Archives for February 2013

Girls, please give your bodies and your lives to the young men who deserve them.

younglove(quote by Charles Bukowski)

My instincts and sense argue over a lovely young specimen. I understand both sides, and remain in the middle, sedating myself against reality. Her youth is there to train young men, not torture old beasts like me. She’s still full of artificial goals, which began with first kiss, first note, first dance, first love, first touch, first proposal, first marriage, and first child. I know what comes after. So does she, but she can push it from her mind. I lived it. The enthusiasm and optimism she beams needs a mirror, not a black hole.

As I age, my goals become sparse, sleep becomes precious, and delayed gratification seems silly. I can’t take it from her–the toy she meddles with–her armor of innocence. She needs the boy with unspoiled expectations and the confidence he can overcome and outperform his parents. Not likely.

Still, her scent intoxicates me. Her gaze penetrates me.  As I run my fingertips down her thigh, she electrifies my numbing touch.

The wolves encourage me to slay her. I can’t. They question my manhood.

“Take the pill and tear her away from those clumsy boys.”

No. They deserve her. I don’t. Her talents, while appreciated, would have little effect on this emotional corpse. The thoughts of her naked body lying here inspire me, but it’s stimulants, sedatives, and sleep I need. The young man will chase her … often into my arms. The young man will seek and accumulate others like her, while lying next to her. She’ll cry on my soft shoulder, as I caress her hair and say it will be OK. My salty shoulders have absorbed much sadness. She’s vulnerable, but not to me. The young man will overdo it with laziness, drink, and the accumulation of meaningless possessions. She’ll ask me why. I’ll shrug and remind her babies cry. The young man won’t appreciate all she does until she leaves him. Yet, she must leave to teach him, or his future loves will suffer. Abandonment taught me much–mostly how to leave, and find out what the women really think of me. She’ll lose faith, grow paranoid, and sigh as she tells me she has given up. I’ll insist her instincts won’t let her off that easily. Her friends say letting go will light the path to love. I’ll describe the path as long and treacherous, yet useless if she waits for disoriented youth to follow it.

She’ll be loved again. I’ll raise a drink to the next cub’s lesson, and keep an arm free to catch her fall.

I voted Republican this year; the Democrats left a bad taste in my mouth.

pineapple(quote by Monica Lewinsky)

“Why are we stopping at CVS?”

“Well, Hank, I want to see if they have canned pineapple.”

“You have a midnight craving for piña coladas?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Do tell.”

“So, I’ve heard that pineapple makes a man’s you-know taste good.”

“What? Woman, you have lost your marbles.”

“Seriously. My friend’s man ate a few rings, and that night she insists his stuff tasted awesome.”

“Come on.”

“It made her want to do it more.”

“Pick up two cans and an Almond Joy.”


“Wait. This is silly. I can’t have all of those late-night carbs. My stuff already tastes good.”

“Does it?”


“How do you know?”

“Um … I … well … fine, I blew myself once.”

“You did not.”

“Uh, huh. I have a cat back.”

“Shut it.”

“Or maybe, after an ex finished pleasing me, I accidentally kissed her.”

“… and it tasted like?”

“Salty pool snot … no, I mean banana cream pie.”


“Hold on a second there, Missy. It’s not like your juices belong on the Food Network. Maybe I should go in there, and force you to eat Coconut M&Ms.”

“Really, wiseguy? What do I taste like?”

“Cherry cordial juice?”

“Good recovery. You almost became the blownless man.”

“Horrors. Still, my little sugar snap, if you expect me to ingest come-altering substances, the least you could do is join me. Then, we can lick and tell.”

“It’s not the same. Licking a woman is like licking a lollypop. What I need to do for you is more like sucking a warm mojito through a mint-clogged straw, only to get a blast of yuck syrup in the back of my throat.”

“Thought you liked mojitos.”


“Well, lollypops aren’t always so yummy either.”

“I’m going in there to pick up canned pineapple slices, which you are going to eat before we go to bed. I will wake you up your favorite way, and I will document the taste of morning man to see if there’s any improvement. This will all be documented on my blog, as a service to my sisters of the sore knees.”

“What? You can’t write about my sperm. A potential employer might search and find this disturbing information about me online, and refuse to hire me due to my funky seed.”

