randy Moss pretends to take a shit on the field. Except, in this version, Moss really does take a shit on the field, and then Joe Buck dies on the air in a hail of gunfire.

6:00PM – Land in Manhattan. Limo ride to Hudson Hotel. Get fitted for a suit by the very finest Italian tailor while in the car. Inhale entire nitrous oxide tank.

6:30PM – Arrive at Hudson Hotel Bar. Bouncer looks at guest list. I am the only name on the list. Enter the bar and instruct bouncer to bring me headshots of people who would like to get in for my approval.

6:49PM – Approve of no one. Get fucking drunk.

8:00PM – Dinner at Per Se. Thomas Keller comes to our table, tells me he’s a huge fan. Offers complimentary foie gras, fellatio. I take the former.

9:43PM – Helicopter ride back to Bethesda. Ask pilot to hover five feet off the ground in select areas. Use long-range hunting rifle and night scope to gun down cats at random.

10:30PM – Pick up the Girl. She smiles at me, laughs a little, and then falls asleep.

10:45PM – Limo ride home.

11:00PM – Tuck in Girl.

11:01PM – Hot monkey sex in front of mirror. I look good.

11:15PM – Turn on news. Find out Osama bin Laden, Paris Hilton, and Jimmy Fallon all died. Drink a bottle of Cabernet in celebration.

11:29PM – Leave witty comment on deadspin.com that only I find funny.

11:30PM – Kiss Mrs. Drew good night. Throw massive kegger.

7:00AM – Sleep well, Big Drew. You are truly the king of kings.

Happy Father's Day, everybody.

The FKS Guide To Dating Other Heterosexual Men

I date other men. It wasn’t always supposed to be this way. My ambition at 22 was to live in Manhattan for a few years, then head out to LA, produce movies, live in a house on stilts, snort only the finest yayo, and nail every vaginally-advantaged person I could along the way. I still believe that plan had some really strong points.

But you know how this story ends. I met Mrs. Drew, quickly realized she was the only sane woman left on Earth, and immediately married her. Excellent move. Second smartest thing I’ve ever done, next to getting out of grand jury duty. So no regrets there. Well, maybe one.

Mrs. Drew talked me into moving down to DC two and a half years ago. I have no friends from high school or college here, so I’ve had to go through the fun experience of making new friends, either with the husbands of all of Mrs. Drew’s friends, or with people at work. This is basically the same as dating. You try and find people who have similar interests. Then you see if you have chemistry. Then, you decide if you want to spend more time together. And then, of course, you have hot buttsex.

Everything has been reversed. The same flirting and chasing I used to do with chicks I now do with guys. And I can't even begin to tell you how gay that is. Gayer that the gayest gay that has ever gayed. Regardless, I’ve netted a decent friend or two out of this process, but there are rules you need to follow when you’re dating your fellow man, and here they are:

-How To Ask Another Man Out
This can be done by email or over the phone and should consist of only five words: “Hey, wanna grab some beers?” Any longer than that, and you’re a flaming queer. And, for God’s sake, don’t ask him to dinner. Fucking the guy would be less awkward.

-Dress Code
Shirt. Sneakers. Jeans. Old baseball cap of a legitimate college/NFL/MLB/NBA sports team. Any more formal than that and you may as well bring your assless chaps.

-Never Date A Guy Who Isn’t Into Sports
You wouldn’t believe the number of men I’ve met down here who have barely any interest in sports. They’d rather talk about things like “the war”, or “the stock market”, or “why Drew likes to put his hand on his sack and then smell it”. I can talk to Mrs. Drew about shit like that. That’s what she’s there for. I need another guy to discuss important shit, like Vikings’ glaring need for wideout depth, or why Stuart Scott needs to be humanely destroyed. Mrs. Drew is beyond worthless for this. The point of making friends is so you can talk about shit with them that you can’t with the wife. So make sure the guy you’re into likes sports. Unless he’s a Packer fan, in which case he can pull a Sonny Bono for all I care.

