Archives for January 2013

U.S. military leaders expanding front-line combat to include infants.


Washington, DC

Today, U.S. military leaders took another step toward equality by lifting the ban on babies, infants, and toddlers serving in combat positions. Defense Secretary Leon Panetta gave compelling reasons to the press following the historic decision.

“Every try to catch one of those little fuckers? Ain’t easy, is it? Crawling under barbed wire is second nature to an infant. Fuck drones. What we really need is some illegal immigrant babies hopped up on 5-hour ENERGY Shots and titty milk. Let’s hit Walmart and arm those little bastards with assault rifles. Nobody will dare mess with Uncle Sam and his army of diapered destroyers.”

When asked if there are other bans being considered for lifting, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman Gen. Martin Dempsey added:

“Heck, yes. Next, we’re going to start clearing out all these silly nursing homes. Too many rotting corpses in there, I tell ya. If one of them ladies can handle a bingo blotter, she can tote an AK-47. Grandpa’s in a wheel chair? No problem. We’ll equip that fucker with jet propulsion and grenade launchers. Sure beats lying in your own excrement, watching Maury.”

We contacted a local Christian group to get their reaction. Reverend Timothy “Dink” Dinkleberry applauded the move.

“As you know, we Christians insist that life begins at conception. Many of those embryos don’t make it to light, anyway, because the mother is doing too many drugs or falling down steps and whatnot. We feel this is a wasted resource. Armed with properly-fitted weapons, a pregnant woman is a killing machine. Think about it: four hands, two hidden. Imagine Baby Bump Barbie on the front lines, flat on her back, knees up, spreading to reveal a soldier in utero? Now that’s shock and awe, I tell ya.”

PETA was contacted, because of the inevitability of where this is all heading. Spokesperson Jane Fullafur had strong opinions.

“What’s next? Armed fucking puppies? This is insane. All right, I’ll admit that turtles are gross. Strapping a remote detonation device to a turtle makes sense, but you’re not going to get a fucking cat to carry a Glock, no matter how light the gun is. How would it push the trigger, for Christ’s sake? Or, maybe these capitol hill asshats think that bunny from Monty Python and the Holy Grail was a genetically engineered killer instead of a stuffed animal on a string. Dogs can’t fire weapons either. You can’t just throw a fucking Arab and yell fetch. It doesn’t work.”

Well, emotions are certainly high on this topic. We asked Sergeant Kim Lapinit how she felt about being allowed to serve on the front lines.

“Catch me before my morning latte, and nobody will fuck with me, tits or no tits. Now, if it makes my enemy quiver when he sees my three-year-old nephew, Joshua, by my side, why wouldn’t we grant him a few weeks off school and ship him overseas? Shit. It’s probably safer there than most schools.”

She has a point.

Success is a lousy teacher. It seduces smart people into thinking they can’t lose.

smash(quote by Bill Gates)

Success seems to breed arrogance in many cases. I can’t say I’m what Bill Gates would consider smart, but I have been seduced by success. It taught me to consider and prepare for failure. There’s a fine line between fear and preparation. Fear can be paralyzing, resulting in nothing ventured.

FEAR – “I’m not going to ask her out because she’s probably going to say no, and tell all her friends I’m creepy.”

ARROGANCE – “She’s going home with me tonight. I’ll not accept no as an answer.”

PREPARATION – “I’m going to carry two shots of tequila as I approach her. I will ask her out. If she says no, I’ll drink both shots, and move on.”

Once a man lands a fine woman, his confidence grows. Also, women who see him with the fine woman assume he’s hiding something wonderful, so they express interest. Often, this creates a beast.

FEAR – “My woman looks great, but she’s a pain-in-the-ass. Still, better to have a bad woman than no woman.”

ARROGANCE – “This is a gateway woman. I’ll wear her as long as she suits me, and accumulate others along the way.”

PREPARATION – “I’m dumping her, and looking for a complete woman who I could love inside and out. In the meantime, I’ll work on myself.”

This applies to investments as well. We always hear from our friends who bought the ideal stock at the right time, won money at the casino, and whose real estate value is skyrocketing while their rates slide. I don’t know which I hate hearing more: People bragging about good fortune or whining about failure. Unless you’re the bookie, bank, or broker, you win some; you lose some. All your friends know this.

FEAR – “I’m going to rent, buy guns, sell all of my stock, and begin burying cash in my backyard.”

ARROGANCE – “I’m a genius. I bought Facebook stock at twenty-eight. It’s already up ten percent. It will be worth one-hundred times that next year, at which point I’ll sell it, and buy a yacht.”

PREPARATION – “I’m going to hang on to this home as long as I can, so I can write off the interest. If values keep going down, I’ll sell it, tale my lumps, and find a rich old woman with a bad cough to marry.”

Every athlete is vulnerable. Nobody wins or loses every time. The best baseball players fail two out of three times. Basketball stars miss more than half their shots. Even the invincible Serena Williams had her firm ass handed to her when she thought she couldn’t lose. This resulted in tennis racket smashing, which was in itself entertaining, but not what most would consider good sportsmanship. Instead of throwing a tantrum, she should have shrugged, smiled, and congratulated the up-and-comer. Alas, Serena was seduced into thinking she could not be beaten, although she had similarly beaten her seniors more than a decade ago. She was not prepared to lose.

