Archives for February 2012

WARNING: Don’t do this whilst on the throne.

I’m sure none of you have ever done this, but I have had my legs fall asleep while on the toilet. Perhaps I have circulation issues. My remedy is to stamp my feet on the floor and pound my thighs. Once upright, I still am not right as I stagger through my bathroom like a newborn fawn.

Various items are to blame aside from the fact that once I sit I never really know when I’m positively finished. Sorry for the potty humor, but I’ve had a few false wipes. Back in the days before iPhones, Pop kept the bathroom well-stocked with newspapers and Mom had JCPenny and Sears catalogs. I’d flip through a few pages of sports scores and ladies in undergarments and off the pot I went. When others are in the house it’s impolite to linger.

Then this nifty little handheld game was invented. If was a bunch of tiny green dashes (or minus signs) playing football. I shit you not, children of the Apple ages. The object of the game was to run my little green dash through the gaps between the opposing green dashes. Sounds amazing, doesn’t it? While my tiny thumbs had their workout, my legs grew tingly. Then, the 9-volt battery would die and I’d crawl back to my room to finish my homework.

Roll way forward to modern times and this electronic tumor many of us have grown called an iPhone. It wasn’t bad enough that I could check my email whilst riding the throne; I had to go and download a Home Run Derby game and my latest nemesis, Family Fucking Feud. (I added the middle F.)

I love playing the game and I refuse–much as I wish many friends would–to link it up to Facebook and annoy everyone with my new high score on The Money Round. I don’t know if that show is still on TV or if Richard Dawson isn’t buried somewhere, but I can’t get enough of it.

The game creators should let jackasses like me upload our own surveys for people to play. Let me try my hands at writing one here:

“It’s time to play Phil’s Fucked-Up Feud. We surveyed one-hundred people and the top four answers are on the board. What gives men wood? What do you think?”

“Survey says, *BUZZ*!”
“What? Bullshit! Fine.”
“Survey says, *DING*! Ten points. That was the third highest answer.”
“Survey says, *BUZZ*!”
“Goddamn you, autocorrect! That was a typo. I meant f-e-e-t. Shit, two Xs. Um … “
*tic* … *tic* … *tic*
“Survey says, *BUZZ*! Let’s see the other answers. Number one, *DING*, Viagra.”
“Fuck. How could I miss that?”
“Number two, *DING*, Porn.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“And, finally, number four, *DING*, Breasts.”
“What? Are you kidding me? I said nipple, which is the same as breast.”
“You suck!”
“I’m marching right into the app store and giving this stupid game a one-star rating.”

The Unofficial Oscars Drinking Game

Television shows have become predictable and boring this winter, so we need to take action. Betting rarely works out because someone will lose, become bitter, and probably pee in the sink. Plus, as far as awards shows go, there’s excessive predictability. Instead of placing bets, I suggest we play drinking games for tonight’s Oscars.

It can start on the red carpet. If a woman strolls down the carpet …

  • wearing a hat, it’s worth one gulp.
  • with her bellybutton showing, one gulp.
  • and she stumbles, two gulps.
  • with both knees showing, one gulp.
  • with one knee showing, a sip.
  • with hair braids, a sip.
  • carrying a fan, a sip.
  • wearing glasses, a sip.

If a man strolls down the carpet …

  • wearing a black shirt under a black jacket, one gulp.
  • wearing aviator sunglasses, one gulp.
  • in short sleeves, one gulp.
  • and gives the finger, two gulps.
  • wearing a red or white bow tie, a sip.
  • carrying anything, a sip.
  • wearing fur, a sip.
  • with a non-white handkerchief, a sip.

