Archives for November 2012

The best way to turn off your woman is by being…

Clingy … Survey says: DING! Needy … Survey says: DING! Overly Dependent … Survey says: DING! Numb-dicked … Survey says: BUZZ!

Two randomites at my office (the one having a fine selection of Scotch within reach) asked what my biggest turn-off was in women. I said, “bad breath.” Sure, I could think of others, but this was the first one to enter my mind and, no, not because the person asking me stank. When I politely volleyed the question back to her and her teammate, their answer was “clinginess.” Seems they must attract barnacle boys.

“Clingy how?”

“You know. Always wants to know where I am, texts too often, jealous, etc.”

“Ah. You prefer an independent lad.”

“Within reason.”

“There’s the rub, my Sugarbub–within your reason, which hasn’t been sufficiently communicated to him, so he’s going by his reason, which is probably based on his last woman.”

“Wait. I’m confused.”

“Then, welcome to my world. Have you any baggage?”


“You both obviously attract clingy men into your lives. Maybe it’s time to consider that the problem may not be the men, but your selection and expectations thereof.”

“True, I do attract needy men.”

“You’re probably a provider and caretaker who grew up with a male figure who was distant and forced you to become independent. This created you, with somewhat male traits. The fact that you are successful and independent will attract men who are dependent, because you won’t let a man take care of you, thus scaring away the men you say you want. Make sense?”

“Umm …”

“If you date an independent man, you’re going to frustrate each other with your posturing, flexing, and maintaining a distance. You’ll each think the other isn’t sufficiently involved, because you’re used to needy people latching on.”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

“I’m no Freud, my dear. Just a bar-front who enjoys people-watching and occasional people-touching.”

What are the lessons for women? How does one override Nature and attract what she wants? She needs to pretend. Don’t like that term? Is “role-playing” better? Whatever works. Check your guilt, sister. It’s mating season. Do what it takes. Act a bit needy, let the independent man think he’s providing, and you’ll have what you want. Suck it up, play the role, and you won’t be stuck answering silly text-messages while you’re doing your pre-slumber flossing.

What are the lessons for men? Even though it goes against Nature, independent women rock. Set limits to length and frequency of contacts. Find things to do on nights she’s gone, which doesn’t include sitting home playing Call of Duty while weeping into your beer. Avoid thinking about what she’s doing. Try not to care too much, because you can’t control this type of woman. Take what she puts out. It doesn’t hurt to have a female friend you’d never sleep with (we both know that’s untrue … she probably does too). When Miss Independent has her girls’ night, that’s the perfect night to be with Miss Friend-Only. Make sure there are pictures tagged and posted to Facebook.

Yes, it’s a game! You’re either on the field or you’re on the bench.

How to master the fine art of lowering expectations.

The best way to impress people is to lower their expectations, then exceed the heck out of them. Most people waste time puffing themselves up in advance of doing something mediocre. Far better it is to use a different strategy.

Let’s say I’ve decided to take a potential bunk-mate on a fun date of bowling. If I tell her I am awesome, and show up with a custom ball, shoes, and a glove, I’m setting her up for disappointment. If I pin-smash my way to whooping her by fifty pins, that’s not going to part her thighs. Also, if she happens to beat me, I might as well go cow tipping, because I’ll get nothing from her. However, if in advance I tell her I suck a bowling and have never bowled anything over 100, any outcome should be good.

This is why I always tell women I have an average-sized ding dong, and have a pretty good idea where the clit is. (I do, actually.)

I hone this strategy while promoting my books. I brag about the bad reviews, and warn the new friend that she may be offended by my irreverence. That way it sounds like a challenge. I’m careful to not taint her by saying she won’t like my books. I simply say there’s a certain type of woman who enjoys them–she’s exceptionally intelligent, confident, and somewhat dark on the inside, like me.

“Thank you for these. I’m going to read them tonight. I’m so excited!”

“Don’t get carried away, my dear. I’m not Jane Austen.”

“Oh, I know. I just couldn’t make it through the original Fifty Shades. The girl was weak and the man was unrealistic and abusive. Plus, the writing was awful.”

“My books feature butt plugs.”

“I see.”

