Walking Away from Angry Boys

angryAngry white boys spoke up and put the angry orange boy in the White House. Nobody likes dealing with angry people, but some of us are required to deal with them in the form of politicians, customers, reviewers, bosses, lovers, and family members. You can’t avoid most of those, but you certainly can remove angry lovers from your life.

The problem is many people don’t realize they have an angry lover. They think it’s normal to deal with fits and rage. Only when you’re dealing with an infant, is it normal. Otherwise, you need to shut that shit down before the mental abuse escalates into physical abuse.

If you’re unsure you’re dealing with an angry boy, allow me to give some examples.

When watching sports, and his team loses:

  • ANGRY – Yell at the TV and throw things.
  • NICE – Shrug and have another buffalo wing.

While driving behind a slow car in the passing lane:

  • ANGRY – Throw up his hands and call the driver names.
  • NICE – Sign, turn on his signal, pass on the right, and ignore the driver.

When unhappy with the food he ordered:

  • ANGRY – Demand to speak with (yell at) the manager or chef, and get a refund.
  • NICE – Don’t eat it. Don’t order it next time.

When he catches you masturbating:

  • ANGRY – Demand to know who you were fantasizing about, and yell, “Gross!”
  • NICE – Offer his assistance.

When you offer navigation suggestions:

  • ANGRY – Insists he knows where he is going and tells you to shut up.
  • NICE – Thanks you and offers to finger bang you, unless the kids are in the back seat.

When a pretty girl walks by:

  • ANGRY – Leers and denies doing so.
  • NICE – Notices, appreciates, and remarks about how beautiful you are.

When he makes a mistake:

  • ANGRY – Reminds you of a mistake you made.
  • NICE – Laughs and blames it on alcohol and age induced brain damage.

I could go on, but I assume you are getting the picture because you are exceptionally insightful. Oh, and I love those jeans. Are they new? My god, your ass is heavenly. Let’s drink wine and watch The Nutcracker. Want to? Ah, you’re the best. What did I do to deserve you? Lucky me. Hey, how about a foot rub? Dang, I love you so much, dear reader. Smooches. (Insert three or four emojis here.)

Sedation or Suicide?

budivMy reaction when people proudly say they’ve quit drinking is, “Good for you. More for me.” Same reaction when they quit gluten and bacon. Look, I’m not saying drinking is good for you—it’s good for me. As long as I don’t drive, pee in a planter, or puke in your cat box, what’s the harm?

Well, yes, my head and liver are reminding me right now. One more cup of coffee and they’ll shut up.

I visit this trendy pub last night. It’s self-service. I hand over my ID and credit card. They give me a wristband with a chip. I grab a glass, head to the taps, scan my chip, and dispense the social lubrication. No nurse (server), no doctor (bartender) to monitor my dosage. I prescribe myself. Pretty girls, flat screens, and 50+ beer syringes—lots of reasons to be thankful.

The monkey wrench comes in the form of Little Miss Yoga Pants. She’s not with me, but she’s within earshot. She’s drinking Kombucha (fermented fruit—like smoking weed without THC). She hasn’t had a drink in six months. She feels wonderful—like a new woman. She’s working out five days a week, and signing up for her first half marathon. She’s a walking Facebook post.

I feel like joining that group and giving them my status update.

“I’ve been drinking since 1979. I can still manage to work and throw baseballs. Alcohol has left a few bruises, but has also added spice to a life less interesting. Cheers, fuckers!”

Pop drank a lot. He overdid it. Guess he passed down that high-performance liver to me. I’d like to think I have my drinking more under control. I don’t have a wife or son to tell me otherwise. On his death bed in a VA hospital, you know what he wanted? A six-pack of Budweiser. You might think that’s sad. No, that’s not sad. What is sad is that I didn’t immediately fetch him that six-pack. He only had a few months to go. What harm would six beers do?

Now, that’s one of my life’s biggest regrets. Sorry, Pop.