See? Wasn’t that fun? Now you’re half-cocked and you’ll enjoy the awards. Next, let’s concentrate on Billy Crystal. Every time he uses one of the following words, you drink:

  • Jew (or Jewish)
  • Adele
  • Marvelous
  • Drink
  • Sacha
  • Lin
  • Tebow
  • Streep
  • Whitney
  • Lohan

Are you hanging in there or hugging the porcelain? Flush and head back to the sofa. Once the awards start flying, the acceptance speeches are a fine focal point. When you hear the following, you lift, tip, and swallow:

  • God
  • Jesus
  • Savior
  • Mom
  • Kids
  • Unexpected
  • Wow
  • Deserve

Have your scorecards and bottles ready. If we’re fortunate enough to witness a Nicki Minaj finale, we’ll avoid tomorrow’s hangover as her vomit-inducing antics are sure to help us purge.

What’s your language of love?

Do you know what your partner’s love language is? According to Dr. Gary Chapman it is either quality time, words of affirmation, gifts, acts of service, or physical touch. Since I’m batting a big “oh fer” in my first fifty years, I’m either guessing wrong or speaking gibberish. Or, perhaps the doc was over-generalizing and missed a few languages. I certainly know my roommates’ languages: gifts of tuna, a clean litter box, and warm places to sleep. Woman? That’s another animal.

Most women claim to need more words of affirmation, based on remarks such as:
“Couldn’t you at least have gotten me a card?”
“I sent you three texts and called twice before you finally replied with a generous two-word text.”
“Why do my calls always seem to go straight to voice mail?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Can we talk?”
“Where do you see this going?”
“Tell me how much you love me.”
“How does this look on me?”
“Did you hear what Susie’s husband did for their anniversary?”

I suggest this woman is not looking for more words; she’s looking for more receptive ears. In fact, when the male interjects with requests for clarification or solutions to the problem, the female become frustrated and resentful. She’s not looking for affirmation inasmuch as she seeks confirmation.

(Again, I’m single so what the fuck do I know?)

She says, “I had the worst day of my entire life. I woke up with cramps and sure enough while I was waiting in line at the store behind some idiot with coupons and correct change, I could feel the damn breaking loose, so to speak.”

He hears, “Blah, blah, blood, clots, gross, not getting laid, run away now while you can.”

She continues, “While I was waiting to pick up Missy from school, some cop with nothing better to do lectured me for using the phone and not having my belt buckled. I was parked for God’s sake! Then he asked if I had anything to drink. I told him I had two bottles of prosecco and a big fat doobie with lunch. He didn’t laugh. He made me take a damn sobriety test right there in front of the school. I was so embarrassed.”

He hears, “I will never part from my phone, you drive me to drink, all men suck, whether in uniform or not.”

She continues, “When I finally got home, the cat sneaked out while I was carrying groceries in. I chased her all over the neighborhood to no avail. When I got home the cat was waiting at the front door, which was locked. Missy was upstairs with her iPod cranked, so she couldn’t hear me banging. I couldn’t call you because my phone was inside on the kitchen counter.”

He hears, “My drama is more important than yours, and if you tell me to hide a key one more time I will superglue your upper lip to your nose.”

There’s the disconnect. All the beast needs to say is, “Aw, I’m sorry you had such a rough day, my love. How can Daddy make it all better?” while rubbing her neck gently. This way, little will be lost in translation, and Daddy might get to touch a booby again someday soon.

How to fib on Facebook.

Not that you’d ever do such a thing. You’re entirely too honest and sharing. Yet, you must admit there are lighter lies, which should be deployed in order to duck a stalker, avoid hurting someone’s feelings, keep from being scolded like an infant, or having children/roommates/crooks take advantage of your absence. Facebook enables your fibbery (new word). You simply need to know what’s involved in concocting the fabrication.

Please allow Attorney (not) Phil to guide you.

Step 1: Do not allow anyone to tag you without your approval. You’ll get yourself into enough hot water; you don’t need some hyper-photo-active nitwit to tag you in an unflattering photo. Examples I’ve seen mostly involve restroom stalls, unsightly stains, or exposed parts of your body you’d rather not have exposed. Alt+Tab over to Facebook right now and click the down triangle on the upper-right, Privacy Settings, Edit Settings next to How Tags Work, then turn on Timeline Review and Tag Review, and turn off Friends Can Check You In. That should partially cover your mischievous little butt.

