I’ll have the oyster.

oysterMy friends and I typically spend our evenings discussing three things: home improvements (5%), sports (10%), and women (85%). We represent a diverse collection of male irreverence including one olive, one tan, and one brown. Not that those shades of men necessarily suggest we’ll take certain stances. For example, not all brown men have huge penises, and avoid eating pussy. Similarly, to each his own when it comes to mating targets.

As a nurse (server) delivered my sedative (Peroni), I commented how she was a delicious oyster, hiding something precious beneath the surface. My compatriots examined her–twice–and asked if I needed my cleanly shaven head examined. True, she was in a Henley and jeans. She wore an apron, and had her hair in a ponytail. To me, that’s nothing but oyster shell. She had a great smile, a cute laugh, and honest eyes.

“She’s working, you ass. You expect her to be wearing a lace top and pumps?”

“Dude, I’m not seeing it.”

“That might be the most beautiful woman in here.”

“You cray-cray.”

“I’m telling you, if I got her out of here on a date, she’d be a totally different person. You two picky fuckers wouldn’t even recognize her, and then I’d get the props I deserve.”

“Doubtful. Hey, I’m sure she could use some lovin’, and you’re ugly enough to be that guy. I’m just sayin’, I prefer than skinny one over there next to the bar.”

“She’s old, and she has bony elbows.”

“Don’t hate the older women. They’re much easier to manage.”

“Good luck with Shagarella. I’m gonna pry this oyster.”

When guys go for the bleach blonde Barbie, with skin showing in December, and a designer clutch, this is what they sign up for:

  • A money pit.
  • Constant competition with other mangy mongrel men.
  • A woman who needs an hour to get ready, even for bed.
  • A taker who, when she does deliver a blow job, treats the penis like a hot piece of bacon–gently, with thumb and index finger, pinky extended, tiny nibbles.
  • Constant whining.
  • A plethora of boring stories about her slutty friends, shopping experiences, and her dog.
  • A woman who always has one eye open for the man with deeper pockets.
  • Someone who is impressed by things she shouldn’t be.

Ah, but when you go for the oyster, sometimes there’s a precious pearl. You might find:

  • A person who knows how to say please and thank you.
  • Someone who offers to pick up a tab more than once a year.
  • Adorable lopsided, natural boobs.
  • A cute, little belly, which means she doesn’t mind yours.
  • A friend who is fun to hang out with, without needing to have all the attention.
  • Someone who has actually read the book before seeing the movie.
  • A woman unimpressed by wealth and popularity, because she know they are fleeting.
  • Someone who is with you because she wants to be with you.

That’s my kinda gal.

What would you do with your own, personal Jesus?

jesusptLet me preface this with the fact that I am way atheist. I don’t even say, “Bless you” when people sneeze; I say, “I acknowledge your sneeze.” If the notion that I don’t have the same imaginary beings as you bothers you, simply replace (CTRL+H) all the occurrences of Jesus henceforth with Yoda, and forgive me, as you are commanded.


I sure could use a Jesus. For one, I like wine … lots. We’re all aware of that wonderful skill my man has of changing water into grape-flavored social lubrication. My Jesus would take that shit a step further and create slightly chilled Silver Oak Alexander Valley Cabernet with a side of cotton-dry Parmesan, and Chicken Biskit crackers. Bliss.

Most people would have the fella do something more substantial, like raise the dead. Guess that would be kind of cool. Dead people stink, though. Could they bathe first? I don’t need raising. Figure I’ll pretty much have left my muddy footprint on this marble by the time I rot. He could raise a few ex-pets of mine, but I have enough cat turd mining to keep me annoyed.

I guess if you’re into seafood, you could have the fella whip up quite a feast. You like lobster? No problem. King crab legs? Walking right up! Warm bread is cool, but it freaks me out a little when old men claim they’re blessing me by handing over tasty slices of some two-thousand-year-old dude. Can’t it just be pressed bread? Do me a favor and nuke that, Father. How about some lemony dipping butter? Goes wonderfully with them crustaceans.

We all could use a little Jesus in the sack. We certainly call for his and his father’s assistance as we get closer to the gushing. I’d have my Jesus add a slight upward curve to get me closer to pay-dirt. Sure, the ability to delay orgasm until she cries “Uncle” would come in handy.

What else? You could ask your Jesus for money. You wouldn’t appreciate it as much as earning it. Take it back one step–ask him to give you a great idea that will make you lots of money while healing sickness, stopping hunger, filling a few potholes, creating abs, or whatever.

Jesus could give you relationship advice. I’ve gotten some. I was mid-fuck-up in a recent relationship and sought consoling and advice from Big J.

“So, Jesus, why are you single? You seem like a nice enough guy. Chicks must dig you. Yet, you seem to be riding clouds solo most of the time while women kick me around like a Hacky Sack.”

“Shhh, my son. Listen. Listen carefully. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my girlfriend not giving me any shit.”


Most people are paralyzed by fear. Overcome it and you take charge of your life and your world.

callme(quote by Mark Victor Hansen)

“Isn’t that woman pretty? I bet she used to be a model. You should write your number on a napkin and pass it down to her.”

