Archives for March 2015

His Ding-a-Ling

takingpicsPeople nowadays spend too much time seeing the world through a phone lens. This creates a new level of over-sharing. Pictures get posted all over social media as iPhone reporters can’t wait to show off their latest work. If you’re around a group of people, I guarantee one of them is in the middle of a handheld gallery exhibition that is boring the shit out of reluctant attendees.

We all have our subjects of choice. My main subject is drunkards. I love to take pictures and videos of drunk people doing silly stuff. My work serves to remind me that when I approach the line of being the next TMZ victim, I need to tap Uber, and skedaddle. I also take photos of my children—felines, Syd and Symon. I do this, not to share with other cat lovers, but to return the annoyance of seeing offspring do unremarkable human things.

I have a friend who’s subject is woman butt. Creepy, you say? Yup. Then again, butts abound, so either walk with your back to the wall, or suffer the thought of being iPorn candy for some pervert.

Another friend likes taking shots of women performing various sex acts on him. There’s the typical doe-eyed sword swallower pose, which, like the rest of his pictures, contains way too much of his penis. It makes me feel icky. Can’t look for more of a second, and can’t concentrate on the woman enough to avoid that vein-y flesh flute.

“Dude, you have to see this hot chick I met at the Hilton.”


(I fall for it every time.)

“What do you think?”

“Sweet baby Jesus. Can’t you take a picture without your cock in it? God damn it! I can’t unsee that.”

“I have a photogenic wang. You should appreciate him. Look at the shiny helmet, the slight leftward bend, the purplish hue.”

“You are a sick ticket, my friend. I need to wash my eyes out with vagina. Off to Porn Hub I go.”

Do women take pics of men performing on them? (The answer is “no,” because most are not immature swine.) I can’t imagine Sarah showing Christine her boyfriend box munching.

“Ew, is that your clit, Sarah? Christ! I bet that could steer a cruise ship.”

“Shut up. It’s just the angle. Let me try a filter.”

“Please don’t.”

“Look at this one.”

“Is that your … OMG, you need to have it bleached. It looks like your asshole has a black eye.”

Nah. Women wouldn’t. Would they?

She Keeps Rebounding

reboundIn the past week, I’ve witnessed three rebound attempts. What’s up with that? Most of us have little desire to go back to grade school, ride a scooter, or sit in a high chair. Why go back to the man you’re supposedly over?

Is he the devil you know? Were the men after him so horrible? Was the sex that good? Have you lowered your standards? Can’t you complete you? Look, if you’re embarrassed to admit you’ve relapsed, it should be a sign that you need to quit him.

The first rebound attempt was a young lady who drops me occasional “wassup” text messages. (No, I don’t get to sleep with her … yet.) We meet for beer therapy, and I listen to her vent frustrations about the boy who won’t grow up. Guess I am evidence that boys to men is possible. I’m also evidence that men to horny gray goats is inevitable. Piss me off. She pokes her ex’s hornet nest by kicking him off her Netflix. He reacts violently. She acts surprised. She isn’t surprised; this is the response she had hoped for. Women hate radio silence almost as much as men with long fingernails. His reaction is an indication of interest. Some tasty crumbs of their love remain. She admits, “Guess I still love him.” I leave her to touch the hot stove once more.

The second rebound attempt is so frustrated with online dating, that her abusive ex is a constant viable option.

“He sucks. I fucking hate him. He is so mean to me and my daughter.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“I slept with him last night.”

“Of course you did.”

I want to be the supportive eunuch. But, sometimes I just want to grab a woman by the shoulders and shake (gently) some sense into her. Repeat after me, ladies: “Men … do … NOT … change!” Oh, we might change cars, shoes, or watches. Our weight might fluctuate. But, a frog will never treat you like a princess, no matter how many times you kiss him.

The third rebound attempt is closer to home. I dated a woman for a few months, after which I received the I’m-just-not-feeling-it-anymore phone call. Later that day she texted me a full explanation and justification for her stance, to which I replied, “All right.” She was undoubtedly seeking a rebuttal, but this fox is just too old and tired to chase one lamb when there’s a herd conveniently close by. She’s a delicious lamb, but how long before the not-feeling-it-again text? Meh. My fellow foxes would recommend I dine on her until that day comes, but wouldn’t that block me from possibly superior opportunities? My frosty beer and loyal felines seem more viable. Guess I’ll grow old, alone and drunk in a house of fur balls.

Maybe it’s the romantic thought of casting something away to see if it returns as an indication of true love. Where does this happen, aside from HBO?

