Archives for January 2012

Do you let your spouse off the leash?

The more married women I meet, the more I appreciate my vacancy. When a husband lets his wife off her leash for the weekend, it makes me wonder:

  • Is he secure enough in their love and commitment to give her space?
  • Has she been annoying the heck out of him about putting down the remote, taking out the garbage, and emptying the dishwasher?
  • Does the husband have a little side thing going?
  • Does she really have a husband or is she playing games?
  • Is the husband aware that she’s out on the town, tossing back fruity shots like Fruity Pebbles?

Well, the best way to find out is to ask, right?

“How did you obtain the fun pass, Sugarlass?”
“We’ve found that spending weekends apart brings us closer together.”
“Ironic and interesting. How so?”
“It gives him space to watch his porn and gives me space to, you know, have space.”
“Tired of catching him making belly puddles?”
“Tube sock babies?”
“Ew, no.”
“Sofa stickies?”
“Look, I don’t mind. I’ve told him I’d watch it with him if he really wanted me to, but he doesn’t.”
“Well, at least he probably shaves his entire groin, makes funny sex faces, and manages to keep his bunghole out of the closeups.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about porn.”
“I find it contains great tips on how NOT to treat a lady.”
“Really? So, how do you treat a lady?”
“I love to talk, read her poetry, tell her how beautiful she is, kiss for hours, nibble her earlobes, massage her feet, and …”
“What? You don’t believe me? I’m hurt.”
“Sexually. What do you so sexually?”
“After a three-month courtship and mutual commitment to monogamy, I become her personal orgasm delivery person. I even wear little brown boxers and flex my sweaty biceps. Now, would you kindly sign here for me?”
“You’re silly.”

Relationships aren’t complicated; they’re weird. Maybe it’s a California thing. I can relate, Jim Morrison, people are strange and I am stranger.

How to craft a rejection letter.

If you’re female, you have many daily opportunities to refer to this guide. If you’re male, you’re probably going to begin hearing many of these excuses. I’d bet the average woman is propositioned three to four times daily, with most of solicitations originating from men who’d never get to touch anything beyond her oil filter. Pity, although at least women have options.

It’s important to be kind. These men don’t realize how repulsive they are. They assume that you got all dolled-up to attract their attention. (As if.) Be gentle. Help the monkey off his high horse without shoving him into a pile of manure. If his advances continue, all bets are off; nail his pecker to the floorboard.

So, the next time he comes a-calling, especially via text or email, try this:

Dear [insert name of not-cute-enough guy],

I’m [flattered/stunned/covering my mouth to prevent spewing my chardonnay] by your proposal. Ordinarily, I would enjoy having [coffee/dinner/sex] with you, but at this moment, I am:

[Insert all that apply.]

  • Married
  • Seeing someone
  • Not over my ex
  • Pregnant … with twins
  • Swearing off penis
  • Looking for a job in Madrid
  • Not [thirsty/hungry/horny] enough
  • Concentrating on my [career/children/crossword puzzle]
  • Involved in a serious relationship with my Netflix queue
  • Not drunk enough to get past how unattractive you are
  • Caring for a sick [parent/child/vagina]
  • Working in the same building as you, which makes this extra-creepy
  • Half your age, Grandpop
  • Desperate, but not quite on my deathbed yet
  • Not looking for another pet to take care of
  • Plotting the extermination of all men with soul patches, hairy backs, and boat shoes
  • About to pass out from the scent of your Axe Body Spray
  • Considering adding your blood to my collection of victim slides
  • Speechless

I do appreciate your asking. That must have taken some [tequila/foolish pride]. I have [cute/horny/desperate] friends who might be interested. Can I set up you? Do you have any [cuter/blacker/richer] friends–not for me, of course–for my friends?

Here [hand him a bar napkin]. No, don’t write on it. I thought you were tearing up. Sorry.

Anywho, this has been [lovely/awkward/disturbing]. You’re such a [nice/super/not entirely hideous] guy. Have a wonderful day.

Yours [truly/unimpressed/hating life right now],

[Insert some woman’s name, not yours.]

Do you create your patients, Doctor?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does what you watch define who you are?

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

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

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

Here are the top things people deny doing:

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

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

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

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

Why do drunk women make out?

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

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

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

I took no offense.

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

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

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

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

Proper ways to deal with an ass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had a clump in her pants.

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

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


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

Gosh, I need some serious therapy.

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

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

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

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

What are you crying about?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DILLIGAS – Do I look like I give a shadoobie?

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

You must not give a shit about the following:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please put away the claws, my dear.

