Survey Says

AskMen.com posted results from their “Great Male Survey” about dating and sex. There were few surprises. (Yes, men are apes.) I could have easily predicted most of the answers. (Horny apes.) Still, the results are interesting and worth sharing with your significant other to watch him squirm and lie.

Only 47% of men said they would dump their girlfriend if she became fat. The problem with that question is it requires more than a yes or no answer. It needs qualifying factors to get accurate answers. Wouldn’t this provide better insight?

Would you dump a girlfriend if she became fat?
a) No, because I’m fat.
b) No, if I became fat also.
c) No, I loves me a curvy ho.
d) Not if she gave legendary blowjobs.
e) How fat?
f) Yes.

Another question asks if men ever read their partner’s Facebook, email, or text messages. 36% of the men survey lied their asses off and said no. Men are stupid, but not stupid enough to confess to a crime without first trying to lie or plead ignorance. We learn this as children.

“Did you take the cookie, little Philly?”
“What cookie?”
“The one that was right there on the counter.”
“Huh?”
“The cookie you asked me if you could have and I said not until after dinner.”
“Sorry, I don’t recall.”
“Not thirty minutes ago you said, ‘Mommy, can I have a cookie?’ Did you not?”
“Well, now that you mention it, yes, I might have.”
“The cookie you were referring to was the cookie sitting here on the counter. I know this because you pointed to it when you asked me, right?”
“OK, it’s coming back to me in pieces now. Keep going.”
“… and now, look, no cookie.”
“Well, would you look at that? Interesting.”
“Might the cookie in question now reside in your belly?”
“This little belly?”
“Yes, your belly.”
“If it did—and note that I’m not saying it does—would it be such a bad thing? Really?”
“It would indeed be a bad thing because I told you not to eat it until after dinner.”
“Oh, did you mean tonight’s dinner?”
“…”
“There are so many dinners in my busy week. How am I to tell them all apart?”
“…”
“If you were more specific with your instructions perhaps this confusion would have been avoided.”
“So, it’s my fault you ate the cookie.”
“Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness!”
“You have black Oreo cookie crumbs on your chin.”
“No, silly, that’s my goatee.”
“You’re six.”
“What? Oh, that cookie.”
“Go to your room.”

The most telling question was one that asked about sexual satisfaction. Only 12% were completely satisfied. This, my friends, is the reason why the divorce rate climbs as fast as the national debt. This, plus the fact that the men who expressed dissatisfaction did so on a public survey, which has no possibility of causing improvement, instead of to their sexual partners. The number one (Ding! Ding! Ding!) reason people cheat is because they are sexually unfulfilled. If you don’t want to be in that category, answer the question below and, most importantly, share your answer with your partner.

How satisfied are you with your sex life?
a) Completely satisfied with no room for improvement (and I’m lying my ass off).
b) Satisfied, for now.
c) Mostly satisfied, but I’d like to have more orgasms.
d) Mostly satisfied, but I’d like each session to last longer.
e) Mostly satisfied, but I think it’s time to add props.
f) Somewhat satisfied, but it used to be so much better.
g) Somewhat satisfied, but I’m running out of fantasies.
h) Somewhat satisfied, thanks to my own doing.
i) Unsatisfied, but any sex is better than none.
j) Unsatisfied, but it beats beating off.
k) Unsatisfied and unoccupied.

Desperation

Women can smell desperation and it stinks. I cringed as I watched Ryan on The Bachelorette beg and plead Ashley to reconsider.

“Please take me back. Please give me another chance.”

No chance, dumb-dumb. Pussies get no pussy. The last thing any woman wants in her man is a sniveling little puppy tripping her up while he dances around her ankles. She doesn’t want to be doing the emotional propping—that’s a man’s job.

Don’t get me wrong; women love men who will aggressively pursue them as long as these men are attractive, successful, and confident. Once the line is crossed toward begging, men become as attractive as tobacco spit in the Arizona sun.

The man can’t be aloof either. He has to show interest, step up, stand back, and convince the woman he’s in demand. Nothing of value is easily obtained. I have a number of female friends who are nothing more than street value enhancers for me. My targets assume I must have something significant going on to be hanging with such lovely ladies. I’m careful to give the proper impression that the candy is sweet, but not mine to eat. The target Tootsie becomes confident that I’m not the average creeper, and leaves me an opening. Closing the deal is another issue.

Back to this Ryan wussy.

When he sees Ashley, he gets all giggly and nervous. Worst of all, he tells her so (as if she wouldn’t notice).

“Aw shucks. Gee. You sure are cute. I have butterflies. Tee hee.”

His voice cracks, his hands shake, his breath becomes shallow, and his pussy shows. All Ashley can think is, I have to be kind and compassionate because the cameras are on. If the cameras were off, she’d probably laugh and tell the toad to slap some Miracle Grow on his testicles.

