Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Nipple or Not?


A retired veteran claims he encountered a rare nipple sighting yesterday afternoon while casually strolling the city streets. Frederick Fudd, distant cousin of the late Elmer Fudd, alerted authorities when he allegedly saw a tiny brown wonder while crossing an intersection. Luckily, traffic cameras snapped a few shots before the mysterious object disappeared beneath fabric. Scientists are now scrambling to verify the sighting.

“What we need to determine is if the exposed area is indeed part of a woman’s nipple or a mole,” Professor Cuppington explained. “Nipples are rare this time of year, north of the equator. If what Fudd saw was indeed a nipple, it will be new evidence supporting global warming. If it’s a mole, I’m going to be fucking teed, as will an estimated ten million men when they realize they masturbated to a damn mole.”

When Fudd posted the now famous pictures on his Facebook page, people began viewing and sharing at record rates. Rallies cropped up in major cities, appropriately named “Occupy Bald Teat.” Fudd had no idea he’d be the spark that caused numerous sick days, random gatherings, hand jive, and a shortage of poster paper and Sharpies.

“Look, I don’t know nothing about any mole. What I saw was definitely a nipple on the end of some part-Asian girl’s tit. It wasn’t no wart neither. Son, do you have any idea how many nipples a man my age has seen? Thousands, I tell ya. Mole, shmole. Damn ingrates trying to make me look stupid.”

Demonstrators marched outside of the nation’s capital with signs supporting Fudd, such as:
“Jobs or nipples—we’ll take either or both, please.”
“Don’t tax the tatas.”
“Dang, it’s nipply out.”
“The end (of her boob) is near.”
“Jane 36:DD.”
“Hi Mom. Was I breastfed?”
“God save the funbags.”
“Nobody wants to motorboat moles.”
“Nothing would be finer than to also see vagin-er.”
“Fudd is Godd!”

The movement has certainly gained media attention as Fudd is scheduled to appear on Conan and in a local strip mall parking lot outside Subway. Although Fudd claims to be a Christian conservative, some Republican Party members have questioned his resolve, referring to his view as a “false nipple.”

“How can we be sure it’s a nipple?” asked a reverend supporter of republican candidates. “Sure, there are millions of milk-bearing boobie berries on God’s green earth, but He never meant to have them confused with skin maladies. There is only one true nipple. In times like these, we need to ask, ‘What would Jesus do?’”

When reporters caught up to Fudd at his home and told him about the reverend’s comments, he responded, “I’ll tell ya what Jesus would do: He’s point and say, ‘Look at those tits!’ just like I did.” It was the last comment obtained from Fudd before he slammed his camper door and mumbled something indiscernible.

Only time will tell if that controversial brown dot was nipple or not.

Monday, October 10, 2011

"How do I get a boy to like me?" she asked.


A high school student asked me how she could get a boy to like her. I engaged my parental guidance filter, hired three witnesses, and made sure the cameras were rolling. Just kidding, but I had to temper my answer.

I initially felt sorry for the young lady. Even a kid doesn’t want pity. I didn’t want to discourage her by disclosing the hundreds of fruitless crushes I have had. I figured the best way to dance around this issue was to ask questions.

“How do you know he doesn’t like you already?”
“He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Is he a movie star or something? If it’s Bieber, this discussion is over.”
“No, he’s gross. It’s a boy in my high school.”
“Is he under eighteen?”
“I guess so. He’s in high school. Why does that matter?”
“It just does. All right. Is he in one of your classes?”
“No. I just see him around.”
“Next time you see him, smile at him.”
“OK, then what?”
“See if he smiles back. If he does, walk up to him and say hi.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Make sure he’s alone so he’s not distracted.”
“Fine. What do I say after hi?”
“Start with small talk. Ask him what his favorite movie is. After he answers, tell him you won two movie passes, and ask if he’d like to join you.”
“What? No! Boys are supposed to ask girls out.”
“I know, but you can put it out there.”
“Ugh. Can’t I just leave a note in his locker?”
“Bad idea. He’ll read the note and assume it is from some cheerleader he has a crush on. Then, he’ll follow her around like a puppy. He’ll probably find out where she lives and drive past her house, hoping for a glimpse. Then, he’ll arrange to run into her various places. He’ll finally get the courage to walk up to her and he’ll stutter like a fucking (sorry) ass. She won’t even know who the fuck (sorry again) he is and she’ll think he’s a nerdy, douche-y stalker weirdo. Her ape-sized college linebacker boyfriend will walk over and give her a kiss. Then he’ll give the stalker kid a wedgie, which will send the kid into a deep depression, which he'll try to deal with by writing sad memoirs about how every woman he falls in love with is unavailable. Who knows? Maybe the lonely lad will publish a few books or write a movie script and drown his sorrows in bourbon.”
“…”
“Um. Yeah, leave a note in his locker. Great idea.”

