Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Right Answer
Beaten, I mean married men know when to listen quietly, answer truthfully, leave out some facts, and change the subject. They are experts at conflict avoidance. These are important skills to learn if marriage prospects would like to retain access to their favorite place to be.
I thought about it this morning as I watched Fox 5 News, hosted by married—not to each other—male (Raoul) and female (Shally) anchors. They were recapping last night’s Dancing With The Stars finale (By the way, why is this fucking newsworthy?) and Shally tossed up a volley.
“Aw, doesn’t Kirstie Alley look fantastic?”
My hero, Raoul, responded in a brilliant way, like a downtrodden, I mean happily married man should respond:
“Yes. [Beat.] In other news …”
How many of my female readers interpret his answer to mean he agrees with Shally? All of you minus a few grammatical sticklers. Tsk, tsk.
A closer look at Shally’s statement shows that she technically asked if Kirstie does NOT look fantastic. (Seriously, people, she doesn’t ... OK, unless you are comparing her to herself fifty pounds ago or a lump of curb vomit.) Anyway, Raoul’s response of “yes” means he agrees with Shally’s statement and is therefore not delivering the compliment Shally and most female viewers/readers assume. Clever.
I realize I’m not married anymore, and may be considered out-of-practice. Hogwash. I don’t need to be married to know how to respond any more than I need to be enrolled in algebra classes to calculate gratuity. (Interestingly enough, most of my dates have no idea how to calculate gratuity. I can understand 18%, but 20% is pretty fucking simple. I suspect I am being taken or dating dolts.)
When I sense a trap in a woman’s question, I take evasive action. Certain answers will certainly cause a closing of the thighs, at minimum. For example:
1. Do I need to do something about this chip in my windshield?
a. Yes. (Foolish.)
b. If you don’t, it will get worse and possibly result in the windshield needing replacement. (Solving—also foolish.)
c. Switch cars with me tomorrow. I’ll take care of it. (Applause.)
2. My friend Gina is getting on my nerves the way she always hits on young boys.
a. Then why do you hang out with her? (Foolish.)
b. Yeah, what a hosebag. (Bad idea.)
c. I can see how that can be annoying. (High-five.)
3. I don’t know why, but I’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately.
a. Zzzzz. (Foolish.)
b. I hear sperm is good for that. (Understandable and quite possibly true, but futile.)
c. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help? (Nice.)
4. Gosh, John Mayer is so talented, isn’t he?
a. I’d rather stick my cock in a meat grinder than listen to another one of his breathy ballads. (Affirmative, but …)
b. Are you deaf? Here … listen to this Pearl Jam track. (Eddie will appreciate it; she won’t.)
c. Yes. (Well done, Daniel-san.)
5. I can’t believe she’s wearing that top. It doesn’t leave anything to the imagination.
a. I’m sorry, what did you say? (Grab a pillow and blanket when you get home.)
b. Don’t be hating just because your tits are southbound. (Better duck.)
c. No kidding. (Ding!)
Monday, May 23, 2011
Staying Single
Those money pit diggers at Match.com published an article about the types of men who stay single. They listed the workaholic, partier, shy guy, and picky guy as examples. They even interviewed Dr. Buzzkill, who added his expert opinion. Asking him is like asking a RadioShack employee if it’s wise to have a surge suppressor. The doctor’s reasons all push the readers toward extending their Match.com memberships.
Want to know why a man over thirty stays single? Because he hasn’t found a reason not to.
I don’t need any medical or psychological expert to run it down for me. I enjoy stress-free singlehood, that’s why I live in that 'hood. If someone came along and enhanced my life substantially, I’d consider moving closer to couplehood. If not, meh, no big deal—I hate packing anyway.
The most popular excuse I hear from women is, “Men are afraid to settle down.” I respond by adding two qualifying words to her sentence: “... with you.” Then, I deal with the look of disgust by saying, “Just kidding!” before she loses her shit on me. (I hate public displays of anger.)
Workaholics bust their asses to make enough money to afford hot, young women and their expensive tastes. A partier wants to trap a party animal tonight without considering tomorrow’s hangover (alimony). A shy guy would rather relax with a cabernet and a good book than a self-entitled sponge in dire need of emotional propping. A picky guy isn’t playing wingman with your chubby friend. Sorry.
Call the men whatever you wish, but every one of them will cave when that special woman comes along. Yes, it mostly has to do with sex. (Speaking of sex: Go fellate yourself, Doc.) Once one of these noncommittal men has his world rocked by a legendary lover, he’ll consider things he never thought he’d consider and he’ll thank God he held out this long. If he settled for Ms. One-BJ-per-Month a few years back, he would have never met Ms. Can-We-Do-It-Again.
Here are my expert suggestions to chronically single men:
Want to know why a man over thirty stays single? Because he hasn’t found a reason not to.
I don’t need any medical or psychological expert to run it down for me. I enjoy stress-free singlehood, that’s why I live in that 'hood. If someone came along and enhanced my life substantially, I’d consider moving closer to couplehood. If not, meh, no big deal—I hate packing anyway.
The most popular excuse I hear from women is, “Men are afraid to settle down.” I respond by adding two qualifying words to her sentence: “... with you.” Then, I deal with the look of disgust by saying, “Just kidding!” before she loses her shit on me. (I hate public displays of anger.)
Workaholics bust their asses to make enough money to afford hot, young women and their expensive tastes. A partier wants to trap a party animal tonight without considering tomorrow’s hangover (alimony). A shy guy would rather relax with a cabernet and a good book than a self-entitled sponge in dire need of emotional propping. A picky guy isn’t playing wingman with your chubby friend. Sorry.
Call the men whatever you wish, but every one of them will cave when that special woman comes along. Yes, it mostly has to do with sex. (Speaking of sex: Go fellate yourself, Doc.) Once one of these noncommittal men has his world rocked by a legendary lover, he’ll consider things he never thought he’d consider and he’ll thank God he held out this long. If he settled for Ms. One-BJ-per-Month a few years back, he would have never met Ms. Can-We-Do-It-Again.
Here are my expert suggestions to chronically single men:
- Don’t fret.
- Make yourself available.
- Go where the single women go.
- Be yourself—don’t play the role. (NOTE: One exception is if you need a slump-breaker. In that case, be what she needs and make sure there are no Flip cameras around.)
- Don’t use a sidekick who is so attractive she scares away the prospects.
- Never envy a married person unless his first name rhymes with Russell and his last name rhymes with Brand.
- Remind yourself that Jennifer Aniston is available.
- Use your imagination and some lotion.
- Think of all the money you’re saving.
- Trim your hedges. (Provided by a female acquaintance who will remain anonymous.)
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Buh Bye
Holy crap, the world ended! It really did. No kidding. You’re just dreaming that you’re reading this.
There I was sitting on my recliner catching up on Justified episodes and all hell broke loose. I should have known it was coming because Syd and Symon (my pesky little critters) began acting funny. Syd sneaked up to my chair and swatted my elbow. (It itches now. That fucker!) Symon found a plastic gum pack wrapper and started stalking it as if he were on the beaches of Normandy. Guess I was too involved in my show to notice.
Then there was a thunderclap and a huge (age-spotted) hand reached down and ripped the roof off my house. I stared in amazement out of the hole overhead and saw this old dude with long white hair in a fancy gown surrounded by floating bodies carrying suitcases.
“Somehow I don’t think my home warranty is going to cover this.”
“I hate to say I told you so, but …”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nobody likes a know-it-all, even when he’s the Creator and such.”
“So, it’s safe to assume you’re not coming.”
“Oh, hell … I mean heck, no. Thank you for the invitation though.”
“You know, things are about to get quite toasty in your neighborhood.”
“That’s cool. I’m over this marine layer thing already.”
“All right. Say, would you be interested in running things down there while I organize these floating souls?”
“Sure thing. Hey, do me a favor though.”
“What’s that?”
“Send Randy ‘Macho Man’ Savage back down here, will ya? That guy always cracked me up … Ooh yeah!”
Then I noticed some Christian friends of mine being somewhat unChristianlike. They were giving me the finger(s) while floating upward. Pricks. I’m too mature to get involved in a “nya, nya” game, so I just mooned them.
Some good things are coming out of this:
There I was sitting on my recliner catching up on Justified episodes and all hell broke loose. I should have known it was coming because Syd and Symon (my pesky little critters) began acting funny. Syd sneaked up to my chair and swatted my elbow. (It itches now. That fucker!) Symon found a plastic gum pack wrapper and started stalking it as if he were on the beaches of Normandy. Guess I was too involved in my show to notice.
Then there was a thunderclap and a huge (age-spotted) hand reached down and ripped the roof off my house. I stared in amazement out of the hole overhead and saw this old dude with long white hair in a fancy gown surrounded by floating bodies carrying suitcases.
“Somehow I don’t think my home warranty is going to cover this.”
“I hate to say I told you so, but …”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nobody likes a know-it-all, even when he’s the Creator and such.”
“So, it’s safe to assume you’re not coming.”
“Oh, hell … I mean heck, no. Thank you for the invitation though.”
“You know, things are about to get quite toasty in your neighborhood.”
“That’s cool. I’m over this marine layer thing already.”
“All right. Say, would you be interested in running things down there while I organize these floating souls?”
“Sure thing. Hey, do me a favor though.”
“What’s that?”
“Send Randy ‘Macho Man’ Savage back down here, will ya? That guy always cracked me up … Ooh yeah!”
Then I noticed some Christian friends of mine being somewhat unChristianlike. They were giving me the finger(s) while floating upward. Pricks. I’m too mature to get involved in a “nya, nya” game, so I just mooned them.
Some good things are coming out of this:
- Most of the Republicans are gone now.
- The entire southeast section of the country (excluding Miami) is vacant.
- No more suited douches banging on my door on weekends, causing a premature start to my hangover, while trying to get me to read some silly pamphlet that contains no nudity, and is therefore not something I would peruse, even during my morning post-coffee dump.
- I won’t need to explain the concept of dinosaurs and prehistoric man to Bible thumpers.
- There will be less traffic on Sundays and a new day for bingo.
- No more boring end-of-the-world movies and books.
- I can finally delete that whiny R.E.M. song from my iPod playlist the way I deleted Prince’s “1999” back in 2000.
- No more NASCAR.
- More red wine for me.
