Da Culk was spotted walking the streets of Manhattan on Wednesday by an alert member of the paparazzi, who snapped the shocking snapshot you see above.

Obviously this isn’t strictly the result of diet. So why does he look this way? Is it AIDS? Heroin? Meth? A combo of all three? If so, in what percentages?

Whoever give most creative answer will receive, postage-paid and wrapped in a discreet envelope, a FREE Street Carnage sticker!

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Put your hands up in the air if you’re also a 5′9" Amazonian woman who weighs a whopping 155 pounds.

And then try bending down and touching your toes.

Repeat about 10,000 times, because no matter what your flattering—and probably a few pounds overweight—friends say, you are at least a little bit chunky. And by you, I mean me.

It’s called projection, and it works. I’m still on my dietary kick, and last I weighed myself, I was 155 pounds, which means I’ve lost 5 pounds. Only 20 to go.

I have a goal this year to lose 25 pounds. I don’t expect it to happen overnight, and I don’t expect it to be easy, and I don’t expect it to happen at all. But that’s the goal and the plan, and if I wanted it as much as I wanted to eat ice cream for breakfast and pasta for dinner every night, I’d be 130 pounds in a week.

If you think I sound like I’m out of my mind, consider this—first of all, I partially am, but not in a bad way, in a kooky-artist way. Second of all, I saw a hire notice today for models that had to be at least 5′9" and between a size 0 to 4. 0 to—YES YOU READ CORRECTLY—4. That means that if, say, they’re one of those taller 5′11” models, they could be a little fatter, say a size 3 or 4, because you can’t lose bone no matter how much you starve yourself. Therefore, someplace in the world, there are a mass of 5′9" women who are a size 0, and I want to be a member of that massless mass.

I’m willing to share what I’m learning and gathering so all you "skinny girls" and "skinny boys" can lose the weight that you want to lose. I don’t want to hog all the tips! I don’t think I’m obese, I don’t think I’m fat, I don’t have body-image problems. I think I’m hot, and that line should be read with the cadence of one of those chicks from the Maury Povich show. But I also think that I eat like shit, and if I ate a little better in general, surely the weight would melt off. That’s my hypothesis, so let’s see if it pans out.

I want to add that I’ve been on this diet since January  1 and I’ve lost five pounds in a month. That’s a very low and safe amount, I believe. I think some nutritionists would advise against losing more than a couple pounds a week. I’ve been making mistakes. I’ve eaten sweets. I have been eating at restaurants. But I have been cutting back here and there and it’s made a noticeable difference.

Today, I will share bona-fide guaranteed suggestions of things absolutely not to eat under really almost any circumstances. When I say don’t eat them, I mean DON’T EAT THEM. But if you must eat them, fine, just don’t be a jerk about it, don’t put them into daily rotation, and get off your ass the next day, like, a lot.

FOODS TO AVOID

BREAD

Do not eat it. Ever.

Why: Because it is white and packed with high-fructose carbs. Even a lot of wheat bread is mostly sugar, the bad kind, and even that good hearty yummy brown nutty bread still contains fructose and empty carbs. Avoid bagels, crackers, granola, cereal, most kinds of pasta, and anything white. Avoid it all. Avoid it like it has AIDS.

What to eat instead: Nothing. Air. Communion wafers. If you are really dying for some bread, stop being a baby, wrap your sandwich fixins up in a big ol’ slab o’ green lettuce, and eat the crap out of that crap.

ICE CREAM

Don’t even mess around with it.

Why: This is a no-brainer. If someone has to tell you why you shouldn’t eat ice cream if you are trying to watch your weight or improve your health, you probably already have diabetes.

What to eat instead: Mix frozen fruit in a blender with a small amount of rice milk or nonfat non-dairy creamer and one packet of Splenda. Blend. If you mix the parts right, it will come out the consistency of frozen baby shit and will make your chubby little day. You can eat that with a spoon for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or until you experience kidney failure from lack of actual nutrition.

POTATOES

Yes, I’m serious.

Why: They are kind of like wannabe bread masquerading as a vegetable. Don’t eat most kinds of potatoes in any form, including potato chips, French fries, potatoes au gratin, potato latkes, McDonald’s hash browns, smashed potatoes, or potato salad, also known as, "the fat man’s salad" or "not a salad."

What to eat instead: Not other types of potatoes. If you’re dying for a potato, eat a small baked sweet potato with some yogurt on it, which is kind of the same as wanting a cupcake but instead eating a literal piece of homeless-person feces. That’s what people like you and I get for being in possession of an average metabolism.

PASTA

It’s a no-brainer.

