Archives for July 2013

I don’t care that you just broke my heart, I love you. – Desiree Hartsock

desI’m not a fun person to watch TV with. I toss expletives, and spoil plots that are as obvious as toupees. When, on this season of The Bachelorette, there were three men remaining, I knew which one Des would choose.

“Let me see. Two men said they love her; one didn’t. She wants Brooks–the one who didn’t.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No, that’s human nature: We tend to value that for which we struggle over things handed to us.”

[Spoiler alert!]

Naturally, my prediction comes true. Brooksie confesses he’s not quite “there,” and leaves Des with substantial face leakage. To save some face of his own, he blubbers and squeals about how conflicted he is.

Maybe I do love her. No, I can’t picture myself spending the rest of my life with her. But, she’s wonderful. I hate hurting her. Wow, she really does love me. Maybe, I should love her. Well, I’m certainly going to have access to a new universe of fine ladies. But, they’ll just want me because of my fame and flowing locks. Des is awesome. Damn.

Then, Des floods the set with nobody-ever-loves-me tears.

What’s wrong with me? Why won’t he love me? He acted like he loved me. What did I do? Did my brother get involved somehow? Why can’t I find love? I know, two other guys love me, but I don’t love them. I love Brooks. Well, I used to love him. Now, I hate him. He made me look like an ass on TV. No, he was just being honest. It’s my fault. I do love him. If he changes his mind, I can’t take him back. This is so difficult. Why did I sign up for this? Oh, that’s right: money and fame. Ugh.

Whenever there’s predictably questionable activity by humans, I look for evolutionary reasons. (It’s so much easier to be religious and say, “That’s just the way God wants it.” I don’t have the luxury of that excuse.) Why do we shy away from what we know we need, even when it’s handed to us? Are we jaded? Do we fear it’s too good to be true? Are we embarrassed because we don’t feel we’ve earned it? Why struggle to win someone over? Will your fight for him change how he feels? If something is handed to you, do you fear a hidden trap or catch?

Evolution taught us to prefer our own kills, especially the difficult ones.

If Brooks changes his mind after messing his hair, walking in circles, and squealing like a hungry piglet, should Des shrug off his initial rejection and allow him on bended knee? Hell, no, she shouldn’t. If she does, she’ll be doing it to make the producers happy. If she takes him back, she won’t be able to shake the memory that he didn’t want her until he hurt her. In fact, she’ll torture him by reminding him of his prime-time misdeed each time he missteps.

Let’s fight our obsolete evolutionary remnants. Not only should we look a gift horse on the mouth, we should accept it graciously.


The early bird can eat me. – Earl E. Worm

catbirdThere I was, in dreamland, about to be mounted by the loveliest of specimens. She spits on her palm, lathers the tip, and positions me for entry, when…


No. It can’t be. Please resume dream.


Fuck! This little bird is killing me.

New Age gurus would insist this bird contains the soul of a departed trying to communicate with me. So, I lie here wondering: Who could it be?


Perhaps its my cat, Daisy, who died of stomach cancer five years ago. If so, what would she be trying to tell me? “Being dead sucks, dude.” Or, maybe she’s letting me know she’s fine and happy, soaring over my neighborhood, dropping seed pellets on the car I just washed. Or, maybe she’s letting me know she didn’t have cancer, and the vet euthanized her to drain a quick $2000 from my bank account. Hm.


Most mediums would try to convince me it is a dead relative–my pop, perhaps. He died a few years ago. He’d probably ask me to leave a nice bowl of Budweiser on the patio. I can imagine him telling me to get the hell out of bed, cut my hair, and go make some money. Or, maybe he’s asking me to place $20 on “over” on the Phillies game tonight. Can’t be.


Ah, it could be the soul of someone who used to live here. Maybe they were murdered, cut into tiny bits, and shoved down the garbage disposal. Ew! No wonder the thing makes so much racket, even when grinding something simple as egg shells. I’ll check online for missing persons. Ooh, that reminds me–I love that band. “Walking in L.A., dum de dum…”


This bird is a dead celebrity. Yep. Elvis? MJ? Nah. Couldn’t be. Let me Google who died this week. Oh, fuck! Dennis Farina died this week! That sucks. He died in Scottsdale of a blood clot in his lung. Damn. What would Dennis Farina be telling me? He starred in one of my favorite movies, Bottle Shock. That’s it! He’s reminding me to drink lots of red wine to avoid clots. He was also in Snatch. Nope. Not touching that one.


God damn it! Who am I kidding. This is simply an asshole bird. It’s probably hungry, and expects me to toss some stale bread out back. Not happening. I never touch the stuff. Too many carbs.