“When we first met, I had this feeling and I knew we were meant to be together.”

No, my man, the feeling you had was fame-addiction. You were pissed because you were tossed back into insignificance. So, you begged Chris to let you come back on the show and extend your fifteen minutes of fame. Chris, being a wise marketer and producer, saw this as a prime opportunity to tease his viewers and expose your swinging labia. You bit and Ashley didn’t. Har-de-fucking-har.

No matter what Ashley says about Bentley (the guy who shunned her), he’s the man who makes her damp—not the Nadal doppelgangers, not the John Cena wannabe, and certainly not Mr. Heart-Palpitations-in-Pink-Panties. Bentley is confident. He’s the alpha male. He’d keep her on her toes. Ryan will keep her looking for excuses to work late and feign yeast infections.

If Ryan had a drop of testosterone and common sense, he would have said, “I’ll have you know I’ve been rejected by less attractive women. Once the bright lights are unplugged, you’ll realize there’s no room for two attention whores in one relationship. Then, you can call me. If I’m single, I might give you a shot. If not, hey, you had your chance.”

Equation

Words, words, words … it’s time for math. Math is concrete whereas words are open to interpretation. If I apply equations to my relationships, perhaps I can learn how to solve my problems.

Here is this week’s lesson plan:

a)      Woman + (Martini x 3) = Phil – (10 x Year) – (10 x Pound)
b)      Mexican + Leaf Blower = Phil – Sleep
c)      Cat x 2 = 0 x Vagina
d)      Aloha Taylor – Panty Lines = Sunny + Boner
e)      Wendy Williams – Wig = Arsenio Hall
f)       Phil + (Time x Lots) = This
g)      Phil + Bar + Open Seat = Opportunity
h)      Girl – Instructions = Confusion
i)       Wife – ((Husband x 2-Days) + Golf + Strippers) = Credit Card – Credit Limit + Shoes
j)       Bartender + Cleavage = Phil – Money (not Phil + Sex)
k)      Bed – Woman = (0 x Interruptions) + Farts
l)       Shower + Soap – Woman + Imagination = Drain Babies + Disgust
m)     Prius + Asian Driver = 12 x Angry Drivers
n)      Man – Job + Video Game + Cheetos = 0 x Blowjobs
o)      Cougar + La Crema Chardonnay + Big Ring + Bedazzle = Lay-up
p)      Phil + Feather on a Stick = 2 x Confused Cat
q)      Men’s Room + Attendant + Cologne + Mint = Empty Tip Basket + Floor Urine
r)       Rear Window Decal = Minivan + Douche
s)       Woman + Ovulation = Man + (Deep x Shit), but
t)       Phil – Section of Vas Deferens = 0 x Babies = $0 x Child Support = 0 x Rubbers = Glee
u)      Red Wine x 4 = Skull + Hammer
v)      (Tequila x 4) + (Woman – Looks) = Mating Option
w)     Biker + Shorts + Helmet + Clip Shoes = Moving Target
x)      Salad + Cherry Tomato = Stain
y)      First Date + (Name Dropping x Jesus) = Last Date
z)      Head – Hair = Cap

Don't Name the Puppy

I’ve learned about a new strategy some women employ while dating: Don’t name the puppy until you’re sure you want to adopt him. Interesting. Here I thought I was being referred to as “What’s-His-Name,” “Author-Guy,” “Dude,” and “Pal” because she was using terms of endearment. Now I find out she doesn’t name me because she’s not sure she wants to keep me. Pshaw!

I recently overheard women talking about boys they are juggling using obscure references.

• “Boy number three is almost out of the running. He’s a horrible kisser. I’m going to start calling him Slobberpuss.”
• “You have got to check out the body on body-shop guy.”
• "Lawyer guy picked me up in his convertible. It totally fucked my hair for the night.”
• “Toehead dude is driving me nuts with all his surfing and dragging sand into my bed.”
• “I wish I could train skinny boy to go down as often as old guy does.”
• “Where did boat-shoes guy take you? Let me guess: Sailing?”
• “Cocoa Puff may be a keeper. Dark and lovely works for me.”
• “Mommy’s Boy needs to find a job. I’m tired of hanging out with his parents.”
• “Marathon Man is unfortunately a sprinter in the sack. Thank God for vibrators.”
• “Joel asked if I would go to Cabo with him. What should I do?”

WHAT? OMG ... YOU JUST NAMED THE PUPPY!

Oh, calm your ass down there, Sassy-Pants. You don’t want to be referred to like the Augusta Golf Course, do you? (Something along the lines of “Hole 1,” “Hole 2,” “Trap,” “Hazard,” etc. You get the picture.) The boy’s parents agonized over finding a name for the lad, he deserves to hear it. You can control yourself, can’t you? Stop it with the “Honey” and “Baby” nonsense. If it gives you indigestion to speak the name Joel, get some fucking Tums and self-restraint, will you?

