After eight years, hundreds of sleepless nights, and no less than three premature amazon.com pre-order pages, the second volume of DOs & DON’Ts is finally an actual, for-real book you can actually buy. For real. Like, right now.
We packed DOs & DON’Ts Book 2 with the greatest, most pant-ruining DOs and lowliest, most infuriating DON’Ts from the last decade, as well as all the special celebrity guest editions of the column written by the likes of Rob Delaney, Sam McPheeters, the Fat Jew, and more, then wrapped the whole thing in an eye-catching blueface (NOT BLACKFACE) Jaimie Warren self-portrait and said “There. Fin.” THEN we had a team of lifestyle gurus ergonomically engineer the completed book to perfectly fit both the cistern of the standard US-made toilet and the knees of the standard joint-roller’s lap, and we said “Um, fin again.” Then we laughed for nearly ten minutes at saying “Finnegan” in a French accent (we were a little high).
Long story short, this is the book you’re gonna be wanting on your coffee table, nightstand, bathroom caddy, or wherever else you traditionally use other people’s humor to get laid or balm the wounds of not getting laid. Click here or here to order your copy from the internet right now, or click HERE to RSVP for the book release party July 11 in DUMBO, where you can buy a copy in-person, like a human.
There is also an e-book version where you can zoom way the fuck in on all the pictures to really digest the details, a desktop-calendar version you can use to keep track of your period on, and a moderately-expensive, limited-edition personal DOs & DON’Ts version where the editor will come to your house or place of work at a time of your choosing with some beer and read up to 50 pages aloud for you and your friends. Keep your eyes on the blog for details on each.
Happy summer you guys!
Sadie: You know, the other night my boyfriend said, “You’d think aliens of all people would know by this time if you probe an anus you’re not going to find anything.”
Lorin: Of all people.
Sadie: I hate how Johnny Depp won’t just come out and admit that he’s not a character actor. He makes his handsomeness into a curse, and yet he coasts on it. I don’t like it.
Lorin: That’s not Johnny Depp.
Sadie: Oh, I know.
Fuck, dude. I hate when people spill across the armrest too (especially when they’ve already taken your window seat and are pretending to be asleep to avoid confrontation), but this reaction is a tad extreme, and documenting it after the fact makes you look like a serial killer.
Everything you feel is right. No one cares. You will die alone. There is no reason to keep going. This is as good as it will ever get. Don’t leave a note. Just go. It’s better this way.
I cannot WAIT until Cirque du Soleil does a show based around the groundbreaking music of 311.
Um, can you say “dorbles”? While the rest of the porn convention is packed with waxed Botox monsters who look like latex RealDolls shout-laughing at each other’s coke jokes, these two just breeze right through on a cloud of healthy body image and fleecy red pubic hair. I kind of want to live in their attic.
This is the girl I want to re-lose my virginity to. I bet her cigarette breath smells like puppies.
If only you knew the sheer rapture you feel when a church takes a shit on your chest.