Begging the question and you must ask it.

This is your duty. If you shirk this responsibility, you contribute to humanity’s absurdity. When you see something obviously seeking attention, you must ask the silly question it desires. Also, you must ask this question with a hint of sarcasm—not too much or you’ll spoil the fun.

For example, I needed some drinking dollars the other day so I drove to the ATM. While I was waiting in line, a tennis pro drove up in a white convertible Lamborghini. She did three laps around the bank before parking (crooked, I might add) in a space adjacent to my black scrap worth less than one-tenth of her beast.

I had to ask, “Does your car go fast?”

She looked at me, semi-confused. I maintained a straight face. I watched her fancy wheels turn as her expression changed with her thoughts:

• Is he retarded?
• Maybe he likes cars.
• Ew, this creepy freak is going to ask me for a ride.
• This could be some asinine attempt to hit on me.
• He might be autistic.
• Oh, shit. He just grinned. He’s totally fucking with me.

She played along and answered, “Yes, very fast.”

I was borderline mean and borderline kind; it all depends on how she took it. I was either suggesting she’s an attention whore or delivering the compliment she sought.

When you’re watching life’s circus today, look for opportunities to use this method. Here are some obvious ones:

1. When you see a woman walking two or more dogs, ask her, “Dogs are so much easier to care for than men, aren’t they?”
2. If someone has lost a lot of weight and they insist on preaching about it, ask, “Is it AIDS, cancer, or are you counting carbs?”
3. When you approach a professional athlete who is signing autographs, ask, “Do you work here?”
4. After a stripper delivers a wonderful lap dance, say, “I bet you have lots of sex, huh?”
5. While attending a sporting event next to an obnoxious fan wearing a team jersey, ask, “What position do you play?”
6. When you’re at one of those fancy brewpubs with dozens of taps behind the bar, ask the bartender if she knows of any good bars around that serve beer.
7. If an extra-large man in a medium T-shirt is nearby, ask, “Do you work out?”
8. When a mother/daughter combo is seated at the bar, ask the daughter, “Is this your sister? Wow. She should start wearing sunscreen.”
9. When someone wants you to guess her age and is proud because you guessed too low, say, “Wow, where do you get your Botox?”
10. If a Persian dude parks in front of the bar and repeatedly checks his Maserati, unless he’s armed, ask, “I bet that car gets you loads of pussy, doesn’t it?”
11. Ask any tall dude, “Can you dunk?”
12. When a cougar has thick, luscious hair, ask, “Does that thing strapped to the back of your head bite?”
13. When a woman’s cleavage is inappropriate for the function, ask, “Where’d you get those?”
14. If Susie has just made her twentieth Facebook status post of the day, comment, “Are you bored, lonely, or starting to realize how insignificant you are?”
15. When a man sends you a topless or (horrors!) bottomless photo, ask, “Do you mind if I share this with my therapist?”
16. Ask any tiny chick, “Have you ever actually spun on a penis?”
17. Ask any tiny fellow, “What do you do to make up for your petite stature?”
18. When you see a grocery checkout clerk in his forties, ask, “How’s that real estate license working out for you?”
19. When a man parks in front of the bar in his Harley and revs the engine before killing it, ask, “Couldn’t afford a Corvette?”
20. If a man in a paisley button-down, wearing square tipped shoes offers to buy you a drink, ask, “Do you subscribe to Details or GQ? Where’s your boyfriend?”

Alpha Male Training

It’s like training me to pole dance, crack eggs, or kick around a hacky sack—frustrating for both the teacher and the student. Yet, I read and hear women want alpha males, so I persist.

In case you don’t know what an alpha male is, here’s what Wikipedia says:

In social animals, the alpha is the individual in the community with the highest rank. The alpha animals are given preference to be the first to eat and the first to mate; among some species they are the only animals in the pack allowed to mate. Other animals in the community are usually killed or ousted if they violate this rule. The status of the alpha is often achieved by means of superior physical prowess, though it can also be determined by social efforts and building alliances.

Basically, it’s a man who:

• Knows what he wants and takes it when he pleases.
• Is confident.
• Doesn’t care what people think.
• Takes chances.
• Demands respect.
• Is rugged and masculine.
• Is a dominant leader.
• Is driven.
• Keeps himself fit.
• Dresses fashionably.

Men in show business who play that role would include George Clooney, Charlie Sheen, David Dukovny, and Ashton Kutcher.

The alpha male is not:

• Depressed.
• A fan.
• Overly emotional.
• Passive.
• A victim.
• A team player.
• Out to please anyone, unless it benefits his cause.
• Afraid.
• Lazy.
• Sad and lonely.

Like most men, I probably fall between the two depending on my company, mood, and if I’m on bourbon number two or three. I become further confused and annoyed when I ask my date which type of man she prefers, and she lies saying she doesn’t want an alpha male. You all do. Admit it: He’s the douche who makes you dewy.