My point is, we aren’t drinking alcohol to slowly commit suicide. We’re drinking to make the good a little better and the bad more bearable. We know it’s poison, but it’s not killing us. Life is killing us.

I don’t think it’s worth quitting. Heck, we’d just replace the booze with something else—hobbies, pets, or church. Nah. Drink up. Crush a maraschino into a fine bourbon. Sip. Now, tell me that isn’t heavenly.

Your Comfort Human

comfortEvery news channel is showing crowded airports. ’Tis the season to wait in lines. The new addition this year is this ridiculous thing called “The Comfort Dog.” Yes, this partly because I’m a cat man and partly because anything other than a comfort panda is just plain silly. Are these tiny, wet-nosed, black-gummed, gooey-eyed face lickers supposed to distract us from the fact that we’re about to fly 500 MPH in an aluminum tube crammed with human sardines?

I suppose.

I asked my cat, Symon, if he wanted to give back to the community by volunteering to be an airport comfort cat.

“Oh, you’re a hoot.”

“No, seriously. I can throw a leash on you and take you to the Southwest terminal. Think of all the yoga pants you could shed upon.”

“Dude. I’m a fucking cat. Let’s read from this handy dandy cat manual. Hm. Page three, paragraph two: ‘Cats don’t do car rides. Cats don’t play fetch. And, most of all, cats don’t like crowds of smelly humans.’”

“So, that sounds like a no.”

“It’s a fuck no. You go do it. Go be a comfort human. Just leave an open can of tuna and your pride behind.”

Never liked him much, that Symon.

Then again, perhaps, comfort human isn’t inconceivable. Isn’t that the role clowns play? They dress silly and lighten the mood. Heck, I could do that without the wig, makeup, spotted outfit, and bike horn. I could just be wacky me and strike up pleasant conversations with tourists.

“Hi, there. I’m Phil, the comfort human. Let’s chat. Can I sit on your lap? It works better this way.”

“Ew. No. Down, boy!”

“Fine. Say, can I have one of those pretzel bites? I’m starving.”


“All right. So, where you headed? Home for the holidays? Turkey time?”

“Seattle. Yes, meeting family.”

“Got any racist uncles?”

“Um, no.”

“How about slutty cousins?”


“How boring. Here’s an idea. Blow off that boring tradition. Let’s find a local dive and overdose on bourbon and tater tots.”

“No. Bad human. Shoo.”

All Right, I Need to be Nicer

manappI began driving for Uber to get me out of the house, meet people, and make funds much needed to upgrade from propane-tasting vodka to something better. I’ve been avoiding the 2am drunk-ass rides for obvious reasons, so I’m happy to report most of my riders are quite nice. In fact, I picked up a woman yesterday who needed a lift to LAX. That’s a 90-mile ride. Conversation ensued. Naturally, she asked what else I do for money.

“I write humorous books about dating and relationships.”

“Oh. Let me look you up.”

“Naw. Here’s a book. I keep them in my glove box, just in case. I must warn you: There are dirty words and sarcasm inside.”

She opened the book and began reading. I was horrified. You’d think a somewhat narcissistic prick like me would be apathetic about her reaction. Yet, I kept glancing in my rearview anxiously awaiting smiles and chuckles. There were none. Her reaction was like I had just laid a tritonal hardboiled egg fart and rolled up the windows.

“I don’t believe this is you. You seem so nice in person.”

Ah, the irony of it all. I explained that the “nice guy” thing was my volley of sarcasm. I defended my honor by assuring her about my niceness. There were twenty miles to go. I couldn’t have her diving out of a moving vehicle.

“Sorry. Just my attempt at humor on those pages.”

“Are you single?”


“Don’t you want a girlfriend?”

“Double duh.”

“Then, why would you write things to scare women away?”


There was no defending it. Nothing I could say would make her believe Ms. Right-For-Me would become dewy over my prose. After many frustrations, I have learned that we can’t change taste and preference; We can only respect a person’s right to have them.

