Archives for December 2011

Nice Knowing You

“What are you doing up so early?”
“Finishing my sixth book.”
“Can I read it?”
“That depends on if you’re feeling paranoid or not.”
“Why? Did you write about me?”
“Like I said.”
“Six books. Maybe you should take a break. Come back to bed.”
“I can’t.”
“I think you’re addicted to the internet.”
“If you say so.”
“You spend eight hours a day staring at a computer screen–weekends too.”
“Well, that’s my job.”
“You’re not writing all that time.”
“True. Do you have any idea how many undiscovered boobs there are online?”
“So you’re surfing porn.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Come back to bed where there are live, touchable boobs waiting.”
“All right, after I finish this piece.”

Fifteen minutes later she confronts me, fully dressed while carrying her overnight bag, iPhone, and runny eyes.

“Where are you going?”
“You don’t love me. You love Facebook and Twitter, but you don’t love me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Which part?”
“Just give me five more minutes.”
“If you love me, say the words.”
“You can’t, can you?”
“How about I make some blueberry pancakes?”
“See? You’re emotionally shut down.”
“Come here. Sit on my lap.”
“Say those three words.”

I stare at her with a blank expression. She pirouettes, bounds down my stairs, opens the front door, and tries once more.

“This is your last chance, Nice Guy: Say those three words or I’ll be out of your life.”
“Nice knowing you.”



Look for my sixth book in the Nice Guy Series entitled Nice Knowing You, available in March 2012. I humbly appreciate your support and wish you a nice 2012.


Grocery Store War – Fight the Nonpareils

As you age, do you notice the things you eat seem to show up under your skin quicker and are harder to lose? After one serving of bread pudding I become disgusted as I brush my teeth before bedtime, watching my belly jiggle in the mirror. I resolve to do twenty minutes of cardio the next day to lose to wobble and proceed to create another food tumor instead.

My struggle begins in the grocery store. I try to follow that squeaky clean coloned showoff, Dr. Oz, and his recommendations regarding avoiding the middle aisles. I also grab a hand basket instead of a cart, hoping to limit the damage to my bone bag and my wallet.

  • Enter store.
  • Head to the right while holding breath as to avoid inhaling freshly baked butter bread fumes.
  • Stop in front of peanut butter and debate the merits of natural versus super crunch and wind up selecting creamy version with honey because I’m weak.
  • Stare at almonds. Almonds are good for me. Buy seven-dollar almonds to offset what’s next.
  • Non-fucking-pareils. NO!
  • I see bagels. I need something to spread peanut butter on because eating it off index finger is disturbing. They have squished bagels with lower carbs. Do it.
  • Ignore Twizzlers, Good N Fruity (the candy, not that dude from Glee), and Raisinettes.
  • Turn the corner and observe meat shelves. Try not to think about where it came from. Can’t. Oh, shit: Bacon! Fuck Porky. Must … have … bacon.
  • Remembering nonpareils. Be strong!
  • Stroll down condiments aisle. Nothing bad for me there. How about a jar of spicy pickles? Done.
  • Hear cats’ voices in head as I pass the canned tuna. “Daddy, please buy us tuna. You love us and we love tuna. Tuna helps us resist the urge to shred toilet paper and scratch leather. Six cans should do.”
  • Would rather not go down cereal aisle, but it’s the shortest path to eggs. Maybe if I go quickly and keep my head down. Oh … no: Cap’n Crunch brings back childhood memories. I wasn’t a fat kid and I ate buckets of it. Justified. Must have it. Will use low-fat almond milk. No! Wait. Blueberry Pop Tarts. Fuck me. Get in my basket and shut up.
  • Ah, eggs are protein goodness. Open carton to appear to be skilled shopper. Some eggs have freckles. Some women have freckles. It’s all good.
  • I must eats me spinach, toot toot.
  • Damn, this basket is getting heavy. Technically, then, this is also a workout. I’m doing grocery curls. Worker doing price checks is staring at me. She looks frightened.
  • I wonder how many calories are in a single nonpareil.
  • That’s enough! Skip rest of food aisles and go through housewares, cleaners, and bath stuff–zero calories and it’s where the women hang. Cat box smells. Need Plug-In refill. Fuck me, six dollars. Will spray old cologne on litter instead.
  • I saved six dollars and the nonpareils are $4.99. If I buy them I net one dollar and a penny. Hm.
  • OK, one more aisle to go: fresh fruit and produce. Looks like work to me. Nah.
  • Time to check out before shoulder is dislocated by heavy basket. How interesting: I must pass the nonpareils to get to register. If I don’t buy them someone else will and what if it raises his cholesterol to dangerous levels and he dies before the ball drops? That would be awful. I’ll buy the nonpareils and save his life.
  • Other people in checkout line are staring at my food and judging me. I don’t like people much.
  • Checkout clerk is too bubbly. She needs a nose honk. No, I’ll be arrested. Offer a fake smile instead.
  • No, I don’t need help loading my car. Jesus!
  • On the way home, half the stuff jumps out of bags and rolls around floor of Jeep. Maybe I should take the turns a bit more slowly.
  • Get home, carry bags inside, flop them on top of unopened bills on counter, shoo annoying cats giving me begging stares, unload bags, wonder why deodorant was bagged with spinach, do my part to recycle by assigning bags to cat litter duty.
  • Stare at nonpareils. It’s dinnertime. Wait until after dinner. Can’t. Just one. OK. Open container, pop one in mouth, resist urge to bite it, let it melt, that’s enough, bite it, nearly orgasm. Feel fat. Eat another. Forget about dinner. Eat another. Almost orgasm again. Hate myself. Masturbate. Orgasm. Feel sad. Eat another. Vow not to eat any more until after dinner. Eat another while cooking dinner. More hate. Giving up.
  • Eating another while writing about it.