I don’t see how dating relates to pet adoption anyway. My two cats were named before I claimed them. (In fact, they were named “Louis” and “Peter.” What jackass names a cat something like that? I bet his name was Dick.) I renamed them the second I got them home. I didn’t go around calling them “Puss” and “Purrbag” in fear that naming them would make them keepers. No matter what I named them, if they peed on my keyboard their asses would have gone back to the shelter. OK, I hope your dates don’t pee on your keyboard, but you get the picture.

Date all the men you desire, Sugar. Say their names often and please try not to confuse them, especially while dancing horizontally. Call me “Phil,” my love. If you refer to me as “Guy with the Prison Cunt (AKA Goatee),” you get points for creativity and no more free wine.

Meet Me

PlentyOfFish has this “Meet Me” capability where the site cycles through a list of matches with their headlines and a few pictures. There are three choices: Yes, Maybe, and No. I’d love to be the atypical male who reads every headline and views every photo before deciding. I’m not. I am a shallow monkey.

I had my assistant, Symon, collect my reactions as I went through over one hundred of these “matches” today.

• Argh! That close up is way too close.
• Really? Sparklers and fishnets. Interesting … dangerous … and nope.
• I get it: you’re outdoor-sy. Nobody looks good with a canteen strapped to her.
• Head tilting isn’t helping. What’s wrong with your neck(s)?
• Ah, the hand under chin pose. Cute … when you’re in grade school.
• A picture of you (cute), Santa (odd), and your dog (stupid).
• I see. Your legs extended at the beach from your head’s perspective. Unoriginal.
• Are you surprised or is that the Botox looking?
• You’re firing a gun? Oh, that’s attractive.
• You’re in a picture with two German Sheppards and zero boyfriends for two reasons.
• When you resemble a female impersonator it’s time for a makeover unless you are one and, in that case, this is hilarious.
• Horses, bulldogs, children, and a selfish prick who sees them all as stressful as he clicks “No.”
• Motorcycles give me the impression that you have hairy legs and a penis.
• I love the sexy pose in a sundress on the beach. The Zima next to you tells me I’ll need a Delorean to avoid disappointment.
• Woah, what’s she doing here? She’s “Looking for Mr. Amazing” and right now I’m Mr. Amazed.
• … and right back down to earth I land with “Fun Girl” pictures featuring a duck face and tongue sticking out. Shoot me.
• Here’s a tip: If you post a photo of you and three girlfriends, make sure you’re not the ugliest one.
• I’m allergic to poodles but your exposed breasts may heal me.
• 37? Really? Twenty years ago, maybe.
• Ah, a cute woman holding two alcoholic beverages. She’s a keeper.
• When I look at your picture, all I can hear you saying is, “Why you go out so much?”
• Please stop with the self-portraits taken in a mirror with your own cell phone. It shows that you have no friends. For that matter, so do pictures from the camera on top of your computer monitor.
• If you’re spooning your Rottweiler, I’m not touching it or you.
• Show me one person who looks good in a bike helmet.
• Hey, you look familiar. Oh, shit! DELETE.
• Fortunately, for you, dark-skinned males gravitate to these free dating sites. I’m only dark on the inside.
• Hey, a yoga chick. That could be fun.
• Aw, what a cute little dog (and no dates) you have.
• Ack! I accidentally clicked “Yes.” Shit!
• What the hell is that thing on your cheek? You’d better invest in Photoshop.
• I get it, already. You’re popular. You met Kid Rock. Well, I met Captain Morgan last night and he reminded me that Kid Rock is a talentless boob.

Symon agrees: It’s hopeless. Dating sites are not designed for bitter old me.

Closer

What’s more attractive than a recently jilted woman? When the boyfriend becomes the ex, my glee becomes apparent. I have nothing against the poor lad, other than my desire to take over his duties for the time being. In the rare case where I get the call to the bullpen and enter her game, I can blow it just as easily as I can save her. I admit a number of my efforts have resulted in a sprint back to the ex.

Still, it's my role—closer—so I must go for the save.

"We broke up last weekend."
"Aw, you poor thing. Are you OK?"
"I'm bumming, but I'll get over it."
"Well, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rebound. Maybe I can help."
"You're silly."
"Can't blame a man for trying."

I keep forgetting women need time to heal. Unless there's some major jilt-age (he slept with another), she's not anxious to take on new suitors. Her pride is damaged and she needs a few weeks of sedation (chardonnay) and therapy (shopping) with her best friends who insisted the ex was a shit. Afterward, she'll emerge from her cocoon with a new attitude, an arch in her back, and a hop in her step. I’ll be right there to help her along.

