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Hey Flo

I’m so tired of insurance commercials. I blame the gecko, caveman, and that mega-bumpit-headed Flo. I hate her. She is a cross between an evil nurse, a clown, and a pre-tan Snooki. It’s not only her look that annoys me. I don’t like her attitude. So, there. I’ve waited many decades to say that line, which I heard as a child so often: I don’t like your attitude.

She’s too bubbly.

Public servants should not overexert themselves in attempts to seem pleasant. It’s obvious to patrons they’re trying too hard. Fake smiles and pleasantries are nerve-grating. I long for the day when my bartender admits she’s in a miserable mood and would much prefer a steaming bubble bath to muddling my fruit.

Insurance is unavoidable and it provides no pleasure. I don’t want to spend any time at all shopping for it. Just give me the cheapest one and let me get back to the NHL playoffs, please.

Why are all of the men Flo waits on, emasculated heaps straight from the cast of Broadway musicals? One dude’s carrying a man purse, another is posing for pictures like he’s on Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and even the motorcycle dude smells like a Village Person, not freedom. The pansies who work for the competitor, but shop at Progressive, look like they came from The Gaytrix. (I mean … look, I’ve never seen it. Honest. I’m just imagining. Do not cast me in the next commercial.)

Oh, how I wish I could enter Flo’s store.

“Well, hello there. Gee, that’s quite a flashy T-shirt you have on there, sir. I bet you’re in the market for auto insurance for your orange Porsche.”
“One more remark like that and I will slap you across the labia.”
“Woah, no need to be violent there, mister. Maybe it’s a red Mercedes?”
“It’s a black fucking Jeep, Flo. Say, does that lipstick smear when you … you know … work the stick shift.”
“I have no idea to what you’re referring. Say, walk with me over here to our price board and let’s see how much money you can save with Progressive.”
“I have a better idea. Let me take you to the beach and treat you to a screaming chicken cutlet.”
“Hm. You know, you are cute, in a curious way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve certainly piqued my interest and I do love the beach—then again, you knew that when you saw my corpse-ish tan. Is the cutlet some sort of barbeque specialty of yours?”
“Here’s how it works: We find a secluded area on Moonlight Beach and go at each other like rhesus monkeys on Red Bull. I grind on top of you, gradually working that silly white apron up to your waist. I peel down those naughty laced panties of yours and begin pounding you into the sand, sans towel. Just when you’re about to climax, I’ll withdraw my Willy, swirl him about in the sand (a la chicken cutlet), and then reinsert.”
“Ouch.”
“You betcha.”
“Let me grab my purse.”

Wow. I just reread that and am convinced I need therapy. The normal reaction to Flo would be, “Aw, she’s so cute. What a snarky little sweetheart.” Still, I want to grab onto that bump-it and bang her in the bumper. Guess I should stay with Geico.

My Love Wilts

Even Dr. Phil McGraw can keep his woman happy while he spews his Kentucky Fried relationship advice. He’s not even attractive. Not at all. Come on. If he’s a 5, I’m at least a 5.5. Maybe he’s rich, hung, and a good kisser. OK, 5.25. Whatever. I’m sure every spat he and his wife get into ends with her relenting as he name drops Oprah and all of his sponsors. Still, the wife stays put. I bet she pays as much attention to his advice as I pay to the Royal Wedding.

So, why do so many concerns arise when I begin courting the finer sex? I should use a pen name, lie, and say I am a volunteer firefighter. The coolness of my occupation disintegrates more quickly than Joan Rivers’ face in the sun. As soon as the new bed warmer reads my ramblings, my intentions become suspect.

“There’s no way you make all of that up. You must have lots of firsthand experience.”
“True. I have experience dating and even more experience observing the relationship catastrophes of others.”
“So, which parts are true? Which one is you?”
“None of it is true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Ah ha! So you are lying.”
“No. I am embellishing.”
“What are you going to write about when you have a steady girlfriend and fall in love?”
“Who knows?”
“I’m not comfortable with your writing about our relationship.”
“I always change the names and twist the scenarios.”
“Still. Why don’t you write about how much you love me?”
“Because that’s boring to everyone but you.”

