Take care of your body. It’s the only place you have to live.

psu(quote by Jim Rohn)

I was taken out to the ballgame by a group of buddies. Naturally, we spent most of the time questioning umpires and pointing out delicious women in nearby sections. What women need to understand (and, they should, because they do the same damn thing) is that when men objectify a woman or body part, we do so with the utmost sense of love and appreciation. It is somehow more acceptable to say, “Look at those tits,” than it is to say, “Look at her tits!” I assume this is because the “her” connected to those tremendous globs of glands may also be connected to another man or, worse, a bit too young to have old creepers oohing and ahhing her like fireworks.

Last night, I was exposed to a new term, which I adore and have adopted. It’s an acronym, actually: PSU. (No, this has nothing to do with the Nittany Boy Soapers.) Notably, this term may be applied to either gender. Most recently, it was used in the following sentence:

“Wow, what a rack! I wonder how the PSU is.”

PSU, as in Pussy Support Unit.

If you’re cringing, simply trade “Pussy” for “Penis”–something I can’t bring myself to consider, no matter how many trips I take to the desert.

A PSU is basically the rest–the chaff, the peel, the flesh, the emotions, what have you. There’s really no reason to take offense, as there was no assumption made about a faulty PSU. He simply wondered how it was. It may have been spectacular as well. Pristine, even. Sometimes fast, comfortable cars come with fine exteriors, and minimal maintenance requirements. That PSU could be some quad-core, multi-giga-ram shit.

Now, if you’re curious to know if any of my fellow swine and I had the testicular fortitude to approach her and speak to her in order to learn more about the SU and take our minds off the P, well, let’s just say we left the pretty little toy on the shelf where she belongs.

I’ve been with or near enough packs of women to know the same objectification happens as they scan the area for sausage.

“Ah. Ladies, may I call your attention to heavenly bartender boy, with eyes like pools of arctic ice.”

“Nice. This may require further investigation to determine if it has a functional PSU.”

“It certainly pours a heavy drink–a plus.”

“It also was very polite when taking our order. I say kudos to the designers.”

“Does it dance?”

“Lord, who knows?”

“Do you think it kisses properly? I’d hate to invest in the PSU, only to find a sloppy leak.”

“Ee-yuck. Think it has an owner?”

“Possibly. But, we all know the PSU can be confused and hacked into quite easily. Pardon me while I layer on some lip gloss.”

“There are other Ps in the vicinity, my dears. Perhaps, we shouldn’t be hasty.”

“True, but there seems to be quite a few rusty, old PSUs lying around.”

“Sometimes those are more reliable.”

“And, sometimes they need Vitamin V to function properly.”

The curious shapes and sizes of men.

coneMost discussions inspired by fermented grapes and such eventually degrade (dare I say upgrade?) to the topic of sex. Last night was no different, as the young ladies who graced me with their presence decided to teach me a thingy or two about penises. At first I was miffed, then I considered the likelihood that they have both seen more penises than I have. Also, they’ve certainly held more, tasted more, and so on.

“This guy I was with had one that was huge at the base then tapered down toward the tip.”

“He had a traffic cone penis?”

“Oh my god! You captured it perfectly. Yes!”

“Gosh, I hope it wasn’t orange.”

“No, but it certainly filled me in nicely.”


“I bet yours is probably bigger at the base too. I can tell by your hands.”

“What? No, actually mine is pretty uniform in girth from here to yonder. And, what the hell can you tell by my hands, anyway?”

“Hands tell a woman a lot about the man’s penis.”



“So, because my fingers are tapered, you assume I have a telescopic schlong?”

“I can’t explain it. Let’s just say I know what to expect when I unzip a man by the size and shape of his hands.”

“Right. And I can tell how roast-beefy your vagina lips are from the size of your purse.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Not any more than a cock-a-nalysis done from my hands.”

“Whatever. I was with this other guy who had tiny hands and stubby fingers. Guess what?”

“He was packing a Mike and Ike sized dinkie doo?”

“Yup. He barely had more than your thumb–erect.”

“You haven’t seen my thumb erect. It’s quite a clit-thumper.”

“His penis erect. Although it was half of what I’m used to, he got me off with no problem whatsoever. You know why?”

“Because he was a senator?”

“No, because it hit my g-spot perfectly.”

“See that? Those extra four inches go to waste, unless one happens to be trying to reach that spot from another port of entry.”

“Sick bastard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There are all sorts of weenies out there. I concur. We didn’t even delve into the universe of anteater cocks. They are all of different shapes, sizes, and turgidity. Some point east; some point nor-easterly. Some have curious bends; others have frightening bumps. Naturally, they come in different colors as well. So, I suggest you ladies have it good. Popping that top button and unzipping is kind of like Christmas over and over, every time you’re with a new fellow. Sure, women are unique down there, but not quite so different. I have a good idea what to expect when I go a-digging. The moisture content varies more than the shape, size, and depth. Yet, I sure do love taking my uniformly-shaped, average-sized, very white penis on mining trips.

Since men have Hooters Restaurant, women deserve …

Harry Bohner’s BistroServing the stiffest since 2012.