-Make Sure He’s The Reliable Sort
You have a wife and/or a kid. Getting free time to use for the express purpose of drinking is hard to come by. You gotta find a potential friend who is ready to drink when you are. There’s no point in making friends with someone if you have to actually make an effort with them. That’s what women do with each other, and it sucks.

-Make Sure He Drinks
Drinking is awesome and promotes dick jokes. If the guy you’re going out with doesn’t drink, you may as well befriend a fucking tree.

-Mention The Fact That You Have Other Friends That You Did Lots of Awesome Shit With
No one wants to be friends with a loser. Make sure you tell at least one story about the time you pissed somewhere you weren’t supposed to piss.

-Rules About Calling
If you and the guy have a good time, call him again two weeks later. Any sooner and you’ll look desperate. If he doesn't like you, he won’t call back. Move on. Find a new man-crush. And if you don’t like the guy, never call him back. You don’t want to be stuck with a friend you don’t actually like. Again, that’s what women do with each other, and it sucks.

-Bring Astroglide, a Stick of Butter, and a Pair of Flippers
Hey, you never know.

Confessions Of An Old Navy Whore

My entire wardrobe is from Old Navy. My shirts. My shorts. My entire set of surfing-themed cock rings. All Old Navy. I must have over 200 items from Old Navy in my closet. Total cost? Probably about three dollars. God bless Polynesia and its relaxed child labor laws. You wouldn’t believe the attention to detail that comes from a 7-year-old seamstress who gets beaten with sugar cane every ten minutes. Mrs. Drew does most of her shopping at Old Navy. Many of the girl’s clothes come from there. Will you be seeing our family rock madras this summer? Fuck yes, you will.

I’ve shopped at the Gap. And I’ve shopped at Banana Republic, which was a much better store when it had a 19th century African colonist theme and only sold brown clothing. Both stores now specialize in making ugly clothes for small, gay Italian men. I don’t get it. Gap stockholders, you might want to inform the company to stock pants larger than a 32” waist. This is America. We eat hollowed-out potato skins filled with cheese, bacon, and sour cream in this country. Thirty-two inches makes a tight garter size here. Let that shit out.

Old Navy (which, oddly enough, is owned by the same company that owns Gap and Banana. Wait a second. Gap and Banana? Oh, now the tight clothing makes sense to me.), on the other hand, is the greatest store on Earth. I particularly love the graphic t-shirts, which are supposed to look like vintage t-shirts, but instead sport invented, non-trademarked company logos. It makes me feel like a Japanese tourist. I have one that says “Shasta Lake Beach Camp.” What is Shasta Lake Beach Camp, you ask? Fuck if I know. I like to tell people I lost my virginity there at age 8. Or I say it’s where Shasta Diet Orange Soda comes from. I also have one that says “Mexico” for no reason at all. And I have one that has the number 34 on it. What’s 34 mean? Who cares! That’s my fucking number now! All three of those shirts together were 10 bucks. They could say, “I love fudge!” for all I care.

Old Navy also specializes in my pant style, which is the 40-inch waist pant for men who have no ass but have thighs like Beyonce. Awesome! I even found a swimsuit that didn’t have that meshy, bullhugging lining on the inside. You know the one I’m talking about.

They also have roughly 8,567,873 pairs of cargo pants. They have cargo pants with cargo pockets on the cargo pockets. You could hook up the entire crowd at a fucking Pearl Jam concert with these pants. These pants have so many pockets, I need to go through two zippers and a Velcro flap just to scratch my balls. The detail is mind-blowing.

Flip flops? They have them. Belts? Got ‘em. Sunglasses? Got ‘em. Randomly placed vending machines that sell you superballs for a quarter? Got ‘em. They don’t leave anything to chance in this store. There’s enough fleece in one Old Navy store to cushion a botched skydive. There are enough Hawaiian shirts there to keep John Lasseter of Pixar molesting children for at least another three decades. It’s a miraculous store, I tell you.

And yet, whenever the checkout clerk asks me if I want an Old Navy card, my response is always the same. It starts with “Fuck” and ends with “No”.

Is There An Abbreviation For Dipshit?

Do you have a sticker like this somewhere on your car?