“Hey bird, shut it. Bread is bad for you. Gluten will fuck your shit up. Get lost!”


“Mamamaraooooooow!” – Syd, the cat.

Little bastard is taunting my cats. What a prick. “Cheep” means “Nana, nana, poo poo” in bird language. Maybe I should let Syd outside to eat the annoyance.


“Meememamama ehehehe.” – Symon, the other cat.

Headphones. I need headphones.

The fine art of self-deprecation, and why I suck at it.

selfdPlease, don’t expect this to be funny. I’m not a funny person. Nope. I mean, my mother thinks I’m funny. At least, she says that to me. Well, I’m carrying her genes and all, so I’d expect her to encourage me. What kind of mother would say, “Look, son, remember those days when you flipped gourmet burgers at Pickadilly? You had quite a knack for it. Maybe you should consider placing the word-smithing on the warming shelf while you concentrate on perfecting that Hawaiian burger.”

I should walk away from this. In fact, I should jog away because I’m a fat fuck. Yep. My back hurts too. What did I expect? I sit here staring at this monitor eight hours a day. I say “staring,” but it’s more like straining my head muscles in attempt to focus my failing eyes. Can’t see shit. These reading glasses don’t help much, mostly because they’re old and dirty. I’m too damn lazy to clean them. There’s a greasy smudge on one lens right now because I tried to wipe a scooger from my eye, and poked the lens with my greasy finger. I’m a human oil slick.

This coffee sucks. It’s bad for me, but I’m fucking addicted, so I’m about to go downstairs to my overpriced espresso machine and make another. “Have a tea,” my healthy yoga-mat-toting friends say. Tea sucks. I’m not drinking fucking tea.

I say “fuck” too much. I’m fucking sorry. Jesus. It’s because I’m an uncreative pile of bile. Maybe it’s my way of coping with my miserable existence. Or, I use swearing to scare those closest to me away from me, so they don’t ask me for a fucking loan. Sorry, again.

I don’t have any fucking money, anyway. I have no self-restraint. Seriously. How do people delay gratification? It makes no sense to me. Shit. I could die! What if I die before I get a chance to do that thing I always wanted to do? That would suck. It would serve me right, I guess, since I’m an asshole. I never learn. Just bought a fucking Jaguar. Just what I fucking needed–a 4-digit car payment. Stupid. Won’t get me laid either. Oh, sure, some female friends (who won’t sleep with me) insist that it’s a panty dropper. Sure, maybe for some handsome young men. I’d need to do laps around a nursing home, and still wind up home alone spanking my meat to awful porn.

Maybe that’s why I can’t see: I jerk off too much.

(Be right back.)

Disgusting. I wonder if women beat off as much. Probably not. Guess this could be a diet plan. How much does the average ejaculate weigh? (Hold on … off to Wikipedia.)

Average volume of semen per ejaculation: 2 to 6 ml (0.41 to 1.22 teaspoons)
Average number of calories in a tablespoon of semen: 2-7
Average duration of orgasm: 8 seconds
Average number of sperm cells in the ejaculate of a healthy man: 40 million to 600 million (avg. 250 million)
Distance sperm travels to fertilize an egg: 7.5-10 centimeters or 3-4 inches
Sperm lifespan: 2.5 months from development to ejaculation
Sperm lifespan after ejaculation: 30 seconds to 6 days depending on conditions

Damn! Some interesting goo right there. Then again, I’m very easily amused. You’re probably grossed-out. Sorry. Still, this doesn’t say how heavy my average load is. If I were the resourceful type (I’m not), I’d weigh myself, beat off, weigh myself again, and use grade school math skills to subtract the two, and come up with the answer. But, I’m too lazy, and it will probably take me another 2.5 months to generate a measurable load.

I need a nap. I sleep too much. Rich people don’t sleep so much. They work. This is why I’m fucking broke.


Filner plays with Weiner – The complete transcript.


Seems the naughty New York mayoral candidate, also known as Carlos Danger, and the San Diego mayor, also known as Gropalottapuss, have been having a little east coast, west coast thing. Both claim they’ve done little wrong, and expect to maintain unwavering support. Recently, one of the two geniuses left his phone behind at a Starbucks, and transcripts of numerous phone text conversations were captured.

Grope: “Wassup, Weinski?”

Carlos: “You must refer to me as Carlos. Weinski is too obvious.”

Grope: “Will do.”

Carlos: “I just took a pic of my my greased-up boner and sent it to an intern. Told her I was going to paintbrush her cheeks with it.”