This is a lovely woman, married 20+ years, with six children. She loves her husband and children, and can’t begin to fathom a love search through my eyes. She’s not my audience. I should know better.

Or, maybe she’s right. Maybe I should be nicer. I should tame my frustrations, control my anger, and put out a kinder, gentler version of myself to attract the love life people say I deserve. Sure, that would be somewhat disingenuous, but it would certainly make the dating forest more fertile.

Let me try: “Hi. I’m Phil. You’re adorable. I’m ready for love. Give me a chance. I’ll cherish you eternally.”

Ick. Fucking ick.

Stop Sleeping with Powerful Men

powerYes, I’m talking to you, sexy ladies. You criticize men for being shallow when selecting mates. We are, absolutely. In fact, we can’t override our instincts with logic when sex is involved. Guilty. But, as immature as we are, men rarely sleep with a woman based on her social standing or perception thereof. I can’t get my dick hard for an unattractive billionaire, CEO, or mayor. Not possible.

Am I wrong? Have you ever slept with a man you did not consider sufficiently attractive when you first met him to straddle his privates? He talked your jeans off. His watch, clothes, car, home, or job title popped button after button until you found yourself on your back trying to justify it in your mind while the slug breathed heavily on your neck.

You created our president elect.

Some will see this as a jealous rant by a dirty old man who is losing his grip on sexy young things. Fair enough. Like I said, my biology sends me toward the healthiest mate to spread my genes. It’s natural—ewy, at times, but natural. Just like it is also natural for women to seek the best provider and protector. The problem is, whereas my nature may create some embarrassed ladies with low self-esteem and daddy issues, your nature just elevated someone who is expressly and absolutely against most of your interests into the ultimate position of power.

That really sucks. If you don’t realize it yet, you will.

Take Cheeto Mussolini’s wife. If she were single, visiting the states, and the bartender was a seventy-year-old blowhard with a horrible comb over and spray tan, what are the chances she would hook up with him? Um, fucking zero. No chance, no way, no how. If she so much as flirted with him, her besties would pull her away from the bar, slap some sense into her, and force her to drink lattes until she sobered up.

Come on, ladies, you worked so hard to get closer to equal footing with man-apes. Are you ready to roll back all that progress for a beast bearing gifts? Please tell me otherwise.

If you voted for Trump, you made a mistake. It’s like when you slept with your friend’s father who was twenty years older with a gray, hairy back and tube socks in leather mandals. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe you were mad at someone, drunk, high, or feeling vulnerable because Sean left you for that slut five years younger than you. Whatever the reason, you did it, and you regret it. Well, regret is not enough. You sold your soul to the tangerine tiny-handed crypt keeper. Now, you had better buy your soul back or get used to pussy grabbin’.

“How do we repent?” you ask. Look, if I sleep with a woman who shouldn’t have slept with me, I shrug it off proudly. Her lack of taste hurts me and my brothers not. I may even shine my nails on my chest and boast to the swine about my concubine. You, ladies, need to own it as well. Admit to yourself and your friends (fuck, post it on Facebook) that you mistakenly marginalized yourself due to your genetic attraction toward power. Then, vow to fight that urge and unfuck us all before powerful men grow stronger and hasten the apocalypse.

How to Grab a Man by His Junk*

grabbananaSince our president-elect has mastered the art of grabbing a woman by her pussy, I thought it would be only fair for me to provide some guidance around grabbing men. Lord knows, it should be much easier. I mean, it’s kind of just hanging there like a handle. It screams, “Pull me!” Heck, I bet most people could do it blindfolded.

To be fair, the art of grabbing a penis if often affected by the elements. I’ll be sure to cover each in depth below. These usually don’t apply to pussy grabbing. Consider grabbing a penis in a walk-in freezer. That little fucker (tee hee) will require precise maneuvers. Conversely, a pussy doesn’t shrink in cold weather, does it? Nope. The method remains like the bowling ball grip: Thumb up, middle and ring fingers curled, pinky and index fingers extended. Thumb extension helps prevent accidentally poking the anus. The extended fingers act like the walls of a bobsled course, keeping you centered.

