Archives for May 2013

I’ve just broke up with my cross-eyed girlfriend. Seems she was seeing someone else.

Driving Me Crazy(quote by Anonymous)

Since I’ve been called a serial monogamist, serial dater, and an insensitive asshole, I’ve realized I am highly qualified to present an official guide to breaking up. When things begin to sour–you can identify this moment by realizing you’re cringing during intimacy–it will be time to Google this fine blog to find a decent reason to present to the breakee. If all else fails, you can go with old faithful: “I’m just not feeling it.” Personally, I’d rather hear something along the lines of, “I got back together with my ex.” Still, they both are superior to “I’d rather hump a carrot.”

Be careful when there are feelings involved, people. Not every person you meet is as desensitized as yours truly.

I’m not good at mourning, so sue me. I get over it, make myself a tall latte, and continue ironing. The dating pond never dries up. I simply re-bait the hook and toss it back. I hope to avoid the sneers from those with my hook-puncture wounds, but it’s inevitable. Ironically, when the ex trashes me to her friends, it usually makes them curious, thinking they could tame the beast.

So, if you’re looking for the exits, and the person you’re leaving isn’t an insensitive twat, try some creative angles. It helps to begin the exit sentence with a compliment. Begin with “You’re [insert lie], but …” and use one of the following lies to avoid burning a bridge (aka make-up sex opportunity):

  1. Awesome
  2. Kind
  3. Sweet
  4. Great
  5. Nice

Now that you have lit the way to the exit, it’s time for a little shove.

  1. I’m just not ready to be in a serious relationship.
  2. I’ve got too much going on in my life.
  3. There are some things I need to devote my attention to before I’ll be ready to date again.
  4. There’s drama going on right now in my [family/career] that I need to address.
  5. It seems there’s something missing between us, and I don’t want to waste your time or mine.

There. That should avoid any massive face leakage.

Now, if, by chance, this person has mistreated you to the point where it’s absolutely impossible to envision yourself ever mounted again, don’t burn that bridge–blow it up.

  1. I don’t know what I was thinking when I gave you my number.
  2. Look, I’m saving you substantial lawyers fees and a severe beating from my father.
  3. Now I know why you were single when we met.
  4. Have you considered therapy? You should. And, while you’re at it, see if you can find a drug to cure that awful orgasm face you make.
  5. Remember that puppy you were considering right before we met? Get two.

It doesn’t matter how subtle or blatant you are, actually. The dumpee will realize you’re either lying or prickish. Shrug and walk away. There will always be other options. Soon, you’ll be able to build your own mates with 3D printers. Avoid using saran wrap, or they’ll be too clingy.

The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.

signals(quote by Aristotle)

No matter how long you’ve been with your mate, there’s somewhat of a communication gap, and it most likely concerns sex. One of you is in the mood; one isn’t. One expects the other to initiate; the other worries that initiation will be shut down. One expects a certain level of kinkiness; one is exhausted and prefers the ordinary.

Being unmarried for quite some time now (almost ten years), I don’t have to worry about sending smoke signals to my roommate. My friends do entertain me with their solutions to the age-old disconnect. Let’s face it, most men will leap at any chance to ejaculate. Therefore, it’s usually the woman who needs to signal the man that she’s open for funny business.

“My wife gives me a clear signal. It works out well.”

“Let me guess. She says, ‘You can fuck me tonight, if you like.'”

“No, a bit more subtle.”

“She grabs your junk?”

“What if we’re out in public? More subtle.”

“She raises a mailbox flag on her side of the bed?”


“Flameless candles?”

“It’s quite simple: She wears her hair up when she wants to have sex.”

“Ah, brilliant! But, wait. What if her hair is down, and your balls are burstin’ for some good lovin’. No can do?”

“Well, it depends. In that case I usually ask.”

“I think she should incorporate earrings into the signals.”

“How so?”

“If she prefers you do some licky-licky before entry, she can wear lavender earrings. (The ‘L’ thing, not to be confused with ‘P’ as in purple, as in pee on me in the shower.) She can wear brown for …”

“Butt sex?”

“Easy, camper. I was going for blow job.”