I lose, and do it often. I’d rather be 80 wins, 80 losses than 20 wins, two losses. Just ask the women I’ve dated in the past ten years. I’m practically oh-fer, but I’m still swinging, even at the ones out of my reach. The key is, as in business, try often, and if you must fail, fail quickly, and try again.

You are what you think about all day long.

fist(quote by Dr. Robert Schuller)

Ah ha! You are “sex” right now, aren’t you? Naughty, and I like it.

I had no idea who this doctor was, so I Googled his clever butt and, lo and behold, he’s an evangelist. The masses respond: “Of course, he is.” He does the Hour of Power show, clogging televisions and minds across our great nation, especially the southeast quadrant. I doubt this octogenarian lectures people on this topic the way I would. His angle is to make people feel like misbehaving weaklings so he can exploit them. My angle is to tickle brain clits.

Speaking of clits, most of us think about sex often during the day, because we’re horny little fuckers. So what? It’s good for humanity. I think about sex continually (not continuously–there’s a difference) throughout the day. After brewing my double espresso this morning, I had coffee and marketing on the mind. I made a few posts, then pinned a few ditties on Pinterest–all sans boner. Then, I stumbled across a Pinterest board called Lesbian. Can I get an amen from men? Since 7am isn’t too early for stiffness, I decided to take a gander. Side note: Doing so did not make me a lesbian.

Most of the pictures, while quite explicit, are done tastefully. Yet, one set left me scratching my larger head. Please allow me to pontificate.

People, hands do not belong in anuses. In fact, may I suggest that most hands won’t fit in most anuses, hence Nature’s hint they don’t fucking belong there. Furthermore, I suspect some Photoshoppage at work in these photographs, and wonder if the graphic artist’s time would not be better spent making cool Facebook profile backgrounds.

As far as hands in vaginas go, let’s leave that to the experts, shall we? A hand belongs in the vagina if and when a baby needs fetching. Lord knows we don’t want that whole area contorted by a sideways tot. If the baby catcher needs to do alignment before extraction, this is acceptable, and a slender wrist should come in handy.

In my fifty-plus years, similar to a serving of Scotch, I don’t recall a woman asking for more than two fingers. This does remind me of a joke, though, which I shall share with my congregation:

“I want you to put another finger inside me.”

“All right. There you go.”

“Now, all five fingers.”

“Mm, hmm.”

“Ooh, yes. Put your whole hand in there.”

“Here ya go.”

“Now, I want you to put your other hand in there.”

“Really? OK.”

“Nice. Now, clap.”

“I can’t.”

“Tight, huh?”

Lord, I apologize to all those female readers who find my sense of humor to be senseless. Men, if you laugh at that joke it means you’re a joker.

People, please stop fisting each other. There are plenty of other things better suited for insertion, beginning with penises and ending with tubular toys that wiggle and hum. Perhaps we should open a rehab home for those hopelessly addicted to knuckle butt. I’ll get right on that. Now, stop thinking about sex and get to work.

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

cubalibre(quote by Lao-tzu)

What are you? Yes, of course, I know you’re a human, unless you are a Google robot scanning my blog to find something search-worthy. I mean, what are you to other people? Are you a friend? A customer? A lover? A pain in the ass? An entertainer?

I am a drama magnet. I’d rather be a spectator. I could be in a room filled with hundreds of people, and drama will find me. It’s at the point now where my friends expect it, wait for it, and laugh at it when it happens. There must be some psychological profile I fit. Strangers must relate to me as a child relates to a parent when the child wants recognition.

Last night, while holding a skinny pirate, I was suddenly approached by a strange (in many ways) woman. Rarely, am I recognized out and about by people who know the author, not the person. No, normally, in cases like these, it’s someone who has had a relationship with me. While greeting the subject, I scroll through the possibilities, eliminating the most precarious ones, including sexual misadventures. I was confident I never felt this woman from the inside … yet. She was lovely. I was flattered. I should have known better.

“How are you?”

“Fine. And you?”

“OK, I guess. My husband is over there at the bar flirting with those girls, so I thought I’d come over and say hi.”

“Someone told you I’m a divorce attorney?”

“No. I just think you’re cute.”

“Why, thank you. How long have you been married?”

“Almost thirty years.”

“Jesus. Sorry. Does he do this often?”

“Yep, all the time.”

“Have you asked him to stop?”


“Ready for some unsolicited advice?”


“Have some pride, and kick his ass to the curb. Then come see me, and I’ll show you how a gentleman behaves.”

Naturally, her husband caught wind of her straying off-leash. He approached smiling as if nothing were amiss. My Terminator brain kicked in and presented a multiple-choice question to my logic:

  1. He’s going to punch me.
  2. This is yet another SoCal freaky fetish this couple does to spice up their sex life.
  3. He’s about to lie his ass off.

I put down my pirate, just in case. (Alcohol abuse is sad.) I also covered my nuts in case he set his sights on my package. (I throw baseballs. This is a normal reaction when strange things are coming toward you.) Then, I smiled.

“Hey, honey. I used to work with Susan over there. Haven’t seen her in years. Who’s this guy?”

“I don’t know.”


“Some cute guy I just met.”

This is where I skedaddle from the marital bliss I once enjoyed, by lisping away.

“Oh, hey, hanthome. I’m Bruth. I love your thirt. Is that Gucci?”

He smiled and dragged his wife away, trying to dig himself out of another rut, while his wife raised an eyebrow. My buddy stood next to me amazed once again by how silliness seems to find me.

