Your Post-Breakup Guide

Aw, babycakes, I’m sorry. Wipe that mascara, blow your nose, and prepare yourself to find your next ex. I can’t have you sitting on the bench feeling miserable. That’s a waste of some fine booty right there. You’re denying mankind access to one of Nature’s finest gifts.

First things first: You need to write a nasty letter to that heartless prick. He’ll never see it, but writing it will make you feel much better. Open your email program, put your own address in the “To:” field, enter a subject (“Letter to the Fucktard” works), and begin typing. Let it all out, sweetness. Here are some excellent ideas for phrases to use:

• Pencil dick
• Don’t deserve
• Asshat
• Never really liked you anyway
• Wash your sheets, for Christ’s sake
• Must have been drunk
• I was faking it … yes, every time
• Slob
• Manscaping
• I’ll miss your dog more than you
• You’re not getting it back—it was a gift
• Waste of time
• My friends warned me
• You might be gay
• It is so not sexy
• Children play video games
• Your car is also gay
• Brut, really?
• I hope your acorn penis grows fungus and falls off
• Your breath is fouler than raw sewage
• Get over yourself
• I don’t even care
• I’m going to the cock parade

You feel much better already, don’t you? Go get your nails, face, and hair did. Toss in a spray tan. I think it’s time for a new outfit. Yes. Do it. I’m thinking something black and strappy. Go make room in your closet immediately.

What’s that? You just found one of his shirts? Oh, my. Well, please allow me to suggest you use it for the following:

• Collect your Labrador’s lawn loafs
• Clean the toilet rims he spotted
• Kindling
• Write on it in bright red lipstick, “This belongs to a dick waffle who should never see another vagina as long as he lives,” and leave it on his windshield
• Duct tape it to your driveway and make sure two wheels hit it every time you pull in or out
• Wear it while Mr. Next pounds the pussy snot out of you
• Give it to an ultra-smelly homeless dude
• Dust your house with it
• Enter it in your company’s white elephant exchange
• Take it to the shooting range and make lots of holes

I can see that smile returning, champ. You’re almost ready to reenter the game. Now, think: Does he have any almost-as-cute-as-he-is friends? There must be at least one. Perfect. You need to blow him. I know, I know. Look, sometimes you need to take one (in the throat) for the team. Make sure it’s a legendary, toe-curling, back-spasming blowjob, the likes of which has only been experienced by immortals and movie stars. Oh, one more thing: Don’t let anyone see you do it, but make sure you forward the text message this lucky fellow will send you to the ex. It will probably read something like, “OMG, I think I love you. I have such a happy penis right now. What was [insert asshole’s name] thinking letting you go?”

Now, you’re ready. Go get ’em, tigress!

What am I supposed to do with your number?

When you distribute your phone number to a potential bedwarmer, what are your expectations? Wouldn’t it be logical to provide instructions along with the number? Why begin the relationship with ambiguity? Why test the man before the first date?

After exchanging a few witty (brushing my nails on my shirt right now) Match.com emails, I received a reply that contained a phone number. This baffled me. I was flattered to receive the number, but I didn’t know what exactly to do with it. Yes, I realized the intention was for me to use it to call her. My confusion concerned how and when. I put on my smart cap and decided the safest thing to do was send a text message asking what was best time for me to call. Gosh, sometimes I wonder how I fit all those brains in my skull.

Then my phone rang.

I allowed it to go to voice mail because I was on the treadmill and wasn’t in the mood for a face-plant, plus I didn’t want all my panting to scare her away.

“Hi, this is Missy from Match. I thought it would be nice to talk on the phone before we meet. So, give me a call when you get a chance and we can chat.”

When I called Missy, she lectured me. This made me and my curiosity shrivel.

“I’m new to this online dating thing. Tell me: Is it normal that guys get a number and instead of calling send more emails and then a text message.”

“Um, normal?”

“Just trying to figure men out.”

“Well, let me ask you this: If I called you seconds after I received your number, what would have been your impression?”

“I don’t know. I guess I would have been flattered and seen it as a sign of high interest on your part, much like providing my number showed high interest on my part.”

“I see. Perhaps you could have left your number with an asterisk and a note specifying a best time to call and the fact that you expect a voice call.”

“Really? I need to be that specific?”

“Or, you can be vague and disappointed, which will result in an awkward conversation with a man you’ve only met in two dimensions.”