Enough about the obvious. Let’s learn how to grab a penis, shall we?

First, in cold weather, it is best to approach pimple penis as you would a zipper tab. Or, think about how you’d tweak a nipple. Curl your thumb and index finger, space them one inch, extend arm toward crotch, grab, and yank gently. Repeat until other fingers become necessary. If they don’t, giggle, Purell your hand, and leave.

If the target penis is beneath tight jeans, this will require some reconnaissance. You must determine if the shlong is dangling left or right of the seam. If it’s dark just assume it’s right (which is your left, silly). Best to make eye contact with the penis carrier to keep him distracted. Ask him a jock-wannabe question, such as, “Hey, is Connor McGregor the top pound-for-pound fighter of all time?” This penis, since constricted, requires a full open-handed approach. Cup the crotch like a grapefruit, squeeze gently to confirm the angle of the dangle, then grab firmly. Best not to yank. I suggest rubbing. Yanking may cause beer spillage.

For sneak attacks (oh, these are my favorite), it is best to approach from behind. Let’s say you’re at the gym. This an ideal place for cock-grabbery. Find an ape wearing shorts who is standing at a machine full of cables. Once he begins his exercise, make your approach. The thing to keep in mind here is that his stanky ass and balls are in the way. That means you’ll need to use more arm and wrist action. I find it best to drop to a knee behind him (a la the Kaepernick douche stance). Use the same arm as the knee that’s down, extend inside his knee, and curl upwards. Try to align your wrist with his oniony testes. That should place your palm mid-sausage.

Finally, how does one grab a sleeping penis? This must be done gently and, unless you’re wearing a helmet and facemask, I recommend this also be done from behind. This will be an around-the-torso maneuver as opposed to the tween-legger. Tilt your head down in case he jerks his head back to avoid breaking your nose. Lift the sheets. Steady yourself then snake your arm around him, hovering around six inches above his hip. Extend fingers at the top of his boxers. Slide your hand through his waistband, and you go get that love snake, girly! Mm, hmm.

*Disclaimer: Don’t do this to children or Republicans.

Beginners Guide to Dating

morningafterMet a lovely specimen Saturday who recently booted her spouse of twenty years. Instead of eagerly anticipating a new sex toy attached to a less complacent man, she seemed frightened. Where would she meet men? At bars? Should she join a dating site? Get another dog?

As a wily veteran who was once in her stilettos (figuratively … except than one Halloween I purged from my memory), I offered a few tips.

“You need to learn phrases you’re going to hear from men penetrating you, and their true meaning.”


“Indeed. Also, you’ll need to memorize a few phrases you’ll need to deploy.”

“Such as?”

“Say, for instance, you meet a handsome fellow who causes a tingle in your taco. You decide, against better judgement, to bang him on date uno. If the sex is pedestrian, thank him and call Uber. If it was spectacular, you probably would like to do it again, so you need to soothe his slut-shaming mind.”


“Simple. Say, ‘Oh my god, I don’t know what came over me. I never do this. There’s something about you. I’m so embarrassed.’ Then pull the sheets up to your chin.”

“That works?”

“Like a charm.”

I’ve heard that feigned-innocence line enough times to have developed a few responses of my own. If the sex was awful, I smile, pat her on the head, fetch a towel, retrieve her chonies, and show her to the door. If it was noteworthy, my response would be one of the following:

  • I know. We must have some ridiculous chemistry going on.
  • Me neither. Jesus. I’m so sorry. Fuck! You’re so sexy, I can’t help myself.
  • Hey, just think about all the idle chatter we avoided. This is something special we have here.
  • My heart is racing. God, I needed that. Been so long since I’ve had that feeling. Why are you so cute?
  • The minute I met you I could tell there was a flow between us. Now, I know it’s real. I hope you still respect me in the morning.