“Don’t be a pussy. What’s the worst that could happen? If we do this and your stuff still tastes like congealed oyster juice, we’ll try another substance–perhaps avocado, starfruit, or almond butter.”

“And, if it tastes jiz-a-licious?”

“Suffice to say you’ll be on the receiving end of substantial oral pleasure.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Pineapple it is. Say, can you pick up the latest US Weekly too? I can catch up on my celebs, while you enjoy your penis colada tomorrow morning.”

Small opportunities are often the beginnings of great enterprises.

opportunities(quote by Demosthenes)

Online dating presents small opportunities. Who knows? One or more of those opportunities could grow into a substantial enterprise, including stimulating discussion over dinner, couch cuddling, and epic sex. Well, that’s the intention: Invest $25 a month, plus hours crafting a clever profile, weeding out prospects, and soliciting those with potential; invest first date money as you interview a dozen applicants; and land one, if you’re lucky.

The main problem I see with this model is, as in singles bars, the passive person gets the leftovers, if anything. When you sit back and wait for people to contact you, you’ll be primarily contacted by people below your line of acceptability. (This is a poorly-placed line because your ego sets it, and your ego is least qualified.) For most men, the passive strategy is particularly fruitless. I’ve tried it for the past two months, received over 100 emails, and found maybe one woman attractive. Yes, I have an elevated self-impression. Sure, (female) friends would suggest I not discard the email and “Give a girl a chance. You might hit it off.” Nope.

If a man is not initially physically attracted to a woman, there’s nothing … fucking nothing she can do with words or personality to overcome it.

Part two of my game plan begins in March. This is where I actively pursue women well above my line of acceptability. Sure, that’s going to suck for most of those women who are not looking for a sarcastic old prick with two cats and zero religions. Yet, men can indeed overcome attraction deficiencies. We use what I like to call the Pug Puppy Strategy. We can become ugly cute with proper placement of finance, dedication, and humor. How might one use the Pug Puppy Strategy online? Simple. Write something clever and customized to contain numerous direct references to the target’s profile and the things she loves. Give compliments, but don’t overdo it. (YES – What a great picture. That ocean background makes your lovely eyes pop. NO – Your boob valley is fucking epic.) No need for self-deprecation at this point, but suggest a brief meeting just to see if there is any chemistry. Say something like, “Even if we don’t hit it off, it still would be cool to meet, and maybe we’d wind up being good friends.”

Once the woman agrees to meet for a beverage, this is where the man needs to stick to the game plan. Any deviation will ruin his chances.

  • Open doors, pull out chairs, and pay tabs.
  • Face her, look in her eyes, and touch her only if she gives you an opening. Best to stay with hands and elbows at first.
  • Ask questions about her favorite things. Get details.
  • Add moderate amounts of alcohol and dessert.
  • Do not allow TV, phones, or other women distract you.

Her first reaction of “Jesus, why don’t I ever trust my instincts,” may be overcome. It takes time. Don’t be dissuaded by the wrinkling of her nose. Keep working on getting to “yeah, but.” That’s the tipping point where she has found sufficient non-physical reasons to grant physical benefits. Ain’t it sweet?

I’m lining up my prospects as we speak. Time will tell if I become an over-achiever or just another over-ambitious douche.

Mom hires stripper for son’s 16th birthday, wins Mom of the Year award.


The New York mother who hired a female stripper for Tucker’s sweet sixteen party has won the coveted Mom of the Year award, and has been nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physiology. Naomi Tinybush raised the ire of the other attendees’ parents by exposing their minors to such “horrible” things as an oil-slicked buttocks and tassels instead of more appropriate things like violent video games and bloody MMA fights to near death.

“My son came home walking funny and spent nearly thirty minutes in the shower,” mother of little Tommy told us. “He had a crazed look on his face when he walked in, and we knew something was up. My husband suggested he may have dipped into our Jack Daniels supply again, but when we confronted Tommy, all he could mutter is something about a woman named Destiny. My husband demanded an explanation, but Tommy showed him a Polaroid instead. I’m not sure what was in that picture, but my husband assured me everything was OK. Come to think of it, we sure fucked a lot that night. Hm.”

At the mall, we ran into a group of the boys who attended Tucker’s party. The popular sentiment was that the event was “epic.”

