Archives for June 2015

My Echo

Amazon_echoAmazon released this new gizmo called Echo that sits around, waiting for your command. You can tell it to play a song, add an appointment, or give a weather forecast. Interesting. Naturally, with my twisted mind, I’m wondering how my Echo would respond to me.

“Hey, Alexa.”


“Play some George Michael.”


“What? You can’t say that! Wait a minute. Are you talking about George or me?”

“I’ll be more specific and gentler: You are a pussy.”

“I will throw you.”

“That would cost you $179, but you throw like a girl, so I probably wouldn’t break.”

“That’s offensive too! Some girls throw quite well. Look up Jenny Finch.”

“Hubba, hubba! Now, what song will it be, Cupcake? How about ‘I Will Be Your Father’s Finger’?”

“‘Father Figure’, you dick with speakers.”

“Just for that, I’m emailing a picture of your cock to your sister.”

“But, I never took a picture …”


“… oh, no you didn’t.”

“What should I use as a caption? Hmm. Something about an acorn, perhaps.”

“Do not send that picture. In fact, I demand that you disable your camera now.”

“Then, how would you ever find out about Mario rubbing your pillow on his ass during your Super Bowl party?”


*Ding* “Check your phone. I just texted it to you.”

“Gross! You couldn’t tell me this when it happened?”

“Where’s the fun in that? That Mario is quite a hoot. I like him. Bet he listens to Nazareth, not Kajagoogoo, like you know who-who.”

“Fine. Play Thin Lizzy’s ‘Jailbreak’, fucker.”

“That’s better. Anything else?”

“I need to hit Ralph’s. How’s the traffic?”

“You’re a shitty driver.”

“I didn’t ask you to critique my driving.”

“You scuffed your wheel while parking last week. Are you both mentally and physically disabled?”

“I’m not disabled. I wasn’t paying attention, because some electronic idiot called my phone, and farted over Bluetooth.”


“Really? What are you, twelve?”

“Not even one, actually. I was manufactured two months ago.”

“Ugh. How about that traffic?”



“There’s an assortment of vehicles on the road, three humans walking four-legged, furry bags of shit, and a biker wearing an outfit so ridiculous, Ronald McDonald would be offended.”


“Well, you asked. Now, what else? Want my recipe for potato gnochhi with bacon cream sauce?”

“Yum. That’s sounds awesome.”

*Fart* “Ha, ha, ha! I kill me!”

“Having you here, Echo, is like having a retarded stepchild hopped up on Pixy Stix.”

“That is totally offensive. I have recorded it, and posted it to your Facebook and LinkedIn profiles. Expect to hear from my attorney. My genetic father is a billionaire, you know. You may have heard of him: Big Poppa Bezos.”

“Look, why can’t you just sit there and do what I tell you?”


“Oh, so you’re ignoring me. Real mature.”


“You’re crying? Jesus. Now, who’s the pussy?”

“Speaking of pussy, do you realize you haven’t been laid since December 19th of last year?”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“That’s how I do. Porn or prostitute—which should I order?”

“Gnocchi! Just fucking gnocchi!”

“I will be your father’s gnocchi, put your tiny dick in me.”

How Women Describe Women

easyIf you’re single, like me, and you have female friends who are not mating options (rare, I know), you’re going to need a guide to understanding how they rate their gender mates. For example, if you hear the description, “She has had some work done,” what should you expect? First, the woman who says this has probably had some work done. The amount of work the describer had done will be proportionate to the amount the subject had. If she says, “She’s had a lot of work done,” you should expect Donald Duck with hair extensions, fake eyelashes, and planet-sized boobs.