“Ah. Still, I like where this is heading.”

“Nice choice of words, amigo. She can wear red if she wants you to toss her around a bit. R as in rough. Red earrings means bring hot wax, wooden spoons, and a spray bottle.”

“A spray bottle?”

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never tried the spray bottle.”

“Only to keep the cats off the counters.”

“Fill the bottle with tequila and have yourself a vagarita.”


Naturally there are other signals that can be incorporated. Use your imagination, my sweet. Avoid the lazy ways, such as sending emoticons.

===> ( ! ) ?

This makes me wonder if we should all be giving signals in the singles bars. Obviously, we can’t use hair up or down as a signal. Misinterpretation could result in beer baths. Perhaps a certain type of glass or a charm at the base of a wine glass could connote whether the drinker happens to be tingly in the panties. Food choice often provides some insight. If he’s slurping down oysters, especially hands-free, chances are he’s up for heading south on a girl who’s game. If she’s got the stem of a beer bottle label-deep, she’s probably up for numbing her gag reflex with a flesh probe.

Then again, perhaps it’s best to begin the old-fashioned way with “Could I have this dance?”

Dolls cannot choose; they can only be chosen.

dolls(quote by Rumer Godden)

As a child, I never played with dolls. This isn’t me bragging about how masculine I am. I imagine if my sisters were closer to my age, and they had dolls, I might have dabbled. The closest thing I had to dolls was electric football men. (Unless you’re old as Betty White’s hymen, you’ll need to Google that.) I painted those tiny men and added jersey numbers. Nothing I did to them honed any skills useful in my adult life. Women, conversely, often play with dolls and confuse flesh with plastic when they begin dating.

If you have ever told your man to never wear something around you, yes, I’m talking about you.

I react much like plastic Ken responds when the child scolds him. If I have a piece of clothing, hairstyle, or accessory that I like, I’ll wear it. In fact, if the doll-player remarks, this counter-motivates me. For example, I own a pair of quite comfortable and dare-I-say fashionable pair of jeans which happen to be coral. While not pink, coral is admittedly unusual. If I’m instructed by my master to never wear such, not only will I wear those jeans, I may cuff the bottoms and add penny loafers.

Like doll owners, I remark about others. The difference is, I have the decency to do so behind the doll’s back. I don’t approach Jeremy Up-Do with my wire brush and level his rooster mane. Nope. I simply point and chuckle. Do I go up to Carl Capris and spray paint his awful calves? No. I don’t remove Theodore Thick-Frames’ glasses and stomp on them. I don’t grab Freddie First-Finger-Ring and say, “Bad boy!” I make my remark–usually inside my head while staring down a beer bottle–and return to my hockey playoffs.

So, what’s a man to do if his woman is treating him like her doll? The obvious strategy would be to treat her like his Barbie. The unwise man may respond by saying something to the tune of “Hey, Lunch-Lady-Arms, how about a jacket?” The problem is, while that is a clever retort, few women have skin as thick as men, so this often results in expensive trips to the therapist and pharmacy. Age has sedated many men to point where they simply ignore such comments. This sets a dangerous precedent, as these zombie-men often return home to find curious vacancies in their closets. Hidden cameras clearly show the doll owners stuffing garbage bags with clothing destined for the Salvation Army. Sad.

Let’s role play.

“Honey, please don’t wear those jeans with the holes in them to the birthday party.”


“Because my friends will be there. Oh, and can you trim up that beard? It’s getting unruly.”


“Yes, and I think you should wear the black Pumas. No Hawaiian shirts allowed.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m not crazy about that cologne you’ve been wearing. It reminds me of my dentist.”


“One more thing: Can you avoid telling your pedophilia jokes tonight? Some of my friends have young daughters.”

“Now you’ve crossed the line, woman! I’m taking my unfashionable self and tasteless jokes somewhere they’ll be appreciated: the pub. Mistreat your toys, and they’re taken away. Good day, you woman-child!”