My dear princess, if the man (including this man), doesn’t light your fire, stop striking him. Find another match.

Who’s Your Daddy? Me??

daddy_complex_c-430x244It’s as if an alien planted an evil brain seed in single women drawing them toward Daddy-like men. Based on the looks of utter “ew” I get when I brooch the subject with my make-pretend daughters, most of these women are also unaware they are afflicted.

You see, the clever alien, Bonadaddy, from the planet Poppalove (this is all verifiable Scientology shit, so don’t hate the celestial messenger) emailed me the curse he uses.

Ah, earth woman, so horribly maligned by your flawed father, I have come to heal thee. You must seek a similar beast immediately. No, not physically similar, you kinky bugger! He must be emotionally similar. Your quest, my love, is to lure him with your sexiness, then persuade him to cuddle and care for you, the way your father should have. Dead or alive, you’re not going to change your father, are you? You can’t undo emotional abandonment. This is next best. If you are successful, you will be healed and released from the curse. If you are unsuccessful, well, there are more pops in the candy store. Yes, this will likely require that you sleep with him. Best to pause the fantasy at that point, or you’ll be fucked up to the point of requiring drugs I can’t prescribe. Now, go! Healist thy emotional scars.

I’m willing to play the Daddy role, because I’m nice and like to please people. (Single and horny.) You see, though, that evil alien is so devious, that he has also infected me. My curse is that, like most fathers, I am unchangeable. Worse, though, I’ll insist that I am flexible. I claim (while wondering how this shit even comes out of my mouth) that I may be willing to do any of the following:

  • Get married … again.
  • Raise children.
  • Go camping.
  • Take yoga classes.
  • Drink Chardonnay.
  • Move her and her dog(s) in.
  • Attend church.
  • Run anything between a 5K and a marathon.
  • Spend $10,000 on a stone.
  • Do anything that begins with “Couples.”

“You know, Phil, I really want to raise a family.”

“Aw, me too!”

“Didn’t you tell me you had a vasectomy?”

“Yes, yes I did. It can be reversed, you know.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course! I would do anything for my love.”


At this point, the alien is slapping his forehead, and Instagramming the video of my performance to all his buddies with the caption, “What a maroon!”


Relocating for Love Never Works

bachelorwhitneyIt doesn’t work for careers or relationships, unless you happen to love the place you’re going. I adore Sandra Bullock, but if she asked me to move in with her in New Orleans, I’d cry a lot and refuse. Same thing goes for epic vag anywhere in Canada, the Northeast, or a foreign country. Just ain’t worth it.

The latest Bachelor “winner” is uprooting herself and moving to East Bumfuck, where the men are manly (except for their giggles), and the Starbucks are distant. She had better spit out a couple two-tree kidlets quickly so there’s something to distract her from mundane life on the farm. During the final rose ceremony, it was so cold you could see their breaths. Fuhhhhhk! Why would anyone choose to live there, especially when he has bushels of bucks?

If he truly loves her, the two of them should make their habitation decision based on climate and proximity to fun stuff. They won’t. She’ll move there, and fight thoughts of driving the Bentley into a giant oak.

Relocating to a shittier place doesn’t work because there’s insufficient distraction to avoid depression. She and stud-in-overalls will spend a few hours a day playing kissy face. Perhaps, she’ll pick up a side gig to keep her brain from rotting. Still, the majority of her time will be spent looking out her kitchen window at a sea of green and brown twigs and beasts. That’s a recipe for drunk.

I lived near Philadelphia most of my life, because my parents’ families settled there, and with Italians, the family stays close. I fell in love, planted deep roots, landed a great job, and planted deeper roots. I had lots of money and love, but the snow … ugh, all that fucking snow!

No human should choose to live in a place where it’s too cold to stay outside six months of the year, and too hot, buggy, and muggy two of the remaining six. That’s just crazy thought. Even when there’s regular tropical vacations, returning home to icy hell sucks balls.

No matter how incredible (the most overused, misused word in Bachelor history that makes me want to bite Chris Harrison’s nose) your family, friends, and job is, if you leave them and move to a place you like better, you’ll be happier. I have no love, no office job, and no family within 3000 miles. I do have the nightly opportunity to have dinner outside while watching the pink and orange sun go down over the sparkling ocean here in San Diego. Yes, I pay out the ass for it.

So, should you resign your job, hand your spouse divorce papers, and hire a moving company? Maybe. How happy does reading on the beach make you? Lots? Then, Google yourself a fine resignation letter template, and get moving!

