Archives for May 2019

Name Game

Italian men are named after their grandfathers. Perhaps if Giuseppi were my given name there’d be less opportunity afforded to the passive-aggressive among me. So, Philip it is.

I had some redneck sit next to me and attempt to strike up a conversation as I was mid-taco, mid-beer. The southern drawl was as charming as ass sweat.

“Hey there, son. I’m Andrew.”

(Son? I’m fifty-fucking-seven.)

“I’m Phil.”

“What brings you to Temecula?”

“Food.”

“Where ya from?”

“Here.”

“Ya whole life?”

“Moved here from Philadelphia.”

“Oh, I get it — Phil from Philadelphia.”

“Get what?”

“Your name.”

“Huh?”

“Phil, like Phil A. Delphia. Ha ha.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name, man. It’s where yer from.”

“Phil? I’m not from Phil. Is there a city around here called Phil? I’m confused.”

“Ah. Never mind. Enjoy your taco.”

Many of my baseball buddies and their women call me Phildo — yes, as in dildo. When I step up to the plate and a catcher or umpire hears it for the first time, they stare at me confused. Or, maybe they get the joke but are concerned that I could turn my 32″ Baum Bat on them if they dare chuckle. Alas, I’m a lover. I grin, nod, and hack away at the next pitch.

When tending bar, I often preemptively strike. I wear a name tag, so I know it’s coming.

“Hi there. I’m Phil as in right now I’m going to Phil up your glass with social lubrication. When you order your next drink, I’ll be re-Phil. Get it?”

Usually, they do. Sometimes I need to remind them I am not Phil T. Rich, so gratuity is highly appreciated. I avoid Phil Laysheo jokes with customers, except the extra-playful ones — like the ones who call me Phil McCraken.

I guess this is why many people wind up taking on nicknames. Let me list a few I have been considering:

  • Qunt. I mean, it’s spelled with a Q, so it works, right?
  • Skeeter. Who wouldn’t love a cousin Skeeter?
  • Sally. Because, Sally. Come on. That’s some funny shit right there. A clever patron will assume it is short for Salvatore. Nay. Salamander.
  • Pi. It would make signing things simpler. I’d tell people I’m Chinese and my father was a mathematician, so he named me after his favorite thing — Fried Cricket Pie.
  • Poopy Nails. Oh, I dare you to ask, patron. I fucking dare you.

I guess it’s all harmless fun. Name play is better than calling me a bald, old fuck with alcohol schnozola.

Things to Do When Bored

Masturbate. Yep. Survey says, “That’s the number one answer.” It’s indisputable, yet this typically takes only a few minutes, right? That’s not combating boredom much. One could argue that women could drag this out longer and, in fact, enjoy multiple orgasms. For men, it’s cleanup and nap time.

Ah, nap time. Sleeping. That’s a great thing to do when bored unless you’re at work. Daytime napping comes with many disturbances, including phones ringing, doorbells, horns, sirens, children, and pets. Any of these can replace your boredom with frustration, leading you to want to day drink.

Drinking! Of course. Crack a bottle, put on some music, and day drink your way to removing all fucks left to give. Heck, you can combine this boredom buster with other fun activities like visiting a ballpark or people watching. Unlike napping, this can be done incognito. Get yourself a road soda and lighten the mood. Get a pint of cola, dump out one-third (or half, if you’re an advanced drunk ass like me), and dump in Kraken rum. Then, head to the mall and stroll around looking at women’s clothing. You’ll be that creepy guy until you inform the lady attendant you’re shopping for wifey. I’ve taken this creepiness to higher levels by asking a worker to try on an outfit since she was my wife’s size. She modeled. I drank and left.

Shopping, in general, is a great boredom killer. Another thing I love doing (I realize I’m about to be banned from every mall) is going to fragrance counters and sampling, oh, everything. This works in those shops that sell soap and candles, too. After sniffing, have some fun.

