By David Rolland
By David Von Bader
By Rebecca Bulnes
By Laurie Charles
By Chuck Strouse
By Lee Zimmerman
By Laurie Charles
Here are two situations you have probably found yourself in if (a) you have a penis and are/were (b) not in a fraternity:
#1: While at a friend's generally lame party — he just played Journey — you meet a girl who looks as bored as you. She's beautiful, and that smile! Before long, you discover she not only likes football and your favorite team, but also loves just about every band you've got in your car's six-disc CD changer at this very moment. Convinced nothing could go wrong, you ask her what the last concert she went to was and, with an earnest smile, she answers, "Dave Matthews Band." You, of course, blink. Then wait. Then, with an awkward half-smirk, ask, "You're joking, right?" But she's not, and at that point, this beautiful, once-perfect woman you wanted to elope with begins to tell you all the ways Dave Matthews has moved her. That, in fact, his music is like an expression of her own soul. In other words, Dave Matthews knows her better than you ever could. After a few minutes of this, you ask, "Do you want another beer?" but slip out the back door and drive away.
#2: After 20 minutes of making out and some serious groping, you're fairly convinced you will have sex with your date tonight. But then, just as you begin to work off her shirt, she springs to her feet as if the most amazing idea just popped into her head. You hope it involves rope and maybe butter, but not hot wax. Instead she asks, with unbridled enthusiasm, "Want to listen to some music?" When the acoustic guitar starts out of her speakers, your erection vanishes. She begins dancing nevertheless. She runs her hands over her sweater-wrapped breasts and hips, like a stripper might if she were stupid enough to perform to something Dave Matthews recorded. Your erection actually begins to invert, if that's possible. After the song, she falls on top of you and declares that Dave Matthews gets her so fucking hot. She wants to fucking fuck you, man. You go on to try, but can't get Dave Matthews out of your head and, after 20 minutes of her twiddling with your flaccid member, agree it's best you leave. She later tells everyone you know about your "problem," and you decide to move to another country that doesn't care for Dave Matthews and his idea of music.
This is all Dave Matthews is good for: cock blocking. Unless, of course, you wear a ball cap, shop at Abercrombie & Fitch, and belong to a fraternity. If this is the case, you love Dave Matthews because you've figured out that, simply by bringing him up, college girls will have sex with you. In fact the scientific journal Nature Nature Nature discovered that 89 percent of all unwanted, beer-soaked college pregnancies were the result of Dave Matthews. Another surprising revelation: Dave Matthews's high-pitch, whiny voice was the soundtrack to 79 percent of all fraternity gang-bangs. Normal men, however, have morals. Normal men know Dave Matthews's music is like Milwaukee's Best: It sucks, but women can use it as an excuse to do whatever they want without feeling guilty later.