Personality Tests

You can’t tell anything about a personality through physical traits, no matter what it says online. The only thing my elongated ring finger says about me is that my parents probably had elongated ring fingers. It may suggest that I can reach the G-spot more easily, but that’s hardly a personality trait. (Although, the fact that it was the first thing that came to my mind does suggest I am a generous person, exceptionally motivated to deliver pleasure to my sexual partner.)

The following physical traits may suggest the likelihood of certain personality traits, but not always:

• Tall – This may suggest he is intimidating and overbearing, or will uncoil a fire hose penis.
• Short – Could suggest he has an inferiority complex or is hung like a thumbtack.
• Fat – Bear-like fellows are usually jolly and they die young, so go marry a rich one, and try to tolerate his rolls.
• Skinny – He’s a stoner who rides a skateboard to work and eats too many carrots.
• Muscular – It depends on if he’s subtle about it or walks around in tank tops during the winter and stares at himself in the mirror constantly. If it comes with back acne, rest assured that he’s an angry person with balls resembling raisins.
• Big Hands or Feet – They don’t tell you much about his personality unless he insists on pressing palms together to show you just how large his hands are. Next time Mr. Pencil-Fingers does this with you and winks, remind him your small hands mean you have a Navy Seal boyfriend.
• Blue Eyes – It implies that he’s kind, loving, and trying a little too hard to convince you by writing this essay.
• Sculpted Eyebrows – Homo.
• Tattoo Sleeves – He’s trying to show the world he’s a badass. This means he’s probably a pussycat with mommy issues.
• Bald Head with Tan Lines from Sunglasses – He insecurely criticizes every man with the slightest pattern balding and claims the shaving of his own head is purely an elective procedure intended to save money on hair products.

I’ll tread lightly with my size ten shoes on the ladies:

• Tall – She’s overconfident.
• Short – She’s sassy.
• Fat – She’s not as fat as someone else is.
• Skinny – She’s a fussy eater, crack addict, or is wearing Spanx.
• Muscular – Likes vagina almost as much as I do.
• Big Hands or Feet – A firm foundation for downward-dog and doggie-style.
• Blue Eyes – (My mother has blue eyes. I abstain.)
• Sculpted Eyebrows – Thank goodness.
• Tattoo Sleeves – She likes it rough on the back of a Harley or is engaged to a tattoo artist.
• Short Hair with Reading Glasses – Overconfident, man-hating woman who has completely given up on her marriage and is now concentrating on raising her angry teenagers while considering going back to school to study criminal law or interior design. She enjoys shooting handguns, Obama-bashing, and giving talented authors one-star reviews on Amazon due to her clitoral numbness.

Personality Tests

You can’t tell anything about a personality through physical traits, no matter what it says online. The only thing my elongated ring finger says about me is that my parents probably had elongated ring fingers. It may suggest that I can reach the G-spot more easily, but that’s hardly a personality trait. (Although, the fact that it was the first thing that came to my mind does suggest I am a generous person, exceptionally motivated to deliver pleasure to my sexual partner.)

The following physical traits may suggest the likelihood of certain personality traits, but not always:

• Tall – This may suggest he is intimidating and overbearing, or will uncoil a fire hose penis.
• Short – Could suggest he has an inferiority complex or is hung like a thumbtack.
• Fat – Bear-like fellows are usually jolly and they die young, so go marry a rich one, and try to tolerate his rolls.
• Skinny – He’s a stoner who rides a skateboard to work and eats too many carrots.
• Muscular – It depends on if he’s subtle about it or walks around in tank tops during the winter and stares at himself in the mirror constantly. If it comes with back acne, rest assured that he’s an angry person with balls resembling raisins.
• Big Hands or Feet – They don’t tell you much about his personality unless he insists on pressing palms together to show you just how large his hands are. Next time Mr. Pencil-Fingers does this with you and winks, remind him your small hands mean you have a Navy Seal boyfriend.
• Blue Eyes – It implies that he’s kind, loving, and trying a little too hard to convince you by writing this essay.
• Sculpted Eyebrows – Homo.
• Tattoo Sleeves – He’s trying to show the world he’s a badass. This means he’s probably a pussycat with mommy issues.
• Bald Head with Tan Lines from Sunglasses – He insecurely criticizes every man with the slightest pattern balding and claims the shaving of his own head is purely an elective procedure intended to save money on hair products.

