Balls.

This person has ’em.

The proprietor of the pictured establishment didn’t care to invest in a fancy building or amenities. He couldn’t be bothered with luxuries like payroll or products. All he needed was a hose and a dream.

Here’s to you, lazy entrepreneur. Charging me to wash my own dog takes monster balls.

Incidentally, someone should totally copy this business model. Feel free to start charging people whenever they use the following services:

No one hates email spam more than an actual Nigerian prince with legitimate money-transfer problems.

 Old Spice

Old Spice is an earthy blend of lilac, peppermint, false teeth, incontinence, abandoned dreams, and squandered youth. It smells like grandparent. Unless you’re targeting women who have a geriatric fetish, avoid this cologne.

AXE

Women claim to hate the smell of Axe, but what they really hate is its marketing campaign. Every woman thinks she can identify a douchey Axe wearer and would never date one…so when you’re sporting Axe body spray and a girl inevitably compliments your “cologne,” tell her it’s Drakkar.

English Leather

This stuff smells like every Turkish guy you’ve ever known. Seriously, they bathe in this crap. (Not to imply that smelling like a Turkish guy is a bad thing. Turkish guys actually pull lots of ass, according to Turkish guys.)

Polo

This is a perfect scent for the refined gentleman who listens to soft jazz, wears briefs instead of boxers, and can’t tolerate spicy foods. If you think a pastel shirt makes you look distinguished on the golf course, by all means, buy a lifetime supply.

Yoga is synchronized stretching. It barely qualifies as an exercise.

If you really think you’re going to banish that beer gut via meditative self-pretzeling, you are unclear on the concept of aerobic fitness.

Hate to break it to you, guys, but a car isn’t going to get you laid.

Conventional wisdom suggests that women get all juicy over a shiny sportscar, but think about it: how often does a girl even see your car—let alone ride in it—before she decides whether or not she’s going to surrender the booty?

In this day and age, women aren’t down with the I’ll-pick-you-up-at-8 routine unless they’ve actually spent time with you in person. It doesn’t matter whether you met her at a bar or online or through friends; by the time a girl is actually in your car, she clearly trusts you enough to ride with you in a locked vehicle, and has probably made up her mind as to whether there will be penetration.

At that point, the only way the car matters is if it’s a total beater. If you’re rolling a dented, slovenly bucket, she might reconsider. But otherwise, just make sure it’s clean and doesn’t smell like there’s a dead hooker in the trunk. Oh, and incidentally, don’t have a dead hooker in your trunk.

Nine times out of ten, the type of car you’re driving has little-to-no coital influence. Trust me, there are guys who could get action in a Kia minivan. The equation goes like this:

A smart/good-looking/well-dressed guy will get laid in a rust heap, but a stupid/ugly/poorly-dressed guy couldn’t pull ass in a Lambo.

Instead of buying a flashy car, invest in a gym membership, make sure you have a passable wardrobe, and (I’m being 100% serious) consult a hair stylist. A good haircut is way cheaper than a car, and far more important. First impressions count.

Laundry is interminable, like Cthulu and Jesus and viral STDs. There will never be a time when you’re completely laundry-free.

Life is just a series of laundry sessions interrupted by occasional bouts of work and play.

Terrorism doesn’t scare me. Crazy people scare me, regardless of religion, race, or creed.

I always keep a vigilant eye on postal workers, clowns, and anyone associated with the military. Truth is, I’m way more scared of my fellow Americans than radical Islamists. And landlocked Americans are the worst. Anyone who voluntarily chooses to live between the coasts is suspect. Trust me, I’ve seen these people. They have bad haircuts and guns and they wear American flag t-shirts. Blind patriotism makes me twitchy.

And yet, ironically, crazy red-staters are the Americans most prone to terrorist-related panic. Every time you tune in to Fox News, another drawling Midwestern preacher is declaring Hillbilly Jihad on taxi drivers and convenience store owners.

Listen, Iowans, the Arabs aren’t going to bomb your corn fields. You can stop glaring at brown people now. Idiots.

It’s a simple equation: the more remote and sparsely populated your hometown, the less Anthrax you’ll attract. I don’t care how crazy these radical Muslims might be, no self-respecting Jihadist is going to waste perfectly good WMDs on Nebraska.

Settle down, hicks. You’re more likely to choke to death on chewing tobacco than find yourself the victim of an Improvised Explosive Device. Spend more time reading and less time stressing. Stay off the meth. And try not to breed.

I’m down with ink, but let’s be honest: if a girl wants to get all tatted up without looking like a crack whore, her options are limited. Every available tattoo location on the female body comes with some type of preconception attached.