Have you defined your dream boy or dream girl?

If you don’t know what you’re after, prepare yourself for long nights of window shopping. Some people get off on that. Still, if you want a partner who fits, you’d better know your requirements. Each gender defines their mates uniquely, and each person within the gender has varied tastes as well. Most of these tastes change with age and experience.

For example, soon after my first boner, this was my dream girl:

  • Older
  • Experienced
  • Likes to play
  • Kisses with her mouth closed
  • Has bouncy little boobies I can play with
  • Will write book reports for me if I help her with algebra
  • Loves Whopper Minis like I do
  • Has a purse with candy, mostly the red, chewy kind
  • Can’t run as fast as I can or kick my butt
  • Doesn’t have any female friends who are mean

In college it changed to:

  • Likes to drink until she pukes
  • Smokes the occasional doob
  • Can write an essay for me if I write her Basic program
  • Likes to dance, with me only, to songs in my record collection
  • Won’t mind having sex with me if someone else is in the room and the lights are out
  • Has a nice roommate who walks around in just her undies often
  • Will attend sporting events with me and yell
  • Wants sex more than once a week
  • Won’t bang any of my hallmates
  • Knows how to give a blowjob without biting or squeezing my nuts too tightly


  • Earns enough money to avoid leeching off my struggling-to-make-the-rent butt
  • Has no more than one roommate, dog, or cat
  • Doesn’t mind sleeping over my place and leaving before breakfast
  • Can help me shop for clothing and teach me how to iron
  • Cooks something more than Ramen noodles, but doesn’t mind eating them
  • Is sometimes into deviant sex, but she never was with any previous lovers
  • Works on losing the college twenty and keeping them off
  • Wears bikinis, lingerie, and my shirts
  • Is on some sort of reliable birth control
  • Will keep the whining to a minimum while I do manly things


  • Drinks wine–almost as much as I do–and enjoys shots of fine tequila
  • Will be my designated driver at least half the time
  • Loves the penis often, especially in the morning without too much kissing
  • Has her own TV, car, and credit cards
  • Supports the democratic platform and legalization of marijuana
  • Does some exercise (without me) beyond the senseless elliptical machine
  • Is content having text-message conversations with me
  • Will at least offer to buy me breakfast or cover a tip once in a while
  • Hates condoms and has a well-kept whisker biscuit
  • Won’t correct me, shave me, or bring me to Jesus

My empty bed and cat-hair coated keyboard suggest my dream girl needs a makeover.

