Archives for November 2013

My Christian Romance Novel

christian romanceI’m seeing lots of these on Amazon. Honestly, never read one. That’s a good thing. It leaves me un-jaded. Here’s my version.

Book Title: Sex for Jesus

Author: Hugh Jorgan (Yes, a pseudonym, silly.)

Introduction: Bethany and Justin are two adults trying to find their way as a loving couple that lives by rules laid down by misogynistic old fucks way back before central heating. Hormones are a-raging, as they typically are for people in their early 20s. The lovers struggle to decide how to satisfy their desires, without offending some cloud-pillow riding pervert, who really should be sending food to Africa instead of watching these two bone.

Bethany: “Oh, Justin, my little love button longs for your touch.”

Justin: “Let me check the rules. Hm. Here it is. Yes! I am allow to stroke your love bean. Hooray! But, then what about my flesh pipe?”

Bethany: “I imagine I could give it few yanks without offended our Lord and Savior.”

Justin: “I don’t know. Better check. Let’s see–yes, a few dozen yanks are permitted as long as there’s no condom involved. Thank God for that. I mean, literally.”

Bethany: “Fun! Wait. Should I be wearing gloves?”

Justin: “Heavens no. Let’s lie next to each other and play the organs.”

Bethany: “Why, Justin, that feels quite nice. Oh, my. I really want you inside me, but we’re not married, so in the eyes of our Lord, that would be a sin.”

Justin: “Fuck. Ooh, sorry. Need to remember that one for confession. Hey, that’s it! Confession. Holy shit! We can do just about anything, then simply confess it on Saturday, and we’re good to go.”

Bethany: “Really? Is the punishment for intentional sins more severe than for accidental ones?”

Justin: “What do you mean?”

Bethany: “Well, for example, if we do some completely legal grinding–let’s say with our chonies on–and due to all the friction and slop, they happen to accidentally slip to one side and, by golly, if your dinky-do happens to do something accidental, like enter my love tunnel, it would be a sin, but not a severe one. I’m thinking five or ten Our Fathers should cover it.”

Justin: “Sounds like a plan. But, now that we’ve discussed it, if it happens, it probably leans more toward the intentional sin thing.”

Bethany: “Fuck. Whoops. One for me too. Can you look up the premarital sex penalty?”

Justin: “Sure. Not so bad–a few dozen prayers. We’re not allowed to use condoms, though. Ooh, and look here in the fine print: anal sex is not covered.”

Bethany: “Sorry, mister. I’ll take the few dozen prayers over a sore, leaky butt hole.”

Justin: “Cool. Let’s do it.”

Ten seconds later…

Justin: “Oh, Christ … sorry … I’m about to explode. What should I do? I think if I spill my seed upon the ground, it’s bad.”

Bethany: “Wait. Hold on. No spilling for another twenty minutes, at least. If I’m blowing an hour of my Saturday, I’m getting an orgasm out of this too.”

Justin: “But, I can’t hold back. Could I spill my seed upon your boobs?”

Bethany: “No, damn you!”

Justin: “Unnngoooooeyarggh.”

Bethany: “Fucker.”

…and they both lived crappily ever after, trying to fight their natural urges by following primeval rules.

Fine. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.

The Hornier Games

hornierI spent Thanksgiving morning nursing a horrible hangover (induced by Crown Royal) while I watched the second installment of The Hunger Games. I enjoyed the books, and appreciate the movies because they stay pretty close to the story in the books. Throw in some cool effects and talented actors, and what’s not to like? Some people told me they found the concept too dark and violent. The whole kids killing kids thing makes people uneasy. Go figure.

So, since I am a man with an active imagination that mostly centers around sex (still), I thought, Self, why not conceive of a similar plot with less blood and more nookie? Surely, I can put my heads to work. There needs to be one slight change to sneak this one past the MPAA: the competitors are all 18+, and they’ve all been drug-tested. No PEDs allowed.

OK, let’s stay close to the storyline of the original, having 24 competitors randomly chosen from 12, umm, universities–one man, one woman from each. We’ll place them in an area–a busy public one–a mall! Yes! The object is for the couples to copulate in as many different places as possible, without being caught in the act. (I’m borrowing parts of this from Opie & Anthony’s Sam Adams Sex Contest, which was so brilliant that it brought me to tears.)

Let’s set up ground rules.

  • Lubricants are permissible.
  • Contestants must shave their nay-nays first.
  • Nobody wants to see man-butt, so they’re wearing boxers under sweatpants, and we’re reserving spots on the back for sponsors. Hey, Geico? Call me.
  • There’s immediate disqualification for doing it in a public restroom, or within ten feet of a minor.
  • Each team will be assigned a cut-man. You never know.

Points are accumulated as such:

  • Hand on private for ten seconds: 1 point.
  • Mouth on private for ten seconds: 2 points.
  • Penetration: 3 points.
  • In da butt: 1 extra point, and a moist towelette.

Bonus points are awarded based on the location of the sexual activity.

