Archives for March 2012

How to request without being so demanding.

As I reenter the public service arena by occasionally DJing in local bars, I’m reminded of times when I had more patience and hair. Silly requests would roll off my back. Here are some of my favorites from back in the day:

  • Can you play something good, please?
  • Do you have that song that goes “Buh bun bah … dun dun?”
  • It’s my friend’s birthday. Play a song and dedicate it to her.
  • Do you mind if I look through your records?
  • Play that “Do It In Da Butt” song.
  • Are you the person playing the music here?
  • Can you turn it up/down?
  • Play something we can dance to.
  • Aren’t you going to play any slow songs?
  • If I give you a cassette, can you play a song from it?

One time, I had an obnoxious guido whistle to get my attention when I was obviously mid-mix.

“I’m sorry. Do I look like a dog to you?”
“How can I help you?”
“Oh. Yeah, say, you gots any Snoop up in da hizzy, yo?”
“Thanks, Dog.”

Playing music is supposed to be therapeutic, and often it is. When people (women) get up and start dancing, bobbing their heads, or holding their phones up to Shazam a song, it’s rewarding. I love it when someone says, “Holy shit, I love this song and haven’t heard it forever.” Some of the songs that often get that reaction include:

  • “The Time Warp” by Rocky Horror Picture Show Cast
  • “Some Kind of Wonderful” by Grand Funk Railroad
  • “Ballroom Blitz” by Sweet
  • “Love is the Drug” by Roxy Music
  • “Strawberry Letter 23” by The Brothers Johnson
  • “Desperate But Not Serious” by Adam Ant
  • “The Breaks” by Curtis Blow
  • “Don’t You Want Me” by Human League
  • “True Faith” by New Order

Go ahead, iTunes those fuckers and jump around. Good stuff, right?

Yet, we in the service industry must endure pokes and jabs from drunken critics who seem to forget we’re not standing in the living room serving an audience of one. I don’t want to discourage requests. By all means, you get what you ask for or endure what you’re given. Just be kind and persuasive with your request and see your wishes fulfilled. Try this:

“Hello, Mr. Handsome DJ. First, I would like to compliment you on your music selection and mixing skills. Had I anything less than a twenty, I’d start a generous tip jar for you. Now, if you feel it would fit into the current mood, might I humbly request you play any song from The B-52s? If you feel so inclined I’ll gladly send one of these lovely servers your way with a complimentary beverage of your choice. Toodles.”

Why do good boys like bad girls?

See that? It works both ways. I’m not suggesting we good boys prefer our girls unclean, gassy, or riding choppers. We will tolerate a bit of scruff below the belt as well as repeated use of the F-word, though we prefer it to be creative. No, we’re not suggesting you carve your beave beard into an arrow. I was referring to cussing like a football coach.

When I was taking my first stabs at vagina, I preferred the pristine type–rarely visited–attached to Ms. Demure. It was like new construction: there aren’t many scars until I move in and leave my mark. This lady was the ideal specimen to expose to family, friends, and coworkers. She’d sit politely and converse innocently as to not adversely affect my standing. Still, when naughtiness is sought, horns don’t fit this angel.

Roll forward. I have no time to train a delicious young specimen the fine art of knob gobbling. I prefer to be taught a new method of the pleasurable distribution of my genetic stew. Hence, much as the bad boy is expected to deliver a good deep dicking, the bad girl is expected to be receptive, nay, insistent upon receiving such and will not hesitate to tell me so using gasp-inducing words.

Good girls will sprinkle flowery perfume, wear lacy undies, and giggle when touched.
Bad girls smell of last night’s bourbon and weed, forget to wear undies, and grind into the hand that teases.

Good girls will chat bar-side about American Idol while sipping zin and nibbling side salads.
Bad girls will double-fist warm tequila and cold beer, dump hot sauce on everything, and punch you when they laugh.

Good girls want to go to wine tasting events, plays, and art galleries.
Bad girls want to stay home, put on Comedy Central, order Chinese food, and get busy even while mid-eggroll.

Good girls are anxious for you to meet their friends and families.
Bad girls are bored with theirs and would rather go to a firing range than subject you to the monotony of childhood stories.