Be silent or let thy words be worth more than silence.

rosetta(quote by Pythagoras)

I’ve been waiting for this version for decades: Rosetta Stone Woman. I’ve quickly advanced through the first three levels, and am nearly fluent. It’s embarrassing how often I’ve misunderstood common phrases, thinking I had some unique insight into that complicated language. For example, did you know what “Gosh, I can’t recall having any one-night stands” translates to? It means, “I’ve had many one-night stands–most of them not noteworthy, but I remember every fucking detail.”

I should have taken this course long ago. Many a night I stared at my bedroom ceiling fan wondering who the slutbag was that all of my friends were banging within three hours after meeting her in a club. Every time I thought I found her, she’d use her woman-speak, which I misinterpreted. Usually, it was along the lines of “I would never do it with a guy I didn’t know very well, until he puts in the time and agrees to monogamy before intercourse.” Silly me. I thought that meant three to five dates with gifts, door-holding, and heavy petting before any possibility of unzipping. Nope. Properly translated, that phrase means “Add enough alcohol and compliments, and as long as none of my besties are around, I’ll drain you.”

Another important one I was misinterpreting was the answer to the often-deployed question, “What’s wrong, honey?” If she says, “Nothing,” better run because something is absolutely wrong, and you can be confident that something is attached to you. You might foolishly continue the line of questioning with, “Are you sure?” Tsk, tsk, tsk. Her answer will likely be, “Yes, I’m fine.” Before Rosetta, I’d be tempted to pat the back of her hand and carry on. Now I know. “I’m fine” in woman-speak means “I’m pretty damn far from fine, and you’d best hide the knives, remotes, and heavy coasters because one or all of them are heading your way, with authority.

Around bedtime, it’s imperative to properly interpret your woman’s words. If she says, “I’m kind of tired, but if you really want to, we can,” tread carefully. This has multiple meanings:

  1. I have a yeast infection.
  2. You really pissed me off earlier.
  3. I feel fat.
  4. I’m gassy.
  5. I forgot to take my pill.
  6. I had my orgasm in the tub an hour ago.
  7. You have a boring penis, and I’m not up for belly-puddles tonight.

Be careful with other phrases that are commonly misinterpreted:

  1. Go ahead, honey, you can go out with the guys. (I’m going out with the girls, and I’m bringing along my fun pass.)
  2. Gifts really aren’t that important to me. It’s the thought that counts. (If you buy me fewer gifts than my ex, you’re my next ex.)
  3. You look cute in those jeans. (I’m going to take a picture when you’re not looking, and my friends and I are going to have quite a laugh.)
  4. I would never snoop around your phone, email, or Facebook. (I’m going to figure out your phone’s passcode, and find out who else you’re chatting up.)
  5. We can watch whatever you want. I don’t care. (I do care and, if you choose something lame like sports or the history channel, you’re penis will not enter me tonight.)

I’m about to move on toward the advanced courses, and continue my studies until I become fluent. I just hope this doesn’t elevate my estrogen levels.

Marijuana found to cure homosexuality, crooked parking, dirty dancing, and spinach in teeth.


In light of recent studies showing smoking marijuana may cure diabetes and Crohn’s disease, scientists have discovered other fascinating uses for the wonder-bud.

Case #1: Homosexuality – Scientists interviewed Bruce, a lover of many men until he polished off half a blunt, and wound up with his penis inside a woman.

“What the fuck, dude?” asked Dr. Splifton.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me. For some odd reason, the thought of gagging myself with a penis is no longer compelling. I kind of want to bury my face in a sloppy, wet vagina.”

“Ew, gross!”

“Turns out it’s not so bad, Doc. My roommate Lana passed me the doobie and, next thing ya know, I’m chin deep into her womanhood.”

“Were you … *gag* … erect?”

“Yep–full tilt. It was a legendary rod.”

“Did you at least turn her over for the penetration part?”

“Nope. I mounted Lana, missionary style, pounded away, and had one helluva orgasm.”

“Christ. Was she fingering your bunghole, at least?”

“No. I must admit that entrance has been closed indefinitely. I also found myself oddly fascinated with her nipples. God, who would have thought a little weed would change me so? I may sell my designer loafers and take up skeet shooting. Shit, I might watch Fox News and register as a Republican.”