"So, did you get back together with Arnold yet?"
"Andre ... and, no."
"You mean he hasn't apologized with fragrant bouquets and tiny blue boxes?"
"No, he won't either. We're both moving on."
"I'm sorry. How are you holding up."
"Fine."
"You know, I can help get your mind off him."
"Right. I think I know where this is heading."
"No, silly, not the bedroom. I'm not that type of man."
"Fine. What did you have in mind?"
"A weekend in Napa?"
"Separate rooms and I get to bring two friends."
"Hm. Female friends?"
"Of course."
"Similar caliber to you?"
"I'd say so."
"We could get a limo with the money we'd save by sharing a room."
"You'll totally try to have sex with me."
"What? I'd never. And, frankly, I'm a little disappointed in you, Missy. I thought you knew me better."
"I know you quite well and you will definitely try to have sex with me."
"OK, but if I did, it would only be in an effort to reassure you of your desirability."
"How sweet."
"That's what I do."
"Two rooms."
"Fuck."

My pitches are missing the target. Perhaps something more subtle is in order—a changeup of sorts. As I age, my pitches lose their effectiveness. I need fresh angles. The usual attempts using ego boosting, dirty martinis, and timing (closer to 2am) fall short. I’m going after heavy hitters whereas I should be going after heavy drinkers, eaters, and swingers.

"Come on, Sweetness, let me cheer you up."
"Can you do that without using your lap puppet?"
"Well, I can't juggle or flip."
"No puppets."
"Do you like music?"
"Of course."
"Want to play my organ?"
"Now, that's funny. See? You've cheered me up. Bravo!"
"Great … still not getting any, am I?"
“Nope.”

Damn Rookies

Amateurs annoy me. I’m a seasoned pro who has been exercising his liver for over thirty years. Nothing irks me more than watching rookies stumble around a barroom. I wish they’d stay home and play Wii or skateboard around the cul-de-sac—well, not MY cul-de-sac.

I posted up at a favorite hole last night to catch the parade of large hats and lips after Opening Day at the Del Mar Racetrack. Events like this always draw out the puppies. I recall the days when I first ventured into the arena. The goals were similar: get drinks, get drunk, and get laid. Now, my goals are slightly modified to: find a seat facing the door, admire unobtainable bartenders and servers, get low-carb drinks, get as close to 0.079% as possible without going over (I practiced by watching The Price is Right), and get laid. I still suck at the last part.

I observed the 2011 rookie strategy.

• Wear high hair.
• Type on iPhone while doing everything, including peeing.
• High-five every male friend and random strangers.
• Yell “Shots!” every five minutes.
• Ingest awful concoctions like Long Island Iced Tea and anything mixed with Red Bull.
• Seek older women because they have more money and less attitude.
• Make fun of friends with older women.
• Drink leftover drinks sitting on the bar.
• Beg bartenders for heavy pours.
• Say “fuck” a lot, often in the wrong context.
• Threaten to kick ass, but opt for shots of Jack.
• Drive home swerving past the police who waste their time pulling over the most expensive looking cars, which don’t include the Mom’s Volvo that the rookie borrowed.

All I wanted to do was sip my pinot while chatting with the local talent but no-o-oh. Instead, I endured the rookie game. I was Hopeless Solo sitting on the sidelines while a bunch of five-year-old girls swarmed around a soccer ball and face planted themselves repeatedly.

“Dude, how’s your night going?”
“It has been better.”
“Hey, you wanna do some shots?”
“No.”
“Come on, dude. Let’s do shots of Jäger.”
“No.”
“God, I’m so fucked up right now. Check out that hot fucking cougar at the bar down there. I’m totally going to hit on her.”
“That’s the bartender’s mother.”
“Cool. Maybe she can introduce us.”
“Probably not the best idea.”
“Whose drink is this?”
“No idea. It has been sitting there for awhile.”
“I don’t fucking care. I’m drinking it. Ugh, it tastes like water. Shit. I thought it was vodka.”
“Darn.”
“I need to do a shot. Dudes, let’s do shots!”

Lil Jon would be so proud. Li’l Phil wanted to backhand him. You see, rookies like this are attractive woman repellant. Any woman who I had my eye on would take a gander at the sloppiness around my section of the bar and assume I was the ringleader, limo driver, or uncle who won't ever grow up. My cock was blocked, so I left the game and lived to play another day.

Nadal Plays Roles for The Bachelorette

ABC cut costs filming this season of The Bachelorette by having Rafael Nadal play the parts of two of the bachelors when he wasn’t busy smacking the shit out of tennis balls.

“I’m surprised it took six weeks for people to notice,” said Nadal. “It’s amazing what a little hair gel can do for a fellow.”

Bachelorette, Ashley, admitted she was confused when the producers employed various tactics to fool her. The first few weeks they had the Ben version accept the rose and then while she returned to the dish of roses he tossed it aside, gave his hair a shug-shuga-shug, and took his position on the opposite end as Constantine.

“My fans know I have mastered the volley as speeding back and forth across the court is second nature to me. That little crybaby never noticed. Ha, ha, ha!”

