Do you create your patients, Doctor?

You've heard of firemen setting fires, right? How about doctors creating patients? Therapists driving people crazy? It happens, and probably more often than we'd like to think. I see it in the dating pool. People are not playing nice. Some are making a splash and some are holding others down.

Although I don't float well, I'm the Michael Phelps of the dating pool. Fine, the Mark Spitz then. I know how to avoid the mischievous little pricks.

For example, I had a woman grill me last weekend. Every question she asked me began with "What's wrong with you ...," although she didn't speak the words. She tried to make me the patient so she could play doctor and fix me.

"[What's wrong with you?] Don't you want to have a girlfriend?"
"I don't need a girlfriend."
"But, [what's wrong with you], don't you want one?"
"If someone comes along in a situation where we can enhance each other's lives, I'll consider it."
"You'd 'consider' it? [What's wrong with you?]"
"Yes."
"[What's wrong with you?] Wouldn't you like a partner to have sex with regularly?"
"Yes, but I don't need one ... yet."
"Yet?"
"If my dry spell extends into the warmer months, I'll have to make some sacrifices."
"[What's wrong with you?] You mean you'll go visit a prostitute?"
"I can find amateur ladies who need lovin'. There's an entire neighborhood of sex-starved, neglected wives less than five miles from here."
"[What's wrong with you?] You'd sleep with a married woman?"
"Not my first choice."
"That's awful. [What's wrong with you?] Don't you have any morals?"
"Fewer every year. I think I'm growing out of them."

She was badgering me, trying to create the bad boy she could tame. Not happening.

There's another type of woman, with similar tactics. Yet, I suspect these women are unaware of what they're doing. I'm referring to the motherly type. When they find a man they like, they look for neediness they can address. If the man is secure, the motherly woman feels worthless. Ironically, needy men will eventually drive her crazy, she'll swear off them, and wind up right back with another needy Ned.

"I like to cook. You should let me make you dinner."
"That's very nice of you. I also like to cook. I'll have you over."
"Um. OK, I'll make us dinner at your house."
"No, silly. I'm the host. I'll make you dinner."
"Well, I'll bring wine and bake a lovely dessert. What's your favorite?"
"I have a full rack and frozen cookie dough. You'll be my guest and your company is all I need."
"I'll bring cat toys for Syd and Symon."
"I already live in a cat house. They're fine. Just come wearing a smile."
"You probably enjoy doing laundry and ironing too."
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Hm."

At this point the motherly lass finds excuses to back out. She needs to be needed. I want to want. How do these life puzzle pieces ever fit together?

Does what you watch define who you are?

Being unaware of something doesn't make a person superior. Still, people will use that angle to involve themselves in a conversation when they should be listening instead. In Pulp Fiction, this situation is handled brilliantly:

Vincent: I don't watch TV.
Jules: Yeah, but, you are aware that there's an invention called television, and on this invention they show shows, right?

Why can't people admit to doing or watching certain things? We all fart, pick our noses, and watch shows that don't make us smarter. So what? Why deny it? Look at all the money these shows make. Somebody is certainly watching them, and the viewers can't all be dolts.

Here are the top things people deny doing:

• Watching The Bachelor, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and Project Runway.
• Watching sitcoms.
• Watching the news.
• Watching TV in general. The person who tells me she doesn't own a TV had better have a huge Lego collection or an extraordinary dildo.
• Driving while drinking, texting, or eating.
• Burping, farting, yanking, flipping, scratching, sniffing, singing, and talking to pets when nobody is around.
• Using Facebook and Twitter.
• Watching funny YouTube videos at work.
• Playing online games.
• Using porn, whether video or written form.

People around me quote Seinfeld constantly and refer to the characters. I don't watch the show; never did. Yet, I am aware of it and the premise-less premise. When I confess to never watching the show, I get grilled.

"Who on earth hasn't watched Seinfeld?"
"Me, on Uranus."
"You, of all people, would love the show. You write comedy."
"Can't do it. The dubbed-in laughter makes me crazy. I don't like being told when to laugh."
"What? Still ..."
"I'm aware of the show. Carry on and quote away. I'll not interrupt you and decide for myself whether it's worthy of a reaction."

The next time someone is mid-story, don't slow the flow by pleading ignorance. You'll delay the punchline and annoy the speaker. Open your ears and close your lips around the straw that leads to the substance that makes everyone more interesting.

Why do drunk women make out?

You're having a family gathering and the kids are playing in the family room while the parents chat. One of the mothers realizes the kids are being remarkably quiet, for being kids. Upon investigation, Mommy notices the reason: They're playing house with dog kibble and decorative coasters. Before Mommy does something rash, Daddy asks her to weigh the silence against the possibility of bodily harm or damage. They concur; the children carry on.

This is similar to how I feel when I'm at a nightclub around inebriated women left unattended by their husbands. I'm the daddy who doesn't want to spoil the fun.

