Archives for September 2011

Indiana Joans

I read so much dating advice you’d think I’d be syndicated by now. Today, a column told women to be adventurous, which would make them like catnip to men. This was obviously not written by a cat owner nor a man, for that matter. I, on the other hand, have two cats, one bag of catnip, and zero bed warmers. Hence, I am qualified. I’ll dump a bit on the floor and document the reaction. Then, you can decide if you want your man all high on your sexual catnip.

Syd (black, skinny, sees ghosts) let loose a tiny mew and crawled over the nip. Now, he’s rolling onto his back and squirming around in it. He’s taking a breather. Let me interview him.

“How’s it going, Syd?”


“You look like a cheap slice of pizza overly coated in oregano.”

“All right.”

“How are you feeling? Horny, at all?”

“Do we have any Cheetos?”

“No. Does this make you want to be with a kitten, perhaps?”

“Ew, don’t be gross. She has to be a cat–at least two-and-a-half.”

“Ah ha, so you are feeling horny.”

“Wait, let me get this crap out of my eyes. OK. Now, what? Horny? No, not really. I mean, I’m not about to turn down a good licking, but right now I could eat a fucking carp.”


I’m taking that as one vote nay. Perhaps my other cat, Symon (orange, chubby, lazy), will give me a better interview. I’ve dumped a line on the floor and here he comes. Lovely. He’s eating it.

“Dickhead, you’re not supposed to eat it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re supposed to smell it and rub around in it.”

“Hey, do I tell you what to do with your M&Ms?”

“There’s no nutritional value in catnip, you idiot.”

“I like the way it tastes. Why don’t you roll around in it?”

“Fine. How is it making you feel?”

“Well, a few pieces are stuck … say, do we have any toothpicks? I have this pesky food pocket.”

“Stop eating the catnip! Now, does it make you want to make out?”

“With Syd? Jesus, man.”

“No, not with your brother, with a girlie cat.”

“What are my other choices and do any of them include salty flakes of tuna?”

“Fine. It makes you hungry.”

“Pop, honestly, breathing makes me hungry.”

So much for that. Ladies, go right ahead and be adventurous if you want your man to roll around on the floor and do wind sprints to the refrigerator and snack drawer.

What does the writer mean by “adventurous” anyway? I don’t see how smearing on some eye-black, climbing out the window, crawling under the porch, and ca-cawing like a crow is going to make any man horny. Perhaps sexually adventurous is what’s intended. I once had a date lift her skirt and flop over the arm of my La-Z-Boy. She gave me a devilish wink. I fetched some ping-pong balls and a catcher’s mitt–not what she intended. What do I know?

Lucky Bug

My imaginary daughter, Mary, came to the gym with me today. She enjoys watching TV on the elliptical machine while I turn purple on the gauntlet. Mary keeps one eye on me at all times and reminds me to be “suh … tull” when I encounter a rather attractive specimen in tights. As we left the gym and climbed into my Jeep, she noticed a ladybug on my window.

“Oh my gawd, Daddy! Look! It’s good luck.”

“It’s a bug, sweetheart,” I said atheistically as I lowered my window. Naturally, instead of flying away or falling outside the car, the bug rode the window down and landed in my lap. You would have thought a starving piranha was tossed there based on Mary’s reaction, which caused me to flinch, open the door, and swat it away.


“Jeez Louise. It’s a goddamn bug, you nut.”

“You said a bad word. Oh, and you killed an innocent creature sent from the afterlife to bring you good luck. You’ll probably have a satellite fall on your head or something now. I’m not standing anywhere near you. In fact,” she continued as she got out, “I’m calling a taxi.”

“Get in this car right now, young lady.”


“The bug’s not even dead, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it has wings. It just flew away. I saw it.”

“Get in the car.”

“Fine, but if some eighteen wheeler careens out of control and splats you all over the window, I’m not even going to mourn. You do have life insurance, right?”

“Shut it.”

She reluctantly got back in and secured her belt. She stared at me as we drove out of the parking lot. As fate would have it, some idiot came tearing around the corner, slammed on his breaks, and stopped within three feet of my door.


“Look, honey, we don’t do superstition in this family.”

“Then how do you explain what just happened? I think it was a sign from Juno.”

“It was just coincidence.”

“Didn’t your horoscope say something about staying in bed today?”

“It’s just some punk in a damn Toyota who was probably on the phone.”

“Oh, and he just happened to be passing by at the exact moment you reached the corner.”


“You’d better go back and check on the ladybug.”

“I will not. Stop being silly.”

I pulled out and turned left on my side street. As I accelerated up the hill, a bird took a giant dump which landing in a perfect star formation at driver’s eye level. Mary raised an eyebrow as I pushed the windshield wash button, resulting in a white and yellow semi-circle smear.