We will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

apples(quote by Martin Luther King Jr.)

This could be spun any number of ways. I’m going to take the angle where a friend either points or stands idly by as my carcass is being dragged down the street by a bus. Make no mistake–I’ve tossed quite a few off the curb as well. MLK’s point is that friends who don’t have our backs suck worse than our enemies, because our enemies are genuine and easily identifiable. Our friends may actually be enemies, waiting for us to drop our guards, giving them a chance to strike. Or, our friends may truly be friends, who are teasing us because they like us.

While in the desert last weekend playing baseball, a group of us decided to try a place known to attract, let’s say, a more mature crowd. Some of us have wider acceptable age ranges for mates; others are more selective (less desperate). When a mating option hopped past me, which happened to be within five years of my target demographic, I was elated and decided to strike. Yes, my friends sat silently and plotted. I danced with her (verbally), and her moves impressed me. Alas, once she went to powder, one of my friends broke his silence.

“You do realize she has a penis, right?”

“Shut up.”

“Dude, we’re in Palm Springs. That is a man.”

“Is not. You’re jealous.”

“Have you checked?”

“Oh, sure. I grabbed her like a six-pack and my thumb went unblocked.”

“Do you like apples?”


“I saw his neck. How do you like them Adam’s apples?”

“Nice. Why don’t you bring another Centrum Silver and tonic over to your woman?”

“She ain’t that old.”

“Oh, look, she’s fallen and she can’t get up … and run away from you. The time is ripe, Grandson.”

“At least she doesn’t have a dick. Hope you like bangin’ into balls.”

“Here she comes. Truce!”


Fortunately, there was no penis on that woman. I mean, I didn’t see evidence to the contrary, but there’s no way. Not that there’s anything wrong with having a penis. Well, actually, there’s lots, but I’m not judging by anything but the misbehavior of my own. If you have an odd combination of genitalia, that’s fine. The person I was flirting with was FEEE-male–complete with butt, boobies, and baby hole. She did not have hairy knuckles.

Then, I wondered if her female friends were giving her the same business my friends gave me. Did they suggest that I might be female? Nah. My furry face saves me there. They probably said she had daddy issues for hanging around Blue Pill Phil.

“Isn’t it time to get him back to the home?”

“He’s not that old.”

“Hope you don’t mind changing adult diapers. Do you know what F. U. stands for?”

“Fuck you?”

“Sorry, that would be F. Y., genius. Try frequent urination. I bet he sleeps with a bedpan. Sexy.”

“Do you like apples?”


“Your date is waiting for you to pack his lunch … and don’t forget them apples.”

Success is often the result of taking a misstep in the right direction.

beero(quote by Al Bernstein)

Man, ain’t that the truth? How many times have you smugly said, “Yep, I meant to do that,” when you meant nothing of the sort? I do this driving, and it’s why I’ve learned to rely on navigation. Still, sometimes she gets ignored, like her gender-mates, because my ears’ mute button is triggered when I am thinking about sex, food, or grocery lists.

“In two hundred feet, turn right onto Avenida Encinas … now, turn right onto Avenida Encinas.”

I keep going straight because I have boobies on my mind.

“In two hundred feed, make a legal u-turn.”

Missed that one too, due to buffalo wingitis.

“All right. Perhaps you prefer three left turns. In two hundred feet turn left onto Cannon Road.”

I’m too busy trying to sing along with Adam Levine–which requires one to punch oneself in the testicles–to pay attention and turn.

“You know what? You’re an asshole. I don’t know why I even bother. You ask me to give you directions, and you ignore me. I could have stayed home and blown the toaster or something. I also missed my shows for you. Are you ignoring me because you think you’re smarter? Is that it? Well, go right ahead Mister Smartypants. Just so you know, the place you say you’re going is fucking behind you, like half a mile now. Jackass. Or, are you actually going somewhere else, and you told me this address to throw me off track? Hm. Wait a minute. Is this a surprise? Are you taking me to my favorite restaurant? Oh my god. Now I feel bad. All of my besties are going to be there, aren’t they? Wait, it’s not my birthday. Hm. Not our anniversary. Holy shit! Are you going to propose to me? Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did I spoil it? You’re not really an asshole. I didn’t mean it. I was kidding. You know how I get when I feel unappreciated and ignored. Right? Honey? Hello? Hey! You are completely tuning me out and thinking about porn or something aren’t you? If I see a bulge, you’re in deep shit, Mister. Unless, of course, it is because you’re thinking about me. Then again, why would you? I’m sitting right here. Heck, if it were my boobs causing the distraction, you could reach out and touch me. Not now, though, because we’re passing a school … a school that’s two fucking miles past where you said we were going.”

Then I realize I’ve zoned out, and ask my navigation to recalculate the route.

“Oh, really? Really? So there’s no surprise for me? No ring, fucker? Now you want my help. Why should I bother? You’ll ignore me anyway. You should have left me on the counter, genius. Shit, you’d probably wind up in Venice Beach. Maybe I’ll override your commands and make you drive me to the mall. Then you can try to figure out what is wrong with me while I ignore you because I’ll be daydreaming of a new wardrobe.”

Suddenly, I see neon lights, and realize my destination can wait because, oddly enough, it’s beer o’clock.