- I can cuss like a sailor without any concern about retribution. Fuckin’ A!
Friday, May 20, 2011
It Takes Two
Now hold on just one second there, Sister Theresa. These much-hated men aren’t out screwing tree stumps; there are women on the other end of those affairs. I’m not making excuses for the disloyal among us, just reminding all the pig pointers that it takes two to make a thing go wrong.
The women involved in these celebrity affairs have a tendency to gain sympathy and popularity. Why? How often are these women unaware that the men they bed are committed to others? Rarely. No doubt, the men are making some outrageous promises in order to quicken the parting of the thighs, but the “victims” usually play their roles voluntarily.
Here are the top reasons why a woman would sleep with a man who is in a committed relationship with another:
My sarcasm leads one to believe I’m disloyal and untrustworthy. Untrue. I can be loyal. I admire loyalty when it’s not forced. I don’t want anyone to stay with me for any reason other than she wants to be with me. I don’t want her to stay because of the cats, kids, or threats from lawyers or deities. If I annoy my woman to the point where she’s tempted to be pollinated by another, she should leave (preferably before the pollination).
I guess that’s the main rub here: men who cheat instead of leaving. They’re so greedy and hurtful.
I have numerous acquaintances who break up and get back together more often than I change my home’s air filters. Inevitably, something comes out along with the excuse, “But, it was while we were taking a break.” Then there’s that to deal with. The guilt whip will be deployed henceforth upon every bump encountered.
I don’t feel sorry for the wives or mistresses any more than I hate the men who cheat. I’m not in any position to judge them. I feel sorry for people who are trapped in dysfunctional relationships.
The women involved in these celebrity affairs have a tendency to gain sympathy and popularity. Why? How often are these women unaware that the men they bed are committed to others? Rarely. No doubt, the men are making some outrageous promises in order to quicken the parting of the thighs, but the “victims” usually play their roles voluntarily.
Here are the top reasons why a woman would sleep with a man who is in a committed relationship with another:
- I didn’t know. (Oh, bullshit.)
- His relationship is failing. (It is now.)
- He promised he’d leave her for me. (Of course he did.)
- I’ll lure him away. (No, you won’t.)
- I don’t like his woman and I want to hurt her. (What goes around …)
- I really don’t care what his status is. I’m doing this for me. (Well, at least you admit it.)
- I don’t want to know. (But you do, don’t you?)
My sarcasm leads one to believe I’m disloyal and untrustworthy. Untrue. I can be loyal. I admire loyalty when it’s not forced. I don’t want anyone to stay with me for any reason other than she wants to be with me. I don’t want her to stay because of the cats, kids, or threats from lawyers or deities. If I annoy my woman to the point where she’s tempted to be pollinated by another, she should leave (preferably before the pollination).
I guess that’s the main rub here: men who cheat instead of leaving. They’re so greedy and hurtful.
I have numerous acquaintances who break up and get back together more often than I change my home’s air filters. Inevitably, something comes out along with the excuse, “But, it was while we were taking a break.” Then there’s that to deal with. The guilt whip will be deployed henceforth upon every bump encountered.
I don’t feel sorry for the wives or mistresses any more than I hate the men who cheat. I’m not in any position to judge them. I feel sorry for people who are trapped in dysfunctional relationships.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Blame it on the Dame
It’s becoming apparent that woman was created for man to have someone aside from his little brother and the dog to blame for his actions. The discussion back in that garden between the Big Guy in the sky and his son probably went differently than we assume, because there was no Perez Hilton to report on it.
BG (holding an empty milk container in kitchen): “Now look what you did.”
Adam: “Wasn’t me.”
BG: “Really? So you weren’t the last one to use the milk?”
Adam: “Did you ask the caribou? He’s always in the fridge and I’ve seen him drink straight from the carton.”
BG: “What about the cereal bowl on the counter above the dishwasher?”
Adam: “The cat?”
BG: “It has a spoon in it. Cats can’t hold spoons.”
Adam: “Oh, that bowl. I was going to use it again.”
BG: “… and would it kill you to fetch a fresh roll of toilet paper when you finish one?”
Adam: “I thought we were out.”
BG: “Ugh. What am I going to do with you?”
Adam: “If you create a playmate for me, I’ll have someone to keep me out of trouble.”
BG: “Hm.”
So, the Big Guy bonked Adam over the head with a stone, reached up his ass, pulled out a bone, coated it in soft skin, and added a few lovely bumps. He decided to call her Eve because Steve is a silly name for a woman. (Actually, he came up with the name because he made her at nighttime.) BG gave Eve the rundown explaining how he “had it up to here” with Adam’s shenanigans and it was her duty to use her mighty vagina to make him behave.
BG: “Yo, pinhead, wakey wakey.”
Adam: “Ouch, my noggin’. Hey, what’s that?”
Eve: “I am woman; hear me roar.”
Adam: “Woah, holy shit! Does it bite?”
BG: “She’s just playing with you. Go give her a sniff. She’s harmless.”
Adam timidly approached her and checked her out. Eve took his hand and winked, signaling she was fine with the exam. (BG made her drink a few cosmos before waking Adam.) Adam felt her hair, sniffed her neck, and noticed squishy things on her chest.
Eve: “Easy there, Tiger. They’re not bike horns.”
Adam: “Sorry. Hey, Pop, you forgot something.”
BG: “What?”
Adam: “She’s missing her … umm … you know.”
BG: “It’s there, just tinier.”
Adam: “Ah, ha ha ha! You have a thimble dick. Nya nya!”
Eve (to BG): “Really? This is what I’m going to have to put up with?”
BG: “My girl, the first thing you need to realize is the vagina is mightier than the sword.”
Eve: “Good point. Here, Adam, give me your finger. How does that feel?”
Adam: “Oh … my …”
BG: “Please don’t say it. I gotta go. This is getting creepy. Good luck with him.”
The plan worked out for everyone. Adam was distracted by his new playmate who learned how to lead him around to his chores by dangling her fun parts. Eve took care of the discipline and punishment BG was so tired of meting out. Adam had someone to blame for his misbehavior.
Adam: “It’s all her fault. She drives me to drink with all of her wavering between ‘come here’ and ‘go away.’ She asks why I never touch her and then when I try she complains that’s all I want from her. I have ten percent of closet space left, I’m constantly heading to the market for yogurt and toilet paper, and she won’t let me watch hockey.”
BG: “Fine. I’ll take her away.”
Adam: “Noooooo! I’m just venting.”
BG: “Well, what do you want from me?”
Adam: “OK, how about this: create some backup women for me.”
BG: “All right. (This is so not going to solve the problem, but it will amuse the hell out of me.)”
BG (holding an empty milk container in kitchen): “Now look what you did.”
Adam: “Wasn’t me.”
BG: “Really? So you weren’t the last one to use the milk?”
Adam: “Did you ask the caribou? He’s always in the fridge and I’ve seen him drink straight from the carton.”
BG: “What about the cereal bowl on the counter above the dishwasher?”
Adam: “The cat?”
BG: “It has a spoon in it. Cats can’t hold spoons.”
Adam: “Oh, that bowl. I was going to use it again.”
BG: “… and would it kill you to fetch a fresh roll of toilet paper when you finish one?”
Adam: “I thought we were out.”
BG: “Ugh. What am I going to do with you?”
Adam: “If you create a playmate for me, I’ll have someone to keep me out of trouble.”
BG: “Hm.”
So, the Big Guy bonked Adam over the head with a stone, reached up his ass, pulled out a bone, coated it in soft skin, and added a few lovely bumps. He decided to call her Eve because Steve is a silly name for a woman. (Actually, he came up with the name because he made her at nighttime.) BG gave Eve the rundown explaining how he “had it up to here” with Adam’s shenanigans and it was her duty to use her mighty vagina to make him behave.
BG: “Yo, pinhead, wakey wakey.”
Adam: “Ouch, my noggin’. Hey, what’s that?”
Eve: “I am woman; hear me roar.”
Adam: “Woah, holy shit! Does it bite?”
BG: “She’s just playing with you. Go give her a sniff. She’s harmless.”
Adam timidly approached her and checked her out. Eve took his hand and winked, signaling she was fine with the exam. (BG made her drink a few cosmos before waking Adam.) Adam felt her hair, sniffed her neck, and noticed squishy things on her chest.
Eve: “Easy there, Tiger. They’re not bike horns.”
Adam: “Sorry. Hey, Pop, you forgot something.”
BG: “What?”
Adam: “She’s missing her … umm … you know.”
BG: “It’s there, just tinier.”
Adam: “Ah, ha ha ha! You have a thimble dick. Nya nya!”
Eve (to BG): “Really? This is what I’m going to have to put up with?”
BG: “My girl, the first thing you need to realize is the vagina is mightier than the sword.”
Eve: “Good point. Here, Adam, give me your finger. How does that feel?”
Adam: “Oh … my …”
BG: “Please don’t say it. I gotta go. This is getting creepy. Good luck with him.”
The plan worked out for everyone. Adam was distracted by his new playmate who learned how to lead him around to his chores by dangling her fun parts. Eve took care of the discipline and punishment BG was so tired of meting out. Adam had someone to blame for his misbehavior.
Adam: “It’s all her fault. She drives me to drink with all of her wavering between ‘come here’ and ‘go away.’ She asks why I never touch her and then when I try she complains that’s all I want from her. I have ten percent of closet space left, I’m constantly heading to the market for yogurt and toilet paper, and she won’t let me watch hockey.”
BG: “Fine. I’ll take her away.”
Adam: “Noooooo! I’m just venting.”
BG: “Well, what do you want from me?”
Adam: “OK, how about this: create some backup women for me.”
BG: “All right. (This is so not going to solve the problem, but it will amuse the hell out of me.)”
The Germinator
Seems an elected official was screwing the help. Who cares? All right, Maria should care but why should I? Our media eats this stuff up, so much so that one day I predict there will be a brilliant manipulation of the media by someone looking for increased exposure. Some not-famous-enough couple will fake an affair so they can write books about it, go on TV where they’ll whine at first and then gloat about how they persevered despite trials and tribulations.
“He’s such a pig. I can’t believe we elected him governor.”
“Hold on to your white wig just one second there, Missy. You don’t know what was going on in their marriage.”
“He was MARRIED. That’s all I need to know.”