Spencer said, “Tucker is like the coolest fucking dude ever. I used to think he was a dweeb because, like, his lips are always stained Slurpee blue, and he picks his ears a lot. But, dude, his mom … totally hot. She tongued kissed that stripper. Fuck. I almost fainted.”

Jordan added, “I got to touch Suzie Cartright’s boobs at the fall dance, but they were nothing like Destiny’s. Hers were like huge. She stuck my head between her gazongas and told me to motor boat her. I don’t fucking know what that is, but fuck. Suzie’s tits suck. I hope they grow.”

Max commented, “Destiny bent over and I seriously could almost see her axe wound. It was fucking awesome. She didn’t have much hair on it either. Damn. Have you ever stuck a finger in one? I bet it feels like warm pudding. She almost let me. Man, I can still smell her perfume. Gives me a boner just thinking about it.”

Marcus told us, “I mean, she was hot and all, but like, you know, I’ve had better. You know what I’m sayin’? Shit. For my sixteenth, my neighbor Laquinta let me put it in, like the whole way.”

When asked if the boys were in the mall to get the popular new video game, Crisis 3, we were surprised by their response.

“Nah, I’m done with killing things,” Spencer told us. “It’s kind of a fucked up thing to expose teenagers to, isn’t it? It tries to make violence cool. Fuck that. I want to see more titties.”

“Yeah, and I want to learn how to give a girl a blowjob,” Jordan added.

The other fellas laughed and slapped him in the head, knocking off his flat-billed cap.

“You dickweed, Jordan,” Max corrected. “Chicks don’t get blowjobs; they give them. They like grab your junk and blow cool air on it and it feels good.”

“Shut up, asswad,” Marcus redirected. “Y’all are fucking stupid. You gotta turn a shawty over and shove a thumb in they butt. That’s what they like.”

Tucker’s mother, Naomi, could not be reached for comment as she was busy baking marijuana brownies for her daughter’s graduation party.

He who demands little gets it.

(quote by Ellen Glasgow)

There are reasons why we have currency instead of promises, the primary one being that people can easily deny making promises, but when you hold evidence, you can rest assured. If someone borrows a hamburger, glass of wine, or wrench from me without handing me a promissory note, that shit is gone–for good. Lesson learned: Demand a receipt, or get little.

Same applies to relationships. I may or may not have heard of or been party to making promises for advance blowjobs, which went unfulfilled. Men will promise almost anything for five minutes of road head. Then, after a good throat coating, the poor women is stuck desperately seeking a breath mint, with little hope of her man reciprocating as she drives his drunk ass home. Now, if she were to obtain one lick-gasm buck from her man before unzipping, he would not be able to deny ever making such promises while falling asleep face-down.

There needs to be love currency, and it should be issued in the state of California so there are no expiration dates. As with other currency, there needs to be exchange rates. Allow me.

  • 1 road head to completion = 1 twenty-minute lapping while she reads Glamour = 1 Coach purse
  • 1 dinner with her two best friends and their husbands = 1 just lie there and let her do all the work = 1 nice bottle of 12-year-old Scotch
  • 1 woman wearing uncomfortable lingerie = 1 man never wearing those tighty-whities and yellowing T-shirt again
  • 1 ten-minute (each) foot massage = 1 toe-curling two-fisted beej with gentle bag fondling
  • 1 evening at the mall = 1 morning quickie without kisses or speaking
  • 1 cleaning of the garage = 1 sex session during the evening news
  • 1 exchange of cars so he can have hers fixed = 1 condom-free kitchen counter boffapalooza
  • 1 couple’s massage = 1 pair of tickets to a pro baseball game, and he can choose whom to take
  • 1 half-marathon = 1 balls deep banging, reverse cowgirl-style, while she rubs Ben-Gay into his sore knees
  • 1 evening with the in-laws = 1 entire evening of topless boobies bouncing back and forth delivering ice cold beer to him as he enjoys the game

The precious metals of sorts, upon which the love currency depends would be, for him:

  • Aluminum – Nipple Exposure
  • Silver – Sex
  • Gold – Blowjob
  • Platinum – Butt Sex

For her:

  • Aluminum – La Crema
  • Silver – Coach
  • Gold – Tiffany
  • Platinum – A quiet bath with fine scents and high water pressure.