Step 2: Misdirection. You don’t actually need to be in a certain place to claim you are there. Let’s say your mother has been eying your wine tower, discovering the vodka in the freezer, and plotting an intervention. This is not good. One must drink. If you continually check in at pubs, clubs, and wine bars, you’re going to feed her neuroses. She’s going to vent to your father about her displeasure with your activities (probably in a foreign language) and, since his gene pool will be implicated, he’ll be displeased with your Facebook-documented binges. Hence, tag yourself at church, a homeless shelter, or library. Make sure any associated photos don’t include purple tongues, martini glasses, or beer bongs.

Step 3: Use code words for certain activities that only your closest friends know. This is important. Your boss or perspective employer will check social media to see if you’re a miscreant and, although they won’t admit it, they will judge you thereby. (I proudly admit that I am a scoundrel and I don’t give a doo-doo because I’m the boss of me.) So, when you post a status update, use code words. Here’s a handy guide I’ll license you for the fee of one chilled tequila with lime and salt:

  • Bar -> Office
  • Dancing -> Working
  • Doing Shots -> Making Copies
  • Buying Shoes -> Visiting the Fruit Stand
  • Getting Laid -> Bowling
  • Watching Porn -> Sorting Recipes
  • Hangover -> Migraine
  • Public Urination -> Watering the Lawn
  • Vomiting -> Talking with an Old Friend, Burt
  • Masturbating -> Doing Laundry
  • Wine Guzzling -> Making a Stew
  • Hair Removal or Trimming from Privates -> Vacuuming
  • Smoking Weed -> Baking
  • On the Toilet -> Taking Your Children to the Pool (WARNING: This only works if you have brown children or white poo.)

Let’s say you spent last night getting hammered at an Irish pub, you don’t remember how you got home, and you woke up with your underwear in your pocket. You can’t very well post that, now can you? Instead, post “I woke up with a migraine, but after sorting recipes and doing laundry, I worked it off at my office. Right now I’m making copies and hoping to go bowling later tonight.”

When I was your age …

You spoiled little shit with a warped sense of entitlement. As you skate down the middle of the road in your unlaced hundred-dollar sneakers while staring at messages on your iPhone, I’m driving behind you seriously considering nudging you back to reality with my bumper. Do you have any sense of what your parents–who you supposedly hate for never letting you do anything–went through when they were your age?

iPhone? We didn’t have any damn iPhone. We had party lines and greedy siblings who sat on the phone for hours listening to a friend breathe because there was no text messaging back then. In order to place a call, here’s what I typically had to go through:

“… and Donna told me Keith has crabs … wait … did somebody just pick up the phone? Hello-o? I’m on the phone.”
“I know you’re there. Get off the phone. Maaaah-ahm, Phil won’t hang up.”
“Phil, hang up the phone until your sister is done.”
“But, Mom …”

Ten minutes later …
“… kissing and were using tongues. Ew! I know! Hold on, I think my creepy, retarded brother picked up again. Hang up the phone, dickbreath!”
“Mom, what’s a dickbreath?”
“Sis called me a dickbreath.”
“Young lady, don’t make me come in there and take away your phone privileges.”
“But, Mom, he keeps picking up and being nosy.”
“Phil, stop interrupting your sister and you stop calling him names.”

This would go on for hours and all I wanted to do is check if my buddy got Reggie Jackson’s rookie card. Imagine that, you little prick.

Plus, you get to throw birds and shoot zombies on your phone. You know what we did back in my day? We played Pong and Pacman. Bink bong, bink bonk. Wah ka wah ka wah ka. Does that sound like fun?

And, what’s that hanging out of your back pocket behind your knee? Is that a Powerbar? Poor baby. You know what candy I had access to?