I turned to the right and flipped a U-ey. When I pulled back into the space next to my original one, I was careful to avoid running over the bug, which would have probably caused a lightning strike. As soon as I put the Jeep in park, Mary jumped out. Sure enough, she found the ladybug crawling around on the pavement, unaware of the angst it caused me. She lifted the bug gingerly, showed me, and gently blew in her palm, causing my lucky bug to fly away.

Little Cesare

Since eliminating the possibility of offspring I’ve been having nightmares about raising two troublesome tykes–one of each gender. My son, Cesare, is ten-years-old and he’s a tyrant.

“I’m tired of leaving work to pick you up from the principal’s office. Next time your skinny ass is walking home.”
“Da-ad. You told me to stand up for myself.”
“You kicked a little girl in the vagina. What the hell is the matter with you, son?”
“Well, as it turns out, girls don’t have balls, so what was I supposed to do?”
“How about not kick her in the crotch, for one?”
“It’s your fault, anyway.”
“Really? How so?”
“She was making fun of my name, which you gave me. Thank you very little.”
“It’s tradition. The first son gets named after the grandfather.”
“My friends walk around with hip names like Connor and Tyler. I would have welcomed Joe or Bill for fuck’s sake.”
“Language! Your name is unique. You should embrace that. No little girl’s teasing should make you have a violent reaction.”
“She called me queasy Cesare, the pants pee-er.”
“That’s pretty clever, actually.”
“How’d you like a kick in the cunt, too?”
“I don’t have … ugh … hey! Watch your mouth!”
“You swear all the time.”
“That’s no excuse. I’m an adult.”
“Whatever. Say, why don’t we stop by the pub and grab a brew? You seem uptight. Maybe it would mellow your ass out.”
“I am mellow, damn it!”
“Right. Come on, Pop, let’s have a beer or six.”
“You’re not drinking beer. You’re ten.”
“Fine. I’ll have a cranberry rocks and be that cute kid all the chicks dig.”
“I’ll never understand why that works.”
“Just leave it to me. I got you, bro.”
“Just keep the monkey-love noises down after you bring the bar slut home. House is on tonight and I don’t want any distractions.”
“Well, what if the bar slut conveniently has a mini-slut with her?”
“Interesting prospect.”
“It happens. Maybe the mini-slut would want to get all freaky-deaky with Little Cesare.”
“No doubt. She’d need to wait until House was over. Do we have any wine?”
“Yes and no, you won’t be drinking wine.”
“No weed either.”
“You suck. It’s not fair. You get to use contraband to gain access and I’m left with my boyish charm and Pop Rocks.”
“What the hell does Pop Rocks candy have to do with it?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? They’re only the best thing since Altoids.”
“Best for what? Breath-freshening?”
“God, you are oblivious. Pussy eating, dumb-dumb.”
“Think about it–all of that fizziness causes vibrations and sensations. Next thing you know, lying next to you is a quivering lump of post-orgasmic sweetness.”
“Huh. Go figure.”
“See? We should hang out more. You could learn a thing or two.”
“You’re fucking TEN, slapnuts!”
“I’m an old ten. Now, how about that drink?”
“Fine, but you’re buying.”
“Fine. Hey, think you could advance me a fiver on the allowance, Pop?”


Another one of those stupid online surveys asked men what they want in a wife. Duh, their penises. Next question, please. If they asked the same question of women, the answer would something inane like, “A best friend.” Oh, lonesome and bitter me. Where’s the romance? Fine.

Here’s a sample of what the ape’s responses were after the grunting:

  • Sports fan
  • All of her teeth
  • College degree
  • Large boobs
  • Support
  • Cleanliness
  • Freaky sex

Here are things this ape wants in a wife:

  • Directions
  • Confidence
  • Intelligence
  • Sex drive
  • Hatred of condoms
  • Feline fanciness
  • Financial responsibility
  • Appreciation
  • Sense of humor
  • Baseball knowledge

These are things I don’t want in a wife:

  • Other men
  • Gods
  • Cigars
  • Secrets
  • Cocaine
  • Bad breath
  • Real estate license
  • Leechiness
  • Womb for rent
  • Arrogance

No surprises there. The problem is we can’t order our spouse from a menu where we can trust the ingredients listed are true. Every dish I’ve ordered from the menu had falsely listed features. The caloric contents were typically understated as were the number of diners who previously enjoyed the dish.

If women were polled, I predict they’d want the following in a spouse:

  • Great kisser
  • Sensitivity
  • Successful career
  • Height
  • Talented tongue
  • Hairless back
  • Generosity
  • Good listening skills
  • White teeth
  • Dedication without distraction

Well, therein lies the problem: Our desires don’t match up. This is why each gender needs to modify the list to include the most important feature of all: tolerance. We need to accept the bad with the good. Any undesirable feature can be overridden by a but.

“…, but she gives a legendary blowjob.”

“…, but he owns a penthouse and a Ferrari.”

“…, but she has an amazing ass.”

“…, but he loves to cook dinner and cuddle.”

