Indiana Joans

I read so much dating advice you’d think I’d be syndicated by now. Today, a column told women to be adventurous, which would make them like catnip to men. This was obviously not written by a cat owner nor a man, for that matter. I, on the other hand, have two cats, one bag of catnip, and zero bed warmers. Hence, I am qualified. I’ll dump a bit on the floor and document the reaction. Then, you can decide if you want your man all high on your sexual catnip.

Syd (black, skinny, sees ghosts) let loose a tiny mew and crawled over the nip. Now, he’s rolling onto his back and squirming around in it. He’s taking a breather. Let me interview him.

“How’s it going, Syd?”

“Groovy.”

“You look like a cheap slice of pizza overly coated in oregano.”

“All right.”

“How are you feeling? Horny, at all?”

“Do we have any Cheetos?”

“No. Does this make you want to be with a kitten, perhaps?”

“Ew, don’t be gross. She has to be a cat—at least two-and-a-half.”

“Ah ha, so you are feeling horny.”

“Wait, let me get this crap out of my eyes. OK. Now, what? Horny? No, not really. I mean, I’m not about to turn down a good licking, but right now I could eat a fucking carp.”

“Great.”

I’m taking that as one vote nay. Perhaps my other cat, Symon (orange, chubby, lazy), will give me a better interview. I’ve dumped a line on the floor and here he comes. Lovely. He’s eating it.

“Dickhead, you’re not supposed to eat it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re supposed to smell it and rub around in it.”

“Hey, do I tell you what to do with your M&Ms?”

“There’s no nutritional value in catnip, you idiot.”

“I like the way it tastes. Why don’t you roll around in it?”

“Fine. How is it making you feel?”

“Well, a few pieces are stuck … say, do we have any toothpicks? I have this pesky food pocket.”

“Stop eating the catnip! Now, does it make you want to make out?”

“With Syd? Jesus, man.”

“No, not with your brother, with a girlie cat.”

“What are my other choices and do any of them include salty flakes of tuna?”

“Fine. It makes you hungry.”

“Pop, honestly, breathing makes me hungry.”

So much for that. Ladies, go right ahead and be adventurous if you want your man to roll around on the floor and do wind sprints to the refrigerator and snack drawer.

What does the writer mean by “adventurous” anyway? I don’t see how smearing on some eye-black, climbing out the window, crawling under the porch, and ca-cawing like a crow is going to make any man horny. Perhaps sexually adventurous is what’s intended. I once had a date lift her skirt and flop over the arm of my La-Z-Boy. She gave me a devilish wink. I fetched some ping-pong balls and a catcher’s mitt—not what she intended. What do I know?

Lucky Bug

My imaginary daughter, Mary, came to the gym with me today. She enjoys watching TV on the elliptical machine while I turn purple on the gauntlet. Mary keeps one eye on me at all times and reminds me to be “suh … tull” when I encounter a rather attractive specimen in tights. As we left the gym and climbed into my Jeep, she noticed a ladybug on my window.

“Oh my gawd, Daddy! Look! It’s good luck.”

“It’s a bug, sweetheart,” I said atheistically as I lowered my window. Naturally, instead of flying away or falling outside the car, the bug rode the window down and landed in my lap. You would have thought a starving piranha was tossed there based on Mary’s reaction, which caused me to flinch, open the door, and swat it away.

“Ayeeeeeee!”

“Jeez Louise. It’s a goddamn bug, you nut.”

“You said a bad word. Oh, and you killed an innocent creature sent from the afterlife to bring you good luck. You’ll probably have a satellite fall on your head or something now. I’m not standing anywhere near you. In fact,” she continued as she got out, “I’m calling a taxi.”

“Get in this car right now, young lady.”

“No.”

“The bug’s not even dead, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it has wings. It just flew away. I saw it.”
“Liar.”

“Get in the car.”

“Fine, but if some eighteen wheeler careens out of control and splats you all over the window, I’m not even going to mourn. You do have life insurance, right?”

“Shut it.”

She reluctantly got back in and secured her belt. She stared at me as we drove out of the parking lot. As fate would have it, some idiot came tearing around the corner, slammed on his breaks, and stopped within three feet of my door.

“See?”

“Look, honey, we don’t do superstition in this family.”

“Then how do you explain what just happened? I think it was a sign from Juno.”

“It was just coincidence.”

“Didn’t your horoscope say something about staying in bed today?”

“It’s just some punk in a damn Toyota who was probably on the phone.”