Good girls ask you to drive slowly with the windows up as to not mess their hair.
Bad girls call you a pussy, push down your right leg, roll down the windows, and flash the slowpokes you pass.

Good girls read the silliness I write, then cringe and ask what left me so jaded.
Bad girls get the joke, say “fuckin’ A,” and dare me to write about something they inspire by exposing their darkest desires to me.

I walked into a bar and metaphor.

Figure A: Metaphorus Rex

By two in the morning she (see Figure A) was a nine. *Ba-dum-dump*

Isn’t it fun to twist our language? My three favorites are analogies, similes, and metaphors. You may have forgotten the difference, so allow me to demonstrate.

If you’re female and someone says having sex with you is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, that’s a simile. The implication is that the hallway is large, when compared to the hotdog. Most women would take offense to this, because the man saying the quote is unlikely to be criticizing his own unsatisfying cocktail weenie (metaphor).

Other ways to convey the point using linguistic tricks to describe awful sex include, from the man’s point of view:

  • Going down on her is like bobbing for dead goldfish. – Analogy
  • She holds the Grand Canyon between her thighs. – Metaphor
  • Her breasts are like eggs over easy. – Simile

And, from the woman’s:

  • Having sex with him is fun as flossing but it doesn’t take as long. – Analogy
  • His penis is his third thumb. – Metaphor
  • The face he makes when he orgasms is like a retarded pug taking a dump. – Simile

Perhaps some non-sexual examples will help drive my dull point (metaphor):

  • Her ass runneth over her jeans. – Metaphor
  • He’s a hairy, giant infant with narcolepsy. – Metaphor
  • Her Facebook updates are like chemistry class. – Simile
  • His bathing suit is like a baby carrot hammock. – Simile
  • Getting her to put down her phone is like taking an infant’s blankie. – Analogy
  • Kissing him is like getting hit in the face by a balloon filled with syrup. – Analogy

I now return you to your regular scheduled life hoping your day is like a Nutella brownie–wonderful.

How to be sarcastic without taking a beating.

The best remarks are those that cause slight confusion. The receiver shouldn’t be able to distinguish if the remarks are heartfelt or ass-delivered. When you become an expert at sarcasm you can deliver barbs easily disguised when too stinging. Your “no” could mean maybe or yes, even. It depends.

Am I confusing you? Gee, I’m sorry. No, I don’t think you’re clueless at all. In fact, I find you exceptional.

Step one in sarcasm training is quite simple, yet crucial. Upon awakening, take your bowl of porridge to the family room and turn on the morning news. Pretend the anchors are speaking directly to you. You must answer every statement they make with two words.

“Today, Mitt Romney defended his position on taxing the rich.”
Did he?
“There’s congestion on the ten this morning.”
Is there?
“Gas prices reached an all-time high.”
Did they?
“You should visit our Facebook page and like us.”
Should I?
“I’ll be right back with the five-day forecast.”
Will ya?

Avoid using the classic phrase, “You don’t say,” as that one went out a few decades ago along with those pants you’re wearing … but they look really good on you.

Advanced sarcasticians have mastered the silent remark. For example, the next time you’re handed a thin paper cup with steaming coffee, the barista will probably say, “Would you like a sleeve for your cup?” Now, this low-career-ambition having mother fucker knows quite well that the cup paper is just slightly thicker than public restroom toilet seat covering, and you will definitely burn the shit out of your mitts if you say no. Don’t say no. Don’t say yes. Stare the eyebrow-pierced, tattooed dodo in her vapid eyes, clench your lips into a tiny grin, tilt your head five degrees to the left, and blink twice. She’ll get the message and hand you a sleeve.

Practice your sarcasm on first dates that you’re confident will be last dates–things I’m all too familiar with. What’s that? Oh, you’ve found your soul mate? Have you? You haven’t had many horrible first dates because you never stooped to the depths of online dating? Our loss. OK, I can tell you have a vivid imagination by your hair coloring, so use it.

