I spent last weekend in Palm Springs playing baseball with friends. We checked into Tom Bodett’s finest, which wasn’t so fine after all. It seems he left the light on, but also left out the fact that freight trains rumble by every hour.

I asked the lad at the counter where a group of fine gentlemen like ourselves could find some fine ladies.

“I don’t know.”


“I’m not twenty-one yet.”

“Dude, I don’t care if you’re an eighteen-year-old blind Mormon. You need to know where single women hang out. This can’t be the first time a guest has asked you this, can it?”

“No. I get asked all the time. I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, no tip for me means no tip for you.”

I drew a line through that tip space on my credit card slip and my two pals and I hit the road in search of desert damsels. We found a sports bar and tipped (bribed) the bartender, asking where the single ladies might be.

“You guys need to go to Cougars.”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously. It’s up the road in Palm Desert and it’s exactly what you think it is.”

“Well, at fifty we’re certainly not their target demographic, but I’m always up for giggles. Let’s go.”

Cougars Bar & Nightclub was full of mirrors, lasers, fog, and packs of wild animals. The DJ was sixty with long hair and ball-tight jeans. The band was playing KC & The Sunshine Band. This was Phil-Heaven.

I settled next to one of my favorite specimens–a large, loud woman with lots of tattoos and a raspy potty mouth.

“Hi, boys, I’m Rosie. You fuckers obviously ain’t from ’round here. Where’re ya from?”

“San Diego.”

“What brings ya out to these parts?”

“Baseball and fine ladies, such as yourself.”

“Aw, quit it, dickhead. [Punching me in the shoulder.] I just got done with a hard day’s work and I need a fucking beer.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a heavy equipment operator. You?”



I told my buddies that I was falling in love with this cuddle bear. I’d estimate her measurements to be 42-39-56–you could say she had it all. (Thank you, AC/DC.) I so wanted to arm-wrestle her and talk football.

“Tell you what. See those bitches across the bar? Those are my daughters. Let’s play a little game with them. Hey girls, it’s time for the ice game.”

We had no idea what she had in mind as the two girls pulled out their shirts, exposing their cleavages.

“OK, now each of you boys gets one ice cube. Whoever can toss it between one of their boobs gets a drink on me. You’re baseball players, so this should be easy.”

I intentionally threw mine five feet over their heads to avoid a lawsuit, but my pal Mark sunk a three-pointer. Actually, with the size of her cans it was about as difficult as hitting the side of a barn with a beach ball.

“Yay! You get a free drink. What’ll it be, partner?”

“How about a cosmopolitan?”

The bar went quiet.

“Just kidding. Rum and diet, please.”

“Mr. Bartender, one rum and diet for my man here. I’m goin’ outside for a smoke.”

She slapped me on the ass as she walked outside.

We continued the playful banter with Rosie. As immature man-beasts, we naturally discussed what it would take to bed such a woman. We agreed that it would be sexual bungee jumping, but none of us had the guts. It turns out Rosie was married after all. Phew! Some rides are too dangerous.

She Loves Me Maybe

With almost fifty years of training, I should be able to tell if a woman likes me or not. I don’t mean “likes” as in wants to share a tub of Hagen-Dazs and discuss how dopey this season’s bachelor is (Um, exceptionally dopey, by the way). I mean “likes” as in she wants me inside of her eventually.

I guess I could ask.

“I like you. Do you like me? If not, it’s no big deal. I mean, I’ll be disappointed, but that’s OK. It’s not as if you’re the only woman in the world. Don’t get me wrong–you’re certainly one of the finest. I think there’s chemistry, but you might only like me as a friend, in which case the jury is instructed to ignore the previous statement and we can proceed as before. It won’t be awkward or change anything knowing that I like you, right? It’s flattering to have someone like you, isn’t it? Then again, I may not be your type–not that I have any clue what your type is. It would be cool if I were your type because you’re my type, even if you don’t like me in that way. If you do like me, we could hang out more often and maybe make out a little and see if sparks fly … or not. I promise I won’t be upset if you say you just want to be friends. I’ll back down. Naturally, if there’s alcohol involved I may try again. I can’t help it. Hey, isn’t it better to have me attracted to you than not? We can still be friends either way. I’ve been attracted to friends whom I haven’t slept with. Still, if you prefer a purely physical relationship, I would consider it. I’m an accommodating sort of fellow. What can I say? You so want to get naked with me right now, don’t you?”