I go into certain establishments and wonder if men have truly evolved at all since caveman days. Hooters, Tilted Kilt, Twin Peaks, etc. all feature buxom ladies with exposed mid-rifts and tiny shorts bouncing around the bar with large mugs and fried horribleness. Not that I’m complaining. I do, however, find it odd when Little Miss Titsalot give me an attitude for staring her in the brown eyes while listening to the specials.

“You put them out there, baby, and I’m gonna take a gander. Arch that back and take frequent trips through the walk-in to make your tips swell.”

So, to teach men how silly it is to treat women like fancy cars at an auto show, I recommend this new franchise begins popping up around town (tee hee). Harry Bohner’s should feature male servers and bartenders with leather-ish pants pre-stuffed with magnificent schlong-a-ronis. Naturally, the house specialty will be an assortment of links:

  • Italian Bohner – spicy and greasy, served with marinara and a slap on the ass.
  • Asian Bohner – tiny links served with toothpicks and duck sauce.
  • Brown Boy Bohner – won’t even fit in the bun.
  • Canadian Bohner – served cold and shriveled.
  • Bohnerito – served in a taco shell with re-fried beans and a shot of tequila.
  • New York Bohner – this week’s special is served in a soggy bun. (Sorry, too soon?)
  • Philly Bohner – in a toasted bun wit’ cheese whiz and fried peppers and onions.
  • Cali Bohner – overpriced, but you look good eating one.

I need to come up with more taglines for Bohner’s, as well as a mascot. Hmm. Hooters has an owl (we get it: the eyes look like nipples). Harry Bohner’s mascot should be a cock. Nah, that’s too on-the-nose. How about a python crawling between two boulders? An elephant? What woman hasn’t dreamed of being taken by a man with a large trunk in his trunks?

Help me out here. Think out of her box.

  • “Where the drinks are stiff and the servers are stiffer.”
  • “Have a hard one.”
  • “More than a mouthful, more than a handful.”
  • “Bet you can’t eat just eight inches.”
  • “We’ll leave a hard on.”
  • “Our Bohner’s are the best baloney ponies you’ll find in a bun.”

Therapist is a shitty job, especially without pay.

There’s a saying in baseball called “working without a paycheck.” It applies to pitchers who, in the American League, bust their rumps without getting a chance to contribute to their own success from the offensive side of things. They don’t get to grab lumber, step into the batter’s box, knock dirt from their spikes, dig in, and smack a ball into the gap. The same applies to people who open ear and allow friends to stuff it full of tales of men and their evil habits.

“Why hasn’t he called me?”

“Because he’s been hit by a trolley.”

“Stop. Seriously. Why are men so flaky?”

“Do I know this fellow?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then how should I know his reason for radio silence?”

“Are you flaky?”



“Because I’m not blown often enough.”

“Come on.”

“It depends on the situation. Usually, if he’s not calling you he’s either busy or not into you. Next question.”

“Do guys like it when you play with their balls?”

“Gently … and, I prefer this line of questioning. Physical shit is easy; it’s the cerebral conundrums that stump me.”

“But, you’re a mature man. You should understand how you work.”

“Yes, I should. I know I like blowjobs.”

“Christ. What else?”

“Salt and vinegar potato chips.”

“I mean what else sexually.”

“Everything else sexually, with a side of ranch dressing.”

“OK, why does my man insist upon only spending the night at my place.”

“So he can leave.”


“Hey, if you don’t want to know the answer …”

“Fine. I hate him.”

“Yes, you should be a lesbian.”

“You wish. Why do men like watching women touch themselves?”

“It’s the same result with less work.”


“Can’t we sit here, sedate ourselves, and discuss something other than my inherent flaws?”

“Sure. Ask me something about women?”

“How far can you pee?”


“Seriously. After four beers, I swear I can piss an arc that would rival The Gateway Arch.”


“So, four feet? Five?”

“How should I know? Women don’t do tests to see how far we can pee.”

“Well, you should. Say, have you ever squirted?”

“No. Shut up.”

“I once farted during an orgasm. So embarrassing.”

“Yet you’re not too embarrassed to tell me.”

“I didn’t fart on you.”

“Men. Conversations always degenerate.”

“OK, ask me another psychological question.”

“Do men fantasize?”

“All the time.”




“Wing sauce.”


“Yes, ass … and boobs and boobs and more boobs, all attached to a woman who can’t believe how wonderful my penis is.”

“But, not necessarily the woman you happen to be having sex with at the time.”

“Probably not.”

“So, why wouldn’t you be having sex with the woman you’re fantasizing about instead?”

“Because, even if the clouds parted and this angel descended from the heavens, she’d wind up doing something annoying to ruin it, like asking me to talk afterward instead of sleep.”

“Now I’m glad he hasn’t called me. He’d be thinking about someone else anyway.”

“Right. I’m glad you’re learning. Our session has expired. I’ll pencil you in for next Friday. Will you be paying with cash or blowjobs?”



Cat calls don’t even work on cats.

It seems I need to lecture my brothers once again about how not to treat a lady.

