Archives for April 2019


I’m tending bar at the pool yesterday. A couple (mid-60s) is sitting at a table nearby. She calls me over.

“Excuse me.”


“Is that a roach there?”

She’s horrified while pointing to something brown on the ground. Now, my eyes suck. No denying it. But, I could easily tell it was not a roach. My first instinct was to pick it up and eat it. Then, I thought, “Well, fuck, it could be a bug.” I began considering how to recover if it were, in fact, a bug. We’re outside. Bugs are outside. There’s no fucking dome over the pool.

I squatted down to inspect it.

“No, ma’am. It’s a piece of bark.”

I picked it up to show them. Her husband just smirked.

“Ew. OK. Right.”

“Honest. It’s bark.”

“Well, give it to him.”

I handed the piece of bark to her husband. He looked at it, looked at me, then tossed it down her top. This made my week. Actually, her reaction made my week. She screamed, jumped up, and pulled at her top until it dropped out.

I know it’s kind of fucked up of me being amused by the terror of another. Yet, if someone overreacts to something, they are opening themselves up to being the target of pointing and laughing.

Her husband is my hero in that I could see a part of me in him. I was a mischievous little prick. In fact, I still am. I recall eating M&Ms on the sofa next to my wife years ago. She made some comment I can’t remember that kicked in my prickery. It didn’t take long for the brilliant idea of what best to do with an M&M crossed my mind. I sprung to action. I took an M&M between my right thumb and forefinger, then inserted it into her left nostril like she were a vending machine. She happened to be inhaling at the very moment, which sent the M&M deep into her nasal cavity.

Now, a good husband would spring to action by helping her dislodge it, then apologizing and offering reparations in the form of a foot rub. I was not a good husband. I was and still am a joker.

All I could do is practically wet my britches while rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. She eventually blew it out and threw it at me. Then she kicked me. My ribs ached — not from the kick — from my laughter.

I’m sorry. I’m just a horrible, immature dickhead most of the time. At least life with the joker is less bland.


Let me begin by apologizing to any women who have felt discomfort by my actions. Sure, that includes my writing. Think of my silliness as a tickle — I’m trying to make you smile, not hurt you. If it hurts, either tell me or leave me. If it tickles, stick around till it hurts.

I understand and appreciate the #MeToo movement. My suggestion is to be careful of swinging that pendulum too far away. I’ve already modified my behavior to the point where it has become unattractive timidity with some women. I’m not saying I used to go around slapping women on the ass, wishing them a happy Monday. Though, now I find myself offering at best a fist tap … a fucking fist tap. Soon, I’ll be saluting and, eventually, bowing.

When on dates, I used to find it effective to show affection as a sign of interest. I’d gently place a hand on her shoulder, touch her knee, or even do the unthinkable — move a strand of hair that’s stuck to her lip gloss. When I have deployed such strategies, they seemed to have the intended results. Perhaps, I should be checking the blogs of exes to be sure.

Another modification I have made is announcing my intentions just before the end of the first date. I pull out a note card and read my prepared statement:

“Thank you for a wonderful evening. I appreciate your consideration of my application for the position of boyfriend. At this point, with your permission, I’d like to escort you to your car. Once there, I will attempt to hug you (without grinding my privates into you) and, again with your expressed written consent, I would like to plant a gentle kiss on your right cheek with no tongue or saliva of any sort. I promise I will not smudge any makeup, presuming there is makeup at the location of the peck, nor will that kiss linger beyond one second, nor will it migrate to any other part of your body. I, also, will not grab your hair, nor place my hands on both sides of your face to steady the target, as some may find that controlling. After delivering the peck, I shall open your drivers-side door, wish you a safe trip home, close the door (being careful not to pinch your ankle or dress), and wave bye-bye. Exactly fifteen minutes later I will send you a text message again offering my appreciation. This text will NOT include a picture of my penis. I promise. He’s lovely but quite camera-shy. Again, I apologize if that is too much information. I just want you to safely open the text without a cringing face. Shall we?”

Typically, this statement of terms and conditions results in no date number two, so what’s a man supposed to do?

“Oh, shut up and just tell me how hard you’re going to fuck me.”

“Wait. What?”

“I’m not looking for a nice guy. Take me back to your place. Open a bottle of red, and go down on me until I scream.”


“Jesus Christ. Why is it so hard to understand? I love affection and having orgasms as much as you do. This banter is all bullshit. Yank down my panties. Bite my earlobe. Flip me over and have your way.”

“You do know it is April second, not April first, right?”

“For fuck’s sake, man. I have enough pansy-assed gentlemen in my life. I want a man to grab, suck, and fuck me — not at work — at your place, right now. I don’t need candles. I don’t need smooth jazz. I just need you to find my clit and make my day.”