Three coffins, one lead, one silver, one gold sit in a room, one of them containing Dracula. Each coffin has a description.

Lead: Dracula is here.

Silver: Dracula is not here.

Gold: Dracula is not in lead.

At most, one inscription is true. Where is Dracula and why? You may only open one coffin. If you open the wrong one, you die. If you open the right one, you are granted one wish.

There are no trick answers. Dracula is in one of them.

A gypsy told me this riddle. No joke. I thought about it for two hours before I got it. It should take no more than five minutes.

Today is Valentine’s Day and so I’m going to be a bit sentimental and share with you a poem I once wrote for someone I loved. I hope you enjoy it…I don’t normally get this sentimental, so please be sensitive.

<3 <3 The Night (I Found My Love) <3 <3

The night was cold, the rain was falling soft
And in my heart I knew that love had bloom’d.
The soft white face and lips my mind had oft
Dreaméd about; naively I assumed
The favor was returned in full and whole
That we would be as one for evermore.
An overwhelming yearning in my soul
Cried that this was what I’d been looking for.

The night wore on and smitten though I was
I found the strength to share my secrets bold
And listened -my heart fluttered as it does-
While sim’lar thoughts from you came to unfold.
While music played, I sought to hold you tight
And wish you’d never want to leave my side.
Inside my head I knew our time was right.
My love for you I could no longer hide.

The night died down and then I had to choose
To spill my heart or let my true love flee.
As our eyes locked my mind began to muse:
You were too good, too beautiful for me.
I left you then in shock and silent awe
And watched my love fade slowly in the rain
And knew the choice I’d made -from what I saw-
Was one I’d never choose to make again.

The night had died; the fear I’d never see
My love again tore swiftly o’er my face.
But then a jolt spread quickly over me!
My true love here! You seemed so out of place!
Your hair so fine and eyes so dark and pure!
Your smile and body causing me to shake!
My loins did burn and yet, I was not sure
That it was you; my knees began to quake.

Your finest features glistened from the rain.
My man stick pumped, my jeans became so tight.
I did not want to fumble once again
And stared at you and chose my words just right.
And lo, I knew I lovéd what I saw
And looked at you again and, filled with glee,
I stared into the mirror on the wall
And said, “Fuck yes, I am in love with me!”

Holy shit, I just came.

Other than for serving as a vessel to further stroke my own massive ego, Valentine’s Day is useless. It’s just another day smack in the middle of the most dreary, depressing, boring fucking month of the year. So in that sense, it’s a reflection of almost every relationship ever. I’m sure there are people who will argue that Valentine’s Day is a day to express love and joy towards others. Those people are stupid. And pussies.

We get it: you think you’re in love with someone and that you should publicly display this love for everyone to see. Strangers send strangers gifts for no reason and don’t leave return addresses. Stalkers crawl out of the woodwork like emotionally unstable, butcher-knife wielding cockroaches. Morons go on and on about how much they love their boyfriend/girlfriend and how this day allows them to show the world how much they love one another.

Fuck that and fuck you.

If you do that shit on any day other than Valentine’s Day, you’re considered a prick or a sexual predator. What they should call Valentine’s Day is “The Lauding Pricks and Sexual Predators as Hopeless Romantics Extravaganza.” At least then it’s a more accurate description.

Some people will say that I’m lashing out at people who like Valentine’s Day because I’m jealous of people with relationships. Yeah, I’m really pissed that I don’t have someone to constantly nag me for sitting around in my underwear, farting and watching TV. I’m really upset that I don’t have someone expecting me to buy her shiny, expensive trinkets on inane holidays to keep her from lopping my penis off in my sleep. I’m crying in my dick-beard over the monotony of a committed relationship in which I can’t see or speak with other people for fear of igniting a jealously induced, dick chopping rage due to her insecurity. You guys caught me. Please, sign me up for an opportunity to experience all these joys as soon as possible.

Valentine’s Day is for people who have boring relationships and need an excuse to take the drabness out of it but won’t try anal.

