People of the Internet: the planet is about to stop spinning, because I’m out till next Wednesday. I’ve got a buddy visiting me here in Korea so I’m taking a break from the blog slog. I need a bye week. But–I don’t know what I’m going to do without you all. And more importantly, what are you going to do without me. It’s actually been about a year now since I launched this blog, so I think of it as the end of Season One of The Fred Show. We’ve had a good time, haven’t we, talking about Hot Moms and drinking and huge erections and the mass murder of turkeys. Stay tuned for Season Two, which premieres next week. It’s going to be more of the same—just tons of stupid bullshit.

So, be good. I will miss each and every one of you more than the rest of you.

Until next time—

Colton, out.


The Cheaters

File under: News That Will Surprise No One—the Patriots are cheating again. Using deflated balls during last Sunday’s game because they are easier to throw and catch. Well good. That is exactly why I root for them. What other trickery could they have also employed. I would love to know. I like seeing grandmasters like Bill Belichik get away with such trickery on the big stage. It inspires me. To be sly and inventive and find new, “alternate” ways to win. Before you ballyhoo cheating remember it’s the reason America exists. If we didn’t cheat the line ‘em up/mow ‘em down rules of war in 1776 we’d all still have British accents. Now we show up to war with 12 aircraft carriers and a thousand flying robots when everyone else is using 1980s Kalashnikovs and IEDs made out of rice cookers. Cheating is the American way.

And I cheat all the time because I’m playing a game I didn’t ask to be playing: I just woke up on this planet one day and these voices were telling me to get good grades and then get a good job and also try to be happy. That I really had two main choices: 1) cubicle or 2) homelessness. Also, that there were only two ways out: 1) early death or 2) decades of agonizing decay as I lose my memories and functions and transition into a stationary prune with bones of glass, followed by late death. Just remember death is mandatory, even if you end up liking it here. So—a game where you have to run around collecting pieces of paper with dead guys on it, and then someone kills you at the end. Well, fuck that. If you’re going to make me do this, I’m cutting every goddamn corner I can. I probably bribed some angel in Heaven so I’d touch down in the 80s as a white kid. Get the smoothest ride I could. Now I am always weaseling. Always thinking: what is the shortest possible route to a bullshit-free existence. My coffee, a book, a workout, a stout IPA. Girls are nice, too, if they will put up with me. So I moved to a country where I pay $7 for meds when I get a fever. Fuck car insurance, fuck mortgages. I go home to see family and it’s nothing but goddamn errands: call the shop to get the van’s brakes fixed, get a hedge trimmer from Home Depot, go put boxes in the storage unit, go buy gas for $4 a gallon to get around to do all these things. Christ, just—no. I only get one spin at this thing; I’ll pass.

The Reaper is coming and he is going to get me, but fuck him—he’s gonna have to sprint. You cheat him when eat your broccoli and drink your water and go for a hike and sleep for eight hours. He’ll be sluggish; he’s had a lot of easy kills recently from people with Doritos in their arteries. Eventually I’ll collapse and he’ll stagger up to me with his hands on his knees. And right as the scythe falls I’ll kick him in his dusty scrotum.

Anyway, go Pats.

The First Good Monday That Anybody Has Ever Had


My Monday has been legendary and here’s why:

-Thanks to my piece on erections from last week, the Google search term “huge dick” now leads directly to this blog. So I’ve got that going on for me. Well, kind of; the person who ran the search actually typed “huge dicksx.” They were so damn excited to see some pictures of some huge dicks they couldn’t spell “dicks” right. I can imagine how pissed they were to land on a site comprised of walls of text with semicolons and precisely zero pictures of huge dicks.


-After Saturday’s game, the Patriots are once again within striking distance of another Super Bowl. I mean, they do this literally every goddamn year and always lose the Big Game based on a spectacular fluke play in the fourth quarter. But the Manning brothers are both out this year, so there’s hope. And as far as groups of muscular male millionaires who wear tights and are all under the age of 40 go, the Pats are who I pull for.

-I worked with an editor at Cracked.com on a piece that’s running on the front of the site right now. It’s about the misadventures that can be had while teaching abroad and focuses on penises and heavy drinking, mostly.

Here it is: http://www.cracked.com/article_21790_kids-want-to-finger-your-butt-adventures-in-teaching-abroad.html

My blog stats have skyrocketed over the past 24 hours, which means nothing at the end of the day, but whatever. Some people who know my real name have stumbled onto Fredcolton.com and are now acting like they’ve just figured out who Batman is. I’m getting GOTCHA messages. Ah, good for you, sport. Time to promote you to Commissioner. I guess I could be compared to Batman, if Batman spent a lot of time putting out a series of obvious clues to his secret identity. Like, if he ran a blog with Bruce Wayne’s face on it that said I AM BATMAN. People are telling me they think Fred Colton is a stupid name. I picked it because Fred is my grandfather’s name and I like authors whose last names start with “C.” Connelly, Child, Cussler, Coben. So I went to Whitepages.com and chose the first surname I liked. Anyway, hi guys. Also I expect my grandfather will enjoy hearing that I run a blog that has turned into huge dicksx clickbait.

-I’m on vacation now. Going home for a short spell in February. I’ve got a nephew I haven’t met yet who will be my protégé. I also probably have children I haven’t met yet, which is the real reason I moved to Korea and am lurking online under an assumed name. Haha, just kidding. Or am I? I am.

So, I hope you also had a legendary Monday. Colton, out.

Brief Thoughts on Monstrous Erections


I just woke up from a nap in the office with the Burj Khalifa of erections. This one is special, and gentlemen the world over know what I mean—there’s different makes and models of erections. Various degrees of engorgement. Some days you’re a sapling, other days you’re a Redwood. It doesn’t even make sense. I was dreaming about hiking.

For some reason this one is so powerful it hurts—that’s actually why I woke up in the first place. This thing is a stitch-burster. Of course I get one of these at 3:00 PM on a Friday at work. You’re early, dude. I live in Korea but it must still be on East Coast time. I can feel my pulse in it and I’m pretty sure it has its own gravity. Compasses from here to Madrid are now off by 15 degrees; watch the news for reports of battleships running aground on South Pacific Reefs and 767s slamming into the Himalayas.

I’m light-headed. I’m thinking: what, where did this come from. I don’t even think this is mine. There must be a glitch in the Matrix because I am not the Burj Khalifa, I’m the Eiffel Tower at best. It’s like being in Freaky Friday, but instead of swapping bodies with someone we’ve swapped dicks; is anyone out there missing a dick. Today I believe in magic.

Dude, way to show up late. There were some games I had to sit out because you were AWOL. Like that one night when I was 22 and had something good teed up but I’d consumed enough Chinese beer to neuter myself. It’s too bad erections are non-transferrable. Like airline tickets. If God loved us we’d be able to go back in time and hand one of them off like a baton. Or, we’d be able to stash them away for the twilight years. There’s only so much wood in the pile.

Guess I’m just gonna file this one under “Sex.”

At least I'm not the pyramid.
At least I’m not the pyramid.