“Horse dookie. You weren’t there so you don’t know what their relationship was like.”
“It doesn’t matter. He was married so he wasn’t allowed to shtup the help.”
“Maybe the wife was into that sort of thing.”
“...”
“OK, maybe not. I bet it was the steroids.”
“Show me one scientific study showing steroids cause infidelity.”
“Perhaps the 'roids made him extra horny and the wife was tired of accommodating his bionic man-piston.”
“No excuse.”
“If the wife stops performing wifely duties, the husband has every right to seed the maid. I mean, he’s Ahnowd, for Christ’s sake!”
“I don’t care who he is. Married men are not allowed to have sex with anyone except their wives.”
“Maybe it was a freak accident. What if, while the maid was changing the sheets, one of his practically immortal sperm crawled up her arm, down her body, and into her baby trap?”
“He admitted to having an affair with her.”
“That could be the steroids talking.”
“Stop making excuses for him. He’s not even denying it.”
“Because he’s a victim of abuse. The wife tortured him for years by withholding the good lovin’. She probably beat him regularly. He’s afraid.”
“I can’t have this argument with you. It’s silly. Why are you defending him, anyway? He’s Republican.”
“Wait ... what?”
“Duh.”
“Holy shit! What a scumbag! How could he do that to poor Maria, a kind and loyal Democrat? Those Republicans are always preaching one thing and doing the opposite. Dang hypocrites, I tell ya--the whole lot of them. I say send him to prison.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Maybe we can do a prisoner exchange. Free Lindsay!”
We can solve this problem by forbidding politicians, athletes, and actors from being married. You want to play in the big leagues? Ditch the spouse. I don’t care if you love her. That’s too bad. She’ll become a problem. Oh, you can have all the sex you want with her, but you’re not promising shit because you’re going to break that promise and be persecuted by the same righteous jackasses who were once your biggest supporters. Go get a freaking puppy. I swear if I catch you heading toward bended knee I will terminate you. Stay single and you can enjoy all the lechery your tiny heart can handle.
“He’s such a pig. I can’t believe we elected him governor.”
“Hold on to your white wig just one second there, Missy. You don’t know what was going on in their marriage.”
“He was MARRIED. That’s all I need to know.”
“Horse dookie. You weren’t there so you don’t know what their relationship was like.”
“It doesn’t matter. He was married so he wasn’t allowed to shtup the help.”
“Maybe the wife was into that sort of thing.”
“...”
“OK, maybe not. I bet it was the steroids.”
“Show me one scientific study showing steroids cause infidelity.”
“Perhaps the 'roids made him extra horny and the wife was tired of accommodating his bionic man-piston.”
“No excuse.”
“If the wife stops performing wifely duties, the husband has every right to seed the maid. I mean, he’s Ahnowd, for Christ’s sake!”
“I don’t care who he is. Married men are not allowed to have sex with anyone except their wives.”
“Maybe it was a freak accident. What if, while the maid was changing the sheets, one of his practically immortal sperm crawled up her arm, down her body, and into her baby trap?”
“He admitted to having an affair with her.”
“That could be the steroids talking.”
“Stop making excuses for him. He’s not even denying it.”
“Because he’s a victim of abuse. The wife tortured him for years by withholding the good lovin’. She probably beat him regularly. He’s afraid.”
“I can’t have this argument with you. It’s silly. Why are you defending him, anyway? He’s Republican.”
“Wait ... what?”
“Duh.”
“Holy shit! What a scumbag! How could he do that to poor Maria, a kind and loyal Democrat? Those Republicans are always preaching one thing and doing the opposite. Dang hypocrites, I tell ya--the whole lot of them. I say send him to prison.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Maybe we can do a prisoner exchange. Free Lindsay!”
We can solve this problem by forbidding politicians, athletes, and actors from being married. You want to play in the big leagues? Ditch the spouse. I don’t care if you love her. That’s too bad. She’ll become a problem. Oh, you can have all the sex you want with her, but you’re not promising shit because you’re going to break that promise and be persecuted by the same righteous jackasses who were once your biggest supporters. Go get a freaking puppy. I swear if I catch you heading toward bended knee I will terminate you. Stay single and you can enjoy all the lechery your tiny heart can handle.
Twisted Branches
I just found out I have (another) half-sister. Thanks to the wonders of Facebook, my big sis contacted me today. She was worried I’d be upset. Why would I be? My branch of the family tree stops here so I’m all for other buds and branches, especially when they’re not embarrassed by my raunchy humor.
My sister called today and we had a nice conversation. She recognized me from my pictures and said her son resembles me. He is quite a handsome dude, but I can’t tell if somebody looks like me. I had a coworker tell me I resembled Scott Hamilton. No offense, Scotty Boy, but I can’t find a compliment anywhere in that analogy. Oh, and I can’t skate any better than you can throw a baseball.
I wasn’t shocked by the sibling discovery because Pop was a notorious socialite. Seems he had a little tryst (before he married my mother) with a buddy’s wife, got her preggo, and her husband insisted they give up the baby for adoption to save the marriage. It was over fifty years ago so I’m sure the facts have been distorted. Still, any discovery of stray DNA is cool even if it was spread carelessly.
Don’t you ever wonder about undiscovered relatives?
Men always kid each other about mysterious offspring we may have roaming the earth. Sure, it’s possible. I’ve had a few oopsies in my days—a broken rubber here, a slipped rubber there, a pullout that wasn’t quite on time here, and a forgot-to-take-the-pill-just-one-time there. I do cringe with every Facebook friend request, though. I’m not sure my monitor could withstand my reaction to a “Hi, Dad!”
Well, at least I don’t have to worry now that I have been fixed. I’m dropping off my sample this week to make sure I’m all clear. No demon seeds will come from this little devil, just demon semen. I’ll let my distant DNA carriers take care of the spreading.
We’re approaching the days when our DNA will be obsolete anyway. Parents will fill out an online order, scientists will flip a few switches, and ship frozen embryos made to order. Men will all be designed to grow over six feet tall with square jaws and full heads of hair. Women will have almond eyes, long necks, and flawless skin. As it is now, it will be up to the parents to distort the perfect creation with fast food and guilt as well as the scientists, doctors, and drug companies to sedate them.
Whatever. I must contend with my own issues. Therapist is one shitty position I won’t assume at any price.
The latest tally shows that I have three half-sisters, four adopted siblings, numerous nephews and nieces, and this cute little mole next to my right nipple. As life goes on and the world continues shrinking, I’m sure I’ll make more discoveries. If those discoveries include a place that serves gnocchi in a spicy tomato sauce and velvety, red wine, I’ll be tickled burgundy.
My sister called today and we had a nice conversation. She recognized me from my pictures and said her son resembles me. He is quite a handsome dude, but I can’t tell if somebody looks like me. I had a coworker tell me I resembled Scott Hamilton. No offense, Scotty Boy, but I can’t find a compliment anywhere in that analogy. Oh, and I can’t skate any better than you can throw a baseball.
I wasn’t shocked by the sibling discovery because Pop was a notorious socialite. Seems he had a little tryst (before he married my mother) with a buddy’s wife, got her preggo, and her husband insisted they give up the baby for adoption to save the marriage. It was over fifty years ago so I’m sure the facts have been distorted. Still, any discovery of stray DNA is cool even if it was spread carelessly.
Don’t you ever wonder about undiscovered relatives?
Men always kid each other about mysterious offspring we may have roaming the earth. Sure, it’s possible. I’ve had a few oopsies in my days—a broken rubber here, a slipped rubber there, a pullout that wasn’t quite on time here, and a forgot-to-take-the-pill-just-one-time there. I do cringe with every Facebook friend request, though. I’m not sure my monitor could withstand my reaction to a “Hi, Dad!”
Well, at least I don’t have to worry now that I have been fixed. I’m dropping off my sample this week to make sure I’m all clear. No demon seeds will come from this little devil, just demon semen. I’ll let my distant DNA carriers take care of the spreading.
We’re approaching the days when our DNA will be obsolete anyway. Parents will fill out an online order, scientists will flip a few switches, and ship frozen embryos made to order. Men will all be designed to grow over six feet tall with square jaws and full heads of hair. Women will have almond eyes, long necks, and flawless skin. As it is now, it will be up to the parents to distort the perfect creation with fast food and guilt as well as the scientists, doctors, and drug companies to sedate them.
Whatever. I must contend with my own issues. Therapist is one shitty position I won’t assume at any price.
The latest tally shows that I have three half-sisters, four adopted siblings, numerous nephews and nieces, and this cute little mole next to my right nipple. As life goes on and the world continues shrinking, I’m sure I’ll make more discoveries. If those discoveries include a place that serves gnocchi in a spicy tomato sauce and velvety, red wine, I’ll be tickled burgundy.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Walking Wounded
Hank was expressing his frustration to me last night while we threw back a John Daly or four. He said he’s constantly paying for the wrongdoings of his dates’ previous lovers. He had a good point.
“Those wounds remain concealed until around dates three or four and then they start oozing.”
“Yep. I’ve detected something festering a few times and, sure enough, ‘nothing’ was ‘something,’ as I suspected.”
“The deepest wounds I’ve found are left by infidelity. The last guy’s indiscretion causes her paranoia, which I have to deal with.”
“I have seen that one—a nasty injury.”
“She begins watching my every move and imagining the worst. If my phone rings, it’s a booty call. If the bartender flirts with me, I’ve banged her. If I don’t answer her text within five minutes, I’m busy doing the horizontal boogie with a skank in a motel room.”
“That shit will drive a man to cheat. Women don’t realize that insecurity is a major turnoff for men as well. If we’re going to be constantly accused and pay the price of the crime, we’ll eventually consider committing the crime to justify the punishment.”
“It’s not always sexual either. If the last guy didn’t pay enough attention to her, she’ll need constant reassuring. If the last guy didn’t want to commit, all men are players. If the last guy neglected her needs, all men are selfish.”
“It’s too bad women have such a hold over us. I have to admit they're worth the effort.”
“I agree but sometimes I become exhausted and prefer serenity with an occasional FWB.”
“Friend with benefits?”
“No, Fondue with bananas, you ass.”
“Ha!”
I have wounds too but I try to use them as reminders for myself, not as punishment for my next girlfriend. I may have found evidence of affairs by snooping around email and text messages in past relationships; it doesn’t give me cause to snoop around the next woman, does it?