“It says on your profile that you’re an author.”
“Does it?”
“Have you written anything I might have read?”
“Well, that depends. Do you read anything other than masturbatory chick lit?”
“I don’t read chick lit.”
“Don’t ya?”
“Do you at least masturbate? You should.”
“Eh-hem. Where would I come across one of your books?”
“In the back seat of my Jeep. Perhaps I could come across your ass while you thumb through one.”
“Oh, I kid. Actually, I’ve never had sex in my Jeep.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Hey, that sounded sarcastic.”
“Did it?”

An evening with The Incestuals.

No matter the size of the hole-in-the-wall, if you peek into it you’ll probably find me, blue mountains, and, on rare occasion, a potential bed warmer. Last night I ventured into a pit I rarely visit, which featured a three-piece band of men around sixty playing music from the sixties. It was all good. They brought their own fan club–family members, I assume–which screeched it’s support with every (rarely in-key) note struck.

Something else was a bit off.

The family table contained everything from Grandma and Grandpop to cousins and kin. Most families have this odd assortment of people who look relatively (bad pun) similar. Each one is a little freaky-deaky, but we don’t notice our own family fiascoes because we’re too close to them. I noticed.

There’s always that tweenager who faces the music before the music:

“Well, honey, gee whiz, I sure wish you wouldn’t wear that half-shirt out in public.”
“It’s … well … inappropriate.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, sweetie, I can see your bellybutton and that’s probably a look better suited for the beach.”
“Oh, Dad.”
“You’re not going to change, are you?”
“Lord, please give me the strength to endure the punishment You deliver me for my indiscretions during my twenties.”
“Oh, nothing. Will you at least wear a jacket?”
“Um, no-o. It’s like seventy degrees out.”

At one point during the evening the band broke into “Summer Wind” by Ole Blue-Eyes. Nana and Pop-Pop were shooed out to the makeshift dance floor.

“What’s that?”
“They want us to dance, Harold.”
“You shit your pants?”
“Oh, thank heavens. You go dance. Can’t I just sit here and order some tapioca?”
“No, Harold. Let’s go.”

As they bobbled around the floor to thunderous applause, all I heard was a TV commercial voice over: “When that moment arises, will you be ready?” I’m such a dick.

Then things became really weird. Cousin Dewey (early twenties, shaggy hair, rolled-up jeans, suspenders) sat next to Aunt Felicia who sat next to Uncle Buck. Ole Buck was three whiskeys deep in a trance. Felicia kept reaching back and rubbing Dewey’s thigh while he caressed her lower back. I pointed it out to my companion.

“What do you think the story is behind this?”
“Well, they’re probably just a real close, affectionate family.”
“He’s an inch from her butt and he’s got a lump in his lap.”
“Oh, Jesus! I really could have gone without seeing that. What do you think is going on?”
“I happen to be an observationalist–an expert in the field of twistology. Dewey here lost his virginity to Aunt Felicia five years ago after the annual family Thanksgiving beerfest. Buck doesn’t ask and doesn’t care as long as he can watch NASCAR in peace.”
“You truly are demented.”
“Thank you.”

Cougars and Foxes: A universe in balance.

Ah, how perfectly we have evolved here in the dating jungle! Sexy women, forty plus, who glow from reigniting the orgasm fire after many years of sexual neglect at the hands (and fingers and tongues) of their recent exes. Silver foxes, fifty plus, who scoop up neglected kittens and nurse them back to emotional health after many years of feeling more like mothers with their exes than lovers.

It’s all good.

If you’re one of these recently re-energized cougars, embrace your roll (sic) and present no apologies. When you net one of those cubs, you should enjoy:

  • A harder body, penis included.
  • Repeat performances–hourly as opposed to weekly.
  • PDA
  • Sex in strange, but wonderful places including cars, kitchens, and tents.
  • The secret envy of your friends while they lie and criticize.
  • One fewer mass of humanity in the form of a large hairball on the sofa, which is as difficult to remove as lint from Velcro.
  • A kitchen aid who will not only help you cook and wash dishes, he’ll take you from behind while doing so.
  • Someone with a mind vacant enough that he can be trained.
  • Something nice to look at while vacationing as opposed to a furry, sunburned belly under a smelly cigar and silly bucket hat.
  • Sex at times of the month of little concern to him.
  • Someone in briefs who doesn’t resemble grilled sausage.
  • Home-field advantage as he’s probably not going to want you to hang with his three roommates, who will all get drunk, pick on him, and try to have sex with you.

