What a Nice Guy

I’m posted up in my usual position by the bar, watching baseball highlights through bottom of my wine glass. I’m surrounded by first dates, date nights, last dates, and packs of evil women out to vent about the men and offspring ruining their lives. I’ve left a vacant seat to my left in hopes that Aloha Taylor just happens to be in the neighborhood and parched. Two darlings come up behind me. One taps me gently.

“If you’re done with it, could you pass me the wine list?”
“Sure. Here you go.”
“Thank you. Do you mind if I ask which wine you’re drinking?”
“This, my dear, is a lovely grape-flavored varietal best known for its ability to stain my teeth purple and blur my vision.”
“Very funny.”
“Just kidding. It’s the house malbec.”

I rise from my stool and put on my gentleman’s cap. I also want to prove that I’m not a mini-man and I’d like a full-body perspective of the prospects.

“Here, please have a seat.”
“No, that’s OK.”
“I insist. There are two seats.”
“We’re fine. You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do. You’re the finer sex and I’m obligated to vacate my seat and make you comfortable.”
“Aw.”
Pulling out the stool and bowing, “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, …”
“Phil.”
“Thank you, Phil. That’s very nice of you.”
“And you are?”
“I’m Mindy and this is my friend, Alicia.”
“Nice meeting you both.”

At this point, I desperately seek ways to remember their names while they scan the menu.

Mindy. Hm. Rhymes with windy. It’s not windy here … ever. Oh, but her hair looks like it’s wind-blown. Got it. Mindy with windy hair. Now, Alicia. She’s not as attractive as Windy Mindy. Guess I can forget her name. No, I need to remain in good grace with … shit, what was her name? Lisa? Alice? No. Fuck. Alicia! That’s it. Alicia rhymes with … fucking nothing. Goddamn it. It’s like purple. Nothing rhymes with purple. I guess it rhymes with Felicia, but that’s another name and it will just confuse me. Let me think. A-lish … a-leesh … a leash. That’s it! I wish she were on a leash outside on the patio so I could make moves on her friend, um … what was her name? Fuck, I forgot the first girl’s name now. Shit.

“So, is this your first time here at this fine establishment?”
“I’ve been here before, but it’s Mindy’s first time.”
Thank God—a name reminder. Windy Mindy, Windy Mindy. Windy Mindy.
“Oh? You don’t get out much, Mindy?”
“No. I have two kids and they’re staying with their father tonight.”
She said, ‘Their father’ instead of ‘my husband.’ This bodes well for me.
“Ah. Girls’ night out. Cheers to that.”
Whispering to me, “Mindy’s getting divorced.”
“You don’t say.”
“She’s cute, huh?”
“What are you telling him?”
“Oh nothing. I was just saying how much I like his lace-less Converse.”
“Right.”
“Thank you, I’ll-leash-ya.”

We continue the typical chitchat about where we live, where we’re from, and favorite TV shows. Then I move in for the kill.

“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, we had dinner across the street.”
“Perfect. Bartender, may I order the bread pudding dessert and three spoons?”
“Aw, Phil.”
“What a nice guy!”

*wink*

Bachelorette Therapy

Dear Ashley,

WTF? I so want to toss a bucket of ice water on you right now—yes, to see your excitable nips, but more importantly to wake you up. You love Bentley while he’s playing you like Alicia Keys plays the piano. He’s an artist and the producers of your show are desperately seeking drama. You probably should have realized that long ago, when you were a contestant. Alas, you’re an oblivious lass. Wakey, wakey!

Hold on. No sobbing.

Monday’s episode was the first one I saw this season. You seem sweet enough and you’re cute too. I have to ask, what’s with the constant fiddling with your bangs? You don’t have extensions, do you? Hm. I could use some.

Wait. Please stop crying. I didn’t mean anything by it. OK. All good?

Did I mention how cute you are? Ah, there’s that smile. You have lovely legs too. Why are your knees so far apart?

OMG, I’m so sorry. Stop crying. Please? I love that little gap between your knees. Yes, really, I do. It’s so sexy. Gosh. Here's a tissue. Dab that mascara, cutey-pie.

Now, I hate to bring up the B-word, but I need to. No, not beluga. Bentley! For heaven’s sake, you said his name no less than fifty times this week. That sucked for me. Why? Well, because I was playing a fun, new drinking game where I have a sip of my Belve Lemonade every time you say the B-word. I needed my stomach pumped before the rose ceremony. It wasn’t great.

I was touched by your reaction when Chris told you the B-word came halfway around the world just to see you. You do realize that ABC fucking paid him a shitbucket of money to do that, right? No, it wasn’t his idea.

Oh shit. Stop. Please stop crying. Oh Jesus. Here, use my sleeve. No don’t blow your … fine … that's great. Calm down. Deep breath. OK?

How cute were you standing in front of his hotel room door hesitating to knock, covering your heart, and building your courage? Tender moments like that make it so much easier for me to pay my U-verse bill. So, then you tap-tap-tapped and (Gasp!), there was the B-word. Granted, he did have to ask who it was before he answered. We couldn’t expect him to use the fucking eyehole to see who it is. He’s in fucking China. Who else would it be? Jackass.

I’m sorry. No, please don’t start crying again.

I’m sure he’s wonderful in some category. He’d make a great husband for about a week before you caught him making love to himself in front of the full-length mirror three times a day. Did you like the way he touched your knee and tilted his head sympathetically as you laid down boundaries? It made you damp, didn’t it? Admit it, goddamn it, and snap out of it!

No … no … wait … stop crying. Fuck. Here, wipey-wipey again, my little Snifflepuss. Give Uncle Phil a hug. There. Feel better? Good.

Bentley is a fucking toad. He doesn’t respect you. When that type of man comes along, run away from, not toward him. You’re not in the business of breaking stallions. You’re looking for a husband and, frankly, your eye for talent is blind.

Are you welling up again? Christ.

You’re so cute, sexy, and smart, Ash. Stop falling for ABC’s ploy to make the show more interesting at your expense. When they bring Bentley back next time (and you know there will be a next time), invite him in, get naked, tie him to the bed, and hire a male masseuse to jump out of the closet and give him a Ben-Gay hand job. Then, put your Flip camera to good use.