She hates me, she hates me not, she hates me.

There’s no kind way to let a prospect know she’s no longer a prospect without expecting to find your car keyed or burning poop on your stoop. We all need to stop taking things so personally instead of banging out text after unanswered text.

I’ve numbed myself sufficiently and I’ve also set an unanswered contact limit to two. After that, I assume she’s not interested or incapacitated (and I won’t delve into which one I prefer; let that one stew in my imagination).

The progression of the unanswered contacts usually goes like this:

  • I miss you. When are we going to get together again?
  • Hi, Sexy.
  • Hey, how’s it going?
  • Just thinking about you.
  • Is your phone working?
  • Hello?
  • ???
  • Really? You’re blowing me off?
  • You have some nerve.
  • I was never really into you anyway.
  • You suck.
  • I’ve been turned down by uglier people.
  • I’ve already moved on to the next man. I’m done with boys so lose my number.
  • Your loss.
  • Sorry.
  • I was tipsy when I sent those. Please accept my apology.
  • Hello?
  • I hate you.

There’s simply no way for the recipient of this avalanche of nonsense to respond, other than to hire bodyguards and adopt a large dog. You’ve convinced this person that you have major issues you need to work out and unless the recipient is going to be paid to help (e.g. your therapist), your contacts will be disregarded. Isn’t it ironic too that the person who follows this progression typically has a stalker ex as well?

Men, you need to be extra careful about this. Do not try to intimidate or guilt any woman into intimacy. There’s no reason to frighten anyone. Remember that anything you send can and will be used against you. Tell her you love her. Tell her you miss her. Tell her to have a nice life. Move on.

My buddies enjoy my angst when I run into a jilted ex.

“Holy shit, dude. What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, damn it. I just stopped calling her.”
“She’s right; you’re an asshole.”
“What? Because of radio silence?”
“Women need closure. You know that. Christ, you write about it.”
“And I also write about how I am the coward who will avoid conflict and confrontation at all costs. That’s why we’re leaving.”
“Don’t be a pussy too.”
“She might be crazy enough to make a scene. I’m not taking any chances. There’s plenty of wine in fairer pastures.”
“Eventually you’ll have exes in every bar. Then what?”
“Book clubs?”
“Mall benches?”
“Soon, old man.”
“Fuck. I’m going to stay home and watch movies.”
“Good plan. Oh, and I’d lock the doors.”

To every ex I’ve ever left, “I’m sorry! Yes, it was you. You didn’t meet my unrealistic expectations. Land Rovers don’t meet my expectations either and they get over it. So should you. Fine. At least leave me alone to disappoint another.”

Dear Philly: Why do men [fill in the blank]?

I realize it’s dangerous to post such questions on Facebook and Twitter because men are stupid, psycho, stalkers. So, you can post your question anonymously as a comment on this blog post and I’ll write a reply on my Facebook fan page at SuchaNiceGuy.

Post any question or observation you have about dating, relationships, and sex. Philly the Guru will rub his crystal balls, end your confusion, and ease your pain.

He loves her but another she loves him.

I put on my listening ears and let a brother vent to me. He has a heavy crush on a lovely woman who yo-yos in and out of his life. At the other end he has a different woman who happens to have the dreaded one-way crush on him.