What do you get when combine Simon Cowell, Gordon Ramsay, and a cornered tigress? You get a woman armed with wine and scathing remarks for any competitor in the vicinity. Dang, you shawties am brutal!

Admittedly, I’m not a fan of many people. Still, I can control myself and remain silent when criticisms boil up from the depths of my pool of sarcasm … usually. Other times, I’ll simply say, “He seems nice.” That covers it.

We were tipping grapes last night with some fine specimens, when an alien cat strutted onto the scene. The claws came out and the victim was shredded from fifty feet. Fucking impressive!

“She has horrible hair. It’s Jewish hair. Just awful. I bet she cuts it herself–with lawn shears.”
“Did you see her tug her top down to expose more of her cleavage? What a tramp.”
“Spray tans are so last summer. I mean, who has a tan in January?”
“I hope that’s a skinny margarita she’s carrying. Her muffin top is ghastly.”
“She’s probably here scouting for some rich, old man to buy her cocaine and hair extensions.”

The fur–extensions or not–certainly was flying.

We, the penis toters, were fascinated by her brutality. We discussed whether we recalled taking similar jabs at our competitors. Not even close. We’ll take shots at a strange man by concentrating on a small number of traits:

  1. His bangs are Beck-ish and silly.
  2. Who wears sneakers with suit jackets?
  3. He’s wearing a clip-on phone holster. He has never seen a vagina.
  4. It must suck to be a gnome.
  5. All the Tebow-ing in the world wouldn’t gain him access to her end zone.

Women, on the other hand, go off on everything:

  1. Her hair is as dyed and damaged as my grandmother’s curio.
  2. The reverse bob cut on her makes her look like a boobless Bob.
  3. By the looks of her skin, she must tan in a microwave oven.
  4. With all that makeup, if she slept over, in the morning you’d find a shroud of Turin on her pillowcase.
  5. She has more spots on her chest than a leopard.
  6. I don’t know where she bought those boobs, but she should return them.
  7. Why is she wearing her daughter’s jeans?
  8. I can see she failed her resolution already. She has a body by chili fries.
  9. I guess her puffy ankles make it easier to float them over her head.
  10. Her cloven hoofs are overflowing those ridiculous shoes she’s wearing.

 Mating war is bloody hell.

How can you tell if a relationship is serious?

She sat amongst my team of barflies and bravely poked me with a stick.

“What’s your story, Phil?”
“I’m happily single. You?”
“Single too. When was your last serious relationship?”
“Serious from whose perspective?”
“Serious from the perspective of women I’ve dated? Your perspective? Mine?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Not really.”

I had to explain to Nelly the subjectivity of her question. I gave her examples. On a scale of one to five, five being most serious, here’s my belief:

  • Having this discussion: 1
  • One-night stand, never saw each other again: 1.5
  • Three dates without penetration:1.5
  • I cook her dinner: 1.5
  • She cooks me dinner: 2
  • She watches me play baseball: 2
  • I encourage her from the sidelines of a marathon or other event: 2.5
  • I meet her family: 2.5
  • We vacation together: 3
  • She meets my family: 3
  • We have double-dates with her friends: 3
  • We bring each other around coworkers: 3
  • We simultaneously brush teeth in adjoining sinks: 3
  • We fart or pee in front of each other: 3.5
  • I walk her dog: 3.5
  • She spends an entire weekend at my house: 4
  • We agree to each have blood tests done to avoid those pesky condoms: 4
  • I hold her hair while she pukes: 4.5
  • Her pet spends an entire weekend at my house: 4.5 (unless it’s a sea-monkey)
  • My bathroom contains her toothbrush (2), girlie soap (2.5), facial cream (3), makeup remover (3.5), tampons (4), underwear (4.5), or vibrator (5).
  • Her bathroom contains anything of mine, other than toilet rim pee spots and hair: 4.5
  • She gave up the butt: 4.5
  • I gave up the butt: N/A (because it’s not gonna fucking happen)

I’m strongly considering laminating and inserting this list within restaurant menus. Much is lost in subjectivity. Rarely do I find someone–especially one with ovaries–who agrees with my definition of “serious.”

Alas, my honesty and sarcasm left the lady unimpressed, unreceptive, and unmatable. So be she.

She tossed rusty daggers.

Be careful how you jilt. Be gentle. The meaner you are–whether honest or not–the more difficult you’re going to make it for yourself because you’re eventually going to run into the jilted.

Hank sat next to me as rusty daggers flew past my nose. I felt her eyes and noticed Hank doing his best to hide in his wine glass. I peeked to the left and saw a woman with a disturbing combination of pain and anger. She must have been one of Hank’s abandoned lovers.