After a few triangular glasses are emptied, the carnage ensues. Daddy likey. Wife #1 says to Wife #2, "I bet you're a great kisser. Men don't know how to kiss. I love the soft lips on a woman. Guys have itchy fur around their mouths."

I took no offense.

Naturally, it was time to lip-seal the deal and the two women went at it like teenagers under football stands. I sat next to the show, giddy like a kid with his first scooter. As they got busy, Wife #2 grabbed my thigh and squeezed. I felt like the branch held between a soldier's teeth while he's having a limb amputated.

"How'd that work out for you? Is she a good kisser?"
"Oh, yes."
"All right."
"You're going to write about this, aren't you?"
"Only if you two involve some breast fondling in round two."

I was only kidding but I turned out to be kindling, as they went at it again. I looked around the club, wide-eyed, hoping my fellow swine weren't missing the show. A few men noticed and smiled like they found a beer geyser. Many women noticed and wrinkled their noses like they found a skid mark in the guest bathroom toilet.

This playful fun went on for hours. The group planned to taxi back to birthday girl's house later that night. I was invited, yet I passed. I deserve a gold star for having such restraint, but I fear I'll receive a rainbow-colored one instead. I've learned to leave, create my own reality, and avoid regret and armed spouses.

Proper ways to deal with an ass.

She was grabby with my buddy. I should have been proud of my pal as they walked arm-in-arm in front of me. Yet, the overly analytical side of me thought, How far we've come, as she gradually slid her hand down his back and cupped his cheek. An uninvited move like that on his part could have landed him in the clink. She had gender specific immunity.

I should have been paying attention to a number of other things, but I'm obsessed with courtship so I kept watching and missed out on the ocean breezes, yellow moon, and puddle I stepped in.

Women grab ass cheeks differently than men do. She went straight down the crack and grabbed the middle. Hm. She may be kinky--into the stinky pinky maneuver. Some men are into that. I'm not. I would have squeaked, vocally.

When I grab a butt, I go more for the outside lower quadrant. (Look for a future infographic on the topic.) I squeeze gently as I would a grapefruit. At home games with no fans in attendance I may creep toward the lower, inner quadrant and mix in a diddle or two. That's tough on the elbow and wrist. Perhaps if I wore a bowling glove it would stabilize my wrist. Heck, I'll try anything once.

My pal did not return the squeeze, mostly because he's six-foot-many and she's five-foot-few. He had to settle for the tender skin on the back of her neck. A bold move would have included a backhand. (I was watching tennis while filtering wine through my liver, hence the reference.) He could have sneaked from her neck over her trapezius, across her sternocleidomastoid, down her pectoralis major, and landed on her left boobius niceus. That would no doubt cause rotator cuff tenderness with a good chance of nipplicus erectus.

Alas, he remained a gentleman as she groped his glutes, be-bopped his bunghole, and made me giggle.

She had a clump in her pants.

It was outrageous. I couldn't stop staring. It wasn't a camel toe or moose knuckle either. Perish the thought. No, she wasn't a he. No, I'm not gay for lingering on it.

When you spot something odd, what do you do? You investigate. You try to find the reason why the odd thing is where it doesn't usually show up. That was the case in the sauna. A young woman (oh, don't get all wadded up; she was older than twenty) entered wearing a bikini and something was out of place. I used my peripheral skills to no avail. Then, I tilted my capped skull down far enough to keep her from seeing my eyes and, yep, there it was: a clump. No, not a clump of fur. A clump--a clit lump. This maiden had a calamari-ring-sized clit.

M-m-meaty!

OK, so I'm a pervert. Look, I didn't poke it. I'm just sharing a story. What if one of my readers had a clump? Wouldn't she want to know? I hear marathon runners put band-aids on their nipples. Shouldn't the clump keepers wear a pad or duct tape? Then again, I wasn't offended by it. There was, perhaps, a bit of curious stimulation as I envisioned tongue-jabbing that flesh bulb while she hummed the theme to Rocky.

Gosh, I need some serious therapy.

I do prefer the clump to the slice. The slice, especially when clean-shaven, is creepy. It's kind of Barbie-ish. There should be puffy outer lips, pliable inner limps, and--sure, why not?--toss in a clump for good measure. That would make it easier to find and, thus, a happy Phil.

I'm fifty. I need cheaters. Wearing cheaters to bed is not sexy.

And, please stop with the bleaching of the balloon knot. It's supposed to be as it is and, unless you're on channel 3952, no man should see it under bright lights. Leave it be.

Fine. I'll stop staring and move on to the treadmill.

What are you crying about?

Are you watching The Bachelor? What's with all the crying, fainting, and cattiness? Is it the alcohol? Even Ben is starting to wear on me. The producers sure know how to whip these kittens into a frenzy.

