Archives for September 2016

Generous or Slutty?

generousI overheard a woman saying, “There’s not a single man in this bar I would sleep with.”

“OK, how many married ones?” I intruded.

“Very funny. Zero. How many women here would you have sex with?”

“I think you know the answer to that question is substantially more than zero.”

“What percentage?”

“Jesus. I don’t know. Sixty?”

“Really? Actually that’s much lower than I expected.”

“Well, I’m proud to fall short of your expectations.”

“It’s still pretty ridiculous. Are you desperate or a man-slut?”

“How about a third option: I’m generous.”

She wrinkled her nose and cast me aside like a napkin ring. I was disqualified as a mate along with the rest of the patrons before I had a chance to woo her with charm. That was shallow and judgmental on her part, wasn’t it?

Perhaps, I would have been wiser to identify her as the only woman I found desirable enough to consider pausing my morals, bedding a stranger, and thus opening myself to slut shaming. Nah. She would have seen through it.

I wonder what the typical percentage is by gender. I have male friends who are “generous” enough to get close to 100%. For us, it’s more of a factor of how long it has been since the last encounter. For ladies, there’s just too much at stake (emotions, STDs, and babies) to be open to porking half the bar.

Still, it would have done much for my depleted ego to be her chosen one. In fact, that would be the only answer she could give to make my day: “I only find one guy attractive enough to consider that, and I’m looking at him.” Anything more than one man means competition, and I’m far too old and tired to get into a sword fight.

I would bet most women would answer as she did with zero percent. Some would say, “One or two, but it would require three references, a clean STD report, and more drinks than I’m typically willing to have on a Sunday.”

Kind of sucks for single swine like I. Every time I step into a den of inebriation, I do so with the hopes that tonight might be the night I find a solution to the aches and pains caused by a torturous dating scene. Yet, the odds say I’m almost as likely to drown in my bathtub. (By the way, why is drowning in a bathtub the measuring stick for ways to die? How deep are people’s tubs? Fuck. Who even has the time to take baths? How do you wash your hair in a tub? You’d have to slide down and submerge yourself in ass water. Oh, that’s how people die. Or, are they using a transistor radio while tubbing? God damn stupid. Take a fucking shower.)


Bottom line is bars are full of slutty men and overly-discerning women. It’s amazing we ever dock privates.


deniedWomen can be heartless, I tell ya. A pair of finely aged specimens sat next to me and my Deep Eddy Vodka last night. One did a few swipes in the car on their way over. She informed us that one particular swipee was on his way to meet her.

“What do you know about this fella?” I asked.

“Nothing. He had a cute picture, so I told him to come meet me. Why waste time, you know?”

“I hear ya.”

“Until we meet face-to-face I have no idea if there’s chemistry.”

“What if there’s none?”

“Then I’ll get rid of him.”

“Jesus, you sound like my uncles back in the day.”


“Italian thing. Never mind.”

So we sat and chatted as she lubed up the chassis (added enough alcohol to her system to help his chances). I understood her asking him by when her friend and I were potential witnesses. Even creepy men tend to behave in crowds. I would never have a prospect meet me while a buddy is nearby. That never ends well. Rather take my chances solo, and keep my balls unbusted.

So, homeboy shows up, and I can tell by her reaction it will be a pit stop for him. He wisely orders an iced tea, thus limiting his losses.

I thought he was handsome enough, but my standards are hardly comparable to most women’s. For me it’s like matching ties and shirts. This goes with that. Hence, I could picture the two of them as the next bar-side couple to gross me out with face-slobbering PDA.


He left his two dollars, tucked his tail, and headed back into the jungle. The dew hadn’t sufficient time to condense on his glass before it was over.

“Christ, woman! What was that all about?”

“I could tell the minute I saw him it wasn’t going to happen.”

“You’re speaking like a superficial dude.”

“Look, I couldn’t see myself fucking him, so he had to go. He wasn’t as cute as his pictures. I was worried he might be a redhead, which is a ‘hell no’ for me.”

“Didn’t he have gray hair?”

“Yes, but it used to be red. I can tell.”


