This month we're talking to the lovely Miss June, Brittany Binger.  She's 20 years-old, has been on CSI and, most importantly, is very, very pretty.  Let's get to it!

1. Why is it considered sexy when two straight girls kiss each other but not when two straight guys do the same (not that I would or whatever...)?
Girls are just more beautiful and graceful. It just wouldn't be very manly if two guys made out!

2. What is the strangest thing a guy has ever requested from you in bed? 
Hmm..to be completely honest, I'm very new with the whole sex thing, LOL. I've only been with one guy so I don't have any good stories for you.. YET! I'll have to get back to you on that ;-)

3. How many push ups can you do?
Oh my, I can do sit ups all day, but I can probably only do about 5 push ups!! That's bad!!

4. Weakling.  Rank the following qualities a guy can have from sexiest to least sexy: humor, good body, great singing voice, intelligence, ability to eat a lot of cheeseburgers.
Intelligence & Humor is probably tied for first, but the ability to eat a lot of cheeseburgers ranks a close second! If you're dating me, you better be able to eat, honey! It's one of my favorite things to do.  Next would be good body which isn't that important to me. I hate when guys are too overly muscular or that are way to in to their looks! Last would be singing voice, who cares about that?

5. Do the pictures of your nude body in the magazine look anything like your nude body in real life?
Of course!  Although lately since I've been doing my promotional appearances, a lot of people are like, "Wow I love your issue but your more beautiful in person for sure!"  I'm like "Why, Thank you!"  Then I sit there for a second like wait... is that a good thing?

It's my favorite time of the week, it's time for the Weekly WYR. See if you're brave enough to choose a side in what surely are the universe's most difficult quagmires. And remember, if you've got a great WYR, send it to me at Streeter.Seidell @ Gmail.com.

Would You Rather...

• Have a perfect smile but with painful cavities in your molars, or have crooked teeth with no cavities? From Tory
• Have your finger nails cut too short and sting for the rest of your life or not be able to cut them for the rest of your life? From Daryl
• Be in an argument with Blake or be a f*cking idiot named Blake and not understand when you're wrong? From Spencer
• Have one hand in your pocket or the other one smoking a cigarette? From Ryan
• Be able to feel your hair when its cut and be in pain or be completely hairless? From Daniel
• Wake up next to Jessica Biel or Scarlett Johansson? From LJ
• Have your balls on top of your dick or your mouth on top of your nose? From Dan

Finally, this week's winner of the I'm Trying To Get Out Of Work Soon Award is me, who is saying this:

• Would you rather continue to write this article or leave for the long weekend?

Happy Long Weekend.

Send your best WYRs to Streeter.Seidell @ Gmail.com

My oh my, what have we here?  A whole tab devoted to Cute College Girl of the Week?  That's right.  There you'll find all the past Cute College Girls of the Week as well as an application for any lady who wants to be one.  And now...

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Greetings!  Friend, I am very muchh pleased to adress with you some of that which it has been my great fortune to befall upon my person.  Most gracious are you for listening to my tale of exciting sexually in the words I am riting here to you.  

Events such as the ones I will relate towwards you rarely happen to my person, leading to my disbelifment that such things have transipred in my life.  It begins as such_ Night has fall on my kingdonm and a much desirable woman came forth from the village to excite me.  I felt as if I has won the EuroMillions 21Million Euro for youu!  "Look,' said she, your peni5 is mighty like a lion. Are you ready for exxxtasy?!" I take my ci@lis for such things!

&At once she slide her body onto my throbbing and she cry out 4 me!  I please her and she pleez me.  It is at once delightful (vi@gra) moments which I made with such a womn!  All tax free!1 I shower inside home with her following inntercorse and much of herr thoughts are still with myself.  I ask - hello! Attract her sister as well!  A famiily member has sent you a E-GREETINGSs! in time, sister of my vixxxen come with for hottsxx.  Jubilation!

Penthouse, to me this has transpired!

It's my favorite time of the week, it's time for the Weekly WYR. See if you're brave enough to choose a side in what surely are the universe's most difficult quagmires. And remember, if you've got a great WYR, send it to me at Streeter.Seidell @ Gmail.com.

Would You Rather...

• Be able to fly with an excruciating fear of heights or be invisible but constantly crave the attention of others? From Mat
• Accidentally say something racist or live in the Puerto Rican part of town?
  
• Have your mom walk in on you masturbating to a picture of David Hasselhoff or walk in on your mom masturbating to a picture of David Hasselhoff? From Jason
• Pull out all of your teeth one by one or rip out all of your finger-and-toenails one by one?
  
• Have one giant grapefruit sized testicle or a bunch of tiny grape-like testicles? From Laura
• Have your life narrated by Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones? From Brian
• Get blamed in class for a fart that wasn't yours or get blamed in your dorm for clogging a toilet that you didn't clog?
  