If you’re a creeper, out to reminisce about days of firmer skin and natural lubrication, employ all methods necessary to net a kitten. Sure, it will require an investment, but face it, we pay either way–it’s simply a matter of how far in advance of services rendered. Silver foxes can use the illusion of wealth, humor, and their fatherly maturity to trap her. Once the kitten is in the den, you should enjoy:

  • Nipples that still point northeasterly.
  • The subtle scent of lilacs as opposed to buttery chardonnay and cigarettes.
  • Oral pleasure graciously provided as it has yet to become a displeasure.
  • Waking up in the morning sun next to a princess instead of Nosferatu.
  • A woman who comes to your place with one tiny bag instead of a pile of Samsonite.
  • Someone prepared and ready to leave for the event, who won’t make you late and scream at you for rushing her.
  • Meeting other kittens–her friends–who will see you as a wise elder and often seek your guidance as opposed to the cougar’s friends who will bombard you with snarkasm.
  • A student who is eager to try new positions, locations, and (if you’re lucky) inputs.
  • A sexual history that won’t make you cringe.
  • Jealous buddies as you show the topless photos she sent you, which you promised not to show anyone.
  • Someone untainted by child rearing.
  • Someone who will not only consider, but will enjoy and appreciate being treated to inexpensive delights at lower-class establishments as opposed to wrinkling her nose and complaining about the wine list and lack of gluten-free options.

See? Nature has a mighty fine way of leveling the field, doesn’t it?

Love is a piece of cake.

The key to happiness: Don’t be needy or needed.

Have you ever noticed that the most attractive people are independent? The people who need you the least are the ones you want to spend the most time with. Why is that? It’s because they owe and offer no services to you and require nothing from you. They’re free entertainment. There’s no obligation either way so you’re free to come and go as you please.

I have a guest on my weekly webcast this coming Monday who is a dating and relationship expert. I have never met her, but heard her described as oozing sexuality. Well, that certainly has my interest piqued. I’ll bring a hanky. Still, I bet she’s single as most matchmakers and relationship experts are.

Since I recently exited yet another relationship, I anticipate a well-deserved scolding about how I don’t open up and dedicate enough of my time (what time?) to nurturing my relationships. Allow me to preminisce (my new word):

“How many serious relationships have you been in since your divorce?”
“A couple.”
“How long did they last.”
“A couple months.”
“That’s not a serious relationship.”
“Ya think?”
“Fine. When’s the last time you were in love?”
“May eighth of last year at around one in the afternoon.”
“Wow, she must have been special for you to recall it in such detail.”
“Yes. She was warm dark chocolate cake with peanut butter icing. I’m becoming aroused as we speak.”
“See, that’s your problem: You don’t take relationships seriously. How can you expect to find love?”
“I can’t. I expect to find happiness with or without a copilot.”
“Don’t you seek companionship?”
“… with something other than a dessert?”
“Can’t I have both?”
“What about sex?”
“With a pastry?”
“No, jackass, with a woman.”
“All right.”
“I mean, don’t you want to have lots of affection and sex.”
“Define ‘lots.'”
“You know, five or six times a week.”
“You frisky little vixen, you.”
“It may be a medical problem. You could be running low on testosterone.”
“Or, I could be preserving it and my sanity.”

Yes, as I age I’m not quite as sexually-centered as I used to be, but I have my moments. It has little to do with my hormone levels and more to do with maturity and being honest with myself. Sometimes with some women I desire frequent bonding; with others, occasional linking is fine. Either way, I don’t need to have a girlfriend, roommate, or wife to be happy. I don’t need lots of sex. Sure, I want it, but not when it comes attached to drama. In that case, a few yanks and a towel keep me from acting needy, and I’ve found the less needy I am, the more attractive I become. Strange.

Chiropractic care can change your life. Who knew?

Dr. Cherie Smith talks with Phil, Cathy, and Dr. Michelle about chiropractic care.