Why don’t you women carry bouquets of miniature roses in your LVs? This way you can pluck one from the side compartment, walk up to the clumsy boy, and hand him official notice that you’re interested in the form of a silk rose. What? That’s my job, you say? Rats.

I can give subtle signals–ones I can retract and insist meant nothing. I can lean in, gently caress your arm while engaging in conversation, mimic your posture, or fix that stray hair. Those can all be indications of interest. If you return my gesture with a facial bath of chardonnay or a leg sweep, I’ll get the message. I promise.

Perhaps I should hire a sidekick. She could guide me away from improper (under thirty) targets and closer to keepers. She could spot that annoying sparkle coming from the back of finger number three, since I don’t seem to notice. She could advise me on the proper timing of approach (not while on the phone or waiting in a restroom line). She could read the body language that’s so Greek to me. Ideally, when another hitless night is about to end, she could offer to ice my ego or be my no-strings-attached reliever. Unlikely. She’d probably pat my fanny and remind me tomorrow is another night.


Don’t let a goddamn beer commercial dress you. That’s today’s lesson. Sure, some fashions burn out quickly and become the brunt of teasing jabs. Most of them seem to come around again and again with slight modifications. The fashion industry thrives when styles change frequently so they encourage it. Still, if you’re out and about and you want to stand out, you need to peacock (and grow thick skin).

Long hair for men, short hair for women, platforms for men, leg warmers for women, tattoo shirts for men, halter tops for women, pinky rings for men, satellite-dish-sized middle finger rings for women, jeans with holes, jeans with cuffs, baggy jeans, skinny jeans, mirrored sunglasses, round-lens sunglasses, square-lens sunglasses, wire frames, thick frames, large-faced watches, and on and on. How could anybody keep up?

When I check out the latest fashion magazine, I find most of the trends odd. If I wore anything out of the back of Details magazine, I’d definitely attract more men than women. So, what’s a man to do?

Sure, it depends on my age, height, weight, and ethnicity. It also depends on the forum. Things were so much easier when Mom laid my clothes out and when dark slacks, white shirts, and any ties were in. Now, most of the clothing I find cool makes me look like a skateboarder, cage fighter, or stoner. My wearing such elicits barbs from my female friends who insist I’ll never find a bed warmer while I’m wearing anything with holes, foil, or rhinestones. They’re probably right. I hate them and want to kick them with my square-toed shoes.

Seriously, though, if I walk into a bar and all of the men are wearing flip-flops, dark jeans, striped button-down shirts, and duck’s ass hair bangs, I don’t want to blend in with them, I want to stand out. Same if all of the women are wearing black boots, skinny jeans, and a pink top with spaghetti straps. It’s monotonous and boring. I need some way to differentiate the women. How will I distinguish the truly slutty from the poorly dressed Born-again Christians?

It’s all about attitude anyway. If a man exudes confidence while wearing nerdy sunglasses, black nail polish, or a porn star mustache, it will work for him. He’ll attract attention, absorb the teasing, and probably end up banging the hottest chick in the bar just because he’s different. He raises curiosity with his style dysfunction and creates an in for himself. The girls may point and snicker at first, but soon fall victim to his covert strategy.

It works for women too. You can wear a glowing bracelet, blinking pin, skin glitter, fishnet gloves, a diamond stud in your nose or eyebrow, dark laced bra under a white shirt, pink or purple hairstreaks, or a derby. None of them are in style, but they all will attract interest.