• Be stuck outside for 7 weeks or stuck in your house for 7 weeks? From Colin
• Have sex with Glen Quagmire, or Peter Griffin? From Tiffany
• Be 3 inches taller or have your dick be 1 inch bigger? From Shea
• Get pounded in the f*cking face till your own bitch of a mother doesn't recognize you anymore of quit looking at my f*cking girlfriend, chief? 
  
• Bang Mo the Referee or have a glowing piece of Radical Rock? From TJ
• Burn out or fade away? From Matt

And the Winner of this week's "Oh Yes, I'm Drunk And On CollegeHumor" Award is Justin, who sent in this:

• woulds yiu rather comee home to a godmadamn college humor new picture or not? why yws thaank youls i would. thank you gor asking /.

Enjoy the hangover, Jason!

Send your best WYRs to Streeter.Seidell @ Gmail.com

When I was in sixth grade I got it in my head that I would be a star athlete.  I decided on an ambitious program combining Football and Wrestling to sculpt my chubby frame into a machine built of muscle, passion and skill.  Sixth grade was the first year when kids could compete with teams outside of town and I was excited.  I had participated into the normal white, upper-middle-class cocktail of sports as a child: baseball, soccer, basketball and even a little gymnastics.  But football and wrestling offered something these other sports did not: violence.  Better still, I was bigger than most kids my age.  By 12 I weighed 160 pounds - mostly fat, mind you - but I was tall and had (still have, actually) extremely well-developed legs.  I was also fast.  For a kid my size, I could sprint as well as any of the smaller kids which, I imagine, had something to do with the strangely jacked-upped legs I mentioned before. 

Football turned out to be less enjoyable than I had imagined.  I fantasized about being a running back, seeing myself blazing by my opponents on the way to the end zone.  My coach, upon getting one look at my size, had other plans.  "Right tackle," he said in that jowly, salivating, constantly-out-of-breath way of speaking reserved for the criminally obese.  Worst still, at the weigh-in day I found out that I wouldn't be playing with kids my own age.  As it turns out, I was too big to play with the other 12-year-olds and was "promoted" to team for 8th graders.  Now I don't know if you remember being 12, but I can assure you a 12-year-old's body, no matter what the weight, is no match for a 14-year-old of the same size.  The kids on my team had muscle to account for their weight.  They had pecs and biceps, I had tits and blub. 

I spent a miserable summer getting crushed by kids who, though the same weight as me, were far, far more developed.  I was the team pariah: unreliable, unskilled and weak.  I hated the pads, hated the helmet, hated that when I was playing, my entire job was to take one step forward and have a pushing match with the kid across from me.  I never got to run, barely got to tackle anyone and never, not once, laid a hand on the ball.  When winter rolled around, I couldn't wait to see what wrestling was all about.

The first day of practice I was told to weigh in: 162 lbs.  I would be wrestling in the second heaviest class available at the middle school level.  In fact, it wasn't even an actual weight class, it was a trial weight class being tested out to see if there were enough kids to fill it.  We had a rigorous practice during which I felt as if my lungs were going to explode (I had taken up smoking that year).  The coach was great guy with a distracting case of cauliflower ear from an injury sustained while he was a college wrestler.  Still, he was an inspired coach and knew how to make his team work for his approval.  I was paired with kid a year older than me named Mike who smelled like soap and, thanks to a penchant for chain smoking, had acquired the nickname "Smokes" probably in infancy.  I liked the guy immediately. 

And better still, I liked the sport.  The first few days of practice we were taught the basic moves, the rules of the sport and judged on our potential.  I remember the first day we were allowed to actually wrestler each other.  We did a 3-minute round with our practice partners and I was pinned in about 2 minutes, but I didn't care.  Mike and I battled each other with determination: we choked each other, we grabbed limbs, we pushed, we fought!  This was what I wanted.  This was the outlet for my anger that I had been searching for. No helmets, just head gear.  No ten second pushing match, instead a 3-minute kill-fest.  No pads, just...wait, what did wrestlers wear?

Up till now, we had been practicing in gym shorts and t-shirts.  I was completely ignorant of what wrestlers wore in the ring because wrestling - real wrestling, that is - isn't often seen on TV.  So it was that about a week after we started practicing together, Coach called us all into the locker room early.  He had a few huge cardboard boxes in the shower room and he informed us that we'd finally be getting our singlets today.  Singlet, huh?  What a strange name for matching shorts and t-shirts. 