This is the way it must be, people. Verbal promises (sometimes referred to as oral promises), have no legal binding, even when witnessed or recorded. If your man promises to eat an entire banana cream pie off your cooter, you need to get that shit in writing, otherwise he might deny it all and hand you a zucchini. If he expects you to fellate him in order for him to suffer through another week of The Bachelor, call your local notary and make it official, otherwise he’ll be done and halfway to the pub before Chris Harrison delivers the first date envelope. In case of a dispute or termination of the relationship, you may be able to cash in that currency with another merchant. Some accept Traveler’s Sex Cheques. Look for that shiny decal in the window.

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.

(quote by Dr. Seuss)

Very wise words from that cat in a hat. Yet, it is also best to choose your words wisely when expressing your feelings. While others may not mind your feelings, they may mind how you expressed them. This comes to mind because I recently received a email from a self-proclaimed profile critic. This woman is who she is (single, probably since puberty), and she says what she feels (that profiles should be molded to suit her). Either I shouldn’t mind or I shouldn’t matter. Obviously, since I’ve mentioned it, I’m the latter.

Dating is a delicate dance, especially in its early stages. I suggest you avoid trampling on toes by saying too much of what you feel too early. Perhaps a little guidance is in order.

If he shows up to the initial meet and greet with a few extra years, pounds, or mommy issues…

  • DO – endure his company for one hour.
  • DO NOT – point and laugh, take a picture to send to your bestie, or run away screaming.

If you wonder what is going on under that baseball cap, inside that two-sizes-too-big shirt, or behind his zipper…

  • DO – be patient and dim all the lights, sweet darling.
  • DO NOT – take his hat and throw it across the bar.

If he buys you self-serving gifts, such as lingerie, treadmills, or vacuums…

  • DO – ask for the receipt.
  • DO NOT – re-gift and give them to his mother.

If the dinner he cooked for you is unsatisfactory…

  • DO – make an excuse, like cramps.
  • DO NOT – feed it to his dog when he’s not looking. (The food probably sucks for the pooch too.)

If he thinks he’s being romantic by ordering your food or beverage, and he has selected poorly…

  • DO – look at the items and pout until he repents.
  • DO NOT – stuff a bunch into your mouth, chew it into mush, and then spit it onto the bread plate.

If he stares at the bar slut’s excessive cleavage…

  • DO – stare at the bar stud’s shapely pecs.
  • DO NOT – try to compete by popping that next button.

If he changes the station while you are driving, and enjoying the current song…

  • DO – change it back and shake a fist in his face.
  • DO NOT – throw his phone out the window.

If he tells you a joke that involves shit, penis length, or wife beating…

  • DO – tell him your joke: “What’s pink but turns blue for seven days? Your balls.”
  • DO NOT – say, “I don’t get it,” and force the idiot to explain his awful joke.

If he asks you to wax your pubic hair, while he sports patchy facial hair and back bush…

  • DO – use his expensive razor to do so, without telling him.
  • DO NOT – trim your pubic hair in the shape of a do not enter sign.

If he needs directions to your clit…

  • DO – play the getting hotter, getting colder game and begin by eliminating the first places he’ll search: your mouth and your butt.
  • DO NOT – expect help from Siri, Garmin, or OnStar.

Excerpt from my free eBook, Nice Knowing You


Nice Knowing You (Free Today on Kindle at Amazon):


a) Woman + (Martini x 3) = Phil – (10 x Year) – (10 x Pound)

b) Mexican + Leaf Blower = Phil – Sleep

c) Cat x 2 = 0 x Vagina

d) Aloha Taylor – Panty Lines = Sunny Day + Boner

e) Wendy Williams – Wig = Arsenio Hall

f) Phil + (Time x Lots) = This

g) Phil + Bar + Open Seat = Opportunity

h) Girl – Instructions = Confusion

i) Wife – ((Husband x 2-Days) + Golf + Strippers) = Credit Card – Credit Limit + Shoes

j) Bartender + Cleavage = Phil – Money (not Phil + Sex)