Hey, I don’t make the rules. If you’re female and you’re determined to sport tats, prepare to be judged. Evidence:

1. Lower Back:

Personally, I’m a fan of the female lower-back/upper-ass tattoo. I think it’s cute. The only downside is that some wisecracking amateur poet realized that “tramp” rhymes with “stamp,” and bam! What could have been a tasteful piece of body art is now considered slut-branding. So it goes.

2. Arm:

Arm tats practically scream this chick will shank you and steal your drugs. On the plus side, if you earn an arm-tatted girl’s respect (aka “slap her around”) she’ll pawn her motorcycle to bail you out of jail.

3. Neck:

The back of the neck is the ultimate hippie/lesbian tat location. If there’s a female equivalent to a guy getting his right ear pierced, the base-of-the-neck tattoo is it. Common neck tats include Japanese kanji and dolphins in majestic mid-leap. Also popular: any of the Lucky Charms marshmallows. Green clovers, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes, yellow moons…

4. Inside of the Lip:

What’s the point of this tattoo, other than occasional shock value? My favorite lip tat: barcode. Whenever I see people with barcode tattoos I always want to sprint past them with a grocery store scanner, just to see what rings up.

5. Ankle:

The ankle tat is the I’m-not-the-kind-of-girl-who-usually-does-this-type-of-thing tattoo. If you’re considering an ankle tat as your first ink, you probably shouldn’t be associating with tattoo artists to begin with. Do yourself a favor and stick to henna.

Common examples of ankle tats: yin-yang, barbed wire, any species of colorful flying insect (dragonfly, butterfly et al.). Dolphin is once again popular.

Incidentally, any girl who gets a dolphin tattoo is essentially admitting creative defeat. Dolphin tattoos are the natural evolution of the unicorn posters these girls used to plaster all over their rooms; icky vestiges of juvenile sappiness.

6. Labia:

Now that’s slut-branding. A girl with a vaginal tattoo is clearly willing to let some strange dude get all up in her biznatch with ink and needles and whatnot. Just…yick.

Capitalism is all about the sanctity of ownership.

When you own a pair of jeans, they belong to you for life. If Levi Strauss himself rose from the grave and demanded that you cough up those faded 501s, you’d be within your rights to tell his moldy carcass to bugger off.

Distilled down to the basics, you could conceivably describe American capitalism with a single statement: No one can claim your jeans.

Until today. Because today, an American judge ruled that your genes don’t belong to you.

No, that wasn’t a typo. I’m talking about your GENES…the ones you were born with, the ones that are woven into the fabric of every organ and tissue and cell of your being. The very mechanisms that make you you.

As of today they officially…aren’t…yours.

For years, American biotech companies have been quietly patenting your genes. They do this for one reason: if corporations can be the first to identify a piece of your genetic makeup, they can charge up the you-know-what every time you need to access that snippet of biological info.

In today’s case, the corporation is a sleazy biotech outfit called Myriad and the pieces of genetic information are the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes. It turns out that when a person’s BRCA genes carry a specific type of mutation, he/she has upwards of an 80% chance of developing breast cancer.

Myriad developed a test for the BRCA gene mutations in 1994, and for almost 20 years they’ve been gleefully charging $3,000 a pop every time a woman needs to find out whether she’s predisposed to a horrible, often fatal disease.

But Myriad didn’t just patent their test. They patented the actual genes. And today, an American judge upheld their patent.

Lunacy.

If you discover a new planet somewhere in the universe, you get to name it. That’s pretty cool. There are billions and billions of planets, so if I identify a few million planets and stars, I could conceivably paste my name on an entire corner of the sky. Constellation Shane. Sweet.

But you know what I wouldn’t get to do? I wouldn’t get to charge people to look at my planets. I wouldn’t get exclusive rights to massive balls of molten rock just because I peered into a telescope for a couple years. Even if I spent my entire fortune locating one solitary planet, I wouldn’t own it, because a planet is a naturally occurring phenomenon that existed long before I was born and will be here long after I’m gone.

But companies like Myriad insist that there are grey areas when it comes to ownership. These planet-patenters like to point out that you can, for instance, own a piece of land, which is a naturally occurring phenomenon.

But there’s a key difference: I already own my genes. We all do. If a corporation goes rooting around in someone’s closet and discovers a mint condition Stratocaster, they don’t get to patent it, sell it, and keep the money. That would be theft.

Biotech companies like Myriad are thieves, plain and simple. They’re stealing our genes. It’s time to take them back.

If you’d like to show your support, head over to The Gene Patenting Petition and sign online. Then call your congressman. Call everyone’s congressman. Spread the word. Tell companies like Myriad that our DNA isn’t a playground, and they don’t get to play Finders Keepers with our genetic information.

Cats get super excited about tuna fish. Like, WAY more than is warranted.

The fuss that cats make over a can of tuna is completely disproportionate to the amount of pleasure that anyone has actually derived from fish-related cuisine, ever.