I’ll tread lightly with my size ten shoes on the ladies:

• Tall – She’s overconfident.
• Short – She’s sassy.
• Fat – She’s not as fat as someone else is.
• Skinny – She’s a fussy eater, crack addict, or is wearing Spanx.
• Muscular – Likes vagina almost as much as I do.
• Big Hands or Feet – A firm foundation for downward-dog and doggie-style.
• Blue Eyes – (My mother has blue eyes. I abstain.)
• Sculpted Eyebrows – Thank goodness.
• Tattoo Sleeves – She likes it rough on the back of a Harley or is engaged to a tattoo artist.
• Short Hair with Reading Glasses – Overconfident, man-hating woman who has completely given up on her marriage and is now concentrating on raising her angry teenagers while considering going back to school to study criminal law or interior design. She enjoys shooting handguns, Obama-bashing, and giving talented authors one-star reviews on Amazon due to her clitoral numbness.

Whatgasm

Being a self-appointed animal rescuer, distress calls catch my attention and cause me to spring into action. As I pulled into my driveway in my topless Jeep, I heard what I assumed was the sound of two cats fighting. (Search YouTube for “The Conversation of Tiger Woods with his Girlfriend” to hear the sound.) I sprang from my Jeep and headed across my street to break it up. Once I reached a neighbor’s driveway, I realized the sound wasn’t coming from cats, it was coming from an orgasmic woman behind an open window.

Now, I know I’m slightly out of practice. Yet, I should know the difference between a woman in pleasure and a pissed off cat, shouldn’t I? It got me thinking, Why are orgasmic sounds so varied?

Here are some that I may or may not have experienced while being the deliverer of the orgasm or a casual passerby:

• Orgasmus Normalis - Deep breathing, moaning, and a few short sentences with words like “God” and “Yes.” It escalates until one big “Argh!” and an exhale.
• Orgasmus Dirtius - There are different levels of this but each one contains expletives. I’m a big fan of naughty words, but not while bumping naughty bits, because those words make me giggle. Giggling during lovemaking is not something any woman takes lightly.
• Orgasmus Silentius - Here’s where I hold the back of my hand under a nostril and peel open eyelids to make sure I haven’t induced coma. This reaction also makes me consider penis elongatus.
• Crygasm - I never quite know how to react to orgasms that cause eyes to leak. I’m afraid to ask. Tears of pain and tears of joy are remarkably similar in the dark.
• Orgasmus Athleticus - I’m almost fifty. I’m no longer pliable. Some positions are best left to the smelly-matted yoga boys. I’ve had to tap out of a few sessions. Once, I said, “Uncle!” and she responded, “Don’t you mean: Aunt?”
• Orgasmus Operatus - This is the one I heard when I went to break up the cat fight. It started with a single note with slight alterations in volume and pitch. If there were hip-slapping noises, I may have known sooner. Mariah would have been impressed with the sustain. I need to remember to deploy my fancy spy device (iPhone) on such occasions.

A man will usually mimmic his partner as that’s the safest strategy. If she starts squealing, it’s safe for him to growl. If she drops F-bombs, he can launch a few of his own. If she calls him “Daddy” or “Papi” ... well, it’s best to take that compliment silently. If she reacts to his butt slapping, ear licking, or nipple twisting with silence, he should know to quit it.

I didn’t get to break up any cat fight nor did I grab a beach chair, Cheetos, and a frosty Blue Moon. I did not golf clap. I walked silently back to my garage and reminded myself that sound travels (in other words, close the damn windows). When I entered my house, Syd & Symon (my cats) greeted me at the door with “What the fuck was that?” looks on their fuzzy faces.

“Sorry, boys. False alarm. That’s just one lucky neighbor.”

Hiring Babes

Why is it that most HR staffers are overweight, unattractive women? (Oh boy, I’ll probably be visited by my local employee-manual-toting rhino when she sees this.) I’m just observing and reporting. Don’t shoot the chubby-chaser-away-er.

For one thing, whether men admit it or not, they’d rather hire hotties than notties. Corporate women, however, will typically only hire women who are less attractive than they are. Men want the office decorated with lovely kittens. Women want the office decorated with crayon-drawn greeting cards, not competition.

Not convinced? Pop up in your cubicle farm and look around. See?