There are interesting extremes at play:
Confident women make me hungry. Meek women drain me. I can gauge a woman’s confidence level with one simple question:
“Those wounds remain concealed until around dates three or four and then they start oozing.”
“Yep. I’ve detected something festering a few times and, sure enough, ‘nothing’ was ‘something,’ as I suspected.”
“The deepest wounds I’ve found are left by infidelity. The last guy’s indiscretion causes her paranoia, which I have to deal with.”
“I have seen that one—a nasty injury.”
“She begins watching my every move and imagining the worst. If my phone rings, it’s a booty call. If the bartender flirts with me, I’ve banged her. If I don’t answer her text within five minutes, I’m busy doing the horizontal boogie with a skank in a motel room.”
“That shit will drive a man to cheat. Women don’t realize that insecurity is a major turnoff for men as well. If we’re going to be constantly accused and pay the price of the crime, we’ll eventually consider committing the crime to justify the punishment.”
“It’s not always sexual either. If the last guy didn’t pay enough attention to her, she’ll need constant reassuring. If the last guy didn’t want to commit, all men are players. If the last guy neglected her needs, all men are selfish.”
“It’s too bad women have such a hold over us. I have to admit they're worth the effort.”
“I agree but sometimes I become exhausted and prefer serenity with an occasional FWB.”
“Friend with benefits?”
“No, Fondue with bananas, you ass.”
“Ha!”
I have wounds too but I try to use them as reminders for myself, not as punishment for my next girlfriend. I may have found evidence of affairs by snooping around email and text messages in past relationships; it doesn’t give me cause to snoop around the next woman, does it?
There are interesting extremes at play:
- Paranoia – Every little thing he does is tragic.
- Intentional Blindness – Making excuses or taking the blame for his actions.
- Apathy – I’m not about to stress myself over something I can’t control.
Confident women make me hungry. Meek women drain me. I can gauge a woman’s confidence level with one simple question:
- What would you like to do tonight?
- I don’t care. – Why should I care?
- Whatever you like, dear. – She’s too accommodating and I fear she is testing me.
- You’re the man, you’re supposed to decide. – This relationship is going to require hard labor.
- I have a movie on Netflix I want to watch. You can pick up some cabernet and pizza on the way. – This errand boy best be rewarded for his services.
- I’ll be ready around seven. I’m in the mood for sushi or Thai. – That’s HOT! Spicy level eight for me! She knows what she wants, can express it, and gives me options. I’m … in … love.
Walking Wounded
Hank was expressing his frustration to me last night while we threw back a John Daly or four. He said he’s constantly paying for the wrongdoings of his dates’ previous lovers. He had a good point.
“Those wounds remain concealed until around dates three or four and then they start oozing.”
“Yep. I’ve detected something festering a few times and, sure enough, ‘nothing’ was ‘something,’ as I suspected.”
“The deepest wounds I’ve found are left by infidelity. The last guy’s indiscretion causes her paranoia, which I have to deal with.”
“I have seen that one—a nasty injury.”
“She begins watching my every move and imagining the worst. If my phone rings, it’s a booty call. If the bartender flirts with me, I’ve banged her. If I don’t answer her text within five minutes, I’m busy doing the horizontal boogie with a skank in a motel room.”
“That shit will drive a man to cheat. Women don’t realize that insecurity is a major turnoff for men as well. If we’re going to be constantly accused and pay the price of the crime, we’ll eventually consider committing the crime to justify the punishment.”
“It’s not always sexual either. If the last guy didn’t pay enough attention to her, she’ll need constant reassuring. If the last guy didn’t want to commit, all men are players. If the last guy neglected her needs, all men are selfish.”
“It’s too bad women have such a hold over us. I have to admit they're worth the effort.”
“I agree but sometimes I become exhausted and prefer serenity with an occasional FWB.”
“Friend with benefits?”
“No, Fondue with bananas, you ass.”
“Ha!”
I have wounds too but I try to use them as reminders for myself, not as punishment for my next girlfriend. I may have found evidence of affairs by snooping around email and text messages in past relationships; it doesn’t give me cause to snoop around the next woman, does it?
There are interesting extremes at play:
Confident women make me hungry. Meek women drain me. I can gauge a woman’s confidence level with one simple question:
“Those wounds remain concealed until around dates three or four and then they start oozing.”
“Yep. I’ve detected something festering a few times and, sure enough, ‘nothing’ was ‘something,’ as I suspected.”
“The deepest wounds I’ve found are left by infidelity. The last guy’s indiscretion causes her paranoia, which I have to deal with.”
“I have seen that one—a nasty injury.”
“She begins watching my every move and imagining the worst. If my phone rings, it’s a booty call. If the bartender flirts with me, I’ve banged her. If I don’t answer her text within five minutes, I’m busy doing the horizontal boogie with a skank in a motel room.”
“That shit will drive a man to cheat. Women don’t realize that insecurity is a major turnoff for men as well. If we’re going to be constantly accused and pay the price of the crime, we’ll eventually consider committing the crime to justify the punishment.”
“It’s not always sexual either. If the last guy didn’t pay enough attention to her, she’ll need constant reassuring. If the last guy didn’t want to commit, all men are players. If the last guy neglected her needs, all men are selfish.”
“It’s too bad women have such a hold over us. I have to admit they're worth the effort.”
“I agree but sometimes I become exhausted and prefer serenity with an occasional FWB.”
“Friend with benefits?”
“No, Fondue with bananas, you ass.”
“Ha!”
I have wounds too but I try to use them as reminders for myself, not as punishment for my next girlfriend. I may have found evidence of affairs by snooping around email and text messages in past relationships; it doesn’t give me cause to snoop around the next woman, does it?
There are interesting extremes at play:
- Paranoia – Every little thing he does is tragic.
- Intentional Blindness – Making excuses or taking the blame for his actions.
- Apathy – I’m not about to stress myself over something I can’t control.
Confident women make me hungry. Meek women drain me. I can gauge a woman’s confidence level with one simple question:
- What would you like to do tonight?
- I don’t care. – Why should I care?
- Whatever you like, dear. – She’s too accommodating and I fear she is testing me.
- You’re the man, you’re supposed to decide. – This relationship is going to require hard labor.
- I have a movie on Netflix I want to watch. You can pick up some cabernet and pizza on the way. – This errand boy best be rewarded for his services.
- I’ll be ready around seven. I’m in the mood for sushi or Thai. – That’s HOT! Spicy level eight for me! She knows what she wants, can express it, and gives me options. I’m … in … love.
Misdeeds Explained
In defense of men, I shall explain why we can be annoying as squeaky floorboards. It’s not that we intentionally annoy; we often are unaware of the offense or the gravity thereof. Occasionally, we’ll weigh the inconvenience of behaving against the toleration of nagging, whining, and the I-just-smelled-the-grossest-fart-ever face.
- Checking out other women. There needs to be an addendum to this crime: … who are more attractive than I am. I’m rarely lectured for staring at an old woman in skorts, a “big” girl in stretch pants, or a server with arm cellulite. Look, unless watching a fifty-yard field goal attempt in overtime, I’m easily distracted. Men are constantly on the lookout for prey (and butt crack), even when we’re well fed. I do agree there’s a big difference between glances and gapes. Creepers who stare deserve a few nights on the sofa or darker lenses.
- Leaving dirty dishes around. That’s just laziness. I’m sure you’ve heard the excuse, “I might want to use it again instead of dirtying another one.” Lame. There’s no defending this one. Make him use paper plates and plastic utensils until he learns.
- Peeing on the toilet seat. Men rarely pee directly on the seat, unless it is the middle-of-the-night tinkle, which must be done in the dark in order to limit sleep loss. Pee sometimes splashes onto the seat. The offense is not giving the rim a quick once-around with a square of TP to remove the evidence. How egregious the foul is depends on which method the man uses to whip out his hose. The lazy way (guilty) is to lift the left leg of underwear with right hand and pee through the leg hole. This causes a slight leftward cock bend and the likelihood of errant spray. Another method is pulling down the waistband above the unit, tucking it under the balls, and arcing away. Depending on the size and turgidity of said wiener, this indeed may cause an overshoot and spotted seat. I don’t know why underwear companies bother making an access through a front flap, as it’s rarely used for anything but ventilation. Perhaps I’ll invent Pen-X (similar to Rain-X), which will keep pee from sticking to the surface.
- Farting. Every being that has an ass, farts. It’s natural. Consider the sound of a fart as a signal to applaud and head upwind. Think of all the fun games that have been created because of the fart: pull my finger, the ignart (ignited fart), and the Dutch oven. One way to stop your man from farting (aside from weaning him off Budweiser) is to begin tooting your own hiney horn. He’ll be traumatized and beg your forgiveness.
- Not listening. Men learn to tune out distractions while out in the wild. This includes using the “Ignore” button on the phone, agreeing with you while daydreaming about boinking the barista, and entering a vegetative state during dinner, reality TV, and family visits. The best way to avoid this is to either leave him text messages (modern day sticky notes), or remove your shirt before reminding him of his chore. Remember, telling him that he never listens is ineffective because he’s not listening.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Mom 1, Bread Pudding 0
Encinitas, CA (NGWEB) May 11, 2011 – A woman from the East Coast, affectionately referred to as “Phil’s Mom,” travelled west this week to take on a feisty local opponent, Bread Pudding. Although Mom is very pretty, the result wasn’t. All that remained after the match was a plate with a tiny smear of caramel and one happy mother.
Before the match, the Encinitas Bread Pudding (nickname: BP) was confident.
“This woman gots no chance. Who do she think she is, comin’ out here onto my turf and orderin’ me `round? She need to take her ass back to coal-cracking country and stick to something more her speed … like blueberry blintzes.”
Phil’s Mom wasn’t about to be intimidated or deterred, even after she was sequestered in an Albuquerque airport for five hours as she made the trip west. It seems someone (oh, we know it was you, Mr. Pudding) left a note in the jet’s bathroom on her connecting flight from Detroit. The FBI was called in, and Special Agent Leon Stanhope had the following to say:
“What a low blow. I mean, I saw the elbow Andrew Bynum planted in Barrea’s ribs and that was nothing compared to this. We don’t have any concrete evidence at this point, but we suspect the note was left by one of BP’s associates who were on the plane: Fried Ice Cream or Flourless Chocolate Cake. I can’t release the actual details of the note, but I will tell you it mentioned the word ‘Gut Bomb.’ We’re not taking this lightly.”