Grope: “Nice! You’re a fucking master. I just gave my intern a noogie, and then stuck my tongue in her ear.”

Carlos: “Wife’s fucking pissed at me. Gonna have to plow her deep tonight to shut her up.”

Grope: “Dude, get single. Wives suck. It’s a fucking pussy parade for famous guys like us.”

Carlos: “Got any prime hole out there you can hook me up with?”

Grope: “Hell, yes! Come on out. You should see the cum puddle I left on Wonder Woman’s cape last week. Fucking epic.”

Carlos: “Oh, shit, Comic Con. Missed it. Damn. I beat off on a baby changing table in a Bennigan’s ladies room last week.”

Grope: “Not bad. Any pics.”

Carlos: “Nah. I tried, but couldn’t get the damn flash to work. Blurry as shit. Say, you got any boner candy?”

Grope: “Dude, I’m ten minutes from the border. What do you think? I have a Costco-sized jar of blue steel, motherfucker.”

Carlos: “Sweet! You should see this skank I plowed during lunch. Face like a Bassett Hound, but, Jesus, can she suck a pole.”

Grope: “I’ll Fedex you some.”

Carlos: “Cool. You da man. Anything new on the lawsuit?”

Grope: “These fucking chicks out here keep ratting on me. Piss me off. Allred is taking the cases because I refused to bang her. Christ, I’m not an animal.”

Carlos: “Shit, I’d give her a shot. She’d be Allpurple after I got done beating the pussy snot out of her with my cougar-seeking love missile.”

Grope: “You can have her.”

Carlos: “Wait a minute. Didn’t you fist fuck that Frye chick? She’s not exactly Miss Universe.”

Grope: “Shut up, dickhead. I needed a slump-breaker, and I was totally baked on this gnarly medicinal-grade shit.”

Carlos: “I keep telling you, dude: You need to pass on the lookers and go directly for the low-light ladies. They work harder, and usually keep their mouths shut … except for when they’re inhaling cock. LOL”

Grope: “I know. I can’t help it. Hot chicks dig the way my meaty nose bulb bounces off their clits. I can work it over like Tyson on a speed bag. Had the last one squirt so hard, she knocked a crown loose.”

Carlos: “You are my fucking hero. Hey, college starts in a month or so. Get your ass out here. We’ll slay some coeds with our swords of sexual bliss.”

Grope: “Sign me up. I gotta go, man. Fucking lawyers.”

Carlos: “Same here, bro. Hang in there. Don’t give up the good fight. It’s bros against hos.”

Grope: “Word.”

Eliot Spitzer: “Hey, what are you guys up to?”

How not to hit on a widow.

widowOpening day at the horse races in Del Mar, California always brings out the most interesting characters. There are big hats, tight dresses, and a plethora of plaid. I’m too much of a recluse to deal with people at the track, so I usually head straight to the after-party, which, in my case, should be called the during-party. I linger near the watering hole, waiting for prey. This year, I was taken aback.

“Are you single?”

“Yes. My husband died a few years ago.”

Most men, at this point, would show sympathy and offer the canned response: “I’m so sorry.” Not I. I took a deep sip of my gin-and-nothing, to ponder my response instead of blurting something I’d regret. I advise you, friend, to use the same strategy when asked your opinion–take the sip of consideration.

By examining my thought process, I’m convinced I need therapy.

  • Did she kill him? If so, how?
  • Did she hire someone to kill him? If so, was the hit man ever caught?
  • Is she done mourning yet?
  • Will this woman begin crying every time I do something that reminds her of the deceased?
  • Is she fucking with me?
  • Well, it sure beats needing to look over my shoulder for the ex who never leaves.
  • Does she have children or pets, and did the hubby take any of them with him into the ether?
  • Perhaps I should consult the Animal House dating manual, and review the chapter on Fawn Liebowitz and the kiln explosion.
  • Am I at the point in my not-getting-laid streak where I can take on this challenge and show sufficient concern and respect to break the streak, or should I slide my cards in and wait for a better set?
  • If she says he’s in a better place, I’m going to enter into a debate–one which rarely ends well for me.

I am not an insensitive prick. I’m a creative prick. Giving the usual response at the usual time is horribly boring. It’s far better to give the response nobody expects, and learn to become a better person by dealing with the aftermath.

She was very attractive, so I took a shot.

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”


Her friend saw my train of thought heading into a wall, and offered her assistance, as the widow went to powder her nose.

“Actually, her husband did die a few years ago. He left her with three children.”

“Oh.” (Insert another huge gulp of gin sedative.)

“Yeah, she probably doesn’t want to talk about it. She’ll start crying.”