See that? You turned that frown upside-down. Now, go get him, parenthesis legs.

Oh no … not again. Stop!

Yours with booger sleeves,
Uncle Phil

Self-Handicapping

"Try" is the term used as an advance excuse for failure.

I don’t know if there is a clinical term for this, but I have been finding increasing cases of this mental disorder related to self-sabotage. It stems from a fear of failure, which was probably beaten into the poor soul by hypercritical parents or teachers. What the afflicted does is intentionally put himself at a disadvantage to hedge the outcome. An excuse is prepared before the trial, making it easier to accept failure and deflect accountability.

Here are examples:

The night before an important basketball game, Joe goes out, gets plastered, and twists his ankle. No matter the outcome of the game, Joe is covered. If he plays well, he amazingly overcame adversity and prevailed. If he struggles, oh well, he was injured. Joe can deflect all blame, including self-blame.

Sam, from the other team, has been playing with a sore back all season, but he keeps it to himself. If he plays well and his team wins, great. If he struggles and they lose, Sam has no excuse. He had a bad game. He failed.

Jane schedules a laser peel the day before a first date. Susan injures her knee while training the day before a marathon. Bill tweaks his elbow the night before he’s scheduled to pitch. Jack angers his girlfriend and starts a huge argument the night before an important job interview. Donna botches her presentation because she was up all night with a sour stomach. Harry is caught speeding on the way to taking his real estate exam. Jeff cheats on his girlfriend, who he claims is the love of his life, because he’s worried she’s about to dump him.

I wish I wasn’t aware of it and could accept the excuse and grant the pardon. But, now I know and it frustrates me. I catch myself heading down that path around appointed meeting times. I’ll delay until I need to rush to make it on time. Perhaps there’s an associated adrenaline rush I crave.

Parents must see this behavior from their children frequently. If the parents recognize it, I hope they also realize they are the likely cause. We need to applaud the effort more than the results. If junior prepares and tries his best, fails, and admits only that it wasn’t his day, he deserves more accolades than the gifted kid who lazily cruises to victory. You don’t want to teach a kid to be reckless, but have him take a cue from Rocky Balboa and keep getting up and swinging.

Any children, teenagers, or adolescents who are coddled will grow to become low-ambition having adults. People who employ this strategy come off as cavalier. They’ll always seek handouts, shortcuts, and excuses. They’ll take advantage of their family, friends, bosses, lovers, and new acquaintances. They’ll attempt to perform without adequate preparation. They’ll fail and mope around complaining they have bad luck or were treated unfairly. These people suck the life from those closest to them and won’t stop until they’re called out on it.

If this sounds like someone in your life, you need to let him know you’re aware of what he’s doing, even if he isn’t aware. Tell him it’s unacceptable and unbecoming. Don’t accept his excuse or you’ll encourage his behavior.

GILF

It seems that fifty is the new thirty and grannies are getting cuter. Not since Angie Dickinson have so many mothers of mothers been so sexy. If you’re under thirty and are now making that face—the one you make when you shake someone’s wet, clammy hand—you’re mean, oblivious, and on behalf of all the GILFs around me, I suggest you go hump a bike rack.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a walking fossil. I insist that I’d be lumpy over these women even if were Twilight-ish. Women over forty are exceptionally attractive because they’re self-assured and sassy. Yee haa! These women don’t want you to spend the night any more than you do. They have their own (or their future exes’) credit cards. Rarely will you need to rescue one from a curbside puking fit, because GILF’s livers are fit. And, best of all, like Vons before a snow storm they’re almost out of fresh eggs.

These women fascinate me. Finding a lovely set of tatas, a shapely caboose in white jeans, and a thick head of silky hair on a grandmother is a pleasant surprise. It’s like finding:

• an actual Padres fan at a Padres game.
• a Maserati at the drive-thru window.
• a talented person on a reality TV.
• a slim biker driving his Harley without wearing a ridiculous leather jacket, a matted beard, and bad tattoos.
• an injured soccer player.
• pageant contestants without I-just-inhaled-helium voices.
• a bartender who loves making Mojitos.
• an officer, bouncer, or judge with a sense of humor.
• a music video on MTV.
• evidence of a brain pulse on Sarah Palin.

It’s true that those lovely attributes on the GILF were typically enhanced in some way. So what? Accentuate the positive and conceal the negative. I wear a baseball cap, closed-toe shoes, and veneers. If the GILF works hard to keep her “ILF” status, I admire her. She’s worth keeping because she’ll always try to stay attractive. Those Barbies pounding lattes, beer, and frozen dinners will soon see the day when that top button won’t cooperate. The GILFs have been there and have overcome.

Men, I implore you: Fight your urge to net a doe. They’re not worth the effort. Track yourself a GILF and you’ll enjoy the spoils thoroughly. A bit of fat makes the meat taste better, right? Consider those lumps, spots, and wrinkles signs that she’s a succulent specimen. They will also earn you a pass for your sagging, balding, and graying parts. Fawns see those and text all their friends for exit advice. GILFs see those and want to compare battle stories, a la Jaws.

Be proud, GILFs of America, and leave those bellybutton concealers off your behind. Here I come with my scooter to ride you off into the sunset (after a quick pee stop, please). Oh, do you have a spare set of cheaters you can bring along so I can read my fucking tab when it comes?

Last Date Questions

It’s time for a little negative reinforcement. These are things people are trained do to avoid pain. For example: If your husband trips over the shopping bags every night he comes home from work except for those nights following a morning orgasm, he’ll get the hint (or you’ll take over another shelf in the closet).

I cringe when I overhear ill-timed questions during a first date. Few men know how to read body language. They’re not discouraged by folded arms. They ask silly questions and obliviously plod toward what they hope ends between the sheets but will more likely end with a peck on the cheek and a long, late-night phone call between her and her best friend about the dud she just met.