“…, but she doesn’t want to have children.”

“…, but he’s about to be signed by the Yankees.”

“…, but she’s old, rich, and has a bad cough.”

“…, but he gets free tickets to fashion events.”

“…, but she knows very little English.”

“…, but he’s such a nice guy.”


People, please! Icksnay with the FDA (Facebook Displays of Affection). Perhaps I am sour because I have nobody to make the other half of my hand-heart picture. Or, perhaps I am bothered by braggarts. Go ahead, walk the city streets arm-in-arm if you must. I pardon you. But, if you post one more lovey-dovey Facebook picture, I’m unfriending you until your relationship implodes. Then, I’ll remind you to untag yourself and interview you for a future essay.

The kid thing bugs me too. Again, perhaps it’s because I never found a penetrable egg or because my disconnected juevos guarantee I’ll never change a diaper or wear shoulder puke. Whatever. Parents, believe me when I tell you (because your friends and relatives won’t), your kids are considered cute by two to six (if we include grandparents) people. Your Facebook pals may deliver the compliments you seek, but they’d much rather see funny captions on pictures of Kmart shoppers.

I blame weddings for this annoyance. They are grand displays of opulence designed to satisfy the ego, generate startup capital, and brag–to those of us who choose to maintain a single toothbrush–about how “fortunate” the lovers are to have found each other. Here’s what a wedding should consist of:

  • I promise not to stick my dick in any other vaginas.
  • I promise not to allow any other dicks to enter my vagina.
  • I now pronounce you wife and husband (ladies first).

That’s one recession-proof matrimony right there. No candy-coated almonds or netting required.

“Wow, you two got married.”


“I didn’t see anything about it on Facebook.”

“That’s because we’re not attention whores.”

“Where was the reception?”

“On our sofa. You weren’t invited.”

“Well, still, if I knew, I would have gotten you a gift.”

“All right, buy me a beer and my wife drinks vodka.”

“Where did you spend your honeymoon?”

“At work.”

“That sucks.”

“Depends on the job, doesn’t it?”

“Good point.”

Aw, another cute couple just popped up on my feed: Jack and Jill in little aprons cooking dinner. (Gag!) They look so happy together. (Barf!) Ooh, the candle lit table with fine china. (Burp.) The fancy plates of food: chicken, colorful carrots, and stinky-pee asparagus. (Yick.) Look, empty plates with tiny gravy smears. (Blech.) Now, the happy couple snuggles on the loveseat with cups of tea and scones while watching a romantic comedy. (Boo, hiss.)

Who’s taking these pictures? Why isn’t the photographer refusing to do so unless threatened at gunpoint?

No more moochie faces, people. Quit it. Next time you’re tempted to post an FDA, imagine you’re on a sit-com set with a studio audience of sarcastic pricks like me. Consider that we enjoy pictures of bikini babes, MMA knockouts, and expensive cars. We pass along videos of bikers going off cliffs, baseballs connecting with man-balls, and shit blowing up. Now, go right ahead and audition your little love-fest for us. Look lovingly into your soulmate’s eyes and be prepared to be showered in asshole-ades.

Crazy Is

If you had the displeasure of standing next to me at my place of work (a bar), you noticed my uncanny ability to attract lunatics. I welcome their company because ordinary people require too much creative energy on my part to make them weird enough to write about. Last night was an all-star night as I checked more than once for a full moon.

“I hate my husband. He calls himself ‘Big Daddy’ and treats me like a child.”


“He gives me an allowance. Can you believe that? Twelve-hundred dollars the first of the month.”

“I wouldn’t mind a Big Mommy giving me an allowance.”

“I mean, really, what am I supposed to do with twelve-hundred dollars?”

“Bread pudding would be a good start.”

“I’m over it. I’m leaving him.”

“All right.”

“In fact, I’m over men. Men just want my body. Well, they can’t have it. I’m tired of it.”

“But …”

“I don’t need men. No more men for me. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be a lesbian either.”

“Perish the thought.”

“I’m skinny, huh? I have to watch how much I drink. I should eat.”

“All right.”

“Look at my belly,” she demanded as she lifted her shirt exposing her ribcage coated in saggy, post-natal skin.

“Yes, you are skinny … in a fit way. You must do lots of sit-ups.”

“I love protein.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Don’t you?”


“What about it?”

“I love bacon. Bacon has protein. Which protein were you referring to?” he said hopefully.

“I drink Muscle Milk.”

“Love Muscle Milk?”


“Um … don’t you love Muscle Milk?”

“I do. I also love fish tacos. My friend and I are called ‘The Double Ds.’ Did you know that?”

“What an odd nickname.”

“It’s because we both have names that begin with D.”


“Well, we both have large boobs too.”

“I can see that.”

“I might be getting drunk. You know what? Fuck Big Daddy. I’m not going home to that prick.”

“All right.”

At this point one of my friends entered the bar and approached. I gave him my best stay-the-fuck-away look, but he noticed the boobs instead of my warning.