I’ll tell you what you can do with that bracket.

What an exciting time of the year! Even our esteemed president is getting involved. I’m talking about bracketology, people.

I just heard the collective yawn of thousands of women.

Actually, don’t tell my brothers but I agree. Basketball blows. It’s all squeaks, whistles, jumping-bean fans, and huge, sweaty, zit-laden kids with bangs and awful tattoos. Christ, the final two minutes of the game takes forever. I’d almost rather watch Snookie giving birth.

Every office has that annoying weenie who comes begging you to fill out a bracket. Resist the urge because if you place a bet, you’ll be invested and forced to actually watch one of these silly contests. When Joe from accounting stops by your cube and asks for five dollars, here are the top ten nationally ranked responses you can offer:

  1. “Go fuck thyself and do it elsewhere.”
  2. “I’d rather spoon wasabi into my eyelids.”
  3. “I’ll give you ten bucks to stuff that paper and your tiny dick into a shredder.”
  4. Take the paper, blow your nose in it, and hand it back.
  5. “You’re so ugly that when your wife dropped you off for work today she was fined for littering.”
  6. Take the Sharpie, draw the word “Bitch” on your palm, and slap him with it.
  7. “God hates brackets too.”
  8. “Please shut up and give that hole in your face time to heal properly.”
  9. Fill in each winning slot with a different word for poop. If you need suggestions try dookie, dung, doo doo, dump, drek, dropping, and defecation.
  10. Start crying and explain that your cousin once violated you anally with a basketball pump.

Dance Partners Not Required

Since my DJing days back in the early 80s, I’ve always noticed the strange phenomenon of people dancing with themselves. It’s odd but certainly not in a bad way. I encourage it. You can express yourself without trying to match or complement the moves of another. It’s a form of masturbation that you can do in public.

Last Sunday night, a Las Vegas lounge featured a talented cover band and three patrons who spent the entire night dancing solo. I admired their bravery.

The first was a tall, thin, cleanly shaven black man. My sister refers to such as a “Cocoa Puff.” (She’s allowed to do that because she’s quite tan as well.) I admit he was pretty. He was a good dancer so, naturally, I made assumptions. The ladies in our group must have had their signals jammed.

“Wow. Look at him move. I’m going to go dance with him.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think he’s interested in your type.”
“What type?”
“The type with all innies.”
“So, you think he’s gay just because he’s attractive and fit with nice clothing and can dance.”
“Prove me wrong.”

She strutted out and within two moves he shut it down, said “oh, hell no,” and stood at the side of the dance floor with his arms crossed until she vacated his area. I laughed and pointed like I saw her walk into a sliding glass door.

Dancer number two was a woman around sixty dressed in a lovely striped dress and heels. She tilted her head back and smiled seductively as she slowly moved to what’s probably not the ideal song for such: “Everybody Wants Some” by Van Halen. My female accomplices pushed me to join her so they’d have retribution. I avoided rejection by feigning a low-ankle sprain, which I medicated with bourbon.

The third dancer was man in his mid-sixties dressed to the tees with a white derby and white fringes hanging from his pant legs over his shiny shoes. He would dash out to an open area on the floor and go through a number of poses. (Think the final move of every Michael Jackson video.) He’d spin, crouch, grab his hat, and give a bug-eyed look of determination. Yep, he was high on mushrooms.

Would you dance alone? I wish I had the balls. I feel like dancing every time I hear a song. I just don’t want to be judged by critics or people-watching freaks like me.

I’m so not a proud parent.

I’ve got nobody to brag about. All these wonderful updates and praises from Facebook friends about talented offspring, and I gots nuthin. Well, I do have cats and a wonderful worm. Still, they don’t go to school, don’t belong to any clubs, and achieve little aside from slumber.

Symon will not be nominated for any high school awards–you know the ones that make the non-athletic children feel as though they have some valuable talent making them special too. I should know. I received my high school letter jacket because I made The Honor Society. Mom was so proud. Pop preferred that I know how to throw a football instead of solve a Rubik’s Cube. That varsity letter wasn’t quite the pussy magnet it was on running backs, who are now collecting shopping carts in mall parking lots.