Listen up, men. Do not ask any of the following questions on your first date or it will be your last:

1. When’s the last time you got laid?
2. Have you considered Botox?
3. Do a lot of hot chicks attend your yoga classes?
4. Did you vote for Obama?
5. Are your tits natural?
6. You so want me right now, don’t you?
7. Your place or yours?
8. Do I have any food in my dentures?
9. Why did your ex dump you?
10. Have any cute single friends … um, for my buddies?
11. Would you come to church with me this weekend?
12. How would you like to meet my parents?
13. That right there looks like it might be cancerous. Have you had it checked?
14. Clean-shaven, landing strip, or TruGreen thick-turf pussy?
15. How old were you when you lost your virginity, or might I be your first honored guest?
16. Are you taking birth control or are you past that point in your life anyway?
17. Is your company hiring?
18. Do you think a nipplegasm is a myth?
19. Are you open to getting rid of your pets?
20. You won’t mind splitting the tab with me, will you?

First Date Questions

We’ve been through so many first dates we may have forgotten how to act. Repetition breeds tedium, especially in relationships. (See the current divorce rate for evidence.) So, the next time a fellow comes a winking, and you decide to meet in a public place with lots of witnesses, bring along this handy list and refer to it frequently between sips of your just-makin’-you-handsome martini.

1. What do you do for a living? Don’t shorten the question to “What do you do?” because his answer will probably be irrelevant, like “Cupcakes.”
2. Do you have any children? Be careful with this one. Not everyone assumes that children and offspring are synonyms. An answer of yes can mean anything from diapered terrors to a freeloading adult.
3. Where did you go to school? If his answer ends in “Tech” and it doesn’t begin with “Texas” or “Virginia,” beware. Then again, if your front-end needs alignment, he could be useful.
4. Did you grow up in [where you currently are and, no, not “a bar”]? This will tell you how likely it is that the person you’re with has already mated with other patrons.
5. What’s in your iPod? If his answer is “Lint,” he gets points for creativity and no second date. If he lists Liza Minnelli, Madonna, and Depeche Mode, you have a new shopping partner. If he doesn’t know what an iPod is, send him back to the old folks’ home.
6. What do you like to do for fun? This will tell you much. Listen for subtle clues that he might be a redneck: “Go cow tipping, drink Old Milwaukee, chew, watch NASCAR, or campout in my backyard.” If everything he lists is an indoor activity, he’ll wind up being another piece of furniture you won’t use.
7. Do you like to cook? A great answer is, “Yes, in fact I was just about to go bake a fresh spoonful of crack. Be right back.” However, brownies, muffins, salmon, and green bean casserole are more encouraging.
8. What’s your favorite local restaurant? If his mother works there, excuse yourself. If it’s Carl’s Jr., look for clues that he’s wearing Spanx and diabetic.
9. Do you have any dream vacations in mind? I hope they don’t include anything in the Bible Belt or India. If he lists “Vegas,” he either is a gambling addict or convicted John.
10. What kinds of exercise do you do regularly? Encouraging answers involve some type of physical exertion beyond walking, kicking a spongy ball, and drinking beer between reps. Firing a gun is not exercise, nor is sitting in the stands yelling at teenagers or eating.

You can learn so much in ten simple questions, can’t you? Maybe I’ll create a score sheet to assist you further—an iPhone app, perhaps? Naturally, if he has huge hands or is a great kisser, his answers won’t matter … much.

Stuttering Chick

Hank has a way of attracting freak shows with flapdoodles. He met a woman recently, hit it off, and went on a date. Hank told me he suspected something was off about her, but he couldn’t put his finger in, I mean on it.

“So, how’d it go, Romeo?”
“This crazy shit happens to me so often I’m afraid people are going to begin suspecting I’m making it all up.”
“Uh oh. What happened?”
“We went to a local Irish pub and were enjoying thick beer, bangers, and the typical first-date banter.”
“Yes?”
“All was fine. No kids, no dogs, and no penis. She seemed well read. I plugged your books for you, buddy. You’re welcome.”
“Much obliged. Now, what was she wearing?”
“You ought to lay off the women’s magazines, there, Ru Phil.”
“Come on; indulge me.”
“Fine. A sundress.”
“How were her arms?”
“What?!”
“Her arms: Were they smooth? Tan? Muscular? Pocked with cellulite? Zit-laden?”
“Her arms were fine but after beer three something weird happened.”
“Do tell.”
“She she she began stu-s-st-stu-stuttering like a ch-cha-ch-champ.”
“Oh shit!”
“At first I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. It was awful. I nearly sprayed Guinness foam from my nostrils.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“Then I started looking around for cameras, figuring it was some YouTube bit.”
“Well, did ya f-fa-fu-ff …”
“Shut up. No. We kept the conversation floating along and every time I came close to laughing, I faked a sneeze. Then she said, “Gu-g-gu-od bless you’ and I ran to the men’s room.”
“Nice recovery. Seems like an ideal candidate for bite-the-pillow sex.”
“No kidding. Christ, I’m a misfit magnet.”
“Are you going to suh-suh-see Su-sus-sudio a-gah-ga-gain?”
“Asshole. I don’t know. Maybe. She has a great body and I like her personality. Maybe she was nervous.”
“Introduce her to me. I bet I can knock the stutter out of her.”
“You’d never keep a straight face and then you’d write about her and ruin any chance either of us has.”
“I’d nu-nuh-never.”

Then again …

Old Guys Don't Rule

Yes, I’m old and I embarrass myself often. Still, my mind insists that I’m young and forces me to wince when Grandpop has arm candy. We all are well aware that regardless of what the blond bimbo blabs, she’s in it for the money/fame. She is NOT attracted to him. She dreads the thought of catching a glimpse of his underslung ass and pendulus gonads while he scrubs his dentures. When horizontal, she sighs, closes her eyes, and repeats to herself, “There’s no place like Nordstroms.”

They covered the topic on Men of a Certain Age recently: Fun, old chap with full head of hair, in decent shape for his age admired for his wisdom by sweet, young thing willing to put up with wrinkles to avoid the clumsy, frat toads swarming around her at the local pub. Her friends and parents are disgusted. His buddies are jealous. The young dudes drinking themselves blind and sleeping in their parents’ garages are angry. Authors are taking notes between sips and waiting for the implosion.