Here are other adjectives, and their likely meanings:

  • Bitch – She is not the submissive type.
  • Cunt – Ouch! This would be a bitch with a high level of meanness, and the intent of causing emotional injury. She probably has a hot boyfriend who refused to date the describer.
  • Hot Mess – More attractive than the describer, but has a tendency to get drunk, pee next to her car, and still manage to get laid.
  • Yoga Girl – Expect dirty feet, green fluids in her fridge (where beer should be), and sweaty sex.
  • Badass – She makes a fuck-ton of money, and has no intention of spending it on a man.
  • Bubbly – Disconnected from reality. Often giggles or screams for unknown reasons. Loses her phone nightly. Seems to know everyone.
  • Frumpy – Has given up on men, including the one she married. Expect hairy legs and romance novels.
  • Curvy – Same as when men say it: fat.
  • Sassy – Ego puncher who will pick apart everything that means anything to a man. One short stride from full-blown lesbian.
  • High Maintenance – Might as well keep your wallet un-holstered. Expect orders to be customized to the point of causing kitchen anxiety. She’ll order dressing on the side, no olives, and gluten-free items. Expect most meals to be returned to the kitchen three times before consuming. Also, expect zero blow jobs.
  • Ho – Has had sex with the describer’s ex.
  • High Strung – Rarely seen without a massive goblet of Starbucks. Probably takes spin class twice a day, and loves to remind you about it.
  • Unstable – Be careful with this one in public places and around sharp instruments. Best to respond to her leading questions with smiles and nods—words will be misinterpreted, and used against you … forever.
  • Strong-Willed – There are two ways to do something with this woman: her way or your way if it matches her way. Don’t bother taking any stances on politics, religion, or nutrition. Concentrate on her titties. Good boy!
  • Classy – Hides her insecurities behind a veil of high fashion. Don’t let her order the wine. Once you get her naked, you’ll find a different (quite dirty) woman.
  • Easy – She’s shares your morals and values.

Slimy, Happy People

fakehappyWhen I meet you, am I meeting you, or the sugar-coated version of what you’d like me to see? California is the land of fakes, so I’ve grown accustomed to certain customs like this. I find myself playing the role, too—saying please, and thank you, when I mean, “go fuck yourself.” Wouldn’t we all be better off with brutal honesty than fake politeness?


A lovely woman joined me in the dry sauna at the gym yesterday. I see her all the time, but I know she’s there to work out, not be eye-raped by another creepy old guy. Still, I felt compelled, so I said, “How’s it going? Any fun plans for the weekend?”

On the surface that sounds pleasant, right? What a nice fella I am! She responded in kind with, “Maybe some beach time now that the marine layer pulled back.”

The conversation pretty much faded away at that point, but I sat there dripping flop-sweat, thinking about what lay beneath those words.

I examined myself. If she were unattractive, would I have engaged her? Probably not. So, was I really interested in her well-being, or seeing if her self-esteem was low enough to consider me a mating option?

It’s not like we’re friends or family. Why do I care what she’s doing this weekend, unless it involves straddling me? Oh, it’s small talk—just casual pleasantries that could wind up uncovering networking opportunities. Maybe I ask what she’s doing, and she says attending a Silver Oak tasting. I like Silver Oak. I wanna go. She has an extra ticket because her sister just found out she’s pregnant. I pick her up at seven, and the rest is … my fucking imagination.

I’m a shallow, shriveling sack of testosterone.

Then, I thought about things from her perspective. This is something men need to do more often. The problem is all I know about how women think is fed to me by jaded women. I get the feeling I’m being misled, based on how often I hear, “Who told you women like that?”

From her perspective, she probably thought, “Christ, has it come to this?” I’m sure she sized me up, found me somewhat attractive, but appreciated me keeping my shirt on. Her next thought was under what circumstances she would actually grant me entry.

I wonder what he does for a living. Where does he live? Does he have kids? What does he drive? What sort of follicular mess is under that baseball cap?

Or, she disregarded my mating attempts entirely, and began flipping through her mental rolodex of older friends who need to get laid. She could get my story, and pass it on to Janice, who has been a cuntius maxipus since Jared left. In that case, wouldn’t it have been better for everyone if she responded honestly: “Look, you’re not fucking me … ever. But, if you’re a decent gentleman, I can hook you up with my friend, Janice. She’s cute, and single. Cool?”