If there’s one reason I love Valentine’s Day, it’s because I get to spend an entire day with my one true love. Me.

-Fuck Valentine’s Day.

For those of you who don’t know, Lent is a Christian tradition in which people give up an object of affection beginning on Ash Wednesday (the day after Mardi Gras) and ending on Easter Sunday. It’s a symbolic gesture of sacrifice akin to that of the Christian Lord and Savior Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ’s death on a cross for the salvation of mortal souls. I have a couple of friends who happen to be Christian and decided to give up something for Lent: pop, candy, Facebook…you know, things only people without hair on their nuts would give up because they need diapers to eat spicy food and are generally whiny cry babies. After a few of these taint scabs told me things they were giving up, I felt it necessary to fuck start their skulls and propose they give up something that requires something more than a pulse and blind fear of a god to do. Too easy.

If you’re a Christian fanatic who can’t think of something bad ass to give up during Lent, I have complied a list of things only real men and a few women’s basketball players would have the balls to give up.

* Masturbation

Ever been addicted to nicotine, morphine or heroin? People will try to tell you that those drugs are some of the hardest things to give up. But, in the end, it’s possible. How many times have you ever heard of someone giving up masturbating for any amount of time, let alone 40 days? Never. And if you have, that person was lying to you. If you combined all the addictive elements of nicotine, morphine, heroin and beef jerky, you wouldn’t even be close to the sheer dependency masturbation holds over anyone who’s ever done it. The only positive that comes out of giving this up is that you will be angry. All the time. You will shout at children for no good reason. You will abuse the elderly. You will punch loved ones in the face while you sleep and at funerals. You will fuck mattresses and grapefruits and call it legitimate sex.

Everything you say or hear will connote masturbation. The story of how your aunt finished off cancer treatment? Yep. The time your grandfather told you how he beat off a slew of raccoons gnawing at your father’s genitals, which, coincidentally, explains your aptitude in being a completely inept bag of fuck? Absolutely. The promise your uncle made to you not to jerk off inside your ass, but would pull out and douse your sister in her sleep? You bet your traumatized, sodomized ass.

The dilemma of asking yourself “What pants do I wear today,” will have only one answer, and that answer is wrong. Too tight and you’ll swear there’s nothing better than thigh fucking yourself. Too loose and you’ll join Greenpeace to pay back Mother Nature for the incredible blow job she gave you. The only option you have is man up and get laid. Except you couldn’t get laid if you were a Persian rug. You lose.

* Menstruating

Myth has it that Jesus gave his blood for the salvation of all peoples. One person’s blood is more than enough for mankind. Do yourself and everyone else a favor and stop menstruating. I know some people will argue that it’s impossible to do so unless you’re a crusty old lady. I ask, what kind of Christian are you? Jesus fucking DIED for your soul. You can’t give up belching blood from the ol’ squish mitten for 40 days? How much more selfish can you be? I guess if you aren’t willing to give up menstruating, how about giving up bitching about it? We know, you’re cramping and irritable. Get over it, pussy. We don’t care.

* Breathing

Imagine how grateful Jesus would be if you just decided to stop breathing for 40 days. That would be one hell of a sacrifice. And in the end you’d be closer to Jesus than ever. Shit, I might even respect you if you managed to pull that off (See?). Don’t hold your breath though. Actually, do. Forever.

* Being a fat fucking slob.

Seriously, just because you have big tits doesn’t make you attractive. Stop wearing fucking cutoff shirts. The last thing I need is a reason to avert my eyes from the one marginal pair of assets you have by means of an amorphous glob of “it’s genetic” spilling over the waistband of your homeless-lady sweatpants. Just because you can’t squeeze your fat ass into a pair of fucking men’s 48 waist jeans doesn’t give you the right to dress like a fucking vagrant. By the way, pulling your thong so far up your ass that it comes out half digested is just fucking wrong. Dick, meet hot oven door. Yeah, we see it half way up the small of your back. Can fat chicks even call it that, the small of the back? Probably not…it would justify them eating another eight pies if you describe anything on them small. And yeah, you think you can pull it off. You can’t. It’s gross. It’s like looking at a sumo wrestler’s ass crack. Stop it. Lose some weight for Christ’s sake. Literally.