It’s easier to give advice to mature women.

“How do I get this guy to like me?”
“Show him your tits.”
“You’re such a dickhead. Seriously.”
“Your ass?”
“Come on.”
“How about writing a note in lipstick on a bar napkin?”
“Welcome to nineteen-seventy.”
“Buy him a drink. Maker’s Mark is a fine choice.”
“Nice try. Get your own.”
“Damn it. Just walk up to the guy, get his attention, knock on the center of his chest, and ask, ‘Excuse me, is this open for business?’”

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Swing


Three couples stood nearby as I worked on ridding another bar of its alcohol infestation. Out of respect and indifference, I usually ignore married women. However, I have noticed that when you ignore certain people they’ll display odd behaviors to grab attention. She wasn’t holding any signs, but began performing humping-jacks.

“Hey, how are you?”
“All right.”
“Are you from around here?”
“You’re married.”
“I know. My husband is right over there.”
“Right.”
“So …”
“Carlsbad.”
“Ah. You’re really cute.”
“You’re married.”
“You can still be cute,” she said while grabbing my arm.
“I guess it depends on your angle.”
“Wow, you have great arms too.”
“You’re married.”
“I know. Look, he’s cool. We’ve been married fourteen years. He trusts me. This is my friend, Emma,” she said, dragging her friend into the conversation—confusing me further.
“Hello, Emma. I’m Phil … and you’re married too.”
“Yes, I am. My husband is over there talking to Megan’s husband who, by the way, is my gyno.”
“Of course, he is.”

Both women continued the unwelcome flirtation with my buddy and me. It was disturbing not only because they were married, but because they were distracting us from the unwed. They finally left us to refuel, and we debated their intentions.

“Dude, I’ll hook up with a married woman, but not while her husband is a few feet away encouraging it.”
“You think they’re swingers?”
“No doubt.”
“They could be Christians.”
“What?”
“Some sort of cult thing, possibly. Perhaps they lure single men back to their dens, drug them, and shove speculums up their rectums.”
“No more rum for you.”
“All right. They’re swingers. Would you do it?”
“Hell no. You?”
“That little spinner, Megan, is right in my wheelhouse.”
“Go for it.”
“Nope, but I must play along.”

Megan returned, sneaking up behind me and grabbing my ass cheeks like peaches.

“Wow, you have a great ass.”
“By all means, help yourself.”
“It’s harmless. See? It gets me all worked up and then I go home and fuck the shit out of my husband.”
“Happy to be of service. I assume it’s OK for him to go a-groping too.”
“Sure, but he’s talking football with his buddies.”
“’Tis the season.”
“You can grab my butt if you like,” she offered as she turned away, bent over, and lifted her skirt—exposing her tiny pink panties. She looked over her left shoulder, smiled, and winked. Naturally, this caused me to imagine the next great one-handed catch Vincent Jackson would make.
“I like and I won’t, but thank you.”

My buddy asked if he saw what he thought he saw. I reassured him and excused myself to the restroom to cool off. After a few shakes I walked straight into Megan, who grabbed me and planted a slippery kiss on my paranoid lips.

“Hey, you.”
“Megan, what the …”
“Shh. Let’s go into a stall and do it. Want to?”
“Yes and no.”
“Don’t worry. It’s cool.”
“You have an unconventional marriage.”
“We just do what we need to keep it spicy.”
“Have you tried the jalapeño nachos?”
“Chicken.”
“… or beef. Both are picoso.”

My instincts prodded me but I couldn’t do it. What strange times we live in.

Friday, October 7, 2011

Enhance Me or Leave Me


No, I’m not seeking duck lips or melon boobs. If you’re currently single, don’t you find it interesting that as you age you limit entrance into your life to people who enhance it? The more self-sufficient you become, the less tolerant you become. I’m not speaking exclusively about sex. I doubt I’ll live to see masturbatory equipment make the other gender obsolete. It’s more about spending significant time with another person.

When we were children, we had little choice. We can’t select our siblings, neighbors, and classmates so we cope. Once we leave school, we begin to have options but the peer and familial pressures shove us down the aisle.

We go through the big wedding, nesting, reproducing, and straying. Once we hit our forties we begin to wonder what's left. Some of us take the brave and expensive route of reentering the mating pool with what some people will call damage and baggage. Pity. My experience taught me well. I’m not damaged. I’m just fine.