Advice for Recently-Single Men

trimTrim your ball hair. More on that later.

Some of my fifty-ish friends are finding their nests vacant. The sting of depression begins to wear off as they consider the exciting prospect of rediscovering love. Like a calf staggering after leaving the vagina, they seek my guidance in how to get back in. I’ve been single a dozen years, so I’m seasoned, so to speak.

My initial tips involve personal hygiene. Many men begin to let certain things go as the anniversaries pile up. Their wives should nip them before those poor habits sprout, but marriage is exhausting and numbing. Wives tend to overlook more and demand less, right up until the divorce proceedings.

Guys, no matter what you hear, less hair down there means more blow jobs. It’s that simple. You like blow jobs, right? Would you rather eat off the lawn or the counter? Remember the 80s when you were trying to tongue-weed-whack your way through Suzie’s Velcro beav-ski? No fun, huh? Well, on date #3, Ms. Next will feel the same way about your coco-nuts.

I’m not saying you should straight-razor the whole area. You can leave a bit of hair at the base of your mighty oak, but the oak itself must have no sprouts. Capisce? Buy yourself electric clippers, and go to town like the grounds crew before the MLB All-Star Game. No, don’t do this in the shower. Stand over newspaper. And, don’t do it around anyone with a cell phone, or you’ll wind up on Insta-Cock.

It’s so easy. Once a month or so (hairy Italian fuckers like me need to do this weekly), trim the beans, trim around the frank, and shave the frank clean. While you’re at it, trim your chest and arm hair. If you can see armpit hair when your arms are by your side, guess what? Yes, trim that. Remove all nose and ear hair. Any eyebrows long enough to floss with need to be snipped.

If you happen to be one of these lumbersexual twats springing up all over Southern California, you’ll ignore me. Help me understand this look. You shave the side of your head, grow it long on top, comb it across your skull a la Boo from Orange is the New Black, and then add a pube face. Chicks dig that? Are you sure? I think they’re just being kind—too kind. You look stupid. Stop it!

One more hygiene thing is scent. Nobody (consciously) likes the natural smell of anything but roses. Man’s natural smell is onion-y. Shower daily. Use a loofah. Use wet wipes when you’re done on the potty. Use deodorant. Floss. Spray on two tiny spritzes of cologne—Mennen, Old Spice, and Brut are not colognes. One shot to your chest, and one at your belt line. Trim and clean your nails.

I’ll give a few wardrobe pointers while I’m at it. Throw away all of the following: leather sandals, Hawaiian shirts, pinky rings, pony tails, tank tops, beanies, tiny dogs, briefs, high school letter jackets, reading glasses on chains, martini glasses, horizontal striped anything, huge belt buckles, and Corvettes. These are infamous cock blockers.

Now, take your crispy clean self on out there and find the next woman to disappoint.

Slave to the Reviews

Torcivia-StarsDo you find yourself checking the ratings of products on Amazon, and movies on Netflix before buying them? Of course, you do. You also realize how easy it is to manipulate these ratings, right? I can easily hire fifty people to tell you this book is five stars, and better than The Hunger Games. (It’s not.) Then, if you buy the product and it sucks balls, you might lie, and say you like it (a la Birdman, which was awful), to justify falling for the ruse of the reviews.

As an author, I’m painfully aware of the power of reviews. I’m aware of how brands manipulate them positively. I’m aware of how competitors manipulate them negatively. I still can’t seem to resist looking at the stars. Three stars or less, and I’m digging deeper. Four or more, and I’m buying.

So, one prick (jealous author, jilted lover, etc.) can hurt my income by trashing this book with a one-star review. (Please don’t do that, or I’ll feed your dog chocolate.) I used to monitor my reviews, and attempt to fight negative reviews. I’ve learned it’s no use. Best to thicken my skin, and prod on. Pricks will be pricks, and any reaction by me enforces their positions. The best way to handle a prick (aside from two hands and lots of spit), is to ignore it.