  • In a car: 0 points, you low-ambition-having motherfucker.
  • While leaning against a bike rack: 1 point.
  • In a dressing room: 0.25 points.
  • In a booth at a restaurant while eating hot wings: 2 points.
  • While riding around on the security guard’s Segway: 5 points.
  • On the roof: 1 point.
  • In a theater: 0.25 points.
  • In the Bose store while testing headphones: 2 points.
  • At an outdoor table at Starbucks: 1 point.
  • While trying on, cross-dressing in Old Navy clothing, one size too small: 3 points.

Penalty points will be deducted for:

  • Spitting: -1 point.
  • Condom breakage or slippage: -2 points.
  • Sex in a church, chapel, or synagogue: immediate disqualification. (As little the shit is that I give, I just don’t have the money to cover legal expenses on this one. Sorry.)
  • If any child points and says, “Look, Mommy.”: -3 points.
  • Arrest: -1 point.
  • Visible, measurable male ejaculate on any carpeted surface: -5 points. (I have a black light, people. Don’t test me.)

All right. Let the games begin! The second installment shall be called The Hornier Games: Catching Cold (winter games of sorts–Russian women, perhaps), and the final installment, The Hornier Games: Cockinvajay.

Don’t be such a sassypants.

liztI’m alarmed by the recent trend, and it must be stopped. The last thing a guy wants to do is struggle his way through a sassiness obstacle course to get penetration. Sassy is not sexy; it’s exhausting. Sit there and play the demure role (yes, we know you’re faking it), and let him do his mating dance without interruption.

If you feel compelled to make statements like these, I’m talking to you.

  • Oh my god, is that your best line?
  • I don’t give out my number.
  • Mommy didn’t have time to lay out your wardrobe this morning?
  • Darling, I don’t think you can afford me.
  • That was horrible. Kiss me like you mean it.
  • Thank you for the drink. Go away now.
  • (Look him up and down, then shrug.)
  • You should shave your head.
  • What kind of car do you drive?
  • I’m sorry, my girlfriends and I are in the middle of a conversation. I’ll get back to you, maybe.

I find that women who act this way enjoy being slapped around–emotionally. If the poor fella cowers away, Miss Sassy feels she has exposed a weakness, and wisely eliminated a poor mating choice. If he gives it back to her, her knees begin to part.

  • You’re not worthy of my best line.
  • Guess I can just get your number from above the urinal.
  • Nice tits. Where’d you get them?
  • Look around, sweetie. You’re not nearly hot enough to have an attitude.
  • I’d rather suck a bar mat than kiss you again, plunger lips.
  • You’re welcome for the drink. I do my part to take care of the homeless.
  • (Look her up and down, then vomit.)
  • And, you should shave your lip.
  • I drive the kind of car your daughter loves giving head in.
  • Ah, I see. Sorry to interrupt. Maybe one will offer you a slice of gum, dragon-breath.

Now, if you read the above and were amused, you’re off the hook. You’re a kind and funny woman who I’d love to meet and shower with gifts and compliments. If, on the other hand, you were offended, I suggest you fill out around ten copies of the Protection From Abuse forms you’re going to need in the coming months. What’s that? You’re sassy and single? Well, of course you are.

Something Better Than the Do-Not-Call List


“Hello, may I speak with Mister Tor, um, Torki, um, Torichelly?”


“I apologize. I may be mispronouncing the name.”

“Yes, you may.”

“I may speak with him?”

“No, you may be mispronouncing my name.”

“I apologize. How is it pronounced?”


“Interesting. Well, I’m try to reach Mister Philip.”

“I bet you are.”

“Is this him?”


“Excuse me?”

“Is this he? Your grammar needs fixin’. So, what would you like, Sugarspike?”

“So, this is Mister Philip?”

“It might be. You see … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“This is Regina from Quote Select.”

“Nice meeting you, Vuh-gene-uh. Anyway, what are you selling? I hope it’s something to make my manhood more manhoodly.”

“No, sir. You recently requested health insurance quotes. Is this true?”

“Yes, something to stiffen the old pipe, so to speak.”

“All right. Well, I’m calling to give you some options for your insurance coverage.”

“I bet you are. Can you hold on one second?”

“Um, yes.”

“Sorry. I’m going to put on my headset so both hands are free. Now, where were we? Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, I can hear you.”



“Hell-oh-oh? God, I hate this fucking phone. Jesus. Are you there? Shit. I think I lost her.”

“No, sir, I am here.”

“Ah, there you are, you sexy little nurse. So, how are you going to help me grow this acorn into a mighty oak?”

“Sir, I’m calling …”


“… because your current health plan …”


“… is set to expire.”

“Fuck. Seriously?”

“Yes. Well, you filled out an online form asking for quotes.”

“Yes, this is Phil.”

“I mean, you wanted quotes, correct?”