Fuck Miller Light. Wear your man-thong, sunglasses, skinny jeans, and Ed Hardy shirt. Carry your man-purse and drag Mom out for a beer with the boys. Go get that tramp stamp, young man. If the hot, female bartender gives you any shit, remind yourself that her callused, spoiled-beer-smelling hands have wrapped around enough bouncer and bar manager cock to make Jenna Jameson blush. (She wasn’t going to go home with you anyway.)

Brain Mess

The messages are not getting though. My body is aging and my brain is pulling a Benjamin Button on me. TV is partly to blame with all of the men’s hair dye commercials. Take a little gray out and suddenly ole cracker hips can skateboard around an empty swimming pool. Bah! My sidekick has been getting me deep into a bottle of Advil lately, so I have been taking note of the conversations.

“Hey! Hey, Body.”


“Let’s go to Palm Springs and play four baseball games over the weekend. It will be fun. We can throw, run, slide, and then go drink lots of margaritas with our buddies.”

Three days later: “Ow. Ow, OW, ow. Maybe if I elevate my feet my joints won’t hurt so much.”

“Hey, Body. The young ladies are out tonight. Yay! Let’s do shots with them. Come on. Oh, and buy a bottle of bubbles–girlies love them and bubbles go well with shots.”

“I don’t think my liver can handle it.”

“Don’t be such a buzz-kill. You can do shots and not lose control.”

The next morning: “Did anyone get the number of that bus? My mouth is full of lemon flavored cotton and my eyeballs hurt.”

“Wow, Body, check out those jeans. They’re cool!”

“They have holes in them.”

“That’s the style. Try them on.”

“Well, they’re comfortable, but they’re slim-fit. Aren’t they a bit tight?”


That night: “Yo, Justin Bieber, are you going to grow out your bangs too? Nice cock bulge, Meat.”

“You can jog down the beach with her. How hard can that be?”

“I’ve only been running on the treadmill. She does marathons. This could be embarrassing.”

“Stop it. She’s a chick, damn it. You can keep up.”

During the run:

“Are you OK? You look kind of purple.”

“No … I’m … fine.” [Hands on knees, gasping for air.] “Medic!”

“She has been talking to you all night. Take her home and make sweet love.”


“Don’t be a pussy. At least get her number.”

“What if she rejects me?”

“I can take rejection. Go for it!”

After she leaves, with her number: “See? I told you she was just being friendly.”

“Oh my god. This body is old and undesirable. Can I get a transplant?”

“It’s a buffet, for crying out loud. You’re eating a salad?”

“I’m a biscotti short of two hundred, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“But, it’s a buffet featuring all the Cajun shrimp and prime rib you can eat. You can burn it off.”

Next day at the gym: “This scale can’t be right. Maybe my sneakers are heavy. That’s it–I’m going on a damn grapefruit diet.”

“The band is great and they’re coming to town. Get good seats so you can see.”

“I don’t know. There’s probably going to be a mosh pit and I’ve heard the band is loud, live.”

“There’s no sense in attending a concert and sitting in the back. Come on.”

Next morning after no sleep: “[Diiiiiiiiiing.] I think I broke my eardrums. Ugh. I can still smell that awful mix of beer, pot, and fog machine. What was I thinking?”


Do you know what a neg is? I bet you use it and may not be aware of the power it has over people. Somebody definitely has been using negs on you. He’s that person who annoys you, but you find oddly attractive. She’s that atypical woman who you’re convinced you’d never hook up with, but want to. They get under your skin and stroke your mental G-spot.

A neg is a light insult wrapped in the package of a compliment. Pick-up artists (yes, I have read many of their books) use this skill with great success when approaching women who are out of their league. It works because it elicits an unexpected reaction. There’s little defense, even if you see it coming.

Here’s a great example. My friend, Hank, will carry a piece of lint in his pocket. When he targets a hot woman, he’ll approach her from the side or behind, gently tug on the sleeve of her top, and show her the piece of lint while saying, “I’m sorry, but this little bugger has been driving me crazy. I just had to remove it so it wouldn’t detract from your beauty. Or, is this a pet of yours?”

Women fall for it every time.

Another strategy is to point out something to make the high and mighty feel insecure. It brings her down to Hank’s level.