“So, don’t get too excited. Like with all of my books, these are primarily designed to be potty reading. This way, if something stinks, it may not be my book.”

“I’m going to read them in bed.”

“If you insist. Can I recommend you smoke a deep bowl and play Earth, Wind, & Fire while you read?”

“I’ll email you my thoughts tomorrow.”

“Be gentle with my fragile ego.”

Other times you should lower expectations include:

  • Blood-pressure exams
  • While working with a personal trainer
  • Serving dinner to a group
  • Cracking open the bottle you can’t recall buying that has the price tag scratched off
  • Giving a foot massage
  • Playing Words with Friends
  • Handing over a Christmas gift (This includes Christmas cards, with which the envelope should read, “Warning: There’s no money inside. Please recycle.”)
  • Taking someone to your favorite restaurant
  • Driving
  • On your dating profile (underestimate height and income; overestimate weight and hair loss)

Follow these guidelines and you’ll be slightly (note my lowering of your expectations right there) amazed by how often people are somewhat (again) impressed by you.

God told me to tell you to continue reading my books.

“Dang, what’s this cracka-ass-cracka talkin’ ’bout?”

Being a recovered Cath-a-holic, I often lie awake at night wondering if I’m wrong and the Creator actually exists. Then, I wonder if He (or She) is displeased with all of my penis talk and creative use of my favorite word, fuck. (Used in a sentence: What is up with all of this rampant fuckery?) So, last night I decided to eat fish tacos close to bedtime, and toss a heaven-bound query to see if the Lord thinks I’ve been naughty.

Guess what? He chuckled and encouraged me to “get dirtier” (His words; not mine). Oh, He also told me to tell you that you should buy lots of my books, and He promised that if you do, you’ll be rewarded with twenty-six virgins or men with abs who are quite adept at cunnilingus. If you do not buy more of my books, the Big Guy said I should warn you that punishment could include any combination of the following:

  • Two hours on a tarmac
  • A toilet paper roll with one, half-stuck-to-the-tube sheet
  • Every channel on your TV will show Ice Loves Coco reruns
  • Excessive nose and ear hair … in your soup
  • A splinter under a toenail

Serious shit, huh?

Man, I never knew God held me in such high regard. Fuck, I’m downright flattered. All this time I was expecting an afterlife of nothingness. Now, JC’s Pop informs me that, not only will I ascend into angel-banging heights, I can take a few readers with me. How cool is that? Buy my books and you might find the spiritual equivalent of a golden ticket to Wonka’s. I must insist that, to be qualified, you may not own any yappy dogs, crystal-studded jeans, needle bruises, arm cellulite, or a penis. Sorry, boys. Our Father said it was my call and, well, write your own fucking books.

His Holiness also gave me some great advice for future projects.

“You really should have your Fifty Shades parodies made into a movie. Do it before that British beast beats you to the punch.”

“The studio says they need to raise three-hundred grand to shoot it.”

“So? Have you not learned that through Me, all things are possible? Have you not seen Honey Doo Doo?”

“I think it’s Honey Boo Boo.”

“Whaevs. If that cousin-fucking clan can make it to video, who’s to say yours wouldn’t?”

“Good point. Still, I think most women are anxious to see a big, sexy rich dude knock the hymen out of a college chick, while forcing her to have a second helping of couscous.”

“Sure, some are. Those are the undesirables, my son. You’re going after the other women who won’t shy away from lunchtime margaritas and Tosh.0 marathons.”

“OK, you’re the Boss. I’ll let Your desires be known to my flock of fellow pervertites. But, I don’t know if I can take another one-star review.”

“First, don’t be a pussy. Second, let Me worry about the next one-star review. That person will have her nipples super-glued together while she sleeps. I may toss in a bunion, too.”

“Wow. All right. Thanks, Bro.”

“Good talk.”


Top things that shouldn’t be discussed at the holiday dinner table.

I did my annual hop in, hop out of the East Coast last week. I keep these stays as brief as possible because California’s weather has pussified me. Friends and family usually proceed along a typical line of questioning:

“Is there a special woman in your life?”

“Yes, almost weekly. We recycle.”

“Have you written anything lately?”

“I have.”

“Am I in it?”

“If you are, rest assured; your name was changed.”