Then do me a favor. Get in your car. Find a river. And then, fast as you can, drive into that river. Be sure your seat belt is fastened, your doors are locked, and your windows and sunroof are sealed tight! We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen, like you surviving.

Seriously, the vacation sticker trend is getting completely out of hand. Oh, you summer on Nantucket? Well, guess what? You’re a red-short-wearing, lobster-eating, whale-hat-sporting MegaDouche. If you’re the kind of person who feels compelled to announce to other motorists where you spend your leisure time, just know that my new goal in life is to one day beat you to death with a docksider.

Like anything that’s stupid and gay, this whole thing has its origins in Europe. Euro decals were placed on cars to identify each vehicle’s country of origin, like England (GB), the Netherlands (KB), France (DBAG), and Germany (SS). So over there it serves a fairly useful purpose. The only purpose is serves here is to separate which people are normal from those who need to be whipped repeatedly with a water skiing rope.

Or perhaps these people are speaking a code language to each other. After all, who else but buttfucks from Kennebunkport, ME would know the abbreviation KPT? Perhaps these people place that sticker on their Jeep Wrangler (official vehicle of Douchebags the world over), in hopes that they’ll bump into another Wrangler on the road, and then perhaps go meet and share a glass of Turning Leaf. Then maybe they’d head up to Maine together, to join all the other shitboxes with KPT cars and hold a clambake. They could even compare lighthouse cufflinks! That would be so cute! Brandy-swilling, President-knowing sacks of fuck. Die.

This whole Euro-decal trend isn’t even restricted to resort towns now. See for yourself. You can get one for your state, which is so useful considering that the name of your state appears on your license plate. Or perhaps you’re a displaced Delaware native just yearning to let people know where your heart truly lies. Bully to you.

Or you can get one for your dog breed. Oh look, everybody! It’s a Mastiff owner! Awesome! You can also get one for the dipshit-packed, lacrosse-playing Northeastern asswipe college of your choice! Choose from Dartmouth or Cornell! You’ll be an unbearably pretentious asshole with a job at Morgan Stanley either way! Or you can just get one for the city you live in. After all, there’s no better way to show civic pride than by placing a coy abbreviation on the back of your car.

We all know bumper stickers are for losers. Political bumper stickers, radio station bumper stickers, or even the perennial “Keep honking. I’m reloading.” bumper sticker (classy!) are all hallmarks of severe douchebaggery. But people who sport the euro decals on their cars somehow think they don’t belong in that category. Well guess what, people of Chappaquiddick, Block Island, and the Outer Banks? I’ve got an abbreviation for all of you. And you don’t need a degree from Cornell to figure out what it is.

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Boy

The other day I told Mrs. Drew I was going upstairs to take a shower. Here was her response:

“You can’t take a shower, because all the towels are in the washer. Actually, will you go downstairs, put the towels in the dryer, and then put a load of whites in the washer?”

And that, my friends, is adulthood in a nutshell. One minute I’m about to take a nice, hot shower. Maybe even rub some body wash on my penis. The next minute I’m doing manual labor. Shit. This never would have happened if I were alone and unhappy.

The depressing thing about chores is that they never end. Clothes and dishes will always get dirty again. Garbage will always pile up. Weeds will always grow. There’s almost something existential about how hard they suck. But I’ll let an actual writer tackle the gayness of that idea. No, I’m here to grade each individual chore, on my patented Scale of Annoyance™:

1 – Stubbed Toe
2 – Canker Sore
3 – Slow Cashier at the Grocery Store
4 – Cancer
5 – Episode of “Sex and the City”

As you can see, any chore that ranks a 5 is pretty goddamn annoying. Let’s see how badly these tasks destroy my will to live:

-Emptying the Dishwasher
We have a dishwasher. You must thoroughly rinse any dish before placing it into the dishwasher. You can imagine the confusion this causes in my tiny little brain. Once a week, I’ll open the dishwasher, stare at the dishes, and ask myself: Are these dishes clean or are they dirty, and how quickly can the bloodstream absorb a cyanide tablet? I’ve unloaded dirty dishes from the dishwasher. I’ve rewashed dishes that were already clean. They make paper plates, utensils, and cups, you know. You can just throw them away when you’re done eating. That sounds like bliss to me. But noooooooo, we have to live all classy and shit. Annoyance Factor™: 2