“Aw, did you know you have the cutest little wrinkle between your eyes when you smile?”

“Do gay guys hit on you all of the time? If I were straight, you’d be my ideal mate.”

“What an interesting pair of jeans. Who makes them?”

“I see you’re drinking chardonnay. My buddy, the bartender, calls it ‘Cougar Crack.’ I wonder why older women like it so much.”

“I could swear that we met once before. Did you have wavy blond hair recently? I think you dated my nephew.”

“You have the cutest accent. I can’t place it. Say the word ‘onion’ and remember there’s no ‘g’ in it.”

“You remind me a little bit of Joan Rivers. I mean, in her younger years, of course.”

“Oh my god, you ordered the bread pudding. It looks delicious. I wish I could eat it, but I’d need to spend hours in the gym to burn off all of that fat.”

“Where did you buy those earrings? It’s my mother’s birthday next week and she’d love them, I know it.”

“Your arms look really buff. I bet lesbians hit on you all of the time.”

“Damn, you’re tall. You must have a hard time finding men tall enough to date.”

“I’d buy you a drink, but you seem like you’re already tipsy. I wouldn’t want you to lose control and do something crazy like take me home and make sweet love to me until sunrise.”

“You run marathons? Really? That’s impressive. You still couldn’t keep up with me.”

“Wow, you have a great arm, for a girl.”

“Have you always had that cute dimple? It’s unique because you only have one. Most people have two.”

“You look tired. Did you have a rough week? Let me buy you a drink.”

“You look like you lost weight. Have you been sick?”

Other strategies include waiting for her to return from the bathroom, dropping a sheet of toilet paper at her feet, gently moving her, and whispering in her ear, “I noticed you were dragging along an unwelcome friend.”


I rarely meet women who admit to having one-night stands. I’ve had some, so I was either probing aliens or dreaming. Anyway, one may wonder what it’s like for a man and how, what seems so wrong to most women, can be so alluring to most men. Don’t hate the player, ladies, just don’t play the game if it doesn’t suit you.

So, what’s it like? Well, it’s primal and exciting, for the most part. Physically, it’s ordinary at best–similar to mutual masturbation, perhaps. For many men there’s pride in the conquest, but shallow fulfillment. Without an emotional connection it can only be so good. It might beat beating off, but the post-game guilt and worry can linger.

Perhaps the social stigma around being “easy” deters most women. That’s too bad. Society shouldn’t decide what’s good for every person. If a woman enjoys sampling a variety of men, what’s the harm in that? She may have suffered through years of subpar sex from neglectful men. Maybe she’s ready to take her new sexy, single body for some trips around the block. I say, “Bravo, my sweet. Ladies, start your engines!”

The sex during a one-night stand is usually awkward. No doubt, the alcohol involved can both help and hinder. Sometimes there’s begging involved just before penetration as the man desperately tries to justify the tryst and woman tries to deflect the flesh poker. (“Wax on, wax off.”)

“I know you want to. Come on, let’s be naughty.”

[Tugging at her panties.]

“Yes, I want to, but it’s probably not a good idea. I hardly know you.”

[Playfully swatting his hand away.]

“But, there’s this great chemistry between us. I can’t resist.”

[Rubbing his manhood against her thigh.]

“You just want to get laid. I could be any woman lying here.”

[Sizing him up, but she’s not going there yet. Turning away so he can spoon her.]

“That’s not true. I’m not that kind of guy. I like you … a lot.”

[Poking her back now, kissing her neck, and cupping her breasts.]

“Why don’t we just cuddle and make out? We can leave our underwear on to be safe.”

[Turning around to face him, pulling his hands down to her hips, and trying to kiss him.]

“OK, but this will just make me want you more. Haven’t you ever wanted to be spontaneous and just go for it?”

[Wedging his hand between her thighs.]

“Of course. Still, how do I know you don’t do this every night?”

[Squeezing her legs together.]

