NiniaPimp Magazine

DEARBORN, MI—Sources are confirming that at 8:45 p.m. this evening, Thomas E. Dewey High School junior Jessica Milly officially put out. Though many had predicted she would finally give it up to her boyfriend Josh Gibson this Friday, those close to the 17-year-old said Milly “just wanted to get it over with already” and went all the way with Gibson at his house approximately 15 minutes after his parents left to watch his little sister Emma’s dance recital. At press time, text messages to Milly asking, “How was it?” “How many times?” and “Condom?” have not been answered.

“Live each day as if it were your last,” the final earthly advice my father ever gave me. It might not have been, had I succeeded in my attempts to dislodge the complimentary cookie from his trachea, but one can only do so much after consuming all of that MSG. I choose to blame the EMT, whose spring roll I ate when he left to go answer a call rendered my fingers too greasy to get a strong Heimlich grip.

I try not to think too much about that fateful night. It gives me a mean hankering for General Tso’s chicken, and I’d hate to have agita while I’m taking the small piece of paper my father ultimately flailed in my general direction to heart. There’s no time for dwelling in the past, especially not with my schedule. I tried fitting it in between pleasuring a mermaid and establishing a true democracy, but once I figured out those things didn’t exist, I decided to use the ten-minute block I allotted them for explaining to people my Last Day Itinerary. You’re bound to get some funny looks when you’re living life to the fullest. Even more so if it entails there being no tomorrow—or any day after, for that matter.

Last Day Itinerary

5:45 AM: Wake up. Set video camera up on a tripod.
I thought it might be nice to record the sunrise, this way I can watch it at a reasonable hour. I’m not leaving behind a ton of money, so maybe my family can sell the footage to one of those karaoke joints I used to frequently turn down invitations to.

5:49 AM: Use restroom. Go back to sleep.
Considering how much I have planned, it’s very important that I’m well-rested. Plus, I’d like to get the most out of my investment in that memory foam mattress. It cost the better part of the money I inherited from my father, but I still think it was totally worth the $300—it’s the same kind NASA astronauts use when they’re boinking mistresses in Cape Canaveral.

6:01 AM: Wake up. Use restroom.
You don’t need an alarm clock when you have an active bladder, but it is a useful thing to have around. The beeping noise serves as a nice transition from the recurring nightmare I have where the Muppet Beaker slices my face off to wear as his own, to the reality of everyday life, where I just look an awful lot like him.

6:53 AM: Consider calling a urologist. Make breakfast.
I used to eat a complete and balanced breakfast, but now that I’m in a crunch for time—I’ll just go for the side represented by the most lovable cartoon mascot.

7:10 AM: Watch the previously-recorded sunrise.
As long as a marathon of “The Bernie Mac Show” isn’t running, this should only take a few minutes, America.

11:00 AM: Call friends and family to say goodbye.
If there’s anything that warrants being taken out to lunch, it’s dying soon. I think I’ll skip the peach cobbler, though. If there’s anything that warrants your grave being spat on, it’s ordering dessert on someone else’s dime—especially when they needed to be back at work fifteen minutes beforehand.

14:37: Give the 24-hour clock a try.
Now that I am completely free of inhibitions, there isn’t anything I’m not game for.

3:12 PM: Call enemies and family members who refused to pay for your lunch to air your final grievances.
There’s no better way to work up an appetite than ranting and raving. Well, besides not eating.

5:02 PM: Learn to speak a foreign language. Go skydiving.
It’s a long jump, so it helps to be able yell things at the top of your lungs in a couple of different tongues. I can imagine most of the skydiving guides in the States are tired of hearing the boring old English “Ahhh!” by now.

6:17 PM: Stare solemnly at a duck-filled pond as the sun sets.
If that doesn’t get me laid, I’ll pay a visit to an old high school girlfriend that lives nearby. The scent of down makes her go wild with lust. I can only hope my violent sneezing fits don’t wake her husband up. It’s somewhat of a turnoff.

7:03 PM: Eat a dinner fit for an archduke.
I don’t want an extra helping of blood pudding weighing me down and keeping me from ascension. Especially since those unpaid parking tickets and unfortunate selling the vital organs of drifters to get through college incident already have the deck stacked against me.

8:59 PM: Wrestle with thoughts, younger brother Jimmy.
Whoever pins me first gets to join me for ice cream.

11:35 PM: Pour a glass of whiskey, grab a cigar, sit down in my favorite recliner, and wait for Death to come take me away.
I’ll probably wait to light the cigar until I know for sure that it’s over, as I’ve been burned before.

It was Aristotle himself who first described humans as “social animals,” and indeed his observation from 350 B.C. has been borne out by a considerable body of research in the field of evolutionary anthropology. Human beings have developed in such a way that gathering in groups is not merely advantageous but essential for the survival of both the individual and the species. Therefore, given the innate disposition of humans to congregate, it seems reasonable to ask: Why didn’t anyone come to my party?