“Yo, Vito, what’s happening? Happy belated birthday.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“Who’s this?”

“This, my friend, is one half of the famous Double Ds. She loves protein and hates her husband.”

“Well, then it’s an honor.”

“I have to pee. Be right back.”

I jogged to the restroom and sent him a warning text: “Dude, this chick is bat-shit fucking crazy. Run away!”

There was no escaping her. We had to wait until her bladder gave us an opening. Once she hit the restroom, it was assholes and elbows as we bolted to the next asylum.


People are running out of things to talk about. The weather is too hot, cold, or wet. *yawn* The stock market is up or down. *frown* I watched last night’s show or I missed it. *shrug* To generate interesting chitchat, we need something new to whine about.

“Did you notice the new Facebook feed layout?”


“I can’t believe they would do that. Those guys are so clueless.”

“Yet, you were on it all day.”

“Why didn’t they consult anyone before they made such drastic changes?”

“You mean why didn’t they consult you, right?”

“Oh, come on. I’m not the only person who has a problem with it. Haven’t you seen all of the complaints?”

“Yes. I saw them displayed on the new feed. It was convenient.”

“Why are you defending them?”

“Because they have their reasons, which are financial reasons based on research we’re not privy to. A week from now you won’t even notice.”

Complaining on Facebook about the new Facebook layout just seems weird to me. It’s like going into Starbucks and ordering a macchiato and then walking around the store drinking it while telling everyone in line how much you hate it. If I were in line and heard your complaint, I’d consider the source as credible as penis enlargement cream.

Imagine if you did any of the following:

  • Bought tickets to an MLB playoff game, sat behind the dugout, and complained the entire ballgame that pitchers don’t throw spitballs anymore and long balls suck since the steroid ban.
  • Drove a Prius down the highway and pointed out the ugly Nissan Leaf that just passed you.
  • Pushed a flatbed around Costco, loaded with toilet paper, cases of soda, and oversized boxes of cereal while complaining that the soda was inconveniently located in the rear corner of the store for “no apparent reason.” (The reason is quite apparent, actually: Costco wants you to encounter as many sales as possible on your way to the popular fizzy sugar.)
  • Stood at the grocery store’s self-scan checkout and complained you don’t know the code for peaches.
  • Sat in a bathroom stall, begging your neighbor for a courtesy flush after giving birth to a nostril singeing stank stew of your own.
  • Whining to the fast-food drive thru clerk that people take too long to order at the drive thru.

I get it: Nobody likes change. People find it easier to adapt when they can pout, stomp, and protest first. Isn’t it better to expect change and embrace it? My cats get it. The minute I change the litter, those two little fuckers race to see who can be the first to soil it. They don’t stare angrily at me while filling out a comment card. Granted, I have exceptionally smart and tolerant kitties, but still, even moronic mutts adapt to change.

So, fellow Facebookers, let’s take it easy on poor Zuckerberg and his minions. He has billions of reasons to disregard your angst. Why waste it on him when you can always complain about gas prices.

Not Gonna Do It

Hank has been seeing Kim for a few weeks now. She wants to take it slowly. He wants sex, regardless of the complications it may cause. Men. Kim likes Hank. If she didn’t see anything longer term she’d gladly bang his brains out and then stop answering texts. Hank realizes he’s thinking with his penis again. He can’t fight it–never could. Kim sets the boundaries.

“You can come over, but we’re not going to do anything so don’t get any ideas.”

“You mean we’re just going to lamppost all night?”

“I’m talking about sex. We can play around, but no sex.”

“I’m fine with that,” Hank said, fully aware that Kim may relent if he finds the right spot.

“Are you?”

“You bet.”


“Just for clarification sake, what does ‘playing around’ include?”

“You know.”

“I don’t and you don’t want me guessing. I tend to have a liberal sense when it comes to coitus.”

“There won’t be any penetration.”

“All right.”

“We can kiss. I love kissing.”

“Fine. Can I grab your butt?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Excellent. How about some cupping of the boobies?”

“Um …”

“Through the shirt, naturally.”

“OK, fine.”

“I agree. Nothing too naughty can happen through clothing, right?”

“I suppose.”

“So, might I surmise that I can rub you in the right way in any area as long as I stay on the outside of your clothing?”

“Within reason.”

“What if my hand slides between your jeans and your panties?”

“Fine, but nothing under the panties.”

“This is getting you all excited, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“Damn. If, in the throes of passion, your top slides up a bit and I happen to drive by a nipple or two, would you grant the pardon?”


“Good to know. I’ll grant the same pardon if my penis accidentally pokes you in the tonsils.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Ah, I kid. You should let me give you oral pleasure though. I’ve been reading up and would love to try some new methods.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on–be a sport.”

“Let’s just see how the night goes.”

“Fair enough. Can I bring some wine?”