“Trust me–it usually takes me a long time to feel comfortable enough to go there. With you there’s a unique connection. I can’t explain it. You’re so hot and sexy to me!”

[Sliding his fingers under her panties.]

“Believe me–I want to, but I still think we should behave. There are all sorts of scary diseases around too. I’m not saying you have anything, but a girl has to be careful.”

[Pushing his hands away.]

“I’m clean, I swear. OK, look, I don’t mind using a condom.”

[Rummaging through the bedside table.]

“That’s good, but I still can’t do it quite yet. Come on, just kiss me.”

[Kissing her forehead, lying back, letting out a sigh, and pouting.]

“OK, I have to get up early anyway. Goodnight.”

Good Girl = Sad Boy

Apology on Behalf of Men

Apparently, my female readers have become all too familiar with substandard men. Sure, some claim they have found the needle after dealing with much hay. Still, most women are caught up in negotiations with silly apes, like me. (Yes, I have done some fucked up things to women I cared about.)

So, allow me to apologize for my actions as well as similar ones from the men you’ve loved. We are sorry.

You know, you could ease the pain of regret by looking at this differently. Perhaps, my hoofed friends and I served a purpose after all. Maybe we taught you to expect less or demand more. We may have tested your limits and helped you raise the bar. Through us, you may have discovered things you can’t live with or without. If that’s the case, then forgiving us should be easy.

It’s difficult to justify why men do what they do to women they know deserve much better. The best advice comes straight from The Four Agreements: Don’t take it personally. You don’t need to take the blame either. Find a way to release him and his misdeeds or the burden will weigh you down.

I’m sorry I hit you. There’s no excuse. It’s cowardly and I need help. You should never tolerate any sort of abuse from anyone.
I’m sorry I yelled. I have anger issues. I can’t help becoming overly emotional because of the environment I was raised in. I know it’s not your fault and I have no right to take it out on you.
I’m sorry I cheated. I was greedy. I promised I’d remain faithful and I broke that promise. I foolishly looked for something better and wound up with nothing. You deserve better and I deserve to be alone.
I’m sorry I broke your heart. I never knew you cared so much about me. I’m a fool. Please don’t think I’m evil. I did what I did for me, not to you.
I’m sorry I stole from you. I had no right to take what is not mine and should have never taken advantage of your generosity. I owe you and will do my best to pay you back.
I’m sorry I’m not ready to get married. It’s a commitment that I can’t take lightly. I trust you, but I’m afraid the odds are stacked against us. I’m worried it won’t work and I’ll become financially saddled. Please give me some time and I understand if you decide not to.
I’m sorry I’m not ready to commit. I was in a lengthy relationship and I need to work on myself before letting someone in again. I’m flattered that you want to commit to me, but I can’t do it right now.
I’m sorry I shared with others something between the two of us that I should have kept private. I hope it doesn’t cause you pain. I’m embarrassed and ashamed that I didn’t think before doing something so careless.
I’m sorry I disappointed you. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I know it was important and I’m sorry I failed you. I’ll try harder next time if you give me another chance.
I’m sorry I forgot. Like you, I have many things going on in my life. Some are insignificant and they should not distract me from promises I made to you. I’ll do better next time.
I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. That’s not a good excuse, but you need to know this is not how I normally am. I should have handled this better. I realize I made a big mistake and losing your trust saddens me. I hope I can earn it back.
I’m sorry I misled you. I thought I was ready for something more. I told you what you needed to hear, because I didn’t want to lose you. I should have been honest and upfront.
I’m sorry I left. It was selfish of me. I couldn’t deal with my numerous failures as a partner. I felt woefully weak and inadequate. I’m a coward for not discussing it with you. I promise I’ll learn to share my feelings and not run away.

Now it’s your turn: Can you forgive?


Knowing what I know now, if I had a vagina, I’d land the man of my dreams. It’s not complicated, ladies. Every night I hear complaints from women who can’t find or keep the right men. It seems many women don’t realize the litany of powerful weapons at their disposal. I’m not only referring to sexual ones either. A man is simple to operate. In situations where what he needs conflicts with what you need, all you need to do is let him think he is getting what he needs to get what you need.