Ashley started to catch on last week when the producers took a chance.

“We underestimated her intelligence,” associate producer Bob Finkleberg lamented. “Usually a high-pitched voice and big hair come with a large dose of oblivion.”

At last week’s rose ceremony, the producers placed a full-length mirror next to the Ben version of Nadal. Ashley stared at it like a cat watching a circus juggler. Show host, Chris Harrison, finally became frustrated with the television silence and slapped her in the back of the skull.

“That’s when I realized something was amiss,” remarked Ashley. “Constantine must have gotten the squirts from those oysters last night and he couldn’t make the rose ceremony. What a clever group of producers we have on this show! I can totally see how viewers didn’t notice a thing.”

“Actually, I was wrong,” recanted Finkleberg, “she is absolutely as dumb as seaweed.”

Nadal has been a good sport about the whole thing.

“I thought for sure she’d select one version of me over the other and not both. That would have simplified things. Then I almost twisted my ankle at the last ceremony when I was distracted by the reflection off the forehead of that Ames dude. God, what a melon!”

The producers are hoping Ashley comes to her senses this week and keeps only one or neither of the doppelgangers, as Nadal really needs to get back on the pro circuit.

“We’re going to try a Sesame Street game with her,” explained Chris. “Here, I’ll sing a verse for you: One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just isn’t the same. You get the picture, right? I’ll sing it to Ashley while she stares at three versions of Nadal and a crumpet. If she picks the crumpet, there will be a week eight. If she doesn’t, I’m going to dowse myself in 151 Rum and dive into the fireplace. I can’t take this shit much longer.”

Be sure to tune in tonight and play along with Ashley as she receives subtle clues about the ruse ABC is pulling on her while she continues fantasizing about that douche Bentley.

Get Out of My Head

It fascinates me when people have such difficulty getting over an ex. She knows the ex didn’t treat her right. She knows he’ll drive her crazy. She knows he’ll disappoint her frequently. She knows he won’t change. She knows she’s better off without him. None of it matters.

The heart overrides the mind.

It’s a sort of addiction, isn’t it? Gosh, so many options abound, but none of them compare. I experienced something similar when I stood in the cookie aisle of Ralph’s. I wanted Double Stuf Oreos—not Single Stuf or that awful low-calorie version. Guess what? They were out. No DSO for me. There were no less than thirty tasty options surrounding the blank space on the shelf that represented the emptiness in my stomach and unfulfilled desire in my mind. Those other cookies could not compare. I hungered for DSOs and, regardless of my logic, my mind was overridden. I drove to Vons.

I try to be a supportive friend when speaking with an afflicted female. It’s not my finest skill.

“You just got done telling me how much of a shit he is.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re still going to meet him for coffee.”
“We’re just going to talk. No big deal.”
“He keeps you hanging on to that noose, doesn’t he?”
“I’m not going to hook up with him.”
“Bet you will.”
“I’m over him. I moved on.”
“If that were true, you would have left his text unanswered.”
“I don’t hate the kid. We just can’t be together.”
“Why?”
“The list is huge: He parties too much, doesn’t treat me right, isn’t financially responsible, and so on.”
“I bet the sex was good.”
“Legendary.”
“Ha! You’re hooked.”
“I am not. I can easily find another skilled lover.”
“Have I shown you my lick-the-tip-of-my-nose trick yet?”
“…”
“Fine. Go do what you need to do, feel guilty about it, and I’ll be here waiting to help you heal.”
“Aw.”

Maybe it came with age, but I don’t find myself addicted to much. I rarely miss my exes. Instead, I regret opportunities lost. Regrets fades quickly as I know Ms. Next is somewhere nearby, armed with smiling eyes, sugar kisses, and stemware.

The best advice I can give you, ladies, is if you’re addicted to a man you know isn’t good for you, find a way to get over him before you get hurt (again). That doesn’t mean you should settle for a convenient fellow who won’t hurt or stimulate you. Numb is dumb. Figure out what qualities your addictive man has that haunt you. Look for those in another man.

Cold turkey is an option you should consider. Lose his number. Delete his texts and emails without reading them. If he’s where you go, leave. Do these until the temptation wanes.

Don’t get a puppy. Don’t get another job. Don’t binge at Nordstrom. Don’t overdo the yoga.

Avoid the one who addicts you and seek the one who fits comfortably in your heart, mind, and conscience.

The End Hurts

When the relationship ends, sometimes there’s closure and sometimes there’s uncertainty. I’ve found my preference depends upon how much I enjoyed the relationship. If it was tedious and stressful, I don’t mind unanswered pokes. If I fell for her and she’s gone, I need answers. How am I to improve without feedback? Depending on her reason for leaving me lonely, there could be collateral ego damage causing me to limp toward my next victim.