The way to get things done is not to mind who gets the credit for doing them.

getscredit(quote by Benjamin Jowett)

I can’t stress this enough: Do not give a man like me the chance to hide behind the identity of another, and expect anything good to come of it. Remember, ladies, men of the jungle are competing for the same prey (you). You can use this to your advantage. Be careful, though. Any indirect path you offer a man may wind up in a strange destination. In other words, if you’re interested in a certain gentleman, tell him face-to-face. Do not tell his friend to tell him.

Last night, a pride of lions teased and flirted with prey. I played coy, as usual. One of the lions was called away for work, then one of the women did an incredibly silly thing: She asked me about him.

Now, if I were interested in having her, I would have trashed him. She was cute, but not my type. Worse yet, she wasn’t his type, and I knew it. Hence, this was a prime opportunity for my alter ego, Tom Foolery, to arrive.

“He was telling me how crazy he was about you. He got your number, right?”

“No, he didn’t ask for it.”

“What? Well, he got called away so suddenly. I’m sure he intended to.”


“Absolutely. Hey, why don’t you give me a card to pass on to him? He’ll be delighted.”

“Oh, OK.”

She gave me her card on her way out. (I bet you know where this is heading.) I sat with an accomplice and plotted. She didn’t have his number, nor mine. Bingo! I began texting her, as my buddy, Laine.

“Hi, Cheryl, this is Laine. Phil gave me your number. I’m flattered.”

“Hi there. You know, if you were interested you should have asked me for it.”

“Yes. I apologize. Work emergency. Equipment issues.”

“Ah. You never said what you do?”

“I run a small movie studio called Twunk Studios. They’re just finishing up recording a feature.”


“So, why don’t we get together for a nightcap tonight?”


“Sure, I’ll send you my address. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“Maybe we should have a proper date first.”

“OK. We can meet at a pub down the street and get fucking blotto first. ;)”

“It’s pretty late.”

“Don’t be a wuss. Hey, you know what would be fun? I want you to show up in a jacket, shoes and nothing else.”

“It’s cold.”

“Hold on. This damn actor just had an injury. Bleeding from you-know-where. Ugh. BRB … OK, I’m back. Messy. Anyway, forget the cold; you’re hot.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s have a little foreplay. Unbutton your jeans and put your hand down there.”


“Come on. I want you to bury yourself two-knuckles deep and then lick your pussy nectar and describe it to me.”

“You’re creepy. Lose my number.”

“What? Don’t be like that. Wait, hold on. Another accident. One of the guys needs a fluffer. Jesus. BRB … So, have you ever had your ass fisted?”


“I’ll take that as a yes. Tonight I want you to fist me. I just had a coffee enema, so don’t worry … my colon is decaf.”


“Come on, you can’t type and masturbate at the same time? It’s easy. I’m doing it. Hold on, I need a place to spray this. BRB”


“Ah, I needed that. These actors get me wound up. Had to toss off that nuisance batch so I can last with you. I can tell you’re going to need some persistent deep-dicking to get to O-town.”




“You fell asleep and now you’re dreaming of me and my gargantuan fuck puppet, aren’t you? Fine. I can wait.”

Always and never are two words you should always remember never to use.

alwaysnever(quote by Wendell Johnson)

No kidding. Tell that to Lance. Perhaps he has learned to always keep his mouth shut. I’m so sick of the media and how they are played by celebrities and their agents. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if this was an effort to draw more attention to Lance, and help him sell his next book. There’s a cure for this drug hype, America: stop giving a shit what people do to their bodies in order to entertain you better. If chicks dig the long ball, fast biker, and huge lineman, and those fellas are willing to take the chances associated with enhancers, so be it. It’s not my fucking kidney, so I don’t care.

Imagine if Americans had the same aversion toward artificial image improvements such as hair coloring, plastic surgery, and Photoshop? Should we put models on trial for nips, tucks, and diet pills? No, because men don’t care what makes the woman more attractive. We always appreciate that she is, and never ruin it by thinking about the graphic artist nerd spending hours blending her moles and wrinkles from the shot.

But, back to Wendell’s quote. (Parents, never name your child Wendell.) He’s right; absolutes should be avoided, unless you’re lying. Let’s say I’ve spread a bottle of Merlot across an entire evening of skirt-chasing. Since I never get any pussy, and always leave alone, I hope my drive home isn’t interrupted by a nosy, bored officer. If it is, and he asks me if I’ve had anything to drink, I never incriminate myself and always say I never drink and drive. If he smells alcohol, I say a clumsy bartender spilled a drink, which splashed on me, while she was fetching my diet cola with lemon. If my escape is thwarted, I can always fall back on the old faithful, “Oh, you mean wine counts? That’s not drinking. Scotch–that’s drinking.”

I heard Danica Patrick filed for divorce. Well, she should have never said forever. Vows should always include disclaimers. “Till death do us part” should be appended with “or, till we stop fucking and can’t stand each other, or happen upon someone more fun to hang with.” Always and never are always nice to hear when you’re in love, but never practical.

I had another prime example play out right next to me last night, yes, at the bar. A young couple flirted and teased, see-sawing between love and hate. She was drunk, which always adds drama. He wasn’t as drunk, so he sat and took it like a (weak) man. She was so mad at him at one point that she said, “You know, I could have just about any man at this bar.” Then she began greeting other men and flirting with them. I wanted to encourage him to always be a gentleman, but never a fool for love. She returned and he confronted her. She backhanded him. He said ouch, covered his eye, and took it. Now, I never condone hitting a girl. Even Chris Rock’s suggestion around grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking the shit out of her is dangerous. Still, he didn’t have to encourage this nonsense by staying. Always keep your pride, never make a scene, always flee when the opportunity presents itself, and never let your prospects see you cower.

