Land of Forgotten Ladies

Met a fine pair of self-described middle-aged women last night. That term “middle-aged” bugs me. I don’t mind being young or old, because those are based on my relative age to the describer. But, when someone calls me “middle-aged,” they are implying they know how long I will live. Doubt I’ll make it to 110, so maybe I’m two-thirds-aged.

Anywho, these two lovelies also described themselves lost in the sense that they are at an awkward dating age. They’re approached either by young boys or old men. Men their age want young women, so they look right past the beauty before them.

That’s kind of sad.

The ladies went on to explain that young boys want middle-aged women because the boys assume they come with experience—know their way around a ding dong, so to speak. Also, boys expect these women to be in touch with their needs and desires, and have no problem communicating them without all those confusing emojis.

Old men (they placed at 60-65) want the middle-aged women because they need women who can take care of them—know their way around the kitchen, so to speak. Also, these are usually not the rich old men, since those slobs still chase around young skirts willing to curtsy at the sight of fast cars and job titles. The old men who want the middle-aged women are aware of their hastened slide toward ashes and dust.

Alone is no way to die, but we all die alone … unless Trump gets us nuked.

As I age, I see young girls as pretty to look at, nice to hold, and mentally exhausting to maintain. I can appreciate a Ferrari without owning one. Plus, I like sleeping. Young girls are in the bathroom finishing up getting ready for a night on the town. I’m in there scratching my ass while taking the first of three slumber pisses.

“Have fun, sweetie. Be a darling and take off your heels before staggering upstairs when you get home. Daddy needs his ugly sleep.”

The more I speak to the forgotten women, the more I reassure myself that this is an island I need to visit. Sure, there’s an attitude. These ladies do know what they want and don’t want. They have no problem insisting I open doors and send zero dick pics. It’s not that they neglect their looks; they obsess less about them. They replace vodka Red Bull with a snifter of fine tequila.

They mentioned a third type of man who does notice them: married. This man is bored with his ponderous sex life, and is looking for a testosterone boost without all the nasty side effects. Fortunately, these women are tuned to such and able to avoid the silliness. They empathize with the wife’s neglected love button and cast the married men from their shores toward Slutty Barbieland.

So, I found out which woman was single, and I asked her out. She said, “sure,” and gave up the digits. What a fine, age-appropriate souvenir for me! Let’s hope we enjoy numerous rides between her land and the place I call home: Nice Guy Island.


ditchedThe term “young lady” changes meaning as I age. I’ve revised my calculation to this: If she could be my daughter, she’s young and, to her, I’m old. There’s no judgment associated. Let’s call it classification, shall we? She’s not a different species, because I could still mate with her. So, if she were to refer to me as a dinosaur, that would be a false classification. Humans can’t fuck dinosaurs. Never could. Not even West Virginians.

Where am I going with this?

Just want to set the proper mental scene for you before I tell the sad story of an abandoned dinosaur, I mean puppy—me. You see, I met a young lady with unoccupied seat next to her next to me in my office (bar). I took advice from all the relationship help audio books I have been consuming, and initiated idle chit chat. She responded, although somewhat guarded. I slid closer, attempting to convince her of my innocent lovability.

She was new to the area. I was old to the area. I offered to escort her on a tour of fine sights and establishments in the form of dive bars with cheap beer sold in dirty glasses. I took a chance there. She was wearing sneakers, so I inferred a local IPA would do. My wallet sighed relief.

I usually begin feeling out prospects with the following:

“How are you finding the dating scene here on the left coast?”

“Um, strange.”

“How so?”

“It usually goes like this. I meet a new guy. We hit it off well. We hang, we drink, we dance. Then, he disappears. No number exchange. No reason. Poof!”

“Ah. That is strange. Look, I won’t do that to you. Promise.”

What this dinosaur/puppy should have considered, however, is the likelihood that she would use this opportunity to get back at boys who ghosted her. She took me from my cage, tickled my chin, and played fetch (beer). Then, just when I was pee-puddle excited to have a snuggle buddy, she placed me back in my dog pound cage and drove away.

Didn’t even get a chance to lick her.

Before you start a Go Fund Me campaign to keep me from the doggie ovens, rest assured that my calloused heart is fine here alone. I’ll not whimper, whine, and claw at my cage. I’ll simply wait patiently for the next adopter with emotional vacancy to consider me.

The Proper Hug

hugIt’s weird to greet women I meet with my hand extended. Thanks to our Pervert in Chief elect, women often react to that by covering their cats, not extending their hands. I won’t bother trying to kiss the back of a hand. My nose doesn’t need more deviation. So, it seems, the thing to do is make myself a cuddly bear by extending arms and offering a hug.

It is important, my male readers, that we go about the hug properly. Much like when going south on a lady, we are rarely going to get verbal clues. The safest approach for us is to wrap only the right arm around her, targeting her right shoulder blade with the right hand. Our chin should rest near her left shoulder, at least four inches from her neck and ear. If you are sporting fuzzy chin as I, be mindful of Velcro-ing her mane. The only contact should be your right shoulder with her left and the aforementioned chin and right hand things. Torsos and legs should not meet. Feet should not be stepped upon. (I’ve fucking done this. Hated myself for weeks after. Call me “Frankenphil.”)

Please don’t make any weird grunting noises or groans while hugging her—so fucking creepy. In fact, hold your breath. She doesn’t want her shoulder smelling like your happy hour draft beer. You can add two or three pats on her shoulder blade. That’s a nice touch. Don’t do it with a clenched fist, and remember she’s a delicate flour, not a running back in the end zone.

“How long should a hug last?” I’d say two seconds. No need to use your iPhone timer, silly. Just do the mental one one-thousand, two one-thousand, then back away.

Now, the most important part: interpreting how she approaches the hug. I’m assuming you’ve gotten past, “Aw, hell no you don’t.” The embrace has ensued. If she whimpers like your puppy at the vet, that’s not good. Release the embrace immediately, apologize, and leave. If she submits to your borderline physical abuse, here are things she might do to offer you a clue:

  1. She may nuzzle in to your neck. Bully for you, young man. I’m hoping you placed a dab of something nice-smelling on your neck this morning. No, not Axe. Try something oaky.
  2. She may back away. Chalk this one up in the “Women I’ll Never Have Sex With” column. Learn from it. Next time you see her, wave.
  3. She may move closer and straddle your leg. Holy fucking shit, brother. ’Tis quite a good day to be you—well, of course unless she happens to be related. Let’s assume she shares no genes. It was awfully generous of her to give you hints of things to come. Don’t ruin in by lifting your leg. A clitoris cannot be properly stimulated with a knee. Nay. Just take it, deposit the memory into your spank bank, and determine her level of intoxication before proceeding.
  4. She may cry. Jesus. This is horrible. Sorry, my brother. I got nothing. Could be any number of reasons, one of which is not how happy she is to have rubbed against your baby-arm-sized manhood. Let her leak. Deal with it. Drink more.

Again, the most important thing to remember when going in for the hug is that you’re being slightly aggressive and creepy, but you’re also being a risk-taker. Chicks dig that.

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.