“I’d need to check ESPN for the official stats on that, but I’d bet for a man passing a number, the pass to penetration ratio is horrible.”

“Nothing ventured …”

“Nothing lost.”

“You’re such a pessimist. What’s the worse she could do?”

“Let me see. How about show it to her friends, crumble it up, and laugh at me while she tosses it?”

“She’ll be flattered.”

“I’ll give you another reason this won’t end well: She probably assumes you and I are together. Hence, sliding my number to you will be seen as a grave act against womanity.”

“Nah, women can tell when two people are just friends.”

“Then, she’d assume I was your gay friend.”

“But, by passing her your number, she’d realize you’re not.”

“Why don’t you start up a conversation with her, and casually bring up the fact that I’m tall, rich, famous, and hung like a rhino?”

“That would be a lie, which would set her up for disappointment, and you for failure.”

“But … hey, wait a minute … which part is a lie?”

“Never mind. Just write your number on this napkin.”



“You are what you eat.”


“See? I’m juvenile. She’d never want to go out with me. Besides, nobody uses phone numbers any more. I might as well pass her my Facebook page.”

“There ya go. Why don’t you slide her a book?”

“Have you read my books?”

“Good point. You do realize that this woman could be the one, and you’re letting her slip through your fingers.”

“She could also be married, gay, or a murderous psychopath.”

“You’re insane.”

“She could have three toddlers, a Harley, and a good friend in Jesus.”

“Still unlikely.”

“She’s probably attracted to young hipsters who have the stamina to drink till two, and still do morning yoga.”

“Take a pill then.”

“I’m fine in that area, thank you very little.”

“Sure, you are.”

“Actually, I tried a blue pill for the first time with the most recent ex.”


“The friend who gave me the pill forgot to disclose the side effects. I was having precoital conversation when, suddenly, the lights in my house changed. They turned from a yellowish glow to bluish. Totally fucked with my head. I got up and started flipping switches. She thought I was losing it.”

“Even I know that’s a side effect, and I don’t have a penis. So, how was the sex?”

“I’d say somewhat impressive, but not monumental.”

“Wonder what she would say.”

“Probably something to the tune of, ‘I can’t believe I let that asshole have sex with me.'”

“I’m going to start calling you Eeyore.”

“Oh, shit. Look. There she goes. Oh, well. Her loss.”

“Really? You’re just going to let her fade away?”

“If she were interested in me, she would have slid me her number.”

“There she goes–your soul mate, your baby mama, your everything.”

“My next ex, at best.”

Always keep a pair and a spare.

As I sink into the dentist’s chair, the lecture begins. No, not the one where the dentist tells me to floss, I whine about it, and he compromises by telling me to only floss the ones I want to keep. It’s the assistant (usually female) who unloads all sorts of dating stories and advice while torturing me by scraping my receding gums. Today’s lecture was given by a woman in her sixties (she was darn cute, if you ask me). She had gone through the usual dating sites and eventually found her man on JDate.

“My advice to women is to always keep a pair and a spare.”

“Reading glasses?”


“You lost me.”

“Men do it. Why shouldn’t we?”

“Keep underwear in the glove compartment?”





“Ugh. We’re speaking of dating, Dr. Scholl.”

“Well, you’re speaking. I’m just mumbling while this odd device sucks the life out of me.”

“Women should date a minimum of three men at a time until they decide which one to keep.”


“It takes time to figure out of he’s the right man, so it’s best to overlap them and compare and contrast.”

“Right. And, you think men do this?”

“All the time. I’m sure of it.”

“Damn. I’m missing out by always dating between zero and one at a time with long breaks between. So, let me ask you this: Are each of these men aware you’re keeping spares?”

“It’s not their business.”

“Is too.”

“Nope. They should be out to impress me. I pick the best and discard the rest.”

“But, when things become intimate …”

“Well, yes, that’s when monogamy is important. Women have to be careful.”

“So, when you’re finally penetrated, you immediately call the other two and explain that there’s no more room at your inn.”

“Something like that.”

“You text them?”


“Hm. That would sorta suck for the cast-aways.”

“I try to keep them around as friends, just in case.”

“Is the penetrator made aware of that?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, why complicate matters? You know men and how jealous they can be. Some things are best accidentally omitted. Fortunately, I can blame my age–forgetfulness.”


“You know, things got so crazy at one point, I had to keep a spreadsheet of my dates to keep them straight. It also helped with the evaluation process.”

“That’s a superb idea. I’m going to borrow it. You have no idea how much I love Excel. I’m going to list Abby through Zoe down column A, and across the first row I’ll list attributes. Then, all I need to do is enter scores, insert an average column, sort descending, and wah-lah–the next queen of my court.”

“What sort of attributes?”

“I’m thinking aloud here but, I can envision things like body mass index, skin quality, hair quality, kissing ability, tongue use or misuse, scent, nipple size, ability to control spending, oral proclivity, pets/children, annoying friends/exes, taste in movies/food, religion, and tidiness. That should be a decent start.”