One more pet peeve; never use the word “incredible.” I heard that word a dozen times last night on the Bachelor 17, and not once used properly. Incredible means impossible to believe. If the woman is incredible, it’s not a good thing. Never say you had an incredible time with someone, unless it was George Bush. Always say you had a wonderful time with an amazing person, unless it was George Bush.

I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious.

einstein(quote by Albert Einstein)

He was being humble. In my case, this actually applies.

Curiosity is what keeps people from being boring. We ask questions because we genuinely want to understand why others are different, and if it’s something we should try. Often, the people we ask think we are trying to change them. That’s usually not the case. It’s just curiosity.

“Why are you so fucking weird, and is it fun? In fact, is it possible that you are normal, and I am weird?”

Few people actually use those words. Good thing. There are nicer ways to make the query sound less like nosy interrogation and more like genuine curiosity. Perhaps examples will help.

  • “The eighties called; they want their [shirt/jeans/shoes/hairstyle] back.” – BAD
  • “That’s an interesting shirt. Where did you buy it?” – GOOD
  • “Your boyfriend must have an enormous either trust fund or penis.” – BAD
  • “Your boyfriend seems nice. How did you meet, and what does he do for a living?” – GOOD
  • “Your girlfriend is hot. Fuck this up, and I’ll be taking her to pound town.” – BAD
  • “What a delightful person she is. Do you think she’s the one?”
  • “Thank you for that Facebook update. I couldn’t wait to hear about your breakfast.” – BAD
  • “How do you find time to post on Facebook all day?” – GOOD
  • “Does that line ever work? How often has it gotten you laid?” – BAD
  • “Come on, you can do better than that. Try again. Give me something original. Go.” – GOOD
  • “What the fuck is that on the back of your jeans? Did you sit on a branding iron and broken glass?” – BAD
  • “Have you ever tried Joe’s jeans?” – GOOD
  • “The beanie, hoodie, and mandals pretty much guarantee you will never see a vagina … or, was that your intention?” – BAD
  • “What do you think about this crazy weather?” – GOOD

Here’s a fun thing to try: Next time you’re out around a crowd of people, look up and stare at nothing in particular. Wait a few seconds and see who else around you is looking up with wrinkled noses, trying to figure out what you find so interesting. If nobody is reacting (you’re around a bunch of self-centered douches), you can hasten the process by pointing. The person who first approaches you and asks what you see, is a passionately curious person, with whom it would likely be worth sharing a frosty beverage. Depending on your level of attraction toward this person, select from the following answers:

  1. Oh, nothing.
  2. I think I see a meteor approaching. Duck!
  3. I have a sore neck. Wanna rub it?
  4. I wanted to see if anyone cared. You win. The prize is you get to buy me a beer.
  5. The cloud you must have fallen from, my sweet angel.

I guess we fall into one of two categories: the show or the audience. I’m content to be in the audience, and have no particular desire to climb on stage. How about you? Do you see someone doing something odd and grow tempted to show them how it should be done? Or, do you sit back and absorb? Perhaps we should consider being a sponge a special talent. It takes bravery and extroversion to ask how or why something is done. There’s no harm in asking … nicely.

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.

cookgel(quote by Dalai Lama)

Yep, sometimes we’re better off. Have you ever looked back and said, “Damn, I sure am glad I didn’t get that [next drink/dessert/car/stock/spouse]?” Sure, you have. This is pretty much a daily occurrence for me because what I want changes frequently. Soon after missing out on what I wanted, I see someone else with it, and I react either with relief or despair, usually the former. If there’s regret involved, I change my tune and insist I never really wanted it anyway. Try it. It’s a wonderful defense and coping mechanism.

Let’s begin with lovers. I often act like a kid in a toy store when new women enter the bar. I want her (take the toy off the shelf). Wait, maybe I like this one better (put that toy back and grab another). No, I want this one (grab a second toy and stare at both). Yes, I’ll choose between these two. Which one is more expensive (check tags). The younger one. Damn (put it back on the shelf, and carry desired one to checkout). Yes, I am happy with my choice. I think (stand in checkout line reconsidering). Hm. Maybe the other one is worth a few extra dollars. It won’t hurt to check again (leave line, and go back to toy aisle). Wait, what’s this (notice another toy, take it down, and inspect)? Jesus (stare at both). I can’t do it (put both back on self and leave).

At the bar with my platonic friend last night, I was surrounded by slim pickings. I justified this to my friend.

“I’m going to hold out until after Valentine’s Day.”


“Let’s say financial reasons.”


“OK, emotional too. I don’t want the stress of figuring out what to do.”

“Aren’t you simply justifying your failure around finding a lover by saying you don’t really want one anyway?”

“You read too many of my books.”

Then, five lovely women walked in. It was like five of the most wonderful Cabbage Patch Kids materialized on the shelf. I was giddy. Then, one spoke in an accent. My jaded mind went to a cold, dark place halfway around the globe and insisted it was a Russian dialect, hence the women were there to drink vodka, smoke cigarettes, and find citizenship by seducing an idiot, such as I.

