Constipated, are ya?

All you need you need to do is jiggle that shit loose and a train ride is exactly the way to go. The time, however, depends on the direction of travel.

If you're going from SF -> LA, the train will ride those SF hills as hard as I rode your Grandma last night. HARD. That'll jostle things up nicely and by the time you get to that stinky cow stretch of the route, you'll be unclogged. Yeah...now you know. That smell ain't cow.

If you're going from LA -> SF, you're not going to want to wait for those SF hills. But lucky for you, you're a hop, skip and a wrist flip away from the Castro district. According to Yelp, the generous folks here will happily give you a 5-star dislodging treatment. Ask for Bubba.

Knowing you, you'd ask me the obvious question "How's the weather up there? <snort snort>".

To which I would respond "Sunny with a chance of stink" as I swivel my torso and fart in your face with perfect ass-to-nose alignment.

They'd both freeze in their tracks and narrow their eyes at each other (Buddha's obviously narrower). There would be a cosmic understanding that they'd have to battle to the death.

Round 1: Arm Wrestling
Buddha's sumo-esque arm dwarfs Jesus' scrawny twigs. Teasing the audience, Buddha obnoxiously pretends to put up a struggle. But with a sudden flick, Jesus thrusts the rusty nail still protruding from his wrist into Buddha's arm. Buddha squeals like a Belieber as his arm is slammed to the table with the resonating sound of epic defeat. Tetanus ensues.
Winner: Jesus

Round 2: Drink-Off
Beverage is loser's choice and Buddha selects wine. As Jesus lifts the wine to his lips, Buddha's unlikely sidekick "Priest-man" mutters a blessing, turning the beverage into Christ's blood. With wide eyes and quivering lips, Jesus sips his own blood, his mind scrambling in paranoia of the potential health consequences. While relieved he did not opt for a "bread-off", he quickly surrenders, hoping the drop he consumed does not qualify him as a self-cannibal. (It did).
Winner: Buddha

Round 3: Gay Chicken
Their arms wrap around each other tenderly. A gust of wind flutters their matching loin cloths. Buddha channels his inner Christian Grey and passionately grabs at Jesus' silky albeit nappy locks. Jesus slides his leg up Buddha's plump inner thigh. Buddha pushes his man boobs into Jesus' face shimmying out a barely audible motorboat. A motorboat that lasts too long and Jesus is suffocated. Two boners.
Winner: Buddha

Ultimate Winner: Buddha. Cuz Jesus dies. But whatevs - he claims to have the skillz to resurrect anyway (or so he claims on LinkedIn).

An age old question that has undoubtedly led us all to secretly yet forcefully slap our fingers down on our palm only to produce a sound as silent as a silkworm's fart.

There is a way to generate this amplified sound. Simply pinch your cheek and pull out and back in rapid succession. If this resulted in no sound, remove your hand from your pants, grab your face and try again.

It's a secret worthy of sharing so feel free to get up in strangers' faces and share nobly. Target children so they don't have to waste their lives wondering as you had. Make sure their parents observe and marvel in appreciation as you kneel down, get up real close to the kid's face and perform with sweat-inducing gusto.

There are always these 3 people at every office:

1). The Cougher
2). The Leg Jiggler
3). The Stink

How unfortunate that you have found yourself sandwiched between 2 of these. Your best strategy is to take them out one at a time.

First, the Cougher. Simply close his throat completely so he is physically no longer able to clear his throat. This is done by identifying his food allergies and injecting it generously into his lunch. You may inquire "but won't he die?" to which I answer your question with a question "do dead people cough?"

Second, the Shuffler you are experiencing is a variant of the nervous Leg Jiggler. Luckily, this particular breed does not expose you to annoying seismic reverberations. In the case of the Shuffler, secretly replace his deck of cards with razor sharp ones and lather them generously with a lubricant (KY jelly from your ample supply works wonders). In his next shuffle, you'll hear him scream as he slits his wrists open causing him to fear cards forevermore. If you work in a quiet environment and cannot risk the scream, close his throat. See above paragraph.

Also, I notice you did not mention the 3rd persona. Take that as a hint, stinkface.

Oh there are a TON of things I can't do! In fact, there are exactly *3* whole things that I can't seem to achieve despite unrelenting efforts.

