1. “Have you ever shot anybody?”

2. “Have you ever been shot?”

3. “Can I turn your lights on?”

4. “Have you ever seen a dead body?”

5. “Do you know when my dad’s getting out?”

6. “Have you ever pulled someone over just for being black?”

7. “Is it true that women love being handcuffed?”

8. “How can I tamper with a crime scene?”

9. “Are you on Facebook?”

10. “If a train was traveling from New York going 100 miles an hour and another from Los Angeles going 200 miles an hour on the same track heading for each other and the train track is 3000 mile along, how far would each travel before they collide?”

“I was just as shocked as you are,” said Cy.  “Shit, I’ve done some pretty incredible things in my life. I mean, how many people can say they swam with a school of forty dolphins, drank twenty-two Amstel Lights, then made their ex-girlfriend give them a blumpkin in a handicapped bathroom in one day? So, for me to have done all that other awesome noise only to find out I’ve never hit anyone with my car, yeah, I was pretty upset.”

But Waits didn’t let it get the best of him. Determined to succeed, he channeled what was anger and frustration, turning it into courage and excitement. He was like the Mr. Wizard of Emotionality. Or something.

Waits phoned his girlfriend, noted socialite, Paris Hilton. His excitement was palpable. It was like you could reach out and snort it with a twenty-dollar bill.

“So, I called up Paris all hyped up and was like, ‘Babe, I need your help! We’re gonna hit a fucking paparazzi with my car tonight! It’s gonna be fucking bad-ass! Vroom-vroom, mother-fucker!” and she was all like, ‘ It’s Paparazz-o. Paparazz-i is fucking plural. Are you on coke?’”

And as it turned out, he was on coke.

“When I got into the Bentley, Cy was even more excited than he was on the phone. Right away, he put on “Everybody Dance Now” by C&C Music Factory and turned it up as loud as it went,” Paris said. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sex with a condom. And if there’s another, it’s that goddamn song. Ugh!”

Cy and Paris arrived for dinner at Boa Steakhouse in West Hollywood a short while later. There was no sign of paparazzi anywhere, so the two entered the restaurant with no trouble. This was mostly attributed to there being no paparazzi, but also to the fact that Paris had hidden everything that could get them into trouble deep inside her cavernous “vagina.”

Once inside (the restaurant), the two were taken to a private table in the back corner, where they enjoyed a romantic dinner. As usual, Cy ordered the New York strip extra well-done, because it reminded him of eating his dad’s boots as a kid. And Paris had a cigarette because it reminded her of a cigarette.

As Cy paid the tab, he noticed a large swarm of photographers waiting outside the front of the restaurant. His mouth began to foam, realizing he would get exactly what he came for. He and Paris quickly made their way out the back door and into the car, which had been retrieved for them by Josh, a young, Mexican valet with a Jewish name.

Cy immediately put the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the engine. He held the key in place.

Paris looked at him puzzled. “What are you waiting for?”

No answer.

Instead, his eyes were fixed on the valet’s red lightsaber motioning for him to exit into the area where the thirty or so paparazzi were. He licked his teeth clean, hoping for any remnants of the before-dinner cocaine. He began to salivate again, focused on his target.

“That one,” he said.

“Which one?”

“That one,” nodding his head.

“The woman?”

He nodded his head again. This time, more intently.

Paris leaned over and licked his ear. “That’s hot.”

Waits finally turned the Bentley on, but the power of the big v-12 engine was barely audible over Tag Team’s “Whoomp! There It Is” which was now playing just as loudly as “Everybody Dance Now” had been. Cy was pumped up. There was something about the combination of Jock Jams and cocaine that sent him into overdrive. Paris even admitted to liking it.

“If there’s one thing I love, it’s sex without a condom. And if there’s another, it’s a bag of blow and ‘Whoomp! There It Is’ by Tag Team.

With his target in sight, Waits quickly accelerated the car towards the large group of photographers. The majority of them dashed out of the way, still managing to snap pictures as they did so. A few, including the lone female photog, however, stayed put.

All the better for Waits, as he raced towards her with a gleam in his eye.

The portly woman had nowhere to run. She was trapped indefinitely. And most likely, her demise would be caught on film by one of her peers and sold to someone at The Faces of Death headquarters.

“Go easy on her, Cy!” Paris exclaimed.

As they headed right for her, Cy jerked the wheel at the last second so as to only clip the woman at the knee instead of killing her. She fell to the ground immediately as the Bentley ran over her leg.

A photographer named Gerrard or something gay then gave them the finger as he took pictures of them fleeing the scene.

“Whoomp there it is, bitches!” shouted Cy as he and Paris exchanged exploding fist-pounds down Sunset Boulevard.

“Cross that off the fucking bucket list!”

“Bucket!” exclaimed Paris.