-Jesus high fived me for my ideas right before he rode his motorcycle into the sun.

Have you ever been walking along, thinking about how unimaginably huge my scrotum must be to house my gargantuan nuts when your thoughts have been interrupted by some moron dragging her feet on the ground? Holy shit, it drives me up a fucking wall just thinking about it. How hard it is to pick your feet up when you’re walking so you don’t sound like a dumb fucking caveman when you move? A lot of times, people who drag their feet are doing one or more of the following annoying activities: talking on their cellphones about how much their tits hurt because they’re on their period, picking their shit stained pink thongs out of their cavernous asses and debating whether or not to smell their fingers, protesting globalization or giving to charity. I understand what a challenge it is for you clods to put one foot in front of the other without swallowing your tongues out of sheer stupidity but picking up your feet makes it that much easier. Every time I hear shoes scrape against concrete because people are too fucking lazy or stupid to pick up their fucking feet, I curse their mothers for not being more liberal jiggling the coat hanger in their disgraceful and unfortunately fertile wombs. On top of this, a lot of the people who walk like lobotomy patients tend to wear shitty backless shoes. Maybe if you dumbasses had backs on your fucking Birkenstocks you’d be able to walk like someone who didn’t smooth concrete for a living. “But Rigolega, if Birkenstocks had backs, they wouldn’t be Birkenstocks. They’d be shoes!” That’s the point you stupid fucking mouth breather. Put on a pair of shoes and use those hams on both sides of your overused sperm snagger to lift your feet a fucking inch off the ground, you useless bitch.

Birkenstocks fucking suck. Everyone I know who wears Birkenstocks thinks they’re so fucking great. They’re so easy to put on, they’re so comfortable, they’re so stylish. No. Birkenstocks are for fucking wimps. How hard is it to put on a pair of shoes and tie the fucking laces? Oh wait, I forgot that you idiots can hardly manage to breathe and piss at the same time without losing your balance and drowning in the toilet bowl. Birkenstocks are nothing more than glorified slippers. Only mental ward patients, child molesters and old people wear slippers outdoors. One time, I put on a pair of Birkenstocks for fun. Just kidding. Wearing Birkenstocks is about as fun as jamming a knitting needle in your dick hole to dig a fire ant out of your urethra. It’s also impossible to do any kind of ass kicking in Birkenstocks because they’d fly off mid leg swing. Unless you’re trying to hit someone with a projectile shoe, which is a defense mechanism of prostitutes, Birkenstocks are worthless. I swear the next girl that drags her feet in my presence because she’s wearing Birkenstocks is going to have a giant mushroom stamp on her tits after I club her with my dick.

I’m tired of seeing (alleged) guys prancing around in Birkenstocks like they’re the best thing since free streaming lesbian porn. The other day I was walking to class, kicking squirrels and cock slapping skanks into gutters when this putz with Birkenstocks started dragging his feet in front of me. He was on his cell phone, talking about how we was going to get his lip pierced because his slam pig girlfriend wanted them to have matching piercings. Or maybe he was asking his mother to send him a box of tampons for his monstrously wide vagina. I was too busy teabagging a hooker into the path of an oncoming street sweeper to listen. Either way, in the process of dragging his feet like an ass spelunking Neanderthal, the grating of his Birkenstocks against the concrete started getting on my nerves, so I ran up to him and suplexed him onto a nest of hornets. He was crying and swelling up like my cock when I finish slaughtering bears and eating them in one bite. He kept asking me to call an ambulance because he was allergic to bee stings. I told him to stop being an idiot because he was getting stung by hornets, not bees. Not wanting manslaughter charges on my hands, I remembered that pissing on stings helps neutralize the pain. But more importantly, I remembered that my piss cures cancer. So I pissed in a wheelbarrow and threw him in it. In the process, I forgot how incomprehensibly massive my nuts were and smothered a sorority. Fuck Birkenstocks.