This year, with the women at least, the conversation eventually came around to Fifty Shades and the likes. Men in my family are badly outnumbered. We’re being poisoned to death by cavatelli. This year I was poisoned by ewy descriptions of what those books and movies like Magic Mike do to my relatives.

“I said, ‘Pass the mashed potatoes,’ not masturbation. I don’t need to hear all about your bean flickery. God!”

“I can’t help it. Those books did things to me inside.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. You can’t tell me that two Twidiots swooning all over each other got you hot and bothered. Pass the stuffing … no, don’t stuff anything. I’ll get it myself.”

“Everyone has their own Christian.”

“You women can’t have it both ways, you know. Pass the corn. No, not porn … corn. Jesus. Look, you can’t play the victim and then invite the abuser. The man in her books is not sexy or romantic. He is abusive. Meatballs? No, not benwa … stop!”

“He isn’t abusive. He’s strong and sexy.”

“You’re giving mixed messages. If no means no, then you can’t say that no means ‘come chase me’ if you are attracted to the guy. You fantasize about things that could easily wind up turning into PFA orders. Is there sausage left? Really? You had to pick it up with your fingers. What’s wrong with a fork?”

“Men should be the pursuers.”

“Untrue. Men whom you are attracted to should pursue you. Others should fuck off and fall off the planet. How’s a guy to know if you want him mowing your lawn or holding a boombox over his head serenading you from there? You all love the damn movies where the potential sociopath chases around the unavailable and uninterested dame of innocence until she gives in, marries him, makes babies, and so on. Well, you know what? Olive oil. No, I didn’t say, ‘I love oil.’ Pass the olive oil. These relationship-dysfunctional men who were abused in their youth do not grow up to become sweet, little Steve on Sex and the City. They become obsessed, controlling beasts.”

“Did you see Channing Tatum dance in Magic Mike?”

“No, because my penis prefers poking petunia. Now, I’d like some pie, please. Pass the pumpkin, punkin.”

“God, what a body on that man. Oh, the things I would do.”

“Sick, sick, sick–the whole lot of ya. Doesn’t it occur to you that a male stripper is probably fondled by more women in one fifteen-minute set than the average man (aka, me) is in a year?”

“You sound jealous.”

“There will be no more talk of what gets the juices flowing. I’d like to enjoy my cream cheese cupcake in peace, without images of oily man-chests. Fetch thee my tea, and do it silently.”

Should I stay, or should I go?

This sounds sexist, but often the worst thing a pretty girl can do is ruin it by speaking. I’m sure it applies to men as well. Still, when a man begins blabbing, I have no problem pivoting and exiting. When it’s a pretty girl, my ears and eyes fight while The Clash plays music in my brain.

Should I stay or should I go?
If I stay, I may need to drink myself into a taxi ride.
If I go, my sexual needs will be denied.
So, you’ve got to stem the flow,
of nonsense from your yap,
or I must go.

Perhaps it’s typical nervous reaction … or, maybe it’s cocaine. The words stream as the thoughts traverse her mind. Each noun that gets any reaction tangents off into another thought as my pal and I watch her cleavage and legs become less attractive. Finally, she gets up to powder her hose, and we regroup.

“What the hell is going on with that crazy woman?”

“I’d still fuck her.”

“Would ya?”

“Yep, face-down.”

“Nice. Don’t think I could do it. She’d be yelling out directions like Peyton Manning facing a third-down blitz, while I tried to maintain the integrity of a fading hard-on.”

“Just concentrate on something else.”

“Like what?”

“Shit, I don’t know. I have a thick mental catalog full of fantasy fucks. When things start souring, I scan, retrieve, and my bone is born again.”

“Let’s say I’m somehow able to ignore the babble and complete my sexual obligation. What then? You know there’s going to be all sorts of post-coital discussion. Heck, she may have an entire table of experts set up to review the replays and make diagnoses and predictions. I’m not up for a one-hour post-game show. On the seventh day, I need rest.”

“Dude, just kick her ass out when you’re done.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I’ll need to wear waterproof clothing to avoid the wine bath she’d deliver the next time I ran into her.”

“Untrue. She’ll be so embarrassed about bangin’ you after just meeting you, she’ll act like she doesn’t know you.”