Then, a new strategy arises: We’re no longer out to find soul mates; we’re casually seeking people who make us happier. We’ve learned that more than one person is qualified for the position, so we don’t race back down the aisle again. We enjoy the rides and step off once things get complicated. Expiration is approaching so there’s no time to force together pieces that don’t fit.

I’m sure some people (married ones) see this as a dysfunction. It’s promiscuity, perhaps. Still, I don’t desire casual sex; I desire pleasurable sex with minimal aftertaste. I’m confident that one woman at a time can deliver those goods, but I won’t find her without hunting.

For example, say you left your husband today. (If it is easier, assume he left you.) You’re single and free. Cast away all of the financial nonsense and parental guilt that will keep you tied to an unhealthy relationship. You’re single, financially secure, the nest is empty, and your hormones are still flowing. What will you do?

I’ll tell you.

At first, you’ll timidly stick a toe in the mating pool. It’s chilly. You’ll consider going back to what you know (sucks). You’ll stick another toe in. It’s the post-marital Hokey-Pokey, if you will. You’ll have good sex with bad men and bad sex with good men. You’ll be frustrated and consider going back again. You won’t. You’ll gain confidence that you can find good sex with a good man. You finally find it and hang on. Then it sours.

Suddenly, you’re approaching fifty and you realize you don’t need your sentences finished for you. You’ve arranged your nest the way you like it and it doesn’t need more birds. You’ve found your happiness and you’re not about to trade it for penetration. Mr. Next is going to have to enhance your life significantly or he’ll remain with his competition on the fringes.

When you’ve reached this point—whether pets are involved or not—you’ve become the most attractive person you’ll ever be. Isn’t that ironic?

Thursday, October 6, 2011

One of Those Days


It’s midnight. You stare at the ceiling wondering where Steve Jobs went and why you’re not sleeping. You try to think of nothing, which means you’re thinking of thinking, thus shooting your sheep in the feet. You finally fall asleep and then your bed shakes. Fluffy decided 1 a.m. is a great time for a lick bath. Kick the sheets to chase away the nocturnal nit, sigh, and roll over. Oh no, now you have to pee. Maybe it can wait. You’re getting up at 6:30, so there should be bladder room. Nope. You get up and pee.

Back to bed. Find the warm spot. Arrange the pillows. What time is it anyway? Oh God, don’t look. You don’t want to know. Sleep now. Please!

Argh! Where is that awful sound coming from? Your alarm clock? It can’t be 6:30. Oh, shit. It is. Five more minutes. This DJ is too bubbly. He must have gotten a good night’s sleep. Prick. We don’t care what happened on DWTS unless it involved aliens and blood spatter. 6:32. Three minutes. They play the same goddamn songs every morning. “Today will be a good day … today will be a good day.” How about a sick day? Ugh. 6:35. Get up.

Why does the hot water take so long to get here? Great, the shampoo is almost out. Shake it like ketchup. Why don’t they make the top flat so it can be set on end? Stupid fucking engineers. If you try to wash your feet, you’ll probably fall, crack your skull, and eat your remaining meals through a straw. What would blended prime rib taste like? Yuck. Ouch, now you got shampoo in your eye. Nice move.

No time for a complete breakfast. Stop at Starbucks and grab a fritter and a joe to go. What’s that white spot on your slacks? Toothpaste? Christ. Lick and wipe. Holy shit, you have two different socks on. That woman coming this way is cute. Smile. Don’t look down. Stay eye-level. She smiled back. Ah, it is going to be a good day. Check out her ass. Nice, except her friend caught you doing it and is telling her how much of a colorblind creepy swine you are. Well played.

Be a nice person and hold the door. You dropped your phone. Good thing you have that armor on it. Bend down, pick it up, and drop your sunglasses. They don’t have armor, but now they have a pupil-centered scratch. Get to your desk before you’re buried in an avalanche.

So much junk mail. Why is the computer so slow? Ugh. HR is annoying. Add a snarky remark-y and forward that silly meeting reminder to your pal. Uh oh. Check your sent messages. You hit reply instead of forward. Fuck! Send the “just kidding” message and begin formulating apologies.

That looks like an interesting email from Gail. Could that be the Gail from happy hour? Click and nope, it’s an ad for the penis pump “guaranteed to add two inches.” Great. The IT guys will have a hoot with that one.

Be careful reaching for your … now you spilled coffee all over your keyb#^~!#$_*&^! … *bzzzt**fft*