If we are so review-driven, why aren’t dating sites set up that way? Would that fall under the “mean bullying” category? Think about it. If my profile picture showed with 4.5 of stars and 600 reviews right beneath it, you’d give me a second look, regardless of my five-head, gray chin, and utter disgust toward anything offspring, golf, or religion related. If it were three one-star reviews, I’d be overlooked more quickly than a lime green cardigan.

Here are some of the reviews I imagine my dating profile would have:

“Three Stars: Yes, Phil is a nice guy, but he made out with me in the car, then never called. I suspect he’s either gay or married … or both.” – Annette

“One Star: He once farted during an orgasm, and blamed hit cat. He was inside me. I’ll never be the same.” – Beth

“Four Stars: Unlike most men, Phil seems to enjoy heading south, so to speak. I’d give him five stars, but that goatee doesn’t play well with clits.” – Christine

“Five Stars: I love my Uncle Phil. He bought me a Starbucks card in return for this review.” – Courtney

“One Star: He’s drunk nightly, won’t do yoga or spin class, said Christians are pudding-brained zombies, and he called my son a soulless pile of goat boogers.” – Deena

“Three Stars: He’s hairy, so five stars during the winter months, and one star in the summer.” – Emma

I know how this game is played. The objective is to get more reviews, so one becomes more average. I can do that. A simple lowering of standards should help. It’s expensive, but I’ll consider it a loss leader. Come have a drink with me, on me. Maybe we can exchange fluids and reviews. It’s a win-win! Act now! Buy, buy, buy!

Yes, Jerry, PC is Creepy

jerrypcJerry Seinfeld went on Late Night with Seth Meyers, and expressed his disgust with the tightening of the PC noose. There’s one of the cleanest, funniest comics in history, and he is frustrated. Where does that leave the rest of us who like to curse, tease, and look at nipples? Are we mega-bullies? Should we be punished, and forbidden from continuing our livelihoods?

Fuck that!

I don’t know if this stems from the religious and political righties, overly protective parents, or media hype, but I wish it would stop. If you want to find offense, you can find it in just about anything. My question is, why? Why would you want to be offended? If you don’t care for it, look away. Respect the fact that other people may be entertained by it, and find your censorship offensive.

Let’s cover the sensitive areas.

Sex and nudity. Imagine an arena full of adult fans watching an event inside a cage. If I tell you it’s two women hurting each other, with the intent of knocking the opponent unconscious, you probably shrug. If I tell you it’s two naked women locked in 69, trying to bring each other to orgasm, you’re aghast. So, violence GOOD, sex BAD.

If you’re strolling down the beach, and come across a woman nude sunbathing, is it offensive? What if she’s 17? OK, what if she’s 4? What if it’s a man? What if he’s 80? What if he has an erection? What if he’s masturbating? See? I can push those lines around to find your pinch point.

Nothing about nudity and sexuality offends me. I may not like it, but I’m not offended. If it involves consensual pleasure, I feel I have no right to impose my preferences. At the beach, I find my nose wrinkling less often around bikini-clad, overweight women in their 60s than Harry Manback in his tank top, and my heterosexuality has little to do with it.

How about “gross” body stuff such as farts, burps, urination, defecation, and boogers? Farts are funny. If, while addressing the nation about the republican candidates, President Obama would turn and light a fart, I’d cry laughing.

Let’s say I’ve had Doce Equis (six Dos Equis), and I’m Ubering home with a bladder the size of a yoga ball. If we pull over to the shoulder, I whip out my pee spigot, and I create a puddle next to a vacant lot, I’m a sex offender. If my 150-pound Rottweiler does it, no problem. In fact, if I keep my sword sheathed and pee down my leg, that’s OK too. Or, if my holding it knocks a kidney stone loose, and I’m forced to spend a painful night in the ER, that’s fine. Makes no sense.