“You forgot to say, ‘no offense.'”

“Offense intended.”

“Prick. I can’t do it. She’s all yours.”


“Wait, here she comes. Hm. She does have nice legs.”

“A great ass too.”

“Her lips are looking plump.”

“I know. Maybe, I will do her.”

Then she spoke, and …

This indecision’s bugging me.

Why do men cheat?

In the wake of another sex scandal are the typical groups of people. I can predict their reactions so accurately, you might assume I have ESP (Extra-Slutty Perception).

  • Republican, religious, unattractive female: “What a typical fucking pig he is! Oh my god. How could he do this to his wife, family, and country? Damn liberals are such savages. No morals.”
  • Republican, religious, unattractive male: “Who? Never heard of him. Hey, have you heard about the new Cadillac?”
  • Democrat, agnostic, attractive female: “He’s awful. Wait. How rich is he? Hmm. Maybe with a new wardrobe. Does he carry a big gun?”
  • Democrat, agnostic, attractive male: “Jesus, it’s no wonder. Really? He has a shot at a fucking eight when he’s tied to a four? No shit, he cheated. Please don’t quote me.”

Everyone calm the fuck down and consider the possibility that we (men, especially) may have evolved mentally only slightly further than physiologically. We’re not quite the beats we were millennia ago when we gathered mates by clubbing rivals or, sometimes, potential mates. Still, we’re driven at our core by one core desire: to spread our genes.

Sounds too simple? Think about it.

Why are men attracted to large, shapely, natural boobs and firm, curvy hips? (Evidence of a superior host for our offspring.) Why are men attracted to shiny, plump, red lips? (They resemble a vagina in heat. I shit you not.) How does an old codger like Hugh Hefner manage to land, not one, but three gorgeous, young blondes simultaneously, who would not even look twice at a Bradley Cooper-looking man who worked at a Starbucks counter? (Hugh is rich and is a superior provider for potential mother and offspring.) Why are women attracted to men with full heads of hair, muscles/abs, and clear skin? (Healthy traits for ensuring the survival of potential offspring.) Why are many women attracted to dominant men? (A sign of strength and superior protection.)

It goes on and on. (Read The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins for more insight.)

This is why men are constantly fucking up, by religious moral standards. The best way for a man to ensure the survival and spread of his genes is to inseminate as many partners as possible. We’ve evolved to the point where this is somewhat impractical (Antonio Cromartie excluded) because it’s expensive. It’s also why women are fucking up (by the same standards) because they are becoming more likely to walk away from inadequate providers (whether financially, emotionally, or sexually).

So, ladies, if you’re unattractive, you don’t want to hear this. In fact, you’ll hate me for saying it, but I dare you to disprove me. The man in your life is and always will be attracted to other women. Whether he acts on this attraction by allowing his un-evolved instincts to overcome him, depends on your looks and his opportunities. The General cheated on his wife because he encountered an irresistible option, considering the circumstances. Don’t agree? Consider if the two women (wife and mistress) switched roles. Would he have cheated on Broadwell with his future ex? Nope.

So, how do we resolve this? We don’t. The best thing to do is not waste time worrying about what other people do, and do what you need to do to secure the mate you want in your life at the moment. Then, when the relationship fades, move on. Don’t struggle with your instincts to the point where it makes you crazy. Don’t force yourself to stay where you’re no longer appreciated or you no longer enjoy the scenery. Move on. (Best to say goodbye, first.)

When you’re on the receiving end of such, the healthiest thing to do is shrug and use the experience as motivation to improve, and attract a better Mister or Miss Next.

Fifty Shades Screenplay – Opening Scenes

Fifty Shades Trailer

MORMON SILVER is pulling up to Beatrice Plastique's office in his Jeep. As he 
parks and walks up to her office, he narrates.

 My name is Mormon Silver, and women leave their marks on me. I need to 
understand the effect they have, so I send a Tweet with Twitter to a local 
billionairess, Beatrice Plastique.

 @BPlastique, you enchant me and I'd love to interview you for my blog. #whynot

 I never expected a reply. Then...