“I think one of her daggers just wedged in my ear. Good thing I’m numb from the neck up.”
“Right. Play innocent. I know my penis doesn’t recognize her, so those evil eyes are for you, Hank.”
“I was between relationships and I went there. She needs to get over it.”
“It was a hit and run, right?”

A man in this situation is skilled at post-coital extraction. You hear the urban myths about people gnawing off a limb to escape. Men like Hank can slide their arms from under the lover (the wet spot can be used for lubrication) and slither from beneath the eighteen sheets, comforters, and pillows without disturbing the nest. The most skilled can dress while heading to the front door and avoid stepping on the pug and stubbing a toe on a pointless piece of antique furniture. Not that I’ve ever done anything such. (OK, I am missing a toenail.)

“Damn, Bro, she’s angry. What did you do to her?”
“Lots, physically.”
“You definitely bruised her deeply. This was only one time?”
“Fine. Three times.”
“In one night?”
“No, three different times.”
“Oh boy. Your place or hers?”
“Mine, foolishly. In fact, she dropped a stack of love poems on my front step after a week of unreturned calls.”
“Aw, how sweet is that?”
“Not very.”
“Did you read them?”
“Hell no.”
“Let’s see if I can conjure up the type of poem she left.”

Dearest Hank,

You’re a heartless prick, with a tiny dick.
We could have been something divine.
You had your way, then left the next day,
and proved you’re a pathetic swine.


“I know. Hand me that bar napkin. I’m tearing up. How could you, Hank?”
“Shut it.”

Matchmaker, Matchmaker bake me a cake.

Do you have friends constantly trying to set you up? Have you tried online personals and dating services? Have you ever tried a matchmaking service? If you have, you know that none of these roads is likely to lead you to your soul mate, no matter what the ads and testimonials say. Your best bet is to get out there, get intoxicated, mingle, and have amnesia about rejection. It’s trial and error, my sweet: Mix, fail quickly, and mix again.

Still, I was curious so …

I did not meet with a matchmaker yesterday. She also didn’t do a silly thing like ask a writer not to write about the meeting that didn’t happen. She was cute (in my imagination) as she poked and prodded the defective merchandise (me) to see what his problem is.

Here are some typical questions that matchmakers ask (or, so I’ve heard) and answers that I might have given, if I were asked:

  1. Why love now? Why not? Who doesn’t love love? I could use more affection and sex and less manual labor, if you know what I mean. Still, I’m selfishly unwilling to change much about my lifestyle to accommodate a love monkey, just as I wouldn’t expect her to.
  2. Tell me about your most recent relationship and how it ended. We met in a bar, went on a few dates, and had almost-sex. Then the crazy texts, voice-mails, and emails ensued and I ran away like bear with his butt on fire. Now, I need to keep my head on a swivel when I’m looking for my next target so I’m not ambushed by yet another psycho ex.
  3. Where are you meeting most of the women you date? In a bar and, before you start lecturing me, I like bars. I’m not an alcoholic (denial is the first sign), but I find social lubrication a valuable resource to pull me from my shell and inspire my musings.
  4. Are you free of all baggage and ready for a serious relationship? Yes, I have no offspring, diseases, or jobs that require me to hop around the globe. I have two felines that are non-negotiable–all they do is sleep, eat, and shit anyway.
  5. What type of woman are you attracted to? The naked type. Ah, I kid. I am attracted to fit, intelligent, kind women. A sense of humor is absolutely necessary. There are obviously different degrees of each of these traits, which can offset or enhance others. For example, a funny woman who has a few extra pounds on her goes well with the few extra pounds I carry during the winter months. I’m not interested in having a woman with exposed ribs raise an eyebrow at my Pizookie* while she nibbles kale.

I hear that these matchmaking services can run from $2000 on up to $100,000. Holy shit! I bet many matchmakers will use the line, “You can’t put a price on love.” Yes, I can. Tonight, I shall employ a reliable (and silent) matchmaker by the name of Uppercut Cabernet. This fine specimen will cost me under $25 and cause increased cuteness with a chance of loving every time I tip it.

*Pizookie: It’s only the best fucking thing since peanut butter met chocolate. It’s a pizza cookie! You’re drooling right now, aren’t you? I know! It comes in a mini metal pan and a variety of cookie types from macadamia to chocolate chunk, it’s warm, and it’s topped with a scoop of ice cream. Go to BJ’s Restaurant and Brewhouse and try one. You’re welcome, fellow chubster.

How would you act on The Bachelor?

I watched my man, Ben, on The Bachelor this week. I’m glad the dude is getting some redemption after that heartless wench pulled him off his knees and diced his manhood in front of millions. He’s a good sport considering he was totally set up. Really, Ash, you couldn’t give him a hint?