  • Necco Wafers – Tasted like drywall.
  • Sweet Tarts – Made my mouth bleed.
  • Candy Cigarettes and Gum Cigars – What a great fucking idea!
  • Flavored sugar in a paper straw, which clogged before I was halfway through.
  • Chewable wax filled with sugary water.
  • Tums – Easy to steal, tasted like candy, gave me the squirts.
  • Baseball Card Bubblegum – The flavor lasted four to five seconds.
  • Bottle Caps – Eroded the roof of my mouth like hot pizza.
  • Candy Charms – We would wear them on our wrists all day. Very unsanitary.
  • Jujubes – Cavity filling extractors.
  • Razzles and Blow Pops – Kind of candy, kind of gum, kind of gross.

Look at the toys you have nowadays. I had clip-on skates (which fell off constantly), a worn down basketball, and a wiffle ball covered in tape that we’d hit with broomsticks. Fun stuff, huh? We amused ourselves with Clackers, which would splinter and send shards of glass flying. Then we’d borrow Pop’s magnifying glass and burn things, including each other. Yet, the most fun we had involved a roll of cap gun caps, a hammer, and a sidewalk. We’d slam the caps with the hammer, they’d explode sending bits of gunpowder, paper, and pavement into our eyes, and our ears would ring so loudly we couldn’t hear our parents calling us (by yelling, not by phone) home for dinner.

Oh, my childhood was a blast.

How long after a breakup must you wait?

Is there a certain resting period required after a relationship ends? Are we like microwaved food, dough, or wet paint? I think not. If your man gives you the heave-ho, you’re free to go, Sugartoe. The minute you receive that icy message–“I think we should see other people”–consider yourself released and free to entertain other options.

Men have foolish pride, so it rarely works out that way. Clyde gives Bonnie back the keys to her vulva hoping she doesn’t hand them to Mr. Next too soon. That’s nonsense. If Clyde can’t commit, she can and should begin healing immediately, and if such healing requires the touch of another man (or woman), it’s her right to solicit such.

Ah, but friends complicate matters further. One day after Clyde tells his buddy, Jackson, that he’s cut bait, Jackson runs into Bonnie looking better than ever with a new suitor in tow. Jackson fancies himself a New Age Columbo, as he fires up the photo app and sends incriminating (?) photos to Clyde.

“Check it out, dude: Bonnie is already with another guy.”
“That fucking whore!”
“I know. Man, I’m sorry. She’s heartless.”
“I bet she was banging that guy all along. That’s why we were having so many issues.”
“No doubt. But, wait, you broke up with her, right?”
“Yes, I did, but you don’t see me out poking some new skank. I’m home alone healing.”
“You want me to go confront her?”
“No. I’m coming over.”
“Cool. I got your back, bro.”

It’s senseless. All logic has been purged from men who think this way. Who’s to say the new guy isn’t her friend, for example. I play the role of healer often. I get to play pool and provide emotional support and encouragement. I don’t get to play hide the pepperoni. The last thing I need is for her ape-ish ex to attack me for dressing the wounds he inflicted.

Men, when you relinquish your woman, you relinquish your right to control her or be jealous of what she does and how long she waits to do it.

They’re called fears for a good reason.

Everyone has fears and most of those fears serve a purpose: keeping us from doing stupid things. Yet, we all have that New Age nuisance in our lives who encourages us to face our fears. A perfect example is Ben from The Bachelor. Last night he forced a woman who is afraid of heights to jump from a helicopter into a 500-foot-deep pool of water, and another woman who is afraid of sharks to swim with, naturally, sharks.

Beyond the obvious production value of these asinine feats, there is romantic logic at work. Doing something dangerous raises your heart rate and releases adrenaline. It naturally bonds you to the person guiding, encouraging, or protecting you. Once the fear is overcome and the feat is accomplished, there’s a foolish feeling that together you can achieve anything.

Sometimes the fear is baseless and silly. When Ben and one of the ladies were dropped onto a deserted island, she expressed fear and concern. Most of us were aware they were not actually alone, as somebody had to be there to hold the fucking cameras. Right? (Sorry, I haven’t had my nap yet.)