Insignificant ego damage occurs when the reason is:

• I’m moving.
• I can’t fight it any longer—I’m gay.
• I’m pregnant with my ex’s child.
• I’m in prison.
• You’re too short, old, or hairy for me.
• Our religious beliefs, political affiliation, or values don’t mesh.
• We don’t enjoy the same things.
• I need to be pregnant like yesterday and you’re not helping.
• Work is too demanding right now. I don’t have time for a relationship.
• There’s no way we could ever live together.
• My parents threatened to cut me from the will if I continued dating you.
• You won’t commit so I’m off to find someone who will.
• My pets/children/parents/friends hate your pets/children/parents/friends.

Moderate ego damage comes from reasons like:

• I got back together with an ex.
• You won’t let me get freaky in bed.
• I never was that attracted to you. Sorry. I tried.
• We both knew this would never work.
• It was fun while it lasted—more so toward the beginning, though.
• Look, I was drunk. That’s why I slept with you. I can’t justify it by continuing this charade.
• I can’t keep a mate right now because it’s summertime.
• You need etiquette training.
• [crickets], de-friending, and finding your overnight stuff in a bag on your porch.
• This text message: “Please lose my number.”

Severe ego damage is caused by the following reasons:

• Your penis is too small (or vagina is too large).
• You’re stupid—really fucking stupid. How did you get past eighth grade?
• Superior options have presented themselves.
• I’m sleeping with my boss/therapist/gardener.
• You need a complete wardrobe and personality overhaul.
• The clitoris is toward the top, Pokey.
• My friends have finally gotten through to me. You’re a loser.
• You probably shouldn’t have introduced me to your sexy friend/uncle/neighbor.
• Thank you for being my slump-breaker. Goodbye now.
• You’ve obviously been letting yourself go so I might as well let you go too.

In case of severe ego damage, your best bet is to get right back into the game, blur your vision with bourbon, and aim a little lower. Your misery is sure to have company in most watering holes. Avoid the urge to sit in front of the TV hugging your pet and Häagen-Dazs® too tightly while watching movies that make you feel unworthy. Put on some fresh threads, think happy thoughts, and help repair the ego of the fellow jilted patron on the neighboring bar stool.

Distraction hastens healing.

Dicks

Takes one to know one, right? I’m not looking to turn in my “Nice Guy” Card quite yet, but every time I leave my shell, my inner dickiness rises to the surface.

Warning: You can’t convert a dick to a nice person by using kindness, no matter what the Hay House authors say. You can only ignore the dick and hope it goes away. If you can’t resist the urge to call a dick a dick, you’ll probably cause dick enlargement.

Dicks have pride and no conscience.

If your neighbors are noisy, nosy, or naked (depending), they are annoying dicks. If they park unsightly vehicles near your property, it’s a dick move. If there are toys, empty beer cans, or horseshoe pits in the front lawn, they are hayseed dicks. If they have flags or banners of ethnicities, sports teams, or favorite racecar drivers, they’re probably toothless dicks.

Your boyfriend can be a dick (with a dick, technically). If he ignores your call because he’s chatting up a cute bartender, it’s dick-y. If he leaves the toilet seat up, a yellow-spotted rim, and two sheets on the toilet paper roll, he’s an uncivilized dick. If he shows up to dinner empty-handed or with Charles Shaw wine in a bag, he’s about to return home a hungry dick. If he has four orgasms for every one of yours, he’s a selfish dick about to have competition.

Women can be dicks too. Oh, yes they can. If she flirts with me to get something from me that doesn’t include a good, deep dicking, she’s a dick-tease. If she comments on my wardrobe, hair, or wine selection, she’s a pretentious dick. If she checks my phone, scans my Facebook wall for women she doesn’t know, or rifles through my pockets, sheets, or waste cans, she’s a paranoid dick.

Servers can be dicks. A combined check, when it’s obvious I’m not on a fucking date, is lazy and dick-y. In return, I’ll show my dick by leaving a ten percent tip. If the bartender fills my drink to the top, forcing me to bend and sip it like a sissy or pick it up and drip it onto my crotch, that’s a dick move. If my plate is cleared before my date is done eating, the dick is rushing me. If the bartender pretends to be precise by using a stainless two-sided shot measuring cup, I’m not as impressed as the bar manager at the dick’s stinginess.

Coworkers can be dicks. If they fart, snort, or eat smelly food, it’s a dick move. If he disregards the courtesy flush rule, he’s an insensitive dick. If she remarks about the length of a coworker’s skirt, she’s a big, fat dick with cankles and bad skin. If they decorate their cubicles with crayon drawings from their little dicks, they’re tasteless dicks.

Drivers are typically dicks, especially the ones with stick figures, sandals, or other rear window decals. If he’s blowing Marlboro smoke rearward, he’s a smelly dick. If she’s dumping the rest of her coffee curbside, she’s a sloppy dick. If their little dicks are making faces at me through the rear window, they are parental dicks who should have been neutered.