While it is true humans are not wholly unique in their collaborative tendencies—one immediately thinks of ants, canines, lions, and certain termites—no other primate even approaches the social interdependence exhibited by human beings, a phenomenon strongly at odds with the fact that it is now past 11 and not a single person is here.

I’ve been sitting by myself in my living room for three hours, this LCD Soundsystem album playing for no one. This is a state of isolation that, many scholars would argue, flies in the face of everything we know about the vital role of group dynamics in human evolution, which has been demonstrated to be indispensable for defense, procuring food, and child-rearing, among other factors necessary for the survival of a species.

I mean, even Dan hasn’t shown up.

Dr. Michael Tomasello of the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology has shown in his work on collective cognition that, in essence, I should not be going downstairs every 20 minutes to make sure the buzzer’s working because humans are hardwired to coalesce into groups. The fact that I am watching this muted Denzel Washington movie on TNT instead of making out with a member of the opposite sex against a wall just contradicts our very engineering.

Also consider this scenario through the prism of developmental psychology. Humans possess a neural capacity for empathy that guides us from the day we are born, when, as babies, we cry at the sound of another baby crying. In other words, we are attuned to each other’s emotional needs from the womb before we can even feed ourselves or tend to our bodily functions. This surely means that all the people who aren’t here—and who were given plenty of notice, by the way—must feel a profound sense of unease at leaving me all alone staring at an unopened jug of margarita mix and wondering when I should just blow out the tea candles and call it a night.

Frankly, the cognitive dissonance they must be experiencing has to be overwhelming, particularly for Stephanie, who not only said she’d come and but actually offered to bring a punch bowl, too.

Of course, given that humanity’s cooperative instincts are tempered by the impulse to pay tribute to the alpha male within a group, it is possible that everyone just went to Kyle’s party instead. All the girls think he’s sexually attractive. He’s got a nicer apartment, too, and probably has some guy deejaying. Yep, just the kind of asshole you always see at the top of any primate dominance hierarchy, except of course for that of the more matriarchal bonobo.

As for me, I am now in the unfortunate position of the outcast who, while no longer in the physical peril from the predators he would have faced earlier in our evolution, is nevertheless left entirely on his own, with his inborn urges to socialize and procreate unsatisfied. Therefore, I shall now masturbate into this tube sock.

A bird in the hand is worth freaking out over.

That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Especially if it’s a lame-ass gluten free cookie.

Listen to your Heart. And then listen to The Indigo Girls. Compare and Contrast.

You’re only as old as you feel. And my, your skin feels papery.

If at first you don’t succeed, for the love of God don’t re-tweet.

Denial means never having to say you’re sorry.

When one door closes, you might be locked out.

When God closes a door, he doesn’t want you to come in.

An apple a day drowns under your Big Gulp.

Go to bed angry. You stopped making sense hours ago.

Everybody is a winner. There are no losers. But you still can’t sit at our table.

Do what you love and the money will follow. It may never catch up, however.

People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. No one should throw stones. It’s just not a good idea.

Your not losing a daughter. You’re paying for a very expensive party and then they’re both moving in with you due to the economy.

March to the beat of your own drummer, and then settle down. You look funny when you march.

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FRANKLIN, WI—Though the Green Bay Packers solidly defeated the Chicago Bears by 10 points Sunday, Packers fan Randy LaBelle reached into the depths of his being after the victory to bitch about the team’s inconsistency when converting third downs and missed red-zone opportunities. “It’s nice that we were able to run the ball against the Bears’ defense, but we get so conservative at the end of games and let teams hang in there,” said LaBelle, who also noted that the Packers gave up more than 300 yards through the air on the way to their 27-17 victory. “And why is McCarthy giving the ball to Starks when Ryan Grant is clearing running way better. We should be beating every team by at least 17 points. Jesus Christ.” LaBelle reportedly spent the offseason complaining about the Packers’ dropped passes and poor choice of run plays during their Super Bowl victory.

Get a pack of Big League Chew and share it with everyone. They will say “Ann is so nice” plus they will owe you big time.

Memorize the words to the rap “Parents Just Don’t Understand” without looking at the album cover. You must also know some Steve Miller songs. That way you won’t shout “CHUG-A-LUG!” when everyone else shouts “JUNGLE LOVE! It’s driving me mad, it’s making me crazy crazy”

Go with your best friend. If you don’t have a best friend pick someone to be your best friend immediately so you can create your private jokes.

Private jokes prove you’re better friends than everyone else. Meg and I went swimming with my Stepmom off the pier. There was an incredibly hot and gorgeous sixth grader there named Ted. I can’t even remember what he said. We ate cheese and crackers that day and now when we say “cheese and crackers” it is like saying “remember Ted and how we ate cheese and crackers” but cooler because no one else knows what it means and everyone wants to know what it means.

Laugh really loud and for a long time every time you say your private jokes. When people beg you to know what is always so hilarious, you try to catch your breath and say “Nothing, nothing. Just a private joke.” Then start laughing again.

Make your bangs into a beautiful blossom. You will need Finesse and a butane curling iron in your locker.