“It’s Murphy’s Law: I love her and she loves someone else while she loves me and I love someone else.”
“I’d say that’s more the norm than the exception, Hank.”
“It should be simple. Why do I love what I can’t have while discarding what I have?”
“Because you’re a womanizing mess, and God is punishing you.”
“You don’t even believe in God.”
“True. Your god is punishing you.”
“Let’s work on the target of your affection first. Have you professed your love for her?”
“I bought her dinner and sent a text heart.”
“A text heart?”
“Less than sign, three.”
“Add ‘adolescent douche’ to the list of reasons why you’re single.”
“Shut up. Chicks love text messages.”
“Whatevs. (That’s my attempt to speak your language.) If you don’t tell her eye-to-eye how you feel, she could misinterpret your intentions.”
“She probably just wants me as a friend and if I open up she’ll climb a tree.”
“If you love her, she’s worth the chase. Now, about your fan.”
“Is she unattractive?”
“No. She’s gorgeous.”
“What’s her issue, other than the fact that she has horrible taste?”
“She seems too desperate for a boyfriend. If I agree to date her, I’ll have to watch every step I take because she’s so fragile.”
“True, fragile toys are stressful to play with. Have you told her you just want to be friends?”
“No, because I might consider taking her on if the woman I love turns me down.”
“See? This is why I date my wine glass and ride my bed solo.”
“But I like having a girlfriend. I get sex and companionship and don’t seem like such a pathetic, lonely turd by sitting at a wine bar night after night getting drunk with empty seats on either side of me.”
“None taken, asshat. You’ll never be happy with the chick who is chasing you, so shut that shit down. As far as the object of your desire, you had better make your intentions clear before she latches onto another man because you never made a move.”
“What if she shuts my shit down?”
“Then you move on to the next love domino, trying to fall for each other.”

Only 365 shopping days left until Christmas.

Did Santa bring everything you wished for? I took the lazy route this year and mailed gift cards. Much as I have become a “White Elephant” gift expert (booze always wins), I predict my gift cards were some of the most highly appreciated. The worst gift is usually clothing. In fact, clerks at Macy’s should be trained to discourage it so they don’t have a stampede of returns tomorrow.

“Hello, Sir. Is this lavender cardigan a gift?” she asked knowingly.
“It is.”
“Put it back.”
“Turn your blind ass around and put this back where you found it.”
“But it’s for my mother.”
“I don’t care if it’s for your poodle. Put it back and I’ll start processing the gift card you’re going to send instead.”
“But …”
“No ‘but.’ If you give this to your mother, she’ll smile, thank you, and need to waste gas and time returning it. She’ll stand in line with a group of similarly annoyed mothers, and yours truly will suffer the brunt of her attitude as I process the return.”
“She likes sweaters.”
“Ah, I don’t doubt you. Here’s the thing: She likes sweaters that she picks out. You don’t want her to pick out your jeans, do you?”
“Well …”
“You don’t. When you give her a gift card, she can toss it into her purse and not think about it until she happens to be shopping. A return will wear on her as she reminds herself to bring it and the receipt the next time she’s in the area.”
“Maybe I could buy her perfume.”
“Are you not listening? Your choices are cash or a gift card. Cash shows no creativity or thought and it will probably go toward her electric bill. Hence, a gift card.”
“Good boy.”

Another fine gift is scotch. It never spoils and actually improves with age–good stuff. In these rough economic times, I’ve fallen in love with mini-bottles. I can easily load my pockets with a few and save $7 a drink when I’m out. Sure, road sodas are a bit ghetto, but a man has got to drink and pay his mortgage. Did you know that Bailey’s now comes in mini-bottle size? Fo’ shizzle! Pick up a few and bring them to Starbucks. Twist off the cap and dump away into your burnt, brown morning speed. It’s such an improvement and so festive! If the barista tries to charge you a corkage fee, kick him in the gonads and run.

There are only 365 shopping days until Christmas, my friend. Remember: booze or gift cards.

P.S. Before you’re tempted to correct my math, note that 2012 is a leap year.

My lover went MIA.

This is a typical complaint I hear from ladies in the dating arena: “After I finally give in and sleep with a man, he doesn’t call me.” Harsh. Let’s see if I can spin this in such a way that it will hasten healing.

First, the man who doesn’t call you is not interested and you should be glad you found out sooner rather than later. Yes, it hurts. You feel cheap and used. Well, don’t. Turn it around. See the situation as you using him. He wasn’t that great anyway and there are plenty more where he came from.

If you must know, the reasons he doesn’t follow up can include any of the following (and trying to determine which one it is will drive you bonkers, so don’t):

  • He was in it for the conquest. His mission is complete.
  • He has a woman he’s emotionally attached to and he doesn’t get to have sex with her, so you took care of the physical part.
  • He’s embarrassed about his performance.
  • He feels too much pressure to meet some standard you’ve set for allowing a man to sleep with you.
  • The sex wasn’t enjoyable.
  • He’s not ready for a relationship.
  • He was drunk and horny.
  • He has been rejected by numerous women over the years and now he’s getting even.

