Archives for March 2016

Your Nudity: What’s it Worth?

erinErin Andrews just won a $55 million (*gulp*) suit against a creep and a clumsy hotel chain. I’m a huge fan of hers. She’s adorable and one of the most knowledgeable sports reporters around, both genders considered. I can see how she was traumatized by this peeping twat. She deserved remuneration, and I’m glad she got it.

When I heard about the ruling, though, I wondered what sort of settlement an average Joe or Jane would receive. I’d probably get around a buck, two-fifty. You know what? I’d take it proudly.

Nudity is valued differently by men versus women. We men learn to change, shower, and defecate in front of other men. I rarely suffer stage-fright when in front of a urinal, unless my neighbor is staring at my spigot and drooling. It’s a cock. Billions around. Most look alike. Same with my balls and ass. Heck, why are women’s nipples precious, while men’s nipples are non-noteworthy? Glands are glands.

Should the courts set prices for each body part to save time with future proceedings? I’ll lend a hand. Here are the fines for capturing the unintentional exposure of women:

  • Boobs with partial nipple exposure: $200
  • Boobs with full nipple exposure: $500
  • Butt crack, cheeks exposed, balloon knot concealed: $100
  • Butt, with entirely exposed crackage: $2000
  • Vagina, lips tucked: $500
  • Vagina, lips pursed: $1000

Now, each of those values need to have other factors considered and applied.

  • Age 18-25: Fines doubled.
  • Age 55+: Fines halved.
  • A-List Celebrity: Fines times 10,000.
  • B-List Celebrity: Fines times 100.
  • YouTube Cewebrity: Fines tripled.
  • Caught Ironing, Cooking, or Showering: Fines doubled.
  • Caught Masturbating: Fines times 10.
  • Caught Masturbating with Zucchini: Fines times 25 (also, banana 10, eggplant 50).

Fines for capturing men naked are similar, but divide each by ten, then replace labia with testicles and zucchini with tube socks.

These same infractions would not be handled as harshly in Europe, because Europenises don’t care so much about nudity. I like them peeps. Not caring is a life goal of mine. Thick, nude skin is difficult to penetrate. If I step from the shower to find Ms. Creepers outside my window recording me as I dry off my nanners, I’ll be taken aback a bit. If I find the video on YouTube the next day, my reaction will depend on the thumbs-up ratio, and if there are negative comments posted by any women in my spank bank. Still, I wouldn’t press charges because that will only draw more attention to my lap acorn, and any potential court settlement wouldn’t be substantial enough to buy me a six-pack of my favorite Firestone-Walker beer.

So, chin up, Erin! You’re talented, gorgeous, and now rich enough to start your own network. You’ll be just fine.

What’s with ED Commercials?

viagraThere are two sets of commercials that give me the strong desire to throw a mug of beer through the TV screen: stationary bikes and pharmaceutical ads.

The biker aversion stems from my experience being screamed at by a silly-helmeted douche who was worried I was going to turn right on red in front of him and dent his carbon fiber rim. He squealed like self-entitled twat. I gave him the one-finger salute and cut him off anyway. Now, I subconsciously swerve toward these fashion-senseless, large-calfed ding-dongs every chance I get. And, if I ever see another person wearing a bike helmet on a stationary bike, I’m going to point and scream like a body snatcher.

Pharma ads are equally maddening. They spend more time listing the horrible side-effects than any benefits. These usually involve bleeding from some random hole, seizures, or sudden death. Lovely.

The worst of these is Viagra. Every commercial features a woman whose man has no fucking problem getting her man’s dick hard, unless he happens to be gay, in which case he can still get it hard, so he has no problem. Just like McDonald’s commercials showing skinny people, these commercials are unrealistic and misleading. Here is what they are saying:

“See this hot chick? Sah-mokin’, huh? Bet you’d love to fuck her, wouldn’t ya? What if you get the chance, and your hard drive goes floppy? How much would that suck? You’re not going to get another shot at a fine specimen like her for a long time. You need boner candy, and you need it now. Chew one back, and make us graybeards proud.”

But, again, that’s not the issue. Maybe the advertiser is speculating that the wife has aged fantastically, and the husband has turned into a sloth. Wife has one foot out the door, and is caught winking at a coed. Husband is about to lose her and a significant portion of his savings. Boner candy will get him back into her game like Bonds on ’roids.

Horseshit, too.

Look, the guys who need boner candy, need it because they are no longer attracted to their sex partners. This is no indictment of the sex partner. Too someone, she’s quite lovely. He lost that loving feeling for any number of reasons, but none of those reasons are “because she’s just too fucking sexy.”

The commercials should show realistically proportioned mature women of average looks. Also, instead of a stud-puppy gray fox, the man should be balding, overweight, and so-not-a-Clooney. The commercial should tell the most-likely truth.

