Dump

The stock market has taken so many dumps this week it makes me wonder if bad sushi is to blame. If you listen closely, you can hear broke people snickering. All of the F-U money I swam in evaporated during the last five years, so now all I can do is shrug. I have little left to lose and no desire to be constantly reminded about it.

“Hey, but at least you have your health.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

“You know, when life gives you lemons …”

“… throw them at your annoying friend’s head?”

“There’s no use being angry about it. Nobody can predict the markets.”

“You’re not helping.”

“It’s not how much money you have; it’s how you feel about what you have.”

“All right. Let me check. I feel useless credit cards in this pocket. I feel lint in this one. I feel like shoving this square-tipped shoe up your pretentious ass.”

“Maybe meditation would help take your mind off things.”

“Maybe Scotch would.”

“Liquor never solved anything.”

“I disagree. Liquor has solved many a problem I’ve encountered by distracting me until the problem went away. Now, hand me that bottle and let’s hope the rest works out like it usually does.”

“Gosh you really are depressed. Maybe you should come to church.”

“No, I should start a church since it seems like the most stable enterprise around.”

“There are some excellent books I’ve read that may help you.”

“Unless they contain naked boob pictures, hundred-dollar-bill bookmarks, and recipes for pot brownies, I’m not interested.”

“Why don’t you cut your losses and buy precious metals?”

“Because, if there’s one thing this spastic market has taught me it is that the minute I move to a safe haven, that safe haven will implode. I’m going to keep what’s left under my pillow and hope it doesn’t rain there.”

“I’m fortunate to have a supportive family at times like this. Our love can get us through anything.”

“Really? Can it? Can it get you through the Carl’s Jr. drive though? Well, I’m not eating that slop. I want my fucking strip steak and by golly I’m going to have it.”

“You’ll only make things worse.”

“No, you are making things worse by giving me unsolicited advice. Things suck right now and the only way to unsuck them is for me to piss, moan, and suffer my way through them by myself without a self-proclaimed wealth advisor buzzing around my ears.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I’m only trying to get you to stop.”

“If you would have listened to me before …”

“I swear I’m going to bite you. Can’t you understand that you got fucking lucky? That’s all it is: gambling and luck. This time you guessed right and I guessed wrong. Yay for you. Next time it might be different. For now, enjoy your good fortune, pay your taxes, and leave me be.”

“Jeez, you don’t have to get huffy about it.”

If you want to help a brother out of the ditch, buy him dinner … or how about a beer? Leave it at that. Don’t say why you’re doing it. Don’t flash wads of cash. Just tell him you love him as a friend and that’s what friends do.

You’re Beautiful

I’m not just saying it to get laid. I don’t say it enough. Honestly. Woman, you’re hot. Oh, come on. Don’t be shy like that. All of those fine things you adorn yourself with are tiny sprinkles on my luscious cupcake.

Well, your hair, for one, is silky marvelous. It feels like satin flowing between my fingers. My hair, I could probably use to scrub a pan with, but yours I could curl up and sleep in. Sure, it tickles my nose sometimes as we spoon—a small price to pay. Sorry, I can’t stop touching it.

“What else?” you ask. Ah, look who is fishing for compliments now. I kid. Actually, I could go on for hours since I haven’t even made it down to your eyes, which are exceptionally expressive. Through them, I can read your mind. I’ve often been with vacant eyes, so I appreciate the beauty and transparency of yours. Right now, they love me a little more it seems. Lucky me!

Your button nose is like a toy for me. I want to poke and nibble it. Your ears too. They’re so cute—like soft jelly candies. And, how could I go any further without mentioning your marshmallow lips? I miss them when you’re away.

I hear you sometimes say you don’t feel sexy, but I never see that side of you. From every angle you’re an angel and I’m burning to share your cloud.

I wish my skin were half as soft as yours is. Your neck holds the scent I can’t get enough of. Your curves are perfect. The way your back narrows like a cascading flow to the luscious curves below drives me crazy. Thoughts of you distract me.

It’s funny how you’re always concerned about stubble on your legs. It doesn’t bother me at all. Caressing you is unavoidable, no matter how long it has been. Maybe this is odd, but watching you shave gets me going.

