Thursday, July 29, 2004


My daughters will never date men named Glen.  I trust Glens even less than I trust Mikes or Matts and you couldn't PAY me to entrust them with anything of even the slightest importance.  Matts are date-rapers and test-cheaters. Mikes skim off the register and steal your girlfriend.  Glens, however, are on a whole other level of fuckedupedness.

Glens have wispy, prematurely thinning hair,  permanent skin and fingernail discoloration from a lifetime of chain-smoking, and they look at least 10 years older than they actually are.  They are the fat, pasty-white guys at your 15 year high school reunion who are camped out at the end of the open bar swilling gin and inhaling the Chex Fiesta Mix like the bottom of the bowl holds the secret to eternal youth.

The product of an inordinate amount of time spent indoors, in the dark, prone in front of the television staring at late-night Ronco infomercials, Glens are those guys with zero muscle definition who look like heaps of Jell-O poured into molds purchased from the Failure-At-Life Store.

Glens befriend the bartender and the waitstaff--making painfully-forced small talk as they get drunker and drunker in an attempt to block out the comments their classmates are making about them under their breath:

--Who’s Glen?­
--Jesus, what happened to Glen?
--Hey, I didn't know we went to school with Louie Anderson
--God must really hate Glen
--Hey, that fatass is eating all the Chex Mix!

The indignity is almost too much to bear, even for Glens.  But, when you consider that the only reason Glens attend their reunion in the first place is the free food and free booze, it should be no surprise that Glens are the first to arrive and the last to leave.

Glens live at home in the basement surrounded by half gallon milk jugs and Tupperware containers of varying shapes and sizes filled with their bodily fluids.  Why is this? you might ask.  Well Glens rarely take care of business where business is normally taken care of.  They are always too something--too tired, too sweaty, too lazy, too comfortable, too pre-occupied.  It is, after all, much easier to roll to one side and rub one out into yesterdays lunch Tupperware than it is to go to the bathroom or the bedroom and risk missing Ron Popeil "set and forget" another fucking Lamb shank in his counter-top rotisserie oven.

Glens also like the weird porn.  I'm not talking bondage or foot fetish either.  I'm talking anal bukkake gangbang and fisting pregnant Asian women who are missing appendages. 
Hop Sing she rike you put you hand in da poo poo hole rong time.  Shove big hand rike jackhammah make Hop Sing scleam velly roud and want to rick you finger.

Glens love to visit Thailand. They go in small groups with people they meet on the internet--armed with $5000, a small duffel bag, and a stack of mail-order bride catalogues [dog-eared, highlighted, and underlined] that have a number of pages mysteriously stuck together:
Hmmm, BT4565. "Penny." 5'2" 95lbs. Loves to cook and clean.  She's 18 (wink, wink) and dreams of moving to Hollywood and meeting Dustin Hoffman

 Glens are mouth-breathers and I want them nowhere near my end of the gene pool.  They are the Dutch Elm disease of the family tree.  Let a Glen park his lemon Jell-O ass on one of your branches and you might as well soak that limb in napalm and strike the match…at least it's quicker.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Oh lord, there is a Glen living a couple houses down from me. Except his wife isn't from Thailand...she's from Ukraine or something like that. (We all know she is mail order because the poor thing didn't even speak English when he first introduced her around.) Also, the Glen a couple houses down is WALL-EYED. Buggy eyes looking all over the place. When he tries to talk to me my normally adorable and friendly dog bares her teeth and tries to attack.

July 29, 2004 at 9:29 PM  
Blogger Jordan Golson said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

July 30, 2004 at 3:32 AM  
Blogger Jordan Golson said...

I agree with the comment about Mikes and Matts even more than about Glens. Mostly because I don't happen to know any Glens.

The Mike I'm thinking of got fired from a job for skimming from the register, and he is notorious for stealing girls from other guys.

What about Brian v. Bryan? Brians always seem to be up to something. Bryans seem to be particularly intelligent. There are always exceptions of course.

July 30, 2004 at 3:33 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Bryans seem intelligent because they are a bunch of slack jawed, rubber wristed faggots. You'd seem smart too if your Gucci belt matched your Cole Haans. Bryans spend their evenings watching "Queer as Folk" and "Nip/Tuck" re-runs while discussing the latest "product" with other Bryans. They all carry T-Mobile sidekicks which have been bejewelled with Swarovski crystals, regardless of the fact that their plans lapsed four months ago because they "just had to have" the new Prada tool kit. Bryans go to bars that advertise using Rainbows and giggle about the "pot of gold" they are looking to take home later. Bryans debate the fashion merits of military insignia. There is a reason god put a "Y" in both "Bryan" and "gay".

Brians, on the other hand, are pillars of the community. Gentleman. Statesmen. Scholars.


July 30, 2004 at 7:29 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

"Hop Sing she rike you put you hand in da poo poo hole rong time."

Funniest. Line. Ever.

- SkiGuy

July 30, 2004 at 9:41 AM  
Blogger dusty said...

at the risk of being accused of having my nose up your ass, i have to say.. this is some of the funniest shit i've read in a long time

July 30, 2004 at 9:04 PM  
Blogger The Bunny said...

MORE MORE MORE! NOW! I had no idea how fucking weird you are, but it is the most pleasant of surprises. Next time I see you we will hit on women and then break something. It will be fun.

August 1, 2004 at 9:42 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I find it hilarious how, after apparently scouring your blog for content, Google's advertising bots have placed an ad for a Ronco knife set at the top of the page. Apparently it thinks many Glens will be visiting this site...

August 4, 2004 at 6:18 AM  
Blogger TheObjectivist said...

So I sound like a kiss-ass, but I'm just calling it like I see it...

This is like a goldmine of funny. I had to stop reading so I didn't freak out my co-worker by busting out laughing. Keep it up, good sir.

August 4, 2004 at 10:12 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

"They are the fat, pasty-white guys at your 15 year high school reunion who are camped out at the end of the open bar swilling gin and inhaling the Chex Fiesta Mix like the bottom of the bowl holds the secret to eternal youth."

Priceless. Part of me wants to meet the Glen that inspired this comedic masterpiece, another part of me is happy that I can't remember ever having met anyone named Glen - even without first-hand knowledge of Glens, parts of this column intuitively seem dead-on.

I'm also wondering where you came up with the tupperware toilet bit. Hilarious, but so very wrong.


August 4, 2004 at 3:34 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm a Matt and I know both a Mike and a Glen.

I'm so ashamed.

Well, I actually go by Matthew.. but that's even worse, right?

August 5, 2004 at 6:27 AM  
Blogger NP said...

do you study computer science or 14th century English literature?

August 5, 2004 at 9:49 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wasn't Tom Green's sidekick named "Glen"? He sure matches the profile described here.

August 5, 2004 at 3:31 PM  
Blogger Girly Girl said...

Hey I run a cool bukkake site too. bukkake sluts

November 8, 2005 at 9:18 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi, I’m out searching & surfing for the latest information on "payless shoes" and found your blog. Although this isn't exactly what I am looking for, it caught my attention and I just read this post. I see now why Google pointed me here while I was searching for "payless shoes" related stuff. I'm glad I stopped long enough to read your posts -- thanks.

November 28, 2005 at 10:52 AM  

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