  • Start sneezing uncontrollably.
  • Say, “Oh my god, does this have peanuts in it? I’m so allergic to peanuts. Fuck, I’m going to have seizures. Get me your EpiPen. Fuck! Hurry! What? You don’t have one?” Then run away.
  • Start crying. Tell the salesperson that the scent reminds you of your dear mother, who passed away last week. Ask for tissues. Blow your nose loudly. Then, buy some.
  • Insist the salesperson tries it first. Insist she sprays it on her elbow so you can smell what it’s like mixed with proper pheromones. Usually, they call security at this point. If not, keep going. Go in for the smell, whack your nose on her elbow, then fall down and writhe in pain.
  • Smell it, moan a bit, and adjust your crotch. Sniff more. Adjust more. Apologize once you see the look of horror. Move on to the next scent as she moves on to the next customer.

The reactions of the salespeople are priceless.

Well, you could always watch TV. Start a new series, perhaps. I started to binge on VEEP. It’s pretty fucking funny, plus only 28 minutes per episode. JLD is a fucking riot — a sexy, hot mess with a potty mouth. I highly recommend.

How about exercising? You could hit the gym, take a jog, or ride a bike. See that? Turn your boredom into fitness. That will improve your health so you can live longer. You’ll have more time for … um … well, more time to get bored again. Fuck. Like, when you jog on a treadmill. This is the most boring activity there is. I don’t care if you have headphones or TVs. Jogging in place is fucking boring and stupid. Don’t do this. Maybe, have a burger?

There ya go. The best thing to do — slightly below beating your meat or flipping your bippy — is to eat. I’m not talking salad, either. Fuck greens. Lawns are for rabbits. Get something with bacon and/or hot sauce. Heck, you can combine several of these activities. Eat wings, drink beer, watch VEEP, and jog home to beat off (after washing your hands), and then take a nap. Problem solved.

Buddy’s Right

I sat on Buddy’s right with the other locals at the usual watering hole last night. We stared at the TV, admired the untouchable bar maidens, and sipped Coors Light. It’s what we do. It has all come down to watching things, drinking things, and wondering how long we can delay death. Buddy got my attention.

“Hey! Let me ask you something.”

“Sure. What?”

“Did you work today?”

“Yep.”

“Where?”

“Behind the bar at the casino.”

“Great. Are you working tomorrow?”

“No. I finally have a day off.”

“Nope. No you don’t. You’re going to work on that fucking book.”

“Jesus.”

“You’re not even halfway done, are you?”

“Maybe one-third.”

“One-Third? What’s the hold-up?”

“I need material, Buddy.”

“Well, look around.”

I guess it’s a form of writer’s block. I mean, I think I could force myself to write about anything, but mostly it would be redundant slop. How do I find something to write about that’s somewhat fresh and significant? Not so easy, is it?

A big part of the problem for me is watching too much morning news. The minute that orange ass-wipe starts blathering, it drains the funny from me. I just need to turn it the fuck off, but there’s no baseball during the mornings here in the west. How about listening to some music? Right. I just slapped on a classical music station and feel quite inspired — to take a nap. Station changed. EDM, motherfuckers.

*Thump. Tsst. Thump. Tsst.*

Now what?

I tap over to Facebook to see what’s happening. Abortion, war, immigrants, Game of Thrones disappointments, gay rat marriage, food, dogs, and silly math quizzes. Oh, you’re a fucking riot, Facebook.

I’m supposed to be writing relationship humor. Maybe if I were IN a relationship … wait … scratch that. It never works. My relationship lasts until she finds and internalizes my prose.

Relationships now (as I’m approaching 60) are horribly frustrating. I meet another Latina, who is breathtakingly stunning. We chat and flirt. For a few minutes there I begin to think I have a shot at this, then the angel on my shoulder reminds me she is two decades behind me. (Here’s where male friends say, “So what?” and female friends say, “Yeah. Don’t be THAT guy.”) On my luckiest day, what could I do for her other than pave her next walk of shame?

See this, Buddy? I’m writing. I’m fucking miserable — pissed at how long I’ve been sans woman — and here I am self-therapizing with self-cockblockery.

Don’t Worry, Be Unhappy

Do you know when a steak tastes best? When it’s the first steak you’ve had in months. If you eat steak every day, it’s just the next steak. When it’s rare and rare (and served with a side of creamy horseradish sauce), it’s fine.

My point is that if you are happy all of the time, you’re not enjoying it. Plus, you’re probably annoying the fuck out of your Facebook friends. It’s not like you need to wallow in misery. Just take some bad with the good.