“You see, Nurse Vuh-gene-uh, I watch these guys on TV using like two hands–all four fingers–and they still have cock to spare. I’ve got mine completely covered with a thumb and index finger right now. I mean the little fella is almost lost in there. Hi, little guy. This isn’t good. In his defense, it is chilly. You must have creams or pumps to help me out. I mean, what’s a guy supposed to do? I have to go around asking women if they have tiny vaginas before taking them home? I may be off-base here, but I’m betting most women don’t want to be asked about pussy size. They’d lie anyway. ‘Ooh, yes, Meester Phil, my vagina is quite petite and exquisite.’ Ha! Not buying it. I tell women all the time that I’m carrying a fuck-Howitzer in my jeans and they just laugh and throw bar nuts at me. Wait … I think he’s waking up. Hey there, buddy. I’m up to three fingers now. You know, you could help me out a little. Talk dirty. Do it. Hello? Yes? Have I lost you? Dag nabbit. Where or where did my Vuh-gene-uh go? Oh where, of where could she pee–on me.”

*Dial Tone*

Things Chicks Dig

chicksMost chicks don’t dig being called chicks, come to think of it. Actually, since we’re not in the seventies anymore, they don’t dig “dig” either. The 2014 version would be “Things Ladies Prefer,” which would be topped off with men who care about what ladies like. I care. Yep. Mean it. If I’m with a lady, and she tells me what she prefers, I’ll do the shit out of that because I prefer ladies who prefer me.

There are some things we, as men, are powerless to provide, although women prefer them. Let’s get those out of the way, and place them on the “oh, well” shelf:

  1. Tall men.
  2. Dark men.
  3. Large, erect-when-requested penises.
  4. Rich men.
  5. Loyal men.

Men are genetically disposed to hit one of more of those five, or not. Certainly, poor men can become rich men, but it’s more likely you’ll find a rich guy who becomes poor (and you’re one of the reasons, Missy). No, disloyal men can not become loyal, and no amount of Viagra will create an erect penis on a man who is not into you. Sorry.

Other things I have learned that chicks dig are somewhat available to most men.

  1. Men who make them laugh. (Goochie, goochie, goo!)
  2. Men who take them clothes shopping, and are patient and honest while seated on the couch outside the dressing room. These men also refrain from dropping things and sneaking peeks under curtains while picking them up. They also don’t sit there and play Candy Crush.
  3. Men who buy them drinks, dinner, presents, etc. and tell the ladies how attractive they are. NOTE: This only applies to men who the ladies happen to be attracted to. If the man is unattractive, this is downright creepy. (That’s fucked up, yo.)
  4. A man with lots of or no hair on his head and/or chest. Has to be one or the other: big fluffy mop on top and bare chest, or cue-fucking-ball noggin’ and neatly trimmed chest hair. Guys who are completely hairless scare and annoy women, because stubble on stubble is no fun. Hairy bastards tend to be smelly and tickly … ew.
  5. Men who dance. Fuck me. I hate dancing. This sucks. Feel like a damn palsy victim when I dance. Jesus. Can’t I just sit here and filter Scotch through my liver while you gyrate with your friends? God damn it. Fine. Stop staring at me. I am moving, damn you. Here, I’ll snap my fingers and flail my arms. Great. Let’s hope there’s no video. When will this song be over?

There are lots of things chick dig that don’t include men. In fact, many exclude men because we preclude them. Men are not allowed at girls’ night out, unless they are unfamiliar men. Men are not allowed to assist women while grocery shopping because, like little boys, men tend to place unhealthy things in the cart, and run up on the ladies’ heels because they’re not paying attention while driving the cart. Chicks prefer to watch romantic movies alone (or with various electronic devices, lotions, or faucets). Chicks also prefer to read what I write without sharing with their men who get pissed at me for sharing our boys’ club secrets. Tough titty, fellas. I dig chicks.

Please, no more “dog saved my life” stories!

dogstoriesI’m tired, tired, tired of them. Every time I go a-book shopping, I inevitably run across a book about how some dog changed some author’s life. Baloney. Not since Underdog has man been saved by a beast whose most notable prior accomplishment was learning to lift a leg and not pee on himself. My cats and I agree on one–make that two things:

  1. Tuna is delicious.
  2. Dogs suck.

Here’s an introduction to a far superior work, in progress, soon to ride atop the wave of Amazon’s animal lovers’ list.

Their names are Syd and Symon. They are cats. Not just ordinary, sleep, eat, and shit-in-a-box cats, mind you. These two fur-balls are gifted heroes, capable of the miraculous. Obama? Einstein? Anne Frank? Copernicus? Mere mortals. My cats are fucking kittigods.