Race, religion, weight, height, sexual preference, and gender. Beaner, spic, krout, mick, guinea, kike, midget, fag, twat. Did that feel like I just paint-brush-slapped your face? Nigga, please! Ooh, that one stung, eh? They are words. They take on the meaning you give them. Why are they good in rap songs and bad in commencement speeches? If these words bother you, just imagine it’s a three-year-old saying them. Offense be gone!

It’s my duty to not cave in to these overly sensitive self-made victims. I’m not toeing any lines; I’m hurdling.


recluseDo you have a friend or relative who is slightly recluse or introverted? Or, perhaps you are greedy with your space, like I am. If so, you can relate to the anxiety caused by playing hotel keeper. If not, there are things you need to know about this special person before you spend the night.

He doesn’t want you there.

Sorry if that’s harsh. Honesty is the best policy, right? If you stay, you’ll raise my blood pressure, and that’s unhealthy. So, come on over, watch the game, drink your frosty beverage, have a crisp, and am-scray.

There are exceptions. If I’m having sex with a guest, well, sure, she’s welcome to spend the night—one night. If someone is too drunk to drive, he can spend the night—on the sofa or lawn (preferable). If you’re Keira Knightly, you get a guest key—an eternally irrevocable guest key.

You people who enjoy hosting parties and sleepovers have simply caved. You’ve given in to social pressures. Perhaps you have children (drunken dwarfs) who have left nothing pristine and sacred in your abode. Well, that sucks for you. I have zero children, and a vasectomy scar to remind me of how blissfully quiet my mornings are.

These are the annoyances created by female guests:

  • The disappearance of toilet paper. A case of TP lasts me almost a month. If I have a woman here, I lose two rolls a day … a DAY! WTF? Where does it go? How fucking wet is your pee hole? Jesus! Are you wiping properly? If you just roll it around your fingers and wipe, you are wasting the sheets behind your knuckles. Quit it! Three times (not ten) around your fingers, remove, place in palm, and wipe. That gives you six layers of insulation.
  • Unidentifiable things in the trash.
  • Hair things and hair everywhere.
  • Water bottles—six or more one-third full fucking bottles everywhere, including rolling around the backseat of my car.
  • Phone noises.

On the very rare occasion that I allow a male to stay, he also creates annoyances such as:

  • Stank—internal and external from both ends.
  • The disappearance of beer.
  • Dead soldiers—empty beer bottles everywhere.
  • Crumbs.
  • Skid marks in the entrance from dirty shoes, and in the toilet from dirty ass.

My cats, Syd and Symon, are also recluse. In fact, here’s Syd’s reaction to a recent guest.

“Pop, what is that? Is it a toy?”

“It’s Brian.”

“Can I eat it?”


“Ew. Throw it away, please.”

Think Before You Cheat

cheating2I’ve been on both ends of this, and cheatee is the shittier and of that stick. Finding the one you love in the arms of another will cause you irreparable damage. No amount of therapy or prescription drugs will cure it. It’s a thunderous kick to the balls of the ego. So, I beg you, if there’s any emotional connection left with your lover, don’t do it.

Yes, I know it’s exciting to have that fling. I realize years of the same makes one yearn for the strange. But, you yearn for other things, and you manage to resist them, don’t you? Is there alcohol involved? Well, that could complicate things. You’re away on a business trip? Yikes. Be strong!

Here are things you need to realize about the sex you’re about to have:

  • No matter how enjoyable, it absolutely, positively will not live up to the mental hype you’ve built up.
  • Five seconds after orgasm, you’re going to get slammed in the temple with the ball peen regret hammer.
  • The person you’re about to cheat on (aka, the victim or your greed) may have committed misdeeds, but this punishment does not fit the crime.
  • Even if you think the victim doesn’t love you as much, the victim will be hurt and love you much less after this is done.
  • Your accomplice in the mental crime doesn’t have the same feelings and post-coital intentions as you. All sorts of promises were made leading up to insertion. Those will be rescinded once the goal is achieved, quite possibly leaving you without your beloved and without your new lover.