You know I’m not a foot person, but yours are too cute to ignore. You love when I rub them, so let me do that for you. I don’t care what TV silliness has my attention. You plop down next to me with lotion anytime, and I got your back (and feet).

That’s enough for now. I can’t lay it on too thick or I’ll desensitize you. Remember this:

When you’re not around and I’m struggling, bored, or blue, thoughts of you get me through.

I love you.

Pub Crawlers

Rookie drinkers were out again last night. The latest travesty, I mean strategy is themed pub-crawls. I blame the parents of these clowns for giving Halloween too much attention. I guarantee their parents were the ones who dressed up and begged door-to-door with their children. Sad. The last beggar who came to my door was dressed like a painter and offered to paint my house number on the curb. I told him to scram (I was out of mini Snickers).

When I saw Halloween in August last night, I had to ask.

“So, what was the bet?”

“Huh?”

“The bet you lost.”

“Oh, no, we’re doing a Johnny Depp pub-crawl.”

“How does that work?”

“We each dress up like a character from one of his movies and then walk pub to pub having a beer at each one.”

“Interesting. Which character are you?”

“21 Jump Street … get it?”

“Well, duh. How could I not? Hey, can I suggest a theme for your next crawl?”

“Sure.”

“Amy Winehouse.”

“But, she’s …”

“… dead, yes, that’s the point. You each can put on bump-its and drink until you die and then meet up with the Weekend at Bernie’s theme crawlers.”

“…”

“Too soon?”

Why can’t people just crawl from pub to pub old-fashioned style? You enter, have a beer, look around, and if nobody interests you by the time you hit bottom, pay your bill and stagger to the next pub. No costume required.

My friends and I do this every weekend. We enter, survey the premises, and decide whether to set up our tree fort or crawl to the next pub. Aside from the obvious—short skirts, high heels, and breastuses—the bait that keeps men rooted includes:

• frosty beer mugs
• hot wings, burgers, and tater tots
• flirtatious bartenders and servers
• ESPN (excluding the fucking WNBA)
• pool tables

I assume packs of women do it too. Women can spend most of the night discussing treatments, fashion disasters, and Lululemon. They don’t need swinging dicks around to keep them interested. When and if they decide to open for business, customers are easy to find.

Beware, however, that while some of the following may appear to be pub-crawl themes, usually they are not:

• Men with shaven upper chests in v-neck shirts are not from Studs R Us.
• Men in extended-toe shoes are, indeed, Jokers. Ask them to juggle for you.
• Men in Tommy Bahama shirts are not Love Boat escorts.
• Men in cargo shorts are not plastic Old Navy models.
• Men wearing sunglasses indoors are not Men in Black.
• Men in visors are not on the professional golf tour.
• Men in skinny jeans are not Cock Olumpians.

Bitch Toe

Don’t look now. I just learned how to tell if you’re “unpleasant” before you speak a word. Men are always open to shortcuts to mating targets. We can’t trust the usual any longer because doctors and fashion experts have found ways to camouflage and enhance certain attributes. Well, there’s no fixing this one. If your second toe (index toe—the one next to your big, fat one) is longer than your big toe, you … are … a … bitch.

Calm down, Sweetiepie. Hate the game, not the spotter.

No, I don’t believe it’s accurate. I’m smarter than that. Still, I must admit I spent the rest of the night measuring fucking toes. The women must have considered me a rude foot fetishist.

“Is something wrong with my feet?”

“Oh. Hey, there. How are you?”

“You were staring at my feet.”

“Yes. Yes, I was indeed. You see, I … um … design shoes.”

“Really?”

“Yep, and those are nice. You have excellent taste.”

“Thank you. You should meet my friend, Freddie.”

“Why?”

“I think you two would hit it off. He’s a salon owner downtown.”

“Wait a minute. You are making an assumption that I’m gay, just because I like shoes.”

“And you’re making an assumption that I’m a bitch based on toe length.”

“Uh.”

“Right?”

“So, I’m not the first guy to check your toes?”

“Third one tonight.”

“Ouch.”

Yep, it’s accurate.