1). The black girl booty shake. For those of you who have seen my generous backside, you lower that disbelieving eyebrow. I'll have you know that despite expert suggestion, it's still unproven that last week's SF earthquake was not an earthquake at all but simply the reverberation of my rippling ass jiggle. (I had chili for lunch).

2). Rap. I even add some Arsenio Hall fist circle pumps for authenticity. Still, my rapping turns out more like a Gregorian chant.

3). Contort my fingers into legible gang hand signs. Which is weird because I'm proficient at other hand signs such as the surfer "hang 10" and the star trek "may the force be with you".

It may sound like I'm just trying really hard to be ghetto street cool and failing miserably. But I'm not yo. I'm as ghetto black as Oprah Winfrey.

It seems your Roman fingers yearn for a warm place to insert. And sadly, your nose has become the reluctant host despite intentionally not hanging out a pineapple flag. This is particularly unfortunate because it means your nostrils will widen to the size and shape of your fat lil fingers. People will wonder why you're constantly flaring your nostrils like a raging bull. When in reality, you're not... you just got ugly.

The only way to deter your fingers from your nostrils is to occupy them. Grab a pair of OB tampons and firmly stuff them into your nostrils. They'll double as snot absorbers.

In the midst of the night, your naughty fingers will start inching up your face towards your nose YellowPages style. They'll stop in their tracks shocked to discover the 2 strings fluttering with your breath. Understanding their usual home is occupied, they'll find a new home.

Note: There is little control of where your fingers will wAnder, so just tampoN Up all your holeS except the one you prefer.

As a binary kind of girl, I like men either completely hairless or completely hairy. That's right, either hairless like a pink fleshy sphinx cat or completely hairy like a rug I once saw at IKEA (it's cheaper but you have to put it together yourself).

That's right, I like men so bald and hairless that they reek the scent of scalp. So bald that if they body-bumped Professor X in the nude, you'd enjoy the crisp smack of their hairless torsos joining together in an unnatural but unjudged union. (because there is nothing natural about mutants!)

Or, I like men who are crazy hairy. I'm talking from head to toenail. I want to french braid his back hair in a circular pattern and curl up in the nest I create. Then finger-knit his back neck hair into a blanket. It feels like Rivendell.

Yeesh - writing this post is getting me hot and bothered. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going online to find videos of Osama Bin Laden getting frisky with Megamind.

It's not that girls don't like giving BJs. It's that girls don't like giving them to cavemen. Or men who type like cavemen.

The beauty of resumes is that no one ever verifies the content on them. I'm not telling you to lie, mind you. I'm telling you to word things carefully to sell yourself.

For example, are you good at video games?

If so, then you can "Lead with strategic efficiency in competitive environments including those in the mobile space"

Read: You're pretty good at knowing where to put that long skinny piece in Tetris.

And mobile space = gameboy... shhhhh.

You are a loyal and fair person. However, "never" canceling is a bit too absolute. Or "too Nazi" as the kids are saying these days (or so I hear around the playgrounds of which I leer).

There are 3 and only 3 exceptions to which you should feel guiltless in canceling existing plans:

1). You've developed a contagious disease. Like the Herps.

2). Dawson's Creekathon.

3). Your neighbor's dog is barking a funny sound so you check it out and it seems she swallowed a squirrel without biting so it's lodged in her throat. While you are impressed with this feat being she's a miniature chihuahua, which basically equates to a human eating a bushy-tailed monkey, you feel obligated to help especially since the dog is clearly dying a slow death as the aggressive squirrel is eating her from within. You grip the squirrel tail and with a yank, PRESTO! The squirrel's body is free! But the severed head remains in the dog's throat. You dab on a bit of lip gloss and go mouth to mouth on the chihuahua which is the furthest you've gone with a living creature for months due to your judgement against online dating. With one long and inappropriately sensual suck, you not only dislodge the head, but also prove to the world that no online dating profile could do justice to your oral abilities. Only now you have a squirrel head lodged in *your* throat and as you frantically gesture to the chihuahua to help you in return, the female dog lives up to the "bitch" title by turning her perky ass up at your face and walking away. You pound your own chest like an epileptic gorilla until you are free of squirrel head. And now you have squirrel-head breath and no one likes hanging out with people with squirrel-head breath.