-Girls dragged their feet in my presence on purpose so they could have their tits mushroom stamped.

Every so often, there is an event that occurs that can hardly be described without the use of sesquipedalian words so monumental that the average ignoramus reading this web page is forced to shit his pants in agony over his inability to comprehend the magnificence of the event. While any day I wake up and swing my massive nuts out of my bed of hot sauce drenched scorpions conforms to such an event, it just so happens that there was a gathering which garnered the same sort of awe inspiring jaw droppage recently. Thus, I, the Great Rigolega, deemed it necessary to impart the myth of the aforementioned event, subsequently known as Pat-a-palooza.

But since the audience that reads this page can hardly elevate its own fly without getting its collective cock caught in its zipper, let alone elevate its vocabulary to a level slightly higher than the average hobo, allow me reiterate (that means re-say it with smaller words, you morons): Pat-a-palooza was the fucking tits.

Before you mistake Pat-a-palooza for the aural holocaust that is Lollapalooza, let me reassure you that the former was more tantalizing for the senses than Turkish bathhouse whereas the latter is a constant reminder why the human race is doomed to a lifetime of suckage. I stumbled into Pat-a-palooza while walking around without a shirt, drinking 95% alcohol by volume whiskey mixed with the sweat and tears of virgins and children. The first thing I noted were two chums of mine, Pedey and DaltonB standing on the porch of my buddy DTrain’s house. When I asked them in a deep, bowel moving grunt, what they were doing there DaltonB spat a stream of pure American tobacco and grunted back: “Bouncing.” Then, from out of nowhere, Pedey roundhouse kicked some asshole in a pink shirt through a picture window and proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Then he grabbed some chick’s tits. Her boyfriend got pissed, so Pedey ripped his throat out. Then he threw the guy up in the air and teabagged him across the street into a group of elderly power walkers. He then proceeded to recite the three rules of bouncing from Road House (which is the best movie about bouncing and shit kicking this side of the Mason-Dixon line). Pedey successfully completed introduction to ass-kicking within the first 30 seconds of my arrival. After he brushed himself off and lit a fat cigar, he turned to me and said, “So will you put this on your web page? Huh? Please? That was so worthy of it.” I shook my head in disappointment and proceeded into the backyard. I dropped my goblet of children’s tears in the shock of what I saw.

No, it wasn’t plethora of drunk, hot chicks rubbing their tits on anything with a pulse; it wasn’t the eight kegs sitting out on the deck, begging to be tapped; nor was it the over-the-hill classic rock cover band playing on the lawn. While all of these were impressive in their own right, the thing that made me drop my testicle enhancing elixir was the presence of a real life, stinky and sloppy bum. “Holy shit! A bum!” I proceeded to shout, shaking him by the shoulders and demanding he regale me with tales of his bummery. People noticed the bum and started taking pictures with him. One guy rode him like a horse. Three people fought the bum. But all he did was stand there, smoking his tightly rolled cigarette, bobbing his head to the band and, as all bums do, pissing himself. After a short time, I got bored with the bum, so Pedey threw him out in an impressive manner. It gave me a mild but not life-threatening boner. I nodded in approval. Pedey nodded back and, lighting four cigarettes at once like a real man, he spat and said “Come on dude, how awesome was that? You definitely have to put that on your site.” Again, I shook my head and walked away.