And so it was, Cy Waits had finally been inducted into The Hit-and-Run Hall of Fame. His life of total awesomeness had just became that much more awesome. Tonight, he would throw his proverbial hot dog down the proverbial hallway, basking in his victory. Tomorrow, who knows? Jock Jams Volume 2, most likely.

As for the female photographer, she’s expected to make a full recovery after the amputation, though she wasn’t thrilled about the whole ordeal.

“When I said I’d give my left leg to be able to over-zealously follow celebrities and take invasive pictures of them, I never thought I would actually have to give my left leg. I feel really, really dumb. And also like a pirate. But does that mean I won’t be at Les Deux this weekend to harass Adrian Grenier for leaving with a tranny? Don’t be silly.”

One of ESPN’s headline tabs reads Report: Roethlisberger denies sex to police.

Really?

With all the intelligent people at ESPN, no one thought maybe this could be phrased differently? I don’t care that it’s grammatically correct, because it still sounds like something it’s not.  I feel like I’m reading The Onion.

Don’t get me wrong, the headline is great. It’s hilarious. But If I was the one who wrote it and my boss called me into his office because of it, I probably wouldn’t think it was so hilarious.

But maybe after I was fired, I could finally laugh about the hazy image of police offers pleading a drunken, bearded Ben Roethlisberger for  his sex, only to be shamelessly turned down by the quarterback.

Then, I would think to myself  “Hey, that’s hilarious. I wrote that.”

(Update! 12 hours later and ESPN has changed the headline to Report: Roethlisberger denies sex occurred)

This, is masturbation.

When thinking about it outside the parameters of this article, it’s hard to fully appreciate its sheer magnitude.  The beauty and power of it extends far beyond what you think you know.

But consider this: What if we as a people were as dedicated to getting things done as 14-year-old boys are to masturbating?

Why should this motivation be relegated to “whacking off?” Why not apply this to all facets of life for more important issues? Are we really that vapid?

Imagine if we learned to channel the same determination of  little Timmy in Montpelier when we wanted to achieve a goal.

Imagine if we put this kind of emphasis on solving the health care crisis, pursuing a career, reducing poverty, or shooting the low round at the local country club.

It’s scary to think of the greatness we could achieve just by adopting the mindset of horny teenage boys.

So, why can’t we be more like them?

But I decided to stop doing that. That’s right. I’m no longer going to respond to e-mails that I deem stupid or pointless. It’s just not worth my time.

What prompted me to take such action?

I recently received an e-mail from a former employer. We’ll call him Balthazar. Balthazar’s e-mail inquired whether or not I had received a  check he sent me a week earlier. Balthazar also wanted to know if I remembered exactly how much the check he wrote was for. When I received this inquiry, I began typing a timely reply as I usually do.  But something stopped me.  It’s like there was a glitch in the Matrix. Whatever it was, it forced me to reevaluate my stance on e-mails like Balthazar’s. Here’s why:

1) I had cashed Balthazar’s check almost a week prior to his inquiry.

2) I honestly don’t remember the exact amount because Balthazar had written it down to the dollars and cents of what he owed me (No one rounds up during a recession).

3) Instead of sending me an e-mail, couldn’t Balthazar have saved himself the trouble of waiting for my response and simply checked his statement?

I once read (in a book), when you have a bank account, there are several easy ways to verify that a check written by you has been cashed by me. And also, there is a cheat code that  will  tell you the exact amount that you wrote the check for. It’s just like a video game.

So, with that in mind, I refused to respond to Balthazar’s e-mail.  And it worked. He hasn’t e-mailed me since, meaning he probably figured out how to solve the Great Checking Account Mystery of 2010. Though I’m sure he had some help.

The moral of the story is, if Balthazar is going to hold me to a high standard in the tasks that I perform for him, I should at least be allowed to hold him to a normal standard when it comes to something as basic as his checking account.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, Balthazar, for unintentionally teaching me a valuable lesson about not responding to any more stupid e-mails.Whether you know it or not, you have made my life that much easier.

“I would like to apologize to everybody: Portland, fans, the organization,” said Oden. “It was very embarrassing. It was something that happened over a year and a half ago. I’m very sorry, and I’m definitely embarrassed for my family and everybody around me.”

Oden, who suffered a season-ending knee injury on December 5, has played only 82 games since being drafted number one overall in 2007. After seeing Oden’s press conference, Trailblazers head coach, Nate McMillan had some harsh criticisms for the young center.

“I saw Greg’s pictures, and frankly, I’m not sure what’s more disappointing: His career thus far or his penis thus far. The man’s seven-feet tall and nearly 300 pounds, for Christ’s sake.”

Confused, a female reporter asked coach McMillan to elaborate on his previous statements.

“I’m just saying, between the injuries and the penis, there’s not a lot to like about Greg. Is he a great kid? Yeah, he is. Is he doing anything to help reinforce the two positive stereotypes we have as African Americans? No.”