With a crowd of eighty in attendance, Mom wasn’t intimidated. In fact, she took on another opponent in a warm-up match (Pan Roasted Chicken) to loosen her jaw muscles and show her self-assurance. Her son and corner cut man, “Nice Guy” Phil, cleaned a stray dab of gravy from her chin and gave us an exclusive from ringside.
“It’s bittersweet for me. I’m technically a San Diego native now, but much as I continue to root for the Phillies, I have to stay in Mom’s corner. I mean, seriously, this town has zero championships, right? Sorry, I’m not counting the freaking Sockers … who are they anyway? Mom’s not about to let this one slip. Heck, I watched her take out a cannoli in under a minute last month. BP’s goin’ down.”
“You simple as a pimple,” BP interjected as he overheard Phil’s comment. “Ya oughta be shamed of yoself, sendin’ yo mama up in here to do a man’s job.”
Phil puffed his chest but Mom stopped him, reminding him how his last confrontation with Banana Cream Pie went.
Once the bell rang, Mom delivered stinging jabs from all angles. She quickly knocked the whipped and ice cream topping to the side and dismantled BP, chip by chip. The only respite for BP was when she reached for a swig of hot tea.
After the match, Mom smiled and patted her pouch.
“That was nice. I’m leaning toward a few ounces of port wine and a dark chocolate wafer.”
She just might be the greatest of all-time.
Before the match, the Encinitas Bread Pudding (nickname: BP) was confident.
“This woman gots no chance. Who do she think she is, comin’ out here onto my turf and orderin’ me `round? She need to take her ass back to coal-cracking country and stick to something more her speed … like blueberry blintzes.”
Phil’s Mom wasn’t about to be intimidated or deterred, even after she was sequestered in an Albuquerque airport for five hours as she made the trip west. It seems someone (oh, we know it was you, Mr. Pudding) left a note in the jet’s bathroom on her connecting flight from Detroit. The FBI was called in, and Special Agent Leon Stanhope had the following to say:
“What a low blow. I mean, I saw the elbow Andrew Bynum planted in Barrea’s ribs and that was nothing compared to this. We don’t have any concrete evidence at this point, but we suspect the note was left by one of BP’s associates who were on the plane: Fried Ice Cream or Flourless Chocolate Cake. I can’t release the actual details of the note, but I will tell you it mentioned the word ‘Gut Bomb.’ We’re not taking this lightly.”
With a crowd of eighty in attendance, Mom wasn’t intimidated. In fact, she took on another opponent in a warm-up match (Pan Roasted Chicken) to loosen her jaw muscles and show her self-assurance. Her son and corner cut man, “Nice Guy” Phil, cleaned a stray dab of gravy from her chin and gave us an exclusive from ringside.
“It’s bittersweet for me. I’m technically a San Diego native now, but much as I continue to root for the Phillies, I have to stay in Mom’s corner. I mean, seriously, this town has zero championships, right? Sorry, I’m not counting the freaking Sockers … who are they anyway? Mom’s not about to let this one slip. Heck, I watched her take out a cannoli in under a minute last month. BP’s goin’ down.”
“You simple as a pimple,” BP interjected as he overheard Phil’s comment. “Ya oughta be shamed of yoself, sendin’ yo mama up in here to do a man’s job.”
Phil puffed his chest but Mom stopped him, reminding him how his last confrontation with Banana Cream Pie went.
Once the bell rang, Mom delivered stinging jabs from all angles. She quickly knocked the whipped and ice cream topping to the side and dismantled BP, chip by chip. The only respite for BP was when she reached for a swig of hot tea.
After the match, Mom smiled and patted her pouch.
“That was nice. I’m leaning toward a few ounces of port wine and a dark chocolate wafer.”
She just might be the greatest of all-time.
Scent Sense
A man has to be cautious when buying gifts for his woman. As I strolled through Nordstrom’s killing time this past weekend, I thought about picking up a little something for the little something I’ve been dating. She kidded me in a text saying she’s a small and size seven. That didn’t help much.
With all of the girlie magazines I read, you’d think I’d know size seven refers to shoe size, not dress size. Well, now I do … and the clerk has a new funny comment to post on her Facebook page about the idiot who asked. I guess “size seven” could refer to ring size. Gulp!
I am a huge fan of fragrance. In fact, if you wear any of the following, I would like to smell you:
I realize I can’t go wrong with flowers, but I feel so ordinary when I give them. It shows lack of effort and creativity. It also seems cheap to me that I can buy them at the grocery store. Still, flowers usually get the tilted headed “aw” response that loosens the clothing.
Candy is an innocuous gesture as well. As long as my sweetie isn’t avoiding sweets, I’m safe. As an added bonus, I get to stare at the package drooling until she gets the hint and shares. OK, it’s a bit self-serving.
Also self-serving is lingerie. I can’t get enough of it. Lace reminds me of powdered sugar for some odd reason. I know to avoid VS until she guides me that way. Once I observe which garments cause pause, I have the intelligence I need to make my move. Damn, that holey stuff is expensive!
Another great gift option is wine. I’m smart enough to make sure it isn’t a bottle she brought me, as being caught re-gifting is a federal offense in most states. Californians are lucky to have many great wine choices. Back in PA, my choice was corn nuts or pretzel pieces.
I DJ’d for twenty years and have a decent ear for music. I’m often tempted to make a mix for my love, but sense that’s a bit adolescent. Perhaps if I placed the mix on a thumbdrive, it would be cool. Part of the fun was making the custom cassette or CD cover—a lost art, indeed.
The safest bet, as with any relationship situation, is to ask. I’m good at that. I also know how to cover myself with a disclaimer like, “Your natural scent is so lovely, but there’s this perfume I smelled in one of those foldy things in Cosmo, which made me semi-turgid. Would you try it if I bought some?”
With all of the girlie magazines I read, you’d think I’d know size seven refers to shoe size, not dress size. Well, now I do … and the clerk has a new funny comment to post on her Facebook page about the idiot who asked. I guess “size seven” could refer to ring size. Gulp!
I am a huge fan of fragrance. In fact, if you wear any of the following, I would like to smell you:
- Versace Bright Crystal
- Coach Poppy
- Paco Rabanne Lady Million (*gush*)
I realize I can’t go wrong with flowers, but I feel so ordinary when I give them. It shows lack of effort and creativity. It also seems cheap to me that I can buy them at the grocery store. Still, flowers usually get the tilted headed “aw” response that loosens the clothing.
Candy is an innocuous gesture as well. As long as my sweetie isn’t avoiding sweets, I’m safe. As an added bonus, I get to stare at the package drooling until she gets the hint and shares. OK, it’s a bit self-serving.
Also self-serving is lingerie. I can’t get enough of it. Lace reminds me of powdered sugar for some odd reason. I know to avoid VS until she guides me that way. Once I observe which garments cause pause, I have the intelligence I need to make my move. Damn, that holey stuff is expensive!
Another great gift option is wine. I’m smart enough to make sure it isn’t a bottle she brought me, as being caught re-gifting is a federal offense in most states. Californians are lucky to have many great wine choices. Back in PA, my choice was corn nuts or pretzel pieces.
I DJ’d for twenty years and have a decent ear for music. I’m often tempted to make a mix for my love, but sense that’s a bit adolescent. Perhaps if I placed the mix on a thumbdrive, it would be cool. Part of the fun was making the custom cassette or CD cover—a lost art, indeed.
The safest bet, as with any relationship situation, is to ask. I’m good at that. I also know how to cover myself with a disclaimer like, “Your natural scent is so lovely, but there’s this perfume I smelled in one of those foldy things in Cosmo, which made me semi-turgid. Would you try it if I bought some?”
Taking Offense
There’s a good reason why that term isn’t “giving offense.” It’s up to the subject to decide how to react. Perhaps I’ve numbed myself or maybe I just don’t care, but I rarely take offense. I find it healthier. As soon as my left index finger hovers over the F key, I can hear an old woman somewhere gasp. Oh, lighten up, you crusty old curmudgeon.
Some reviewers—whom I won’t mention by name, but would like to boot in their pretentious booties—react to my words by telling the world my humor is foul and crude. I stare at the review and wonder, Why did you subject yourself to 300 pages of it in the first place?
I don’t like Tommy Bahama shirts so, when shopping at Nordy’s, I don’t go near the rack covered in shades of beige and ferns. I don’t pick up one of these obnoxious old-man labels, try it on, and then tell every other shopper how repulsive I find them.
Why are people who take offense to curse words the same people who can’t miss the news showing blood smears, rape victims, and casualties of war (not to mention Geraldo Rivera’s porn-stache)?
Fuck.
Ooh, did that hurt? No, it didn’t. Stop. It was not crude. It’s a word, you silly goose. In fact, it’s the most versatile word in our language. Taking offense to it is akin to taking offense to air in the form of a breeze.
Don’t be such a pussy.
Oh … my … gawd: He said the p-word! Yes, I did. I love pussy. There, I said it again. Pussy, pussy, pussy. Hairless, glistening, pinkish pussy with lusciously puffy lips. Does that sting? Tough beans. It makes me feel good to say it and, in fact, enter it. It’s also versatile (referring to the word here). Imagine the world without pussy. I’d have to use the politically correct version: va-jay-jay. Yu-uck-uck! I can’t call one of my baseball teammates a va-jay-jay when he squeaks after being hit by pitch. He is absolutely a pussy—an embarrassingly brittle pussy.
What’s crude about the word “shit,” shithead?
I’d rather be called a shithead than a poop-head. I am more highly offended by poop. When women say poop, it gives me agita. I don’t want to think about it. I just got the chills. Women can say shit, crap, and turd, but never poop. Add fart to that. No woman should say or do fart, especially on national TV, Kendra. Women also should never “take a …” They can pee, tinkle, and wiz. Even better, they can powder their noses.
How do dickheads and douchebags find my books anyway?
Oh, sorry. Should I have used the more politically correct version, d-bag? Here’s a solution: Stop taking things so literally. When I say a reviewer is a douchebag, I do not mean that she’s full of piss and vinegar (although she could be). I mean she’s a clueless retard. Uh oh, I said retard and that’s totally vulgar and unacceptable. Wait a minute. Aren’t most retards clueless and thus unaware of the offense? At least I didn’t say she was a fat retard. It is not insensitive to retards when I say somebody is retarded just as it is not insensitive to me when somebody is called hairy-assed.