After a few hours of sitting around, flexing my massive pecs and springing critical wood at hot chicks, I joined DaltonB on the front porch to discuss the finer points of anal sex with three chicks at once. While in the midst of a discussion concerning the morality of “Ass-to-Mouth Economics,” we noticed a guy stumble out of the alley. He couldn’t walk on his own and was bleeding profusely from the head. He fell down and began puking all over the lawn, getting vomit in his head wound. Now, I did what any sane human being would do in this situation: I laughed until I sharted. DaltonB, being a good bouncer, picked him up by the scruff of his neck and threw him through an oncoming car’s windshield and told the driver to “drive until he didn’t have any gas left.” No one messes with DaltonB, primarily because he’s 6′4″, 350 pounds of ass kickery, which is why it took three chick to blow him after this display of manliness. I retired to the backyard once more and met up with my friend TheSister and her friends TheMarried and TheEngaged. TheSister was being hit on by several guys, all of whom retreated when I shot them optical impetus; my glare is the substance of children’s nightmares. However, there was one doughy guy who kept up his (sorry excuse for) game. Figuring he could do no more harm than chafing his pud when he went to rub one out in his parents’ basement later that night, I didn’t interfere. Gentleman, a piece of advice: if you feel awkward around a woman and think she’s not interested in you, you’re right. She’s interested in me, so go jump nose first in the trough. You might pick up a pig there.

After an hour of shooting the shit with TheSister, I walked around to continue my conversation with DaltonB. However, he and Pedey were in the midst of an argument with some prick and a few girls who wanted their money back because they “weren’t drinking.” Pussies. Like real men, DaltonB and Pedey were having none of it and drop kicked the prick through a brick wall. Then they titty slapped the girls into orgasm, and they left. I nodded my approval once more. Pedey flexed a gigantic biceps and looked at me with a glare. As he opened his mouth I said, “Don’t. Listening to you is like listening to a deaf girl masturbate.” He nodded. I nodded. Then he fucked a deaf chick.

After this display of bouncing that would give The Swayze a woody, DaltonB was relieved from his post and went home to bang six chicks at a time (I assume). After a couple more hours of maneuvering my boner through the throng of hot chicks and making sure TheEngaged wasn’t raped by a scum, a fight broke out. I looked for the bum, but he was long gone. As it turned out, two brothers started throwing punches at TheSister’s cousin. Naturally, they had their asses handed to them because while everyone was flexing his beer muscles, I was throwing javelins through torsos. Pools of vomit and blood gathered on the sidewalk while drunk women rubbed cocoa butter on my triceps. I commanded that they gather me a goblet of virgin tears and even with all the crying they did over their amazement of my presence, not one could drop a virgin tear in my goblet. Cunts.

Ten minutes after my javelin throwing spectacle, officers of the law showed up, firing bullets wildly and for no reason. I deflected the bullets with my nuts, but a few ricocheted off my pubes and found their way into anyone with a popped collar. TheSister, TheMarried and TheEngaged and I walked out and began the trek back to TheSister’s house. About a block from her house, we noticed we were being followed by someone in a gold sedan. Nothing screams “I rape strangers” like a gold sedan. The girls were getting nervous, but I remained calm. As he rolled through the alleyway where TheMarried’s car was parked, the sedan crept towards us. They all piled into the car and I stood out in front of it. Hand on my zipper, I was prepared to whip out my nuts and crush the sedan with the force of a thousand gang rapes. But before I could, the sedan elevated and was tossed fifty feet away, where it exploded into a towering inferno. I turned and saw Pedey standing there. I nodded in approval and he said, “Dude, when you put that on your website, make sure you tell them how awesome it was that I threw that car.” I nodded as I ESPed him a vasectomy.

In short, Pat-a-palooza was an arousing success. Nothing can ruin anything that has eight kegs, hot drunk chicks, Road House-esque bouncers and Rigolega’s huge nuts all in one. Not even the homeless.

-Masturbating deaf girls moaned when they heard…erm…signed about Pat-a-palooza.

(Note: Before I begin, I’m going to share with you a little known fact: in terms of sex and baseball, anal is a triple, vaginal is a home run. A number of players hit 30-40 home runs in a year but it takes someone quick and with the ability to put the balls in just the right spot and grind around the dirt path to chalk up even one triple a year. And, in the end though triples are fun to watch and talk about, a home run is a guaranteed run; you can get shat on hitting a triple if you never come in to score.)