Why: Pasta is kind of like the bread of Italian people, and they typically also eat their own brand of Italian bread with it. If you’re doing the math, that’s bread with a side of bread. Pasta and noodles are in virtually everything, it seems, from soups to spaghetti to being the only thing in your boyfriend’s cabinet, so it’s hard to avoid it, but if you want to live to be older than 50, don’t eat pasta or noodles, and especially not oodles of noodles.

What to eat instead: Your significant other’s bathing-suit areas, which I might add are not calorie-free, but pretty darn close to it.

ANYTHING FROM McDONALD’S

Why: Fast food is processed using literally some of the same chemicals and poisons that people use to clean their houses, which are illegal to sell for consumption in most arenas for obvious reasons. Would you eat chlorine from the bottle that’s been sitting untouched under your bathroom sink since you first moved in to your unkempt apartment? No, so then why eat it as an ingredient in your food, ya dumb ding dong? Don’t eat poison.

What to eat instead: Tree bark, small pebbles, grains of sand, and anything else on the PICA menu, the disease that people have who eat cigarette butts and couch-cushion stuffing.

CHEESE

Irresponsibly, that is.

Why: This is a controversial one, but since you can’t eat cheese like a responsible human being based on the bean-bag chair’s worth of additional flab attached to your stomach, then no cheese for you. While we’re at it, let’s cut out most dairy. No milk, cream, sour cream, or butter either, because it goes straight to your fat.

What to eat instead: Yogurt, those round wheels of cheese like cheeses that have 35 calories each (one per meal), baby bellas, low fat cheese sticks, orange things, things that smell like socks, socks.

WHAT CAN YOU EAT, YOU MAY BE ASKING?

If removing the food items above from your diet has left your cupboard bare, you are so in luck. There are literally thousands of things not on your daily menu that actually taste quite good and are rather satisfying, including:

Steamed cauliflower with hummus, spinach salad with walnuts and cranberries, a spoonful of jam in lowfat cottage cheese, an entire jar of salsa with a spoon (heat it up for a hot, spicy soup), pasta sauce on a normal person’s portion of whole-wheat pasta, steamed Chinese broccoli with soy sauce, black-bean soup made from cooking black beans with a small amount of butter or margarine, blending and then eating with a generous scoop of lowfat yogurt on top, lean chicken, fish or beef, lettuce wraps with any of the above food items on them and so much more. If you’re at a lack for healthy food items, Google "things I can eat and not get fat eating" and have yourself a smörgåsbord.

Good luck!

—JESSICA DELFINO

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The reason I bring it up is I noticed something I have never noticed before. In recent years I have become more aware of infomercials or anything geared toward marketing and why the human mind is lured in by it all. After a long night of drinking I found myself back home, still up in the early morning, listening to an old washed-up symbol of masculinity here to talk to me about dick pills.

But that’s not the infomercial I am here to talk about. It’s the ones that followed. Out of nowhere I got hit with multiple infomercials geared toward products that would be “the perfect Valentine’s Day gift your other half is sure to love.” But there was one that stood out above them all.

As I was watching it, I heard what they were saying but what I was seeing and what I was hearing were completely different. The words were playful and innocent, but what I was being bombarded with visually was a completely different message.

After feeling weird about what just happened, I looked up the video again on the Internet. In a flash of righteousness only a drunk can possess, I felt I had to do something. To expose the infomercial’s subliminal message, I decided I needed to re-record the audio myself.

Here’s the result:

—GOAT SAMPSON

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This photo is display of enormous cold over Europe. I’m watching new YouTube video of most famous Russian porn star Katya Sambuca to encourage myself. Surprisingly, it’s filmed in Greenland:

Now for more of the neat pictures:

1. Street is a best place to find new friends.

2. Yes, we call it luxury.

3. His grandfather is Italian.

4. His dick is so funny, he can’t even piss!

5. Toothpaste tattoos are common nowadays.

6. Lick the licker.

7. I’m still stoned but not alone.

8. I know what you mean.

9. I don’t want this cake. Your t-shirt is gay.

10. Boxing is a new fashion word.

11. Yes he’s overdressed. And he knows it.

12. Give me right trunks and I look like pornstar.

—BORIS THE SPYDER

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—GEN-GEN

You poor pathetic girl….

Must suck to be you………..Sad and revealed…I have lots more emails if anyone would like to see them
 
Oh by the way…you need new car insurance
All my best
M~

The tits on some girl my ex-boyfriend is now fucking.

Dear Gen-Gen:

Looks like he made the right decision. We don’t know what he ever saw in you to begin with.

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Let’s get real, you guys know the buzz: The Japs have got us beat.

Not even the Japs! India! Russia! Shit, the Chinese have a wave of a trillion yellow kids who laugh at our SATs because we’re allowed to bring a calculator and aren’t required to take the exam on an empty stomach.