“They are cute. What do you think, stud?”

“Russians. I’m not interested.”

“What? How do you know they’re Russian?”

“I heard a lot of Vs and Ds in their discussion. I think one said, ‘You geeve me de monyee; I geeve you de sexxxie.'”

“Don’t be silly. Two are going to the restroom. I’ll scope it out.”

Ten minutes and one bourbon later…

“Hey, dickhead. They’re Brazilian.”

“Oh, my. Now, I am absolutely interested. Got to love that Brazilian bubble butt. Did they discuss the handsome Italian man at the bar?”

“Who? Where?”

“Very funny. Did they notice my hiney? I did squats and lunges today. They must have remarked about my lusciously firm cheekuses.”

“I don’t speak Brasilian, but I’m pretty sure they were discussing shoes.”

“Fine. What do I want with a Brazilian girl anyway? She’ll probably love me and leave me a sobbing mess when she gets deported.”

“There you go again. Here’s an easier one: Would you like to share an order of cookies and gelato?”

“Mos def. See? I’m hip. Hand me a spoon.”

“No regrets?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.

change(quote by Leo Tolstoy)

Everyone? According to Tears for Fears, we also want to rule the world. Jeez, we’re assholes. There you go, actually–perhaps we should change ourselves into non-assholes.

The first change that I will nominate is to change the quote from specifying “himself” to “herself/himself,” since there is no such word as “theirself.” It should be gender-neutral with ladies first. How nice am I? It’s not just men who want to change the world. Women simply have different things in mind to change. Women want to change many things men don’t give a hoot about–including the fact that men don’t give a hoot–such as:

  • All toilet seats should be spring-loaded to close when flushed.
  • A new lane should be created on city streets exclusively for those who need to reapply mascara or powder.
  • Every bar must have purse hooks beneath it, and those hooks must be clearly marked above and sterilized nightly. (Oh, and please remove all the gross gum and boogers while you’re under there.)
  • All closets must be equipped with shoe shelves.
  • The thermostat must be raised two degrees.

Sure, men want to change the world, but in different ways, including:

  • Along with Casual Fridays, we nominate Topless Tuesdays. Make it part of gay pride, breast cancer awareness, or Mother’s Day. Whatever floats your milk floats.
  • Buffalo Wings must be breaded, deep-fried, well-done, and served with a warm washrag by a server with significant cleavage.
  • Farting should be encouraged and have its own award show, perhaps The Golden Bean Factory, The Viewer’s Air Biscuit Awards, or The Trouser Burpies.
  • Drinking beer should be allowed on the job as long as you have a mug-holder.
  • Cheerleaders are no longer permitted to wear undies.

I’m not touching gun control. It’s too politically sensitive. For that matter, I’m not touching politics, because people have strong opinions, especially about our mocha presidente. I describe him that way because I’m not touching race, because I’d have my lily white ass handed to me since I’m a lover, not a fighter. I’m not touching fighting because it hurts. I’d rather touch boobs.

Do you stand in front of the mirror, first thing in the morning, while waiting (let’s change this too) for the shower water to heat up?  You scan yourself and say aloud, “I need to make some changes to that person in the mirror.” Good. You’ve just proven that initial quote false. What sort of changes did you have in mind and how will they affect the world?

Losing a few pounds may shrink your human footprint but it isn’t going to reverse global warming. You’ll probably just clog up the streets with your new regimen of walking, jogging, or cycling. Thus, your change will change the world for the worse, as drivers like me are going to have increased blood pressure, increase healthcare costs, and die, unless they hit you first.

Your new hairdo won’t help the world either. It will help exactly one person: your stylist. Others will be negatively impacted as they waste time trying to figure out what changed on you. Also, if you are female, your man will not notice your new do, which will negatively change the world as you punish him by withholding sex, which could result in an affair and court appearances in lieu of new offspring.

The best strategy is to make small changes in yourself, and give no shit about the world, which has managed just fine without you for 15 billion years or so.

It is better to be kind than right.

kindness(quote by Wayne Dyer)

I’m not sure I agree with this one. Would you rather have someone be genuinely unkind or insincerely kind? Is it better to be real and right or real nice and wrong? If this type of New Age thinking were prevalent, we’d never know how to take people.

We’ve all heard this one:

Wife: “Do these jeans make my ass look fat?”

Kind Husband (gets sex): “No, honey, not at all. You look slender and lovely.”

Right, Mean Husband (gets no sex): “Actually, it’s your fat that makes your ass look fat.”

Right, Kind Husband (probably won’t get any sex): “I wouldn’t say ‘fat,’ but perhaps another pair would be more flattering.”

Right, Very Kind Husband (might get sex): “You look fine. Are they comfortable? Try on a different pair, and I’ll let you know which better complements your great figure.”

You can see why the husband chooses Wayne’s way. On the scale of importance, sex is way up there and sincerity about whether his wife’s ass looks fat doesn’t even rank. Why would he jeopardize tonight’s hokey-pokey with honesty? Yet, from the wife’s perspective, this insincerity causes a conundrum. If her ass looks fat in those jeans, and one of her friends–who prefer being right to kind, because there’s no sex on the line–tells her, there will be hell to pay. Marriage has such delicate times.