“Oh, and he just happened to be passing by at the exact moment you reached the corner.”

“Precisely.”

“You’d better go back and check on the ladybug.”

“I will not. Stop being silly.”

I pulled out and turned left on my side street. As I accelerated up the hill, a bird took a giant dump which landing in a perfect star formation at driver’s eye level. Mary raised an eyebrow as I pushed the windshield wash button, resulting in a white and yellow semi-circle smear.

“Fine.”

I turned to the right and flipped a U-ey. When I pulled back into the space next to my original one, I was careful to avoid running over the bug, which would have probably caused a lightning strike. As soon as I put the Jeep in park, Mary jumped out. Sure enough, she found the ladybug crawling around on the pavement, unaware of the angst it caused me. She lifted the bug gingerly, showed me, and gently blew in her palm, causing my lucky bug to fly away.

Little Cesare

Since eliminating the possibility of offspring I've been having nightmares about raising two troublesome tykes--one of each gender. My son, Cesare, is ten-years-old and he’s a tyrant.

“I’m tired of leaving work to pick you up from the principal’s office. Next time your skinny ass is walking home.”
“Da-ad. You told me to stand up for myself.”
“You kicked a little girl in the vagina. What the hell is the matter with you, son?”
“Well, as it turns out, girls don’t have balls, so what was I supposed to do?”
“How about not kick her in the crotch, for one?”
“It’s your fault, anyway.”
“Really? How so?”
“She was making fun of my name, which you gave me. Thank you very little.”
“It’s tradition. The first son gets named after the grandfather.”
“My friends walk around with hip names like Connor and Tyler. I would have welcomed Joe or Bill for fuck’s sake.”
“Language! Your name is unique. You should embrace that. No little girl’s teasing should make you have a violent reaction.”
“She called me queasy Cesare, the pants pee-er.”
“That’s pretty clever, actually.”
“How’d you like a kick in the cunt, too?”
“I don’t have ... ugh ... hey! Watch your mouth!”
“You swear all the time.”
“That’s no excuse. I’m an adult.”
“Whatever. Say, why don’t we stop by the pub and grab a brew? You seem uptight. Maybe it would mellow your ass out.”
“I am mellow, damn it!”
“Right. Come on, Pop, let’s have a beer or six.”
“You’re not drinking beer. You’re ten.”
“Fine. I’ll have a cranberry rocks and be that cute kid all the chicks dig.”
“I’ll never understand why that works.”
“Just leave it to me. I got you, bro.”
“Great.”
“Just keep the monkey-love noises down after you bring the bar slut home. House is on tonight and I don’t want any distractions.”
“Well, what if the bar slut conveniently has a mini-slut with her?”
“Interesting prospect.”
“It happens. Maybe the mini-slut would want to get all freaky-deaky with Little Cesare.”
“No doubt. She’d need to wait until House was over. Do we have any wine?”
“Yes and no, you won’t be drinking wine.”
“Weed?”
“No weed either.”
“You suck. It’s not fair. You get to use contraband to gain access and I’m left with my boyish charm and Pop Rocks.”
“What the hell does Pop Rocks candy have to do with it?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? They’re only the best thing since Altoids.”
“Best for what? Breath-freshening?”
“God, you are oblivious. Pussy eating, dumb-dumb.”
“What?”
“Think about it--all of that fizziness causes vibrations and sensations. Next thing you know, lying next to you is a quivering lump of post-orgasmic sweetness.”
“Huh. Go figure.”
“See? We should hang out more. You could learn a thing or two.”
“You’re fucking TEN, slapnuts!”
“I’m an old ten. Now, how about that drink?”
“Fine, but you’re buying.”
“Fine. Hey, think you could advance me a fiver on the allowance, Pop?”

Ingredients

Another one of those stupid online surveys asked men what they want in a wife. Duh, their penises. Next question, please. If they asked the same question of women, the answer would something inane like, “A best friend.” Oh, lonesome and bitter me. Where’s the romance? Fine.

Here’s a sample of what the ape's responses were after the grunting:

• Sports fan
• All of her teeth
• College degree
• Large boobs
• Support
• Cleanliness
• Freaky sex

Here are things this ape wants in a wife:

• Directions
• Confidence
• Intelligence
• Sex drive
• Hatred of condoms
• Feline fanciness
• Financial responsibility
• Appreciation
• Sense of humor
• Baseball knowledge

These are things I don’t want in a wife:

• Other men
• Gods
• Cigars
• Secrets
• Cocaine
• Bad breath
• Real estate license
• Leechiness
• Womb for rent
• Arrogance

No surprises there. The problem is we can’t order our spouse from a menu where we can trust the ingredients listed are true. Every dish I’ve ordered from the Match.com menu had falsely listed features. The caloric contents were typically understated as were the number of diners who previously enjoyed the dish.

