Please stop kicking him in the privates.

edGrowing up a late-blooming runt, a fellow hobbit let me in on how to win a fight with a giant: “Poke him in the eye, or kick him in the balls, and run.” Seems like a decent strategy, until you realize you can only run so far, for so long. Eventually, you will encounter a very angry giant, who is likely to do more than deliver a wedgie.

This carries into adult life, as I hear jilted women use a similar strategy–verbally. First, call him names, then kick him in the pee pee.

“The douchebag had the nerve to hang all over this whore with big, fake tits right in front of me.”

“You poor thing. You broke up with him, right?”

“Of course. And, you know what?”

“What?” he said, fully expecting the arrival of a ball-shot.

“He has a tiny, flaccid penis.”

“Oh, my.”

“Seriously. He could barely get it hard and, when he did, he lasted like one minute.”

“Well, that could be a tribute to you … the second part.”

“No, he has issues. God, I dreaded having sex with him. He was awful.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you can’t. His dick was like pinky-sized, and limp as an overcooked noodle. You know? You’d think he’d learn how to eat pussy or something to make up for it. Nope. He eats pussy like a bird. Piss me off. Well, I hope Miss Big-Titty-Barbie is happy with old thimble cock.”

“So, she kind of did you a favor, I suppose.”

“She sure did. What an asshole. I can’t believe I dated him. There’s definitely a fucking ED epidemic. He’s not the first one to have that problem. Christ.”

“Really? I can’t imagine.” – Yes, I can.

“Guys supposedly always think about and always want sex. You’d think they’d learn how to get their damn dicks hard.”

“Isn’t that partially your responsibility?”

“Do you masturbate?”

“Fine. Unpause rant.”

“If you had a problem getting your dick hard, wouldn’t you go get drugs?”

“Um …”

“I mean, if all you can think about is squeezing big, fake titties while having sex with some young bimbo, doesn’t that suggest that you’ll need a hard penis?”

“Right, but I …”

“So, be a man, see a doctor, or send twenty dollars to a Canadian pharmacy for fuck’s sake. Literally. For fuck’s sake!”

“But, I … has someone told you I can’t …”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not talking about you. I have no idea if your dick works or not. I’m just saying his dick sucked, and I’ve been with other men who couldn’t stuff a flour taco shell.”

“Thank God for that–the my penis part. Heck, mine is like a fucking re-bar spike when I get wound up. I could re-bore eighteen holes at Augusta, and still have enough turgidity to bruise your internal organs.”

“Calm down there, Spike.”


I’ve just broke up with my cross-eyed girlfriend. Seems she was seeing someone else.

Driving Me Crazy(quote by Anonymous)

Since I’ve been called a serial monogamist, serial dater, and an insensitive asshole, I’ve realized I am highly qualified to present an official guide to breaking up. When things begin to sour–you can identify this moment by realizing you’re cringing during intimacy–it will be time to Google this fine blog to find a decent reason to present to the breakee. If all else fails, you can go with old faithful: “I’m just not feeling it.” Personally, I’d rather hear something along the lines of, “I got back together with my ex.” Still, they both are superior to “I’d rather hump a carrot.”

Be careful when there are feelings involved, people. Not every person you meet is as desensitized as yours truly.

I’m not good at mourning, so sue me. I get over it, make myself a tall latte, and continue ironing. The dating pond never dries up. I simply re-bait the hook and toss it back. I hope to avoid the sneers from those with my hook-puncture wounds, but it’s inevitable. Ironically, when the ex trashes me to her friends, it usually makes them curious, thinking they could tame the beast.

So, if you’re looking for the exits, and the person you’re leaving isn’t an insensitive twat, try some creative angles. It helps to begin the exit sentence with a compliment. Begin with “You’re [insert lie], but …” and use one of the following lies to avoid burning a bridge (aka make-up sex opportunity):

  1. Awesome
  2. Kind
  3. Sweet
  4. Great
  5. Nice

Now that you have lit the way to the exit, it’s time for a little shove.

  1. I’m just not ready to be in a serious relationship.
  2. I’ve got too much going on in my life.
  3. There are some things I need to devote my attention to before I’ll be ready to date again.
  4. There’s drama going on right now in my [family/career] that I need to address.
  5. It seems there’s something missing between us, and I don’t want to waste your time or mine.