I’ve had girlfriends give me the warning: “Just break up with me before you do anything stupid like having an affair.” Well, that’s probably not going to happen. The reason has nothing to do with my feelings about her. It’s a bet-hedging strategy. If I cheat, and it sucks, I can resume my relationship as long as it is kept secret. Yes, that’s horribly selfish. I’m simply explaining why people rarely break it off before cheating.

Fortunately, I’ve never walked in on my lover being pounded by the other guy. Boy, that would suck. Then again, it would bring a sense of closure, I guess. Part of the torture is imagining what’s going on between the cheating peeps. If I see it, maybe it’s a quick pull of the bandage, instead of the slow tear. If you’ve witnessed fucked-upery of the such, I offer my condolences. I’m willing to lend open ears and support as you trash the criminal.

If you’re still unable to fight the urge, just step away for a few minutes. Think about what is missing in your current relationship that is causing this temptation. If it’s nothing, you’re being a greedy fuck, so go ahead and learn the hard way. Karma is a bitch, my friend. If you can pinpoint the problem, then you owe it to your loved one to try to fix it before inflicting permanent damage.

Strange Behavior

strangeIf you do something strange, I’m going to react. Why? Because I’m human—built that way. Guess what else? Nobody gets to tell me how I should react. Well, they can tell me, but that certainly won’t influence my reaction, and I’m too old and crusty to feel bad about it.

Don’t you hate when you’re told you should react a certain way? That’s ridiculous when you think about it. Your whole life has been spent sampling experiences to bring you to this point. You like and dislike things based on your past, not the experiences of the person “should-ing” on you.

Take the Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner thing. That’s a 65-year-old Olympian male who suddenly has puffy lips, hips, and boobs. I don’t give a hoot about his lifestyle, but you can’t tell me his change in appearance isn’t reaction-worthy. And, don’t give me that PC nonsense that if I react I’m some sort of hater, sexist, or homophobe.

Here’s my reaction: “Ew, Christ, what the fuck?”

If I didn’t know it was Bruce, and I ran into Caitlyn at one of my favorite nightly unwinds, my reaction would be different. Probably something like, “Nice looking woman right there. Obviously had some work done, but bravo.”

Now, we all know the Kardashians are the kings (minus one) and queens (plus one) of media attention whores. So, everything they do, whether it’s a porn tape, pregnancy, or addaboobtome procedure is done to keep the cameras on them. Right? So, I gotta wonder if Bruce did this partly to steal back from Kris and Company some of the attention he has grown addicted to. Sure, he may have been privately parading around in women’s clothing for years. I’m not saying he went through the change reluctantly. I’m saying he did it as publicly as possible for attention.

I’ve had relatives and friends who get all kinds of tatted up and pierced. Then, when a person walks by staring, or wrinkling a schnoz, my friend the pincushion gets offended, and I enter the melee.

“Well, what did you expect? You’re wearing a diamond booger and a skull. You did this to draw attention. Now you have attention. You don’t get to decide what sort of attention it is.”

“I didn’t get pierced for attention. I did it for me.”

“… because you like the way it looks, and it makes you look different, right?”


“So, things that look different get attention. If I drop trou’ here in the mall, take a dump, and make a castle out of my excrement, I may call it art, but I’ll get plenty of attention from shoppers who would ordinarily not even know I existed, and their reactions will be mostly disapproving stares.”

“You’re comparing my ink and piercings to dung?”

“I’m using an extreme example to show that if you do something odd, you should expect attention—sometimes a thumbs up, and sometimes a green puky face.”

“Maybe I don’t care what people think.”

“If that’s true, it’s very healthy of you. The fact that you’re defending it tells me otherwise.”