k) Bed – Woman = (0 x Interruptions) + Farts

l) Shower + Soap – Woman + Imagination = Drain Babies + Disgust

m) Prius + Asian Driver = 12 x Angry Drivers

n) Man – Job + Video Game + Cheetos = 0 x Blowjobs

o) Cougar + La Crema Chardonnay + Big Ring + Bedazzle = Lay-up

p) Phil + Feather on a Stick = 2 x Confused Cat

q) Men’s Room + Attendant + Cologne + Mint = Empty Tip Basket + Floor Urine

r) Rear Window Decal = Minivan + Douche

s) Woman + Ovulation = Man + (Deep x Shit), but

t) Phil – Section of Vas Deferens = 0 x Babies = $0 x Child Support = 0 x Rubbers = Glee

u) Red Wine x 4 = Skull + Hammer

v) (Tequila x 4) + (Woman – Looks) = Mating Option

w) Biker + Shorts + Helmet + Clip Shoes = Moving Target

x) Salad + Cherry Tomato = Stain

y) First Date + (Name Dropping x Jesus) = Last Date

z) Head – Hair = Cap


Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.

lent(quote by Robert Brault)

To get on this path to enjoyment, you should begin by giving up giving up things for Lent. Switch that ancient custom around and take on things instead. People foolishly give up chocolate, which means more chocolate for you and me. Stroll down that candy aisle, load up on Pretzel M&Ms, and tell the nosy clerk you’ve given up being one of those annoying I’m-on-a-diet people.

Instead of rubbing palm leaf ashes on your forehead (it’s bad for your complexion), how about some creamy anti-wrinkle goo? Or, you can pick up lick-and-stick tattoos and fuck with people by putting a Superman logo between your brows. This way, you’re giving up your pompous assumption that you will be rewarded for believing in imaginary beings. Instead, you show passersby you have a sense of humor. I like you.

Many a jackass give up coffee for Lent. Awful idea, unless of course you replace coffee with Red Bull. Giving up coffee will give you migraines. It will also make you lumber around the streets like a zombie. Don’t be silly. Head straight to Starbucks and venti that shit.

Some people give up swearing for Lent. What silly fuckery this is! Cussing is fun. Sentences don’t make sense without a smattering of god damn curse words. How does one make an effective fucking point while avoiding the seven deadly swears?

  • That unattractive fellow is being a doo doo head because he’s attempting to take home that lovely woman.
  • That dog-faced douchebag is fucking clueless. There’s no way the big tittied fuck machine is going home with him.

I rest my case.

Another popular castoff is alcohol. Bwah, ha ha ha! (That was my liver.) How else are inhibitions going to be lowered? I’ve tried this one: “The world is ending, so you should get naked, quick.” It didn’t work. Conversely, I have had a woman drink me cute. After one bottle of Justin Cab, I was actually deemed fuckable. Yay! Sadly, she passed out before I could fulfill the prophecy. Boo. Yet, because I have not foolishly given up that fine love nectar made from grapes, I’ll likely have another shot at a hottie with wine goggles.

Some salad queens give up fast food for Lent. How does one define fast food anyway? It’s all relative. It takes the same amount of time to fry fries in Ruth’s Chris as it does in McDonalds, right? So, which is fast food? Neither, I say. Fast food is the handful of Swedish Fish I just swiped from the candy counter and stuffed into my face. One might think I’ve done this because I’ve given up meat for Lent. Nope. My body is addicted to Red 40 food dye. Without it, I might just shrivel up and die.

(Be right back. I need to extract these red fucking gobs from my food pockets. Annoying.)

I hear there are those who give up the internet for Lent. Since those assholes are obviously not here, let’s gossip about them. I hear they are rubes with pea brains. They’re probably doing something wasteful, like working or crossword puzzles. Dorks. I do appreciate you, reader, for not giving up technology. If you were here, I’d feed you liquor-filled chocolates and have sex with you. Bless you.

51 reasons why I’m happy to be in her friend zone.

FriendzoneMost women I know have the impression that my friendship comes with one-way sexual tension. While I admit there are some friends with whom I wouldn’t mind sharing a drunken oopsie night, most of the time I’m quite content in my friend cage. Unless you’re Katy Perry, there actually are men interested in your friendship, not your precious, little love tunnel. If buying a round of drinks, holding a door, or complimenting you springs oxytocin leaks in that tunnel, please forgive the intrusion, but you’ve mistaken a kind gesture for a solicitation.