The Story of Syd

Syd, born of Monkey and Diggles, was tragically stolen from his parents when three-weeks old by a rabid coyote. Syd played dead, and waited in the jaws of the coyote for the right opportunity. When the evil coyote returned to his den, and held Syd down, preparing to bite off his head, Syd rose up and roundhouse kicked that fucker square in the coyote nuts. Syd then dropped an elbow on the back of his neck, severing his spine, causing immediate death. As Syd ran from the coyote den, he encountered a large Waste Management truck bearing down upon him. Syd rose up on his hind legs, scaring the driver, who drove smack into a home and killed three people. Don’t worry. They were bad people–evil types. They raped turtles and stuff. Seriously. When Syd arrived back home, he noticed his owner (Phil, The Not-As-Great) had fallen asleep with a joint in his hand. This started his La-Z-Boy aflame. Fear not, the magnificent Syd thought quickly on his paws and tossed the closest glass of fluid he could fine on the fire. Unfortunately, that fluid was highly-flammable rum. Ah, but, that fireball woke Phil up, as he ran screaming to the guest bathroom and dunked his burning hand in the toilet. All was well. In tribute, Phil has retired the guest toilet from being used for anything other than a drinking bowl for his master, Syd.

The Story of Symon

Symon, also born of Diggles, but whose father may have been Igor (because Diggles was a little slut), was adopted by a pair of inbred hayseeds who lived in a camper near Yuma. They adopted poor Symon because they wanted to cultivate and clip his whiskers to use in creating a poisonous tea they would feed to the unsuspecting folks over at the Our Lady of Huh resting home. When the evil father clipped whiskers from the right side of Symon’s face, it set in motion a series of events (after Symon figured out how to stop running in circles) that would change the course of history. Poor, lop-headed Symon scurried away and hid in the cabinet beneath the rusty sink. There he found substances (well, thank goodness for his background in Chemistry, I tell ya) that he was able to combine, and create a bomb, which detonated when one of the inbreds turned on the television. Symon escaped unscathed, except for the missing whiskers, which were destroyed in the explosion, and new ones grew back … even stronger. Symon ran almost 300 miles before showing up on Phil’s doorstep. (Yes, that same Phil guy.) Just so happened that Phil needed a feline chemist to assist with his morning cappuccino, and Syd needed someone’s butt to sniff.

And they all lived happily ever after. Amen. Namaste. Salamalekum-malekumsalamisandwiches. Later.

Have you been sucker punched by life yet?

eggs“Jesus, what have you gotten into now?”

That’s the question I’ve heard most in my life. Look, I’m still trying to figure out this thing called “life.” I’m no expert. All I know is I’ve taken a few beatings, and from those beatings I have learned:

  • I don’t like beatings.
  • While unavoidable, beating are less painful when you see them coming.

What are you doing right now? Take inventory. Do you have one job, one lover, one phone battery, etc.? If you have one job, what would you do if your boss walked in right now and took it from you? Sure, you’d go find another job. Not always so easy. I got “whacked” about fifteen years ago, and was lucky enough to get nine months of pay to take with my box of belongings. Sure, I eventually found another job, but it certainly wasn’t easy. And, that nine months of “please don’t sue us” pay didn’t last very long.

Looking back, I decided I’m not going to let that happen again. I’m not going to be left holding a box of family pictures, CDs, and mugs, wondering where to go, and what to do. That feeling of being powerless sucks monkey butt.

So, here’s what I do today:

  • Write and self-publish books.
  • Market those books as well as generate leads for real estate, mortgage, and insurance.
  • Consult marketing strategies for other companies.
  • Maintain websites that promote eBooks for my fellow authors.
  • Sell electronic cigarettes.
  • Sell yoga mats and towels.
  • Do notary side jobs.

Diverse, no doubt, and some would say I’m a “Jack of all trades, master of none.” Perhaps. But, I’ve found the time and dedication it takes to master one trade creates a vulnerability. If that one trade fails–which is often not due to any fault of your own–you’re left exposed.

I watch friends follow similar paths, but seek shortcuts such as multilevel marketing (MLM) opportunities. Jewelry, cosmetics, sports drinks, and others come and go, constantly leaving trails of broke people stuck with useless inventory, and a handful of rich people who were first in, and now have no friends.

Look, you might have a secure job or relationship. You might think you do, and one day be shocked to realize you don’t. That’s when unprepared people sometimes look for the exits. Or, you might feel secure because you have options. Fail quickly, shift your resources, and try again.

You need to be sucker-punched by life numerous times before you’ll see my perspective.

I’m not suggesting you keep four mates, either. That’s impractical. Maybe consider refraining from being totally invested in one person, place, or thing is all I’m suggesting. Some people will consider you to be detached and noncommittal. Meh. So what? Faith isn’t such a virtue. If someone needs solitary faith and commitment to behave and be happy, fine. If someone else wants variety, all good. I’m simply suggesting that as people mature they find one basket of eggs is easily scrambled.

Hunting the Elusive Bubble Butt

see backNothing stops a conversation between men quicker than a protruding posterior. Not only does it bring the conversation to a halt, it causes amnesia. We could be on step nine of ten, disarming a bomb, and if a shapely seat-warmer appears, things go silent, until … BOOM! Dead piglets–silly, powerless piglets, at the mercy of a delicious, yet dangerous derriere.