“I’ve created an animal. Spit, please.”


Mommy’s out knocking the dust off.

I attract certain women lately, not because they’re sexually attracted to me; perhaps they see me as a coach of sorts. It happened again last night.

“Hey, Coach.”

“What’s up, Kiddo?”

“I’ve been out of the game a while–getting a bit rusty on the bench over here.”

“Ready to take a shot?”

“I think so. I’ve been sidelined for twelve years with a man I’ve grown to dislike and a four-year-old who’s draining me.”

“All right. Take a lap around the pub and limber up.”

Coaches aren’t allowed to mix it up with players. Sad. I accept my role and hope she drinks enough to forget hers. When she returns, I ask important questions to see if she’s ready.

“Have you been practicing?”

“I got digits from a twenty-five-year old last night.”

“You say ‘digits’ again and I’ll have you scrubbing latrines.”


“Did you say twenty-five? That’s about a ten-year difference, no?”

“I know. He was cute. He walked me out to my car.”

“Did you seal the deal?”

“He went in for the kiss, and I blocked so I could ask him a question.”

“Let me guess: ‘Did you wash your hands and clean your nails, young man?'”

“No. I asked if he remembered my name.”


“Yep. He forgot.”

“But, you kissed him anyway.”

“Well …”

“Fucking rookies. All right, look, you want to play the game awhile and stay off the bench, right? Don’t be so concerned about triviality like names, living situations, and investment strategies. If you’re going after high-haired baby apes, take them as they are, get your box stuffed, and move on.”

Here’s where all the buts come out because she hasn’t built up her emotional callus:

  • But, I have a child to consider.
  • But, what about disease?
  • But, what if I like him?
  • But, I’m a good girl.
  • But, it goes against my beliefs.
  • But, it grosses me out when I see older women with young guys.
  • But, what if my ex-husband finds out.
  • But, I just want to make out with him and not have sex.
  • But, how do I know if he just wants me for a one-night stand.
  • But, I have another ten pounds to lose before I’ll feel sexy.

I noticed her drink was empty, so I offered to help her along with a non-banned substance: vodka.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“No, I can buy my own.”

“Suit yourself. Who’s your next target, champ?”

“I like that boy over there. He reminds me of Brad Pitt in his Legends of the Fall days.”



“Brad fucking Pitt? Really?”

“I could make it work.”

“You should reconsider the drink because you have set highly unrealistic expectations.”

“Aw, that’s sad.”

“Fine. Go poke Brad, and see how that works out.”

“I will.”

Naturally, she boldly approached him, realized he smelled of seaweed, Red Bull, and Axe Body Spray, and returned to Coach Phil with her tail tucked and un-fucked. I lost my patience and left the arena, to shower, sleep, and live to coach another dame.


Love is a piece of cake.

The key to happiness: Don’t be needy or needed.

Have you ever noticed that the most attractive people are independent? The people who need you the least are the ones you want to spend the most time with. Why is that? It’s because they owe and offer no services to you and require nothing from you. They’re free entertainment. There’s no obligation either way so you’re free to come and go as you please.

I have a guest on my weekly webcast this coming Monday who is a dating and relationship expert. I have never met her, but heard her described as oozing sexuality. Well, that certainly has my interest piqued. I’ll bring a hanky. Still, I bet she’s single as most matchmakers and relationship experts are.

Since I recently exited yet another relationship, I anticipate a well-deserved scolding about how I don’t open up and dedicate enough of my time (what time?) to nurturing my relationships. Allow me to preminisce (my new word):

“How many serious relationships have you been in since your divorce?”
“A couple.”
“How long did they last.”
“A couple months.”
“That’s not a serious relationship.”
“Ya think?”
“Fine. When’s the last time you were in love?”
“May eighth of last year at around one in the afternoon.”
“Wow, she must have been special for you to recall it in such detail.”
“Yes. She was warm dark chocolate cake with peanut butter icing. I’m becoming aroused as we speak.”
“See, that’s your problem: You don’t take relationships seriously. How can you expect to find love?”
“I can’t. I expect to find happiness with or without a copilot.”
“Don’t you seek companionship?”
“… with something other than a dessert?”
“Can’t I have both?”
“What about sex?”
“With a pastry?”
“No, jackass, with a woman.”
“All right.”
“I mean, don’t you want to have lots of affection and sex.”
“Define ‘lots.'”
“You know, five or six times a week.”
“You frisky little vixen, you.”
“It may be a medical problem. You could be running low on testosterone.”
“Or, I could be preserving it and my sanity.”

Yes, as I age I’m not quite as sexually-centered as I used to be, but I have my moments. It has little to do with my hormone levels and more to do with maturity and being honest with myself. Sometimes with some women I desire frequent bonding; with others, occasional linking is fine. Either way, I don’t need to have a girlfriend, roommate, or wife to be happy. I don’t need lots of sex. Sure, I want it, but not when it comes attached to drama. In that case, a few yanks and a towel keep me from acting needy, and I’ve found the less needy I am, the more attractive I become. Strange.