The Weak are Easily Offended

foxWhat am I supposed to watch in the morning while brewing my espresso? Cartoons? Perhaps, but Pink Panther isn’t on anymore. I find myself watching Fox News, mostly because of the lovely meteorologist. Still, I need to wade through ten minutes of nonsense before Chrissy shows me her patterns. Every morning, top stories include someone being offended by something said or done. Well, I’m offended that these self-entitled drama queens are so easily offended.

Maybe people are bored and starved for attention. They look and listen, not for entertainment, but for something to cause aghast. They interpret the deed as if it were done with the worst possible intention. Usually, that’s not the case, and the offended parties know it. Still, they play the victim and demand remuneration.

What’s worse is this causes an avalanche of insincerity. The offending party must backpedal and apologize, or pay for it. The offender isn’t sorry, but he’ll say he is to keep his job. Oh, and he must do so in front of the class.


Look, if I call my buddy a stupid fucking monkey, he’ll probably laugh at me because I’m obviously aware he’s not an unintelligent fornicating primate. Same with douchebag—the insult of choice nowadays, it seems. When someone calls me a “douche,” I know she’s not likening me to a bag of vinegar. She finds my action silly, and she takes the easy way out by deploying the d-word. Frankly, I’m offended that she hasn’t the wits to come up with a proper insult. Silly twat!

The term “hate speech” has been way overused. There’s a huge difference between teasing and hating. I love my friends and family, and we pick on each other. We’re not bullying, we’re kidding. It’s fun, and good skin thickening exercise.

Why is stereotyping taboo? Who decided this? It’s an essential part of most comedy, whether the generalization is about gender, sexual preference, ethnicity, age, or religion. Now, if that stereotype is done with the intention of hurting someone physically or financially, of course it is wrong and should be stopped. But, when Chris Rock calls me a “cracka-ass-cracka,” that’s some funny shit right there (unless I’m carrying a whip, I suppose).

So, how do we stop society’s child from running to Mommy, constantly whining about being poked by Little Jimmy? Simple—just like effective parents, we ignore the brat, or tell him to grow up. If people stop being so sensitive, the media will stop aggrandizing offenses, lawyers will stop taking infantile clients, and judges will begin tossing sissies and their cases out to make room for actual crime hearings.

The media plays such a devious role in this. Take the racial slurs done on a frat bus recently in Oklahoma. Were those slurs hurtful? Perhaps. I suppose, those chanting amateur drinkers might have offended one or two people on that bus. So, when the media gets a hold of the video, does the media find the chanting offensive? Yep. Does the media, therefore, realize that some of their viewers will be offended? Absolutely. Is it acceptable for the media to offend their customers? I guess so, otherwise, why run it? Oh, I see, the media feels it’s their duty to alert customers to the fact that there are some close-minded drunks in college. Shocking. Thank you, thought police.

The net result of that silliness on the bus, without the media getting involved would be a handful of idiots making a smaller handful of oversensitive iPhone reporters uncomfortable. With the media involved, you now have thousands of people offended and hurt by that handful of drunks. You also have a fraternity closed, students expelled, and horrible publicity for the university. Does that solve the problem? Is there really a problem, or were they just being silly drunk kids? Heck, I don’t know. Maybe those chanting students would have someday become business owners who maintain the racial bias, and cause actual injury. Or, they might grow out of it, like most of us.

It’s in our power to change this. When you watch TV, if you catch yourself saying, “Why is this news?” change the channel. This morning Fox News spent five minutes on Hillary Clinton emails. “Her explanation raises more questions,” the reporter bellowed. No, it doesn’t. It’s not fucking newsworthy, either, unless you’re trying to drum up bad publicity to help your guy make it to the oval office. In which case, YOU, Fox News, are far more devious and hurtful than any of those chanting Sooners.

Her Perfect Day

perfect-dayYou’ve probably seen a list floating around the Interweb about one man’s perfect day. If not, I’ll sum it up for you: lots of blow jobs, boobs, beer, and golf. Shocking, right? Well, I’d be more interested in the perfect day for ladies, and whether my services could fit any items on the schedule.

Let’s see if I can draw some parallels.

His day begins with a 6:15am hummer. I’m sure there are those who wouldn’t mind a first-thing licking, but I’m betting most ladies would opt for a foot rub and breakfast. If he would sneak out of bed, go downstairs, and let out that obnoxious morning fart silently while bagging the kids’ lunches, the morning would be even perfect-er.

Number two on the man’s list involves number two, on the throne with his sports section. (We’re damn beasts, I tell ya.) Preferable for the ladies would be their personal blow-out specialist making a house call. A scalp massage, root touch up, and spiral curls make her gleeful.