So it came as a surprise to me when Coach called me into the showers to get my singlet.  He handed me a tiny piece of spandex and told me to try it on.  I wanted to ask, "where's the rest of it?" but coaches have a way of intimidating you into compliance.  I went back to my locker and stripped down to my boxers.  I held up the garment: a black unitard with a gold stripe crossing the middle.  With a heavy sigh I pulled in onto my body.  I hadn't yet discovered boxer-briefs so my boxers peeked out of the bottom.  I pulled the two shoulder straps on and took a look in the mirror. 

You've got to be fucking kidding me. 

I have never been so disgusted with myself.  I looked like fat woman squeezed into a bathing suit two sizes too small.  My bottom half looked great (besides the boxers poking out).  The spandex hugged my well-developed thighs and, with the exception of an embarrassingly small bulge area - hey, I was 12! - it wasn't so bad.  It was when my eyes started to wander north that my heart started to break, inch by mortifying inch.

I had love handles that could have put any frat guy to shame.  Boobs bigger than every girl in my grade.  Small, childish arms that lacked even a sprout of hair.  My shoulders, though wide, sloped down and my stomach didn't so much stick out as it did hang down.  Small rolls of fat peeked out from under my armpits, where the singlet cut a cruel indentation on its way to my back.  My hips were wide and high as well - still are, actually - which ruined any chance I had at a desirable V-shaped body and condemned me to live out life as a block.  My legs, which earlier had been such a source of pride, now only served to highlight the comical juxtaposition of my cut lower body and my pudgy upper body.  Some cruel God had positioned the torso of a fat housewife on the foundation of an athlete!  

This was the exact moment I realized that I was,indeed, fat.  I had always been a tall, skinny kid but at some point in fifth grade, without even noticing, I had gained a lot of weight.  This happens to a lot of young guys.  The hormones that would one day lead to pubic hair, goatees, mysterious erections, sticky bed sheets and an obsession with Claire Danes, kick into gear around 11 and bring with them a thick layer of fat.  It's a cruel compromise a young man's body makes.  "I will give you all these wonderful things - orgasms, height, facial hair, and a larger penis, " your body says to you at 11, "but you must also wear this coat of fat to prove that you are ready to accept the wonders of sexual maturity!"  And so the software is in place and working but the hardware is too unappealing to have attract the attention of your target demographic - kind of like the Zune. 

So that was it, I was fat.  I wasn't the fattest kid on the team, but that didn't really matter because the fattest guys all had the marks of puberty that I was so sadly lacking: arm hair, chest hair, some stubble, even.  In my book, that meant that their fat was earned, not inherited.  Theirs was man-fat, not boy-fat.  They acquired their fat the old-fashioned way: eating burgers and probably drinking beer.  Their fat even took the general shape of muscles.  It was firm - well, as firm as fat can be - and proportioned.  Mine was loose, hairless and jolly, like an infant's. 

I walked into Coach's office to plead my case. Perhaps there was an alternate uniform I could wear, something a little more modest and less make-me-want-to-kill-myself-y.  He was sitting at his desk when I walked in.  His eyes told me in an instant that he had been through this many times before.  He knew why I was there and the pain I was feeling was reflected ten-fold in his face.  After all, what's worse than breaking a fat kid's heart?  I must have looked pathetic: on the verge of tears, stuffed into a little spandex suit, begging for another option when there was none to be found.

"Coach, I was wondering if maybe there was a different uniform I could wear?"

He sighed.  "No Streeter, I'm afraid not.  That's the required uniform for wrestlers.  All the teams wear them."

"Oh," I said, devastated, "Maybe there's a bigger size?  This one is pretty small." 

He got up from his seat and took me into the stairwell, far away from my teammates.  "Listen, I know you're looking at the other guys on the team and, yeah, they're more developed than you.  They have muscles and they've lost their baby fat.  But that's OK, you'll get there eventually.  A lot of these guys are much older than you, ya know?  I've been watching you at practice and you've got what it takes, OK?  You're not in the best shape, no, but you've got powerful legs and those are the most important muscles to have on the mat." My legs to the rescue again.

I pretended that it wasn't my body or the more mature kids on the team that was bothering me, but that the singlet "was uncomfortable."  He didn't buy it and told me that, if I really wanted, I could wear a t-shirt under my singlet.  With that, we were done. 

I thought about the t-shirt loophole long and hard.  I weighed the pros and cons.  I may have made a list, I'm not sure now.  And then the most miraculous thing happened.  For the first time I can remember, I just said "fuck it."  That was it.  "Fuck it."  Wearing a t-shirt was an admission that my fat bothered me and I wouldn't do that.  I wouldn't broadcast my shame to my classmates.  I wasn't going to be the fat kid wearing a shirt in the pool, I was going to be the fat kid who did the truffle shuffle and made smiley faces with his stomach to amuse his friends.  If I was indeed doomed to be fat, I wasn't about to be a self-hating fat guy, crying about how cruel life is while stuffing peanut butter-dipped Oeros in his mouth.  I was going to be the funny fat guy or, at the very least, the semi-embarrassed fat guy. 