There. That should avoid any massive face leakage.

Now, if, by chance, this person has mistreated you to the point where it’s absolutely impossible to envision yourself ever mounted again, don’t burn that bridge–blow it up.

  1. I don’t know what I was thinking when I gave you my number.
  2. Look, I’m saving you substantial lawyers fees and a severe beating from my father.
  3. Now I know why you were single when we met.
  4. Have you considered therapy? You should. And, while you’re at it, see if you can find a drug to cure that awful orgasm face you make.
  5. Remember that puppy you were considering right before we met? Get two.

It doesn’t matter how subtle or blatant you are, actually. The dumpee will realize you’re either lying or prickish. Shrug and walk away. There will always be other options. Soon, you’ll be able to build your own mates with 3D printers. Avoid using saran wrap, or they’ll be too clingy.

Whatever. We are always getting back together.

Oh, Taylor, what do you know? You’re what? 22? Whatever.

You talk tough to your friends, who tell my friends, who don’t buy it because my phone rattles off the bar at midnight, most nights. Face it–you’re addicted to my penis (I’ll keep that between us).

That’s mostly because, unlike your two-pump-chump ex, I have taken the time to explore you more. I found that special place that makes you cream and scream.

But, don’t be discouraged, because there are more men like me. You’ll see. Heck, maybe you’ll find your spot alone and have no use for my bone.

You can’t admit to the shit we tried–so good, you cried. When asked why so red, you lied. I have you sexually fried.

So, sing away your addiction. Go have your fun. You can’t deny I’m the one. Tick, tick, tick. Call me–your sexual 9-1-1.

Loving you again real soon … like for-EVER,



How to handle rejection from someone you rejected.

We’ve all been in that awkward position of beginning a difficult conversation, only to be preempted. You’ve gone on a hand full of dates with someone you found more attractive before the dates. This person has managed to lose points more quickly than a stoned gymnast. You discuss your break-up plan with your bestie, and you practice delivering the news gently. You decide to do it in a public venue to prevent someone from losing it.

“Hey, John, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“You know, you’re a fine woman, I just don’t feel like this is going anywhere.”


“Please don’t be upset. You’re wonderful. I think the chemistry is off.”

“But, I was going to break up with you.”

“Ah, I see. Hey, whatever makes you feel better. Let’s stay friends, OK?”


“Don’t be like that.”

I had something similar happen last night. A woman I see out regularly–whom I have considered an acquaintance, which would never grow into anything but–said she wouldn’t go out with me because she doesn’t find me attractive. I never asked her out and had no intention. Her friend made the suggestion and, before I could remove the beer spout from my lips, suggestee slapped with with a five-point-five for my floor routine. Bitch.

At this point, I could have said, “Well, truth be told, I’m not attracted to you either, so it doesn’t matter if you’re attracted to me.” That would be accurate, but cruel, right? I set aside my dick-cap and played nice.

“Aw, and we were getting along so famously.”

“I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You can’t be offended because you don’t match my taste in men.”

“And you don’t get to decide what offends me.”

“Look, you’re very handsome.”

“Don’t even try to backpedal. It’s fine.”

“Are you saying you’re attracted to me?”

“No, I’m not saying that.”

“You’re not attracted to me?”

“If I were attracted to you, I probably would have asked you out by now.”

“Not if you thought I wasn’t attracted to you.”

“My attraction to people is not determined by their attraction to me. For example, I’m highly attracted to that lovely server over there. I’m also confident that she is not attracted to me, and that’s sad, but OK. Now, if she’s unattractive, it matters less because I don’t respect her opinion.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Is not. It’s logical.”

“So, you only respect the opinion of attractive people?”

“In regards to my attractiveness, yes.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. You’re not attracted to me, right?”


“Well, then the fact that even after a three-month drought, four shots of Cuervo, and dim lighting I couldn’t get my dick hard for you shouldn’t matter.”



How long after a breakup must you wait?

Is there a certain resting period required after a relationship ends? Are we like microwaved food, dough, or wet paint? I think not. If your man gives you the heave-ho, you’re free to go, Sugartoe. The minute you receive that icy message–“I think we should see other people”–consider yourself released and free to entertain other options.