“Look, she’s not built like Jillian Michaels. So what? You’re no Ryan Reynolds, either. Sure, she can be a pain in the ass, and bringing her to O-town is as difficult as playing Croquet with your tongue. Well, here are your options: Lose the house and kids, or suck down one of these pills an hour before bedtime. Sure, you’ll be seeing blue, your nose will run, and your next shit will be pudding. Small price to pay, me lad. You’ll have a rebar cock, which you’ll be able to use to pound your curvy lover senseless, and keep her from whining to her friends about your sexual ineptitude.”

Now, that’s a commercial I can respect.

Is Your Princess Ready?

princessI was eavesdropping again last night. Two girlies were discussing the parting of one’s legs. How could I not listen? They began to discuss the princess. I’ve been around the bar enough times to know that’s a code word for vag. I know most of those code words, and which ones I’m allowed to use in front of each gender.

Anyhoohay, the woman who was anticipating penetration was asked by her friend if her princess was ready for action. My mind went into translation (and fantasy) mode, and I considered the likelihood of each meaning.

I came up with:

  • “Is it wet?” – Under 10% accuracy.
  • “Have you douched recently?” – Fucking nil.
  • “Are you having your period?” – 25% accuracy.
  • “Did you trim back your pubes?” – 75% accuracy. *Ding Ding Ding*!

Ladies, an overgrown lawn will not … ever … keep me off of it. It may take me a bit longer to create the part and clear the way for my tongue, but there will be no whining about it.

Still, a well-kempt beave is certainly appreciated. That is, until my mind wanders into the land of, “Did she do this for me or for the last guy, which may have been last night?” Meh. It’s still a playground I’ll enjoy no matter how many other men have played there.

My next thought was that if there was such concern about the princess, do or should men have the same concern about the prince and his royal dangling kerbangers?


I generally keep that area clipped. I’m Italian. If I didn’t, there would be a virtual corn field of sloppiness down there. Once I hit my fifties, I became more attentive to the area. Grays are popping up, and while fine on my chin, they’re unwelcome on my man-beaver. Also, the trunk of my tree has begun sprouting stray hairs. This annoys me. It’s not like I’m beating off with Rogaine. WTF? (Why The Fuzz?) So, I soap up and razor it off. Don’t need to hear my woman coughing up fur balls or going, “Pftuh, pftee, tpuh,” during a blow job.

Ball hair gets trimmed. Shaving them is unrealistic and potentially a source for extreme embarrassment when toilet paper nicks are discovered. I just set the clippers on “close,” straddle the garbage can, and whistle while I weed-whack.

(Side note: You don’t ever want to see a man do this. Don’t even try to imagine it, or you will be scarred for life.)

Now, the question is, “If I were pretty sure I was going to get laid tonight, how would I get my prince ready?”

Guess I’d wash him, and possibly toss out some shower batch kids to avoid premature ejaculation. Other than that, my prince is always ready.

I Want You More When You Don’t Want Me

chaseMy cats make me crazy. If you have cats, you’ll relate. If you don’t, ask your aunt about it. When I want to pick up Syd (black, speedy little fucker and, no, not because he’s black), he runs away. Ten minutes later, I’ll sit on the sofa and ignore him, at which point he’ll jump on my lap and head butt and knead me until I pet him.

Mating targets do this shit too. When I have the hots for her, I email, text, and call. You know what I get? Huge response delays, one-word answers, or complete radio silence. I know better than to be persistent, because odds are that will land me in Creepytown. Sometimes, she wants to be chased, so she desires persistence. I never know which case it is, so I take the safe way out and wait quietly.

A few more days of silence, then I break the news to my lonely pecker, and move on. Weeks later, I get the where-ya-been text out of nowhere. I resist the urge to smash my phone, and consider the reasons for the delay, and my strategy for responding.

Possible reasons for her delay:

  • She found a man.
  • She never saw the message. (Fuck you, ATT.)
  • She doesn’t like me the way she thinks I like her.
  • She enjoys a challenge. (I’m not a challenge. I am the IKEA of men.)

So, what should I do? Shrug it off? Send sad-face emojis? Having no clue why she is so female, I strategize.

I’m tempted to do the following:

  • Tell her I’ve been ignored by uglier women.
  • Tell her I’ve been busy making deposits at the sperm bank.
  • Send her an auto-response announcing my recent suicide.
  • Send her a pic of my good-morning coffee dump.

I don’t do those things. I’m pig-headed, but not an animal. If we have mutual friends, I may do reconnaissance.

“Hey, what’s up with your friend Michelle?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Just hadn’t heard from her for a while, then she texted me a few minutes ago out of the blue.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Because that’s creepy. It shows desperation.”

“Well, you are creepy and desperate, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes. I don’t need her to know that. Do you think she likes me?”

“Again, why don’t you ask her?”

“If I ask, she’ll say, ‘Not like that.’ If I don’t ask, she’ll wish I had asked, because she likes me.”

“You have us figured out. Bravo! Better have another beer. It’s going to be a long, lonely night.”