I’ve heard of similar analyses regarding finger length. There’s one measure called the 2D:4D digit ratio (as in length of second digit divided by length of fourth digit). If a man’s ring finger is longer than the index finger, causing a ratio under 1.0, it indicates that he:

• Has a huge sperm count, but doesn’t release any.
• Keeps his heart under lock and key.
• Sees a fatty in the mirror no matter how skinny he is.
• Carries around a massive penis—I’m talking HUGE, people. The poor guy must have back problems. Gosh, his women must be completely satisfied. Just sayin’.
• Suffers from occasional depression when he checks his 401(k), closet, and ear hair. He also is saddened by flirtatious, yet unobtainable bartenders.
• He can be schizophrenic. No, he can’t. Yes, he can.
• Struggles with eating disorders including, but not limited to, discarding the burger bun, eating french fries off other people’s plates, and having dessert before dinner.
• Maintains an alcohol dependency, which he uses as an excuse when he writes silly nonsense like this, tweets excessively, and selects his women based on toe length.

OK, you can remove your shoe and check now. If that second toe is dangling, you may want to curl up that fucker. Glue it down, for God’s sake. An even better idea is to wear closed-tip shoes. Don’t allow men to disqualify and avoid you because of a silly trait you can’t change. The next time you catch a man staring at your feet, tell him:

“Eyes up, you ape. I spent four thousand dollars on these tits. Forget the toes.”

Three Sides

I make shit up—that’s what I do. Also, it’s how I am acutely aware when people around me are doing the same. Most stories are bland without the spices of exaggeration, drama, and cattiness. The storyteller pads the story to amuse. Granted, there’s far too much padding at times as I wade through insignificant details toward the disappointing punch line.

When the story has to do with a relationship, it always has three sides: his story, her story, and the truth.

Look, people, we’re each somebody’s ex, right? The older you are, the more exes you’ve accumulated. Your ex is an ex for a reason (good or not). Your ex probably isn’t your biggest fan, putting it mildly. So, when somebody asks your ex for a reference, it’s probably not going to be stellar. Even if the ex gives you some high marks, rest assured that a hairy “but” will follow, which will detail your most undesirable traits.

“You should ask her out.”

“No way, dude. She’s your ex.”

“So? It’s all good.”

“If it were all good she wouldn’t be your ex.”

“Don’t you find her attractive?”

“Very much so. My compliments to you and your fine taste. Feel free to pick out a fine bottle of red for me. As far as the girl goes: I’m not going there.”

“I think you’d make a nice couple.”

“Right.”

“Seriously. She’s smart. In fact, she’s also a writer.”

I look at this the same way I look at investment advice or which flat screen to buy or which movie to attend. The advisor may have good intentions, but in actuality; the intention is to make the advisor feel better about his own investment. If the advisor can easily persuade the advised to follow him off the bridge, he’ll feel more secure.

“Let me introduce you two.”

“No, thank you.”

“There’s nothing between us. Honest. It’s cool.”

“Not doing it.”

“Why not?”

“OK, tell me something about her you didn’t like.”

“Well …”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes she could be overly emotional.”

“You just described every non-comatose woman I’ve met. What else?”

“She likes to drink—a bit much sometimes.”

“There’s plenty to go around.”

“See? She’s perfect for you.”

“You’re leaving something out. I know you are.”

“Nope. Meet her and find out for yourself.”

“You suck and I’m not doing it.”

“She’s great in the sack.”

“All right, that seals it. No fucking way I’m going anywhere your dong has been.”

If I took her out, the first topic of conversation after the normal pleasantries would be her ex-boyfriend. She’d first extract from me what he said about her. Based on her reaction to it, she’d  dish on him. Of course, it would all be embellished bullshit from her as well.

Like with any investment, bet, or purchase, it’s best to do your own research and bet with your head, not your heart. I can’t recall any relationship with a friend’s ex that worked out, so my head says, Hell no.

Accents

Is there a drug that can prevent me from being so easily annoyed? The only cure I can find requires earbuds, dark sunglasses, and nose plugs. It seems people can tune me out easily enough, so why can't I reciprocate? Ugh.

I was in my office (yes, a bar) last night, sitting next to tourists. How did I know they were tourists? No, not suitcases. Not even the pasty white skin. It was their damn country bumpkin accents. Annoying.

"We bought us one dem spraaay guhns and I done spray'd me half duh house fore it runned out paint. Y'aint gots to worry none 'bout it likes you do rollers. Jus go bouts yer bizness o’ paintin’."

What fucking grade school in which cousin-fucking state permits their little hayseeds to talk like that?