The oddest thing was that my decision to wear the singlet in all it's mortifying glory sans t-shirt was probably the best one I ever made.  I never got laughed at, never got made fun of, nobody cared.  I got ragged on for other things but my teammates curiously stayed away from the hysterical image I presented when jiggled onto the mat.  And my coach was right, too, my legs were more important than anything else.  I pioneered a way of wrestling where I would essentially drive into my opponent until he fell to his side.  I would then lay on him in whatever way I could and try to keep him down long enough to score a pin.  It worked very well.

Eventually I grew into a man.  I slimmed down in 8th grade - well, I didn't lose weight, I just got tall - and hovered in the "he's a big guy" range all through high school.  I stopped wrestling my sophomore year after my hand was snapped in half and I decided that four bones was enough to give to one sport.  College came and with it my old friend, fat.  By graduation I was a whopping 260 pounds and, miraculously, I still had a girl to sleep with.  A few years later and I'm hovering around 215 - comfortable "big guy" territory again and I don't see that changing anytime soon.  So, if I'm doomed to live out my life as a larger man I can only hope that the rest of the world is as understanding and nonchalant about my size as my teammates were so many years ago. 

That, or I hope I make make friends with fatter people so I'll look skinny next to them.

This came from My Blog.

RiDonkeyLips- Another variation of the word "Ridiculous." The previous incarnation of 'Ridonkulous' should now be replaced with "RiDonkeyLips"

Ex: "Oh man, it's RiDonkeyLips how much you know about Nickelodeon's programming in the early 1990's!"

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Do you want to help expand the English language?  Email me your submission and definition at streeter.seidell @ Gmail.com with the subject "Words"

I've been getting emails for the past few weeks that simply say "Jenny Craig, Bitch!"  And it's all thanks to Amir's latest little prank on me.  I knew I had to get him back big for that one so I cooked up an ambitious plan.  Here it is...

I had Paul Scheer of MTV's Human Giant call Amir and say, "We have 2 parts open in an upcoming sketch and I thought you and Streeter might want them.  The only thing is MTV won't pay for tickets to LA so you have to get your own."  Of course, Amir bit and after a few fake MTV releases, a few fake scripts and a lot of bragging to co-workers, we were on our way to LA.

To make it even better, I asked the Human Giant guys to constantly insult Amir's acting while praising mine and eventually take him out of the fake sketch.


Update: People have been emailing me asking if Amir and I are speaking.  We are.  He was really angry after he found out this was a prank but he got over it and is, no doubt, planning his revenge.

Watch the previous Prank Wars on Vimeo

See all the Prank Wars HERE

Irish Goodbye - The act of drunkenly leaving a bar or party without informing any of your friends where you're going. 

Ex: "Dude, where did you go last night?  One second you're doing a keg stand and the next you're gone.  You pulled an Irish Goodbye on us, man."

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Do you want to help expand the English language?  Email me your submission and definition at streeter.seidell @ Gmail.com with the subject "Words"

Learn Something took a little vacation but it being finals time and all, Mental Floss and I have returned to impart more vital knowledge on your eager young minds.  Today we're learning about...

Old Timey Drinking Games

Bloody Fun
Where: England
When: 17th Century
Way back in Jolly Olde England, drinking and drunkenness was heavily linked to swearing your political allegiance. Much in the way, you’d hug your friends totally wasted and say, “I f*cking love you, man,” “Roaring Royalists” used to one-up their friends in declaring allegiance to the king by putting their asses on the line. Literally. After singing drunken ballads to His Highness and the church, festivities would often escalate to playing a “game” where everyone who was loyal enough would slice off a piece of their rump, and then toast their own blood (instead of wine) to the monarchy. As you can imagine, the game went horribly wrong on a fairly regular basis, seeing how drunks wielding knives and performing elective surgery on themselves isn’t the smartest idea.  The ultimate bar scar.

We came across a tragic story today.  A young woman named Stacey Snyder was set to graduate last year from Millersville's School of Education.  However, the administration decided to refuse her the teaching certificate she had earned after discovering a picture on Myspace of Stacey in a pirate hat and drinking from a cup.  The caption was "drunken pirate."  Better still, Stacey was of legal drinking age when the photo was taken. 

We here at CollegeHumor have long defended college students' right to post drunken photos of themselves online without any repercussions.  We MUST NOT allow colleges to yank degrees from perfectly qualified students because of some stupid picture online.  If this kind of moronic discrimination continues, nearly 100% of current college students will be denied degrees. 

I say we make our voices heard!  I say we all change our Facebook and Myspace pictures to the infamous "Drunken Pirate" photo.