None of those reasons are painless, but you get to decide the intensity of the pain and how long it will last.

Society frowns upon selfishness, but I suggest you become more selfish. If you’re considering sleeping with him, consider your motivation. If you’re sexually hungry, say it and do it. If you’re desperately seeking a soul mate, you’re putting a shit-ton of pressure on the poor fellow unless he happens to be honestly looking for the same thing and the stars have aligned.

It’s that goddamn oxytocin messing with you. Fight back, Babydoll. If you concentrate on what you want now instead of many years hence, you’ll enjoy the ride. When you decide to get naked and sweaty, if both minds are blown, you’ll probably get the call and your relationship will blossom. If you’re on the sexual see-saw at the top looking down at him, you’ll need to avoid staring at your phone tomorrow and steer clear of the chardonnay and sappy movies.

The debate about multiple partners.

When is it OK to have multiple sexual partners? I have a hard enough time finding one; that’s why I’m asking. I guess if you’re having emotionless sex, it’s fathomable to go there as variety could be the attraction. Depending on the mood you can pick a lover to fit.

When deciding on today’s man, she could select:

  • The young boy with stamina, because she’s up for a workout or he’s better for daytime sex when the lights can’t be dimmed.
  • The ex, because he knows her special places.
  • The coworker, because it’s naughty.
  • The married guy she met at the bar last week, because he’ll leave her alone afterwards.
  • The high school sweetheart, so she can show how much she improved at the sex thing.
  • The bartender, to keep the free drinks flowing.
  • The yoga instructor, since he seems so pliable.
  • The other ethnicity, because it’s there.

When deciding on today’s woman, he could select:

  • The young girl, who will be clumsy, stoned, and an image he’ll be able to recall and use when he’s with Ms. Notsofirm.
  • The older woman, who is typically more of a cockologist and less of a pregnancy risk.
  • The career woman, who goes from VP to freak when she lets her hair down.
  • The neglected wife, who is so tired of her husband’s nonsense that she’s about to sexually explode.
  • The neighborhood man-hater, who walks three dogs at a time and claims she doesn’t need a man, which we all know is untrue.
  • The larger girl, who works harder with fewer expectations.
  • The diamond-in-the-rough, who has something sexy hiding under her frumpiness.
  • The drunk chick, who he’ll need to sprint-fuck to get her done and gone before she passes out or launches waves of pink puke onto his comforter.

One is enough for me and one more than I have. *sigh* Still, my barroom bud is retired, living off his inheritance, and plowing women like Chicago snow. He doesn’t hide it and makes no excuses. A woman confronted him about it last night and I sat between them enjoying the volley.

“Do these women know you’re sleeping with others.”
“Are you at least using condoms.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Why? We all get checked every six months. It’s safe and fun. As soon as any of them get too serious I cut them loose.”
“You either have a small penis you’re compensating for or you’re dimented.”
“My penis isn’t small; it’s happy. You probably haven’t been laid since Jimmy Carter.”
“I’m a very sexual woman, but I’m also careful. Sex to me is intimate and I need to get to know someone before I go there.”
“Your loss.”
“What happens if one of these women starts sleeping with other men?”
“If I don’t know about it, it doesn’t happen.”

This banter went on for hours. Oddly enough, I suspect he took her home and knocked the bottom out of her. When she acted disgusted by him, I could tell she was acting. I wonder what the allure is.

Lesson #1: How to avoid mistakes in the bedroom.

My little snow angel is away on maternity leave from the morning news, so why watch? Instead, this morning I dumped hot water onto my oatmeal and turned on The Playboy Channel. This is something I probably wouldn’t get away with if I lived with anything except cats. As I devoured my paste-in-a-bowl an interesting show came on featuring couples–having a few “issues” in the bedroom–meeting with sexperts.

Maybe it’s because of the target demographic, but it seems whenever a couple has a sex problem, the cause of the problem is the man and the victim is the woman.