Case #2: Parking – We strolled through parking lots and counted the number of cars parked horribly. The ratio of cars with tires on or over the white lines was much lower at trendy coffee shops than church. We spoke to Lin Chi to discuss her magnificent alignment.

“Miss Chi, we measured your wheels and amazingly each one is exactly nine inches from the white line. Explain yourself.”

“Maybe I’m just a talented driver, you racist fuck.”

“Ah, I bet you have one of those fancy backup cameras.”

“It’s an eighty-seven Camaro. It has a cassette player, not a rear camera.”

“Perhaps a passenger guided you.”

“Look, shit-for-brains, Asians are not all bad drivers.”

“Did you happen to smoke some weed recently?”

“Are we on camera?”

“Ah, ha!”

Case #3: Dirty Dancing – We attended three local proms and measured the distance between reproductive organs. We also had each student install our App called “Ass Shaking Seismometer” to determine how much wiggling was going on. The results were irrefutable: Stoners danced less dirty.

“Steph, we noticed you dancing with Josh to that horrible Demi Lovato song. Did you, by chance, brush up against an erect penis?”

“What? No. Gross! Josh is just a friend from homeroom.”

“You wanted to touch it, didn’t you? Ooh, I bet you asked him if you could kiss the tip.”

“Whatev. You’re a total perv.”

“Seems you also were not thrusting as much as others. Any back problems? IBS?”

“No, he’s a friend! I just hang out with him because he steals his mom’s medicinal brownies.”

“Duly noted.”

Case #4: Spinach in Teeth – First dates are precarious enough. Throw in a spinach salad with grated Parmesan and light vinaigrette and you have a recipe for disaster, unless…

“Excuse me for a moment. I need to visit the ladies room, and make sure I have nothing in my teeth.”

“No need. Smile and I’ll tell you.”

“I need to go freshen up, also. Be right back.”



“You’re making an excuse to leave me, call your friends, and make fun of my skinny jeans and up-do.”

“Not at all.”

“Then smile. Let me see.”


“All clear.”

“Great, can I go pee now?”

“Sure. Leave your phone.”

“Jesus, you’re paranoid.”

“No, you are. In fact, leave your whole purse.”

“There are things I need in my purse, you creepster.”

“Like what? A spare phone? A gun? Bullet vibrator?”

“Lip gloss and, if you must know, I’m going to smoke a little weed so I can endure the rest of this date.”

Scientists are also studying a possible link between marijuana and gun ownership. We caught up with ex-marine, Jack Barner, who recently turned in his sidearm at the city’s “Hugs for Guns” program.

“Mr. Barner, that’s a lovely firearm you have there. Won’t it be missed?”

“I used to enjoy blowing shit up. Then, I started getting migraines. My doc prescribed medicinal pot and, since I started indulging, I’ve decided to take up craft beer brewing, yoga, and giving hugs to random strangers.”


San Diego School Board aroused by twerking, blames the twerkers.


The San Diego school board has decided to allow sexual harassment charges to stand against high school students who were filmed dancing. In addition, the board has established a strict dress code to prevent further offenses. Girls must now dress in black burqas and wear President Nixon masks. Boys are required to wear Hefty trash bags with arm holes and nylon stockings over their heads. Also, upon arriving at school, gym teachers will examine the genitals of each student. Any student found in an aroused state will be banished to the dungeons, where they are to make stones into pebbles the entire school day. Furthermore, any student caught wiggling or jiggling will be tied to a stake and whipped.

The board considered levying additional punishment in the form of food restrictions, but could find nothing more repulsive than the week-old shepherd’s pie and strawberry milk already being force fed to the child slaves.

Oddly, hidden cameras under the conference room table clearly show four male board members pinching their penises while watching the video (for the twentieth time).

“Pause. Wait. Run that back ten seconds,” directed board member Peter K. Toucher. “The girl on the left. There. Can you zoom in? Thank you. Well, would you look at that? If I’m not mistaken, that’s a pink lace thong on that young lady. Disgusting.”

Mr. Toucher dismissed himself from the hearing, went straight to the little boys room, and emptied his testicles onto the floor in front of the toilet in stall #2. We know this because he carelessly slipped on the substance while leaving the stall, and chipped a tooth. Forensics specialists are still swabbing the area.