If roles were reversed and I was being encouraged to face my fears by The Bachelorette, things would go down a bit differently.

“Hello, Phil. On this date we’re going to climb to the top of the Golden Gate bridge.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. You have fun. I’m heading to Napa. Let me know when you’ve crossed that bridge.”

“I realize you’re not a great swimmer, Phil, but let’s snorkel with sharks and stingrays.”
“That’s about as close as I’m going to get to touching a murderous fish.”

“Oh, look! It’s a spider. I think it’s a tarantula. Let’s play with it and name it.”
“Let’s leave it alone and instead I’ll name you. How about ‘Whoretney?'”

“Surprise! We’re going to dive and catch our own lobsters.”
“No, you’re going to dive and catch our dinner while I blog about how I got stuck with such a prehistoric putz.”

“Let’s ride bikes into a village where nobody speaks English.”
“Great idea, Lance. I’ll hold the camera while the savages have their way with you.”

“Let’s go skinny-dipping! It will be so romantic.”
“I’m sorry, do you not see the four (high definition, no less) cameras behind us? I may have a semi-firm tush, but nobody wants to see my bouncing nad bag as I run into the ocean for cover. Plus, you’ll probably hang all over me, causing alternating shrinkage and growth which will eventually lead to my being dragged out to sea by the undertow as I drown on national TV. In other words, not happening, Sugarbean.”

If you really want to help me overcome my fears, ladies, imagine I’m afraid of dying from over-ejaculation.

Words to use between the sheets.

Are you a bedroom introvert or extrovert? I’m referring to verbal skills as opposed to oral or physical ones. If your partner is tossing a variety of compliments your way you can’t lie there without reciprocating–unless you have a mouthful. You can be proactive by using lines before your partner does and score points for originality. This is important, people, pay attention! Look how haywire things can go if you’re unprepared.

“Oh my God.”
“That’s right, Baby.”
“I love your penis.”
“Me too.”
“I mean I love your … um … insides?”
“Yes, yes, give it to me.”
“I’m giving it to you.”
“Fuck. Oh, yes.”
“It feels so good.”
“I know.”
“God, you make me so wet.”
“You make me so wet with your … wetness.”


Where’s the originality? Where’s the sincere appreciation within the verbal volley? They’d both enjoy it more if he were mute. In his defense, I need to ration my blood between brain and love muscle, so witty retorts aren’t always easy to come by. One needs to tread lightly on the freaky fringes as to not cause offense. 

  • Some women don’t mind being fucked like a dirty little schoolgirl and others will react by undocking and leaving him dangling.
  • If you ask, “You like that, don’t you?” there’s always a chance your partner will say, “No, not really, now that you mention it.”
  • “Who’s your daddy?” never works. Never!
  • Even if she actually works in such capacity, it’s probably not a good idea to refer to her as a ho.

What’s inevitable is one of the lovers will say something to the tune of “You’re so hot.” You can’t respond with, “No, you are.” Here are your choices:

  • “You’re so sexy.”
  • “You have an amazing body.”
  • “I love the way you feel.”
  • “I wish I could spend the entire night inside you.”
  • “Did you catch the score of the Suns game?”

Conversation Starters for Strangers

We’ve all been placed into that awkward situation where we meet new people and need to strike up a conversation to convince them we aren’t catatonic. Depending on the role this new person plays, you need to alter your strategy. I’ve included a handy guide, which you should save to your phone and deploy the next time you’re introduced to a stranger, suffer the silence, and are tempted to deploy that game-ender, “I got nothing.”

If the new person is a mating option, topics include:

  • What’s your favorite (proceed in this order, please) mixed drink, dessert, movie, book, pet, vacation destination, lubricant, vibrator, sex position, morning after pill, and taxicab service?
  • Are you sleepy/menstruating/ovulating/spermulating?
  • Are you here with your spouse?
  • Have you recently parted thigh for any of my acquaintances?
  • Do you work out?