Lighten up and laugh a little, will ya? I’m going to go wax my hiney now.
Some reviewers—whom I won’t mention by name, but would like to boot in their pretentious booties—react to my words by telling the world my humor is foul and crude. I stare at the review and wonder, Why did you subject yourself to 300 pages of it in the first place?
I don’t like Tommy Bahama shirts so, when shopping at Nordy’s, I don’t go near the rack covered in shades of beige and ferns. I don’t pick up one of these obnoxious old-man labels, try it on, and then tell every other shopper how repulsive I find them.
Why are people who take offense to curse words the same people who can’t miss the news showing blood smears, rape victims, and casualties of war (not to mention Geraldo Rivera’s porn-stache)?
Fuck.
Ooh, did that hurt? No, it didn’t. Stop. It was not crude. It’s a word, you silly goose. In fact, it’s the most versatile word in our language. Taking offense to it is akin to taking offense to air in the form of a breeze.
Don’t be such a pussy.
Oh … my … gawd: He said the p-word! Yes, I did. I love pussy. There, I said it again. Pussy, pussy, pussy. Hairless, glistening, pinkish pussy with lusciously puffy lips. Does that sting? Tough beans. It makes me feel good to say it and, in fact, enter it. It’s also versatile (referring to the word here). Imagine the world without pussy. I’d have to use the politically correct version: va-jay-jay. Yu-uck-uck! I can’t call one of my baseball teammates a va-jay-jay when he squeaks after being hit by pitch. He is absolutely a pussy—an embarrassingly brittle pussy.
What’s crude about the word “shit,” shithead?
I’d rather be called a shithead than a poop-head. I am more highly offended by poop. When women say poop, it gives me agita. I don’t want to think about it. I just got the chills. Women can say shit, crap, and turd, but never poop. Add fart to that. No woman should say or do fart, especially on national TV, Kendra. Women also should never “take a …” They can pee, tinkle, and wiz. Even better, they can powder their noses.
How do dickheads and douchebags find my books anyway?
Oh, sorry. Should I have used the more politically correct version, d-bag? Here’s a solution: Stop taking things so literally. When I say a reviewer is a douchebag, I do not mean that she’s full of piss and vinegar (although she could be). I mean she’s a clueless retard. Uh oh, I said retard and that’s totally vulgar and unacceptable. Wait a minute. Aren’t most retards clueless and thus unaware of the offense? At least I didn’t say she was a fat retard. It is not insensitive to retards when I say somebody is retarded just as it is not insensitive to me when somebody is called hairy-assed.
Lighten up and laugh a little, will ya? I’m going to go wax my hiney now.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Directions
The top complaint I hear about men is we don’t respond to voicemails, text messages, and emails in a timely fashion. It’s all about setting expectations, ladies. If within your message you left an RSVP, your man would disappoint you less often.
“I can’t figure him out. We were on the phone and the connection dropped. I called back and it went straight to voicemail so I apologized if it was my cell service and asked him to call me back.”
“I’m guessing he hasn’t called you back.”
“No.”
“How long has it been?”
“A couple hours.”
“Did he respond via text?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
“Should I send him a text?”
“Why don’t you just wait a bit more?”
“I don’t know. This makes me think he’s not into me.”
“Does this happen often?”
“No. We usually talk two or three times a day.”
“All right, then he’ll probably call you later.”
“What if he doesn’t? Should I call him?”
“I guess it depends.”
“I don’t want to sound desperate and nag him.”
“Something probably came up.”
“I wonder if he’s out with another woman.”
“I thought you said you were exclusive.”
“I am. He didn’t specifically say it.”
“You’re probably reading too much into this. Why torture yourself?”
Men are not all the same, but we all have egos. Our egos want us to figure things out without directions. It makes them proud. That’s why we try to assemble items without reading the instructions. Sure, oftentimes it ends up in frustration, but if we get it right occasionally, let the chest pounding begin. We impress ourselves too easily.
“All right.”
“I’ll send you the following text: 'I thought you were going to call me back.'”
“Sorry. I was caught up in something and lost track of the time.”
“So, why didn’t you take a minute and send me a text?”
“I know. Sorry. Are you having a good night?”
“It makes me feel like I’m not a priority to you.”
“Aw, that’s not true. I didn’t realize it was so important I call you right back.”
“It’s not that it was important. I just wanted to hear from you so I knew you were OK.”
“I’m fine, honey. I’m sorry. Look, next time I’ll call you right back. Promise. Do you forgive me?”
“I guess.”
“Great! Can we have sex now?”
“He wouldn’t have said that.”
“Really? Then, you’re right; He’s not that into you.”
“I can’t figure him out. We were on the phone and the connection dropped. I called back and it went straight to voicemail so I apologized if it was my cell service and asked him to call me back.”
“I’m guessing he hasn’t called you back.”
“No.”
“How long has it been?”
“A couple hours.”
“Did he respond via text?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
“Should I send him a text?”
“Why don’t you just wait a bit more?”
“I don’t know. This makes me think he’s not into me.”
“Does this happen often?”
“No. We usually talk two or three times a day.”
“All right, then he’ll probably call you later.”
“What if he doesn’t? Should I call him?”
“I guess it depends.”
“I don’t want to sound desperate and nag him.”
“Something probably came up.”
“I wonder if he’s out with another woman.”
“I thought you said you were exclusive.”
“I am. He didn’t specifically say it.”
“You’re probably reading too much into this. Why torture yourself?”
Men are not all the same, but we all have egos. Our egos want us to figure things out without directions. It makes them proud. That’s why we try to assemble items without reading the instructions. Sure, oftentimes it ends up in frustration, but if we get it right occasionally, let the chest pounding begin. We impress ourselves too easily.
- If I can assemble a bike without instructions, I am highly dexterous.
- If I can fix the car without taking it in for service, I am mechanically inclined.
- If I can cook a fine meal without consulting a recipe, I am a chef.
- If I can select a fine bottle of wine without asking the manager, call me Mr. Sommelier.
- If, without any steering by you, I can bring you to orgasm with my fingers, mouth, or big (?) unit, I’m the best lover you’ve ever had and you’ll never leave me for another.
“All right.”
“I’ll send you the following text: 'I thought you were going to call me back.'”
“Sorry. I was caught up in something and lost track of the time.”
“So, why didn’t you take a minute and send me a text?”
“I know. Sorry. Are you having a good night?”
“It makes me feel like I’m not a priority to you.”
“Aw, that’s not true. I didn’t realize it was so important I call you right back.”
“It’s not that it was important. I just wanted to hear from you so I knew you were OK.”
“I’m fine, honey. I’m sorry. Look, next time I’ll call you right back. Promise. Do you forgive me?”
“I guess.”
“Great! Can we have sex now?”
“He wouldn’t have said that.”
“Really? Then, you’re right; He’s not that into you.”
Blame it on Tequila
I haven’t done much while drunk on tequila that I regret. I don’t regret lying about it either. I have heard tales from friends behind and in front of bars, though. Most involve odd combinations of sexual adventures, vomiting in planters, and public urination.
Here’s a list of things tequila almost made me do:
- Dance without realizing nobody is dancing with me.
- Lick salt off a woman’s torso while she was sprawled out on a bar at the House of Blues. (Did you know tequila kills germs?)
- Smoke a cigar that tasted like a mud puddle.
- Forget where I parked.
- Hands-free urination in a stall because I needed to hold the walls and stop the bathroom from spinning.
- Challenge a woman to a sidewalk sprint.
- Bounce quarters.
- Pass out while inside a woman.
- Watch infomercials.
- Let a (less) drunk woman drive my sports car.
- Burn the roof of my mouth on hot pizza.
- Knock on random hotel room doors and run away.
- Pee in a sink.
- Try to negotiate at a fast food drive-thru window.
- Eat fried ice cream.
- Microwave an aluminum leftover container.
- Hang my head out the car window while driving.
- Eat oysters.
- Buy clothing I would never wear.
- Tell someone I can’t stand that I love him or her.
- Sing Elton John songs in public.
- Bark at a dog locked in a car.
- Vote for The Donald.
- Admit that Chris Brown is talented.
- Have sex over Skype.
- Paddle boating.
- Call Mike Tyson anything except “Sir.”
- Buy a pet parakeet.
- Drive a motorcycle.
- Post a profile photo of myself making a duck face.
- Pick up dog poop with or without a bag over my hand, unless I’m about to throw it at Glenn Beck.
- Give up drinking tequila.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Personality Tests
You can’t tell anything about a personality through physical traits, no matter what it says online. The only thing my elongated ring finger says about me is that my parents probably had elongated ring fingers. It may suggest that I can reach the G-spot more easily, but that’s hardly a personality trait. (Although, the fact that it was the first thing that came to my mind does suggest I am a generous person, exceptionally motivated to deliver pleasure to my sexual partner.)
The following physical traits may suggest the likelihood of certain personality traits, but not always:
The following physical traits may suggest the likelihood of certain personality traits, but not always:
- Tall – This may suggest he is intimidating and overbearing, or will uncoil a fire hose penis.
- Short – Could suggest he has an inferiority complex or is hung like a thumbtack.
- Fat – Bear-like fellows are usually jolly and they die young, so go marry a rich one, and try to tolerate his rolls.
- Skinny – He’s a stoner who rides a skateboard to work and eats too many carrots.
- Muscular – It depends on if he’s subtle about it or walks around in tank tops during the winter and stares at himself in the mirror constantly. If it comes with back acne, rest assured that he’s an angry person with balls resembling raisins.
- Big Hands or Feet – They don’t tell you much about his personality unless he insists on pressing palms together to show you just how large his hands are. Next time Mr. Pencil-Fingers does this with you and winks, remind him your small hands mean you have a Navy Seal boyfriend.
- Blue Eyes – It implies that he’s kind, loving, and trying a little too hard to convince you by writing this essay.
- Sculpted Eyebrows – Homo.
- Tattoo Sleeves – He’s trying to show the world he’s a badass. This means he’s probably a pussycat with mommy issues.