This scenario is so cliché. Eventually, Pappy can’t tolerate her immaturity and Ginger becomes bored with his inactivity and early-to-bed routine. Pappy returns to the age-appropriate ex and Ginger heads back into the pub to do shots and bang skateboarders. Roll the credits. *yawn*

I hate defending Hef because, although I admire his empire, I can’t get the image of him in his Popeye hat with a lovely bunny on his about-to-snap lap. Of course, he’s attracted to bombshells. Can’t blame him. Of course, she’s attracted to the lifestyle he offers. We get it, already. So, why must we point and laugh or gag instead of shrugging? Because, it’s odd and unnatural.

You won’t see the opposite. No extreme cougar scenarios, unless the cougar is attractive enough for the cub to spend more than one night in her cage. It won’t matter if she’s rich or famous. You know why? Because eventually things will need to become sexual. A bit of lube and imagination can help Ginger perform. Nothing short of a cock implant can make the opposite happen.

So, I guess Hef’s chick finally realized that, like Reese Witherspoon said, there are ways to succeed in show business without starring in a sex tape or reality show. Good for her. She didn’t have a change of heart; she stopped believing that sacrificing her dignity was worth the mansion lifestyle, media attention, and high credit line. Now, if she’s brave enough to admit why she considered the twisted deed to begin with, maybe men half Hef’s age won’t run away screaming every time they see her.

I love young girls. I’d be lying if I claimed otherwise. Will I sleep with a woman half my age? Why, certainly. My selections in the area are limited because I only have humor and listening skills to work with. Do I prefer women closer to my age? Usually. (Oh, stop cringing at my honesty.) Sometimes I seek mature discourse and someone I can borrow reading glasses from. Other times, I seek the smooth surface on the fountain of youth, just as my instincts lead me.

Male Replacement

As I thumb through the pages of this month’s Cosmo, I begin to fear my approaching obsolescence. Men are such simple creatures—simple to stimulate and therefore simple to manipulate. In big letters on the cover it reads, “78 Ways to Turn Him On.” Duh. Put a picture of Cameron Diaz with partial left boob exposure in front of him and mission accomplished. What a waste of 77 ways!

Once I hit page 134 I realized two things:

1. I should have invented chardonnay-flavored lip gloss.
2. Why the local bar scene has become a sausage buffet.

Female scientists are creating male replacements from the penis outward. Sucks for us. Soon we’ll be relegated to oil changers and grillers. These amazing contraptions can reach places and move in ways no man could ever hope to. The closest I come to vibrating is from drinking a Redline energy drink.

I’m jealous. We men don’t have any such fun toys. We have Leggos … oh, and Paris Hilton. I hear horror stories about men sticking their ding-dongs in strange places like jars of peanut butter and I wonder what this world is coming to (and what else I can spread on my morning bagel). Sure, they make creepy dolls nowadays as well as various silicone receptacles, none of which appeal to any man who has touched a real woman’s skin. Women’s choices are both numerous and inexpensive. We’re doomed.

Maybe it’s because we’re so visual. When I think of a woman using the latest contraption while writhing in pleasure, I receive vicarious stimulation from that little fucker. When I think of myself lubing up a silicone vagina and pounding away while trying not to fall off the bed, I get embarrassed. Think about it. It won’t matter which gender you are. If you stumble upon woman plus toy, you’ll scratch your chin and say, “Hmm.” If you stumble upon man plus toy, if you can manage to hold back the screech, you’ll look for the video setting on your iPhone and never be able to see the man again without chuckling.

If I can’t beat them, I’ll join them. No, I won’t be morphing into cybercock. I’ll learn how to operate the various contraptions. I’ll take a little field trip to the Hustler Store, downtown, and have a (female) salesperson give me tips … I mean, pointers on how to operate the heavy machinery. The store should offer classes and certification. Wouldn’t that be cool? My business card could read “Notary/Master Vibratoriator.” Chicks would dig it and my wall of dildos ... or not.

****ing Telemarketer

Actual call …

Annoyed Person (Me) hitting pause on Tosh.0: “Hello.”
Annoying Person: “Hello, Mister Tore … um … Mister Tor Chi Chi?”
TorChiChi: “Not interested.”

Click. Dial tone.

One minute later …

TorChiChi: “Hello.”
Annoying but Persistent Person: “With all due respect, you hanged up and you don’t even know what you're not interested in. Now, I’m calling from the Energy Commission and we …”
TorChiChi: “I’m sorry. What was your name?”
Annoying but Persistent Person: “Mister Clark. Like I was saying …”
TorChiChi: “So, Mister Cock, now that I know what you’re calling about, guess what?”
Mister Cock: “I said ‘Clark’ … Mister Clark.”
TorChiChi: “I’m still not interested, Mister Cock.”

Click. Dial tone. Unpause.

Going Down

What goes through your mind as your lover heads south? I sure hope he remembers his sunscreen. That’s not the “south” I was referring to. The anxiety that you have during your partner’s trip can make his or her stay pleasant or brief, depending.

As my lady unzipped, I tapped away on my iPhone’s notepad app and recorded my thoughts.

• I sure wish she’d take off those reading glasses.
• Wow, she missed a few roots.
• I should have given the undercarriage a twice-over.
• Suddenly it strikes me how much safer button-fly jeans are.
• If she makes a gagging sound, I’m going to be simultaneously proud and grossed-out.
• Home dog … DAMN YOU, AUTOCORRECT … Good God, she’s talented.
• I’m going to time this session so I know how long I’ll need to reciprocate.
• I wonder if she’s a rookie (nibbler) or trooper (good to the last drop).
• Please leave my taint alone.
• Interesting … my right toe is perfectly aligned with her love-button. Do I dare?
• I could get used to this.
• I hope all of my pubes are battened down. Hearing my cats cough up fur balls is bad enough.
• I have no idea what pleasure women get out of this, but it doesn’t matter.