The buzz is that the US is toast; we’ve lost our edge and it starts with American kids playing MW3 instead of studying teh maths.

Here at Street Carnage, our audience’s wont is to laugh at the rest of America for being naive hicks who couldn’t pronounce “Das Racist” if their McBites depended on it.

But why are WE so fucking smug? Think hipsters are any better?

Case in point: Here’s a math word problem that American elementary school students should be able to answer:

A class has 29 students. Twenty students have dogs; 15 have cats. How many have both dogs and cats?

Now, a Chinaman can solve this within 30 minutes of being pulled from his mother’s digital vagina. That same child will be required to author a math problem that can stump at least 50% of Americans before he’s allowed to taste cow’s milk.

Please post your answers in the comments: If you Google the answer, I can’t even describe the insidious karma you’re bringing upon yourself and this country.

As an incentive to complete this by close-of-business, we’ll publish a short rant and a link from whomever submits the best answer below.

—BENJAMIN LEO

Follow TheBenWord

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Please don’t publish my name.

Dear Joseph:

Yes. You should be afraid.

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I love to watch naked or near-naked people gyrate on stage, I love to poke my dollar in a bikini string, I love to stare at the flash of gash, a quiver of quim, or a dollop of dick. I love to watch naked nipples, and the pulsing spiral of an exposed anus. Yes, in that way I’m normal. 

But I cannot get off on a lap dance. It’s my curse.

No matter what the gender, age, endowment. No matter how hard or light the pressure. No matter if it’s frontward or backward. No matter nothing. Rubbing my stiffened stub from outside my clothes will not give me an orgasm. It may even unstiff the stiffness.

I’m in Guau Guau, a titty bar in Agua Prieta, right over the border from Douglas, Arizona. In one hand is a beer from my 180-peso-a-bucket special. In the other hand is a single dollar bill.

Then there’s Guau Guau, the strip club. You pronounce Guau Guau like WOW WOW in Sonoran Spanish. It means something like BOW WOW! But the girls here are as far from being BOW WOWs as Barack Obama is from being progressive.

Inside the club, on the stage are beautiful girls who give you a kiss when they pick up the dollar you leave.

Yeah, they bug you for lap dances. Walking around after their set, putting their hands on your thigh, asking if you want a private dance. It is a strip club, after all. My friend Tavo is soon off in the back room. He returns with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I’ll buy you one, Mykel,” says Gilberto. “You should do it.”

“No thanks,” I tell him, not going into detail about my personal… er… impairment. “I just like to watch.”

He goes off with one of the more attractive strippers. I keep feeding dollars to the girls on the stage. Each kisses me on the cheek after I slip a bill under an elastic band, near the good part. 

In my 71 years, I must’ve gone to a hundred strip bars…but up ’til now, I’ve never been to one where the strippers kiss the patrons for tipping them. 

The next night, Pamela has gone back to Flagstaff. Ingrid joins our crew for the night. I return to Guau Guau with Gilberto, Tavo, Barichu, and Ingrid. It’s great enough to meet a girl who likes a guy like Barichu. But it’s even greater to meet a girl who likes STRIP CLUBS! This trip I meet two of them! In the 70s, even girls who WORKED in strip clubs didn’t like them. Ah, change is not all negative.

One of Gilberto’s friends gets us in for free. We huddle around the stage, nose-close to the dancers.

Ingrid lays those dollar bills down almost as fast as I do. She gets a flash for each one and a nice peck on the cheek. 

Gilberto brings one of the best strippers, tall, curvy in the special way that Latinas do curves. You know, ass-not-hips. Skin, the color of cinnamon. Breasts like twin Mount Fujis. Makes me want to erupt.

Gilberto speaks to Ingrid in English. “Hey Ingrid,” he says. “You want a lap dance? This one’s the best. I’ll buy you one.”

I laugh.

Ingrid doesn’t.

“Sure,” she says. 

By the time I close my gaping jaw, she and the Chicana walk off to the back. Brown and white, like a peanut butter sandwich made in heaven.

In twenty minutes, Ingrid’s back. Her face glows in the soft light of the club. 

“They were watching me, Mykel,” she says. “All those bodyguards and bouncers. Back there…it’s like an office…with cubicles…she sat on my lap and we were surrounded, these guys…those guys with no necks who work here…they came around to watch…you could see them jiggling themselves…their hands in their pockets.”

“YOU should have charged THEM,” I tell her. 

By this time, another Mexican beauty is on stage. This one darker and more lithe than the first. Like a sexy snake, she slithers full length across the stage… crawling on her arms and legs to the edge. Her petite but proud breasts just touch the wood. She slides right in front of Ingrid and reaches down. 