If the stranger is a parent of the mating option:

  • What brought you to this country?
  • Was your daughter/son a problem child?
  • Were there any forms of physical torture deployed during your child’s upbringing?
  • Have you tried the knish here? I’m sorry. Do you know what a knish, ish? (Tee, hee.)
  • Say, are you on Facebook?

If the stranger is the ex of a mating option:

  • Is there anything I should know? Seriously. Why are you smirking?
  • How large is your penis/vagina?
  • Are you on any prescription medication?
  • You look familiar. Did you pull me over last week?
  • No hard feelings, right?

If the stranger is an unattractive friend of a mating option:

  • Rough night?
  • Who drove?
  • What do you think of my buddy? Can you manage to become sufficiently interested in him/her to avoid cock-blocking me all night?
  • I bet you can’t chug this entire Long Island Iced Tea. Wow! OK, double or nothing?
  • I’d totally be hitting on you, but you’re too cute for me.

If the stranger is a coworker of a mating option:

  • In your opinion, who’s the office slutbag?
  • Has your friend told you about how awesome I am in the sack?
  • You look so familiar. Did I see you in a Tostitos commercial?
  • Do you ever look at porn on your office computer? Know any good sites featuring Ukrainian women and summer squash?
  • Are you hiring? Hell no, not for me; my roommate has been freeloading.

See that? Isn’t it better than standing there smiling and scratching your butt while trying to come up with something as your mating option wanders off to the restroom? You’re welcome.

Beware of the conqueror.

Men love challenges. Wise women present themselves as marvelous prizes to be earned. Nobody likes a pushover, except after a long drought. So, it all adds up: You want him; he wants you; you wink and run; he chases; you slow; he catches; you reward; he feasts; you bask in the afterglow. Then, he leaves behind a rotting carcass.

What the heck just happened?

You’ve been conquered.

I’m sure I’ve done this. I’m not proud because it’s a mean thing to do. The game isn’t supposed to end with a satisfied hunter who leaves such a mess behind. The bountiful relationship should be shared and rationed to last. Some people are greedy. Or, maybe it’s fear arising from the realization that the good fortune could be fleeting. It could also be pride guiding the hunter to seek even more elusive prey.

If you’re a woman in a power position, you’re going to have men looking to conquer you. It’s like that silly carnival game of ring the bell. He wants to ring your bell, Sugarwell, and prove his worthiness and proclivity to the other hunters. Don’t feel cheapened. Don’t feel used. Don’t feel naive. It’s all part of the dating jungle game. Shrug it off and use your scent to attract the next hunter. Eventually, you’ll encounter the wise beast who knows how to share and ration.

Financially successful, popular, and powerful people are prime targets. Their skepticism keeps most hunters at bay. Yet, some sneak through. If the hunter is given a taste and then kicked aside, the hunter leaves dejected and often becomes obsessive. This makes the kind prey sad and tempted to give in to something unhealthy. How do we strike a balance?

Don’t be discouraged and shut down. Look for the signs. After the first (always a bit awkward) night of nookiness, if the hunter hides in his cave, it could be because:

  • He’s embarrassed about his performance.
  • His recent ex isn’t completely out of the picture.
  • You two didn’t connect emotionally while connecting physically.
  • He freaked out because he had low expectations but it was wonderful, which he wasn’t ready for.
  • You’ve been conquered.

Good luck figuring out which is the case.

What should you leave or take?

There’s a famous scene (well, famous to most Italians) in The Godfather where Peter Clemenza says, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” Peter obviously enjoyed his food and there was no blood spatter on the fine dessert, so I understand. When I leave my nest, I often run that thought through my mind as I decide what to leave and what to take.

For example, if you go to a bar that is foolish enough to serve Moscow Mules in a lovely brass cup, you’re probably going to leave a tip and take the cup. The bar owner knows this, yet ginger spiked urine is all that is typically left.