Who’s the dick now?

Better Than Next

Picture this: You’re single again and back in the mating pool. You’re proudly wearing your positive attitude. You do not have a mate right this second and you may not need one. Still, you glance around to see what’s available. Then you spot your ex … with the next.

What do you do?

I investigate two things when this happens to me:

1. Has she become more or less attractive since we parted?
2. How does Mr. Next compare to me?

It makes no difference if we dated for one night or one year; this derails me and distracts me from my hunt for my Ms. Next. The worst scenario involves her noticing my investigation. Subtlety is vital. I’ll swing around behind her to see if that ass has grown. Flaws justify the split whereas enhancements cause reconsideration.

As far as the new guy goes, I’m guessing that this is different from each gender’s viewpoint. If my ex is with a man I rate as more attractive than I am, it’s easier to relent. If he’s a balding tool who is older, wearing faded Levi’s and a sheepish grin, I’m troubled. Why is she with him?

Various scenarios run through my mind:

1. She’s just trying to make me jealous.
2. I kicked a dent into her self-esteem.
3. The guy is fucking loaded.
4. He has a debilitating disease and she feels sorry for him.
5. I was there first.

How juvenile of me!

What does my ex think when she sees Ms. Next? Is she tempted to follow her to the restroom and pee all over my résumé? Will she become slightly jealous and open up the possibility of rebound sex? Will she even care?

If Ms. Next is younger than the ex, there’s definitely going to be cat fur flying (ladies, cover your chardonnay). If Ms. Next had any kind of enhancement, the ex will pull a Nancy Grace by staring at it and angrily pointing it out to every friend of hers who ever met me. If Ms. Next and I get into any sort of PDA, she’ll probably insert herself between us and prompt an uncomfortable introduction. (When that happens, I retaliate by acting as though I forgot the ex’s name. All is fair in love.)

Ideally, the one who was last to arrive should leave, to avoid unnecessary conflict. That won’t happen. What will happen includes smirks, sighs, and slurs. As the bucket of exes fills, some animosity is bound to spill. Fortunately, time and alcohol heals all.

TWI

Texting while intoxicated is highly encouraged (but not while driving). This is also why you should keep every contact you have gathered, including even the douchiest exes. Eventually, you’re going to reminisce about that time he did something silly, and want to remind him. Also, you know he’ll be sending a post-midnight text with “just checking in,” which means “boy, would I love to have some makeup sex right now.” Depending on your occupancy status, this may not be a bad thing.

My fingers are fat and my eyes are failing, which means my alcohol-induced texts are unintentionally comical. The autocorrect feature on my phone consistently fucks with me. I also have this habit of receiving a text from bootycall, unlocking my phone, typing a clever reply, and then realizing the reply went to exgirlfriend or baseballbuddy.

Oopsie.

Here are some suggestions for 2 a.m. texts to ex-girlfriends:

• “Hey, QT. Can I come over and motorboat you?”
• “Don’t you miss my penis?”
• “I just received my certification as Supreme Cunnilingusator. Can I lick you now?”
• “Stop flipping your bippy and come over.”
• “All the lonely vaginas—where do they all come from?”
• “Daddy wants to come tuck you in.”
• “OK, I admit it: I miss you. Can we fuck now?”
• “I’m sorry I was such an ass. BTW, can I date your sister?”
• “I just beat off to your match.com profile.”
• “How drunk would you have to be to hook up with me again?”

Since I rarely receive booty texts from exes, it seems like a waste of time for me to suggest any. Instead, I suggest the following replies to your ex-boyfriends who are begging:

• “I’m sorry, the vagina you have reached is currently busy. Please find a different ex’s number and try again.”
• “I just showed your message to all of my girlfriends. Good luck finding anything other than a silicone lover.”
• “I would sooner bounce my twat off a railing than have you reenter me.”
• “Look, nothing personal, but you have a disappointing penis.”
• “I’m flattered. Now kindly go fuck a duck.”
• “You’ve helped me locate my inner lesbian and, as such, I am no longer interested in being penetrated by dickweeds. Have a nice life.”
• “So nice to hear from you after all this time. Can you send me your address so I know where to mail your child support invoices?”
• “Remember that marvelous night we spent together? Me neither.”
• “I don’t think I’m drunk enough to spend five minutes in the same room with you.”
• “Funny you should text me. Are your ears ringing? I was just telling my new boyfriend about how you got off on wearing my panties.”

If you really want to spice up the text, why not add a photo of:

• You in lingerie giving him the finger.
• Your new boyfriend’s cock.
• A stop sign.
• A group of your girlfriends reading his message and laughing.
• Directions to the closest therapist’s office so he can get help.