If women were polled, I predict they’d want the following in a spouse:

• Great kisser
• Sensitivity
• Successful career
• Height
• Talented tongue
• Hairless back
• Generosity
• Good listening skills
• White teeth
• Dedication without distraction

Well, therein lies the problem: Our desires don’t match up. This is why each gender needs to modify the list to include the most important feature of all: tolerance. We need to accept the bad with the good. Any undesirable feature can be overridden by a but.

“…, but she gives a legendary blowjob.”

“…, but he owns a penthouse and a Ferrari.”

“…, but she has an amazing ass.”

“…, but he loves to cook dinner and cuddle.”

“…, but she doesn’t want to have children.”

“…, but he’s about to be signed by the Yankees.”

“…, but she’s old, rich, and has a bad cough.”

“…, but he gets free tickets to fashion events.”

“…, but she knows very little English.”

“…, but he’s such a nice guy.”

FDA

People, please! Icksnay with the FDA (Facebook Displays of Affection). Perhaps I am sour because I have nobody to make the other half of my hand-heart picture. Or, perhaps I am bothered by braggarts. Go ahead, walk the city streets arm-in-arm if you must. I pardon you. But, if you post one more lovey-dovey Facebook picture, I’m unfriending you until your relationship implodes. Then, I’ll remind you to untag yourself and interview you for a future essay.

The kid thing bugs me too. Again, perhaps it’s because I never found a penetrable egg or because my disconnected juevos guarantee I’ll never change a diaper or wear shoulder puke. Whatever. Parents, believe me when I tell you (because your friends and relatives won’t), your kids are considered cute by two to six (if we include grandparents) people. Your Facebook pals may deliver the compliments you seek, but they’d much rather see funny captions on pictures of Kmart shoppers.

I blame weddings for this annoyance. They are grand displays of opulence designed to satisfy the ego, generate startup capital, and brag—to those of us who choose to maintain a single toothbrush—about how “fortunate” the lovers are to have found each other. Here’s what a wedding should consist of:

• I promise not to stick my dick in any other vaginas.
• I promise not to allow any other dicks to enter my vagina.
• I now pronounce you wife and husband (ladies first).

That’s one recession-proof matrimony right there. No candy-coated almonds or netting required.

“Wow, you two got married.”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t see anything about it on Facebook.”

“That’s because we’re not attention whores.”

“Where was the reception?”

“On our sofa. You weren’t invited.”

“Well, still, if I knew, I would have gotten you a gift.”

“All right, buy me a beer and my wife drinks vodka.”

“Where did you spend your honeymoon?”

“At work.”

“That sucks.”

“Depends on the job, doesn’t it?”

“Good point.”

Aw, another cute couple just popped up on my feed: Jack and Jill in little aprons cooking dinner. (Gag!) They look so happy together. (Barf!) Ooh, the candle lit table with fine china. (Burp.) The fancy plates of food: chicken, colorful carrots, and stinky-pee asparagus. (Yick.) Look, empty plates with tiny gravy smears. (Blech.) Now, the happy couple snuggles on the loveseat with cups of tea and scones while watching a romantic comedy. (Boo, hiss.)

Who’s taking these pictures? Why isn’t the photographer refusing to do so unless threatened at gunpoint?

No more moochie faces, people. Quit it. Next time you’re tempted to post an FDA, imagine you’re on a sit-com set with a studio audience of sarcastic pricks like me. Consider that we enjoy pictures of bikini babes, MMA knockouts, and expensive cars. We pass along videos of bikers going off cliffs, baseballs connecting with man-balls, and shit blowing up. Now, go right ahead and audition your little love-fest for us. Look lovingly into your soulmate’s eyes and be prepared to be showered in asshole-ades.

Crazy Is

If you had the displeasure of standing next to me at my place of work (a bar), you noticed my uncanny ability to attract lunatics. I welcome their company because ordinary people require too much creative energy on my part to make them weird enough to write about. Last night was an all-star night as I checked more than once for a full moon.

“I hate my husband. He calls himself ‘Big Daddy’ and treats me like a child.”

“Oh?”

“He gives me an allowance. Can you believe that? Twelve-hundred dollars the first of the month.”