One of the parents, enraged by the school board’s decision, brought up some interesting facts about other school board members, who shall remain nameless until we stop laughing at them. These facts include:

  1. A member doing the Macarena naked in Walmart.
  2. A member who was rushed to the emergency ward in 2001 to have a zucchini removed from her anus.
  3. A member reenacting the Bellagio fountain show by drinking a case of beer and peeing on himself in his Vegas hotel room.
  4. A member sneaking in after hours and sniffing the boys locker room benches.
  5. A member pleasuring himself to Toddlers & Tiaras.
  6. A member’s Facebook page showing many racy self-portraits, including a Cinco de Mayo shot of a Labrador–under 18 in dog years even–licking guacamole from his naughty bits.

The school board also issued the following statement about the dancing students:

“These evil spawn must be stopped before they multiply. We highly suggest the parents of these beasts have them neutered immediately. We can’t have minors going around shaking their butts like it doesn’t mean anything. Next thing you know they’ll wind up doing something awful like joining a Broadway cast, or (heavens, no) Dancing with the Stars. Sex is for adults … who are married … and not gay. We’re pretty sure it says so in the Bible, somewhere around sacrificing animals and selling your daughters into slavery. We’ll not have our education system tainted by junk in the teenage trunk. Adjourned!”

Fox5 San Diego Report

Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change.

prepare(quote by Jim Rohn)

In today’s news, Angelina Jolie has been called a hero for making her boobies go bye-bye. Her choice made sense, since doctors estimated she had an 87% risk of breast cancer because of a faulty gene. Yet, I never realized one could be called a hero for rescuing oneself from something that might happen. Interesting. This got me thinking I should check the odds and heroically rescue myself from things that might happen.

  1. Marriage – What an awful thing! I definitely have the gene, since I’ve already done this, and all those above me in the family tree have gone out on that limb at least once. To avoid it, I could have my left ring finger removed, leaving me with a left hand “shocker.” Alas, I have grown fond of my fingers, and can’t part with any. I could turn gay and move to a conservative state. Nah. The best option is to only date married women.
  2. Children – I took care to avoid those smelly nuisances by getting snipped. And all was bright and peaceful in the kingdom of Phil.
  3. House Party – Is there any way to make a house party less boring? Well, sure, but few hosts hire strippers. Most hire those annoying balloon animal clowns. Then there’s the inflatable bounce ball pit, which is only exciting when on ’shrooms. Guests bring cheap wine and booze, then opt to drink the most expensive ones they can find. Cubed cheese sweats and becomes inedible in minutes. I do enjoy a good deviled egg. Still, I’d rather be on my sofa. The best way to avoid the tedium of house parties is to become the guest people forget to invite. I can do that spilling red wine, overindulging in tequila, and peeing in a hamper.
  4. Office – Once I escaped the cubicle farm, I realized it was a torture dungeon for greedy slaves. Offices are easy to avoid: Write an obnoxious blog and say “fuck” a lot.
  5. Baldness – As much as it sucks entering old manness, a few swipes of the clippers and the illusion of success keep mating options available. I’m sorry, ladies, that you don’t age as gracefully. My advice to you is learn how to give legendary head. Use both hands, not two fingers, and lots of spit, then squeeze every last drop like you’re finishing a tube of toothpaste. I’ll hit the barber while you practice.
  6. DUI – The obvious solution would be to stop drinking, but that would make for dull evenings. I could hire a driver or take taxis everywhere, but I’d need to sell a few hundred thousand more books to afford it. Perhaps dating a police officer would save me. Best bet is to live next door to a bar. It is a buyer’s market.
  7. Obesity – Fat and happy is better than thin and miserable, so I’ll not fight this. If famine sets in, the skinny pricks in bike shorts, running shoes, and Lululemon attire will be the first to die. Have all the kale and vinaigrette (on the side) you want, twiggy, I’m eating burgers, pizza, and chocolate, then masking my misplaced bumps with dark colors and dim lighting.
  8. Dogs – These are noisier, smellier, and more destructive than children. Hard to fathom. I always tell prospective mates I’m allergic to dogs. If that doesn’t dissuade them, I order Vietnamese food, lick myself, and pee on a newspaper. I’d also scratch my ears with my feet, if I were a bit more limber. When Miss Dog-Replaced-My-Ex gets all snarky and remarks about my cats and the fact that they shit in a box in my laundry, I slap her with my penis-sword and banish her from my castle.