 @MormonSilver, I'm tied up at the moment, but I'll fit you in soon. #whysure

 I bite my bottom lip and feel a twitch in my board shorts. She's only 
thirty-three, whereas I'm in the late autumn of my life at fifty. Would I have 
a chance at the legend? Her assistant, Eric, set up this meeting for me. I would 
never be the same.

Mormon enters office and is greeted by Bea's assistant, ERIC, who checks out 
Mormon, head-to-toe.

 You must be Mr. Silver.

 Call me Mormon.



 Are those Nudie jeans?

 Yes, in fact they are.

 Spin for me, darling.

 All right.

Mormon smirks and spins. Eric is pleased.

 Wonderful. My name is Eric. I'm Ms. Plastique's personal assistant.

 Nice meeting you, Eric.

Eric hands Mormon a piece of paper.

 This is an Interview Non-Disclosure Agreement. Please review it, initial 
each line, and sign at the bottom. Can I fetch you a chai latte?

 That would be awesome. Thank you.

Eric leaves Mormon in the waiting area. Mormon reads the paper and smiles 
as he initials each clause.

 Number one, interviewer will not look at interviewee's eyes, breasts, or feet 
unless directed by interviewee. Two, Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch 
him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog. Yes! Three, Interviewer will 
answer questions honestly concerning his sexual stamina and history. Wait a minute, 
who's interviewing whom? Four, Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer 
and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice. Well, I am a dirty boy. 
Five, Interviewee enjoys gentle hair pulling, neck nibbling, light spanking, 
nipple clamps, indirect clitoral pressure, and hockey playoffs.

 He shoots; he scores! Go Flyers!

 Excuse me?

 Oh, nothing.

Mormon signs the bottom and brings it to Eric.

 Here you go.

Eric doesn't take the paper. Instead, picks up the phone.

 Mr. Silver is here for you.
 OK, I'll send him in.

Eric hangs up and gestures toward her door.

 Ms. Plastique will see you now. Please go right in. You can take that with you.

 All right.

Mormon enters to find BEATRICE PLASTIQUE, sitting behind a glass desk staring 
at her Mac. Her hair is golden, her skin is glowing, and her square-rimmed 
reading glasses hang on the tip of her nose. She doesn't look up. Mormon 
approaches her desk and extends the agreement.

 Have a seat, Mr. Silver. I'll be right with you.

 Please call me Mormon.

Mormon extends a hand to shake. Bea ignores him.

 Sit down, Mormon...

Mormon sits.

 ...and take off your shoes.

 All right.

Mormon removes his shoes, revealing his silver argyle socks. Bea peeks
under her desk.

 Silver socks. Interesting.

 Thank you. May I call you Beatrice?

Bea finally removes her glasses and looks up at Mormon.

 No. You may call me Bea.

 All right. Bea, as you can see, this NDA has been signed by me.

 Would you like more tea?

 Thank you, no, and touché, my sweetpea. I do have a question about the 
ground rules before we begin.


 It's odd not being able to look you in the eyes. Where shall I look?

 How about at my lips?

 Holy shit.

Bea leans forward, obviously agitated.

 What did you say?

 Um, sorry.

 I have this thing about swear words.

 I apologize. I won't let it happen again.

 Why? I didn't say it's a bad thing, did I?


 Look, Silver, although I don't use swear words, I'm not your typical lady. 
When a lover uses coarse language it makes me damp down there.

 That's fucking hot!

 You're not a lover, Silver ... not yet.

 OK, I know you're a busy woman, so let's begin.

Mormon wriggles uncomfortably in his chair, pulls his reading glasses from 
his shirt collar, slides them to the base of his nose, and flips open a legal pad.

 Don't do that.

 Bea, I can't see the questions I've prepared without my glasses.

 Don't touch your nose.

 What? Why?

Mormon touches his nose again and squeezes the tip.

 Stop. I'm warning you, Silver.

 Does it gross you out? Sorry.

 No, it turns me on.

 My nose?

 No, the act of touching it.

 Do you want to touch my nose?

 What? No.

 I'm sorry. Have I missed something?

 You don't understand my world. It's nothing you've ever been exposed to. I have 
certain needs and fetishes, and I can't expect you to comprehend them.

 Nose fetishes?

 That's one. I'll try to explain it to you, but you're not writing about this.