When you visit a house party, what do you bring, leave, and take? If you’re slick, you can manage to do your eco-best by bringing a nice bottle of wine, leaving a dirty wine glass, and taking home tomorrow’s hangover. You might also take home:

  • An intoxicated woman with a certain itch,
  • A decorative spoon, as a souvenir,
  • A covered plate containing your next three meals,
  • Liquified shit because the host left the deviled eggs out too long,
  • Fun, blue pills you found in the master bath,
  • Unwelcome dog fur,
  • A refrigerator magnet since you can rarely buy just one,
  • Business cards for people who selfishly see house parties as prime opportunities to “network,” which means begging you to give them money for something you don’t want.

When you go to your office job, you should:

  • leave a mug, take the paper clips.
  • leave food you don’t want to eat, take food other people left.
  • leave post-it note penises on pictures in neighboring cubicles, take the pictures of your homely pets and children back home.
  • leave an extra shirt in case you spill, take Splenda packets.
  • leave the coworker’s vagina/penis, take yours.

When you stay in a hotel for business, you should:

  • leave a mess, take the maid’s tip.
  • leave a sock (you’re going to do it anyway), take some towels.
  • leave a stain on the comforter, take a Purell bath.
  • leave toothpaste dots on the mirror, take the cute little soap thingies.
  • leave someone else’s neglected spouse, take your anonymous identity.

None of this requires a fancy derby or hungry Clemenza. Give and take wherever you go and keep the scales of visitation balanced.

Sorry, my dear, that is never a turn-on.

Bukkake (pronounced boo cock key) is either a Japanese method of serving an assortment of noodles or a facial, so to speak. I am admittedly a twisted, demented, and crass person, who befriends savages because they amuse the pee out of me. I’m desensitized to people like me or nicer. I need to be around beasts. My pal, Ronnie, needs some major therapy because he loves the bukkake.

“Dude, nobody–not a single woman on this planet–likes having a load blasted into her face.”
“I know. It’s the married ones.”
“How did I know you were going to twist that?”
“Single or married–none of them likes it. In fact, it’s probably one of the biggest turn-offs.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I talk to women, as opposed to spraying them like driveway dirt.”
“Whatever. I get off on it.”
“OK, I’m putting on my therapist’s hat now. You have some issue where you feel the need to demean women.”
“I don’t think it’s demeaning.”
“A woman kneeling in front of you with goo dripping from her eyebrows and nose isn’t imagining she’s a princess about to be whisked away in a horse-drawn chariot.”
“I usually keep a towel handy. It isn’t like she needs to walk around with her eyes pasted shut.”
“What do you get out of it?”
“I’m not sure. I just love it.”
“So you purposely withdrawal and launch semen soup onto the poor unsuspecting woman’s face?”
“Why don’t they duck?”
“Good question. Maybe they enjoy it.”
“Not possible. I think they’re momentarily stunned by your cock Taser.”

I’ve had some errant goo fly and it can be comical, especially when it creates a rope bridge across her lovely locks. It must be accidental, however; or it’s completely bizarre. Man goo can land on sheets, pillows, carpets, counters, and apparel, but nothing from chin to forehead. If your man is into this sort of thing, I suggest you put an immediate end to it. Here’s Dr. Phil’s suggested treatment:

  • Make a nice dinner, complete with fancy linens and china.
  • Flirt, tease, and giggle during dinner.
  • For dessert, heat up some tapioca pudding; lukewarm is best.
  • Sit on his lap and tell him to close his eyes because you want to feed him.
  • Ask him to open his mouth.
  • Make motorboat or airplane noises as you loop a heaping tablespoon toward his mouth.
  • Splash him between the eyes with it.
  • Laugh, grab your iPhone, take a picture, and email it to his mother.
  • Enjoy many goo-free nights henceforth.

If it doesn’t work, take the pudding, leave the boy.

Are your friends annoying as paparazzi?

Sally has lost all of her interpersonal skills. She now resides within social media. She checks in everywhere, tweets hourly, and is constantly snapping iPhone pictures and uploading them. You used to like Sally and enjoy her company. You now consider tossing her phone into a margarita blender.