This is precisely the reason why I cuddle my ale avoid ego bruising denials.

Words with Freaks

twA trend started that I totally missed: hooking up by playing Words with Friends (WWF). Here I thought Scrabble was a fine way to build one’s vocabulary. Turns out, a few well-placed letter squares can get you mating.

Just like a group of ladies at a wine bar will eventually be playing “Show and Cell Tell” with pics of high fashion, a group of men at a dive bar will play “Pass the Phone Porn.” My opinion is valued, so I don’t shy away. My usual response is, “Nice. Where did you meet her?” Yep, WWF is where these animals are found.

It started back in the day when one of my first observation was on a flip phone passed from a coworker. It was an intimate scene featuring a nude woman and variety of raw vegetables. Little Miss Salad Bar, as I henceforth affectionately referred to her, tossed him the picture while chatting during WWF. How generous of him to share. I immediately went in search of the next Vagina Soup Queen, to no avail.

Tiny, grainy images have evolved into 1080p pics and video. Oh, boy! Many of these include the face of the feature star. That fascinates me. Is it apathy or unawareness of how eager we swine are to share our spoils? Rest assured that if you send a sexy selfie including the back-end of an Oral-B, that shit will be seen by a dozen piglets.

I refuse to examine the photos sent in response by my brothers. One penis in my life is plenty. Wouldn’t know what women would find sexy in response, anyway. Certainly, no positive Yelp reviews would come from Joe’s Market pictures of the proprietor fucking the cabbage.

So, how does finding a word with an S in the middle devolve into unabashed kinkery? Would a simple choice of “ASS” over “ASH” start the cascade? That’s a horrible choice. I’m no expert, but an H must be worth more than a fucking S. Heck, there’s probably a Scrabble cheater site out there with naughty word suggestions. (If not, I’m registering that domain now.) Still, how does one tiny word send things tumbling toward Tina texting me titillating twat shots? Here’s how I’d envision it.

“Ooh, you’re feisty, young man. OK. Here’s my word. L-I-C-K.”

“Dayum, girlie. That’s a good one. Got a double letter on that K. Fuckin’ A. All right. C-O-C-K.”

“Oh em gee, you’re too funny. I’m love that word so much that I’m going to attach to it. P-E-A.”

“Peacock? Nice! Well, then I can play dirty too. I’m adding my F to your LICK. And, by the way, I hope you’re flicking your bean as you type.”

“Ha ha ha. Well, I miss that P, and I just can’t leave it alone. I’ll add my U-S-S-Y. BTW, wanna see my tits?”

“Y-E-S. Yes, I do. Yes, please.”

“T-I-T-S. Four points.”


I Drink Alone

candleAnother year goes buy in a blink. I enjoy a huge bowl of egg drop soup—made for four, eaten four times by one. I retire home to my resting place—the recliner. I’m sore—more than before. Baseball and workouts cause a certain kind of soreness—this one is from old age. My arm hurts. My skin sags. My hair is misplaced. Yet, I’m content.

As soon as I get the leg rest out and the TV fired up, my two fuzzy children climb onto my chest, walk circles, and flop. They must sense this special day as I turn 55—8 or so in cat years, which means the two lumps have finally caught up to me. We’re tired.

I thumb the remote, sip tea, and wait for the wave of depression. Alone at 45, 50, and now 55. Some would find that unbearably sad, but I’m not one of the “some.” I’m fine. Perhaps escaping the stress of taking care of more than one human has done me good.

If my friends could see me now (the ones without cats), they’d ride me like a rusty beach cruiser. “Dirty old cat man. You’ll die alone.” Yes, I will. I’ll also die without regrets, obligations, or a penny to my name. I plan on using me up, but I do thank you for doing your part to keep the species alive.

My dearest friends dispense sedation. Last night it was bourbon, rocks with a cherry.

“Why a cherry?” my favorite nurse asks.

“Because I like to crush it into the drink.”

“I can muddle it for you.”

“I prefer to do it myself. It’s symbolic, perhaps.”

“Christ. I’m not touching that.”

“Yeah, best you don’t.”

“So, what are you doing for birthday dinner?”