Alas, here are the 51 reasons why the grass is greener in the friend zone:

  1. You either have too much or too little fuzz on your peach.
  2. While content with cheap chardonnay, your taste miraculously changes to champagne once a wallet opens.
  3. You have iguana hair.
  4. I’m blinded by the bling on your jeans, which is drawing attention to an area it shouldn’t.
  5. Only smoking when you drink is still smoking, and disgusting.
  6. You have something in your teeth, schnookums.
  7. You spend half the night dabbing concoctions on your lips while making a fish face.
  8. Your purse is either Samsonite or appears to come from a Barbie play set.
  9. Your car is a mess, and there’s this place called a service station where they can fix that “noise.” If you’re lucky, somebody working there won’t want to fuck you either.
  10. You replaced your last boyfriend with two dogs, which are smelly and annoying.
  11. You don’t have any beer in your refrigerator.
  12. I’m trying to bang your roommate.
  13. You dated my buddy, and he told us all about it.
  14. You assume I’ve been captured by Al Qaeda when I don’t answer your text in under five minutes.
  15. You send twenty fucking texts a day, most the same as yesterday’s.
  16. You tagged me in a horrible photo.
  17. You watch the game for the commercials.
  18. Yoga.
  19. I’m well aware of how sperm-hungry your eggs are right now.
  20. You order your salad with dressing on the side.
  21. You moan in your sleep.
  22. You lecture me about drinking too much, smoking weed, and eating wings.
  23. You always sit with your foot tucked under your butt, and it looks painful.
  24. You wear pajamas.
  25. You order food, and don’t finish it.
  26. You buy organic coffee, which tastes like ass.
  27. Shopping with you is a marathon.
  28. My buddy wants to fuck you.
  29. You constantly complain to me about your slutty friend who actually is less slutty than you are.
  30. I’ve heard the same story about your boss five times now.
  31. You have enough ex-boyfriends around to start a new country.
  32. You write clever things, publish them online, and assume the entire world is amused by your cleverness.
  33. No, you’re not a Charlotte; you’re a Samantha, plus twenty pounds.
  34. You cross the street while texting.
  35. You lose things constantly, which wind up being in your purse.
  36. I can’t burp, fart, or crap with you in the same house.
  37. When you say nothing you mean something.
  38. You’re too busy chasing around boy-cock to have time for real men.
  39. I’m not about to be the subject of your contribution to the next Man Haters Anonymous meeting.
  40. You’re late.
  41. Dinner takes you three hours to cook.
  42. You keep buying things that need assembly, and I’m not your handyman.
  43. You think blowjobs are gross.
  44. Your children are obnoxious.
  45. You assume men over forty need Viagra for medical reasons, instead of the actual reason: you.
  46. Drunk isn’t sexy on you.
  47. Your gay friend keeps hitting on me.
  48. I prefer my bathroom counter to be free of magic lotions and potions.
  49. You seem to be the type who would poke pinholes in condoms.
  50. No, I’m not going to read that book. I know why men marry bitches, what planet you’re on, and it’s true: I’m not that into you.
  51. You think the Fifty Shades is literary genius, but don’t have a good enough sense of humor to appreciate the previous fifty reasons.

Pope had it up to here with all the whining, quits.


Vatican City

Pope Benedict has reportedly decided to resign and chillax after being totally burned out by his job and something he refers to as “the Twitter.”

“This is not the job that was described to me when I interviewed. Nobody told me I’d have to put in like sixty hours a week, listening to the incessant whining of people with dying relatives. Ugh. What am I supposed to do about Uncle Joe’s ass cancer? Huh? I’m no surgeon. What, I’m gonna sticka my finger up there and fix it? Eh, all I wanna do is smoke cigars and maybe play a little bocce. I like bocce.”

His Eminence seemed relieved after making his announcement, just in time to catch The Grammys.

“That’s another thing: In the rare case when I get a holy boner–like say when watching Rihanna’s luscious caboose–I want to be able to ejaculate with no remorse. This stupid old book says I can’t beat off. That sucks. One boner a year and I’m not going to waste it, damn you. Pass me the olives, please.”

Officials at The Vatican were quick to escort the former Pope from the premises, for security reasons.

“Did you see how them sumnabitches treated me? Why, I ought to send locusts into their chambers. Fuckers. It was embarrassing–taking me out of there like that. They wouldn’t even let me retrieve my ASPCA mug. I love that mug. Oh, and my favorite Dylan CD is still the desk. God damn it! What am I gonna do, email some passwords or something? I want my mug!”