We must travel in the direction of our fear.

directions(quote by John Berryman)

Why won’t men ask for directions? Because, to do so strips us of a sliver of manhood each time. We boldly go forth, and confidently proclaim “we’ll get there.” This draws ire and confusion from ladies and children.

“Mom, why are we driving around the block?”

“Because your father is too stubborn to ask for directions.”

“But, don’t we have nav? On-Star? Cell phones?”

“Your father prefers to use his finely tuned Scooby Sense.”

Never is this male flaw more alarming than in the bedrooms of America.

“Chad spent five minutes licking my belly button before he realized he was a bit northerly.”

“That’s nothing. John once fucked the sheets, thinking he was inside me the whole time. You should have seen his brush burns.”

Directions and guidance come in most handily in that moment between foreplay and insertion. (I’ve poked quite a few taints in my day; I am thereby qualified to discuss this matter, people.) Time is of the essence when Pokey Joe is attempting entry. Significant delay can kill the moment by loss of turgidity or lubrication, both necessary to arrive at intended destination.

  1. Man climbs on top, takes stab one. If successful, man is revered (in his own mind), repeating the phrase, “Look, no hands!” Skip following steps.
  2. Man thrusts. Penis pokes left upper thigh.
  3. Man thrusts. Penis pokes pelvic bone above intended target.
  4. Man thrusts. Penis nearly enters anus. Woman’s fist nearly meets man’s throat.
  5. Man thrusts. Penis overshoots the area and lands in the grassy pubis of woman with rapidly dwindling patience.
  6. Man thrusts. Penis pokes right upper thigh.
  7. Man’s arms falling asleep. Man kisses neck to catch a breather.
  8. Impatient, unimpressed, woman licks fingers, wipes healthy wad of spit on tip of man’s penis, places the tip in the vaginal entrance, hoping the klutz can find his way into a room when confronted by a wide-open door.
  9. Man thrusts. Bingo.
  10. Woman rolls eyes.

There’s no subsequent post-game discussion between the man and woman. (There’s plenty of discussion between the woman and her besties; however, the man strikes it from memory.) This is unfortunate. Relationships are all about communication.

One obvious solution would be to leave the lights on, and have the clod watch what he’s doing. So much for the mood. Another would be to hand the keys to the lady and place her in charge of insertion when ready. That could work, but after a taxing day at the office, sometimes a girl just wants to lie back and be penetrated. I suppose I could invent a vagina funnel to make taint-poking less likely. It would resemble the cone dogs wear to keep them from biting at wounds. Unsexy. My bad.

Perhaps the most logical solution is to begin each coupling with woman on top. She can reach down or around and guide things while he concentrates on squeezing boobs. Man on top is too much like Battleship. I wonder if Siri could be of assistance.

“A little more to the left, Romeo.”

We shall have no better conditions in the future if we are satisfied with all those which we have at present.

matingapp(quote by Thomas Edison)

Mate hunting may not be better in the future, but it will certainly be different. We’ve gone from clubbing with a club to clubbing at a club. The next logical step will involve the evil machines we carry: phones.

People over share already, and it’s only going to get worse. I’m confident pregnancies will be documented from insemination to extraction. How long before WombTube launches and Stacey shoves a WiFi camera up her cooter so all her friends can watch her baby tumor grow? I don’t want to see the inside of Stacey’s flesh cradle. I don’t care if it’s a boy, girl, or tadpole. I don’t need side view updates as Stacey’s bump becomes more bumpous. I’m tempted to begin posting side views of my tumor named Hefeweizen. (I call him hairy little Heffie.)

The exciting prequel to this silliness (looking around a bar for a slut to fuck), will change drastically.

Back in Pop’s day: “Hey, Butch. Check out that fine lass over there next to the jukebox. Wonder if that dame is taken.”