It was only fair that I flipped her over, handed her my iPhone, and had her record her thoughts while I visited thigh canyon.

• I hope he’s gentle.
• Dance around the bull’s-eye a bit before you poke the hell out of it.
• I think I’m good on the freshness calendar.
• I wonder if Rogaine affects sexual performance.
• That goatee is killing me.
• Come on, dude, you have ten fingers sitting idle.
• The timing of my Brazilian was impeccable.
• I could get used to this.
• I wonder how many lovers it took him to learn how to do this.
• Would he be freaked-out if I handed him my rabbit?
• He’d better not try to kiss me.
• If he wipes his chin on the sheets, I’ll kill him.
• Brad-ley Coo-per … Brad-ley Coo-per … Dormez-vous? … Where are you?
• Ow! Would it kill him to take my panties off first?

It’s best to perish the thought and cherish the deed, isn’t it? Everyone loves to head south. (I assume South Africans prefer to head north.) Thoughts can be distracting at this juncture, so best to clear the mind. Strap yourself into the love rollercoaster and let it take you through the peaks and valleys. You can steer a bit with your knees, grab the ears, arch your back, clutch the sheets, or seek guidance from the divine. Whatever gets you to the next ride is acceptable. Throw your hands up, get some leverage from your headboard, clamp his ears with your thighs, and yell, “Weeee!”

Entitlement

Nothing irks me more than entitled people. I understand that if we don’t ask for what we want, we probably won’t get it, but expectations are out of whack. Certain people unjustly expect to receive special treatment and they’ll whine and pout like children when disappointed.

A group of us was out having dinner recently and I overheard a woman express her disappointment in a man she just met because he didn’t offer to buy her dinner. That’s fucked up. If she were on a date with him, they would be realistic expectations. In this scenario, however, she came off to me as a high-maintenance snit. Since she likes to keep her hands in boyfriends’ pockets, she’s an ideal candidate to whore herself out to a rich/old/fat widower and live a miserable, shallow life.

If we lowered our expectations a notch, we’d all be happier.

Entitlement isn’t something that comes with youth, a vagina, fame, or a corner office; it’s earned and best balanced with appreciation. That’s why I don’t pass money to the cashier and stick my hand out without saying “thank you.” I appreciate the fair exchange of currency for services and hope the feeling is mutual so it can happen again.

I’m entitled to my opinion, which is that these people are NOT entitled:

• Solicitors are not entitled to waste paper, postage, and resources by littering my mailbox, doorknob, and driveway with their sales pitches.
• Parents are not entitled to disturb my meal or movie by refusing to remove their unruly children.
• Bathroom attendants are not entitled to any compensation for providing a service I learned to provide for myself before grade school.
• Slow drivers are not entitled to use the passing lane of the highway.
• Bikers are not entitled to ride next to each other in the bike lane.
• Famous people are not entitled to be left alone when the fame they enjoy is due to the attention they attract.
• Dog owners are not entitled to ignore their dogs while they disturb non-dog owners.
• Bouncers and bartenders are not entitled to card people (me) who are obviously older than they are. (I am often older than their fathers are. I’m not proud; just miffed.)
• People pushing strollers are not entitled to clog the sidewalk. Keep to the right (or left in England).
• People driving vehicles with handicap stickers are not entitled to handicap parking unless someone inside the vehicle is actually handicapped.
• People with expensive cars, large pickups, or horrible parking skills are not entitled to take up more than one parking space.
• Fans at any sporting event are not entitled to make personal verbal attacks on players, coaches, officials, or other fans.
• A man with an attractive date is not entitled to be the only man in a public place to admire her beauty, respectfully.
• Rich, old folks are not entitled to discounts.
• Beachgoers are not entitled to play with balls or discs of any sort when errant ones might disturb another.
• Partners are not entitled to intercept personal messages.
• Hotel guests are not entitled to reserve chairs by the pool by placing towels on them.
• Nobody is entitled to save a seat at the bar unless it’s for me.

Sack Humor

I recently delivered a sex towel without using my hands. I’m one creative mo-fo, if I must say so myself. Don’t picture it in your mind. It was done to amuse, not to titillate. I relied on vodka to perform the titillation. And—lest you be as deluded as I often am—it was a hand towel, not a bath sheet.

We need more humor in the bedroom.

You know that minute right after release where you both lie still and think of something to say while your heartbeats-per-minute subside? That’s where we all could use a little help. It’s precarious because your choice of words can be your undoing. Since we can’t all have Bill Maher standing by feeding us post-coital lines, here are some you can memorize for future reference.

Say this:

• Wow, that was amazing.
• I think I pulled a ball/labia muscle.
• *sigh, blink, blink*
• Jesus, woman/man, you sure are flexible.
• Thanks, I needed that.
• I see rainbows and unicorns.
• Can I get you a bottle of water?
• I guess all those lunges paid off.
• You are so hot.
• You didn’t even notice my Superman boxers, did you?
• Don’t move, stay right there. I’ll fetch a moist towelette.
• Ow, fuck, I have a toe cramp.
• I hope you know CPR.

Don’t say this:

• You are on the pill, right?
• Is gratuity included?
• Gee, would you look at the time?
• So, can I call you sometime?
• Did you catch the score of the Yankees game?
• Would you mind if I showered?
• Whose underwear are these?
• What was your name again?
• I think I’m going to be sick.
• Are those tears of joy or sadness?
• Hand me my phone. I need to tweet something.
• How’d I do, on a scale of one to ten?

It’s silence at its most awkward. I often cringe, not only from the mess I made or friction burns but also from the anticipation of severe criticism or adulation. Ejaculate disposal seems to be the most troubling. If a condom is involved, who removes it? Is the open end tied in a knot? (I’m skilled at doing that, from all my years of bagging leaves and making balloon animals.) Is the condom wrapped in TP and placed in the toilet-side waste receptacle or flushed? If the pullout method was employed, and the sprayee lies there paralyzed while a tickling drip of semen navigates toward those pristine sheets, who fetches the ShamWow? The sprayer does. Is the towel handed to the victim or does the man do “wax on, wax off” with it? Is it OK for him to wipe down his hose before handing over the towel? (No.)