When I was in the position to hire people, I certainly leaned toward attractive women. If you are an attractive woman reading this, your response is, “Of course, you did.” If you’re butt ugly, you’ll probably dislike me for what I contend is a genetic flaw. I took into consideration how likely the new hire would eventually cost me my job, sanity, or a new payroll deduction entitled “Alimony.” I found the best options to be subordinates who were engaged, annoying to listen to, or lesbians.

If I were a woman, I would use my looks to my advantage. I also would not be offended when I succeeded. Play to the man’s weakness. It’s a jungle out there and survival of the firmest calves. A woman lands a mate (provider) by dolling up and attracting him. Now that pay scales are approaching gender equality, a woman must consider her bosses as providers too.

I witnessed this phenomenon last week at my usual wine station. I am an eavesdropping expert. A local law firm sent a fine specimen to lure a dashing young man to join them. She was late-twenties, wore a fashionable suit with just enough exposure, and a fine coat of spray tan and eye dressing. He was from the new breed of Twilight boys, with high hair, pale skin, and a lanky build.

She employed every tactic in the book. She constantly played with and tossed her hair. She crossed her legs with her outside leg toward him. She playfully touched his shoulder and the back of his hand. She flashed her Whitestrip whites and laughed hardily at every clever comment he made.

I sat there (vicariously seduced) and imagined how the scene would have unfolded if she were replaced by Bea Arthur. (Yes, I realize she’s dead. You can use your imagination too.) She would have gotten some points for motherly reminiscence and humor, but the recruit wouldn’t have been so swayed.

I’m not sure how successful the bait was, but I lauded her efforts.

So, I guess the moral is to be aware that no matter how unfair it is, people will judge you and be manipulated by your looks. Lose some weight, get your hair did, your teeth lightened, your skin darkened, those spots lasered, and your wardrobe updated. Play the game to win, ladies. Have your way with us. Don’t complain about childlike beasts; feed them candy.

Nicknames

Soon after we begin dating, we need to find creative nicknames to address our mates. It works against us because people love hearing their own names. Instead of a cute pet name, some people opt for variations of their mates' names. In my example that would include such incarnations as Philly, Philsie, and Phildo—a pet indeed.

To help my brothers along the path to relationship bliss, here are my top ten pet names for women:

1. Sweetness
2. Cutie (Pie optional as well as the creative—albeit lazy—spelling: QT.)
3. Honey
4. Sweetie
5. Hottie
6. Angel
7. Sexiness
8. Kitten
9. Cookie
10. Babycakes

Guys, please don’t use any of the following to refer to her, especially if other men are close enough to hear you.

1. Toots
2. Schmoopy
3. Cock Locker
4. Poopsie
5. Cuddle Muffin
6. Keeper of the Vag
7. Bumper Butt
8. Boo Boo
9. Nob Gobbler
10. Sugar Tits

The number one, cringe-inducing term of endearment is “baby.” When this word is deployed in a certain fashion, where the first syllable is drawn out—as in “Baaaay-bee”—it angers me to the point of murderous fantasies. I’ll give a pass to “babe,” but don’t you dare ever call your man with the former unless you’re in a soundproof room and he’s in a coma.

Here are some good ideas for affectionate pet names for your man:

1. Hun
2. Sugar
3. Dear
4. Lover
5. Tiger
6. Big
7. Bear
8. Papi
9. Cowboy
10. Studley

If you want to add some creativity and uniqueness, try:

1. Tripod
2. Horsecock
3. Orgasmatron
4. Staminaman
5. Puddin’ Pop
6. Thumper
7. More Than a Mouthful
8. God
9. Champ
10. Eggplant

Whoopie

I love stirring up trouble, but you knew that. Facebook provides the ideal avenue for my shenanigans where I can drop a casual comment and stir up a shit-storm. It’s as we used to do back in my office days. After a lunch of spicy Mexican food, some gassy fellow would cruise into a colleague’s office, drop off a piece of junk mail, and release noxious fumes before departing. Juvenile.

Religion has always been the most devastating bomb for me to drop. Any public comment I make about mythological beings brings an avalanche of emotional responses. I just sit back and let the wizards cast spells upon each other by quoting their ancient texts.

Political comments are caustic agents as well. We each must choose a team and defend its players. I chose Obama’s team because the other option seemed so … um … stupid. So, any comment I make endorsing President BO or criticizing Trump, Palin, and any of the others from the idiot parade ignites angry banter. I love America!