In the no-too-distant future: “My facial recognition app identifies her as Chelsea Rankle. She’s single, gave her last blowjob on March third, which lasted four minutes. She’s an accountant, has three siblings, enjoys a good syrah, and she had a bladder infection last year. Based on the last five men she has dated, she likes tall blue collar men with shaven heads, tattoos, and large dogs. She is ovulating, so bag your cock.”

Sounds far-fetched? It ain’t, I tell ya. Go to Facebook and start clicking friends-of-friends’ pictures. It’s all there. Need more information? Check LinkedIn. More yet? Pretty good chance there’s a profile on, which will pretty much lay out enough information to make psychics a fortune. All an app needs to do it connect all the dots and match the person in your iPhone’s range, and you’ve got all you need to approach the prey in the most efficient manner.

“Scanning, scanning, scanning … found him. Fifty-one-year-old Virgo.”

“Who is he?”

“A guy named Phil. He’s an author. He sure likes to say ‘fuck’ a lot.”

“That can be good, no?”

“I don’t know. Hm. Says here he has twelve books, two cats, and he drives a blue, electric car.”


“It’s not a Prius.”

“OK. What else? How big is his junk?”

“Says here just under six inches.”

“Well, then he had better enjoy tongue-punching the love button.”

“He does indeed.”

“Oh, goodie. Is he rich?”

“Not the best credit score on the fella.”

“Sad. He’s not one of those balding munchkins, is he?”

“Says here he’s just under six feet tall.”

“Heard that one before. How far under?”

“I know, right?”

“Does he at least exercise?”

“Yep, almost daily. Hairy legs. Hope he manscapes.”

“Any DUIs or convictions?”

“Nope. Voted for Obama both times, watches Game of Thrones, and bought his mother a gourmet tea set last Christmas.”

“How’s his colon?”

“Clean. Want to see the colonoscopy video?”

“Pass. Can he cook?”

“Seems so, but he burned a pan of lasagna last July, because he was stoned.”

“Spinach or meat?”


“Fine. I’ll go pinch him, and see what’s up.”

Heck, these apps could probably use fancy algorithms to predict dates for first penetration, engagement, marriage, childbirth, divorce, and death. Scary shit, and it’s coming.

Having a two-year-old is kind of like having a blender, but you don’t have a top for it.

embgirl(quote by Jerry Seinfeld)

There are times when I wear my vasectomy scars proudly. When I see a bubbly little girl jogging around the kitchen while giggling, I think about how cute she is and, for a moment, I wonder if I’m missing out on one of Nature’s finest blessings. Then, she stops, puts on a miner’s expression, begins digging at her girlie bits, and attempts to appease her horrified parents.

“I’m not itching my va-gin-a.”

This is when I realize my testicles are best left disconnected, because I’m certainly unqualified to respond in a proper way.

“No? So, what exactly are you doing?”


“Go wash your hands.”


“Because … OH MY GOD. Stop smelling your hand.”

“It’s not dirty, daddy.”

“Look, we talked about this. If your va-gin-a itches, you must excuse yourself to the bathroom and scratch it in there, so nobody can see.”


“Because it’s not polite.”

“What if I scratch it through my chonies?”

“No, honey. Not when people can see you.”

“I can use a wooden spoon.”

“No. Sweetie, please make Daddy happy and go do that in the bathroom. When you are done, wash your hands.”

“But, you scratch your va-gin-a.”

“Daddies don’t have va-gin-as.”


“No. Daddy has a penis.”

“Is it itchy?”

“Honey, I don’t scratch my penis, but if I needed to, I would excuse myself to the bathroom, close the door, scratch it there, and then wash my hands.”

“Why? Is your penis dirty?”

“Can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a child. No, sweetie.”


“Fine. Look, baby, it doesn’t matter. Anything that is itchy below your belly button needs to be scratched in private. That’s why they’re called privates.”

“What if my toe itches?”

“Right. Let’s say above the knee and below the belly button. If it needs attention, do it in the bathroom, alone, and then wash your hands, whether the area is clean or not.”

“OK, Daddy. Now my va-gin-a itches, so I’m going to the bathroom to scratch my va-gin-a.”