Let’s play this out further. Wife’s friend takes her aside at the dinner party and asks why she would wear such jeans. Wife appreciates the honesty and is angry. Why? Because her husband will see her fat ass? Nope. Because the other guests might notice her fat ass? Bingo! One may be tempted to ask why wife cares more about what friends and strangers think of her ass. After all, husband is the one who is supposed to have exclusive access thereto and enjoyment therefrom. If friend’s boyfriend remarks to friend that wife has a fat ass, it is of little consequence to friend. Friend might be happy that her boyfriend is not attracted to wife’s ass, since it is not his to enjoy. Friend might become paranoid that her ass is similarly fat. Recursively, the wise boyfriend will deflect such interrogation with kindness.

I’d rather have honesty.

If you genuinely dislike something about me, and it’s something that constructive criticism can improve for my sake as well as yours, I’d rather you be honest. If your motivation is to elevate yourself by belittling me, then kindly STFU (Google it).

Excessive kindness will cause flaws and problems to continue. Honesty will cause a few beers to the face, but at least motivate improvement in some cases.

A woman stormed into my office (bar) last night and complained about her blind date. Her main issue with him was that he has mushy forearms and bony fingers.

“Did you tell him that?”

“No. I said I had a nice time and left.”

“In his mind, the list of top one-hundred reasons why you won’t return his text messages will not contain ‘because I have bony fingers.’ This will cause confusion and paranoia. You’ve done humanity a disservice with your honesty.”

I challenge Wayne-o to consider a more reasonable quote: It is better to be silently right than insincerely kind.

The Fifty Shades Parody Movie is coming – hard and fast. Are you in?

ks-project-coverThis is US against UK, people! It’s time to step it up and show those odd-toothed folks from across the pond that our hard-earned US dollar belongs here, not in E. L. James’ stretch-pants pocket.

We’re going to make this movie, and we’re going to release it before Universal Pictures is even done filming the original. Big deal, they hired screenwriter, Kelly Marcel, to translate the books into a movie. I’m not impressed. Why? Because her last project was about Walt Fucking Disney. How do you make the leap from Goofy the pot-bellied dog to Christian the horse-cocked metal ball slinger? You don’t. That movie will suck. I guarantee it.

Marcel insists the movie will have an NC-17 rating. Whoop-de-kinky-doo. Ours will probably have an R rating because we don’t feel the need to show a penis on screen (they’re sort of unsightly, no?). Frankly, we all know teenagers sneak into R movies, and most already know plenty about sex. It is far better for a male teen to know how to operate a vibrating glove than how to remove a bloody harpoon. Think about it, parents: Would you rather catch Little Johnny giving Little Susan a through-the-jeans orgasm (it can happen), or grabbing a ripcord? I concur and support thee.

Now, one may be tempted to point out the fact that there’s plenty of bizarre boffery going on in my Fifty Shades of Silver series. Indeed. One might also assume all of that bangery will need to make the gooey leap onto the big screen in order to keep the story intact. Indeed, again. How could we possibly deliver an Oscar-worthy sperm-jerker, with the (spoiler alert) coup d’état of the “Butt Plug Challenge,” and maintain an R rating? Good question. Perhaps there will be some pixelation. I’m just a writer. Give me a break. Jeez. All right, what if we don’t show the actual plug in-buttero, but show it in slow motion tumbling through the air as the challenge is lost? I beg you, MPAA, to reconsider. If the butt plug is clean, it belongs in the scene.

By this point you must be dewy with anticipation, and craving to get involved with this project if, for no other reason than to prove funny American screw-a-pa-looza is better than snooty British kinky fuckery.

Well, that’s easy…

Go to the KickStarter project immediately (not like right now, finish reading first, please), and select a sponsorship level. You’re a few simple clicks away from having your name immortalized in the credits or, if you’re exceptionally driven, playing an actual role in the movie. Here’s a sampling of the many levels of sponsorship to choose from:

  • $2 – You get ugatz. WTF? Fine, a thank you, maybe. A fucking venti drip costs more. Pry open that wallet, will ya?
  • $10 – Your name will appear in the credits, which nobody but you and your parents will attempt to read as they fly by at warp speed. Come on, step it up!
  • $25 – You get everything above and a digital copy of Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks, ideal for your Kindle in your left hand while doing naughty things with your right.
  • $350 – You get everything above, a signed DVD, and you get to play an extra in the movie. Holy shee-it? Ain’t that great? It up to you if you’d like to expose an areola or two. I say go for it.
  • $900 – You’ll be an associate producer and your name will be immortalized in IMDb. Damn! Look at the big aspirations on you.
  • $3500 – You’ll star in an important scene, and you’ll get to have dinner with the director and me. I’ll feed you grapes and rub warm oils into your feet, if you have a vagina and get me drunk enough.
  • $9500 – You get so much amazing stuff, I don’t even know where to start. Co-producer, casting rights, accommodations, and tickets to the after party, where there may be free drugs, naked people, and a warm chocolate fountain.

There ya go. How could one resist? If you do nothing, you’ll be forced to endure the hype over that British slop. If you step up to the sex swing, you’ll be a part of cinematic history (with sore ass cheeks).

Go now, and show those Brits we know how to find the g-spot: Support the Fifty Shades of Silver Movie!

Don’t compromise yourself. You are all you’ve got.

compromise(quote by Janis Joplin)

Isn’t this the same chick who asked someone to buy her a Mercedes Benz? I guess if she received her Benz in appreciation for her fine, yet raspy music, she wasn’t technically compromising herself.