Men have the instinctual desire to be providers and protectors while feeling sufficient appreciation (sure, sexual favors go a long way). Play to that, ladies, and you have yourself a subservient man at your disposal. Pump up his ego. He needs it. You don’t always need to be sincere, either. Thank him, guide him toward addressing your needs, take care of his physical needs, and you’ll need not worry about him straying.

I do know a few men (leeches, in my opinion) who seek women in certain financial and emotional states, and then drain them dry. I’m amazed at how often this happens, actually. The woman being leeched from must be aware of what’s going on. She must also have low enough esteem to tolerate it. How horrible. Have some pride and confidence. Rip that sucker from your life and teach him that his lifestyle choice is unacceptable.

In regards to a decent man, here are subtle ways to keep him loyal:

  • Offer to contribute financially. Cover the tip, at most; he’ll probably refuse, but he will appreciate the gesture. Women with certain expectations are huge turn-offs.
  • Reward his good behavior with compliments. When you like what he’s wearing, say so. When he returns from the gym all sweaty, remark about how buff he is getting. When he brings you a gift, act as if you were chosen from The Price is Right studio audience.
  • Let him fix things. Go ahead and play stupid and weak; you know you’re not.
  • When you are having a rough day and need an ear, before you begin, tell him you need to vent and you’re not looking for solutions. He’ll still offer some because it is his nature to do so. No matter how ridiculous his suggestions are, tell him you will consider them.
  • Support him. You must support every sports team, athlete, and car make he supports. I don’t care if you’re a Packers fan. If he digs purple, you’ll need to become a Vikings fan. (Or, allow him to believe so while you secretly wish you could play center for Aaron Rodgers.)
  • Remind him how much of a superior mate he is when compared with his friends, your ex, and your girlfriends’ men. You can build him up further by saying how wonderful he is compared to TV celebrities, but be careful you don’t create a Charlie Sheen.
  • Don’t make him guess. His day is already full of confusing choices.
  • Don’t ask him to make too many decisions. You can gently guide him with your reactions to his suggestions.
  • Help him decompress after a rough day at work. A hand-delivered, fresh, cold beer and a TV remote (bonus points if these are delivered silently by a woman showing cleavage) after a rough day works for men the way a hot Calgon bath works for women.
  • Put out, even when you’re not entirely in the mood, and act as if you’re enjoying it even when it’s mediocre. You have options for getting him off quickly. You can let him know you expect reciprocation at a future time. He’ll promise anything while turgid. Sometimes you need to take one for the team. Sorry.
  • Rave about him to his friends, coworkers, and family members. It will all get back to him and work wonders toward making him feel secure. Stress causes tumors and limp penises; you don’t want those, now do you?

It’s funny how what works for one man works for most. It’s not that way with women. I find myself constantly in front of the drawing board in a cloud of chalk dust.

Constant Contact

I consistently disappoint during the chase phase of courtships. Perhaps I have become old and slow. Even after I ask for directions, I get lost. Once the first date is over, what types of communication are expected? How often do you expect your man to contact you? How can he safely straddle the line between being aloof and being a stalker?

I wish my woman would hand me a prescription detailing the dosage required to retain my access. Would this work?

The recommended dosage* is as follows:

___ emails sent during work hours.

___ text messages sent in the morning within an hour before work.

___ text messages sent after work.

_0_ text messages sent after 11 P.M.

___ phone calls during lunch break (duration minimum: five minutes).

___ phone calls on the commute home from work (duration minimum: ten minutes).

___ phone calls before bedtime (duration minimum: twenty minutes).

_0_ phone calls after 11 P.M. (if you’re drunk).

_0_ phone calls after 11 P.M. (if you’re horny).

_0_ phone calls after 11 P.M. (if you need a ride home).

___ phone calls after 11 P.M. (if I’m any of the above and left you a message to call me ASAP; you have five minutes to comply).