“Hey, why don’t we take a bubble bath? That would be fun. I can stop on the way over and pick up a tub teabag.”

“If we do that, we’ll probably end up doing it.”

“You think? I know you grow weak around my gun show. I’ll make sure you behave yourself.”

“Sure, you will.”

“Then, it’s settled. The ground rules have been established and I expect you to follow them or there may be an erection.”


“Ah, you caught that, did ya?”


“Semantics. I’ll be over in a few, my love.”

“See you soon and remember to behave yourself.”

How do you think this all played out? I’d say there was a high chance of penetration followed by a twinge of guilt, apologies, and probably a second coming.

I Swear

Where did I pick up such a potty mouth? Phew. Some of the expletives I release make even me blush. Naturally, I attract ladies with impeccable vocabulary and they’re none to impressed by my creative cussing.

Here’s my justification: I need to swear in order to release stress. If I hold it in, I’m going to get a sour belly.

The most fearful Christians employ the interesting method of changing an obvious curse into a pardon granted due to technicality. You know the type–something awful happens like, say, Tim’s reading glasses plop into the public john when he bends over to re-tuck his willy and he lets it fly: “God bless it.”

He must be joking. There’s no way Tim wants God to bless the fact that he’s going fishing in his own puddle of urine, spit, and discarded chewing gum to retrieve some cheaters, which cost under $10 at Costco for three. If there were a God, he should peel back the mall roof and do as he was asked, thereby making Tim’s next commode trip culminate in a Blackberry splashdown.

When I was ten-ish on the Little League mound, I often missed my target and occasionally attempted to recalibrate by exclaiming, “Fuck!” It was ill advised indeed, as my Sicilian father (who cursed like Richard Pryor on fire) didn’t have the hearing problems I have and threatened to feed me Ivory cakes until I repented.

Roll forward forty years and I still can’t throw a goddamn (sorry) strike. I foolishly invited my latest dating-disaster-in-training to the game before realizing she is very, very Christian and is bruised by words I find therapeutic. I gave up hit number five in a row and yelled, “Fuck me! I suck. If I hit another goddamn bat like that I’m retiring.” I saw her nun’s habit fray and ignite. After the inning finally ended, I visited Sister Mary of the Silver-Tongued.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Well, that wasn’t very nice.”

“I know. That fucking guy can’t even bat his weight and he hit a double.”

“I was referring to your cursing.”


“I’m sorry, I just don’t approve of taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Oh. I apologize. Can I say ‘fuck’?”

“That’s even worse.”

“Jesus … oops, sorry.”

“That’s OK. Better luck next inning. Aren’t you up next?”

“Ah, yes. Be right back.” I took a few steps, stopped, and pleaded, “Say, how about ‘shit’?”



I grabbed my helmet, took some practice swings, and stepped into the box. Both the ump and the catcher remarked that my woman in the stands must have a complete lack of self-esteem or serious vision problems to be dating me. I held in the naughty word and watched strike one go by–a cock (not the swear-word type) shot. I fouled off strike two and then was called out on a breaking pitch I should have crushed. I had to say something.

“Fart bubbles.”

“What did you just say?” the ump asked while removing his mask. I think the catcher went into convulsions.

“Fart bubbles,” I repeated as I glanced toward my saintly guest, who did not nod the approval I expected.

“I should toss your sorry ass for that. What the fuck’s wrong with you, son?”

“That pitch was doo-doo,” I said as I sulked back to the bench and took another well-deserved beating from my teammates.

Gosh darn it.


The decisive moment arrives after a few dates when it’s time to adjust your strategy. Depending on how much you like the person, you should pursue, trail slightly, or lay way back. Be careful though as you can scare away your prey if you’re reckless. Then again, if it is your intention to ditch the datee, your actions could inadvertently create a love leech.

For example, if you are frightened and falling for this person, your tendency to overdo it could leave you sobbing. Therefore, men, if this is you, don’t:

  • Buy her jewelry.
  • Say those three words.
  • Book any fancy vacations for two.
  • Tell her or any of your male friends.
  • Buy her a puppy.
  • Introduce her at a work function as your girlfriend.
  • Ask her father anything other than which scotch he prefers.
  • Send flowers to her workplace.
  • Tell her she’s the best lover you ever had.
  • Over-call or text her.

Ladies can play this game poorly as well. It’s OK to tell your mom, sister, and best friends “he might be the one,” but for fuck’s sake, don’t tell him. Also, don’t:

  • Leave anything at his house other than a hair pull. That means no underwear, toothbrushes, or lotions.
  • Show up unannounced at one of his boys’ nights out.
  • Discuss finances.
  • Forget to take your pill.
  • Touch his penis while he’s driving. Wait. OK, scratch that one.
  • Ask strangers to take pictures of the happy couple, and if you already did that, never freaking ever make said picture your mobile phone wallpaper or profile picture.
  • Book a couples massage.
  • Rearrange his stuff or clean anything.
  • Ask how many lovers he has had. You don’t want to know and he’d lie anyway.
  • Email him love quotes.