- Bald Head with Tan Lines from Sunglasses – He insecurely criticizes every man with the slightest pattern balding and claims the shaving of his own head is purely an elective procedure intended to save money on hair products.
- Tall – She’s overconfident.
- Short – She’s sassy.
- Fat – She’s not as fat as someone else is.
- Skinny – She’s a fussy eater, crack addict, or is wearing Spanx.
- Muscular – Likes vagina almost as much as I do.
- Big Hands or Feet – A firm foundation for downward-dog and doggie-style.
- Blue Eyes – (My mother has blue eyes. I abstain.)
- Sculpted Eyebrows – Thank goodness.
- Tattoo Sleeves – She likes it rough on the back of a Harley or is engaged to a tattoo artist.
- Short Hair with Reading Glasses – Overconfident, man-hating woman who has completely given up on her marriage and is now concentrating on raising her angry teenagers while considering going back to school to study criminal law or interior design. She enjoys shooting handguns, Obama-bashing, and giving talented authors one-star reviews on Amazon due to her clitoral numbness.
Personality Tests
You can’t tell anything about a personality through physical traits, no matter what it says online. The only thing my elongated ring finger says about me is that my parents probably had elongated ring fingers. It may suggest that I can reach the G-spot more easily, but that’s hardly a personality trait. (Although, the fact that it was the first thing that came to my mind does suggest I am a generous person, exceptionally motivated to deliver pleasure to my sexual partner.)
The following physical traits may suggest the likelihood of certain personality traits, but not always:
The following physical traits may suggest the likelihood of certain personality traits, but not always:
- Tall – This may suggest he is intimidating and overbearing, or will uncoil a fire hose penis.
- Short – Could suggest he has an inferiority complex or is hung like a thumbtack.
- Fat – Bear-like fellows are usually jolly and they die young, so go marry a rich one, and try to tolerate his rolls.
- Skinny – He’s a stoner who rides a skateboard to work and eats too many carrots.
- Muscular – It depends on if he’s subtle about it or walks around in tank tops during the winter and stares at himself in the mirror constantly. If it comes with back acne, rest assured that he’s an angry person with balls resembling raisins.
- Big Hands or Feet – They don’t tell you much about his personality unless he insists on pressing palms together to show you just how large his hands are. Next time Mr. Pencil-Fingers does this with you and winks, remind him your small hands mean you have a Navy Seal boyfriend.
- Blue Eyes – It implies that he’s kind, loving, and trying a little too hard to convince you by writing this essay.
- Sculpted Eyebrows – Homo.
- Tattoo Sleeves – He’s trying to show the world he’s a badass. This means he’s probably a pussycat with mommy issues.
- Bald Head with Tan Lines from Sunglasses – He insecurely criticizes every man with the slightest pattern balding and claims the shaving of his own head is purely an elective procedure intended to save money on hair products.
- Tall – She’s overconfident.
- Short – She’s sassy.
- Fat – She’s not as fat as someone else is.
- Skinny – She’s a fussy eater, crack addict, or is wearing Spanx.
- Muscular – Likes vagina almost as much as I do.
- Big Hands or Feet – A firm foundation for downward-dog and doggie-style.
- Blue Eyes – (My mother has blue eyes. I abstain.)
- Sculpted Eyebrows – Thank goodness.
- Tattoo Sleeves – She likes it rough on the back of a Harley or is engaged to a tattoo artist.
- Short Hair with Reading Glasses – Overconfident, man-hating woman who has completely given up on her marriage and is now concentrating on raising her angry teenagers while considering going back to school to study criminal law or interior design. She enjoys shooting handguns, Obama-bashing, and giving talented authors one-star reviews on Amazon due to her clitoral numbness.
Whatgasm
Being a self-appointed animal rescuer, distress calls catch my attention and cause me to spring into action. As I pulled into my driveway in my topless Jeep, I heard what I assumed was the sound of two cats fighting. (Search YouTube for “The Conversation of Tiger Woods with his Girlfriend” to hear the sound.) I sprang from my Jeep and headed across my street to break it up. Once I reached a neighbor’s driveway, I realized the sound wasn’t coming from cats, it was coming from an orgasmic woman behind an open window.
Now, I know I’m slightly out of practice. Yet, I should know the difference between a woman in pleasure and a pissed off cat, shouldn’t I? It got me thinking, Why are orgasmic sounds so varied?
Here are some that I may or may not have experienced while being the deliverer of the orgasm or a casual passerby:
I didn’t get to break up any cat fight nor did I grab a beach chair, Cheetos, and a frosty Blue Moon. I did not golf clap. I walked silently back to my garage and reminded myself that sound travels (in other words, close the damn windows). When I entered my house, Syd & Symon (my cats) greeted me at the door with “What the fuck was that?” looks on their fuzzy faces.
“Sorry, boys. False alarm. That’s just one lucky neighbor.”
Now, I know I’m slightly out of practice. Yet, I should know the difference between a woman in pleasure and a pissed off cat, shouldn’t I? It got me thinking, Why are orgasmic sounds so varied?
Here are some that I may or may not have experienced while being the deliverer of the orgasm or a casual passerby:
- Orgasmus Normalis - Deep breathing, moaning, and a few short sentences with words like “God” and “Yes.” It escalates until one big “Argh!” and an exhale.
- Orgasmus Dirtius - There are different levels of this but each one contains expletives. I’m a big fan of naughty words, but not while bumping naughty bits, because those words make me giggle. Giggling during lovemaking is not something any woman takes lightly.
- Orgasmus Silentius - Here’s where I hold the back of my hand under a nostril and peel open eyelids to make sure I haven’t induced coma. This reaction also makes me consider penis elongatus.
- Crygasm - I never quite know how to react to orgasms that cause eyes to leak. I’m afraid to ask. Tears of pain and tears of joy are remarkably similar in the dark.
- Orgasmus Athleticus - I’m almost fifty. I’m no longer pliable. Some positions are best left to the smelly-matted yoga boys. I’ve had to tap out of a few sessions. Once, I said, “Uncle!” and she responded, “Don’t you mean: Aunt?”
- Orgasmus Operatus - This is the one I heard when I went to break up the cat fight. It started with a single note with slight alterations in volume and pitch. If there were hip-slapping noises, I may have known sooner. Mariah would have been impressed with the sustain. I need to remember to deploy my fancy spy device (iPhone) on such occasions.
I didn’t get to break up any cat fight nor did I grab a beach chair, Cheetos, and a frosty Blue Moon. I did not golf clap. I walked silently back to my garage and reminded myself that sound travels (in other words, close the damn windows). When I entered my house, Syd & Symon (my cats) greeted me at the door with “What the fuck was that?” looks on their fuzzy faces.
“Sorry, boys. False alarm. That’s just one lucky neighbor.”
Hiring Babes
Why is it that most HR staffers are overweight, unattractive women? (Oh boy, I’ll probably be visited by my local employee-manual-toting rhino when she sees this.) I’m just observing and reporting. Don’t shoot the chubby-chaser-away-er.
For one thing, whether men admit it or not, they’d rather hire hotties than notties. Corporate women, however, will typically only hire women who are less attractive than they are. Men want the office decorated with lovely kittens. Women want the office decorated with crayon-drawn greeting cards, not competition.
Not convinced? Pop up in your cubicle farm and look around. See?
When I was in the position to hire people, I certainly leaned toward attractive women. If you are an attractive woman reading this, your response is, “Of course, you did.” If you’re butt ugly, you’ll probably dislike me for what I contend is a genetic flaw. I took into consideration how likely the new hire would eventually cost me my job, sanity, or a new payroll deduction entitled “Alimony.” I found the best options to be subordinates who were engaged, annoying to listen to, or lesbians.
If I were a woman, I would use my looks to my advantage. I also would not be offended when I succeeded. Play to the man’s weakness. It’s a jungle out there and survival of the firmest calves. A woman lands a mate (provider) by dolling up and attracting him. Now that pay scales are approaching gender equality, a woman must consider her bosses as providers too.
I witnessed this phenomenon last week at my usual wine station. I am an eavesdropping expert. A local law firm sent a fine specimen to lure a dashing young man to join them. She was late-twenties, wore a fashionable suit with just enough exposure, and a fine coat of spray tan and eye dressing. He was from the new breed of Twilight boys, with high hair, pale skin, and a lanky build.
She employed every tactic in the book. She constantly played with and tossed her hair. She crossed her legs with her outside leg toward him. She playfully touched his shoulder and the back of his hand. She flashed her Whitestrip whites and laughed hardily at every clever comment he made.
I sat there (vicariously seduced) and imagined how the scene would have unfolded if she were replaced by Bea Arthur. (Yes, I realize she’s dead. You can use your imagination too.) She would have gotten some points for motherly reminiscence and humor, but the recruit wouldn’t have been so swayed.
I’m not sure how successful the bait was, but I lauded her efforts.
So, I guess the moral is to be aware that no matter how unfair it is, people will judge you and be manipulated by your looks. Lose some weight, get your hair did, your teeth lightened, your skin darkened, those spots lasered, and your wardrobe updated. Play the game to win, ladies. Have your way with us. Don’t complain about childlike beasts; feed them candy.
For one thing, whether men admit it or not, they’d rather hire hotties than notties. Corporate women, however, will typically only hire women who are less attractive than they are. Men want the office decorated with lovely kittens. Women want the office decorated with crayon-drawn greeting cards, not competition.
Not convinced? Pop up in your cubicle farm and look around. See?
When I was in the position to hire people, I certainly leaned toward attractive women. If you are an attractive woman reading this, your response is, “Of course, you did.” If you’re butt ugly, you’ll probably dislike me for what I contend is a genetic flaw. I took into consideration how likely the new hire would eventually cost me my job, sanity, or a new payroll deduction entitled “Alimony.” I found the best options to be subordinates who were engaged, annoying to listen to, or lesbians.
If I were a woman, I would use my looks to my advantage. I also would not be offended when I succeeded. Play to the man’s weakness. It’s a jungle out there and survival of the firmest calves. A woman lands a mate (provider) by dolling up and attracting him. Now that pay scales are approaching gender equality, a woman must consider her bosses as providers too.
I witnessed this phenomenon last week at my usual wine station. I am an eavesdropping expert. A local law firm sent a fine specimen to lure a dashing young man to join them. She was late-twenties, wore a fashionable suit with just enough exposure, and a fine coat of spray tan and eye dressing. He was from the new breed of Twilight boys, with high hair, pale skin, and a lanky build.