“Steak—pink and salty.”

“With whom?”

“No one. I can still manage to feed myself.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you have a wonderful birthday.”

“Thank you, my lovely. Cheers. You’ve done your part.”

I pull the stem, crush and tear the cherry, and push the pieces under my Bulleit bourbon and cubes. I sip and sigh. Life is good. Bourbon is good. God, she’s lovely. Tonight she’ll be mine, in mind only. Won’t hurt her a bit. She’ll never know.

Another sip as I scan my fellow patients. Most are paired up. Others are swiping their phones. The TVs show silly boys—modern day gladiators—playing for millions, making misplaced political statements against the machine that bought their Bentleys. Now, that’s sad.

With any luck, 56 will be similar. I expect and can handle more physical aches. Mental anguish is far worse. A candle smokes once again, as I wish for serenity.

Careful Marking Your Territory

markingWent to my usual booze puddle last night. Found two vacant bar stools, couple on the right, and single man on the left. I politely asked if either seat were being saved. Homeboy on my left exploded, “Yes, yes, I am saving this.” The couple pleasantly said no, and I sat.

My take on homeboy’s situation was that he was waiting for a woman whom he was still in the stage of impressing. I was a possible encroachment. He switched seats and sat next to me, lest his prey be within biting distance of me, the evil silver lion. I expected to be entertained by more than my blue cheese burger that night. Expectations met.

His prey showed—a fine Mexican specimen carrying a bag of gifts. Seemed she was also at the “impress the mate” stage. He grabbed her face and kissed it. This made a noise. It didn’t scare me; it annoyed me. She handed him the goodie bag. He pulled various Mexican candies and desserts that she brought from this morning’s trip across the border. He acted gracious. I saw through it.

He made sure he had his back to me while engaging her. No fucks were given by me. I just dunked my crispy fries and watched the Padres take another spanking while listening to his horrible phrases designed to have buttons undone. Every few minutes, he’d lean in and slobber on her face. I wished I had ear buds.

Now, my bartender friends are well aware of my asshole magnetry. Drama, dickheads, and dating dingleberries tend to surround me. The bartenders smirked. I continued trying to distract myself with my cheesy meat cake.

Finally, Faceleech Man had sufficiently glazed her face and suggested they leave. I was eternally grateful that the show was over, and there would be little interruption (*SLURP*, *SMACK*, *GOBBLE*) to the bad eighties music being piped in. I’ll take Kajagoogoo over PDA any day.

As they left, I realized he had left her bag of gifts behind. My nice guy reflexes kicked in. I leapt to my feet, grabbed the bag, and ran out the front to catch them. As I approached, I knew this would have been a great time to mind my own business. Still, I stopped them.

“Excuse me.”

They both turned and saw me. She smiled awkwardly. He was unhappy to see me.

“I think you left this,” I offered.

“No, that’s not ours,” he snapped.

At this point a wave of joy came over me. He had just achieved a level of self-cock-blockery that I had never reached nor witnessed.

“Actually, I think she brought you this, right?”

I opened the bag to show the contents. The mood changed. Her smile turned upside-down. He panicked, turned pink, and took the bag. I basted in my glory.

When I returned the bartenders complimented me on being such a good Samaritan. I assured them my deed went unappreciated, and someone besides me would end this night unlaid.


hootieDamn birds been shitting all over my courtyard. I put up spikes over my door and windows. They gave be the claw, moved five feet over, and shit there. Bastards. Finally, I did what most smart people do—I used this thing called “The Interweb” and asked Amazon WTF my options are.

Brilliantly, they suggested the use of a stunt owl. Hmm, are birds that stupid? I’d probably catch the little pricks either fucking it or shitting on it. Still, any shit machine scared away would make it worthwhile, so I bought it.

Cute little fucker. I shall name him “Hootie.”

$18.97 is what he cost. Not bad. He’s pretty imposing, standing on his fake wood stump at around 18 inches. He has big eyes and a swivel head, not unlike me at the bar watching lovely servers bound by.