Trailing the object of your desire is the most successful method. It keeps the other person engaged without feeling pestered. Do this by:

  • Not sending more than two unanswered texts or anything over 140 characters.
  • Maintaining nights where you are unavailable.
  • Leaving before breakfast.
  • Resisting the urge to check his or her cell phone and keeping yours inaccessible.
  • Leaving your online dating profiles visible, but inactive … for now.
  • Using the “I was drunk” excuse to cover your ass when doing or saying something stupid in the heat of the moment.
  • Suggesting you each do your own thing and maybe meet up later.
  • Maintaining radio silence while attending a bachelor/bachelorette party.
  • Insisting there is separation of lovers and relatives.
  • Leaving some of the ex’s belongings around the house to be discovered.

Chasing the next ex away is simple. Be sure to add a sprinkle of meanness into the breakup so the person doesn’t become that stray animal that follows you everywhere. Here’s a great line you can borrow:

  • “There’s no chemistry so if your phone doesn’t ring, it’s probably me.”


As I wade and drink margaritas on my Mexican vacation, I notice numerous sparkles from the fingers and eyes of newlyweds. Meeting me and hearing what I do is likely cause for consternation.

“Ah, I kid. It’s all fiction, you know?”
“But, it’s based in reality.”
“So, what advice would you give newlyweds?”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Hate it while it lasts?”
“It’s supposed to last forever, isn’t it?”
“I’m a statistics man and the odds are it won’t.”
“Well, you asked. Look, my point is that you two should enjoy the heck out of what you have right now without worrying about what’s coming. Like this honeymoon (Ha, I just typo’d hineymoon … I’m such a hiney.), you know you can’t spend the rest of your lives here at this magnificent pool bar, so enjoy it now and avoid thinking about what’s next.”

The couples are cute reminders of a fun time for me over 20 years ago. The brides all have odd looks on their faces–a combination of relief and confusion. They buried themselves in wedding planning for a year or so and in a flash it’s over. Now what? All that remains of the special day are thank-you notes and re-gifting. Some begin considering parenthood as the next destination. Again, I remind them to concentrate on the trip, not the destination. In other words, “Fuck a lot, while you both still enjoy it. Leave the baby making to the storks.”

The grooms are definitely more chilled (until they check the bill). They have dessert, after dinner drinks, cigars, and post-pool quickies. It’s all good. Hm. The other brides around the pool are still distracting. Oh, well. This French one over here is topless. Her perfect Hershey’s kisses sit high up on her breasts, making her a delicious dessert–an expensive one, should he ever foolishly indulge. No, marriage hasn’t taken away the instinct. That ring doesn’t cover his eyes. Yet, the cost of momentary weakness is staggering and he’s confident he can control himself. Good boy, for now.

Again, this is all sarcastic silliness with a dab of reality.

This much is true and I’ll testify to such on a stack of Oreos: Concentrate on growing your friendship, because if your marriage ends, the friendship will be the most wonderful thing you get to keep–not your children, not your pets, not your china, not your paycheck, not your memories. If you build that friendship into love, it can last much longer than the sexual fires you’ve stoked. You can love that person and forgive the way you would any close friend’s misdeeds. You can expose parts you’d be embarrassed to show others. You can be weak without fear of being judged.

Enjoy the honeymoon. Squeeze every drop from it. Play your role, but regularly remind your spouse of your admiration and appreciation. Commit to creating happiness in each moment. Your spouse is your best friend now. That friendship will get you both through the obstacle course you’ll face when the honeymoon ends.


It feels like forty, only with a bit more gray and tequila. I decided a solo trip was in order for this one because I am an unsociable prick. Kidding. Don’t you ever enjoy alone time? It’s nice not having to worry about pleasing other people. That’s hard work. So, here I sit poolside at the most amazing resort I’ve ever visited and I’m the one being pleased. People, you MUST set aside time every year to be spoiled to the point where you become tired of saying “Gracias.”

I admit a little hot tub nookie, shower sharing, and moonlit kissing would enhance this experience, but today I’ll replace those with jalapeño margaritas, filet mignon, and the sounds of crashing waves and festive music.

The rest of the resort is paired up, so oddball I am left to give the workers a break from all the PDA. It’s certainly not cheap to stay here at Las Ventanas al Paraiso, but it’s worth it. They have a staff of 370 serving 71 rooms. That’s a great ratio. They all know and can pronounce (!) my name. I get cold towels to cool off with, I just had a lemon and cilantro ice cream cone, and none of this requires I sit through a timeshare presentation. (A cute server just winked at me … in Spanish. I hope it means the same as above the border: “Stop staring at my tits and order something, will you?”)