Why can’t I learn to give the answer most likely to stoke the relationship fire? I appreciate brutal honesty, so it’s what I’m most comfortable delivering, much to the dismay of my dangly parts. I should simply play along and ensure my lovely lady that, as we approach the altar (due to death more likely than marriage ... sorry ... more brutal honesty), my tune will change. I’ll write pillowy prose about how my heart soars in her presence and aches in her absence. Blech. Haven’t we heard that often enough?

I know, I know. Play the role or one day in my eighties I will keel over and be eaten by my six cats.

“Look, J. K. Rowling never flew on a broom, right?”
“Right, but ...”
“Clive Barker never impaled anyone on a spike.”
“True, but ...”
“David Duchovny was never addicted to sex.”
“Um, actually he was recently in treatment for that specific affliction.”
“Shit. OK, bad example. Wait, but he doesn’t write Californication.”
“Yet it becomes him.”
“That’s life imitating art. My musings are art imitating life.”
“I don’t know. I’m uncomfortable with all of this.”
“How can I make you comfortable?”
“Tell me you love me and write about that.”
“I can write about how difficult it is to tell somebody you love them.”
“...”
“Love is such a subjective thing anyway. How about adore?”
“...”
“Like?”
“Fine, you can tell me you like me and write about how much you like sleeping alone.”
“I kind of already did that.”
“Why am I not surprised?”

Initiation

We all reach that point in our relationships where ground rules are determined. Unfortunately, they’re unwritten and left open to interpretation. I contend that, since women make the final decision about whether there will be sex tonight, women should initiate.

You don’t realize how ego bruising it is when I reach for a boob and am stonewalled. (I’m not referring to flat-chested females, whom I actually prefer to cereal-bowl-breasted babes.) There needs to be some indication of interest. Aside from the obvious male indicator—lumpius en pantsium—it’s safe for women to assume men are always in the mood. Even one hour after my vasectomy, sexual thoughts arose.

However, women are sometimes ready and other times prefer postponement. They are also in the mood for various acts, not just penetration. Sometimes they just want to make out or cuddle. Occasionally, they want to peak externally. On a rare occasion, when tequila hasn’t sufficiently saturated the bloodstream, they want to get downright freaky.

How’s a man to know?

It’s a precarious balance. If she’s in the mood and I don’t pick up on the signal, it signals a variety of possible issues I might have:

1. I can’t get a hard on and am in dire need of little blue pills.
2. I masturbated too recently.
3. My mind is on other things like taxes, hockey playoffs, and all-season radials.
4. I’m gay.
5. I don’t like her anymore.
6. I’m concerned that I am (or she is) presently a bit unkempt.
7. I need sleep.
8. I’m not over an ex.
9. I have a penis blister from the previous extended session.
10. I hear my Mom calling me to dinner.

Typically, the issue is “none of the above.” It’s a matter of timing and communication. No man wants his woman to mercy fuck him. It smacks of desperation and neediness. He wants the desire to be mutual. Believe me, it’s not fun when your woman rolls onto her side, facing away from you, and says, “Help yourself, and don’t take too long. I’m tired.”

What’s the solution?

How about a modern use of the refrigerator magnet? (It’s just my luck that magnets don’t stick to my goddamn refrigerator, so I’ll opt for Post-It notes.) I’m going to invent a horniness meter, similar to that spinning game piece used in Twister. There will be one for each partner.

The women’s indicator:

• Blue – “Touch me and I may de-dick you.”
• Green – “All right tonight, if you must.”
• Yellow – “Open for business, but I suggest you put a towel down first.”
• Red – “By the time we’re done tonight, you’re going to need an icepack and Advil.”

The man’s indicator:

• Blue – “[Pouting with lower lip extended.] But, honey … I’m all backed up. Please? Pretty please with Peppermint Astroglide on top? I promise I’ll do all my chores tomorrow.”
• Green – “I read online today that man-o-naise is good for your skin.”
• Yellow – “I’ll bring home flowers, rub your feet, make you dinner, watch Idol, and visit your parents with you this weekend.”
• Red – “I can hang. No, I’m not done yet. Five minutes. Come on, coach. Give me another shot.”