When making an internal deposit, which I am finally free to do, I’m always slightly miffed when the brave woman immediately skedaddles to the half-bath to unload. It’s exceptionally disturbing when I hear my fluids hit the water, a la bin Laden.

So much to consider. I guess this is why it’s best to be intoxicated, pass out upon completion, and skip the press conference.

Inappropriate?

Can we please get over our feigned disgust with body parts? I’ll poke fun at Weiner’s wiener like anyone else, but I have to admit (and this does not make me hoo-moo) his pee pee pic does not disgust or offend me. Nudity, in general, doesn’t offend me. I’ve seen certain clothed people who offended my senses much worse than nude people. Hang out at a public pool, the beach, or any popular nightclub in Palm Springs to see what I mean.

I wondered how the powers-that-be decided what’s inappropriate, so I posted a black-and-white close up of my hairy left nipple on Facebook. Sure, some of the comments (from hurtful pricks) included: “Gross,” “Ew,” “Ick,” and “Yuck.” But, a majority of the comments included a colon and right parenthesis indicating to the social media world that the person understood my sarcasm and found it amusing.

My nipple is not inappropriate, disgusting, controversial, pornographic, or unsightly. It’s a sensitive lump of useless skin containing lactiferous ducts arranged cylindrically around the tip.

SIDE NOTE: Once, back in my nightclub owning days, my manager and I were bored while a bunch of hillbillies two-stepped around my hardwood floor. I was playing with a ring box and decided it would be amusing to clamp it onto his shirt. My precision was uncanny as the box snapped shut on the very tip of his right nipple, causing him to squeal like a hungry piglet. He still hasn’t forgiven me. Then again, I haven’t apologized. It was amusing.

I guarantee that if I posted my nipple in the form of an upper body shot of me in board shorts on a towel at the beach reading Chelsea Handler’s latest, nobody would have balked. Therefore, the issue that was taken was with the proximity of the nipple. So, nipples are cute from a distance. I have to ask the Moral Majority: At what distance does my nipple become unsightly?

Maybe the problem is that my nipple has hair around it. Why is hair gross? Why are women removing all of their Twinkie hair? My nipple hair is uniformly trimmed (clipper setting three, if you must know) as is the rest of my chest hair. Sure, there’s some blond—sun bleached … OK, it’s fucking gray—mixed in. If I had never trimmed my chest hair and my chest resembled Tom Jones’ head, fine, I’ll accept that it would be unsightly but still not gross. In fact, let me ask you this: Which, on a man, is grosser? A hairy nipple or hairy back?

I know!

Imagine how disarmed the media would become if nudity were ordinary and acceptable? We’d have to begin raising our children differently. Because a minute percentage of people are deviants, we insist that private parts are naughty bits and they need to be concealed. Let’s stop hiding what’s completely natural (the human body) and start dealing with the disturbed people who can’t handle seeing one without misbehaving.

Here’s a small sampling of things I can find on Facebook right now, which are much grosser than my mammary papilla or, if you prefer, teat:

• Duck faces.
• Ads with young women looking to meet older men.
• Donald Trump’s head.
• Farmville.
• Dogs (that one was contributed by my six-nippled furballs, Syd and Symon).

Therapy with Me

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Fan?

I sat peacefully while being entertained by the NBA Finals last night. I don’t like Lebron James—not one bit—but I don’t need to express my displeasure about his arrogance by yelling at the TV. That’s a futile and cowardly thing to do because he can’t hear it nearly as well as the other patrons in the bar can.

It never fails. There’s always “that guy” in the sports bar who is carrying on excessively. Usually this man was also the last one selected in gym class. This time it was a petite, balding Jewish fellow making a fuss. (I’m not going to explain how I knew he was Jewish. You know how.)

Here are some of the witty quotes this simpleton provided:

• “He was fouled, Ref. Are you fucking blind?”
• “That wasn’t a foul. All ball!”
• “Wade is the fucking man. High five!”
• “Can someone please cover Nowitski?”
• “Bullshit!”
• “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
• “Where’s the fucking defense?”
• “Oh my god. How did you miss that?”
• “That’s you, Bosh. You da man.”
• “Threeeeeee!” – While holding up three stumpy fingers.

When people act that way it creates haters. Even fans who were once fellow supporters will switch sides to root against anything this idiot stands for. Nobody admires him. Nobody considers him an expert or ex-athlete. Nobody wants to hear anything he says while red-faced and spitting.

Those pretty girls on the sidelines are cheerleaders, not hateleaders. They smile and dance while leading positively reinforcing chants. You don’t hear a leggy blonde yelling, “Ref, Ref you suck, and Jason Kidd is a balding schmuck.” Cheerleaders don’t even boo.

It’s always the least athletic of the bunch, isn’t it? A few weeks back I was watching a Padres game. Now, I’m no baseball expert, but I know enough (I should, after playing for forty years). The Padres had men at first and third with one out. A grounder was hit to short and the man on third base broke for home. He was thrown own by twenty feet and Mr. Baseball behind me lost his mind.

“Holy shit! They have to be the dumbest group of ballplayers I have ever seen. Why would he do something so stupid?”

Now, if I were wise and truly peace loving I would disregard the question. This time the baseball gods poked my scabbed knee and prompted a response.

“… to break up the double-play.”
“Huh?”
“He went home to prevent an inning ending double-play.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Watch a few thousand more games and maybe it will.”
“Well, I wasn’t looking for an answer anyway.”
“Of course you weren’t.”

If you’re supporting your team remotely, go ahead and clap or exclaim “Yes!” occasionally. You can even utter a few oohs and ahs. Just please don’t carry on bar-side like Dick Vitale or some three-year-old throwing a tantrum because Daddy wouldn’t buy him an ice cream. It draws attention to yourself and reminds everyone in the bar why you have a desk job: You throw like my sister, strike out playing kickball, and have permanent welts from dodgeball.

