Archives for July 2016

Facebook Love is PDA

facebook-pda… and, it’s gross. Being in a relatively permanent state of singledom, my cynicism gets the best of me, again. That’s why I hate happy couple pictures.

“Look at us. Look how happy we are with each other. We are a perfect match. Soul mates. Look at these smiles. You only wish you could find a love like this. Two is better than one. We’ll die together in bliss.”


You see, single peeps like me all know that each huggy, kissy, feet-at-the-beach pic that’s posted is one step closer to becoming a time-consuming task in the inevitable post-breakup cleanup of all social media profiles. That’s why we post pics of food, pets, and funny shit—they’re immortal. (My Chicken Piccata is a fond memory that will never hurt me, barring a batch of bad capers.) This way, when the next bedmate comes along and decides to Facebook-stalk us, we have no explaining to do.

“Odd, you don’t have pics with girlfriends on your timeline. Not many long-term relationships?”

“My selfie stick has narrow focus.”


“Babycakes, it’s not that I’m not in relationships, and it’s not like I don’t have pictures of exes. In fact, I have a folder of juicy, quite-useful ones. I simply choose not to share them.”


“Perhaps, because I’m not a ‘Like’ whore?”

I think the main reason people post all those lovey pictures is insecurity. They need to remind themselves how great not being single is, and others to avoid treading on their love. Kind of like online peeing on their property. I think the time spent gathering, cropping, filtering, and posting those pics with clever captions would be better spent on a sofa next to a shrink.

Unconvinced? I’m just an angry fella? All right. What would happen if I posted a picture of me with a paper fan made of $100 bills, with the caption: “Hey, look what I have?” I’d get some likes and positive congratulatory comments. Those are lies, of course. The actual reaction would be some combination of:

  • So what?
  • Who did you steal it from?
  • I should steal it from you.
  • What an arrogant asswad!
  • Let’s see if you have it next week.

I’m telling you, the same applies to posting pics with a lover-du-jour. The tilty-headed, “Aw, that’s nice” reactions are insincere, socially-programmed, forced responses to keep the public convinced that the commenter is truly a kind, supportive person, not an annoyed about-to-puke human who was just looking for a funny distraction from a mundane existence, when he stumbled upon the happy couple.

Sorry, that does sound angry. I’ll go search kitten pics.

I am the Drug

daliDo you ever wonder what your role is in others’ lives? Does it matter? Sure. If nothing other than surviving this silliness as long as possible, what could be more important than enhancing someone’s life?

I feel used, and I welcome it.

If she texts me late tonight, I’ll respond. I’ve done it before.

“Are you up?”

“Uh huh.”

“Want company?”


I’m fine stacking pillows of security next to me most nights. Still, she offers something less cold. Imagine I do as well. What role am I playing? He pissed her off, and I’m her revenge? Do my emotionless deeds fill some void?

What’s the harm? If she takes that short ride here, taps on my door, and tosses her vagina my way, is it some way moral for me to refuse? Nothing inside me offers any guilt. It’s because I’ll be kind, tell her what she needs to hear, play my role (without many side effects), then allow her to fade away, without tossing guilt her way in return.

Best to embrace it.

Maybe, it’s just an itch she can’t reach. I can.

What would happen if she stays the night, then wakes to tell me she wants more? Unsure. Unexpected. I’m unprepared for that. Guess I’ll say what she needs to hear. I’m the drug. I have a duty.

It’s not sad. Stop frowning. Love is undefined—undefinable. Sometimes pleasure is the goal. Sometimes the drug has a simple role: Make me happy, give me something to recall and smile about, even if it is salted with a pinch of guilt.


She’d laugh if I suggested the boyfriend role. It would be like expecting a legendary high from an Advil. That’s not my role. Take me, feel pleasure, know it will be fleeting, shrug it off, and walk away smiling. No need to wonder what this has done to me. I know my role. My heart gets no part in this. The wall is high.

I’ll provide relief from pain he most likely doesn’t realize he caused. One slip, and into another’s arms she falls—briefly, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I don’t care. I get something from it. It could be practice. It could be some genetic urge to save another soul.

You’re welcome to go and take me again when you need me.

Could that be the joy for me? Could it be in the knowledge that I’m well aware that I’m being used, and I can step in and out of the role somewhat fulfilled, yet emotionally unscathed?


Sex Injury

sexinjuryMy buddy had to bow out of playing in a baseball game this weekend due to a foot injury. It happens. Perhaps he dropped a heavy object or twisted it while chasing a criminal? No. He hurt it fucking.

Now, I’m old and brittle. Sure, I injure myself more often. There are more aches, pains, and increased stiffness nowadays. But, can’t say I’ve ever been benched by a boinking bruise, let alone admitted it to a bunch of baseball buddies.

Come to think of it, I did topple off the funky frame-lit bed at the Vegas SLS Hotel in May. I smacked my skull on the sofa frame. It hurt, but I was under Tito’s vodka sedation, and a boner somehow numbs me. There was a lump in the morning. Still, I can’t imagine weeping to the coach about it.

“Coach, I need to ride the pine today.”

“What? You’re on the hill!”

“Nah. Can’t do it. Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“Hurt my brain. Was fucking little miss thang over there, got in a little over my head, tried some ill-advised maneuvers, and cracked my melon.”

“You dumb ass.”

“I know. Sorry, Skipper. Maybe I can keep score.”

“Here, son. I have just the thing for you.”

“What’s that?”

“A can of MAN-THE-FUCK-UP! Now get out there and throw strikes.”