Those of you like me who have volleyed numerous post-coital lines may have felt a little verklempt when reading the above. Well, my love-cynical freaks, we must consider the little people. Those who are new to chasing three beers and two tequila shots with one vagina or penis can find great solace in the above. One heart unbroken makes it all worthwhile.


How Should I Treat You?

dogWhen you reward behavior, you encourage it. This applies to dogs and humans. Pop offered me $5 for each “A” on my report card, so I worked hard to get them. I was told to honor, respect, and be kind to others regardless of their gender, skin color, or favorite football team. Excluding Dallas Cowboy fans, I’ve done my best, and received such fine reactions as, “Well, thank you for holding the door. You’re a fine young gentleman.”

So, how does my next lover want to be treated?

I don’t want to turn this into a political statement. (Save that for Facebook.) Yet, I watched and listened to ten years of Trump bashing women and immigrants. Was he punished to discourage this? Well, let’s see: He has a hot, young wife, he went bankrupt numerous times and was forgiven, he called his opponents names, made false accusations, and said he likes to grab women by the pussy … and we just elected him president.

Wait … what?

Saying and doing the things he has done is fine in the context of entertainment and comedy. I admit that I’m a dickhead, but I’m kidding, and I’m not running for president. But, we just rewarded his behavior in the most profound way. When I say “we,” I’m not just referring to uneducated white redneck men. The very people he maligned voted for him as well. Fuck, Hillary may have voted for him. Sounds crazy? Shit, I’ve heard plenty of women defend their abusers.

I’m confused. It’s as if I were managing a group of women, and treated them Trump-like. Daily activities would include:

  • I pay them handsomely.
  • I set up my office in their restroom.
  • I slap their asses twice a day.
  • When they’re caught not giving me sufficient praise, I call them liars and suggest they be shot.

For this, I would receive their loyalty.

Come on. Help a brother out here. I’m going on another first date tonight. This suggests my previous first dates were failures. So, what am I doing wrong? I shower, dress nicely, wear cologne, arrive early, compliment her, ask her questions about her, listen, ignore my phone, pay the tab, escort her out walking behind her, hold the door, give her a respectful hug, ask when I can see her again, and confirm she got home safely.

I must have it all wrong.

Perhaps, I should try the president-elect approach. I go straight from the gym, arrive late, ask to see her tits, tell her about my stock portfolio, interrupt her, pinch her ass, call my buddies and brag about how I’m about to bang this bar slut, tell her I forgot my wallet, tell her I’ll meet her in the parking lot after I take a dump, hit on another bar patron on my way out, meet my date at her car and shove my hand down her pants, tell her she had better fuck me tonight, or I’m not answering any texts, screw her in the backseat of her car, come in her hair, and leave.

Then, I expect her to blog about how wonderful I am.

Finding Love Was Easy

findingloveYou join a social gathering. Scan the room. Eyes meet eyes. Smile meets smile. Eyes check left ring fingers. Then, all it took was an approach and, “Hey, you’re cute. My name is Phil. Let’s have drink sometime. Want to? What’s your number?”

Bam. Done.

Now, I’m forced to scan prospects on this horrible electronic appendage: my Samsung Galaxy. Tap, swipe up, tap, zoom, tap, squint, read, decipher, swipe right or left, repeat until frazzled, order drink, and wait.

Then, once a connection is made, it’s time for back and forth messages. Since there’s no actual face-to-face involved, my body language interpretation skills—honed over two million years by my ancestors—are worthless. I need to read into her words to determine what emotional and time investment will be required before connection.

Also, in the oldern days, it was easy to determine danger levels. Is there a big fella next to her with his hand on her ass? Yep. Avoid. Are there physical signs of tainted goods? Perhaps. Evade. Are there snarky friends, overbearing parents, or smelly infants/pets close by? Uh-huh. Run away!

Today, I need to do electronic surveillance to find signs of danger. Scan social media. Google. Search for common friends. Run health, credit, and background checks. (I don’t do that ridiculous shit, but have had ladies put me through it.) Ask my buddies if they ever had some of her and, if they did, was it worthwhile, am I violating any bro codes by pursuing her. Then, I must determine if these “friends” are being honest or setting me up for failure.