The Rougher Sex

Never tried it; don't have to; won't like it. I understand that some people enjoy oysters, soccer, and Nancy Grace, but I can't find anything good about rough sex. Sure, it depends on exactly how rough, but I'm a puppy compared with some of the animals my female friends have dated.

A petite friend was telling me about her latest man who definitely got off on tossing her 5'2" frame around. She said he left bruises on her numerous times. I was shocked.

"I bruise easily."

"That's fucked up. Seriously."

"Why?"

"A bruise is an injury, you nut. No man is entitled to leave marks except when peeing in the snow."

"I like it rough. I had to ask him to calm down a bit because the bruises were showing when I wore my summer outfits. They're difficult to explain."

"What was this animal doing to you?"

"You know--the average stuff."

"Nothing is average about leaving a lovemaking session with bruises. Perhaps a little neck rash or toe cramp would be ordinary, but bruises? No way."

"You've never had a woman leave any marks on you?"

"They only hurt on the inside."

"Stop it. Some lover must have scratched your back at least."

"Come to think of it, I did have this PYT bite my face once when we were getting into it on my La-Z-Boy."

"There you go. That's hot."

"Is not. I grabbed her by the throat and said, 'Hey, no biting.'"

"I bet that turned her on further."

"Indeed. She was harder to train not to bite than my cats were. I had to splash hydrogen peroxide on my face afterward."

"I like it when my man flips me around and dominates me. His hunger is sexy. You never spanked a woman? Bit her neck or nipples firmly? Threw her onto the bed and ripped down her panties?"

"Um, no."

"Jeez, you're missing out there, Pussycat."

"Guess I've been domesticated."

She went on to describe how he would bite her shoulder and slam her hard when he was on top of her. Then he'd flip her over onto her belly and sometimes plow the dirt road. Ew.

I think there's a deep seeded condition involved on both ends of this nonsense. He probably was whipped repeatedly by his overbearing father and she has been so numbed by ordinary sex, she needs a physical struggle to get off. Whatever it is, it isn't normal. I accidentally have banged incisors, was kneed in the pecker, and had a pinky stuck in a lover's earring loop, but I've never left marks. If a lover asked me to do something kinky like that I'd have to tap out.

Gentle love should be sufficient. Candlelight, soft sheets, lots of pillows, and tiny pinches are all it takes. OK, maybe a feather and some fuzzy cuffs. No biting, bruising, or scratching is required. How about a tiny pat on the cheek of the buttocks? No harm there.

"How do you feel about other kinky stuff?"

"Like?"

"Um, how about spitting?"

"Gross, not kinky."

"Really?"

"Really. Now please untie me."

Insensitivity

I say it’s a good thing. We all could use some mental Novocaine. If we go around all day looking for something to take offense to, we’ll find it and find ourselves in horrible moods. The healthiest choice is to shrug it off or, better yet, join the fun.

We have become an overly sensitive society, which can’t tell the difference between hate and humor. Generalities—whether concerning gender, race, religion, age, height, weight, or hair color—are usually funny, not harmful, and we all know the difference between the two. When some group gets uppity and demands an apology, the accused should ignore the plea of the humorless and continue.

An African American and a Guido went to Palm Desert this weekend for a change of scenery. Both of these fellows have what’s called “a sense of humor” and delight in their diversity.

Example:

The bar, for some odd reason, is showing Star Wars on the TVs. Three lovely Mexican women parade through the front door, all wearing similar black outfits.

The AA comments, “Hey Guido, check it out. Here come the ewoks.”

“Damn!”

“Arggurgle, aye aye, grrrr.”

“What the fuck is that? Did you just have a seizure?”

“That’s the noise them ewoks make, ain’t it?”

“That’s Chewbacca, you dope.”

“Oh, shit. You’re right. What noise do ewoks make?”

Tap, tap, tapping on the wood table, “Housekeeping?”

If someone took offense to that, I’d have to point out the obvious: Most maids are of Mexican descent. If the truth offends you, that’s a sign you’ve lost your sense of humor.

The night continued and, as is typical in most nightclubs, the later it got the freakier the attendees became. A group of three AA men came in wearing Public Enemy t-shirts, gold chains, and pants strapped just above the knees.

“Your team isn’t having a good showing tonight,” remarked Guido.

“Oh man.”

“I just had a Black to the Future moment.”

“I’m going to have to call a team meeting.”

Then, as usually happens, whitey let the other team back in the game. A pasty, pudgy fellow cruised by wearing a Kobe Bryant jersey.

“Really?” remarked AA.

“Christ. That’s a blown save right there.”

“If Kobe were here he’d hand stumpy a thousand dollars and a Lebron jersey.”

“No kidding. You just know he modeled that jersey in front of the mirror before he left his trailer and said, ‘Damn, I look good.’”

This fun went on all night. That’s what we do. Sure, we pointed out the usual (shapely boobs and butts), but the most fun was enjoyed with a pinch of racism.