These sex injuries must be limited to men. I can’t imagine a woman bruising a labia or anything. Maybe a toe cramp. My buddy’s injury was caused by getting his foot stuck between the mattress and headboard.

“What were your feet doing up there?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know. I’ve never slept with you.”

“We were in a certain position.”

“Do you need a fucking helmet and boots? Literally?”

“Man, I was in a groove, literally. I wasn’t about to call time out. I had to finish and assess the injury during clean-up.”

“Good man. You are pardoned.”

I wonder if his wife mentioned his foot-pas to her girlies? Nah. Women are decent and respect privacy, right? She kept it to herself. Naturally, that won’t stop me. Decency isn’t something I relate to. I’ll be sure to lecture her.

“Hey, Rousey. Take it easy on ole cracker bones, will ya? Stick to missionary.”


trackersRemember when Fitbit first came out? How cool! A watch that will count your steps and reward you with a vibration announcing your achievement of 10,000 steps. Then, capabilities expanded to include sleep and weight tracking. All of this conveniently uploaded through WiFi to a website to track progress.

I’m a gadget head. I had to have one and brag about it. After a few weeks, I noticed that it had become more of an annoying leash than a fitness motivator. If it were enhanced to track better things, perhaps it wouldn’t be tracking dust in my dresser next to my MP3 player.

I wish it would track:

  • Alcohol Level (LitBit) – It would be even cooler if it vibrated wildly when approaching time-to-puke levels, then recommended mixing in an ice water.
  • Love Bean Proximity (ClitBit) – Another great time to vibrate wildly when against her goodness.
  • Dump (ShitBit) – It should scan the bowl carnage, and give a readout of mass and consistency. It should identify the phantom shit, and optionally snap a pic and text it to your similarly immature friend.
  • Idiocy (GitBit in UK, DimwitBit in USA) – This would detect when you’re about to do something horribly silly and warn you and those around you with an appropriate sound—a fart, perhaps.
  • Lies (BullshitBit) – This should buzz people who post their true feelings and political opinions on Facebook.

There’s so much sexual inequality that could be addressed with proper tracking. Most men would complain about blowjob to cunnilingus ratios. So, in fact, would women. A LickBit that counts tongue strokes and proper use of fingers during sessions would go a long way toward leveling the playing field. Sure, the sixty-nine position is most effective for guaranteeing equal give and take, but there are times when that’s not practical—like while driving.

The tracker could also track time since last orgasm and perform ejaculation analysis. Had my boys studied back in the nineties when trying to get wifey preggers. My sperm had above-average motility. Cooler would it be, if I could create a few butt-cheek puddles, which could then be scanned by my (you guessed it) JitBit.

“Excellent work, Phil. Your ejaculate was four milliliters—slightly above the national average of three-point-seven. Your sperm seem somewhat exhausted. This could be due to your approaching fifty-fifth birthday, or simply because you don’t use your pecker enough, so they were resting. As far as abnormalities go, there were a few. I found ten two-headed sperm, a few grains of Stevia, and a monkey. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, I’m a kidder. There was no monkey. Fuck, I amuse me. I should go on tour with my teenage son, ZitBit. Ha, ha, ha! Hey, not a bad baby-batter load there, brother. You can discard the evidence now as it is beginning to run down her leg, which she’ll complain about very soon. No, don’t use her … undies … Jesus, man. How could you? You give love a bad name. Good day.”

I love this idea. Pitching it to Tesla tomorrow. It’s a game-changer, no-brainer, wealth-gainer. Keep an eye out for my GoFuckMe campaign.

Third Wheel

thirdAny number of fun things come in threes—tricycles, bar stools, strikes. When the happy couple invites you along, embrace it. You’re an adult. (If not, put this book down immediately and tell mommy to feed you fucking donuts.) You can entertain yourself, can’t you? If the other wheels begin playing kissy face, look away.

I realize being perpetually single makes me that guy. I’m the one couples offer the pity invitation.

“Aw, poor Philsy. He looks lonely. Let’s invite him along.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, honey. He’s bar trained. If nothing else, he could be the voice of reason after we get plastered. Plus, he has Uber. A third voice is necessary for a majority vote. No more hung juries deciding if Jane is high or stupid.”

“Last time we brought him along he told the wait staff it was my birthday, then he ate my custard.”

“Pretty Please? His misery will be a constant reminder of why we should never break up.”

“Good point.”

Although I may be miserable and pathetic, I am keenly aware that vagina-keepers find that repulsive. So, I’m sure to keep that to myself (and my prose). In public, I find chilling my upper lip with booze is the remedy—it brings out the best in me.

Now, in the odd occasion that I’m the fifth, seventh, or ninth wheel, things can get sloppy. This is where I begin to toss passive-aggressive sarcasm grenades into the mix. It’s not that my misery desires company; I simply enjoy mental conflict.

“Scott, you’re right, Tom’s wife does have an epic hiney. Bet she does squats. I’d like to join her cross shit team. Ha, ha. Get it?”

“What? I never said …”

“Hey, quick survey. Raise your hand if you’ve ever accidentally shot yourself in the face with your orgasm.”


“Nobody? Oh, OK. On purpose. Who has done it on purpose? Better yet, who has a picture?”


“Really? Just me? Christ. This isn’t working out how I planned. Hm. There’s no Jenga. I know. Let’s play would-you-rather. Would you rather have sex in a Tijuana Porta Potty, or watch Alice masturbate with a cucumber?”


“Tough one, I know. Well, except for Alice. We all know what she would prefer. After all, she is vegetarian, right?”

Perhaps unicycle is best for miscreants like me.

Trump got you down? Need a laugh?



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