-Washing Pots and Pans
I used to think Thanksgiving was the greatest holiday ever, until I realized that every Thanksgiving I’m forced to A) Hang out with family members who irritate me, B) Watch the Detroit Lions try and play football, and C) Wash roughly 900 pots and pans. The wreckage after Thanksgiving Day dinner is just brutal. It’s like cleaning up after Katrina. Not fun.

Oh, and I’d just like to say here that items that are not dishwasher-safe should be outlawed. Take steak knives, for instance. The steak knife is the biggest pussy in the utensil population. How ironic. Oh, you can cut a 64 oz. porterhouse, but a little Cascade ruins your shit? You disgust me, steak knife. The sundae spoon owns you. Loser. Annoyance Factor™: 3

-Laundry
Women always make men feel so dumb when they explain how laundry works. “You just put all the whites in hot, and all the colors in cold.” Well all right, Super Teacher Lady. But what about my white boxers with blue polka dots? Huh? What the fuck do I do with those?! Riddle me that, Batman! Annoyance Factor™: 3

-Taking Out The Garbage/Recycling
I have no beef with taking out the garbage, except for one thing. Mrs. Drew always asks me to spray a little Lysol in the garbage can before I replace the bag. Fine. I can do that without starting a fire. But this is where Mrs. Drew displays her knack for placing things at the very back of the lowest possible shelf. Reaching for that can of Lysol is like visiting a Dominican chiropractor. Thanks, Mrs. Drew! I had no idea nerves could send pain signals to the brain so quickly! Annoyance Factor™: 1

-Vacuuming
I never vacuumed when I was single. And my apartment in New York had wall-to-wall carpeting. The resulting death spores probably took 10 years off my life. I say it was worth it. Annoyance Factor™: 4

-Watering the Plants
Now this is a great fucking chore. All you have to do is stand there and spray water on shit. You also get a free hand to do things like hold a beer, or vigorously masturbate. I like to pretend I’m in the “Nothin’ But a G Thang” video and I’m hosing down that one cold bitch at the party with St. Ides. That’ll teach her not to put out! I also like to talk to the plants. I tell them, “I am giving you life, bitches. Don’t you ever forget it.” Annoyance Factor™: 0

-Making the Bed
I am incapable of making a bed properly. When I try and make the bed, it invariably ends up looking like Green Day just played a three-hour show on it. And we have a comforter! It’s not like I have a sheet AND blanket to deal with. If that were the case, the sheet would probably end up in my ass somehow. Annoyance Factor™: 1

-Yardwork
Can’t do it. That’s my reward for two back surgeries. Maybe I’ll get a third. Annoyance Factor™: N/A

You might be saying to yourself, “Hey Drew, nothing here ranks a 5? Is there no chore worse than having to watch horse-faced Sarah Jessica Parker try and be funny?” And the answer to that question, of course, is a resounding no.

FKS Field Trip – The Smithsonian National Zoo (Featuring Monkeys And Shit)

Hey, it’s Memorial Day weekend. It’s over 90 degrees in the greater DC area. Let’s go to the zoo, which combines the crowding of amusement parks with the odors of a livestock rodeo! Fuck yeah!

Joining me on our field trip are Mrs. Drew, the Girl, my brother and his wife, and their kid. Their kid is one year and nine months old. I do not want a one-year-and-nine-month old. One-and-niners are like wind-up toys equipped with all the verbal dexterity of Timmy from “South Park.” They also like to throw shit. I’m not looking forward to that.

Before I get into the animals, I have to tell you about one thing we saw before we went into the zoo. It was a homeless guy lying down on a park bench, smoking two cigarettes at one time. Seriously. He had one cigarette in one hand and one in the other, and he alternated puffing between the two. Who double-fists Marlboros? When it’s 8,000 degrees outside? And this guy was homeless. Smoking a cigarette was clearly the most exciting thing he was going to do all day. Learn some patience, buddy. It’s not like you had a packed schedule ahead of you.