“Right. Well, in my defense, how was I to know? I was simply trying to discern her availability.”

“I understand.”

“If I were a beast, I would have said something like, ‘Did he leave you lots of money?'”

“He did.”

“I wasn’t asking. That doesn’t matter to me. I mean, good for her, right?”

“Good for her? She’s a single mother of three who lost the love of her life.”

“Aw, fuck. Sorry. Look, I’m not really this much of an asshole.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s not every day I meet an attractive young widow.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Shit. Here she comes. I promise I won’t talk about it.”

I shifted immediately to smalltalk about living and loving in SoCal. Not much of a dancer, but I 23 skidoo’d and skedaddled, sadly, without her number.

Your handy guide to sexual harassment.

filnutsIn the wake of allegations against our illustrious mayor of San Diego, it’s apparent we need guidelines in place to prevent future career-ending buffoonery. What I provide below is a list of things you should not say to a coworker while at work. Technically, you could get yourself in hot water if you said something inappropriate to a coworker outside of work, but that depends on your employer’s code of ethics, and whether you’re fucking in a hot tub. It would behoove you to thumb through this handy guide before deploying risky words, especially in print.

In each case, I will give you the phrase and an acceptability score between one and ten (one being totally acceptable, ten being something that will get you fired and kicked in the shin, at minimum).

Phrase: “Nice tits, Gladys. Can I touch one?”

Score: Eight.

First of all, it’s “may,” not “can.” Second, while the sensitivity around the word “tits” has waned, you should choose another word. Any lawyer worth his weight in salt, would advise you to select a word that could mean “tits,” without being so obvious. Using something like “melons,” “neeners,” or “lumps of libation” will drop the offense score down to seven or so–still dangerous. Be creative, my friend. Get that score under five. Say, “My, what a lovely get-up, Gladys.”

Phrase: “Let’s grab lunch, and fuck like monkeys.”

Score: Nine.

Such silliness. Are you planning to shower as well? Or, are you going to sit in salty after-sex crotch all afternoon? At least keep a stock of baby wipes in your desk. It was mighty crass of you to use the work “fuck.” Can you find a creative way to suggest the act without being so literal? How about, “I sure could go for some sausage. You?” In Dutch country, feel free to use kielbasa–it’s more acceptable.

Phrase: “Sit on my lap, while I prepare your annual appraisal.”

Score: Seven.

While sidesaddle sex is a fine departure from the mundane, it’s best left behind closed doors … at home. Actually, this position is ideal for clitoral and anal play, keeping both wrists in the natural position. The disadvantage is that one breast (the one farthest from the mountee’s mouth) will be sadly neglected. But, I digress. It’s not a good idea to write appraisals with the subordinate close enough to read the words as you type them. This stifles creativity. The minute you begin the “Needs Improvement” section, you are in danger of contracting a dislocated penis. If you want your subordinate on your lap, simply dress up like Santa for the next holiday party.

Phrase: “Show me your cock.”

Who says women don’t harass? I have noted in my diary, numerous cases of such. It wasn’t always those four words, mind you.

“Hey, boss, why don’t you whip out that magnificent sperm worm of yours?”

“Toss your bone my way, darling, and I’ll fetch it.”

“Bet I can fuck-drain a few thousand stock options out of you.”

“I’m dripping wet, and need your luscious love muscle.”

Oh, how it pains me to recall these situations. (*sniff*) Ladies, please control yourselves. There’s no need to accept a man’s seed just to break through a glass ceiling. Far better it is to work hard … and naked.

Nice Guy Syndrome – Introduction

heartbreakNice Guy Syndrome is an affliction where a heterosexual male is frustrated because he finds himself caged within the friend zone of women he’d prefer to be dating. Often, he is a kind and sympathetic person who listens well, and lends a shoulder for women to cry on. He’s loved and admired, but not the type of fellow women sleep with.

If there is a hell, this is it, and I’m in the penthouse.

I was raised to be a nice guy. My relatives and teachers instilled in me the importance of:

  • Treating women gently
  • Protecting and providing for women
  • Listening to women without judging
  • Understanding what it is women want, even when they don’t say the words
  • Opening and holding doors for women
  • Handling certain tasks for women
  • Writing love notes to women
  • Complimenting women

I’m a fucking master of the above and, thereby, block my own access to the physical parts of women I long for.

So, what’s a nice guy to do? Should I shed my skin, get a Harley and tattoos, lose all concern for how I’m perceived, and begin banging lonely chicks by the dozen, just to please my pecker? I can’t do it. All I can do is vent, and hope someday, some woman will realize she deserves something better than bad boy bruises.