Disney Characters Who Deserve Slow Claps

Baddest Bitch: Maleficent (Sleeping Beauty)

You almost have to respect the pure evil that this chick brings to the table. First of all, who walks around with a magical staff and a pet raven?! And who names that pet raven DIABLO? That’s some seriously #dark, Edgar Allen Poe-type shit right there. Like, we all have that insane aunt that we purposely try to exclude from family functions, and she’ll respond with a passive-aggressive Facebook post, or whatever. Maleficent don’t play that. She will straight-up curse your ass with a 16-year death spell.

Most Metrosexual: Peter Pan (Peter Pan)

From a sartorial perspective, Peter Pan is like the fairytale version of Johnny Weir. Peter was always flying around in that dope hipster fedora with the feather in its cap, that fetch leather belt and matching dagger holster, pointed-toe boots, and olive-colored tights that look like they may have inspired every pant Lululemon has ever produced. You take an independent dude who knows how to dress AND KNOWS HOW TO FLY, and it’s game over. No wonder Wendy was so warm for his form. Continue reading…


‘How I Met Your Mother’ for a New Generation

I spend a lot of time thinking about whether I will ever meet a woman I will marry, and the circumstances in which we will meet. I probably spend more time doing this than actually going on dates, which kind of stacks the odds against me, now that I think about it.

My mom and dad first met at my grandfather’s grocery store when my dad went through the register line my mom was running. (I suppose you could say he checked her out while she checked him out. NAILED IT.) The next week, they went on their first date, to see One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.Then they dated for like a decade, got married, and lost their virginities. Continue reading…

The Scott Muska Brand: 30 Potential Taglines

A strange thing happened to me when I started working in marketing and advertising:

I started to look at everything within the context of marketing and advertising.

I wouldn’t say I’ve becomeobsessed with branding; it’s more like my eye for and appreciation of branding has bled from my work life into the rest of it, so that I can no longer discern the two.

For the layman: a brand is a name or other feature that makes one product distinct from its competition.

And a huge part of any successful brand (which is to say, a brand that sells itself to more potential buyers than its competition) is a witty tagline. A tagline is, ideally, a phrase that sums up the tone and premise of a product. Some of my favorite examples include: “I’m lovin’ it,” “Taste the rainbow,” and “Hungry? Why wait?”

Kind of makes you want to take a brief intermission from reading this to go out and snag a Big Mac, some Skittles, and a bag of mini-Snickers, right?

Well, I’ve begun a project where I brand myself, in hopes that I will become more desirable to potential consumers (e.g. women). Continue reading…

A Letter of Random Advice to My Unborn Niece or Nephew

A few weeks ago, I awoke to a text from my older brother Kevin, telling me to call him. This meant that either a friend or family member had died or was in serious trouble, or that he had knocked up his wife Whitney.

Thankfully, it was the latter. The lovely couple had it confirmed by medical professionals this week: I’m going to be an uncle.

I’ve had this plan for if I ever become a dad to write a letter to my kids for them to open when they are deemed old enough. Since I am unsure I will ever become a father on purpose, I’ve decided to write a letter to my forthcoming niece or nephew.

Kev, please show the child this when you believe he or she is old and mature enough. Or don’t, I guess. It’s your offspring.


Hello Child—

What’s good? I hope that your dad decided to give you the middle name “Danger” like he keeps telling me he’s going to. Continue reading…

What I Want: Things and Stuff

“So what is it, exactly, that you want?” she asks. Then she jumps right into it. “It seems like for me it changes every day. I just know that, at least right now, I don’t want anything serious. I can’t be serious with you, because, well, you know. Life.”

I nod the affirmative. (Life, man.)

“But, yeah,” she continues. “What do you want, out of, like, this?” She points back and forth at me from across the table, like a person ushering an airplane in for a landing.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Not exactly. It changes for me too. A lot. But at this point, keeping things casual is good. Good for me, anyway. So we’re on the same page. I’m casual as a motherfucker.”