Not Qualified

The stuff that gets me giggling the most involves humans attempting something they’re not qualified to do. Failure is funny—even my own. You must learn to laugh at yourself, people. To do so requires you to spend significant time witnessing train wrecks.

1. Baseball – Whoever invented recreational softball had a marvelous sense of humor. A few years ago, I had a baseball game on a field next to a softball field. The softball field was decorated in Amish: boys in suspenders, girls in pastel dresses and doilies. Between innings of our game, I watched the Amish train speeding toward a wall. One of the girls hit a pop up (a minor miracle in itself), three boys ran under it, two collided and fell, and the ball hit the third square in the forehead. He took a few stagger steps and dropped to his butt. I was gleeful as a kid on Christmas morning.
2. Singing – Most people who watch (and not obsess about) American Idol admit they enjoy the first few weeks most. Why is that? Well, that’s when the people who think they can sing show millions of viewers they can’t.
3. White Acting Black – When I see a white kid wearing a crooked, flat-billed cap, an oversized T-shirt, and jeans so low he can only bend his legs from the knees down, I get a kick out of it. If he also speaks in Ebonics, drives a low-riding pickup, or has a tatted-up, fat, white chick pushing a stroller next to him, I get downright giddy.
4. Fat Bikers – I appreciate the effort, but insist that the first fifty pounds should be lost on a stationary bike, not in public while wearing loudly printed tights.
5. Dancing – Wise people (like me) who are aware of their inabilities rarely attempt certain activities unless there is an over-ingestion of alcohol. If we must do so, we take much care as to not draw attention to our maladies lest someone calls paramedics to attend to the seizures on the dance floor.
6. Baseball – I know I covered this already, but believe me, there’s enough material here for five bullets. A friend of a friend joined our baseball team last year. He hadn’t played since his school years. He (wisely) went to Play It Again Sports to equip himself. He (unwisely) bought a helmet with a channel cut in back. When he proudly donned it during his first at bat, the rest of us noticed and verbally beat him mercilessly. His helmet with a ponytail holder didn’t protect him.
7. Storytelling – We all have those friends who launch into a story that veers off into some parallel dimension and ends with a missing punch line. I frequently sit through half a rum and diet waiting for the payoff while wishing for cliff notes. Still, brain farts are funny.
8. Ingesting – When I watch the young-ins drop shots into beers and chug them, I wonder what possible enjoyment there is in it: violent belches and brain freeze? I also love people who proclaim their food can’t be hot enough. They order “nuclear” wings, and cringe and sweat through dinner leading up to tomorrow’s sphincter burning potty sessions.
9. Grace – Anyone doing anything clumsy is funny, as long as there are no bone fragments involved. People who walk into sliding glass doors, trip over a sidewalk cracks, and slip on wet floors should each take a bow, that way I wouldn’t need to hold back my laughter while acting as if I didn’t see it happen.
10. Baseball – OK, one more. People who bring baseball gloves to an MLB game amuse me. I sat in the leftfield bleachers Friday, next to a pudgy dude with a soft pretzel and a glove. It didn’t matter that we were over 500 feet away. Every fly ball caused him to stand, pound his fist into his glove, and yell, “Here it comes!” What … a ball-less boob.

One at a Time

It began in childhood. I loved those square penny gums that used to come in the glass bubble. Do you remember them? I’d slide the metal lever over as far as possible and hope the machine dumped a few extra. Then, instead of enjoying them one at a time, I’d stuff the red (cinnamon), black (licorice), green (spearmint), and white (peppermint) ones into my mouth and make one large, gray mass of indistinguishable muck. Silly boy.
Mom would say, “One a time, son.”

She was right.

It applies to dating as well. Few women need reminding, but men rarely learn.

Dating more than one woman at a time is stressful, so I don’t do it. Stress kills. It carves deep wrinkles, whitens my hair (what’s left of it), and gives me neck pain. No, thank you. If I attempt juggling women, I’m stuck dropping everything and chasing around the mess I’ve made.

(This reminds me of another funny quote my baseball teammate made. Our second baseman went to field a ground ball, booted it, bobbled it, finally picked it up, and barely got the batter out at first. My buddy said, “Did you see that? He went after that ball like a stripper pickin' up change.” Ha! Guess you had to be there.)