Mormon removes his glasses and touches his nose again.

 Oh, my god! Please stop.

 Either tell me or I'll do it again.

 Fine. Your nose reminds me of my big beefy clitoris and when you touch it, 
it's like you're touching me.

 There's no fucking way your clit is as big as my Italian schnoz.

Bea slaps her hands on the top of her desk, stands, and glares at Mormon.

 You just used the F-word again.

 Bet your kinky fucking ass I did.

Bea flies over the table, knocking the chair and Mormon over. She's on top 
of him in full mount and balls his shirt in each fist.

 You're going to hockey bang me right here, right now, Silver, or I'm going to 
yell rape and have my assistant beat you to a bloody puddle.

 Hockey bang?


Central Infidelity Agency (a Musical) – The Cast

Here’s the whole sloppy mess laid out and explained, so people don’t waste the entire workday searching Google pictures. You’re welcome.

How to choose between two men.

A sweet little thing decided to run her conundrum past wise, old Uncle Phil last night. (Silly vixen.) She was in a bar with a group of girlies, trying to decide which of two male options she should invite. I preferred neither, leaving me to deliver the pleasure. Sadly, I was a generation too early to be qualified.

She was texting both boys, and doing a foolish thing–giving me her phone to read the conversation. Note to friends: Don’t ever give me an unlocked phone. The last woman who did that, inadvertently sent the following message to a male friend of hers: “I want your huge cock inside me, now!” I was customarily removed from her holiday card list. Pity.

Anywho, the two boys vying for her company were described as follows:

  1. Cute guy who I went home with on Halloween. We spent the night. Nothing happened. In the morning I blew him (she’s a keeper). He didn’t try to kiss or touch me. I’ve spent three more nights with him and nothing–not even a kiss.
  2. Another cute guy who I’ve hooked up with occasionally over the year. He always texts me to see what I’m up to. One text from me and he shows up. We usually get drunk and wind up in bed.

“You like boy number one more than the other. Am I right?”

“Yes. I know. I shouldn’t. He won’t even kiss me.”

“Well, the post-blowjob kiss avoidance is understandable. Did you floss and give yourself a good tongue-scraping?”

“Ew. I mean, all night long. He has never tried to kiss me.”

“Here, blow me.”


“Blow your breath at me. I need to see if you have hali-whatever-iss.”


“Nope. Just grapes. All good. OK, you realize you like him more because he isn’t as easy, right?”

“I thought guys were the ones who liked challenges.”

“Girls too.”

“Fine, but why won’t he kiss me?”

“Because he’s in love with someone else.”


“Or, he’s gay.”

“He’s not gay. He had a hard-on all night, every time I’ve slept with him.”

“How do you know that?”

“I felt it.”

“That’s hot.”

“Shut up. So, which boy do I invite?”

“I say both. When they show up, blow them (not literally, sugar) off, and find a new guy.”

“That will scare them away.”

“Nope. It will make them want you more. When boy number one comes a-sniffing, tell him he owes you one good licking before you’ll consider putting your talents to work for him again. When boy number two comes around (in tears, no doubt), tell him you’re not ready for a serious relationship.”

“Maybe I am ready.”

“Nah. Wait. You’re around thirty, right?”

“Around that.”

“You’re not ready. Take your tastiness around the buffet a few times before settling on the Kung Pao Chicken.”

“I don’t know. I think I kind of want a boyfriend.”

“Overrated. Ask any woman over forty who has one.”

“OK, I’m going to text both and see what happens.”

“Good girl. Now, it’s time for my nap. Keep the noise down, and don’t forget to do your homework.”

How to win graciously.

My man, Obie, won last night. Part of me wanted him to do a ridiculous victory celebration–one which I would join. Still, I’m glad he didn’t. The best winner is the one who says thank you, takes the prize, and walks away. Why? Because, unless it is a final contest, excessive celebration is going to come back to haunt him. Losers remember the celebration more than the loss and, when they eventually come around and win, they’ll give it back and then some.

This is why I enjoy baseball more than football, although baseball is beginning to lean the wrong way. Football has morphed into a parade of silly celebratory dances. The cheer became the ass-slap and fist-pump, which became the high-five, which became the low-five and backhand-five, which became the chest bump. Please, make it stop. When you sack the fucking quarterback, help him up, and return quietly to your huddle. This will save your knees, as the offensive lineman you just made a fool of will be less inclined to chop you.