I hear celebrities vacation here often. Perhaps I’ll run into a few. Here are some I’d love to have a cervesa with:
1. Chelsea Handler — It would probably be more than one cervesa and she’d make me pee myself.
2. Nicholas Cage — He just seems like a cool dude. Raising Arizona is a favorite and I want to get stoned with him and reminisce.
3. Joan Rivers — A legend. I’d suckle her small toe if she asked.
4. President Clinton — You just know this fucker can party and he has some legendary off-the-record shit to share.
5. Either Williams sister — Big, sexy, and sassy. Daddy likey. I’d love to hear Serena go off on a bartender. “You’re just an ugly, fat person who can’t make a skinny margarita.”
6. Nolan Ryan — Pitching tips. Oh, never mind.
7. Sandra Bullock — Really? Do I have to say the words? She’s only the sexiest woman since … since … the big fucking bang. There!

Naturally, no celebrities will arrive and if they did, none of them would waste their time amusing a peon like me. This week I shall concentrate on my pregnancy. I am approaching my second trimester and after I devour tonight’s flaming something con something, I may need to ultrasound for twins. Floppy man boobs are acceptable at my advanced age as long as I know how to tongue-punch a love button.



While in a 600 MPH flying tube to my birthday destination, I made some observations. I’m not calling them interesting–more curious.

1. Why, on flights, can’t the personnel use normal terminology? On the Mexican immigration form it asked for my surname (yes, I had to pause and think about it) and port of embarkation. I bet over 20% of the people on the plane answered incorrectly. Why not just say “last name” and “where are you coming from?” Stupid. Or, maybe I’m stupid because I haven’t properly stowed my iPad. Stowed? Really? Couldn’t the stewardess say, “Put your stuff away” and stop showing off with fancy words only used in flying tubes? She won’t be a flight attendant to me until she does.

2. Why does the life-of-the-party guy have to sit near me? He’s not friendly; he’s trying too fucking hard. Some people (me) don’t want to have a conversation with people (you). We want to read the magazine in the pouch and avoid thinking about how awful plummeting to earth would be, with or without floatation devices.

3. The people who work for the airline must have been told by someone that when they speak into a public address microphone, they become instant standup comedians. They don’t. They’re ten times worse than anyone at the most remote open mic night. Ole Jack Benny in a vest broke out this one today: “Hey folks, just a little reminder that here in Mexico you’re no longer on Pacific Standard Time; you’re on … party time.” Uk, uk, uk, uk … he’s a riot.

4. Why are toddlers so fascinated by the people (me again) in the row behind them. Don’t they see people outside of the tube? I don’t look any different in row 26 than I do pushing a grocery cart. This little fucker is fishing for compliments and I’m not biting. He’s not cute. He’s making me paranoid. Ew, now he’s pushing his little finger fries through the crack in the seat while his parents sit catatonic and I push them back with my stirrer.

5. Jesus, who farted? 

6. Why does airline coffee taste like it’s two days old?

7. Who decided that pretzels and peanuts make good flight snacks? Who goes to the store and buys a mix of peanuts and pretzels? No-fucking-body! How about Doritos, corn chips, or the most obvious: potato chips? They aren’t any less healthy than the salty lumps of crap they serve.

8. Why do people cheer when the plane lands? It happens thousands of times a day and only rarely doesn’t. In fact, when it doesn’t happen, nobody can offer much of a critique anyway. When the cab pulls to the curb, I don’t clap. When the barista hands me my coffee, he hears no applause. When I shut my front door and my house doesn’t crumble into the earth, I don’t cheer. It’s supposed to happen that way and no additional appreciation need be shown for the ordinary. If the pilot landed the plane, did four 360s, and a rear-axle wheelie, I’d give that fucker props, especially if I can turn back on my electronic devices.

Son of a Beach

I love it and dread it at the same time. When I have a free day and the marine layer cooperates, I’ll don the board shorts and head to the beach. I usually encounter many good and many bad things. There must be an angle to making the trip enjoyable.

Here are the essentials I bring with me and my clan of nobody:

  • Towel
  • Chair
  • Sunscreen
  • Water Bottle
  • iPhone
  • Kindle
  • Almonds
  • Binoculars

Once I find a parking space, I wobble down the stairs to the beach. Hoards of families abound. I look for an empty circle. A ten-foot perimeter will do. My view should be sand, waves, and horizon. It should include no children.

Laying out my towel is one of those tasks I hope nobody watches me do. The breeze doesn’t cooperate. My backpack falls to my elbow. The chair is upside down. Finally, the towel is set. I stand on the far corners, holding them down with my sneakers. (Yes, I know sneakers don’t belong on the beach. Sue me.) I knock off the sneakers, stand in the middle of the towel, and peel off my socks and shirt while sucking in my gut. I stuff my socks into my sneakers and plop my grogginess down into the chair.