There’s no fighting it. A great butt will make lovin’ fun. So, I want one!

I realize that women love butts too. They’re even amenable to a bit of a boy bubble. Too much would be too creepy, unless brown. Hence, all the time I spend on squats and Stairmasters. When a lady cups my caboose, I get giddy. Pride wells up inside me as I thank my ancestors for not cursing me with plank ass.

Back to female fanny.

I would sleep much better, if I had a patootie pillow to rest my weary head upon, instead of my amnesia-foam pillow. Lady flesh bumps are so firm and warm. Ahh! If this made the owner of the object of my desire uncomfortable, I’d relent and settle for resting one paw upon her plump bumps. It would be a pacifier of sorts. So pleasing.

The problem lately has been a scarcity of shapely south-ends in my vicinity. Perhaps I am delusional to expect glorious glutes to gallop past my window as I work from home. It’s certainly a possibility that some neighborhood homettes (female version of homies) would fist-pump and strut by while doing their morning exercise, but I’m usually distracted by more annoying kids than amazing keisters. That’s what I get for living on a cul-de-sac. My next home will be directly across the street from yoga and spinning studios–ones with pink awnings.

Till that day, I’ll just keep heading to watering holes, in hopes of finding some grazing globs of glory. Much like hunting female deer (or, so I hear), one must be careful not to stare too long. If she turns and catches you lingering on her lumps, you’re fucked, and not literally. She’ll point you out to the other prey as well. Then, absolutely no butt for butt-head. Poor fella. Better to glance, file in memory, and move along.

Well, I must go now. Need to lay some bubble butt traps. Wish me luck. I’m starving.

Looking back from your death bed.

deathbedI’m in a deep slumber, mid-dream, panicking because I need to pack all my important items, and I have no containers. My family has used them all. I drag my best friend to Walmart to buy large plastic bins. Then, there’s a click and the familiar, overly-bubbly voices of radio DJs Jesse and Delana pull me from the fog.

No need to analyze the dream. I know it was inspired by the finale of Breaking Bad. As I lie there, contemplating another day full of mundane routines, I wonder if I were connected to tubes and monitors, about to shut down this life of mine, what would I regret?

It seems like we get stuck in daily routines, suppressing our desires, delaying gratification that may never come.

What would you regret, if this were your final day?

  1. Not working more?
  2. Not saving/spending more money?
  3. Not buying that car/home/boat/pet?
  4. Not traveling more?
  5. Not settling a dispute with a former loved one?
  6. Skipping dessert?
  7. Missing that workout?
  8. Never asking her/him out?
  9. Passing on a business opportunity?
  10. Going or not going to church?

I’d have many regrets. My primary regret would be that I never made a backup copy of myself. Yes, I know that’s impossible. Who says we can’t regret the impossible? Some day it might be possible. Scientists might figure out a way to copy your mind, and store it. I guess finding a blank body to upload it into would pose a challenge. Heck, I still remember typing computer instructions on punch cards in 1978. Now, my phone gives me directions. Anything is possible.

My bet would be that the final wish or regret for men would differ quite a bit from women. Final regrets and wishes for men would involve sex in some way (as long as they are man enough to admit it). He wishes he made love to more women, especially the unattainable (not genetically likely) or forbidden (friend’s wife). He might regret he had sex with a woman, which turned out to be not worth the woman he lost. His secondary regrets would be around not spending shit tons of money on toys.

Female regrets and wishes would have more to do with image and relationships. She’ll wish she had nicer boobs, butt, hair, and skin. She’ll wish she had more close friends or healthy children. Sure, a few more orgasms shows up on the list, but not nearly as high as on his. She’d probably place fancy shoes and jewelry above sex with a chiseled Adonis.

Such a disconnect. Imagine the elderly couple in wheelchairs at the home, holding hands while watching the sun set on their lives. They’d argue till the bitter end.

“I should have banged the Homecoming Queen.”

“What? You sick old perv. I should have had another child … from a different man, perhaps.”

“Jesus. Two wasn’t enough? We could have had matching SL550s with what we spent on college tuition alone.”

“A car? What good would a car be now? I can’t see past the dashboard. I should have written that romance novel.”

“Right. I should have played tight end for the Colts.”

“Harold, you’re five-six and shrinking.”

“All I have to say is Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson, and Ryan Seacrest–compact pussy magnets.”

“Maybe if you spent less time at the casino, you’d have enough money to attract the type of women who go for short guys.”

“Shut up. You love me.”

“I love cinnamon toast.”

“You used to love me.”

“I used to love Ken.”

“Ken who? Why, I’ll kick his ass!”

“The doll, stupid.”

“Oh, so you do like petite gentlemen.”

“You’re all right, I suppose. You know my biggest regret?”


“That still I have regrets.”

“Well, we agree on something.”