It would be cool if they did a season with an old fuck like me. They’d probably need to put it on HBO as my filter has worn thin.

Chris: So, Phil, how do you feel? Are you excited?
Phil: I’m giddy as a dog at a Snausage buffet. These chicks better be hot and infertile.
Chris: Oh, I think you’ll be quite pleased with our selection. Here comes limousine number one. Good luck, buddy.

The first limo pulls up and I can hear some squealing.

Bachelorette #1: He’s so cute! I’ll have him get rid of that goatee, though.
B #2: Quick, pass me the Veuve before it’s my turn.
B #3: You whores better keep away from him. He’s mine!
B #4: How’s my hair?
B #5: Fuck, I thought it was Ames.

I stand on the driveway, which the producers at ABC decided to spray down with water. The limo door opens and the first bachelorette emerges, slips, and bangs her head on the door which dislodges her extensions. I try to not to laugh, to no avail. Cut to commercial.

The next woman emerges and approaches me.

B: Hi, I’m Brittney.
Phil: Hi, Brittney. What a lovely dress.
B: Thank you. You’re cute. I know you’re a writer, so I wrote you this poem…
Phil: Save it, Sugar. I have over twenty more women to meet. Just go inside and drink, please.
B: Um, OK.

Like Ben did, I spin to check out the hiney. Not bad. I give Chris a thumbs up. Chris gives me the cut-it-out sign.

The next bachelorette emerges. She’s old.

Phil: Hold up. Nope. Get back in there.
B: Excuse me?
Phil: Look, Darling, I’m going to save you embarrassment. You won’t like me. Get back in the limo.

Chris isn’t happy with my shenanigans.

Chris: Dude, you’re supposed to meet all of the women and do the eliminating at the end of the show. That keeps the sponsors happy.
Phil: She was like eighty, Fucknuts. What gives?
Chris: I’m the expert. Trust me. We need to mix in some sloppy messes with the good ones so the viewers are amused.
Phil: Fine. I’ll play along.

The next woman emerges and she’s lovely.

Phil: Chris, give me one of those roses.
Chris: What did I just tell you?
Phil: Give me one, Dickhead, or I’m just going to snap one off the landscaping.
Chris: That won’t count.
Phil: You suck.
B: Um, hi?
Phil: Oh, hey. You know, please don’t say anything else so I can savor this moment before you show your true stark raving mad emotional bitch side. Chris? The rose?
Chris: Not happening.
Phil: Goddamn it. Fine. What’s your name, Sweetness?
B: You told me to be quiet.
Phil: Well, you get points for following directions.
B: Amy.

I drop to one knee and pull a ringpop from my pocket.

Phil: Amy, will you marry …
Chris: NOOOOO!
Phil: What?
Chris: Jesus … cut!

Soon, I’ll have it licked.

“What are you reading?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“This is another reason why I have a Kindle: so you can’t see the cover or tell how often I’m flipping pages.”


“Fine. It’s a book called She Comes First and it’s absolutely what you think it is.”

“A great idea?”

“Some would say.”

“Well, what have you learned?”

“That your pussy is like fine, red wine.”

“It is and you’re disgusting.”

“Am so. It says right here that the pH of your vulva is remarkably similar to wine. Next time I head south, I’m bringing crackers and thinly sliced Parmesan.”

“Hey, whatever keeps you down there for longer than a minute.”

“You bring up another thing I learned: It takes much longer for a woman to orgasm–typically in the fifteen to forty-five minute range.”


“Damn. Sounds like a sore neck to me.”

“That’s why you have pillows. What else?”

“The clitoris is similar to the penis, but doesn’t have the waste removal duties and is thus entirely dedicated to being a pleasure center. It contains thousands of nerve endings and the hood is similar to a man’s foreskin. I wouldn’t know about that last part since I have none.”


“Which part?”

“The part under the foreskin.”

“Touché. Here’s something I found interesting: Some anthropologists suggest that a woman wears lipstick to signal her lover in a similar way to how her ‘lower lips’ expose themselves and change color during stimulation.”

“OK, I’m going to touch up mine, but it’s because I have dry upper lips, not the other reason.”

“Damn. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Yes. Why? Don’t get gross on me.”

“I learned that an undesirable scent from below could be a sign of promiscuity because sperm can taint the area north of the taint.”

“I had a bagel with lox and cream cheese.”


“I should know better than to ask you questions. Couldn’t you just lie like other men?”

“Sure, but I’m a nice guy. Remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“Now let me finish the book so I can do like Neil Armstrong.”

“Fly to the moon?”

“No. Take one small lick for a man; one giant lick for womankind.”