“I didn’t mean for this to be awkward. I’m only asking.”

“In the past day, how many text messages have you sent and how many voice calls have you made?”

“Yes, I text my friends more often than I call them.”

“Hence, my decision to send a text fell in line with your tendencies.”

“It’s just so impersonal, especially when first meeting.”

“I understand and had I known your expectations I would have met or exceeded them. Now, let’s put this behind us, cupcake. Would you like to meet?”

“Um, sure, I guess so.”

Please don’t analyze me. I’m old and tired. I won’t chase you unless you’re coated in honey and powdered sugar. Point me to your pleasure buttons and I will comply.

Why are you hanging on?

Divine darlings gathered for a reunion last night to drink wine and catch up on gossip and sex lives. I lurked. Finally, one of the lovelies noticed me and thought she knew me from somewhere. Yep, I dated her friend. I played along, hoping the ex didn’t trash me too thoroughly.

“Hi, you look so familiar to me.”

“You’ve probably seen me on TV.”

“Really?”

“Yep, Awful Chefs, Lifestyles of the Poor and Insignificant, or The Perpetual Bachelor.”

“Ha! No, I don’t know you from TV.”

“Well, Christine, I haven’t a clue.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. You remembered my name.”

“I also remember where we met and what you do for a living. Still impressed, or is this becoming creepy?”

Take note, gentlemen: Remember as much as you can when you meet a woman. Drill it into your memory. Make room by casting away the useless ditties you’re storing, such as:

• Childhood friends’ phone numbers.
• A grade school teacher’s name.
• The details surrounding your first orgasm.
• Important dates, which can easily be transferred onto an electronic calendar.
• How to make a margarita. (Leave it to the experts.)
• The lyrics to “Da Butt.”
• Quotes from Seinfeld.
• High school locker number or combination.
• Pi.
• The capital of Norway.
• Who was president before Reagan.
• Where you hid the porn.

Turns out the woman I impressed was married (*sigh*) but her friend was delicious and ringless (*grin*), so I began my mating dance. Turns out my target had a boyfriend I could tell she was none too pleased with.

“Why do you stay?”

“Because I can’t see myself hanging out in places like this.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.”

“It’s such a scene. Ugh.”

“And you’d rather stay in an unfulfilling relationship?”

“Beats being alone or desperate.”

“Leave him immediately.”

“What?”

“Go home right now and start packing. This is nonsense. You’re wasting your time forcing something to work that has probably been over for months or years. Move on!”

“No. I’m not going to go through dating hell again. I can’t imagine hanging out in bars or online dating sites. That would be depressing.”

“It is what you make it, darling. If you seek desperately, you make yourself unattractive. If you’re amused by the process and see it as a way to meet new people, you’ll thrive.”

“So, are you telling me you’re here in this club tonight to network?”

“That’s not the ultimate goal, but it’s one I can live with. I met you and you’re not going to sleep with me … are you?”

“Doubtful.”

“See? I still like you and am enjoying our conversation even though it probably won’t end in a sex puddle.”

“Fair enough.”

God, I hate to see women hanging onto to the frayed threads of remnant relationships. Please lose the man who isn’t treating you right as well as your fear of being judged for doing so.

Bar etiquette for those with rookie livers.

There’s a difference between people who drink often and people who get drunk often. I am a professional among the former, who dabbles in the latter, when necessary. As such, I’m out practically nightly honing my skills and occasionally slamming my clipboard to the turf as I witness egregious fouls. Play is becoming sloppy, people. Something needs to change. The don’t-be-a-pussy beer commercials aren’t helping because they are self-serving and everyone knows light beer doesn’t taste like anything except rusty club soda.

Here are today’s lessons, which I hope you’ll share with the stumbling, bumbling first-beer-ever boobs you see out this weekend.