Independence Day is the greatest day ever. A day when every red, white and blue blooded American sits around in his backyard, consuming large amounts of meat, alcohol and tobacco, all while blowing things up in honor of our forefathers who freed us from the drab tea drinking British rule hundreds of years ago. More than simply an American holiday and institution, the Fourth of July is the best holiday ever, for the following reasons.

It’s hot outside: Hot weather is awesome. It means scantly clad hot chicks walking around with no shame. It often translates to hoses being used to cool off the aforementioned hot chicks which turns dry hot chicks to soaking wet hot chicks, mostly wearing white bikinis and feeding me grapes. And nothing says America like glistening fake tits in front of an American flag. It makes me proud to be an American. Hand me the KY, I’m about to hit a triple.

Alcohol consumption on a weekday: If you’ve ever needed an excuse to drink on a Wednesday without being considered a drunk (because alcoholics go to meetings and really, who has time for meetings when there’s drinking to do?), raise your beer can to the likes of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. They fought hard and thought diligently for your freedom. Actually, raise your beer can for every founding father who signed that Declaration of Independence. Yep, all 56 of them. Come on you pussy, you still need to drink one for Washington. I don’t care that he didn’t sign the Declaration, he led the army to victory! And he was the first President! He had a brain for his heart and two sets of testicles! Drink two for him! If you’re still conscious after that, proudly pump your fists; you’re a real American.

Tobacco is prevalently used: The Fourth gives everyone a chance to relax with a fine American tradition: tobacco. Be it cigarette, cigar or straight chewing tobacco, it is perfectly acceptable to enjoy a fine American staple crop like tobacco along with some corn mash bourbon. Unless you’re a pussy and bitch about smoking and drinking. Back when this country was founded, men were men and didn’t whine and bitch about things like how tobacco kills people. These days, lots of people complain that tobacco is bad for you. Actually, it has been proven that tobacco is awesome and only crybaby bitches disagree. George Washington loved snuff and he led America to victory in the Revolution; FDR smoked like a chimney and led America to victory in WWII; try and say that doesn’t fuck some big titties. You can’t. Unless you’re a pinko. So even if you don’t normally use tobacco, show your support for this great nation and have a smoke, or at least stop bitching about how smokers are killing themselves. They know and they don’t give a fuck.

There are explosions: The Fourth is the one day where it’s not only socially acceptable but also expected that shit will blow up. Explosions rock. Be they M-80s going off in a garbage can (bonus point if there’s a bum living there) or straight up fireworks (double bonus points hot embers get in the eyes of America hating hippies), explosions are a trademark of American celebration. Combine this with the fact that there are always tits on the Fourth and children are doubtlessly harmed or at least put in their place by veterans and/or drunk fathers/grandfathers, the Fourth of July would definitely be the greatest movie ever.

No gift giving: Though a holiday, no one has to get gifts for anyone on the Fourth. So it’s got all the festivities of Christmas, Thanksgiving or a hated family member’s funeral without all the touchy bullshit that comes along with most holidays. Shit, the only gift that might get given on the Fourth is a dick in the ass of some hot drunk chick…and that’s a gift that keeps on giving until she can’t handle it anymore. This is a great perk. The Fourth is like marrying a hot mute woman: all the good looks, none of the bitching.

Meat is consumed in gluttonous proportions: Animals: good for petting even better for eating. What better way to celebrate being a red blooded American than by eating a vast amount of red meat? Steak, burgers, dogs, ribs, all excellent appetizers. But nothing beats killing a live boar with your bare hands and eating it raw, like a real American. Except the fact that Joey Chestnut made Kobayashi his bitch this year in Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest! What a fucking bad ass! USA! USA!

The Fourth of July is fucking amazing. It has everything: explosions, tits, red meat, alcohol, tobacco and unrelenting pride. Holy shit, the Fourth of July is practically a porno. All I can say is take me America. Take me to your fertile plain and mountains’ majesty. And back me up when the police ask why I’m caught having sex with your fertile plain. The police never understand when I explain it as till the valley of the only woman I love and say “fucking a hole in the ground” is inexcusable.

-America is the fucking tits.