The Breast Defense

I can be an ornery prick occasionally. This usually occurs when I fall behind people along the path to inebriation. The nice guy thing can only carry me so far. Eventually, I need to let off steam or I’ll become bloated with anger and preoccupied into an all-night ceiling-staring trance while riding my California King.

A fifty-year-old acquaintance threw on a sundress and took her newly lifted breasts for a spin and they landed next to me. I’m OK with that. I get along well with boobs. I’m a fan. Haven’t met one I didn’t like. (The ones on Meatloaf in Fight Club were disturbing, though.) Any-hoot, she was plastered and made the mistake of commenting on the boobs of another.

Now, ordinarily I’ll take a peek, shrug, and move along. This time she tweaked me.

“Jeez, I wonder where she bought those.”
“Probably the same place you bought yours, although, hers are quite exquisite.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“Did I say something was wrong with yours?”
“You implied it.”
“I did no such thing.”
“My boobs are every bit as nice as hers.”
“She’s twenty-five, tops.”
“So?”
“It’s like comparing apples to tube socks with tennis balls.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Why are you comparing boobs with a woman who’s half your age?”
“I’m just saying: Mine are as nice as hers are.”
“Except for the fact that hers are under twenty-five fewer years of sun damage.”
“Asshole!”
“Why such anger? If you tell me our man-fro’d busboy has a nicer cock than I do, I’m not the slightest bit slighted.”
“My boobs are nice. My doctor did a great job. You’re just upset because you don’t get to see them.”
“I’m not upset. I’m simply pointing out the fact that, as far as boobs go, the newer models are typically superior, even after extensive bodywork.”
“It wasn’t extensive. I just went up a few cup sizes.”
“Look, you go ahead and be happy with them. They’re all yours. Now you can sleep on your back and appreciate that you no longer have nipples in your armpits.”
“Asshole.”

What a sensitive lass. When I catch a wayward glimpse of a swinging bratwurst, I don’t get in a huff over it. I tip my cap, golf clap, and close my yap. I don’t get doggie and put down the man’s bender. Whether he’s snipped or not matters not. Whether he gets help from a pill or pump doesn’t concern me. Most importantly, I don’t care if a pink martini-toter finds his cock more appealing than mine. I must be afflicted with penis indifference.

If you run into one of these insecure messes of a woman, please titty-slap some sense into her. Tell her to stop envying others and start appreciating her individuality. If she needs remodeling to make her happy, fine. That happiness should not be affected by other reconstruction projects in the neighborhood. There’s plenty of room in town for more than one pair of fine funbags.

No Fun Girl

Women tend to overanalyze things when it comes to relationships. It’s understandable because one more Kettle rocks can lead to a candlelit bedroom and the morning-after dash. Still, as a man who has dated a few (hundred) I can say with confidence that couples should concentrate on chemistry and let the rest unfold organically.

There are two types of available women I typically meet. The one brand is in want-to-have-fun mode and isn’t concerned about my 401(k). Usually, this is because she’s in love with another and “taking a break.” She’s less demanding. I dig this chick. Hanging out with her is casual and less like a job interview. The problem is, she typically has buzzing around her an annoying black fly of a friend who is married to her soul mate and pestering the fun girl about her choices.

“Why are you flirting with him?”
“He’s cute. What? It’s harmless fun.”
“It doesn’t make sense. You’re wasting your time.”
“Look, I’m not giving him my ring size or anything.”
“But he’s scaring away other men.”
“It’s just harmless flirting. Relax.”
“He’s too [short/old/fat/broke/married/fashion-oblivious/unavailable/young/bald/etc.] for you to be hanging out with. You need to focus on finding the right man.”

What a cockroach-in-the-salad this “friend” is! She nags the fun girl in hopes of pairing her up so, ironically, she can commiserate with her about bothersome boyfriends. No matter what people invest in, they seek reassurance by persuading others to make a similar investment. Once another teammate is enlisted, they can whine and weep to someone who is no longer in a position to judge.

Another flavor of woman is desperately seeking co-pilot. Yikes! This one dons the doctor smock and begins dissecting the closest man within minutes of meeting him. She gives herself away with her shifting eyes and probing questions. Wise old toads like me know how to answer these questions vaguely.

“So, how much debt are you carrying?”
“Oh, I don’t know. About the same as everyone else.”
“Do you own your home?”
“The bank owns it. I live in it and accumulate cat hair and baubles.”
“How are your books selling?”
“Well enough for me to continue writing. No well enough for me to do so while sunning myself on the Amalfi Coast.”
“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”
“Holy shit! Did you see that three-pointer Nowitski just hit?”
“I love hiking and bike riding. It’s so beautiful around here. I’m training for a 60-mile ride. You ride bikes, don’t you? How far can you ride?”
“There’s this great new invention called the automobile. You may have heard of it.”
“You seem like a nice guy. Why are you single?”
“I guess I haven’t met the right woman … till now.”

If you’re one of these women, you need to realize the man you’re questioning is gently trying to convert you into the want-to-have-fun woman. If your line of questioning continues without softening, he’ll excuse himself and feed your hatred of players. Be fun, carefree, and casual. Let things play out naturally. Please stop interviewing and start flirting.

Privates Mailing

What the hell is with all the guys mailing pictures of genitalia? Gross! I’m certainly open to receiving sexy photos from women. I’ll take boobie shots, nipples, butts, and even hoo-hay portraits (no close-ups or internals, please). It all works for me because I’m a man with the typical reaction to visual stimulation. Women, on the other hand, rarely have a desire to receive photos of wangs, etc.

In fact, before I rant, male readers please take note. Do not send any woman pictures of the following:

• Your penis (soft, mid-boner, or full tilt), even if it’s partially obscured.
• A shirtless version of you, which you took in the mirror.
• You wrapped in a towel.
• You in a shirt with buttons undone.
• You flexing anything other than a silly straw. (Hm, do they still make those?)
• You in a bathing suit or bikini briefs.
• Your turds.

Speaking of turds, maybe it’s a related problem. They say men can’t smell their own, so maybe that’s the issue: Men can’t see their own. Do you know what a picture of a penis resembles? Nothing good. Add a couple of balls and some hair and, oh my god, are you kidding me?