For example, I’m on date number two last night with a lovely specimen who hasn’t done anything to scare me off yet (like burp The Star-Spangled Banner). An alpha male probably would have sealed the deal by the end of that date. I didn’t even kiss her. I went in and she did a reflexive ten-degree turn, which resulted in a corner lip kiss. I suck. I hate myself, which is very un-alpha-ish of me.

The alpha male would have been grabbing her thigh under the table, kissing her earlobe when he hit the john, and told her how badly he wanted to rip her clothes off.

I spoke of polenta.

[Insert that thing we all do when we need to let off steam. I walk in the house after the date, make sure nobody is looking in the windows, and begin punching the air while delivering creative curses, such as “Fuck, shit, piss! I’m such a fucking pussy. Kiss her, numbnuts! Ugh. Fuckity fuck-knuckles.” Then, my cats stare at me and begin calling animal rescue services.]

If I asked her for a kiss that probably would have been the final date. I should have gone in and kissed her. When she turned her face, the alpha male would have grabbed her head, turned it back, and kissed her hard and deep with no apologies. Then, perhaps my night would have concluded with playful fondling instead of a good-bye wave.

Yes, I know: Take control and be the man. It’s not easy when you’re raised to be gentle with the finer sex. I’m a delta (as in “Dummy”) male right now and I need to snap out of it. Training continues.

Why you shouldn't send Christmas cards.

Jeez, what a waste of paper and postage! Do me a favor, friends and relatives: Instead, please PayPal me the cost of the card and postage. I figure $2.99 plus the $0.44 postage stamp should cover it. You find that Grinch-y? Tough sugar cookies. I don’t have kids, I don’t have a dead tree fire hazard, and my cats will destroy my house if I try to put Santa caps on them. So, you’ll not be receiving a card from me. I’ll look at your card, say, “That’s nice,” and toss it into the junk mail bin. In essence, you’ve paid $3.43 plus your time to contribute to California’s recycling program. Your card will probably come back as a coffee cup insulator, which would be a preferable alternative to the card itself. Skip me and tape the card to your next latte.

When I was married, my wife would slap these annoying cards on the refrigerator, doorframes, and staircases. She appreciates the cards because she is a nice person. I, however, am an asshole. I hated them. We didn’t have kids and were in the middle of pills and shots and whacking off into a cup at the hospital and suppositories and hurry-home-my-temperature-is-right quickies, and all of them at quite a substantial sum. I didn’t need to be reminded how easy it was for some people to plant baby seeds. Damn braggarts. I so wanted to send our holiday card as a picture of my genetic soup puddled inside a sterile cup.

See? Told you I’m a green Grinch-y asshole.

Look here. I just received the 2011 holiday postcard from the Whateverberg family. We have Daddy in a silly red sweater who is out of breath from sprinting back-and-forth to the camera timer, Mommy with dark circles under her eyes and tinsel in her hair, two self-entitled rugrats who have fallen for a cruel myth used to make them behave, and the family dog that was licking his red rocket during the three previous takes. How sweet. Buh-bye, obnoxious card. To the junk pile with you. I hope you enjoy your equally useless and wasteful company, which is advertising vinyl siding, curb painting, and closet organizers.

I watch people as they stand in front of the greeting card display case. They scan, lift, open, read, return, and move on until they finally find that perfect card and spend the next five minutes hunting for the missing envelope. Oh, how I want to confront this person.

“You do realize the person you send that to probably won’t read it.”

“Huh?”

“All I do when I receive a card is look inside for cash or checks, then flip it over to see how much the sender wasted on sending me somebody else’s quote.”

“But …”

“No but. Where’s the thought and creative energy in that? At least if you send me a family photo, it’s original—boring as watching mold grow, but original.”

“Do I know you?”

“Consider me one of the ninety-nine percenters who is here to encourage you to stimulate the economy in more logical ways. Why don’t you bake me some cookies? I like chocolate and peanut butter; any combination of the two will do just fine. Oh, and don’t put a card in the tin. Simply write your name with a Sharpie on the outside. I won’t need your return address. You’ll get squat from me in return unless I run into you when I’m with a relatively full bottle, in which case I’ll pour you a holiday sip of my grapeness.”

“Um … security …”

It saddens me to watch the deluded masses who can’t escape the Hallmark ploy.

Incompatibility - Why do good girls like bad boys?

Many things don’t go together well. If you’ve just brushed your teeth and you’re craving orange juice, don’t do it or you’re about to prove my point. So, why must we force together things that are best left apart? Toddlers learn quickly that square pegs don’t fit in round holes, but adults keep forcing it instead of finding a fit.