She employed every tactic in the book. She constantly played with and tossed her hair. She crossed her legs with her outside leg toward him. She playfully touched his shoulder and the back of his hand. She flashed her Whitestrip whites and laughed hardily at every clever comment he made.
I sat there (vicariously seduced) and imagined how the scene would have unfolded if she were replaced by Bea Arthur. (Yes, I realize she’s dead. You can use your imagination too.) She would have gotten some points for motherly reminiscence and humor, but the recruit wouldn’t have been so swayed.
I’m not sure how successful the bait was, but I lauded her efforts.
So, I guess the moral is to be aware that no matter how unfair it is, people will judge you and be manipulated by your looks. Lose some weight, get your hair did, your teeth lightened, your skin darkened, those spots lasered, and your wardrobe updated. Play the game to win, ladies. Have your way with us. Don’t complain about childlike beasts; feed them candy.
Nicknames
Soon after we begin dating, we need to find creative nicknames to address our mates. It works against us because people love hearing their own names. Instead of a cute pet name, some people opt for variations of their mates' names. In my example that would include such incarnations as Philly, Philsie, and Phildo—a pet indeed.
To help my brothers along the path to relationship bliss, here are my top ten pet names for women:
Here are some good ideas for affectionate pet names for your man:
To help my brothers along the path to relationship bliss, here are my top ten pet names for women:
- Sweetness
- Cutie (Pie optional as well as the creative—albeit lazy—spelling: QT.)
- Honey
- Sweetie
- Hottie
- Angel
- Sexiness
- Kitten
- Cookie
- Babycakes
- Toots
- Schmoopy
- Cock Locker
- Poopsie
- Cuddle Muffin
- Keeper of the Vag
- Bumper Butt
- Boo Boo
- Nob Gobbler
- Sugar Tits
Here are some good ideas for affectionate pet names for your man:
- Hun
- Sugar
- Dear
- Lover
- Tiger
- Big
- Bear
- Papi
- Cowboy
- Studley
- Tripod
- Horsecock
- Orgasmatron
- Staminaman
- Puddin’ Pop
- Thumper
- More Than a Mouthful
- God
- Champ
- Eggplant
Whoopie
I love stirring up trouble, but you knew that. Facebook provides the ideal avenue for my shenanigans where I can drop a casual comment and stir up a shit-storm. It’s as we used to do back in my office days. After a lunch of spicy Mexican food, some gassy fellow would cruise into a colleague’s office, drop off a piece of junk mail, and release noxious fumes before departing. Juvenile.
Religion has always been the most devastating bomb for me to drop. Any public comment I make about mythological beings brings an avalanche of emotional responses. I just sit back and let the wizards cast spells upon each other by quoting their ancient texts.
Political comments are caustic agents as well. We each must choose a team and defend its players. I chose Obama’s team because the other option seemed so … um … stupid. So, any comment I make endorsing President BO or criticizing Trump, Palin, and any of the others from the idiot parade ignites angry banter. I love America!
I find people to be possessive of their favorite genres and musicians. I know not to poke fun at country music around a straw chewing inbred with a shotgun rack in his pickup. I also know not to tell the large, dark-skinned fellow collecting my cover charge that David Gilmore’s sphincter has more talent than Jay-Z. I will not pick on P!nk because I’m confident she can kick my ass, even during her third trimester. Safe bets for me are Taylor (Oh, look at the clever heart I can make with my fingers!) Swift and Myley (heading down Crack Addict Lane) Cyrus. Their fans are harmless.
It’s easy to drop bombs around sports teams, especially ones from Boston because most of their fans have never even been to Boston. They root for Boston teams because they are Irish (what a stupid fucking reason) or because Boston’s teams seem to win often. I have more respect for women who root for the Yankees because A-Rod is cute or the Miami Dolphins because their jersey designs are exquisite.
I’ve recently realized how emotionally attached people are to American Idol. Ew. I made a comment that Scott McCreepy (and I don’t give a shit if he’s under 18) needs the King of Smirk— Billy Idol—to smash a guitar over his goofy head. The woman I said that to had a reaction similar to catching me scrubbing my balls with her loofah facial wash pad. I don’t care. I don’t like that crooning hayseed. Long live Justin Guarini!
There are numerous other easy targets for me to strafe and then admire the ensuing comment carnage. Yet, I cannot bring myself to join the herd and pick on Lindsay Lohan. She’s hot and somewhere in my deluded 86-proof mind is the hope that she’ll one day mount me. “Not likely,” you say? How dare you! Lay off my LiLo, you … you … you mean person. I heart her and I will not sit idly by while people take potshots at my princess. *swoon*
Religion has always been the most devastating bomb for me to drop. Any public comment I make about mythological beings brings an avalanche of emotional responses. I just sit back and let the wizards cast spells upon each other by quoting their ancient texts.
Political comments are caustic agents as well. We each must choose a team and defend its players. I chose Obama’s team because the other option seemed so … um … stupid. So, any comment I make endorsing President BO or criticizing Trump, Palin, and any of the others from the idiot parade ignites angry banter. I love America!
I find people to be possessive of their favorite genres and musicians. I know not to poke fun at country music around a straw chewing inbred with a shotgun rack in his pickup. I also know not to tell the large, dark-skinned fellow collecting my cover charge that David Gilmore’s sphincter has more talent than Jay-Z. I will not pick on P!nk because I’m confident she can kick my ass, even during her third trimester. Safe bets for me are Taylor (Oh, look at the clever heart I can make with my fingers!) Swift and Myley (heading down Crack Addict Lane) Cyrus. Their fans are harmless.
It’s easy to drop bombs around sports teams, especially ones from Boston because most of their fans have never even been to Boston. They root for Boston teams because they are Irish (what a stupid fucking reason) or because Boston’s teams seem to win often. I have more respect for women who root for the Yankees because A-Rod is cute or the Miami Dolphins because their jersey designs are exquisite.
I’ve recently realized how emotionally attached people are to American Idol. Ew. I made a comment that Scott McCreepy (and I don’t give a shit if he’s under 18) needs the King of Smirk— Billy Idol—to smash a guitar over his goofy head. The woman I said that to had a reaction similar to catching me scrubbing my balls with her loofah facial wash pad. I don’t care. I don’t like that crooning hayseed. Long live Justin Guarini!
There are numerous other easy targets for me to strafe and then admire the ensuing comment carnage. Yet, I cannot bring myself to join the herd and pick on Lindsay Lohan. She’s hot and somewhere in my deluded 86-proof mind is the hope that she’ll one day mount me. “Not likely,” you say? How dare you! Lay off my LiLo, you … you … you mean person. I heart her and I will not sit idly by while people take potshots at my princess. *swoon*
Multitasking
I’m always open to ideas for squeezing more hours from my dwindling days. Multitasking opportunities present themselves occasionally, but I was disturbed by what I just found myself doing: I was sitting on the toilet, reading this month’s Cosmo while eating a strawberry flavored Twizzlers. I know! Well, at least it isn’t as reckless as texting while driving.
I’ve become an efficient, yet distracted, gear in the capitalist machine.
I challenge you to slow down and take note of all the multitasking you’re doing; it will enlighten and disturb you. Maybe you’ve done some of the following:
Americans are always in a rush. Workdays have grown from seven-and-one-half-hour days to ten plus. Saturday has become a workday. All of the technology that’s supposed to be saving us time is instead draining what little is left of it.
I make a conscious effort to be a lazy bastard occasionally. I need to do this to maintain my sanity. Typically, some efficient little fuck will call me out on it and advise me about layering my activities. I dislike these people and do not admire their hypertension.
Here’s the multitasking that I should be doing right now (instead of writing, listening to DJ Roger Sanchez, and eating Blue Diamond Jalapeno Smokehouse almonds): I should be planted in a comfortable beach chair, listening to crashing waves while scanning the horizon for bikinis. Hm. That’s not a bad idea. Off I go.
I’ve become an efficient, yet distracted, gear in the capitalist machine.
I challenge you to slow down and take note of all the multitasking you’re doing; it will enlighten and disturb you. Maybe you’ve done some of the following:
- Carried a bag of Fritos or a coffee mug to the mailbox. I’ll do you one better. I’ve driven from my driveway to my mailbox—50 feet.
- Watched TV while reading a book or magazine.
- Been on the receiving end of cell phone babble that was so tiresome, you placed the receiver on the table next to you and waited for the blood to rush back into your right arm. The caller never noticed.
- Talked on a Bluetooth headset while using gym equipment.
- Listened to an audio book while working.
- Ate nachos, drank an $8.50 draft beer, and talked on the phone while at a professional sporting event.
- Watched a video on your iPhone while cruising up and down the aisles of the grocery store.
- Masturbated while going through a drive-through car wash.
- Brushed your teeth or hair, or blew your nose while peeing.
- Done any of the following in your cubicle at work: flossed, clipped your nails, or plucked a nose hair.
- Shopped online while attending a lecture or an HR meeting.
- Watched the news while having sex.
- Read a newspaper or magazine while driving.
- Hit on one person while texting another.
- Used the same washrag to clean your butt and your face, not in that order (let’s hope).
- Folded your pizza and washed it down with a mouthful of beer/soda.
- Squirted or shook seasoning directly into your mouth.
- Applied makeup or changed clothing while driving.
- Ate or drank while you held the refrigerator door open and selected the next item to be consumed.
- Watched the Royal Wedding while loading a syringe with a lethal dose of morphine and composing your suicide note. (I’ll demonstrate this tomorrow.)
Americans are always in a rush. Workdays have grown from seven-and-one-half-hour days to ten plus. Saturday has become a workday. All of the technology that’s supposed to be saving us time is instead draining what little is left of it.
I make a conscious effort to be a lazy bastard occasionally. I need to do this to maintain my sanity. Typically, some efficient little fuck will call me out on it and advise me about layering my activities. I dislike these people and do not admire their hypertension.
Here’s the multitasking that I should be doing right now (instead of writing, listening to DJ Roger Sanchez, and eating Blue Diamond Jalapeno Smokehouse almonds): I should be planted in a comfortable beach chair, listening to crashing waves while scanning the horizon for bikinis. Hm. That’s not a bad idea. Off I go.
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