The online dictionaries use the example of a prostitute as someone compromising herself. So, the synonym for that phrase would be “whoring.” If I understand this, we whore ourselves every time we choose do something we’d rather not do. If we’re being forced, we’re being compromised by someone else. Well, I guess that makes me quite the whore.

I’d rather not:

  • post on Facebook and Tweet all day, but I must or the audience leaves the arena.
  • get up at 6:30 am, but my cats will pester me until I prepare bowls of tuna.
  • hand my keys to a valet, but parking three blocks away without noticing the “No Parking” sign costs more.
  • have sex with myself but, like Janice said, I’m all I’ve got and, until I don’t, it’s good to practice.
  • go commando, but my hamper is full, and I am lazy.
  • pay for dinner, but my male ancestors fucked me.
  • floss, but I’d like to eat steak into my seventies.
  • drink fizzy, yellow water, but the hard stuff makes is hard to make it home.
  • cook, but nobody brings me warm meals.
  • see another silly Geico commercial, but they seem to an abundance of money and unfunny, unoriginal writers.
  • carry around an iPhone, but I’m worried I’ll miss something.
  • spend as much time between her thighs as between her breasts, but if I don’t deliver the orgasms, someone else will.
  • use the self-checkout line, but I don’t want the clerk to raise an eyebrow at my odd selection of Italian sausage, Raisinets, and personal lubricants.
  • parallel park, but police get cranky when I park on the sidewalk.
  • activate my profile, but for some reason, attractive women in their forties rarely hit on men old enough to shave daily.

It’s sad to think that we’re all we’ve got. This is why imaginary friends and pets come in handy. They keep you company and rarely talk back. Inflatable friends should probably be quarantined to the master bedroom. Then again, doesn’t having pets also qualify as compromising oneself? Pets aren’t cheap. I certainly can think of numerous things I’d rather do than go turd mining. Heck, I might even choose to watch the WNBA.

How would you spend an entire day without compromising yourself? You’d:

  • sleep in
  • have morning nookie
  • nap
  • call in sick
  • drink three caramel macchiatos
  • eat chocolate cake
  • drink a noon-garita
  • eat pizza
  • ok, another orgasm, why not?
  • nap
  • go shopping
  • watch an entire HBO series on demand
  • take a bath (orgasm optional)
  • skip the gym
  • eat cheesecake
  • get a massage
  • it’s six-o-lemon-drop
  • eat steak
  • select from ten mating choices
  • slide tab to making choice
  • make mating choice drive you home, in your car
  • have orgasm
  • wave bye-bye to mating choice in taxi
  • eat cherry cordial
  • drink Bailey’s
  • sleep

A problem is a chance for you to do your best.

problems(quote by Duke Ellington)

Tell this to your children and you’ll probably receive a blank stare. Then again, those children may be your problem. You may think passing on this piece of wisdom from a 103-year-old jazz artist will inspire them. I have a much more effective tool: bribery. Offer to pay the munchkins to stop whining and resolve the problem without imposing further upon you. Actually, I’m unqualified to give you parental advice as I did my best to fix a certain problem I had by blocking the flow of egg-hungry sperm from my tool of procreation.

The most prevalent problem, especially this time of year, is weight. Whereas most of us claim to be skilled drivers, few of us can deny we could lose a pound or twenty. We think doing our best would require bowls of broccoli and countless hours running in place. First, having fat isn’t a problem. If famine set in, those manic marathoners would be the first to perish, and they don’t have enough meat on their bones to feed the rest of us. Our problem isn’t our fat, it’s the media who has convinced us that only muscle tone is attractive. Do you think models spend 365 days a year as skinny fucks? Nope. They crash diet for the photo shoot and the graphic artists clean up anything leftover. So, your best way to deal with a weight problem is to consider it less of a problem and more of a survival strategy, because skinny people are fucking miserable.

That leads me to happiness. There’s widespread unhappiness, especially in the snowy states. If your problem is that you are unhappy, you need to find something that makes you happy and do the shit out of that. Chances are curing yourself will involve some combination of food, alcohol, sex, and entertainment. Dr. Phil (this one, not the arrogant hayseed with a porn mustache) recommends his quick-fix cocktail: Crack a bottle of red, put something funny on TV, drink glass one, watch internet porn while drinking glass two and eating chocolate, masturbate, and nap. Yay, a new you!

Work problems are also widespread. It sucks to wake up early, the commute sucks, finding parking sucks, the office temperature sucks, your chair sucks, your boss sucks, and you do it all for a salary, which sucks. I could tell you to quit, but you have (suck-y) bills to pay. Try this: Start looking for a new job that might suck less. If you find one and you’re sure it sucks less, quit. There’s rarely a happier day than the day you search Word templates for resignation letters, fill in the blanks, and smirk while handing the letter to your boss, thus making your problem her problem–writing job descriptions, interviews, etc. Another option is to find something you can do from home so you can avoid the inevitable office life-fuck. Hey, why don’t you start a blog and write a book?

This brings us to a problem near and dear to my brain: writer’s cramp. It’s not a block, because I can always write. The pain is caused by finding something to write that will be read and appreciated, preferably in the form of payment. It’s no simple task. This writer does his best to overcome this affliction by posting up at a pub with a frosty beverage and asking the closest mating option why she’s single. Women love it when you imply they have problems. It gives us men a chance to do our best by taking the blame.