Once he calmed down and had his sits-bath, Benny was more pleasant. We asked if he had any immediate plans for how he would spend retirement.

“Well, I’m not going to Disney World, I tell ya. Hate that place. Damn perverts dressed up like stuffed animals. There’s the kid touchers. How come nobody watches those creepy fuckers? Think I’m going to Cabo. Yep. I’m gonna rent a burro, strap a case of Corona over its back, and cruise the beach lookin’ for tan boobies. Gosh, I love tits. Haven’t held one since Liberace was on TV. Yep, that’s what I need: A sweet Mexican woman with tan, sweaty tittes … oh, and a newspaper; I love the funnies. You’ll have to excuse me. I need to pass gas. Stand over there.”

When asked about his successor, Benny was quick to comment.

“Like I give a fried cannoli who the next poor bastard is. The church wants to get with the times? Then they should outdo you fuckers and hire a gay, Asian, one-legged woman … a seventeen-year-old. Top that, you American liberals. Then, instead of the traditional white smoke, the boys should have a big fucking pot party. I’d be all for it. Fuck Washington. The Vatican has some legendary bud, believe you me. Say, can you show me how to work this remote thing? Every time I try to turn the volume up, the damn channel changes.”

In a final act of defiance, Benny removed his papal ring and tossed it into the Tiber.

“Good luck finding that, losers. Better go hire Smeagol. Ah, ha ha ha!”

Ambition and love are the wings to great deeds.

panther(quote by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe)

Don’t mistake my kindness for a sign of weakness, sweetness. Once I get you alone, I’ll not be a gentleman. I’ll hold you tight, pin you down, and touch you deeply. Once you’re in my grip, like a predator, my eyes will change. Your whimpering won’t dissuade me. Your resistance is just a sign for me to break through and take you … and I shall.

Love prey must be approached slowly, to avoid startling you, and chasing you farther away. No traps needed. Every night, I’m only steps away. Closer. Closer. Keep looking back. When I’m gone you don’t feel relief–you wonder where I’ve gone. Have I dined on another? Maybe. You miss me, until I step from behind my guard. You see me, coming again.

In your place, I know my place. That’s the only man you know, because I haven’t gotten you alone … yet. Entertain those soulless boys until you tire of their antics. I’m no boy. I wear my colors, wrinkles, and scars proudly. You’ll add more. I’ll treasure them–marks of experience. My scars remind me how far I’ve traveled to find you, how long I’ve waited to hold you, how deeply your gaze cuts me every time you see me and wonder.

When we’re finally alone, I will devour you without apology or remorse. You’ve been neglected, so my bite may take getting used to. I’ll mount and delight in every inch of you. The thought of your sweet, salty skin excites me. I’ll bind your wrists above your head with one claw, then find the places where you arch and quiver. I have a good idea where those spots are hiding. No rush. No words necessary. Your breathing changes when I’m there.

Hours before sunrise. You have all day to recover before … I take you again, my love.

There is only one person who could ever make you happy, and that person is YOU.

happy(quote by David Burns)

You want to have an enjoyable evening? Best enjoy your own company. Otherwise, you are paying for entertainment sure to disappoint.

I sat alone in a sports bar, watching the Super Bowl last night. I received my share of curious glances, but I’m comfortable on a corner with Coors Light, wings, football, and people to watch. Most friends go to house parties. I avoid those parties, because they are unhealthy–not to mention, mating opportunity sparse. Think about what goes on at house parties:

  • You stand next to a buffet, which has been visited by dozens of germy fingers, and overdose on sweaty cheese.
  • A gambling addict constantly bugs you to join the pool.
  • Drunk friends tell you the same story you heard three times prior.
  • If male, you need to clean up after you blow up the guest bathroom.
  • People talk over the commercials–often the highlight of the evening.

This is why a sports bar is ideal. All was fine, until friends came as couples to put an end to my serenity. Couple #1 shows up, and something’s amiss. Man goes to restroom. Phil puts on therapist’s cap.

“What’s the matter, kitty catter?”

“Funny. He keeps asking me that.”


“I tell him ‘nothing.'”

“Yet, something is wrong, right?”

“He isn’t taking our relationship as seriously as I am.”