Today’s issues were:

  1. He keeps his eyes closed while doing it.
  2. He doesn’t spend enough time with foreplay.
  3. He doesn’t provide proper manual and oral stimulation before penetration.
  4. It’s always the boring missionary position.
  5. It feels too much like screwing instead of lovemaking.

All right, maybe these are typical. I haven’t had a steady sheet stealer in eons, so what do I know?

Looking into each other’s eyes during lovemaking can be sensual and it can be creepy. Perhaps that’s why so many men prefer doggie style. When anybody stares at me, my reflexive response is to ask, “What?” That’s probably not the most stimulating thing to say, but I’m the paranoid type. She could be:

  • looking for me to say those three words.
  • hoping I start talking dirty.
  • worried I’m fantasizing about someone else.
  • reading too many romance novels.

Yes, yes, every man knows every woman wants more foreplay. As I suggested before, go pick up a chess timer on Amazon and solve the problem fairly.

The one sex instructor, Jaiya (holy shnookers, she’s sexy), whipped out a vagina fleshlight. That’s not a typo. She demonstrated the proper stimulation of the female parts to Mr. Stabitquick. Her point was to play around the bulls-eye with varied levels of pressure instead of poking it like he’s at an ATM. She also stressed the importance of finding her G-spot and rubbing it the right way.

Although the most frequently assumed position is missionary, I’m here to tell you, ladies, your man prefers you on top. Yep, every man. We want our hands free and don’t want to risk lower back injury or elbow soreness with golf season approaching.

The lovemaking versus screwing thing is simply a matter of communication. Sometimes ladies want to be cuddled on a cloud of feathers to the sounds of crashing waves. Other times, ladies want to be tossed around and slammed like a tequila shot to the sounds of jungle animals. Before the first button is undone, specify your preference and he’ll comply.

Do you want to know a secret?

“This is fun. Tell me something about you that nobody else knows, Hank.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“All right. While riding the commuter train, I like to put on sunglasses and stare at the chests of strange women, picturing how their breasts look.”
“OK, that’s creepy.”
“Ah, you see, it’s only creepy depending on the woman. As long as she is between eighteen and sixty, it’s fine …”
“Not really.”
“… if she’s also attracted to me.”
“Seriously. If she’s attracted to me, she’ll find it flattering and possibly stimulating.”
“And if she’s not?”
“How am I supposed to know if a stranger is attracted to me? It’s just some harmless imagination on my part.”
“Still creepy.”
“Fine. Well, you asked. Your turn.”
“I like to eat dry cereal straight from the box while I watch TV.”
“That’s a fucking secret nobody knows?”
“I’m a private person.”
“You suck at this game.”
“I do not.”
“Fine, I’ll continue with my thing until you get the hint. I stare at the boobs and wonder how lopsided they are and which one is bigger. I wonder if they’re O-shaped or U-shaped. I guesstimate the size and color of the areolas. I wonder if they have tan marks or moles.”
“This is how you spend your commute?”
“A-firm-a-tit … I mean, affirmative.”
“If I told you my secret was that I spend my commute playing Words with Friends or checking if my retirement fund has reached zero yet, how exciting would that be?”
“I can bring myself to orgasm by squeezing an orthopedic pillow between my thighs.”
“Well, Hank?”
“I’m stunned.”

Shameless – Hey, look at me!

If you’re going to sit around waiting for someone else to toot your flute, you’d better have a good book to read to help you pass the time. (Have I mentioned my book, What a Nice Guy, is available and free at Amazon today?) You can’t wait for attention and praise; you need to stand up to be noticed.

I can think of only three cases where you’ll have someone speak up on your behalf:

  1. At your wedding. That’s quite an investment for a bit of glass tink-tink-tinking and a silly speech by the best man, who knows you so well that he needs to read the words from the back of a champagne-soaked gift receipt.
  2. At your retirement. You think you’re popular and will be dearly missed by your coworkers. Untrue. You know who is popular? The intern who wears the short skirts and had an accidental nipple exposure at this year’s holiday party.
  3. At your funeral. An inebriated priest will ramble on about what a wonderful person you were as people stand around thinking about how much it would suck to be you right now, while anxiously awaiting the unveiling of the cold cut platters.