She always wants to pose with you when you’re not feeling at your best. Then, she hands her phone to a gap-toothed cretin who hasn’t progressed beyond a flip.

  • Sally returns to pose, hugging you a bit inappropriately.
  • He points the iPhone the wrong direction. Sally corrects him.
  • He counts to three and pushes the edge of the phone. Sally corrects him.
  • He counts to three, but at two Sally stops him because he’s covering the lens area.
  • He counts to three and nothing happens, so he turns the iPhone around to investigate; it flashes in his face; Sally now has a picture of his nose. Sally tells him there’s a delay.
  • He counts to five, thinking that would solve the timing issue. The phone flashes at seven.
  • Sally takes the camera, checks the photo, and realizes you had your eyes closed. Your drink is nearly empty and you’d rather suffer an under-nail splinter than a retake.
  • He tries again, but someone walks in front as he takes the picture.
  • He tries again, but an idiot is holding rabbit ears up behind your head.
  • He tries again, and you sprint away before she can force another shot.

Sally spends close to five minutes posting the photo to Foursquare and Facebook while tagging everyone within a twenty-foot radius. You’re notified on your phone. Your mother texts you suggesting you may have a drinking problem. “Thanks, Sally.”

A nice gentleman approaches and asks the usual questions a stranger poses to someone he’d eventually love to penetrate. Sally notices and screeches about how cute you two are. She deploys the dreaded iPhone and demands a photo. The new guy stands next to you and smiles. That’s not good enough for Sally.

“Come on, you two. You’re acting like strangers. Get closer.”
“Sally, I just met him.”
“We’re all friends here. Hug her, Mister … hey, what’s your name?”
“Hug her, Trevor. She’s a hottie.”
“All right.”

Great. You permit the cuddle. One picture isn’t enough. She takes six, thinking she’s doing you a favor. Sally needs a beating. Sally remarks about what a nice couple you make, but she doesn’t show you the pictures, which she posts and tags. You receive a text message from your mother reminding you to use condoms. Your ex-boyfriend sends you a text calling you a heartless skank-ho. You leave the bar and plot your revenge.

How to escape a boring conversation.

Aren’t you more easily bored as the days pass? You’re becoming selfish about your ever-dwindling time left on this spinning blue marble. When someone begins a long story, you ache for the punchline that will set you free to revisit your favorite bartender.

Some people live for being on stage; that doesn’t mean you need to join the audience. When the babble begins, here are simple ways to remove yourself:

  1. Fake a sneeze and make sure a booger dangles off the tip of your nose like a disease-ridden pendulum.
  2. Begin tweaking your own nipples.
  3. Unlock your phone and continue your Scrabble game. Interrupt and ask what four-letter word you could make from the letters N-W-A-Y.
  4. Tug your undies from your butt crack and then sniff your fingers.
  5. Look around and say, “What’s that smell? Is it blue cheese stuffed olives? I must have one right this second or I shall perish.”
  6. Laugh before the punchline, spit up a little, and run to the restroom.
  7. Ask the speaker to hold that thought while you search your purse for earbuds.
  8. Blow bubbles through the straw in your mojito.
  9. Yell, “He shoots; he scores!” (This works best if there is a TV in the vicinity with hockey, basketball, or soccer playing.)
  10. Floss.

In case you’re wondering if you are one of the offending parties (just wondering suggests you probably are), before continuing the extended rant, see if the subject of your dissertation is any of the following:

  • Your children, pets, or coworkers.
  • A picture, video, or cool app on your phone.
  • The election.
  • Church.
  • Hot dog ingredients or the caloric content of anything.
  • An odd-looking mole you found on the back of your neck.
  • Plants.
  • Any TV show from the 90s.
  • How much money you saved by … anything.
  • The weather.

If it’s on the list, stop immediately, apologize, and fetch a round of shots–not the cheap, fruity kind either–for those you have offended.

This is national low-tolerance month. Do your part.