Let’s stop censoring the fun out of everything.

duty“If you don’t like it, you don’t eat it,” is what my aunt used to say. She didn’t remove the item from the buffet table because she was afraid I wouldn’t like it. The delicious chestnut raisin stuffing remained without any concern for individual taste preferences or nut allergies. She empowered me to decide if I wanted to try it or pass. She trusted me to be mature enough to avoid things I know don’t agree with me. What a cool aunt!

Here comes a leap.

So, as I enjoyed an episode of Naught Amateur Home Videos on Playboy TV last night, I similarly wondered why certain lines were drawn and who drew them. At 1080p high definition, I can see labia hair follicles and anus skin folds. This doesn’t dissuade me or the typical viewer. I don’t even wrinkle my nose. Then why, when a scene comes to an end, must I be saved from the ejaculation? Has Hef, in his infinite wisdom, decided that a simple spray of genetic soup would cause me to cancel my subscription, whereas watching a woman cough up rear-throat spit while being gagged with an unclipped penis would not? I prefer to see the orgasm, not just hear some guy squeak, “Unghgooooyeahhhh,” while the screen distorts.

Sadly, I never get the chance to say, “Nice batch, mate.”

These same ignoramulous (made that up) censors work on the morning news. Reporters can discuss and show bloody car wrecks, crime scenes, and war atrocities, but if a lovely co-anchor happens to fall victim to a nip slip, holy crap, some twelve-year-old just saw a gland … the Armageddon is nigh.

If you’ve watched any football on TV this season, you’ve seen video game commercials full of famous actors becoming make-believe soldiers, going around blowing shit up. No problem there. Nothing worth censoring. Just because some kid sees and wants to use an imaginary gun, doesn’t mean he’d consider the real thing. But, if Little Justin sees a Japanese anime titty, best prepare the jail cell because he’s going to rape someone. Stupid.

We have too many rules, and too many people who get their rocks off making them up and enforcing them.

I love the rules placed on bars. During certain hours, people can get slightly intoxicated, but not too intoxicated, or they might drive off and kill something, which would be the bar owner’s, manager’s, bartender’s, and server’s fault. So, to prevent this, bars can only be open during certain hours. Oh, and we, the silly people who bought homes next to a fucking bar, don’t want any noise unless we’re making it, so the business must close when we’re ready to go nighty-night. Closing the bar will prevent intoxication, accidents, and loss of sleep. It’s not like patrons are smart enough to try the door, see that it’s locked, then return home to a residential area, drink a fifth, and blast AC/DC. Who would think of that? Bar not open? Time for bed.

Bars should be allowed to be open 24-hours, 7-days. People are much safer and happier when not drinking alone. Fact. If a patron gets drunk or noisy, punish that patron. Don’t punish the rest of us because a tiny percentage could turn into tequila-fueled douches.

Stop censoring the fun out of everything.

Love Glove FAIL

fukuoku gloveBack when I was coming up with a plot for my Fifty Shades parodies, I felt the protagonist needed a special skill to make the ladies purr. I used this fancy thing called the internet, and hopped from site to site, hoping to find the world’s finest adult toy. Then, I stumbled upon the Fukuoku Vibrating Love Glove. The Lone Ranger has his mask; my hero must have his glove.

Mind you, I had no first-hand (so punny) experience with such a device, but it seemed to have potential, as many a reader raised an eyebrow at the idea of a gloved crusader. Well then, surely the glove would be a practical addition to my nightstand. Off to Amazon. $44 and two days later (yay, I get free shipping), I become armed and dangerously sexy.

Interesting facts about the glove:

  • It is moisture resistant … heck, it’s submersible!
  • No assembly is required, and batteries are indeed included.
  • It has two vibration settings–medium and “holy-fucking-shit-peel-me-off-the-ceiling.”
  • Each finger (thumb too) generates 9,000 clit-slapping vibrations per minute.

This device has unlimited potential. Technically, I could read my Kindle with my left hand, while diddling a partner on my right. With a Kindle there is no physical page to turn, hence no need for damp index finger assistance. Yet, if I were to pick up a paperback, I’d be covered. I could swipe emails on my phone while throbbing her knob. Marvelous. TV remote usage? A simple multitask. I could even sip scotch from a crystal tumbler while “strumming my Jane with his finger.”

All that was left was to find a willing subject. M&J had no problem. Why should I? Well, for one, most ladies want to thoroughly inspect the device before even considering taking it in. (That’s not a typo. Think about it. Touch yourself. Go ahead. Do it.) To alleviate concerns, the device must be left sealed in the package. Check.

So, this week, I finally found a woman who read my parodies, and miraculously found them more humorous than offensive. I added the prerequisite amount of wine and pleading, and she opened up. I’ll not detail how the night played out. Let’s leave that for my next romance novel abomination.