Social media isn’t the best place to pound your chest. (Although, I heard there’s one cool fan page–I recall it’s something like Actually, I prefer to know what you had for breakfast to seeing another picture of your kids (not cute) and dogs (so gross) doing unspectacular things. I have no kids or dogs, but I do have lovely cats (@SydTorcivia and @SymonTorcivia) that don’t bark but usually bury their doo-doos and make clever, racist jokes at each other’s expense on Twitter.

Here are more ideas for you to consider:

  • Wear a t-shirt with “Free to a good home. Shots current and neutered.”
  • Run a paid search campaign on Google under keywords including awesome, cute, wonderful, fantastic, majestic, person of the year, saintly, and hung/tight (one or the other, people). Do not run any ads under the search term “nice” unless you’re as nice as I am, which is highly unlikely. Sorry.
  • If you’re in southern California, hire a sign spinner to post up in front of your home with a sign reading, “A brilliant person lives here. Please leave flowers.”
  • Your rear windshield has so much wasted space. Grab a bar of Ivory soap and write a little ode to self. How about “Not only am I a talented driver; I smell good too”?
  • Get a cover for your Kindle, Nook, or iPad that reads, “Look at the big brain on me.”
  • Too many conference nametags go to waste. Where does it say you need to be attending a conference in order to wear one? Go to Staples and buy a stack. From now on, part of your morning routine will be pasting a nametag on your chest that says, “Hello, I’m magnificent.”

Isn’t this excellent advice? See? This writer must be talented. Boy, if I were you I’d be remiss to let the day pass without picking up a FREE (no shipping fees or tax either) eBook by this brilliant author: What a Nice Guy by @PhilTorcivia.

A Girlfriend for Christmas (some assembly required).

As I consider buying my Christmas gift from Santa to me, I must consider just how much work is involved in getting it under the tree before I wake up Christmas morning. Yes, living alone is complicated and somewhat disturbing. Still, I have tools and a touch of smarts. I can do this.

This year’s gift may be a fancy thing I stumbled upon called: Girlfriend.

The picture on the outside was compelling. There was no significant wear and tear except for a few dents and bit of sun damage. Perhaps the last person who handled it was a little rough. Although no batteries were required, it came with batteries. Fascinating. There was also a note saying it was suitable for ages eighteen and older. As expected, there was some assembly required using common household tools.

I’m equipped–perhaps not “well equipped,” but equipped nonetheless.

I loaded the gift into my cart and struggled to balance it as I approached the cashier, who was cute until she wrinkled her nose at my purchase. Perhaps she felt I was too old to take full advantage of that particular model. I didn’t appreciate the attitude, so no tip for that apron-wearing killjoy.

Once I got the box out to my Jeep, it started making noises. It sounded like it said, “That barbed wire license plate cover is gay.” Surely, minor adjustment to my toy (not my Jeep) was required. I opened the door, loaded the toy, and headed home, anxious to enjoy my new Girlfriend. During the ride I heard another disturbing noise from the box: “You realize you’re speeding, don’t you? The speed limit is thirty-five.” I was tempted to u-turn and return it, but sighed and sped up so my toy learned who was boss.

When I opened it on my living room floor and spread the parts to begin assembly, I made some interesting observations:

  • There was substantial damage caused by the designer, toymakers, previous owners, and plastic specialists.
  • The toy insisted it was too cold to operate properly. After I adjusted the thermostat, the toy said it was too warm. This wasted much time. I needed much beer.
  • It didn’t approve of my décor‎ and insisted I “lose the poker table and fuzzy comforter.”
  • Its hair changed length and color frequently.
  • For proper operation, the toy required significant amounts of red wine, yogurt, and facial cream.
  • All sorts of loose parts were in the bottom of the box, including nails, earrings, and eyelashes.
  • Although it came with many accessories, it required brand new shoes and purses. When I sought a reason why, the toy said, “Because.”
  • The toy warned me that its previous owner wants it back.
  • It insisted I change the music playing, the TV channel, and my jeans.
  • I couldn’t pry the phone from its hand.