When I work a four-day stretch, the wine on that fifth day tastes better. Before you break Uncle Philsy’s balls for weeping about a four-day work stretch, keep in mind that those four days include serving sedation in the form of alcoholic beverages to often rude people in an often smoky room. I welcome the misery as muddy puddles I need to walk through to get to my sandy beach.

I’d love to be openly miserable at times, similar to “The Hound” character on Game of Thrones. He gives no fuck, his favorite adjective and noun is “cunt,” and prefers to drink alone. My hero. Well, my hero’s fucking dead now, so that sucks. Back to misery.

Happily married couples are my favorites. He has beer. She has wine. They chat with me about the weather while slipping $20s into the void. Inevitably my marital status comes up.

(By the way, why the hell is it a “marital” status? The natural state of things is single. We all begin that way. It takes all kinds of effort to enter into a marital state. It should be called a relationship status, fuckers.)

But, I digress. When my “status” comes up, my answer is typically, “I’m happily single, thank you.” Shiny happy couples become less happy when hearing my response. They rattle through the reasons for my singleness until I stop them at, “Been there. Done that. I’m just fine.” I mean, I used to mash cake into my face, clip roller skates on my sneakers, and attempt to blow myself. I don’t do those things anymore — certainly not simultaneously. Now, I spray on some cologne and dive into a world of opportunity.

People grow up thinking nice stuff makes them happy. The unhappiest people I know have lots of nice stuff and are stressed beyond words over trying to manage and maintain said stuff. You want to be happy? Have less stuff — except wine. Have lots of fucking wine. Beer, too. I mean, who can have too much tequila? Right? You need lots of that. Oh, and cognac. I like the XO — it’s extra old and best when cold, like me.

There’s no need to surround yourself with unhappy people. That would be depressing. Unhappiness lingers less than depression. Depressed people suck the life out of you. Either find a way to tickle them (shots?) or run away. Unhappy people often wish to vent to happy people. They can’t vent to another unhappy person as they’ll keep trying to one-down the other. If you’re the ventee, beware. Take about ten minutes of that shit, then take a phantom phone call.

So, there. If you’re unhappy, shrug and endure. Happy days are coming, which will be happier if you’re more miserable. Stomp the puddle and get to your beach, bitch.

Feetish

Of all the fetishes I’ve encountered, foot fetish is the one I can’t figure out. Some guys love big boobs. All right. I get it. Boob equals nourishment. What does foot equal? I’ve even stumbled across videos of women doing yanky-crankies using their feet. Isn’t it odd? Are there men into elbows? Do they dream of being yanked by a pair of elbows?

You can tell if someone is into feet by gauging their reaction when you ask them. If they crinkle their nose or shiver — nope. If they smile, look down, appear embarrassed, then deny it — yep. Most women I have asked say they have encountered a man who was into their feet. All men deny being that man.

I’ve never dated a woman who was into my feet. Good thing. My talons are a bit unpleasant. Baseball cleats are unkind to feets, y’all. I mean, I clip my nails and all. It’s not like I walk around clicking. But, there are callouses and hair there. My feet support me. My toes are my balance, not her lollipops.

I did date a woman who was into her man having a waxed bunghole. When I asked her why she responded by sticking out and wiggling her tongue like a snake. My butt puckered at the thought as my ass-clit hid. I had another bourbon and lost her number.

Here’s a fetish: How about food? Lay a picnic blanket on your California king, fetch the bananas, cucumbers, and eggplants (ok, maybe not the eggplants). Toss in bottles of honey, syrup, and whipped cream. Heck, you can add sprinkles, if you fancy that sort of high-carb thing. Imagine the messy fun. Cleanup is easy. Roll up the blanket, take it outside, and shake it into the neighbor’s yard — condiments and condoms.

So, what am I to do if my woman is into her own feet? Maybe she would enjoy the occasional minty, lavender foot rub whilst reclining with a glass of buttery chard. Well, I must comply or be replaced, right? I’ll do what needs to be done. I’ll Mr. Miyagi my hands to warm them up, and thumb the fuck out of her sole.

The things we do for love that we may not love doing.