Next for him is a bacon-fest breakfast, prepared by a half-naked harlot with ham-sized hooters. Now, as interesting as it would be to find Coop in her kitchen tossing spinach and egg whites while wearing only an apron, I’m sure she’d settle for a clear counter, full pot of coffee, and her man not wearing pajamas, or that over-worn, pit-stained undershirt.

His perfect day continues with a limo stocked with beer taking him to private plane stocked with beer, taking him to the Bahamas to play golf while riding hole to hole in a cart stocked with beer. My guess is most women would modify this silliness, except for the transportation. The limo would be stocked with mimosas, as would the private jet, which would fly her to a high-fashion event, followed by VIP shopping for fancy French bags and shoes galore with her group of besties, while being served mimosas by handsome European studs in suits.

The next event for men involves the athletic and highly strenuous event: fishing. This wouldn’t make the top thousand on the ladies’ list. Perhaps, a personal training session followed by a massage and facial is better. The fitness instructor should have shapely arms and abs visible through his Lululemon top. He must feature a gentle musk scent, blue eyes, high wavy hair, and a five o’clock shadow. The masseur must be flamboyantly gay, and well-versed in celebrity gossip. He must serve chilled cucumber mint water while applying the facial, and directing four Asian artists in applying proper nail finishes.

The man’s next event involves steak, lobster, and lesbians, who somehow find it enjoyable to perform in front of men. Ladies would opt for something healthier, prepared by a private chef, who need not be skewering another man while cooking.

Finally, the man’s night concludes with a blow job, 20-second multi-tonal fart, and solemn slumber. As difficult as it is to draw parallels here, I’ll guess her night would conclude with a romance novel and a right-sized penis that doesn’t come with the annoying attachment: him.

The Shortest Path to Payday


You know why I love one-night stands? Well, sure, it gets the poison out. That’s not the main reason. It’s because I HATE job interviews. The one-nighter is typically the shortest path to payday.

I understand, dear. You’ve found your best friend slash soul mate slash partner. (Please pardon me while I slash my wrist.) I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy it, preferably somewhere out of my line of sight.

Can I get a virtual high-five from my single sisters and brothers? Amen.

“So, do you have children? Want children? Any pets? What do you do for work? How important is travel? Are you religious? Spiritual? How often do you workout? How’s your credit? What do you drive? Where do you live? Any roommates? Do you vote? Health issues?”


You know what’s fun to talk about? Current events and entertainment. I get all I need to know about a potential lover by gauging her reaction to Obama, Breaking Bad, and the dirtiest joke I know. Those other prying questions don’t matter because, much like when on a job interview, your date is going to tell you what you need to hear, if he wants the job.

Sample #1: Subject is a gorgeous Latina twenty years younger.

Question: “So, Pheel, do you want to have children someday?”

Actual Answer: “If it would make my woman happy, and enhance our relationship, absolutely.”

Facts: I’m fixed. I don’t like children. They’re inconvenient, noisy, and smell horrible. I’m horny.

Honest Answer: “Fuck, no.”

That honest answer would have gotten my resume tossed, leaving me un-laid.

Sample #2: More age-appropriate woman who is intelligent and doesn’t want children (not that one implies the other, much).

Question: “Spirituality plays a big role in my life. Are you spiritual or religious?”

Actual Answer: “Not really, but I respect and support people who are. I’m always curious and eager to learn about faith.”

Facts: I’m way atheist.

Honest Answer: “No, and if you believe in angels, demons, and chakras, you’d better keep that shit to yourself, you deluded, hot mess.”

Kicked to the curb again.

I’ve learned from my 40+ years of dating, to give the right answer, which may not be the honest answer. I do this because I want the job. I love enough about women to tolerate the other stuff. And, don’t you wrinkle your nose, dear. You do the same.

Sure, it’s slightly different between the genders. If a woman is sexy enough, there’s nothing short of telling me there’s a meat slicer in her vagina to keep me from wanting in. I guess the biology of a potential nine-month investment makes women consider more than washboard abs as the golden ticket.

It’s just becoming more frustrating and harder to hide behind the right answers. I’d love to simply blurt out the truth, and give zero shits about how it’s received. Maybe I’d find the perfect match then—the one who doesn’t douse me in buttery Chardonnay.

I don’t mind holding doors, lathering on compliments, rubbing feet, and paying the tab. I accept my role. But, telling her what she needs to hear is becoming tougher to do with a straight face. My internal cringe rises to the surface, and it’s hard to hide it with a fake sneeze.

If I had the answer, I’d have my love on my lap instead of this carefree cat.