A few rounds of this, and I’m scanning Amazon Fire TV for the next series to binge watch solo. I just can’t take it. Don’t have the drive I used to have. Is that caused by dwindling testosterone? Is it fear of heartbreak? Is it laziness?

Fuck, if I know.

The latest prospects have me sending Bitmoji messages and using this new video app called Marco Polo. What have I become? I loathe the millennial I see in the crosswalk with his dislocated neck staring at his phone without any regard for the two-ton machine bearing down on him, but I am becoming him.

If I set my phone facedown at the bar, within minutes it will blink, buzz, and ding. It calls me to pay attention to it instead of the human in the sexy Cat Woman costume right next to me. Rude fucker.

Times like these make me wonder why I ever left my marriage. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but whose is? She was kind and beautiful, and she liked me … enough. I didn’t need to find something better. Now, I’d be thrilled to find something half as good. But, I’m not going to. This isn’t stemming from depression or lack of confidence. It’s reality. In this new electronic realm, it’s high unlikely any satisfactory, lasting emotional and physical connection will come from an electronic connection.

So, I think alone.

Excuses For Being Single

conditionThere are many reasons why one would choose single life, but since we’re genetically shoved toward mating, I guess they’re technically excuses. There’s a difference. If you don’t do your homework, your excuse could be “the dog ate it” but the reason is you found something you’d rather do.

So, allow me to examine the top implications.

“Why are you single?”


  • Man: I can’t afford a girlfriend. Woman: I can’t afford another messy pet.
  • I’m not over my ex.
  • I’m too lazy to do all the swiping and messaging required nowadays.


  • I’m quite content, even happy to be on my own.
  • Men/Women suck.
  • I don’t have time.

“You haven’t been in any long-term relationships recently.”

(I usually ask for qualification here with, “Define ‘long-term’ and ‘recently.’” They both tend to be the duration and time since her last boyfriend. The best answer here is, “Have so,” but that rarely prevents further questioning.)


  • I keep looking for something better.
  • I’m too set in my ways (read: selfish).
  • I don’t date the girlfriend type—more the on-her-back-frequently type.


  • I just haven’t met the right one yet.
  • I don’t want to waste someone’s time. If it isn’t working, I set her free.
  • I have poor taste in women.

“Why don’t you consider women who are older, religious, or with young children or dogs?”


  • Because I don’t have to. I see older guys with hot young women, and it gives me hope.
  • Stress sucks.
  • Nature forces me toward women with full egg sacks, even though I’m fixed.


  • I do. Those women typically don’t consider me.
  • They’re all taken.
  • I’m allergic.

The best excuse to give to all the above is, “I have a condition, and I can’t talk about it.” That ends all inquisitions, and creates peace. Peace is good.

Locker Room Talk

lockerI’m in a locker room almost daily (should be daily, but I’m old and uninspired). You know what sort of discussions I hear in the locker room? None. Crickets. We’re either in there to store or retrieve our stuff. Sure, some fellas are brave enough to shower, shave, or blow dry their genitals. Most? Nothing. Not a word.

If a man started bragging about groping Miss So-and-So, or commented on the impeccable buttocks of Miss Such-and-Such, most of us would ignore him and hasten our exits. We wouldn’t ask for more details. We wouldn’t chest bump him.

Now, whereas most male locker rooms are silent, baseball dugouts are not. Coaches and players are not covering their mouths to prevent their opponents from stealing their strategies. They’re doing it so the audience doesn’t read their lips and discover something unhero-like. Most of what is said “behind the glove” is less misogynist and more game-related. Things like:

  • “How could you walk that numb nuts?”
  • “We have a frying pan playing second base. Make sure you pitch inside.”
  • “How’d we get stuck with Stevie Wonder behind the dish?”
  • “This guy says you don’t throw hard enough to hurt him.”
  • “Any chance you can mix in a few strikes before my sunscreen wears off?”