After a week of Hootie sitting there in my mulch, I do notice a significant decrease in shit puddles. Also, since I like to keep my windows open, I am hearing less chirping. I love Hootie. Yes, I do. My cats? Not so much. Symon jumped on the windowsill and demanded an explanation.

“Yo, Pop. What’s with the bug-eyed lump of plastic?”

“It’s an owl.”

“It’s not an owl. It’s not moving. Hence, that is either a dead owl you nailed to a stump or it’s the worst lawn ornament since the jockey.”

“It’s designed to scare birds away, since you suck at it, Symon.”

“I do not suck at it. I can’t very well scare anything from behind this screen, now can I? What do you expect me to do, insult them? Hey birdie, you’re an incontinent lump of useless feathers, more suited to be in my belly. Ooh, scary.”

“Shut it. Good thing you are cute, because you are certainly an asshole cat.”

“An asshole who doesn’t waste twenty bucks on a horrible replica. Look at him. Hootie? A bit on the nose, Pop. He just sits there. His head rotates three hundred sixty degrees. Owls do one-eighties, dickhead. This dumb Exorcist movie extra wannabe ain’t scarin’ nobody.”

“We’ll see. Oh, and go lick yourself.”

Then, it dawned on me that women use stunt birds like this to scare away shitty men. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve played Hootie for numerous women. Fuck! They invite me out to sit next to them and scare away douche-boys. I sit there swiveling my head, I don’t get laid, and I don’t even get $18.97 for my services.

In fact, a gorgeous specimen I’ve seen out a few times strolled into my watering hole last night with her owl. She looked awesome as always. He wore a horrible paisley blue button down. She looked at me, smiled, then held his hand. I cried Tito’s tears and stayed away. Worked like a charm. I need to find a way to tell the replica from the real thing. Up to this point, I’m clueless. Guess it’s bird kharma.

Don’t Give Up, Hope

hopehanHan’s lovely wife, Hope Solo (fuck if I know that’s true), got in trouble recently because of her honesty. Seems organizations, unlike people, would rather have their employees lie about their feelings. That’s horse shit. I have no boss, so I can say that without being reprimanded.

Whatever you do, Hope, don’t you dare apologize!

Worsening this is the fact that the “boss” demands an apology. This is doubly doo doo because that apology would be a lie as well. If Hope apologized, she would do it for financial reasons, not because her feelings changed or she agreed that she had done something wrong.

What ever happened to “honesty is the best policy?” My books all have “Nice” in the titles, not because I always say such nice things. No. It’s because I’m being sarcastic. I’m not nice—not in print, not in person. I’m a genuine prick who is learning to unfilter my reactions by being honest with myself and others.

If you don’t like me, that’s unsettling, but not as much so as if you tell me you do like me, regardless of your true feelings. For whatever reason—being nice, concern for my ego, prying ears—you are lying, and I can usually tell. It’s Passive Aggression 101, and that is what should be fucking punished, not honesty.

Sore losers should be sore because they lost. Losing sucks. Losing was not the intention. Losers who are happy, content, and gracious become really good at (guess what?) losing. People who hate losing, get pissed about it, and lash out, tend to work harder to avoid it, thereby becoming winners.

Same shit in the dating world. If I ask a woman out, and she declines, these are the usual reasons:

  • I’m dating someone.
  • I like you as a friend.
  • I’m not ready to be in a relationship.

Dung, Dung, Dung!

The real reasons why she won’t date me include:

  • I’m not attracted to you.
  • You’re too _____ for me. (Feel free to insert any of these: old, short, atheist, fat, promiscuous, desperate, high, cat-loving, or drunk.)
  • I have not yet exhausted all of what I consider to be options superior to you.

Now, if she gives me the corporate answer, what good that does do either one of us? None. It leaves the door open for me, which causes me to become more determined (because women prefer men with determination and confidence). I’ll keep hitting on her repeatedly (quite possibly including picking up tabs that should have been left down). I’ll become “that creepy fucking dude who won’t leave me alone.” I’m pathetic; she’s annoyed; nobody gets laid.

Hope, please, I’m begging you and other fine young specimens to let the corpocratic assholes take your job, but don’t ever let them have your dignity. Fuck ’em in their ears.