She grabs both of Ingrid’s arms and pulls her onstage. But our Ingrid isn’t dancing. At least not in the normal sense of the word. She’s lying on her back. The stripper is over her. Rubbing her brown body against the white girl. 

Then the dancer reaches down. She pulls Ingrid’s sweater up, over her head. In the soft light, Ingrid’s breasts, as perky as her personality, sparkle bright and white.

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

Gently, the dancer takes one, then the other nipple in her mouth. 

Looking at the men in the audience, I can see sympathetic tongue movements on each of them. We’re in this together.

Together we lick those nipples. We lick each and then lick down to a place between them. We lick in a line from breast to navel, back to breast. We lick downward again. We press our collective chins against her individual crotch and keep licking. We’re collectively disappointed when Ingrid keeps her pants on. We’re collectively inspired when she licks back at the woman on top of her. We become Ingrid as she takes those brown mounds into her hands. 

All too soon, it’s over. All too soon, we let go of our breath and applaud our collective appreciation. Ingrid puts her sweater back on and climbs down from the stage.

“Guau Guau!” I say.

She smiles and we all walk out to the car.

“I’m sorry you had to see my breasts,” she says. 

“I’m 70 years old,” I tell her. “I’ve done more than people twice my age would have done if they lived that old. I’ve eaten iranha in Peru, had sex under a Mongolian staircase, been in a threesome with one girl in Thailand, been kidnapped in Albania, but never in my life before has someone said to me I’m sorry you had to see my breasts.”

She smiles.

“Please don’t be sorry,” I tell her. “I sure as shit am not.”

—MYKEL BOARD

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Sound of the Sidewalk: What’s up with the Guy Fawkes mask?
Its a symbol of my solidarity—or, as we say in my native tongue, mi solidaridad—with the poor, the oppressed, the homeless, the abused, the elderly, the dispossessed, the forgotten, the unheard, the underprivileged, the downtrodden, the trampled underfoot, the weak, the weaker, the weakest, the newly unemployed, the chronically unemployed, the medically underserved, single mothers, homeless pet owners, the marginalized, the disenfranchised, the nonenfranchised, the barely franchised, the chronically depressed, those with unexplained rashes, and all the sad and useless people from coast to coast.
Seriously?
Nah, homes—I just don’t wanna get busted. I got warrants.

DARRELL ELMTREE (left, 39) AND BUTCH PINKERTON (right, 45), WEST VILLAGE

Sound of the Sidewalk: What’s up with the Guy Fawkes masks, guys?
Darrell: You just made a joke! You asked us “guys” about our “Guy” masks!
Yeah, I guess I did. It wasn’t intentional.
Butch: There’s no need to apologize, honey.
Yes, but sometimes I feel that need.
Butch: Whatever. Basically, we’re a pair of hedge-fund managers who’d like to express our sympathy, our commitment, and our understanding of those brave kids out there on the streets freezing their little tushes off to do what’s right for our government and our country.
How exactly do you support them?
Darrell: Donuts.
Butch: Yeah, we bring them donuts. And sometimes we give them shelter, but only if it feels right.
Darrell: Yeah, we both have to like the kid for something like that to happen.

LYMON BROADCOCK, 27, BROWNSVILLE

Sound of the Sidewalk: What’s up with the Guy Fawkes mask?
I made it in art class. Do you like it?
Well, it definitely has sort of a “primitive” feel.
I’m going to ignore what you just said. I’m pretty sure that if Guy Fawkes were alive today and could only wear one Guy Fawkes mask, this would be the Guy Fawkes mask that Guy Fawkes would wear. That is, if he were alive today and was able to choose between all the available Guy Fawkes masks.
What does Guy Fawkes mean to you personally?
I never met the man. All I know is that he left the world with a wonderful legacy of masks.

R. KEVIN BEAGLE, 16, OYSTER BAY

Sound of the Sidewalk: Dude, what’s up with the Guy Fawkes mask? It’s, like, welded onto your face.
It was performed by a professional plastic surgeon and was entirely safe and legal.
Yeah, but…why?
I’ve realized that my calling in life is to be a protester. Basically, I protest injustice, but I’ve also been known to protest evil and, occasionally, the odd instance of malfeasance. Who has the time and money to keep buying Guy Fawkes masks? I figured I’d just get it welded onto my face and will be ready to protest anything at any time whenever the spirit moves me.
But what if you get sick of having a Guy Fawkes mask welded onto your face?
Well, I’ll protest that, too. And I’ll already have the perfect mask with which to do it.

—SOUND OF THE SIDEWALK

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Gary

Dear Gary:

1) It forced us to watch that video.
2) It assumes that we know where Janeane Garofalo is at any given time.

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