Men have foolish pride, so it rarely works out that way. Clyde gives Bonnie back the keys to her vulva hoping she doesn’t hand them to Mr. Next too soon. That’s nonsense. If Clyde can’t commit, she can and should begin healing immediately, and if such healing requires the touch of another man (or woman), it’s her right to solicit such.

Ah, but friends complicate matters further. One day after Clyde tells his buddy, Jackson, that he’s cut bait, Jackson runs into Bonnie looking better than ever with a new suitor in tow. Jackson fancies himself a New Age Columbo, as he fires up the photo app and sends incriminating (?) photos to Clyde.

“Check it out, dude: Bonnie is already with another guy.”
“That fucking whore!”
“I know. Man, I’m sorry. She’s heartless.”
“I bet she was banging that guy all along. That’s why we were having so many issues.”
“No doubt. But, wait, you broke up with her, right?”
“Yes, I did, but you don’t see me out poking some new skank. I’m home alone healing.”
“You want me to go confront her?”
“No. I’m coming over.”
“Cool. I got your back, bro.”

It’s senseless. All logic has been purged from men who think this way. Who’s to say the new guy isn’t her friend, for example. I play the role of healer often. I get to play pool and provide emotional support and encouragement. I don’t get to play hide the pepperoni. The last thing I need is for her ape-ish ex to attack me for dressing the wounds he inflicted.

Men, when you relinquish your woman, you relinquish your right to control her or be jealous of what she does and how long she waits to do it.

Your Post-Breakup Guide

Aw, babycakes, I’m sorry. Wipe that mascara, blow your nose, and prepare yourself to find your next ex. I can’t have you sitting on the bench feeling miserable. That’s a waste of some fine booty right there. You’re denying mankind access to one of Nature’s finest gifts.

First things first: You need to write a nasty letter to that heartless prick. He’ll never see it, but writing it will make you feel much better. Open your email program, put your own address in the “To:” field, enter a subject (“Letter to the Fucktard” works), and begin typing. Let it all out, sweetness. Here are some excellent ideas for phrases to use:

  • Pencil dick
  • Don’t deserve
  • Asshat
  • Never really liked you anyway
  • Wash your sheets, for Christ’s sake
  • Must have been drunk
  • I was faking it … yes, every time
  • Slob
  • Manscaping
  • I’ll miss your dog more than you
  • You’re not getting it back–it was a gift
  • Waste of time
  • My friends warned me
  • You might be gay
  • It is so not sexy
  • Children play video games
  • Your car is also gay
  • Brut, really?
  • I hope your acorn penis grows fungus and falls off
  • Your breath is fouler than raw sewage
  • Get over yourself
  • I don’t even care
  • I’m going to the cock parade

You feel much better already, don’t you? Go get your nails, face, and hair did. Toss in a spray tan. I think it’s time for a new outfit. Yes. Do it. I’m thinking something black and strappy. Go make room in your closet immediately.

What’s that? You just found one of his shirts? Oh, my. Well, please allow me to suggest you use it for the following:

  • Collect your Labrador’s lawn loafs
  • Clean the toilet rims he spotted
  • Kindling
  • Write on it in bright red lipstick, “This belongs to a dick waffle who should never see another vagina as long as he lives,” and leave it on his windshield
  • Duct tape it to your driveway and make sure two wheels hit it every time you pull in or out
  • Wear it while Mr. Next pounds the pussy snot out of you
  • Give it to an ultra-smelly homeless dude
  • Dust your house with it
  • Enter it in your company’s white elephant exchange
  • Take it to the shooting range and make lots of holes

I can see that smile returning, champ. You’re almost ready to reenter the game. Now, think: Does he have any almost-as-cute-as-he-is friends? There must be at least one. Perfect. You need to blow him. I know, I know. Look, sometimes you need to take one (in the throat) for the team. Make sure it’s a legendary, toe-curling, back-spasming blowjob, the likes of which has only been experienced by immortals and movie stars. Oh, one more thing: Don’t let anyone see you do it, but make sure you forward the text message this lucky fellow will send you to the ex. It will probably read something like, “OMG, I think I love you. I have such a happy penis right now. What was [insert asshole’s name] thinking letting you go?”

Now, you’re ready. Go get ’em, tigress!