I appreciate an emotional woman--to a point. I don't want to be on a date sitting across from a plank with a Sharpie-drawn face. I want smiling, laughing, and occasional frowning (those hidden by Botox need not apply). There should be gesturing. Show off those pretty nails, Tiggerpoo. Lean in toward me, touch my hand, wink, giggle, and be animated. But, please, don't overdo it.

One of the ladies this week got so worked up she fainted. That's fucked up. If she passed out because she put a hurting on Don Julio, I'd applaud it. She fainted because she was worried about not being selected. Her fainting probably sealed that deal. Sure, there's pressure involved when millions watch what amounts to a playground kickball team selection replayed every week. Nobody wants to go unselected. Still, should you be losing consciousness over it? I think not. Take a fucking chill pill, or get your medicinal marijuana card, you weak-kneed ninny.

My man, Ben, is transforming from a nice guy with horrible taste in women, into an arrogant lip-smacker with an artificially inflated ego and horrible taste in women. When a dozen prime vaginas are tossed your way, it's natural to feel a bit godlike. Still, he's tongue wrestling every woman in the house, without flossing or Purelling his face. (Maybe that goes on off-camera, but I doubt it.) I'd expect a few of these women to block Ole Plunger-Face after seeing him slobber on the competition.

Like in previous seasons, many of these leaky-eyed drama queens claim to be falling in love. How is that possible? Even if they were fed cocktails laced with oxytocin, Rufinol, and fireman sweat, there's no way they'd be falling in love after some brief meetings spread over a few weeks. They may be falling in love with the idea of falling in love in front of a huge audience and the possibility of fame dollars. They're not falling in love with Shaggy, the winemaker. I call shenanigans.

This drama feeds into the corruption of the nice guy. One smitten kitten curls up under the covers and weeps. The producers grab Ben and shove him into the room. Ben plays hero, dries her eyes, tells her it will all be OK, and then kicks her sobbing ass to the curb in front of millions. Nice.

Another woman is upset because nobody likes her--which she brought on herself--so she hides in the corner of a room behind luggage and sniffles. The producers shine the bachelor light and shove Ben into the scene to save the day. Oh, how I wish he would have (gently) slapped her on the butt and told her to snap out of it. But, no-o-oh. Instead he consoles her, reinforcing the hero image.

Yes, it's TV. I understand. Many of my mating targets watch it, so I have to fucking deal with it. Piss me off. It's hard enough to get past their cat allergies. I don't want my women playing victim to see me don the cape. Ben's converting me into a prick, vicariously. Perhaps, chick lit would cure me.

DILLIGAS - Do I look like I give a shadoobie?

It's time to stop giving a shit and taking shit from others. If you care too much about something you have little control over, you're setting yourself up for disappointment. I say, stop caring. Does this bother you? It shouldn't because the new you doesn't give a shit, remember? Good!

You must not give a shit about the following:

• The weather
• The stock or housing market
• Television shows
• Gas prices
• Sports teams, athletes, race car drivers, tennis players, golfers, jockeys, and the like
• Politics and politicians
• Celebrities

You can be entertained by them. Heck, you can root for or against them. Just make sure it's minimal shit you give.

One of the most important things to not give the slightest shit about is what people think of you, unless they are paying you or sleeping with you. You can't control the critic's taste, so why should it concern you?

"You hurt my feelings."
"No, you decided to let your feelings be hurt."

This includes rejection. The less you care about rejection, the more opportunities you'll have. When you ask for something and you're denied, shrug and move on. If you're paralyzed because you give a shit, you'll hesitate or avoid asking, which will definitely cause disappointment (nasty shit).

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"
"Um, yes, but I have a boyfriend."
"Um, bullshit, but if you do, he's not invited."
"What?"
"You're lying because you don't want to hurt my feelings. You're not attracted to me and, this may come as a shock to you, but I really don't give a shit. If you were attracted to me, you'd say yes and we'd have a lovely dinner and sweaty sex ... eventually. Alas, you're not attracted to me, so I wish you and your make-believe boyfriend all the best. Gotta go."

If somebody starts to give you shit, leave. Don't defend yourself because that will create the conflict the shitter seeks. Say goodbye, about face, and exit. The shitter will probably call you a coward, but you won't care, because you don't give a shit. Keep walking. The shitter might pursue you with text messages, emails, and phone calls. These are some of the easiest things to discard. Do not read them; do not respond to them; delete them.

The interesting thing is by not giving a shit, you'll become a more interesting person. In fact, I, for one, would love to meet you. Sure, some drama queens will call you aloof, but you won't give a shit. People will wonder how you achieved such enlightenment. They may assume a rich aunt left you some fuck-you money or you've been diagnosed with a terminal disease. This means they'll either expect a handout or feel sorry for you. You don't need another mouth to feed and you don't need pity. Let them wonder while you calmly float with me on the lake of tranquility.