I don’t think I’m ready for this toy even though I’ve been a good boy. A bottle of Silver Oak would bring me more joy.

I’ll be fat for Christmas.

This is not the month to practice restraint. Baby carrots? Cottage cheese? Michelob Ultra? What? Not when there are bowls of these devilish delights called Pretzel M&Ms around. Why should we deprive ourselves? How much irreparable damage can we do in two, short weeks anyway? This will lead up perfectly to our New Year’s resolution. If we don’t pack pounds on now, the success of our resolution will be hard to measure.

Here are some goodies we need to seek and hoard, especially when fat Uncle Tommy is hovering near the buffet:

  • Cream cheese and salami roll-ups – These can easily be stacked like Jenga blocks and devoured.
  • Deviled eggs – Sprinkle some extra paprika on them and deliver an nasty egg burp to make your niece giggle.
  • Pot stickers – Who cares what’s inside? Dunk them in duck sauce and down the hatch!
  • Candy – This is why you have pockets. Make sure the coast is clear and load away. Left pockets are for jellybeans and right pockets are for chocolate. I’d avoid the nonpareils or you’ll be finding melted sugar dots in your slacks.
  • Sandwiches made from cheese cubes and Doritos – Throw in some ranch dressing for fun.
  • Artichoke dip – When fragile pita is foolishly served by an inconsiderate host, grab a spoon. Shovel in a lump of dip and then bite a stale pita crisp. Mission accomplished.
  • Meatballs – Wait a minute. Are you wearing white? Hm. OK, do not bite the meatball or you’re going to be wearing it. Shove the entire burger pop into your mouth. For added flavor, roll the tasty ball in red pepper flakes or parmesan.
  • Assorted Liquors – Nothing you drink at a party should be sans alcohol unless you’re pregnant. I suggest adding Bailey’s to your coffee. It’s more fun than creamer and only a few million calories.
  • Olives – Any host who serves plain olives is uncultured. Olives must be stuffed, and not just with boring pimentos. Pack them with bleu cheese, garlic, and anchovies. Don’t you dare wrinkle that nose, young lady. Anchovies are seafood, which even Dr. Oz says is good for you.
  • Pigs-in-a-Blanket – These take various forms depending which coast you are on. Halupkis (stuffed cabbage) are my favorite and I highly recommend them with a side of Beano.

Skip the gym, Sugarcookie. These two weeks of indulgences are your rewards for the goodies you passed up all year. As you perform your bedtime tooth-brushing, admire your handy work in the mirror and be proud of those jiggles. If you have a bed warmer, that fucker had better be on the same program or you’ll need to kick his vinaigrette-eating ass to the curb. I have little patience for skinny pricks during the holidays.

Now, mangia!

Bachelors and bachelorettes have talent, America.

When this popped up on my Facebook stream, I admit I felt it deserved further investigation. The teaser said it featured two stars from The Bachelor showing their Cirque du Soleil skills. I love those pliable clowns wearing all that makeup. The Cirque performers are talented too.

How could I resist?

I clicked, viewed, and realized it’s as sensible as a picture of me tossing a crumpled piece of paper showing my skill of throwing 100MPH fastballs. Stupid. In the picture, Tenley and Kypton (ew, their names even annoy me) are playing a dumb game of airplane that children play. It’s not cute; it’s dangerous.

Sure, the picture shows Tennie beaming as she soars over freakishly strong Kyppie, but we all need to know what happened next!

  • She fell and smashed the dog, which means no more dog-sitting jobs for the talented duo.
  • One of her earrings came loose and lodged itself in Kyppie’s throat.
  • She took it up a notch by adding the other fun game of letting a spit pendulum hang toward his face and sucking it back just before it touches his nose.
  • She fell backwards and smashed the TV.
  • They realized a strange person was in the home kneeling next to them while holding a camera and simultaneously screamed.
  • Tennie noticed that Kyppie left his “god damn sneakers” under the sofa again.
  • Kyppie realized his pink toenail polish could use some retouching.
  • They chest-bumped and began planning how to spend all the money they were paid for the “exclusive.”

See the exclusive picture and article on