Anyway, let’s get right to the hot bestiality action:

-Panda Bears
I don’t get the worldwide hardon raging for panda bears. They’re the most overrated part of the zoo. All they do is sit there and eat bamboo. And to see them, you have to wade through a twenty-deep crowd of Japanese tourists. Hey Japanese people, pandas come from your country. You shouldn’t come to America to see them. You should come to America to buy guns and goat porn like everyone else. Here’s one other thing that annoys me about the zoo in general. There are acres upon acres of space at the zoo, and yet the viewing area to see each animal is roughly the width of a stick of Doublemint. Try thinking about the humans, once in a while, zookeepers. We’re cute little animals, too.

-The Mighty Elephant
Broad. Majestic. Juggernaut of the Sahara. There is much to admire about our friend the elephant. Sadly, not long after this picture was taken, ivory hunters gunned down this beautiful creature, hacked off her tusks, and used her ample hide to build an exclusive resort of wigwam villas. Sad, really.

-Zebras
The least fashionable of all animals. It’s like a horse wearing Zubaz pants. Not a good look.

-Lions
You know what the easiest job in the world is? Lion tamer. What taming needs to be done? Zoo signs say the lion only gets up and hunts and dusk, if at all. The rest of the day it just sits there on its fat ass like Kathleen Turner. King of the jungle, my ass. Well, you know what? I’m not playing that shit. I looked for a parking spot outside this zoo for 10 whole minutes, and I demand to be entertained. You’re in my home country, lion, which means you need to adjust to my culture, bitch. A zookeeper should stick a cattle prod up that lion’s ass every 5 minutes so that I can watch it roar like the lion in the MGM logo. That’s how we roll in America.

-Badass Muthaphuckkin’ Gorillas
This gorilla could clearly benefit from the benefits of Victoria’s Secret Ipex technology. I have only two real problems with gorillas: 1) They remind me of the movie “Congo,” which sucked, and 2) They remind me of Britney Spears. No one ever talks about the fact that Britney Spears has a neck like a fucking linebacker, even before she became a walking Bob Evans Restaurant. This annoys me to no end for some reason. Otherwise, gorillas are the best part of the zoo. They look cool, they interact with one another, they make funny sounds, and there’s always the lingering chance of a shitfight. Good stuff.

Later on, this gorilla found a stick. And when she threw the stick up in the air, it turned into a spaceship! Trippy shit.

-Giant Tortoise
This tortoise has lived for over 150 years and has taken a grand total of four steps. A real firecracker, this one. What’s it say about you when a nearby boulder has more agility than you do? When I saw this tortoise, I immediately jumped on top of him and screamed out, “Eat shit, Koopa Troopa!” Then I threw his shell at all the evil mushrooms.

-Prairie Dogs
Tell me you don’t want to whack these guys with a giant plush mallet. The urge is just overwhelming.

-Wild Fucking Boars
Now we’re talking. Speaking of urges, all I wanted to do when I saw these savage beasts was find a big stick, whittle it down to a razor sharp point, paint my face with burnt ash, and hunt the fuckers down. Then I’d impale a boar’s head on my hunting stick, beat the living shit out of Piggy, and rule my island kingdom with an iron fist. But maybe that’s just me.

-The Zoo Plant Life
Uh, okay. Let’s just move on.

-Kangaroos
I just want to put boxing gloves on this bastard and fight him to the death. What’s in the pocket of those ‘Roos? My steel-toed boot, that’s what.

-The Hippo Pool (not pictured)
You see a sign that says “Hippos.” You get excited for some Badass hippo fighting. You go to the hippo pool. You look around for the hippo. You try and see the silhouette of the hippo in the pool. You think to yourself, “Where is the motherfucking hippo?” And then you see the sign that says the hippos are being kept inside today. Thanks for the experience, Mr. Zookeeper. That was fun.

All in all, a fun experience. Now let’s never do it again.