In baseball, excessive celebration is usually taken care of by the pitcher and catcher as the batter is drilled in the ribs with a 90 MPH fastball. The beauty is that often the celebrating idiot isn’t the one punished–it’s his teammate, which makes this a more effective deterrent. You hit a double? Great. Stand there on second, get the sign from the coach, and do so without making antler signs on your helmet. Celebration gets you nothing good.

Imagine if the Pres strutted out on stage and chest bumped Biden. First, Biden would have probably folded like macrame and cracked a hip. The crowd would have been whipped into a total frenzy. The idiot with the flag in her weave standing behind Obama during his speech probably would have dove on the floor and shot red, white, and blue sparks from her snatch. The adrenaline rush from such a display would fade on Wednesday morning as Republican bosses would take a piss on the jovial middle-class employees.

I know it’s playing to the crowd, but I sure wish everyone would keep their imaginary friends out of the acceptance speeches. Gods don’t belong in politics. When you say things like “God willing” and “God bless” it comes off as arrogant with an exaggerated sense of privilege and entitlement. When I hear “God bless these United States” I can’t help but imagine the rest of the unsaid sentence reads something like “… and fuck the rest of the world.” Don’t thank these beings for your success. Take some credit yourself, and thank your visible supporters, many who volunteered their time and money.

Even the loser needed to invite his imaginary friend into the equation by saying he is praying for Obama. I wish Obama would have replied, “You know what, Romney, keep your fucking prayers. I don’t need your insincere hopes and blessings. I need your cooperation and involvement so we can continue to fix this mess. You lost. Don’t get your magic panties in a wad. Man up and do something with all your money and influence to help this country move forward.”


The Fifty Shades Trailer is here!

Here’s the book trailer for my Fifty Shades parodies. What do you think?

Since men have Hooters Restaurant, women deserve …

Harry Bohner’s BistroServing the stiffest since 2012.

I go into certain establishments and wonder if men have truly evolved at all since caveman days. Hooters, Tilted Kilt, Twin Peaks, etc. all feature buxom ladies with exposed mid-rifts and tiny shorts bouncing around the bar with large mugs and fried horribleness. Not that I’m complaining. I do, however, find it odd when Little Miss Titsalot give me an attitude for staring her in the brown eyes while listening to the specials.

“You put them out there, baby, and I’m gonna take a gander. Arch that back and take frequent trips through the walk-in to make your tips swell.”

So, to teach men how silly it is to treat women like fancy cars at an auto show, I recommend this new franchise begins popping up around town (tee hee). Harry Bohner’s should feature male servers and bartenders with leather-ish pants pre-stuffed with magnificent schlong-a-ronis. Naturally, the house specialty will be an assortment of links:

  • Italian Bohner – spicy and greasy, served with marinara and a slap on the ass.
  • Asian Bohner – tiny links served with toothpicks and duck sauce.
  • Brown Boy Bohner – won’t even fit in the bun.
  • Canadian Bohner – served cold and shriveled.
  • Bohnerito – served in a taco shell with re-fried beans and a shot of tequila.
  • New York Bohner – this week’s special is served in a soggy bun. (Sorry, too soon?)
  • Philly Bohner – in a toasted bun wit’ cheese whiz and fried peppers and onions.
  • Cali Bohner – overpriced, but you look good eating one.

I need to come up with more taglines for Bohner’s, as well as a mascot. Hmm. Hooters has an owl (we get it: the eyes look like nipples). Harry Bohner’s mascot should be a cock. Nah, that’s too on-the-nose. How about a python crawling between two boulders? An elephant? What woman hasn’t dreamed of being taken by a man with a large trunk in his trunks?

Help me out here. Think out of her box.

  • “Where the drinks are stiff and the servers are stiffer.”
  • “Have a hard one.”
  • “More than a mouthful, more than a handful.”
  • “Bet you can’t eat just eight inches.”
  • “We’ll leave a hard on.”
  • “Our Bohner’s are the best baloney ponies you’ll find in a bun.”