Take the case of the good girl and the bad boy. They don’t fit except for the twenty minutes or so it takes them to pound pelvises. They say a man wants his woman to be a princess in the street and a ‘ho in the bedroom. Well, it seems a woman wants her man to be a personal assistant in the street and a lizard-tongued, tatted-up scruffball with a huge, numb penis in the bedroom.

Do I sound bitter?

If I hear one more woman tell me how nice I am, I’m shaving my head and buying a Harley. Her statement is a death knell. I realize the woman complimenting me has slotted me securely in the friend-I’ll-never-fuck column and that sucks for me. Meanwhile, she’ll answer dickhead’s text (with silly abbreviations, misspellings, and grammatical errors), she’ll rendezvous with his drunk ass, and believe him when he promises to pull out. Tomorrow, her friend (moi), will get the call begging me to join her for breakfast because she’s having a meltdown along with her eggs and morning after pill.

“What’s shakin’, sugarbacon?”

“I slept with Tony again last night.”

“What? I thought you said you were over him.”

“I am now. I’ll never do it again.”

“You said that too.”

“But, this time I mean it.”

“Heard that before as well.”

“He has this uncanny ability to sense when I’m vulnerable and that's when he strikes. I can’t fight it.”

“Is his manhood so marvelous?”

“Well … it’s not just that.”

“Do tell.”

“He’s different. He takes control and ravages me. I can tell he’s really into it when we’re together and, sure, he’s a skilled lover. He’s emotional and savage.”

“But, once the sex towel comes out I bet he loses his charm.”

“He has no charm. You have charm.”

“… and, unfortunately, no nookiepuss to go with my manners.”

“Aw, you’ll find a nice girl.”

“No, I won’t. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you nice girls want bad boys. I’ll hold your door, pull out your chair, order a fine bottle of wine, and eventually find text messages you’re sending him about wanting to have sex with him for the last time again.”

“I would never …”

“You just did!”

“But, it’s different. I don’t have a serious boyfriend.”

“I bet if I ask the guy you’re dating, he’ll disagree.”

“I know. Damn it! It was foolish. You’re right. [Insert friend hug.] See? This is why I love you so much. You’re such a good friend who listens and knows how to talk sense into me. What would I do without you?”

*sigh*

Gifts men prefer to man-gagement rings.

This is a disturbing trend that needs to stop now. Your man does NOT want to receive a man-gagement ring this Christmas. Nope. No how. All right, I’ll give you one teeny exception: If it’s a Green Bay Packers World Champions ring, he may extend his left ring finger.

You don’t need to mark your territory, cookiepuss. Men have all mastered the holstering of the vagina repellant. I know of a man who is talented enough to remove his wedding ring without using his right hand. (It’s like that cute trick you do with the cherry stem.) He dunks his left hand into his pants pocket and thumb-flicks that circle of strife away to join the lint. Suddenly, the vaginas aren’t so timid.

What the heck would a man-gagement ring look like anyway? It’s stupid. Wait. If you can find one that doubles as a beer bottle opener, I’ll consider it. On second thought, I’ll suffer through twist-offs or use my car door’s latch. Rings on men often signal that the hiney is open for business; mine isn’t.

Alt+Tab over to Amazon and check out the top gifts for men. Do you see any fucking rings there? No, you don’t. How about a watch, pooh-bear? Men love watches. You can consider it a man-gagement watch, if it makes you feel better. Have something mushy engraved under the face. He’ll be touched, fer reals.

Here are some other gifts, which no man wants:

• Pajamas
• Ties
• Tools (We must select our own or they are useless.)
• Cufflinks (Who wears cufflinks? You’re not dating James Freaking Bond.)
• Memberships
• Underwear
• Tickets to a play, opera, or show other than a rock concert, which he can attend with a buddy instead of a disgusted woman who will text the entire time and complain about the noise levels
• A Volvo
• Books about the female orgasm (useful, no doubt, but insensitive)
• Salsa lessons

No ring, damn you! How about a cute little rope bracelet? Undershirts are useful. Ah, here we go: Have you considered a scarf? Go ahead, buy me a fucking scarf. It can even be pink or lavender. I don’t care. I could use a belt. No, not a rope belt. NO RING. Actually, there are numerous items men will appreciate and proudly use instead of hiding:

• Universal remote
• Sex
• Scotch (18-year, please)
• Starbucks gift cards (*swoon*)
• Wireless mouse
• Bacon
• Poker chips
• Headphones (Noise-cancelling ones, and don’t take it personally. Shush!)
• Sex (Repetition breeds success.)
• Any Blu-ray DVD movie that features lots of shit blowing up and cars going fast.

If you drop to a knee in front of me, pull a jewelry box from your pocket, and ask me to marry you, here’s what will happen: I’ll say “That depends,” and unzip my pants.

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.