“I wouldn’t mind a Big Mommy giving me an allowance.”

“I mean, really, what am I supposed to do with twelve-hundred dollars?”

“Bread pudding would be a good start.”

“I’m over it. I’m leaving him.”

“All right.”

“In fact, I’m over men. Men just want my body. Well, they can’t have it. I’m tired of it.”

“But …”

“I don’t need men. No more men for me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be a lesbian either.”

“Perish the thought.”

“I’m skinny, huh? I have to watch how much I drink. I should eat.”

“All right.”

“Look at my belly,” she demanded as she lifted her shirt exposing her ribcage coated in saggy, post-natal skin.

“Yes, you are skinny … in a fit way. You must do lots of sit-ups.”

“I love protein.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Don’t you?”

“Bacon.”

“What about it?”

“I love bacon. Bacon has protein. Which protein were you referring to?” he said hopefully.

“I drink Muscle Milk.”

“Love Muscle Milk?”

“What?”

“Um … don’t you love Muscle Milk?”

“I do. I also love fish tacos. My friend and I are called ‘The Double Ds.’ Did you know that?”

“What an odd nickname.”

“It’s because we both have names that begin with D.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, we both have large boobs too.”

“I can see that.”

“I might be getting drunk. You know what? Fuck Big Daddy. I’m not going home to that prick.”

“All right.”

At this point one of my friends entered the bar and approached. I gave him my best stay-the-fuck-away look, but he noticed the boobs instead of my warning.

“Yo, Vito, what’s happening? Happy belated birthday.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“Who’s this?”

“This, my friend, is one half of the famous Double Ds. She loves protein and hates her husband.”

“Well, then it’s an honor.”

“I have to pee. Be right back.”

I jogged to the restroom and sent him a warning text: “Dude, this chick is bat-shit fucking crazy. Run away!”

There was no escaping her. We had to wait until her bladder gave us an opening. Once she hit the restroom, it was assholes and elbows as we bolted to the next asylum.

Feed

People are running out of things to talk about. The weather is too hot, cold, or wet. *yawn* The stock market is up or down. *frown* I watched last night’s show or I missed it. *shrug* To generate interesting chitchat, we need something new to whine about.

“Did you notice the new Facebook feed layout?”

“Yup.”

“I can’t believe they would do that. Those guys are so clueless.”

“Yet, you were on it all day.”

“Why didn’t they consult anyone before they made such drastic changes?”

“You mean why didn’t they consult you, right?”

“Oh, come on. I’m not the only person who has a problem with it. Haven’t you seen all of the complaints?”

“Yes. I saw them displayed on the new feed. It was convenient.”

“Why are you defending them?”

“Because they have their reasons, which are financial reasons based on research we’re not privy to. A week from now you won’t even notice.”

Complaining on Facebook about the new Facebook layout just seems weird to me. It’s like going into Starbucks and ordering a macchiato and then walking around the store drinking it while telling everyone in line how much you hate it. If I were in line and heard your complaint, I’d consider the source as credible as penis enlargement cream.

Imagine if you did any of the following:

• Bought tickets to an MLB playoff game, sat behind the dugout, and complained the entire ballgame that pitchers don’t throw spitballs anymore and long balls suck since the steroid ban.
• Drove a Prius down the highway and pointed out the ugly Nissan Leaf that just passed you.
• Pushed a flatbed around Costco, loaded with toilet paper, cases of soda, and oversized boxes of cereal while complaining that the soda was inconveniently located in the rear corner of the store for “no apparent reason.” (The reason is quite apparent, actually: Costco wants you to encounter as many sales as possible on your way to the popular fizzy sugar.)
• Stood at the grocery store’s self-scan checkout and complained you don’t know the code for peaches.
• Sat in a bathroom stall, begging your neighbor for a courtesy flush after giving birth to a nostril singeing stank stew of your own.
• Whining to the fast-food drive thru clerk that people take too long to order at the drive thru.

I get it: Nobody likes change. People find it easier to adapt when they can pout, stomp, and protest first. Isn’t it better to expect change and embrace it? My cats get it. The minute I change the litter, those two little fuckers race to see who can be the first to soil it. They don’t stare angrily at me while filling out a comment card. Granted, I have exceptionally smart and tolerant kitties, but still, even moronic mutts adapt to change.

So, fellow Facebookers, let’s take it easy on poor Zuckerberg and his minions. He has billions of reasons to disregard your angst. Why waste it on him when you can always complain about gas prices.