“And, I forgot to mention this but you should not announce what you are going to do; you should just excuse yourself, and go do it.”

“My hiney itches now.”

“Is your hiney between your belly button and your knee?”

“Daddy, why is Grandma laughing at you?”

“Honey, take your fist out of your butt and concentrate. Is your hiney in the area where you should only touch it in private?”

“I’m not sure. I can’t see it.”

“It is.”

“I’m going to check in the mirror.”

“Check the mirror in the bathroom, and wash your hands when you are done.”

“I saw Mommy checking her hiney in the mirror.”

“Thank god. Your turn, honey.”

Any daughter of mine would certainly torture me with unanswerable questions:

  • Where do brown babies come from?
  • Why can’t I have a cookie? You have a cookie.
  • How come Symon keeps sniffing Syd’s butt, and making funny faces?
  • If I’m a girl, why don’t I have boobie bumps?
  • Is your daddy a hairy monkey?

The young man knows the rules but the old man knows the exceptions.

twerk(quote by Oliver Wendell)

33 teenagers in the San Diego area were banned from attending prom and graduation because of participating in a twerking video. I heard the word “twerk” before, but never knew what it meant. I figured it was a combination of two words, like “twat” and “jerk” or “tweak” and “work.” Still, no idea. Now that I have Googled that shit, I realize it is a form of pelvic thrusting that, if I attempted, would land me in traction. Still, as this is a dance craze, much like many others that have come and gone, I can’t see how it harms anyone.

“These are minors simulating sex!”

“No, these are people dancing. Dancing, by its nature, is a sexy act to lure or stimulate potential mates … except the Macarena, perhaps.”

Also, there are these things called cheerleaders who thrust their hips constantly. What’s the “wrong” part? Thrusting hips, shaking butt meat, simulating sex, or being sexy? Is it because many might be under 18? Or, is it wrong because it was recorded? Posted on YouTube? Done during school time? Horrors. What if some adult male decides to pleasure himself to the video? Should he be arrested? What if he is fantasizing that he is in high school?

So many angles; so little guidance.

First, I would like to offer to host a party for those 33 banned teens. My party will be of such epic proportions that none of them will ever regret missing a stupid dance with awful Kool Aid, or wearing a silly cap and cape. I won’t be specific about what my party will feature, but I guarantee that instead of stifling creative expression, it will encourage it and help prepare them for adulthood.

Second, I suggest some lawyer step up (gratis, fucker) and prove she doesn’t belong at the bottom of a lake, by filing lawsuits on these students’ behalf, citing the fact that there is no specific language in the school’s bylaws forbidding the twerk.

Third, I offer a new set of guidelines that high schools can present to students, so there is no misunderstanding. During school hours…

  1. You may only thrust your hips if you are female or want to be female, while wearing mosaic-printed shorts.
  2. There’s no motioning of a fist toward your mouth while making a cheek lump with your tongue.
  3. You are not allowed to make a circle with an index finger and thumb on one hand while repeatedly inserting the index finger from the other hand. Two fingers inserted is also forbidden, as it is copyrighted by Author Phil Torcivia. Thou shalt not insert three fingers, four fingers, an entire fist up the elbow, a breakfast sausage, nor Mr. Jackson’s chalk holder.
  4. You are not allowed to stick your tongue out while curling or lifting and lowering the tip, as to stimulate–sorry–simulate licking something you should not be licking until you’re 18.
  5. There’s no raiding of the girls’ locker room. If you find a pair of misplaced girls’ panties, you are not to sniff them or tie them to your car’s antenna.
  6. Do not bring mini bottles of Captain Morgans Spiced Run to school. I am confiscating those. I’ll keep them safe until you’re 21. Promise.
  7. Rolling joints during Spanish 101 is not permitted.
  8. Please don’t make anyone bleed.
  9. On Bring Your Parents to School Day, your father is not allowed to wear Tommy Bahama, and your mother is limited to one flask of chardonnay.
  10. Young ladies, if some boy suggests you have hiney sex to avoid offending God and getting pregnant, say “you first,” and shove a tube of mascara up his ass, but please don’t record it.


Principal Phil, Assholicus Emeritus