But this isn’t really how I feel. Not anymore. I have been keeping it casual—more or less without fail—since George W. Bush was president. I think I’m finally ready for some change I can believe in.

So I say this:

Continue reading…


What I Have Done Recently Instead of Writing

I’ve been wound a little tightly lately. My mom’s hypothesis: I put too much pressure on myself to work on my own writing outside of work. And when I’m not being as productive as I think I should be, it makes me tense.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s probably just that I’m not getting laid.”

“No, that’s definitely not it,” mom said. “That’s been a thing for years.”

I told her I don’t feel like I have enough time to do all the things I want to do, like writing and working out. (Both of these things, when I do them, make me feel better.)

“So what have you been doing instead?” she asked. “Life can’t be too hectic that you can’t fit at least one of those in a day.” Continue reading…

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A Missed Connection: I Dig Your Portable Art

The following Missed Connection originally appeared on Craigslist.

I Dig Your Portable Art – m4w – J Train

I have never been able to coherently explain my affinity for women who have many tattoos, so I will not try to do so here. Maybe there is no explanation, other than sometimes I like things because I just do. Like Applejacks, the virtually unknown 1990s cartoon series PIRATES OF BLACKWATER, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch dipped in a mixture of hummus and sriracha.

Anyway, you were on the J Train heading from Manhattan back to Brooklyn when I boarded at the Bowery stop and immediately began playing this game where I leer at a woman but attempt not to be noticed. Just so we’re clear, the woman I was leering at was you.

I spent the better part of 10 minutes staring at you and hoping you wouldn’t notice. In retrospect, this seems like it was a mistake. I should’ve wanted you to notice me. Because I assume you like people looking at you, or else you wouldn’t have gotten two full sleeves and a bunch of tattoos on your legs. You would’ve just had somebody draw them as pictures you could hang up in your living room or look at on your phone whenever you wanted to be reminded of what they meant to you.

I was unable to get close enough to discern much about what was going on re: the sleeves, but I believe I detected something inspired by Hieronymous Bosch, which is pretty fucking cool. The only ink of yours I got a clear look at was on the lower half of your right leg. A teacher sitting on a desk and holding an open book. This made me think of several pornographic videos wherein a heavily-tattooed woman poses as a teacher and bangs a student.

I would like to see you again. I have so many questions for you. I want to know what your tattoos mean. I want to know how often you are asked what they mean. I want to know why you got them, and how much they cost. I’m curious to find out if you believe having so much body art has or would negatively affect your chances of landing a teaching job.

I have one tattoo on my left wrist. It says INVICTUS, which is the title of a poem that was my favorite at the time I got it embossed on my body. If you would like to hear the story about the time I went to an orthodontist who attempted to get me to join the army and also told me that INVICTUS was Timothy McVeigh’s favorite poem too, message me and tell me what you have written on the outer edge of your right hand. (It was the only other tattoo I could clearly make out.)



A Missed Connection: Fresh Jordans, Tired Eyes

The following Missed Connection originally appeared on Craigslist.

Fresh Jordans and Tired Eyes – m4w – Chelsea

First thing’s first: I was not staring at you like some weird perverted lonely boy. Not really, or at least not intentionally, anyway.

I was actually staring out into space because my eyes were tired after a long day of work, and I find that doing so is a great way to achieve a brief reprieve from the perpetually taxing nature of being alive.

But I didn’t want to close my eyes altogether, since I was with a friend and figured he may take exception to me carrying on a conversation with him while my eyes were closed. But if they were open and staring into space, he was more likely to get the impression that I wasn’t making eye contact because I was instead giving serious thought to the topic at hand. (Which was how it’s a sort of rite of passage re: manhood for a boy to grow a beard to a length that eclipses the bearded stage, and how I have not yet reached that specific apex of manhood.)

Initially, the space I was staring into was occupied by a taller-than-average Hasidic Jewish woman whose brand new black Skecher Shape Ups sneakers were a contrast to the remainder of her outfit. When she stood up to de-train, I didn’t take my eyes off of the space. I just kept staring in the area of the bench that had formerly been hers.