I find people to be possessive of their favorite genres and musicians. I know not to poke fun at country music around a straw chewing inbred with a shotgun rack in his pickup. I also know not to tell the large, dark-skinned fellow collecting my cover charge that David Gilmore’s sphincter has more talent than Jay-Z. I will not pick on P!nk because I’m confident she can kick my ass, even during her third trimester. Safe bets for me are Taylor (Oh, look at the clever heart I can make with my fingers!) Swift and Myley (heading down Crack Addict Lane) Cyrus. Their fans are harmless.

It’s easy to drop bombs around sports teams, especially ones from Boston because most of their fans have never even been to Boston. They root for Boston teams because they are Irish (what a stupid fucking reason) or because Boston’s teams seem to win often. I have more respect for women who root for the Yankees because A-Rod is cute or the Miami Dolphins because their jersey designs are exquisite.

I’ve recently realized how emotionally attached people are to American Idol. Ew. I made a comment that Scott McCreepy (and I don’t give a shit if he’s under 18) needs the King of Smirk— Billy Idol—to smash a guitar over his goofy head. The woman I said that to had a reaction similar to catching me scrubbing my balls with her loofah facial wash pad. I don’t care. I don’t like that crooning hayseed. Long live Justin Guarini!

There are numerous other easy targets for me to strafe and then admire the ensuing comment carnage. Yet, I cannot bring myself to join the herd and pick on Lindsay Lohan. She’s hot and somewhere in my deluded 86-proof mind is the hope that she’ll one day mount me. “Not likely,” you say? How dare you! Lay off my LiLo, you … you … you mean person. I heart her and I will not sit idly by while people take potshots at my princess. *swoon*

Multitasking

I’m always open to ideas for squeezing more hours from my dwindling days. Multitasking opportunities present themselves occasionally, but I was disturbed by what I just found myself doing: I was sitting on the toilet, reading this month’s Cosmo while eating a strawberry flavored Twizzlers. I know! Well, at least it isn’t as reckless as texting while driving.

I’ve become an efficient, yet distracted, gear in the capitalist machine.

I challenge you to slow down and take note of all the multitasking you’re doing; it will enlighten and disturb you. Maybe you’ve done some of the following:

• Carried a bag of Fritos or a coffee mug to the mailbox. I’ll do you one better. I’ve driven from my driveway to my mailbox—50 feet.
• Watched TV while reading a book or magazine.
• Been on the receiving end of cell phone babble that was so tiresome, you placed the receiver on the table next to you and waited for the blood to rush back into your right arm. The caller never noticed.
• Talked on a Bluetooth headset while using gym equipment.
• Listened to an audio book while working.
• Ate nachos, drank an $8.50 draft beer, and talked on the phone while at a professional sporting event.
• Watched a video on your iPhone while cruising up and down the aisles of the grocery store.
• Masturbated while going through a drive-through car wash.
• Brushed your teeth or hair, or blew your nose while peeing.
• Done any of the following in your cubicle at work: flossed, clipped your nails, or plucked a nose hair.
• Shopped online while attending a lecture or an HR meeting.
• Watched the news while having sex.
• Read a newspaper or magazine while driving.
• Hit on one person while texting another.
• Used the same washrag to clean your butt and your face, not in that order (let’s hope).
• Folded your pizza and washed it down with a mouthful of beer/soda.
• Squirted or shook seasoning directly into your mouth.
• Applied makeup or changed clothing while driving.
• Ate or drank while you held the refrigerator door open and selected the next item to be consumed.
• Watched the Royal Wedding while loading a syringe with a lethal dose of morphine and composing your suicide note. (I’ll demonstrate this tomorrow.)

Americans are always in a rush. Workdays have grown from seven-and-one-half-hour days to ten plus. Saturday has become a workday. All of the technology that’s supposed to be saving us time is instead draining what little is left of it.

I make a conscious effort to be a lazy bastard occasionally. I need to do this to maintain my sanity. Typically, some efficient little fuck will call me out on it and advise me about layering my activities. I dislike these people and do not admire their hypertension.

Here’s the multitasking that I should be doing right now (instead of writing, listening to DJ Roger Sanchez, and eating Blue Diamond Jalapeno Smokehouse almonds): I should be planted in a comfortable beach chair, listening to crashing waves while scanning the horizon for bikinis. Hm. That’s not a bad idea. Off I go.