Things I have learned about the glove:

  • Masturbation, for some reason, is better done while alone.
  • The high vibration setting might actually trigger an avalanche, so, if you live in Minnesota, don’t try this at home.
  • There’s a fine line between sexy and creepy, and I seem to straddle it every time.
  • If, when you are attempting to deliver pleasure to a mate, she closes her eyes, yes, she is thinking of someone else, somewhere else, doing something else. Carry on.
  • Cats don’t like the sound it makes.
  • If you have it running for more than five minutes, your fingers will go numb. Don’t attempt to pick up anything that could break until blood circulation returns.
  • It’s probably going to spend much more time in my nightstand than it will on my hand.
  • There should be a YouTube video on how to use the glove. (Oh, fuck … there is. My favorite part is her pronunciation of the brand, “Fuck you, OK, you.” And, Radiris, my sweet, it isn’t for giving yourself a back massage.)

How to use impressions to your advantage.

con2Read this and I’ll show you how to become a millionaire within a week, without working. I’ll make your boobs bigger, penis firmer, and waist smaller. You’ll drive a nicer car, travel to exotic destinations, and wow all of your friends at dinner, karaoke, and the poker table.

Bullshit, I know, but if I give you the impression that I have something valuable to offer, you might not slam the door in my face; you might give me a few minutes to hear me out. That could turn into hours, days, or weeks. With a little misdirection, I can sell you something that’s not quite what I promised when we met. But, you’re happy enough, and I’m successful.

Success in life is all about opportunity. Those who have the most opportunities usually succeed better than those who don’t. This isn’t New Age, Self-Help nonsense; it’s just the way it is.

It works whether you’re shopping, gaining access, applying for a job, or looking for a romantic connection. If you give the impression of something impressive, you’ll get a deal, bypass the line, be hired, or book a date with someone you may have thought was way out of your league. I see it every day. Some people are more gullible. Some are too kind to say “no.” Some appreciate the effort.

Here’s an example: I recently bought a fancy sports car. Why? Because I love driving, and just knowing that I whiz past just about anyone is something I find rewarding. What impression does it give?

  1. He’s rich.
  2. He’s stupid and careless because he went into major debt to buy this car.
  3. The expensive car is supposed to make up for his small penis.
  4. He’s selling drugs or something else illegal.

Scarce is the person (even from among friends and family members) who sees that acquisition as a reward to myself for all the hard work I’ve done. Surely, some people don’t care (and those are my favorite people). Yet, the impression I give is usually not the impression intended.

Guys use this strategy for mating calls. We can give an inaccurate, yet effective impression by:

  • Wearing expensive watches, suits, shoes, or sunglasses. (Note, the clever man wears good replicas.)
  • Persuading or hiring an attractive, platonic friend to join him around other prey.
  • Spreading rumors about himself regarding wealth, job titles, or athletic ability.
  • Listening and acting genuinely interested in the mate, then presenting an offer to make her life better. This can be as simple as offering a glass of fine Cabernet after she discloses her love of wine, or daring her to join him on his business trip to Cabo. (A hint of danger excites as well.)
  • Chasing away a nuisance rival.
  • Making her laugh. (Shit. I’m giving away my secrets.)
  • Hiring a bodyguard or a limo.
  • Befriending bar and restaurant owners. If he gets special attention, she gets damp.
  • Being mysterious.

Sure, after any significant amount of time, the evil plot can be exposed. That can cause immediate termination and regret, but often it doesn’t, because nobody likes having buyer’s remorse. The mating target often twists this in her mind so she feels less gullible.

“He did all of this just to get close to me. He must really love me.”

Yep, that’s it. Now, about those millions…

Yes, you have a boyfriend. Good for you.

oh so doucheyRemember those old movies where the vixen would cover her wedding ring with her hand, or slide it into her purse so she could have a tryst? Haven’t seen one of those in awhile. Maybe since I’m older and creepier, women aren’t as likely to go stealth, and bed the old dog. Perhaps my goatee is threatening. Nothing ruins my bar-top dinner quicker than a barkeep itching to insert her boyfriend into a conversation.

“Are you a big football fan?”

“I watch some games, but there’s an unmeasurable amount of shit I give about the outcomes.”

“And, as I just learned in night school, that’s the opposite of an immeasurable amount.”

“Wow. How’d you like to edit my next tome?”

“Tome? How big is it?”

“You’re going to have to pour me three more drinks before I answer that one.”

“Funny. Anyway, I love football. Consider myself a bit of a football nerd, actually.”


“My boyfriend was never a big fan, but I turned him on to it. Now he’s in like four fantasy leagues.”

And, there it was–the boyfriend warning. Ugh. Women do this for one of three reasons:

  1. He’s on her mind, so he just happens to slip into conversation.
  2. She’s letting me know she’s currently occupied, so I shouldn’t seek shelter within her.
  3. She’s reminding herself she has a boyfriend, so she doesn’t misbehave. Well, at least if she does, it isn’t entirely her fault. After all, she did warn me.

Ladies, unless I plop a ring case on the bar in front of you, I don’t need to hear about your boyfriend. In fact, nobody does. Sorry, but nothing is more boring and annoying than hearing someone gush about a relationship partner. This is why people pay good money to therapists. After hours of hearing tales of loving, hating, leaving, returning, and not knowing what to do, therapists need big bucks so they can pay it on up the ladder to a therapist who will talk them away from the edge of the cliff.