It barely registered when a new occupant (you) sat down. It’s not that I was uninterested. Far from it. (If I were uninterested, I wouldn’t be writing this right now, right?) It’s just that I had achieved that glorious status where, when you’re resting your eyes and everything becomes all blurry. Not in a disconcerting way, but in more of a relaxing and regenerative way that reduces the world around you to a faint hum of white noise. I really zoned out after my friend stopped talking, presumably to ask himself inwardly whether a beard really makes a man, or vice-versa.

I am unsure how much time passed. A stop or two may have even passed before I finally took notice of you, your curly red hair, extremely pretty face, and Michael Jordan kicks.

What made me notice you?

“Careless Whisper.” That’s what it was. Unbeknownst to me, a man had boarded our train – saxophone in tow – during one of the stops that passed while I was inadvertently staring at your chestal region.

It’s impossible to hear somebody cover that classic George Michaels jam in a slightly less than mediocre fashion and not smile at least a little bit. You know this as well as anybody, because when I heard the opening notes of the song I snapped out of my reverie, began to grin, and shifted my gaze upward…to find that you were smiling, too. A beautiful, close-lipped smile, which can be hard to pull off, I’m told.

We locked eyes.

You continued to smile.

Then you looked downward, at your breasts / where I had been gazing.

And smiled wide.

Of course, I didn’t take this opportunity to engage you in conversation, to explain to you that I had been resting my eyes, not knocker stocking. I shyly looked away, turning a dark shade of red and breaking a sweat. Then I quickly glanced at you several times before the next stop, when I had to get off.

Maybe I should not judge my manhood on when my facial hair passes a certain length, but rather when my confidence reaches a point where I will not blow making an introduction that could potentially change my life.

If you would like to give me a second chance at making a first introduction, please message me and tell me the style of retro Jordans you were wearing.


I’ve Got 50 Trivial Problems: An Emotional Purge

I’ve had a strange couple of months, emotionally speaking. The other day I was complaining to a friend about my lot in life, and following said complaint with acknowledgment that I really don’t have it that badly at all, all things considered, and should cease venting.

She told me there was nothing wrong with focusing on your problems sometimes, because it helps you deal. Occasionally, she writes a list of her problems down in a journal, spends some time worrying about them, and then moves on. This helps with her anxiety, she said. I figured this would work for me, maybe, because my biggest problem is probably anxiety.

Since I’m narcissistic like a lot of people my age, I wrote some of my lesser issues down for all of you to read. (Or just my mom. Hi Mom!) My Animorphs erotic fiction is pretty much the only stuff I write that I don’t show to other people. Continue reading…

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What I’ve Learned: 26th Birthday Edition

  • Every year on your birthday, you should call your mom and thank her for pushing and everything she has done since. Traditional birthday celebrations don’t make any sense. On the day of my birth, I didn’t do shit except cry and suck on breasts. Nobody is going to throw me a party now for doing that (and I do at least one of those daily — and it has nothing to do with nipples). Why aren’t parents, and mothers specifically, the people who are lauded on that day? I mean, they did the nine months of carrying, and then went through labor, which I’m told is one of the most painful experiences in existence. Every year on your birthday, you should call your mother and thank her for pushing and everything she has done since.
  • Don’t give much credence to the phrase “respect your elders.” Just because a person’s parents procreated before yours doesn’t mean they automatically deserve your respect. Respect should be earned and offered based on actions and personality, not on how many days a person has been on the earth. I mean, some of the biggest assholes I know are older than me.
  • Perception and the way in which you think about something is very important. It can be beneficial to take a step back and really analyze something, to gain some control over the way you’re going to psychologically and emotionally approach something. For example: you may be walking home some morning after a night spent out. It’s up to you to decide whether this is a “Walk of Shame” or a “Stride of Pride.” Continue reading…
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