Therapy with Me

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Fan?

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

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

Here are some of the witty quotes this simpleton provided:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Breast Defense

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Fun Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Privates Mailing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasy Girl

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

The three nominees are:

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

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

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

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

Zip It

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

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

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

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

Women don’t want to hear certain things either:

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