Again, McMillan was asked to expand on his comments, which seemed to do nothing but confuse this particular group of reporters.

“What I mean by that, is, Greg is a terrible basketball player and has kind of  a small dick for a black guy. How are kids supposed to look up to that? He averages 1.34 points per penis inch and 1.04 rebounds per penis inch and he’s supposed to be the face of our franchise? Kobe and Lebron average three times that.”

When reached for comment, Oden acknowledged his coach’s statistical findings, stating he thought that he had already made it clear he  was  quite embarrassed.

“It was a magic moment,” said Laraque. “I dedicate this goal to all the Haitians, to my family members, and to all of those who lost loved ones or who are looking for them.”

Laraque’s act of kindness certainly did not go unnoticed by the Haitian people.

“Seriously? Georges dedicated a goal to us? What the hell are we supposed to do with that?” said survivor, Webster Bennett.

When Webster’s good friend and tent-mate, Maxime Stremy, caught wind of the situation, he was equally—and rightfully— outraged.

“A goal?! How about some fucking food or water, Georges? Maybe even a little money for poorest country in the Western Hemipshere,” quipped Stremy.

And in a move almost as shocking as George Laraque’s dedication, Webster Bennett and Maxime Stremy returned the goal on behalf of the entire country of Haiti.

Thanks to Bennett and Stremy, the Dallas Stars went on to win the game by a final score of 3-2.

Sending e-mails is something that many of us do every day, and sometimes even all day. But just because we do it so frequently, doesn’t mean we’re good at it.

Often times, it seems the more e-mails we send in a day, the more likely we are to fall victim to grammar and syntax. We’re so focused on getting our messages out in a hurry, that we don’t take the proper steps to ensure that they’re what we want to send.

Well, that’s what spell check is for. Right?

Sort of.

Spell check works by catching words that are incorrectly spelled and sentences that are incorrectly punctuated. If you want to ensure that your e-mail contains actual words and proper punctuation, spell check is definitely a viable option.

Spell check, however, doesn’t catch intent. If you happen to misspell a word and it ends up as another existing word, spell check has no way of knowing what you meant.  After all, it’s a computer, not a psychic.

Below is an example of what happens when simple keystrokes go wrong. Imagine that this e-mail is sent out to a large number of employees, several of whom are high atop the company.

What’s up gays,

The account setup needs to be completed as soon as possible. Use your Access Key IDs to make valid web service requests and to ensure that this actually works. It was supposed to be done last week, but apparently there were technical difficulties. We cannot afford to screw this up.

My retards,
Jim

Clearly, Jim was relying a bit too heavily on his computer to catch all of his mistakes. While he may have anticipated making a few grammatical errors that his computer would catch, he failed to anticipate being outsmarted by himself.

So, what have we learned?

1) Don’t be like Jim.

2) Avoid using “Guys” or “Regards” in greetings and salutations, just to be safe.

I was working out at Gold’s Gym today, when I noticed Lakers forward Lamar Odom doing some lateral rows.  Now, I don’t typically approach celebrities when I see them in public, but Lamar’s been in the news a lot lately. Plus, the gym was fairly empty and no one was hovering around him, so I didn’t feel too bad about bothering him.

Nick: Hey, man. How’s it going?

Lamar: Umm, good. Just finishing up my workout.

Nick: Awesome.

Lamar: Do I know you?

Nick:  Nope. I just wanted to ask what happened last night.

Lamar: I’m not sure what you mean…

Nick: 5 for 15 from the field?

Lamar: What?

Nick: You’re a career 46% shooter.

Lamar: (Looking down at his jersey) You think I’m Lamar Odom?

Nick: (Leaning in) You’re secret’s safe with me.

Lamar: Man, get outta here!

Nick: Why do you want to have a baby with Khloe Kardashian?

Lamar: Nigga, I’m not Lamar Odom!

Nick: You don’t need to yell. Or be racist.

Lamar: If I was Lamar Odom, do you think that I would wear my own jersey to the gym?

Nick: Yeah.

Lamar: I’m going to tell you one more time: I’m not Lamar Odom. And I’m terrible at basketball.

Nick: I know, I watched the game. You guys were lucky to win in overtime.

Lamar: I got this jersey from the clearance rack at Marshalls.

Nick: I’m sure you’ll bounce back tonight.

(Lamar gets up and walks away)

A woman from Mobile, Alabama claims that her faith in auto-tune was restored after finding an image of T-Pain in her french toast.

Winona Ryder inherits $30 million, is arrested on shoplifting charges moments later.

The long-awaited Michael Jackson autopsy photo was finally released, only to disappoint those who thought Jackson would look worse dead.

After spending $16 million on Mariah Carey’s wedding ring, actor Nick Cannon has signed a deal to host Wild ‘N Out until the end of time.