Open your eyes extra wide and blink less. If your best friend asks “Why do you look all jacked up?” ask what she is even talking about. Next say “Whatever.” This is how to look beautiful.

After you are done inventing private jokes, you need to invent a secret signal. Meg and I use a loud whooping bird noise. You will be surprised how much easier it is to hear a whooping bird instead of just the name “Ann.” And that way you know it is your best friend searching for you and not just some random fool.

Now I am going to talk about penny loafers. Only put pennies in your penny loafers. They are not called nickel loafers. No doy.

You are going to have to be nice to every single person for a long time. Now that we are older the ugly girls can be popular too. You want everyone to say “Ann is the nicest girl I have ever met” about you. If you are so nice and as pretty as Kim the whole entire bus will scream “BYE KIM BYE KIM” when you get off, and you can do that thing where you turn around and smile and wave like a baby.

Good luck and p.s. when you make friends don’t do a French braid or you will look abnormal. If your bangs are perfectly blossomed your head might not look like an egg, but only if you are a magnificent braider.

BLOOMINGTON, IN—As Indiana University students began moving into their assigned residence halls Wednesday, freshman Martin Mattucci told his new roommate Corey Dwire not to worry about hiding his acts of masturbation. “I just want you to know, right off the bat, that I’m cool with you jerking off when I’m around,” said Mattucci, who added that any other arrangement would be impractical considering the two would be sharing a 10-by-10-foot room for the next nine months. “If I walk in while you’re rubbing one out, just keep right on going. The way I see it, it would be more awkward if you stopped. By the way, my name’s Martin.” Mattucci added that he always keeps plenty of paper towels and moisturizer around for just such occasions, so Dwire should feel free to let him know if he’s running low or needs extra.

What you said in June: It’s so nice out. I’m definitely going to start jogging every day. It was the cold weather that was holding me back before. Beach body, here I come!

What you said in July: Sweet Jesus it’s hot. I definitely can’t go running now. I’m not being lazy. It’s just a health hazard to run in temperatures above 82 degrees. I have to be mindful of my health.

What you you’re saying now: Ok, maybe jogging isn’t for me. I mean, I went that one time and it was really boring. If not for the excruciating cramps and the need to stop every minute to pretend to tie my shoe, I probably would have died of boredom. Maybe I’ll join a gym in the fall. Yeah. I’ll definitely do that.

What you said in June: Yes! We HAVE to go to a water park this summer. They are SO fun. Remember that time like 10 years ago? Greg was insane. Man, that was the best. We HAVE to go.

What you said in July: There’s still time. It’s crazy that the summer’s already half way done though. But I called Greg. He’s IN. We’ll probably go in a couple weekends, or the weekend after.

What you’re saying now: F*cking Greg! He screwed this up. I was ready to go. Now it’s probably too late. I mean, we’re both free this weekend, but, ugh, I think I need something a bit more low-key.

What you said in June: Christmas was five months ago. I’m going to toss this bad boy on the tracks if “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” comes up on shuffle again while I’m waiting for the train. Right after the saxophone solo.

What you said in July: I guess I forgot to take “All I Want For Christmas Is You” off here, but that’s all right. Some songs are just too good to keep pent up in an external hard drive until December 1st. I don’t care what that gal next to me on the bus thinks. She’s probably just jealous of Mariah’s pipes.

What you’re saying now: Christmas is five months away. Time to bust out the second best Wham! song I’ll deny listening to in public.

What you said in June: I’m tired of looking like an over-sized fifth grader in these cargo shorts. I’ll head over to that store my ex-girlfriend used to talk so much about once it gets too hot for these slacks she bought me right before we broke up.

What you said in July: There’s no way I’m paying full trouser price for only half the material. Especially when I have no idea how much higher or lower than my knee they’re supposed to be. Plus, what kind of self-respecting professional would even consider wearing shorts to work?

What you’re saying now: What’s the easiest way to reattach legs to pants?

What you said in June: This is a great idea. We’re grown-ups now. I think we can get this together. Greg says he has a buddy who does something related to vacation rentals, so he’s going to hook it up.

What you said in July: You don’t want to use up your beach weekend too early in the summer. Obviously. You have to save it till regular summer stuff gets boring. And drinking while leaning my upper body on my fire escape is still pretty fun.

What you’re saying now: Fucking Greg! He said he’d be able to hook this up no problem, but now he says he can only get us a Tuesday-Thursday rental at peak rates. Who wants to do that? No one.

FOXBOROUGH, MA—Upon seeing a brief, intimate clip of quarterback Tom Brady completing a gorgeous pass at the Patriots’ training camp, the nation drifted into intense visions of love Friday night. “I’ve never felt this way before about anything,” SportsCenter viewer Ron Barragan said Saturday morning, crying softly as he recounted his previous night’s visions to his family. “It was like the entire world was dancing with Tom to one joyful song. It was beautiful. Everything is just beautiful.” When reached for comment, Brady flipped his hair, turned to America, and winked.