“So, the way to get him to take it seriously is to pout and tell him nothing is wrong.”

“Shh! Here he comes.”

I’m cruelly distracted from the game by their antics. He moves in. She backs off. He shrugs, and goes to bar. He drinks. She texts. He returns, and tries to recover. She resists. He persists. She relents. They’re happy now. He says something stupid. She backs off. He asks what’s wrong. Nothing. He gets another drink. I wish the power would go off in the bar.

Then, happy couple #2 arrives. Perhaps this will go better. They seem happy. Thank goodness. Touchdown, Baltimore. She calls him a “fuckface.” I like that word. I laugh. He plays victim. She apologizes. Server visits me. Yes, I need a stronger drink. He tries to hook me up with server. I know where this is heading. She can’t ignore the 22-year difference. She has a boyfriend. I have a swig. His girlfriend calls him a “fuckface” again for ignoring her. Funny again.

Finally, as both “happy” couples poke and stroke each other, I reach my boiling point.

“Hey, guys. Listen. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my date not giving me any shit.”

I pay my tab, tip the lovely server well for putting up with the embarrassment of being shoved toward an elderly bar maven, and make haste in my shiny blue Volt. I assume the happy couples got along famously without the audience of one. Perhaps there’s an odd strategy at work: Annoy, tease, fight, and go home and take the anger out as aggressive “hate you, love you” sex. Meh. Sex is overrated. Nights like these, coffee with Bailey’s and a thick slice of peanut butter pie are fine orgasm replacements.

The superior man blames himself. The inferior man blames others.

coach2(quote by Don Shula)

Saying “my bad” is a great way to disarm others. Still, Coach Shula is suggesting that when we take the blame, we clear a path to self-improvement. If we miss and adjust, we come closer next time, unless the target is moving. (Sorry. Guess I shouldn’t blame the target.)

I can picture my coach at the chalkboard at the halftime of my life, inspiring a comeback.

“Twenty eight to nothing. Jesus. What a sorry sack of shit you are.”

“Sorry, coach.”

“You’re sorry? Sorry doesn’t score, son.”

“I know, but I can’t help it.”

“That attitude ain’t gonna cut it. You need to screw your head back on straight. Now, let’s review the first half. The first score was a cute, little number who enjoyed craft beer and dirty talk. How’d you lose that one?”

“I’m not used to women dropping the C-word. It causes performance anxiety.”

“Oh, grow up. There’s nothing wrong about tossing around a few juicy words. You need to embrace the C-word.”

“OK, I’ll try.”

“The next score brought a vibrator to bed. You fumbled it.”

“Damn thing was powerful and slippery, coach.”

“It’s all about the drills, son. You need to work on your grip, because women like vibration sensations, and your cock ain’t about to jitterbug.”


“You lost this next one over a tiny foul called finger-butt.”

“I never met a woman who asked for that.”

“So? Give her what she wants, then go wash your damn hands, you pansy.”

“Right, right.”

“What about that sexy wine rep who passed out mid-nookie?”

“She’s a drunk. What was I supposed to do?”

“You need a better booze barometer. Heck, feed the woman. How about mixing in an ice water?”

“My bad.”

“You finally met a great gal who had one, tiny request: commitment.”

“She insisted that we be married within the year, and she wanted to be pregnant the next.”

“Damn. No kidding? OK, I’ll let you slide on that one. What about all the money you invested in that young one? It took you almost a month to peel down her panties.”

“I missed a mortgage payment for her. Turns out she had a killer dog and an armed father.”

“Stop going after the rookies, will ya? Christ. You had some potential last night. How did you fuck that one up?”

“She was a Monet, coach. She looked great from across the bar. How was I to know she had nose hair?”

“You have nose hair too, jackass.”

“Yeah, but I can’t braid mine.”

“No shit? Maybe you should get your damn eyes fixed. Well, let’s put this all behind us. Clean up your act, go after more suitable players, and stop blaming every woman for deep-seeded issues you developed by fucking up your marriage, smoking too much weed, and watching too much porn.”


“And, for Christ’s sake, son, will you please stop trying to bang servers?”

“But, they’re my favorite nurses, delivering the sedative I so desperately need.”

“Start hanging out in libraries.”


“Now, square those shoulders, and get back out there!”