• Do not buy anyone a drink unless there is a legitimate chance it will make you more attractive to the recipient and said recipient hasn’t already warned you that you’ll never see her or him without clothing.

a.       If you’re a man, do not buy me a drink. If you buy me a drink, you create yet another debt I must repay. This annoys me. Also, I’m probably not through with the drink I have, so the new drink is going to become warm and watery before I get to it. This also annoys me.

b.      If you’re a woman, do not buy me a drink. If you’re attractive, you will have emasculated me causing embarrassment as my brothers wonder what happened to my testes. If you’re mediocre, please allow me to determine how much I need to imbibe to make you a mating option. If you’re unattractive, you’ve put me in a difficult situation, which will probably cause me to excuse myself to the toilet and set off the rear-exit alarm as I sprint to my Jeep.

c.       If you’re a bartender or server, don’t buy me a drink. I used to own a club and nothing irked me more than when one of my bartenders said, “This one’s on me.” Technically, it was fucking on me, the owner. Right? So, if you’re the owner, I will accept your generosity and probably frequent your establishment. Don’t be surprised if you find me sleeping in a stall. It happens and you’d be partially to blame. Consider yourself forewarned.

• If you’re posted up at the bar, use your peripheral vision for more than locating cleavage and cock lumps. Be aware of people who are thirstily waiting for access to the bartender. You’re probably blocking their advance. See them waving those large bills and credit cards or doing jumping jacks? No, they’re not Richard Simmons’ fans; they’re parched. Move it, roadblock!

a.       If you stubbornly block access, this is what you will encounter: The odorous armpit of stoner dude who thinks himself a surfing Kurt Cobain reincarnated and thus refuses to wash his hair while he wears the same goddamn plaid flannel shirt six times before tossing it in the laundry.

b.      The two attractive ladies standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they’re scanning your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and coloring. Ah, but you think you’re slick. You offer to get the bartender’s attention for the ladies or take it a step further and offer to order their drinks. Neither the bartender (trying to make a living off you’re one dollar tip) nor the ladies need you involved in the transaction. Step aside.

c.       You’re going to be dripped upon. It may be as innocuous as condensation or it may be pinot-gone-wild. In some bars—the ones who play Taylor Swift’s music—what lands on you may be tobacco drool from the lower lip of an inbred who just mated with a cousin, four-legged creature, or jar of Mother’s strawberry preserves. Spit leaves stains, so, unless you’re wearing a body condom, scram.

Take these lessons to heart, friends. You must study and remember that practice makes others hate you a little less.

Who deserves thanks?

I’m not spinning a football and pointing to the sky. I’m not doing some oddly choreographed high-five with an on-deck batter. I’m not bumping chests with a sweaty fellow wearing silly shorts and a tank top. I’m not even saying “Hi Mom” into the camera. I’m simply saying thank you to readers who maintain a sufficient sense of humor and logic to be entertained by my rants without calling me a douche … to my face, at least.

“You post some pretty bizarre shit.”

“That’s what I do.”

“Why?”

“Because mundane shit is boring, by definition.”

“Aren’t you worried about offending people?”

“I don’t give offense; people take it.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel bad to hurt someone’s feelings?”

“No, because that’s not my intention. I’m looking for a reaction, hoping it involves a smirk and a giggle, and I’m willing to accept a few casualties along the way.”

“So, why don’t you write more romantic pieces and limit the casualties?”

“That would be suicidal. I’d be the casualty. Look, I can be loving and romantic. I can write deep poems and letters of adoration. Those are saved for that someone special, when and if she ever comes along.”

Think of comedic writers this way: They are handing you, the reader, a loaded whoopee cushion. Now, you can choose to place it on your chair and deploy the most vile sounding yogurt fart just as Uncle Ted is about to carve the turkey. Or, you can eat the cushion and be hurt by it. Obviously, the writer’s hope is that you cause jellied cranberry to come flying from your relatives’ noses. If you take the gag and gag on it instead, how can you blame the writer?

“Why must everything be about sex and dating?”

“They are two of the most desired things there are, and rarely do we get them right.”

“I disagree. I love my husband.”

“And that’s entertaining how?”

“It’s inspirational.”

“No, it’s annoying to your friends, like me, who have not found the golden hen or have decided not to settle for any hen.”

“So you hate me because I’ve been successful with my relationship.”

“I don’t hate you, sweetpea. Your story doesn’t inspire or entertain me. Now, if you go home tonight and walk in on your husband using his flesh baster to semen stuff the turkey while watching Project Runway, you’ll have me hooked.”

“Gross.”

“Ah, what was that? Did I detect a tiny smile? You may be turning to the dark side.”

“Never!”

“Then make sure you don’t read what I post later today.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She don’t know me too well, do she?

Seriously, though. Thank you all so much for tolerating, supporting, encouraging, and inspiring me. Happy Thanksgiving, my friends!