MAXIMUM ASS

You thought I would stop looking at you and pointing at you. You thought I would stop having that beard. But the world doesn't go away just because you close your eyes. And my Ass isn't any less Maximum just because it's hidden inside sexy leather pants.

I have been gone for a while, and the vasty halls of the Internet have echoed plaintively with cries for my return. Or so I imagine. Now that I have come riding toward you out of the thickening darkness, manfully straddling a Tyrannosaur and brandishing a limited-edition lightsaber, it is probably time to discuss just what a Maximum Ass is.

What is it?

It's my postgraduate degree. I am assured by the august institution from which I graduated that M.A. stands for "Master of Arts." They're welcome to think that. But, let's be honest: I'm the one with the degree. If they're so fucking smart, why don't they have one?

What is it?

It's Superman smashing through a wall--not to punch Lex Luthor in the nuts or save a baby from a burning building, but because he thinks someone called him a cunt.

What is it?

It's style. It's luxury. It's knowingly paying too much for things because the thought of pinching pennies like some minimum-wage lackey makes you want to vomit on a child.

What is it?

It's verve. It's vivacity. It's Arnold Schwarzenegger in Commando: "Remember when I said I was going to kill you last? I lied." That man is my governor now. I would gladly let him snap my neck and then put a blanky over me and tell everyone not to bother me because I'm "dead tired." Then the press corps would snap pictures and there would be scattered applause from the hoi polloi. Being murdered probably isn't fun. But if your death allowed a hulking Austrian with giant teeth to continue spreading his message of brutal joy, wouldn't it be worth it?

What is it?

It's MAXIMUM ASS. If you don't already understand it...then you must return to elementary school because you apparently lack basic reading comprehension skills. Ha ha ha! I am only kidding.