Dating multiple people simultaneously makes no sense if there’s any interest in having something more than a casual relationship. If I were out to hop from hole to hole, perhaps I could do it. I’m too old for that shit. I want to find one cozy hole and set up camp.

So, when I go on a date with someone and it turns out that I like her (as opposed to the usual blind date that I’m tempted to end with an icy plunge off a bridge), I give her the Phil’s speech.

“I’m a one woman at a time kind of guy. No pressure on you, though, but I’m only going to be dating you until we decide if this is worth maintaining. I can’t concentrate if I have to keep more than one lover.”
“Really?”
“Can’t do it. There’s keeping the names straight and remembering which one drinks red, has living parents, and enjoys having her back tickled. It’s too complicated.”
“Hm, that’s refreshing.”
“I know. I’m quite a catch, huh?”
“We’ll see.”

Yep, easier said than one woman. Typically, when I make such a pronouncement, Nature arranges an amazing pussy parade, the likes of which I have never seen. It’s difficult to stay on the curb with my propeller hat and balloon while admiring the once-unobtainable floats from a safe distance.

I can do it, Mom.

Especially when people start sleeping together, they should be monogamous—not because of some religious threat, either. It’s safer and more logical. If sex turns sour then end it and move on (in that order).

So, here I am: one-at-a-time man. I’m as loyal as a Labrador, and I won’t chew your furniture. Promise.

Sexual ROI

You’d like to think men don’t consider the economic side of relationships. We do. We may not all admit it (because some of us hate sleeping on the couch with Coco’s cold, wet nose), but we all apply a little grade school algebra. It smacks of prostitution.

My pal, Hank, just broke it off with a woman he dated for six weeks. He saw diminishing returns (e.g., blowjobs) and decided it was time to sell, sell, sell.

“Wow, I thought things were going along magnificently.”
“It sure started that way. After date two she sexted me a topless photo.”
“Quite a fine prospectus, if you ask me.”
“Indeed it was.”
“Since you are no longer invested, may I have a look-see? I’d like to review the assets.”
“Here ya go.”
“Bravo! How were the returns?”
“Early returns were encouraging.”
“Nice.”
“I figure I invested close to two thousand dollars in the six weeks. I probably got laid twelve times.”
“Well,” I scratched my head as my sexual abacus went to work, “that’s on the pricey side, my friend.”
“Indeed.”
“The missing element is the value of your orgasm. Are there any other factors to consider, such as road head or hiney sex?”
“There were, I estimate, three bonus blowjobs.”
“OK. So, fifteen orgasms for two thousand dollars means each orgasm had to be worth one hundred thirty-three dollars, give or take thirty-three cents and repeating threes. Damn, those repeating threes and sixes are annoying.”
“Yep. I vowed to withdrawal any investment with orgasms costing me more than one hundred dollars.”

Ah, capitalism at its worst.

Various expenses go into the investment part of the equation. The largest investment is usually dining out. We apply more than fifty percent because we probably would have opted for Carl’s Jr. if she wasn’t along. We definitely would have skipped the bread pudding. Other expenses include gas money for the ride to her house and restaurant and back, the bottle of wine delivered as a kind guest gesture, and contraception. It adds up.

Perhaps women perform similar financial calculations. Their returns must require consideration of penis width, length of sexual session, oral favors, and proper post-coital conversation and cuddling.

Where’s the investment for women?

Oh, I almost forgot. There are substantial investments in preparing the asset for delivery. First, there’s the investment in hair, nails, and makeup. Time is money and, although it takes most men ten minutes to get ready, women need an hour, or else. (There’s logic behind the length of ESPN News loops.) Second, women’s clothing is pricey. Toss in designer shoes, purses, and sunglasses and there’s a substantial investment.

Here’s the difference: Her investment is a capital asset, which may be spread across numerous investors (lovers).

I can’t reuse a condom, recover half the bottle of Bordeaux, or take a tax deduction for taxiing my investment all over creation, now can I? It’s a sunken investment. Maybe, I should see it as a donation and hope for karmic returns. Ah, but the next thoroughly exhausting orgasm makes it all worthwhile, so I’ll keep investing without thinking too much about the ROI.