Sure, I have a slight Jersey accent. It usually rears its ugly vowels after my third empty glass.

"Hey, Vito."
"What?"
"What's the name of that hot black fluid people drink in the morning?"
"Cough-ee."
"Ah, ha ha ha!"
"Jim Beam?"
"Oh, you're killing me. OK, how about that clear stuff that that's refreshing and life-giving?"
"Wuht-er."
"Eeh, hee hee hee!"
"Blueberry vodka?"
"No, you were right the first time."
"What's so damned funny, Dickweed?"
"Your accent, Vito. Fagettaboutit."
"OK, why don’t you answer a few questions, Genius. What's that brown spot that grows on your flesh and eventually kills you?"
"Melanoma?"
"When you can’t pay your mortgage and your house loses its value, what does the bank do?"
"Foreclose?"
“When your wife starts banging your best friends, what do you call her?”
“Huh? What?”
"Nevermind. Here’s an easy one: When your buddy leaves you to pay his tab, what do you call him?"
"Cheapskate?"
”Nope.”
“Jew.”
“Racist and wrong on both accounts.”
“Thief.”
“Incorrect. I'm hitting the restroom. You think about it.”
“Make sure you warsh your hands ... ha ha ha.”

Naturally, I took my Joisey accent straight out the door and gave my buddy the East Coast one-finger salute as I drove away.

Dirty Girl

“That’s a sexy picture, except you have dirty feet.”“I’m doing yoga, you ass.”
“So?”
“And, shut up. You have a dirty mind.”
“I do so.”
“What’s your excuse?”
“My testosterone won’t leave me alone.”
“Are you into feet or something?”
“Ew, no. I’m definitely a butts and brains man.”
“Then you should appreciate a woman who does yoga.”
“Let’s see a downward dog.”
“Dirty.”
“I kid. Yes, I appreciate health-conscious women.”
“You know, if you were clever, you’d start taking yoga classes.”
“Oh, hells to the no.”
“Think about it: Limber women in tights and poses.”
“Give me a second …”
“Put that away.”
“Sorry. Yes, that sounds appealing. Can I stand in the back with my iPhone?”
“OK, you’re crossing the dirt road, approaching Pervert Lane.”
“My body doesn’t bend like that. I can do just about anything with a baseball, but my fingers haven’t met my toes in decades.”
“Your loss.”

She has a point. Working out with a woman can be exciting. I’ve taken a few hikes (not that it qualifies as exercise) with women and even went against my beliefs by holding the leash of their slobbering fleabags. I can’t recall lifting weights with a woman, though. Having one spot me on the bench could be simultaneously embarrassing and erogenous like walking into the bathroom while she’s trimming the biscuit. I’ve always held the belief that gyms are for exercising, not socializing, leaving me with squat.

“Why don’t we go to the batting cage?”
“Why would I need to learn how to hit a baseball?”
“Think about the future company picnic featuring a coed softball game. You don’t want to be the ‘girl’ who causes the outfielders to nap while she flails and spins, hitting nothing but air.”
“I wouldn’t bother. Don’t they have beanbag games?”
“OK, how about a driving range?”
“I’ll make you a deal: I’ll go to a driving range with you if you come to yoga class with me.”
“Ugh. Couples workouts rarely work out for me. I still have an impacted nut from a couples spin class I attended.”
“You’re not going to be injured. It’s all stretching and balancing.”
“Is it the kind they do in a human oven?”
“Actually, Bikram Yoga classes are the best kind.”
“Beak what?”
“It’s over one-hundred degrees and it helps you sweat out all your toxins while you work out.”
“I have no toxins.”
“You have plenty.”
“Alcohol, caffeine, THC, and wing sauce are all therapeutic. Just wait until you approach the half-century mark. Carrots constipate me. Besides, what would I wear?”
“Something loose and comfortable. It’s not a fashion event.”
“I’m picturing sweaty crotches, dirty feet, and the occasional man ass.”
“You’ll be busy trying not to fall over. You won’t notice.”
“Fine.”

I know how this plays out. I dread it, I go, I struggle, I admit it isn’t as bad as expected, I wake up the next morning with unfamiliar pain, I limp around, and I sedate myself with ibuprofen and bourbon. I’d rather take a shortcut and head straight for the Makers on the rocks.