Um...that's a pretty mormonic move. And by mormonic, I mean marrying people rampantly. As in, you know, what the Mormons do.

You are now forced to face the consequences. Consequences being one day if you ever marry for realsies (totally unlikely), no one is going to believe you.

You'll have to recruit hobos to be in your wedding party at the cost of 2 handjobs (or 1 if you got the Groupon). You'll have to Photoshop wedding photos to make it seem you had a hearty turnout ("copy hobo", "paste hobo" "paste hobo" "paste hobo ...).

That's right - you've cried an ugly ugly wolf*.

As for the gifts, I'm guessing you received NOTHING from your cheap-ass-good-for-nothing-bukkake-loving "friends". Which is my eloquent way of saying it is now fair game to expose their nasty secrets to the interwebz.

*looks kinda like Paula Abdul

Never. 7777 stands for my birthday July 7, 1977. I'm OK telling you this because:

1). I don't use my birthday as any credit card security question. But my first pet was a hamster. Stupid security question right?? It'll always be either hamster or goldfish. Soooo guessable. Next time, I'm claiming liger.

2). You are now legally obligated to buy me a gift every year. I'm in the need of high waisted Spanx. In the color afro-flesh.

I didn't know what 9979 was so I consulted my trusty resource... the wookieepedia. It confirmed that it is a landing craft in Star Wars. Sorry guys - I have zero interest in Star Wars and hence no interest in a featured landing craft. My interest in Star Wars ends strictly with Jar Jar Binks porn.

By reading your question, 3 red flags started waving furiously, making your failure with women quite clear.

1). That's great that you consider yourself successful. Yo Momma did you right. But if you're boastful of this fact by presenting it upfront with the ladies as you did in your question (why you mention it is beyond me), you are asking for the wrong kind of attention. The successful confident women you may desire will find your boasting annoying while the gold diggers' eyes will light up in dollar signs. The best way to prevent this from happening is to keep your success a secret until the women love you for who you are. Achieve this by refusing to pay for dates and dressing in cheap-looking rags (I recommend Ed Hardy).

2). How paranoid are you to think that your loving parents LIED to you while growing up. Your parents gave you sound advice and frankly, you're just being an ungrateful little bitch. So yeah, to sum up, the 2nd red flag is "ungrateful little bitch".

3). Based on your whiny emoticon usage, you probably suck at cunnilingus.

If I were the typical cutesy Asian girl, the obvious answer would be:

"omg diamonds!! kekeke!! ^ _ ^"

(after finding out that Hello Kitty is not a mineral)

That's right - diamonds are not my favorite rock even when it encases full-on vampires in maximum bedazzlement.

My favorite rock is pop rocks candy. They snap. They crackle. They pop. And without the marketing ploy of 3 gay elves deemed unsuitable for Santa's needs. They're the tastiest form of rock and totally worth the bloody mess of cratered open wounds they leave in my mouth.

Human-centipeding. It's the latest flash mob craze. All you need is a dime-sized dab of Gorilla Glue on your kisser and lay it on a neighbor's chocolate starfish.

Just don't make the common rookie mistake of closing the loop and creating a human-donut. That's just embarrassing.

Commando. There is nothing like the thrill of scavenging for denim lint among the delicate folds of scrotum.

I put your question to the test by engaging in a lengthy conversation with Cleverbot himself. It seems that if cleverness is defined by excessive poultry references, Cleverbot wins hands down.

Throughout the conversation, he mentions the "chicken and egg" question, tells me the "why did the chicken cross the road" joke and mentions completely out of context "KFC in a can" which I am not clever enough to understand what that even means.

2 excerpts:

...
Me: Who is your favorite female jazz musician?
Cleverbot: My favorite musician is Mozart.
Me: But that is not jazz.
Cleverbot: What's not jazzy about a duck?
...

Sound rebuttal, Cleverbot.

...
Me: What is the cheaper race, the Chinese or the Jews?
Cleverboth: I don't know. Perhaps chicken?
...

Aaaand...circle takes the square. I accept defeat. Nicely played, Cleverbot. Nicely played.

I'm guessing you want to hear something less obvious than knowing someone's birthday without needing a Facebook notification. So I wrote a haiku poem that expresses the true definition of love.

Warm silent breezes
A scent I do not care for
I guess we are "there"