What shall I place on my bumper? “My sons are pussies,” perhaps.

Syd has achieved nothing beyond figuring out how to crawl under my covers and mess my freshly made bed. He also knows how to trip his brother and bite his neck–not praise-worthy. He doesn’t make any human-like faces I can caption in a meme and my Photoshop skills aren’t sufficient. I can’t even brag about his choice to take on a drug-free lifestyle because he constantly gets stoned on catnip and chases ghosts.

Perhaps I can brag about my wonderful worm, Willy. He has a knack for causing oxytocin leaks, but that’s typical of his breed. He’s not athletic. I tried playing pool with him, using him as a peg for doughnut ring-toss, and introducing him to hands-free Jenga. He sucked at all three. Willy isn’t artistic either. He can’t draw on much other than toilet rims. He’s not very smart, as he’s taken me into some dark places that weren’t easy to find my way out of. I’d say he’s a little prick. Don’t get me wrong; I still love that fucker.

Nothing to brag about here. I can’t even find suitable decals for my Jeep’s rear window. I thought it would be cute to stick a pair of paw prints and an anaconda there. The minivan mommies would probably misunderstand my decal, though, as some anti-Christian walking snake thing. It’s unfortunate that I can’t be a proud parent. Maybe I should have a political agenda I can rudely display on my vehicle in an attempt to sway voters:

“Bush/Wiener 2012”

They’re always running.

Uncomfortable conversation from the dentist’s chair.

The worst place to have a conversation, aside from between bathroom stalls, is in the dentist’s office. When I’m reclined, staring up at an artificial sun, I feel vulnerable. Time can’t move quickly enough for me. Naturally, there’s a bit of smalltalk about the weather and such, but once devices start entering my mouth, my vocal cords should be considered out of business. Regardless, the life of a dental hygienist must be lonely.

“Hello. How is your day going, Mr. Tore … Torsh … um, …”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I should take this thing out of your mouth first.”
Out it comes, dripping spit on my light blue paper towel tie.
“Fine, thank you. Tor-SIVE-eee-ah. Please call me Phil.”
“Yep, just like it’s spelled.”
She reinserts the saliva suck tube.
“So, do you have the day off?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, well, good for you. What do you do for a living?”
Rolling eyes, while pointing to mouth.
“You’re a dentist too?”
Shaking head.
“Oral surgeon?”
Shaking head.
“I give up.”
“Hnmme too.”
Making writing signs with hands.
“Oh, you’re a reporter.”
Shaking head.
“No, rrrthr.”
“You’re a writer, yes, I understand.”
Shrugging. Close enough.
“Do you write books?”
“So, what do you write about?”

Here’s where I should consider my audience and censor myself. She’s a woman, around thirty, wearing a wedding ring, and her pupils are partially dilated, which means she’s attracted to me. Sadly, these are the actual thoughts that traverse my mind. Far be it for me to deduce her dilation is relative to the ambient lighting. Nope. I immediately entertain thoughts of her fellating me like we’re acting out a porn plot. She must like me. To make her like me more, it’s time for me to make funny.

I use my sign language to cross my chest with an X. She’s confused. I take a bold leap and make a vagina out of my left hand by circling my index finger to my thumb and inserting two (that’s my thing) fingers into the hand vagina. She doesn’t stab the drill into my left eye. So far, so good.

“Ha ha. You write about sex. I get it.”
“Anything I might have read?”
Shaking head.
“Oh. Well, I’d like to. You should give me a book.”
“Awesome. Don’t forget to sign it.”
Winking and smiling as best one can while his gums are being blasted with ice water.

Once the stretching, stabbing, scraping, spraying, sucking, and spitting are through, I’m escorted out to settle up and schedule the next appointment.

“And, remember to bring my [making the hand-fuck signs back at me] book next time.”
The receptionist gave me a look with an odd combination of curiosity and disgust.
“I’ll bring two.”

How to play the Name Game with Rush.