*DANGER: If you do not adhere to the recommended dosages, you may experience the following side effects:

  • An inaccessible vagina.
  • A missing vagina.
  • An occupied vagina.
  • Facebook de-friending.
  • My ex-boyfriend’s car in the driveway.
  • A sore back from sleeping on the sofa.
  • A resetting of the blowjob account credits to zero.
  • Notification that my online dating profile has been unhidden.
  • Declined charges on our credit cards due to credit limit exhaustion and numerous empty brown bags and shoeboxes in the foyer.
  • Unanswered contacts.
  • A visit from my mother.
  • A pile of laundry, sink full of dishes, and list of household chores you are to complete within the next 24 hours.

This is serious stuff. How did it ever pass FDA scrutiny? I’d almost rather suffer other frequently mentioned effects such as bloating, diarrhea, and blurred vision. Ah, wait a minute–the fine print.

In case of an unattended erection lasting more than two weeks, the following may offset the side effects:

  • A daily fresh flower delivery, excluding cheap roses and baby’s breath from the grocery store, you cheap prick.
  • The presentation of evidence justifying the disobedience. This includes a smashed cell phone, broken limbs, incarceration, a notarized document stating that the Tiffany store you were in had no cell coverage, a keyboard fried by spilled coffee, or a stack of boxes containing the designer clothing you spent the day buying for me.
  • Begging and pleading while providing a thirty-minute foot massage.
  • Reservations for a spa weekend for my sister and me.Dinner waiting for me when I get home from work, including a buttery chardonnay, salad (dressing on the side, please), lobster bisque, grilled salmon, and something chocolate.

In a Relationship

When people announce to the world that they are in a relationship, what’s the reason? Are they hoping friends will be happy for them or cyber-stalkers will back off? It’s almost as annoying as a wedding invitation.

“Great. There goes a Saturday. Now I have to find a date, get a gift, dust off a suit, and throw up in my mouth as I watch the newlyweds gush. Plus, my date will become misty-eyed, feel like a complete failure because she’s unwed, and then require hours of emotional propping from Uncle Phil.”

I guess that’s why I get so annoyed with the status update on Facebook. The little heart icon next to the update gives me the urge to take my Louisville Slugger to my monitor. If you are single, you understand. If you are in a relationship, you probably think this is a sign of jealously and frustration about my relationship failures.


It’s similar to when people start making out at the bar. “I get it already! You’re a happy couple. Yay for you. Why don’t you take your slobbering adolescent asses outside and screw in your car? Imagine how uncomfortable you’d feel if porn suddenly came on the TV behind the bar. Yep, that’s exactly how I feel watching you oblivious meatheads suck face.”

All right, maybe I am a bit angry.

Do I announce on my status update how single I am? No. I could. In fact, there are numerous reasons why my being single is superior to being in a relationship. Here are just a few:

  • If I’m not in the mood, that makes two of me.
  • I always have simultaneous orgasms with myself and never have to fake it.
  • I get to keep the other half.
  • I only have one set of relatives to impress.
  • I don’t get upset over what I write.
  • I’m not jealous and insecure–wondering where my mate is tonight.
  • Nobody eats my leftovers.
  • I use four fewer rolls of toilet paper every week.

I’m going to begin doing it. I’m going to post a relationship status update every morning until all of my happily coupled friends de-friend me. Perhaps one or two of them will think, Gee, I wonder why this annoys me so. Maybe this is why Phil posts these updates–to show me how annoying I am. Hm. OK, I guess I’ll go back to posting status updates about how God blessed me today.

Don’t … you … dare.

Here are some future status updates my fellow bachelors and spinsters are free to borrow.

[Insert your name] is NOT in a relationship, and …

  • … isn’t interested in being in one, so stop nagging me.
  • … it doesn’t suck.
  • … it’s not the slightest bit complicated.
  • … I just saved 50% on dinner, child support, and car insurance.
  • … my mother reminds me often enough, thank you very much.
  • … if you’re tempted to set me up with someone, please don’t.
  • … I have options.
  • … I’m finding that pets are much easier to take care of than humans are.
  • … birth control is so much easier this way.
  • … odds are you’ll be joining me soon.