Yes, there’s the occasional female-related comment. It’s usually about a fan, and qualified:

“Which one of you dickheads am I going to offend when I comment on your granddaughter’s inability to keep her legs closed?”

I’m not claiming that all comments are harmless. Sure, some guys take it too far. But, usually, the comments about women involve flattery or fantasy (from our standpoint, not hers, unless she’s a certain kind of woman in a certain kind position). The important distinction is that our locker room talk at its worst is about things we’d like to do to her, whereas a certain tangerine-colored douche canoe who happens to be running for president describes things he has done. Deeds are far more destructive than words, are they not?

Ladies, just to keep you informed, these are things my fellow swine and I say we’d like to do to you. Again, there are circumstances in which you’d find these less offensive:

  • “Play Slinky with your fun bags.”
  • “Take you to pound town.”
  • “Sit on our faces and sing Beatles tunes.”
  • “Bounce quarters or eat sushi off your butt.”
  • “Suck on your big toe.” (This one bothers me, probably more than you. WTF? Why The Foot?)

Things we don’t say involve marriage, parenting, or gifting. Ah, but, you can use your imagination. Add your own subtitles. Or, continue to live with the fact that you’re stuck with immature perverted drunks as mating options.

You’re the Average of Three

threemenEver hear the claim that we are the average of the three people we hang out most with? Usually, it refers to financial status. Hang with three filthy rich people and some of that dirt will coat you. Unsure I buy into that. It’s more likely to be a symptom instead of the cause. If you’re rich, you typically hang in social circles with rich people, right?

I hang with drunks, baseball players, and cats. Average those three and, yep, you got me. Well, I don’t lick myself and sleep in the sun. Still, like my three closest friends, I’m a drunk with a baseball problem. Sure, I consider the benefits of ordering a cobb salad and unsweetened iced tea after a game. Yet, I’m not up for wearing a bully bullseye.

Do you see yourself in others?

I watch a buddy drink himself silly and applaud myself for not being in his shoes. Yet, I’m probably too drunk to realize I am. Then, I get paranoid about how friends and mates see me. Am I someone’s obnoxious drunk buddy?

Three guys my age strolled into the bar and sat in front of my last weekend. I was a party of one, as usual.  I could tell the three were around my age (double nickel), and all I could see in each were parts of me I despise. There must be some clinical term for this that, when eventually diagnosed, will open a wonderful new world of sedation options.

All three, in my eyes, were trying too hard. One had obviously died hair, intentionally messed. I couldn’t stop wondering why he wouldn’t dye his eyebrows to match. Another wore a fashionable T-shirt one size too tight. He looked like a potato sack. His bare arms featured lunch lady triceps and enough elbow folds to store his credit cards. Man three had tight jeans, a sweater tied around his neck, and thick framed glasses.

They all flirted embarrassingly with the servers, then stared creepily at the youthful butts as the ladies fetched their craft beer. Then there was the typical boy-what-I-would-do-to-her comments that made me wish one of these ladies would pivot and remind them the closest they’d ever get would be masturbation fantasy.

Yet, these women are not servants; they are wise manipulators of men who deserve to be exploited.

I was disgusted. Still, I’ve done all of those things. Is this Nature slapping me? Should I clear my closet and force myself to avoid objectifying women as gene replicators? Perhaps. Should I stop calling serves and bartenders pet names like “lovely,” “beautiful,” and “cuteness?” Yeah, probably should. They’re better than “ma’am” and “miss,” right? How about “kitten?” I know—fuck, no.

These fellas were likely similarly disgusted by yours truly—dirty old lonely man at a bar.

“Look at him. Pathetic. He’s probably married, and the wife kicked him out. Or, he’s stinky—hasn’t learned the fine art of modern male grooming. He looks desperate. Who wears printed shirts? Ew. He thinks he’s cool drinking bourbon. That reminds chicks of their grandfathers. Bet that watch is a knock off, too. Poor old sap.”

Yep. That’s me. Now, leave me be.

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.”