You remember the original Name Game, don’t you? Let’s try it with the first name Rush*:

Rush, Rush, bo-big-headed-blowhard-ass-brush,
Banana-nana fo-fat-faced-druggie-lush,
Fee-fi-mo-monkey-turd-flush …

Wasn’t that fun? Throw in some hopscotch and cherry-flavored Spree and we have us a party.

I picked that name, because it’s what we call that mean kid who lives down the street and likes to pick on defenseless girls. Yep, he’s the kind of shittard who will throw gum in a cute girl’s hair because she won’t talk to him. Jeezie-Peezie, I can’t blame the poor girl. Aside from having fat, blubbering cheeks, he spits when he talks. So gross. He’s always touching his to-pee too. (Not toupée.) Frankly, I doubt the dorknoodle showers more than once a month. He farts a lot too. Stinky fucker. I’d beat him up be he’d probably sit on me until I turned purple and said, “Uncle.”

Anyway, I’ll defend my little girlfriend, Sandra, forever because Pop taught me to be nice to girls. I’m hoping I can take her to prom and she’ll let me have heavily protected sex with her afterward. (Please don’t rat on me and tell Pop I said that.) Sandra is my love because she’s cuter than kittens wrestling. I heart her, head-to-toe. Rush is stool–not the kind in a bar, either. So, he’d better lay off my girl or I’m going to tinkle in his gym bag. That’s how I roll.

Xs and Os for all the hotties. Holl-a!

*This is a fictitious name and it doesn’t refer to any real person. I mean, seriously, who would name a child something so asinine, anyway? Nobody. It’s obviously just a silly nickname I made up–kind of like the name Gush. See? Dumb, right?

The Nice Guy Show – 3/5, segment #4 – Publishing

So, you want to write a book?

In this week’s show I discuss how to go from idea to book with my co-hosts Cathy McLoughlin, Dr. Michelle Wolford, and interior designer Michelle Salz-Smith.

Cry, baby, cry. It’s OK (not).

Men raised by men learn to harden and block tears. Welling up is seen as a sign of weakness. Sure, some women will say they find it charming when a man cries. They’re lying, unless the man is a friend she doesn’t plan to sleep with.

I’ll provide a few exceptions. Men are allowed to cry when …

  • mourning the death of a relative or pet.
  • pulling a nose hair.
  • watching Brian’s Song or Rudy.
  • having an ingrown toenail removed.
  • buffalo wings are 86’d

Balk all you want, ladies; you’re not convincing me you’d appreciate a sniveling snifflepuss across the table from you at your favorite wine bar.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. [*sniff*]
“Oh, no. You’re welling up. Sweetie?”
“I’m OK. I just need a moment.”
“You can talk to me. What is it?”
“It’s just that [*sob* *sniffle*] I really like you and [*cough* *snort*] sometimes I’m not sure you feel the same.”
“Aw. Of course I do. I adore you.”
“Hand me a napkin, please. [*dab* *dab*] Great. Now my eyes are all puffy.”
“Don’t be sad.”
“I can’t help it. [*trickle* *snot-drip*] I never learn. I always open up too quickly and set myself up to have my heart broken.”
“No. I like that about you. Everything is fine, my love.”
“Really? [*blink* *blink*] Do you still want me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Why? I’m such a failure.”
“No, you’re not. Stop it.”
“I can’t even pay my Visa bill. [*sniff*] Oh, god.”
“Baby, I love you for who you are. It will all be OK.”
“Well, thank you. I feel better. Excuse me for a moment. I need to freshen up. [*snort*] Be right back.”

This is when the woman has her iPhone out the minute Ole Booger-Bubble turns his back.

“Help! Nate is having an emotional breakdown.”
“WTF? Where are you?”
“At Wine Vines. He totally just started bawling.”
“With tears and all?”
“Oh, yes–tears and whiny spit-ropes.”
“I don’t know what to do?”
“Well, if you don’t want to be the man in the relationship, you should run.”
“No kidding. He’d probably hang himself.”
“You have your gay friend, Howard, you don’t need another emotional man in your life.”
“I know! Why do I attract such messes?”
“Must be your masculine energy.”
“Ugh. FML”

Men, when you start welling up, remove thyself from the public eye, lest ye expose thy man-pussy.