If you’re tempted to send a sexy photo to your woman, stop, drop, and poll a female relative before you do. If you can hear her scream from the next county, it should convince you it was a bad idea.

I have had female acquaintances show me numerous photos from oblivious exhibitionists. Is that what you want, men? A very heterosexual, sarcastic prick like me seeing your “sexy” photo? Well, that’s precisely what happens. The receiver will share your picture with all of her friends and quite possibly the media. You’re probably not famous enough to find out about this by finding your little acorn on TMZ. If you were, you’d have enough fuck-you money to shrug it off. You’re not there. Don’t do it. Pay off your credit cards instead.

Ladies, be careful when sharing the photos you receive. I’ve had this happen on more than one occasion: She hands me the phone to see the pictures, I scroll past the intended list, and I find a “sexy” photo she responded with in an effort to ease his embarrassment. The exchange doesn’t negate the problem. Two wrongs do not make my cranial storage of said images disappear. (Only bourbon does.)

A simple way to fix this problem is to avoid taking pictures of yourself. In fact, iPhones should come with a setting that prevents it. When you give your phone to a friend and ask her to take your picture, note the expression on her face. If it’s horror, take your phone back and say, “Just kidding.”

High and mighty politicians are most frequently implicated. Why? Have they no shame? Then they scramble to deny, get caught in the lie, admit it and apologize, lay low awhile, and the reemerge unscathed. We have such short-term memories. Stop testing mine. I don’t want to stumble upon your cock. Thank you very little.

Fantasy Girl

Chrissy—the object of my TV desire—is pregnant. Piss me off. Worse yet, she still looks hot with a baby bump. Damn it! I’m definitely not the father because I’ve been fixed and, besides, I’ve had more sex to her than with her. I know, TMI. Well, guess I’ll have to turn my fantasies toward the next unattainable woman.

The three nominees are:

1. Aloha Taylor – She’s on the same Obama-bashing network, doing the same job Chrissy does, but at night. I rarely catch the evening news. Still, I get an occasional glimpse of her loveliness. She’s probably more age-appropriate for me (from where she’s standing). She’s dark, slender, and bubbly. That works. The bubbly thing might be an issue if she’s that way upon wakening. I must have silence in the mornings. I’ll keep her away from my espresso maker.
2. Sarah Silverman – She’s so funny and liberal too! Her book about pee almost made me pee. I love a woman having the confidence to say what’s on her mind without regard to political correctness. Why is it that Jewish and gay people are funnier than the rest of us? I imagine hanging out with her would keep me inspired and smiling. She’s very sexy, in a tomboyish way.
3. Chelsea Handler – This is the most talented and hardest working woman on the planet. Her reaction time is impeccable. I realize she has a stable of gifted writers supporting her, but she’s the one who stocks the stable. Her delivery, witty responses, and expressions amuse me to no end. On top of all that talent, she drinks heavily and makes no excuses for it. It would be a challenge for any man to keep up with her, but I’d sure like to try.

I know I have zero chance of embracing any of them. (All you New Age, The Secret-embracing ding-dongs can lay off the self-defeatist lectures. My feet are firmly on the ground and my head is in the clouds of pot smoke.) It entertains me to fantasize and my little dream world keeps me away from a steady dose of Paxil. I’m aware women are creeped-out by the thought of men fantasizing about them unless the fantasy is mutual. Fortunately for my three loves, they probably won’t read this. If they do … um … well … just kidding, tee hee.

Women fantasize about celebrities. I’m not saying all women flick the bean to Dr. House, but some do. I bet some entertain certain thoughts about men other than the one currently inside them. Don’t you dare deny it. If I need a boost from Johnny Depp to get my woman to the Promised Land, I condone.

I’m going to pick Aloha. At least she’s in the same county. I may need to adjust my writing and workout schedules to accommodate the evening news. I guess I could DVR it and skip to the best parts (the weather and cooking tips). I hope she isn’t jealous or jilted by my professed love for her coworker. Generosity is a virtue, even when it concerns admiration and love.

Zip It

Women and men list things they want to hear from their partners, but rarely do we get a list of things they don’t want to hear. I guess that makes sense: People don’t want to hear what they don’t want to hear. All of this pussyfooting around is giving me shin splints and migraines.

Fine. I can’t hug it out so I’ll write it out.

Men don’t want to hear the following from the person they are mounting:

• I’m late.
• I have a yeast infection.
• Remember that guy I used to date?
• We need to talk.
• My mother is coming to visit.
• You weren’t saving the [insert dearest thing], were you?
• I made some room in the closet.
• Diesel gas works as well as regular, right?
• Promise me you won’t be mad.
• I picked up a DVD I’ve been dying to see.
• You left your phone/computer unlocked.
• We just received another wedding invitation.
• Don’t you love my new hairstyle?
• The car is making a funny noise.
• Wow, that was quick.
• My ex was hung like a buffalo.
• Pfffbbbpppttt … phht … breep.
• How hard is it to get the garage door back on its tracks?
• I got rid of those old magazines.
• Aren’t you getting too old to be still [wearing/playing/watching] that?
• Did you read the directions?

Women don’t want to hear certain things either:

• I think the rubber fell off.
• … and it’s stuck inside you.
• Why are your boobs uneven?
• I bought you, I mean us a treadmill.
• My buddies are coming over for poker night.
• It’s not what you think.
• It didn’t mean anything.
• You don’t really want dessert, do you?
• I’ll do all the work. You can just lie there.
• Surprise! I did the wash and ironing for you.
• Why do you need another [purse/pair of shoes/bracelet/scarf/ring]?
• Can you come get me?
• I don’t know whose those are.
• Do you think we can live off your income?
• Should I pop that zit for you?
• Every woman has a lesbian fantasy.
• Don’t you think you’ve had enough?
• Your [friend/sister/boss] is hot.
• My ex used to do it.
• Can you help me with my résumé?
• I just got the hottest stock tip.
• You have to see this. Bring the camera.
• Look at those tits!