I asked my Facebook fans to complete the sentence “I don’t understand why men …” and I received numerous responses. It’s clear that my assistance is required and it’s time for a powwow. I assembled a crew of cock-carrying creeps and asked them to help. After a few beers, the answers started flowing. I hope this isn’t too painful.

1. … are such assholes.
a. “Nuh uh, we are not.”
b. “Sounds like an angry chick to me. Bet she’d be fun to have hate sex with.”
c. “That’s one jaded woman. Run away!”

2. … try to understand what women are thinking.
a. “I know what women are thinking: How can I trap a man and take his money?”
b. “It changes so damn often I can’t keep up.”
c. “I’ve quit trying to understand women. I just smile, nod, and agree with whatever they say.”

3. … disregard their women’s feelings.
a. “Wait a minute. If I don’t understand her feelings, how can I address them?”
b. “Every time I ask what’s wrong, she says ‘nothing’ so what am I supposed to do, read her mind?”
c. “Hey, does anyone know the spread on the Eagles game this weekend?”

4. … don’t provide enough foreplay.
a. “What? So spitting in my palm doesn’t count?”
b. “Sorry, but my boners have time limits.”
c. “Why can’t she just act like the oven and ding when she’s preheated?”

5. … have to fix everything instead of listening.
a. “Because I have a Dremel.”
b. “It’s easier to fix it and stop the whining before I get a migraine.”
c. “I was born to fix things. My daddy taught me well.”

6. … are poor communicators.
a. “I thought communication was a two-way street. I bet she’s referring to listening.”
b. “I have no problem texting her daily.”
c. “It’s her fault that she hasn’t taken the time to understand my gestures and grunts.”

7. … like to push our buttons.
a. “She pushed mine first!”
b. “It was an accident.”
c. “I need to push her away hard enough to be confident that she won’t leave me.”

8. … can find every hole but the one in the toilet.
a. “I don’t pee on the goddamned floor or seat, honey. It splashes there. That’s the price of carrying such a large hose.”
b. “What’s wrong with a little ear fucking between lovers?”
c. “Maybe those holes are so big that they’re harder to miss.” Dude, enjoy your new bed: the sofa.

9. … chase women who are out of their league.
a. “Because women can be bought.”
b. “What’s wrong with a little ambition?”
c. “We love a challenge and firm asses.”

10. … desire and can have meaningless sex.
a. “It’s cheaper in the long run.”
b. “Wait a minute. What about the woman on the receiving end of that sex? She’s doing the same thing.”
c. “Because we have an unlimited supply of sperm and an inherent desire to spread our genes.”

11. … don’t say what they mean.
a. “Because it always gets me in trouble.”
b. “Half the time I don’t even know what I mean.”
c. “I say what I mean. She doesn’t want to hear it, so she hears what she wants.”

12. … are such babies when they have colds.
a. “Hey, you’re supposed to be mothering me. Make me soup.”
b. “God made women numb so they can handle childbirth. They can’t relate to the severe pain of a man’s sniffles.”
c. “If I die, who will take care of her? Probably the firefighter down the street–that bastard!”

13. … are selfish and insensitive.
a. “Really? Did I buy the Tiffany bracelet for my benefit?”
b. “I don’t care and I need another beer.”
c. “Because when we were little, our brothers and buddies constantly picked on us.”

14. … need approval from their male friends.
a. “We’re used to having coaches, teammates, and fans. [insert chest bump]”
b. “My friends happen to have great taste in cars, clothing, and beer.”
c. “Because I can’t keep running everything past my father.”

15. … have so many issues with hair.
a. “You must be kidding. You spent how much money last month at the salon, having your roots colored?”
b. “You have no idea how tedious it is to shave my head and face almost daily. No, it does not compare to legs and armpits.”
c. “If you don’t like it, you shave it. While you’re at it, let me take a razor to that Chia Pet you’re cultivating down there.”Sorry. Now you know why my friends and I were left holding our own.