I took my casual lunchtime stroll through downtown San Diego. There’s usually a variety of characters milling about and today was no exception. The first man who stood out was an impeccably dressed fellow. He wore a gray suit with a purple fedora and purple crocodile skin shoes. I’ll not describe his skin tone because it’s irrelevant; dickheads come in all colors. Across the street from him was a fine young lady, dressed as one would expect on a warm spring day. I noticed. He noticed. I kept my inside voice inside. He let his out.

“Yo, shawty. How’d you like to come strip at my club?”

Naturally, she ignored his comment and sped up her pace.

I thought, In the entire history of mankind, has that ever worked? Has a man ever yelled anything toward a woman across the street that resulted in (and I’ll widen the target here) a friendly discussion?

Nope. It doesn’t happen. In fact, if she were to respond in a positive manner it would be absolutely brilliant.

“Hey there, handsome. What’s that you say? You like what you see?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“And what’s this about a club you mentioned?”
“I am a proprietor at a gentleman’s club.”
“Well, blow lilac scented breezes across my baby peach. It must be my lucky day.”
“It is.”
“I just happen to be in the hunt for a new occupation and as luck would have it, a job falls right into my glitter-laced lap. Where, do tell, shall I apply?”
“Um, well …”
“Say, why don’t you take me to lunch and let me blow you, just to get that out of the way. Then we can talk business.”

Men, I implore you: Don’t volley comments across streets toward women because your service will not be returned. It doesn’t matter how sincere you are or how flattering the comment is. She doesn’t want to hear it shouted at her. Before you get any other cockamamie ideas, don’t hold a boombox over your head playing 80s love songs either.

Here is what you may do, politely:

  • Smile at her.
  • Tip your cap.

These are borderline creepy, but acceptable as long as she’s not a minor:

  • Ask is she’s familiar with the area and if she can direct you to her favorite restaurant.
  • Remark to her how her loveliness just made your day.

If her reaction is positive, you may proceed with further questioning, but once she objects, beat it.

Here, I’ll try a cat call on my cat, Symon.

“Yo, Symon. Get you furry little ass up here.”
“Because I want you to.”
“Insufficient reason. Back to sleep.”
“Hey! Get up here now, you handsome ball of orangeness.”
“Do you have food?”
“I am your master. Obey me.”
“You should have gotten a dog, Master. Nighty night now.”


Manners you must teach him.

Mothers usually assume the responsibility for teaching their sons proper manners. This is an important part of child rearing, which is sadly wasted as the boy-child grows into a man-child. I fear there’s a gap in the training that causes the problem. Manners are more like rollerblading than biking in that lapses cause pain.

Take, for example, the basic manner of politely saying please and thank you.

CHILD: “I want a cookie.”
MOTHER: “Is that how you ask?”
CHILD: “Can I have a cookie?”
MOTHER: “I’m sure you can, but the proper question is are you allowed to have a cookie, isn’t it?”
CHILD: “Fine. May I have a cookie?”
MOTHER: “What’s the magic word?”
CHILD: “Abraca-fucking-dabra?”
MOTHER: “What?! Who did you hear that word from?”
CHILD: “Who or whom?”
MOTHER: “Go to your room, you little wisenheimer.”

Note how that same conversation has skewed twenty years hence.

HUSBAND: “I want to have sex.”
WIFE: “Is that how you ask?”
HUSBAND: “Can we have sex tonight?”
WIFE: “I’m sure we can, but I’m not sure I’ve been put in the proper mood.”
HUSBAND: “Fine. May I pour you some pinot and give you a foot massage?”
WIFE: “What’s the magic word?”
HUSBAND: “Nordstroms?”
WIFE: “Yes, but there’s another word, isn’t there?”
HUSBAND: “Aw, fuck it. I’ll just go beat off. Thanks for nothing.”

I struggled with table manners as an adolescent. I held my fork improperly, had my elbows on the table, played with my food, and kicked my little brother in the ankles when he tried to drink milk. Still, it seems I have improved.

PHIL: “These tacos are da bomb. Pass the Tapatio, Sugarbee-o.”
FUTURE EX: “The what?”
PHIL: “Hot sawse.”
FUTURE EX: “Your Philly accent comes out when you say sauce. Say it again, this time with the magic word and I’ll gladly hand it to you.”
PHIL: “Can I please have the bottle of orange, peppery goo?”
FUTURE EX: “You’re no fun. Can or may?”
PHIL: “I can take you back to my place tonight, but I may not, as you are starting to annoy me.”
FUTURE EX: “You’re a writer. You should appreciate proper grammar and manners.”
PHIL: “You’re a woman. You should be making me dinner, doing the dishes, and then quietly juicing my penis.”
FUTURE EX: “Asshole.”
PHIL: “Please?”

Dear Philly: Why do men [fill in the blank]?

I realize it’s dangerous to post such questions on Facebook and Twitter because men are stupid, psycho, stalkers. So, you can post your question anonymously as a comment on this blog post and I’ll write a reply on my Facebook fan page at SuchaNiceGuy.

Post any question or observation you have about dating, relationships, and sex. Philly the Guru will rub his crystal balls, end your confusion, and ease your pain.