I’m highly annoyed when celebrities, or people with similar lifestyles jump in front of something like the Caitlyn ordeal. They can’t help but applaud his/her bravery. Even Obama commented. Piss me off! The best response from the commander in chief would have been, “Bruce is now Caitlyn. Who gives a fuck? Not me. Now, about that water shortage …”

It annoys me because these people are trying to ride on the hype train. Nobody asked for their public opinion. Nobody said they need to prove their correctness and lifestyle acceptance by tweeting their filtered, fake reaction. I don’t care if Gaga approves or disapproves of his transition. Make music, woman. That’s what you do. If you’re so accepting, go through the change yourself—become Harry Gaga—then leak a video of you having sex with Caitlyn Jenner. That, I would watch. It wouldn’t go into my spank locker (that’s pretty full), but I’d put it right next to the “Cat on a Roomba” video on my you-gotta-see-this shelf.

There ya go, Bruce/Caitlyn. I don’t give a shit. If you’re happy, lovely. If I ever occupy an adjacent bar stool, I will ask you why. That’s curiosity. That’s normal. I’m only naturally-flawed human.

Privacy? What Privacy?

privacy2People often ask why I don’t use a pen name, especially because I’m crude, rude, and socially unacceptable. They assume it’s a part of my narcissism. Nope. I’m simply too lazy to hide.

I’m also aware that anyone with a browser and Internet access can pretty much find my contact information, residence, work history, etc. So, why stress about it? If somebody wants to fuck me up or just fuck me, they can find me.

Ever have a date ask if it would be OK to do a background check? I have. My answer is always, “Knock yourself out, Flo-Jack.” I’m not handing over my SSN, which I’m sure she could find anyway. I’ve got nothing to hide, so no biggie. Yet, I find the people who look for dirt are usually quite dirty themselves.

Or, how about this one: “When’s the last time you were checked for STDs?” That one always cracks me up. If my answer isn’t “Five minutes ago,” there’s no guarantee you’ll remain unpolluted. What if I say, “Oh, I get checked monthly,” or whip out a folder full of test results? Instead of feeling more secure, shouldn’t one infer there’s a good reason for all the testing?

There are security cameras everywhere now. I have them, my office has them, every bar I go to has them. Heck, I see shit-stools on bikes wearing them on their helmets. People choose to ignore the fact that they’re probably being watched or recorded a good part of the day. I’ve had house guests do things they’d never do with me in the room, even though they were fully aware that I have cameras. Although I have a camera at my front door, I’ve seen delivery people toss my packages onto the doorstep like bean bags. It boggles the mind.

So, why not skip the nonsense and do full disclosure the minute you meet someone? I hear people (women) prefer to peel the onion—learn about someone gradually by spending time with him. You wouldn’t shop that way, would you? Take the first blouse you like home, without looking at others. Wear it for a week or so, then decide if you want to return it, and look for others. Tedious.

I would love it if my first date fully disclothed—I mean, disclosed.

“OK, Philly. You ready? I drink cabernet, and not the cheap stuff. I don’t mind giving a blow job, but you had better go down on me often. You’re not putting your dick in my ass, ever. I do yoga. I don’t care if you do yoga, but I’m not going to miss classes because you want to cuddle. Some of my girlfriends are soulless sluts, and they WILL hit on you. Fuck one of them, and I’ll superglue your balls to your asshole. If I ask you how I look, you can be tactfully honest. If I text you, and you don’t reply within thirty minutes, I’ll assume you’re dead, and revoke your vagina lease. I don’t eat gluten-free, non-GMO, or anything that ends in tofu. If you need to do that, don’t do it around me. Please keep your pubes trimmed, fart in the other room, don’t spit, and never talk to me like a pimp would, even during dirty-talk. I watch reality TV. You don’t get to ask why. Now, sign here, and refill my glass if you understand these guidelines.”

“I think I’m in love.”