I know, if you’re in love, or on the way there, this sounds like bitterness. It’s not. Here, allow me to demonstrate.

“I met this woman last week and, oh, my god, she’s amazing. We talked and talked and talked about everything. Time just flew by. Before we knew it, we finished the second bottle and were holding hands and flirting like teenagers. She’s intelligent, and sexy too. She got her Masters from Stanford. She’s solid; must run a lot. Her thighs were like rocks. Every night, we spend like an hour on the phone before bedtime. I’m really falling for this one.”

By this point, you wish you had a rolled up magazine to swat me with. You want nothing more than for this relationship of mine to end badly, right? So, this is how it feels when you bring up that partner of yours to a stranger. He or she isn’t interested or amused. If you were on TV, the channel would be changed. Far better it is to discuss the weather.

Unmentionables – You might be one.

unmenI called ahead for a scouting report on a bar I was considering disgracing with my presence.

“How’s it look, Captain?”

“Not bad. There are a few unmentionables here.”


One who is not up-to-date with combat lingo may be tempted to ask, “What is an unmentionable?” It’s the type of person you have an encounter with that may not be discussed, unless under the guise of therapist-client privilege. Now, now. Please unwad your panties. Face it, my friend, we are all unmentionables to someone. I puff my chest, and proudly play the role. Additionally, just because I am an unmentionable, it certainly doesn’t necessitate that I’m forbidden from mentioning her. Sometimes a little bragging gets me a chuckle, and a frosty beverage.

So, to clarify, what qualifies a person as an unmentionable?

  1. If you’re married, everyone except for your spouse is an unmentionable.
  2. People ten years older (five, if you’re male and over thirty).
  3. People under eighteen (unless you happen to also be under eighteen).
  4. Employees.
  5. Relatives.
  6. Women who outweigh you, and men who don’t.
  7. A pregnant woman, whom you did not impregnate. For those you have, please seek legal guidance before classification.
  8. Your best friend’s ex, sibling, parent, or offspring.
  9. Your pastor, OB-GYN, or children’s teacher.
  10. An ex who you filed a PFA against.

There are other, more subjective qualifications. Basically, if someone is too embarrassed to admit to sleeping with you, you are an unmentionable. Don’t cry in your oatmeal. Look at the bright side–you got laid! I didn’t get laid last night. ‘Tis far better to be an unmentionable plus one orgasm, than a mentionable without.

Today’s Social Experiment: The Community Table

communityThe community table is the latest strategy used by restaurants and bars trying to cram a few extra bodies into the social stew. I like the idea. It helps coax us introverts out of our shells. Instead of sitting on a bar corner, reading email and playing Candy Crush, it’s a pot luck of sorts, wondering who will plop down into the sidecar.

I learned that when a man approaches, and asks if the seat is taken, it is. If a woman approaches, and she’s married or not my type, I offer the seat regardless, as both of those conditions may be overridden by alcohol, or she might have a cute friend.

Since the community table is a new social experiment, there needs to be rules and guidelines established. Allow me.

  1. Any food that arrives at the community table, which is food that is socially acceptable to be eaten with fingers, is community food. If you get a side of fries, don’t cringe when I reach across and snag a few. Oh, I’ll also take certain liberties with your dipping sauces.
  2. Discussions about how much in love you are, how successful your recent stock purchases were, or how many soccer goals Junior scored that afternoon are off-fucking-limits.
  3. Bottles of wine are community property. Be kind, offer, and pour when you see my glass unoccupied.
  4. Fun games to play amongst table members include Guess My Name, Guess My Occupation, and Guess My Sign. If those go off without a hitch, try other fun ones like Guess My Cup Size, Guess My Favorite Position, and Guess if I’m Ovulating.
  5. If you’re doing a shot, I’m going a shot.
  6. Napkins and silverware may not be claimed, and thus may be borrowed as necessary.
  7. Any cake-y desserts must come with eight forks, and be consumed at any pace desired. However, the owner of the cake has dibs on the first and last bites. If and when all that’s left is icing smears, the owner of the lonely fork gets pity, and has the option to use an index finger to mop up said smears.
  8. Much like jury deliberation, when the tabs come, the group decides what the gratuity will be. Every person must leave the exact same tip percentage. Receipts are subject to audit.
  9. Any phones with annoying ring tones may be punted by any fellow table member, unless the offending party shows the entire table a risque photo contained therein.
  10. Nobody leaves until I’m done eating. This is something beaten (literally) into me by my father back in the early seventies. I’d sprint through my succotash while my friends made steamy nose smears on our family room window waiting for me to return so we could resume our important game of Kick the Can. Just when pop popped what appeared to be the final silver of chicken parm into his gullet, I’d begin to rise, only to be denied by a second helping. Yes, I’m scarred. Misery loves company. You sit there and wait until I’m done with my hummus, mister, or else.