A sip of water, a sigh, and I’m powering up my Kindle to finish The Hunger Games. Not five minutes later, three idiots decide to play Frisbee. Guess where? Yep, right in front of me. Can anyone throw a Frisbee accurately? No, they can’t. Does the ocean breeze make matters worse? Yes, it does. Is it safe for me to bury my face in my Kindle? Not unless I’m prepared to be scalped by an errant toss. Miles and miles of beach and these fuck-knuckles pick here to display their genetic flaws. After they hit three different people (not counting the one who was counting), they finally decide to head back to the family circle and consume Tostitos and sarsaparilla.

Peace again.

Here comes little Suzy and Debbie with their dad who is going to teach them how to play Smashball. What better place than right in front of this nice man and his Kindle? Children can’t play Smashball. Girls don’t even want to play Smashball. Give them a fucking toy shovel and tell them to bury each other. You’re not raising Russian tennis pros, dude. Suzy is bonked in the head and cries. Game over. Thank goodness.

Sanity returns.

Teenage girls decide to set up camp in front of Mr. Nice Guy. Under my breath I say, “Please stop bending over. No, I’m not looking but I can tell you’re bending over. Quit it. Why do you need a reason to not do something? How about because it’s not ladylike?”

They carry on obliviously. Now, it’s time to wiggle out of tiny jean shorts. “Stop wiggling. Will you PLEASE stop wiggling. Just pull the shorts down. Oh Christ. Hold onto the strap of your … aw, now look what you did. Your Honor, I don’t know why I couldn’t look away. I’m sorry. Yes, take me to prison as long as no Frisbees are there.”

Fine, the girls are lying quietly. Back to my book. On one I notice a tiny gap between the bikini waistband and her waist. I’m not looking. Nope. What if they’re both nineteen? It’s legal then. I’m not looking. Shit. Don’t roll over … oh no. Keep your ankles together, will you? Please! I’m not looking. I’ll turn over and read on my belly. There. Fine. Jesus, now my back and neck ache. I’ll lie on my side. Now my elbow hurts. I need a beer. OK, back on my beach chair.

Now, three pink dodos decide to throw the football around to impress the girlies. I am unimpressed. I want a big shark to beach itself and eat them one at a time with a nice chianti and some lupini beans.

Why must I torture myself?

Finally, I pack up my little picnic and head back to my home where I can recline on my bed with my Kindle and … ring, ring, ring … there’s no escaping telemarketers. I wonder if I can find a YouTube video on how to tie a noose.


When attending a picnic at a friend’s place, you don’t place any orders. You take the plate graciously and eat around what you don’t like. Then, if there’s enough wreckage left on the plate, you clear it before the host sees. That’s how it’s done. Decency demands it. So, why must every cretin around me place custom orders? This have-it-your-way generation bugs me.

“Yes, I would like the Italian Sub. Could I have that without onions and with extra jalapeños?”

First,  shittard, jalapeños don’t belong on anything Italian. Did you ever hear of a pepperoni burrito? Of course not. How about a taco with anchovies? Perish the thought. Second, if you don’t like onions, remove them yourself. Nobody is saying you must eat the onions. You are not allergic. Stop using allergies as an excuse to act persnickety. You are to order and receive the item the way the cook designed it and the menu describes it. Eat it any way you like, but don’t you dare ask for things on the side that belong within the dish, you little snit.

If I’m asked my preference, that’s different.

“How would you like your burger cooked, sir?”
“Medium … and stop calling me sir. My chin fur is sun-bleached, not gray.”
“Yes, um, patron … er, person?”
“Go away.”

Nowadays if you don’t like it, you don’t eat it. When I was a child, if I didn’t like it, I fucking ate it and acted as though I liked it, or else. I guess that stuck with me. I’m not part of the entitled generation of spoiled thumb-bags whose parents lucked out on an internet stock that helped them afford to avoid dealing with leftovers. You’re darn tootin’ I’m ornery. (I bought Enron.)

A salad with dressing on the side is a pile of leaves. French fries with ranch dressing are vagina creators. Gluten-free food is for wimpy-bellies who didn’t eat enough Tabasco and undercooked bacon in their younger years. Eat what’s on the menu, people! Eat what’s in front of you!

Think of it the same way you think of a shot someone buys you–say a SoCo Lime, for instance. You don’t wrinkle you nose, cry for a chaser, or take any Tums before downing one. You may take longer than others to finish it, but you won’t leave anything measurable in the bottom of the glass, will you? No. Because your friends will drop the vagina triangle on your ass. (The vagina triangle is made with the fingers of two hands, similar to the heart thing that Taylor Swift makes, but it’s much more meaningful and less doucheist.) If you are female, you obviously can’t receive the vagina triangle, so you’ll probably have peers stare at you and comment about your shoes behind your back. They might even say you look frumpish. Fine. You’ve been warned. My work is done here.

Now, finish what’s on your plate and you’re not leaving this table until you do. I don’t want any sass out of you. Not “but”s either. I expect that plate to be as clean as when your mother pulled it from the Palmolive. Tuck in that bottom lip and stop playing with your food. Lord, what am I going to do with you?