|Uh Oh.. Girls are already doing it..|
These brainless crazes usually incite at the hands of a bored male searching for something to do because he can only spend so many hours at the gym pretending to work out. These crazes have no point and are consumed by other donuts with no individual decision making skills… i.e. icing. If you ask a man why these fads begin with the sweatier testosterone-driven specie, he will declare that men are pioneers of all things dealing with comedy. If you ask a women, she will say it’s because men are the only swamp donkeys dim enough to lay face down in a tree so someone can mobile upload a blurry picture that looks like a branch wearing Nikes. For me, “icing” took the cake (no put intended) as the dumbest game since chutes and ladders—yet the easily amused male population (particularly members of the male population in their 8th year as an affiliate of ‘the greatest fraternity on campus’)—found it to be the most exhilarating thing since kneeing each other in the balls. The object of this particular game is for half-brained twits to pretend they are part of a SWAT Team sting operation as they stealthily conceal a Smirnoff ice in random places in the hopes that another unlucky half-brained twit will stumble upon the semi-alcoholic beverage. Then not only will this unfortunate bastard be forced to drink something that looks like diluted sperm, but he has to chug this piss colada on one knee. For guys, it was the ultimate emasculation—drinking something with .05% alcohol content, one of which gets 15-year old girls WAAAAASTEDDDD enough to kiss each other at high school house parties.
The icing craze was all fine and dandy until “bros” got bored icing each other and decided they needed some estrogen in the idiot tank. The first time I was iced, I stared at the bottle of Smirnoff and traveled down memory lane back to a time when I wore Hollister jean skirts, hemp necklaces and my internet took 2 years to dial up. Then some jackhole shouts, “get down on one knee and chug.” I tell him to kick rocks. Another baboon tells me I have to do it. I’m not playing your preschool mind games, now go back to farting in each other’s pillows and sodomizing stray dogs you inbred fools. I refused to play by the “rules” of a game that some celibate Halo-addict with no social skills developed in a ruse to make some fratty friends but wasn’t intelligent enough to take the Mark Zuckerburg route and create something useful/bordering-on-privacy-invasion. The demise of this trend occurred the moment chicks started icing chicks in an unsuccessful attempt to make guys think they have a sense of humor or that they’re “one of the guys.” Girls can also be seen doing this while watching basketball and squealing for every ‘touchdown’ made. And with that, icing became more obsolete than morals and guys went back to lighting each other on fire and experimenting with fashion. If I had known the sight of a female commandeering your idiotic game would be the catalyst for it’s destruction, I would’ve launched a keg of that shit into a taping of the Ellen DeGeneres Show, causing a feminist uproar and thereby killing two birds with one Smirnoff. For guys, when girls attempt to seize an idea or practice that they view as “theirs,” they no longer want it, which is pretty much how I feel when I see you wearing jeans my size and printed scarves.
These crazes usually emerge in the later months of the summer when the only thing on ESPN is women’s basketball and soccer and it’s too hot outside to run around pretending to be sporty. So this summer the fratastic—or just pain hopeless—male population of America has once again sent the stupidity scale off the charts with this planking thing. The only time a plank looks “cool” is when the planker carries out this feat in an interesting location like on a pyramid in Egypt or in the Louvre. Even then you still look like an idiot, although a cracked skull would make for a lovely travel mupload. Why can’t you guys just start a useful trend? Like doing my laundry and cooking me dinner while I drink a beer on the couch and shout at you not to burn the casserole. The submissive male laundry trend has my full support and I’ll even cut a check to endorse the advertisement. Sadly, I’m under the impression that for one of this crazes to stick, it has to be as pointless as its precedents. I’d thoroughly enjoy creating a trend where I can go around smacking people with hamburger patties. I’ll call it beefing and it will even have a scoring system. Two points for a body shot, five for a head shot and ten if you can wrestle up some condiment or slice of cheese to make it stick. Everyone will carry beef patties around with them (tofurkey if you’re a tree-hugging trend follower) and smack betches upside. There’s even an element of danger involved… try walking around with a purse/pocket full of ground chuck without a pack of rabid raccoons or your ghetto next door neighbor’s pit bull gnawing off your arm to get to the beefy scent wafting off of your person. You go ahead and lay face down on a park bench—that merely puts you in an extra vulnerable position for a sling shot full of hamburger to the back of yo head. Idiot.