Archives for April 2011
I’m so tired of insurance commercials. I blame the gecko, caveman, and that mega-bumpit-headed Flo. I hate her. She is a cross between an evil nurse, a clown, and a pre-tan Snooki. It’s not only her look that annoys me. I don’t like her attitude. So, there. I’ve waited many decades to say that line, which I heard as a child so often: I don’t like your attitude.
She’s too bubbly.
Public servants should not overexert themselves in attempts to seem pleasant. It’s obvious to patrons they’re trying too hard. Fake smiles and pleasantries are nerve-grating. I long for the day when my bartender admits she’s in a miserable mood and would much prefer a steaming bubble bath to muddling my fruit.
Insurance is unavoidable and it provides no pleasure. I don’t want to spend any time at all shopping for it. Just give me the cheapest one and let me get back to the NHL playoffs, please.
Why are all of the men Flo waits on, emasculated heaps straight from the cast of Broadway musicals? One dude’s carrying a man purse, another is posing for pictures like he’s on Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and even the motorcycle dude smells like a Village Person, not freedom. The pansies who work for the competitor, but shop at Progressive, look like they came from The Gaytrix. (I mean … look, I’ve never seen it. Honest. I’m just imagining. Do not cast me in the next commercial.)
Oh, how I wish I could enter Flo’s store.
“Well, hello there. Gee, that’s quite a flashy T-shirt you have on there, sir. I bet you’re in the market for auto insurance for your orange Porsche.”
“One more remark like that and I will slap you across the labia.”
“Woah, no need to be violent there, mister. Maybe it’s a red Mercedes?”
“It’s a black fucking Jeep, Flo. Say, does that lipstick smear when you … you know … work the stick shift.”
“I have no idea to what you’re referring. Say, walk with me over here to our price board and let’s see how much money you can save with Progressive.”
“I have a better idea. Let me take you to the beach and treat you to a screaming chicken cutlet.”
“Hm. You know, you are cute, in a curious way.”
“You’ve certainly piqued my interest and I do love the beach–then again, you knew that when you saw my corpse-ish tan. Is the cutlet some sort of barbeque specialty of yours?”
“Here’s how it works: We find a secluded area on Moonlight Beach and go at each other like rhesus monkeys on Red Bull. I grind on top of you, gradually working that silly white apron up to your waist. I peel down those naughty laced panties of yours and begin pounding you into the sand, sans towel. Just when you’re about to climax, I’ll withdraw my Willy, swirl him about in the sand (a la chicken cutlet), and then reinsert.”
“Let me grab my purse.”
Wow. I just reread that and am convinced I need therapy. The normal reaction to Flo would be, “Aw, she’s so cute. What a snarky little sweetheart.” Still, I want to grab onto that bump-it and bang her in the bumper. Guess I should stay with Geico.
Even Dr. Phil McGraw can keep his woman happy while he spews his Kentucky Fried relationship advice. He’s not even attractive. Not at all. Come on. If he’s a 5, I’m at least a 5.5. Maybe he’s rich, hung, and a good kisser. OK, 5.25. Whatever. I’m sure every spat he and his wife get into ends with her relenting as he name drops Oprah and all of his sponsors. Still, the wife stays put. I bet she pays as much attention to his advice as I pay to the Royal Wedding.
So, why do so many concerns arise when I begin courting the finer sex? I should use a pen name, lie, and say I am a volunteer firefighter. The coolness of my occupation disintegrates more quickly than Joan Rivers’ face in the sun. As soon as the new bed warmer reads my ramblings, my intentions become suspect.
“There’s no way you make all of that up. You must have lots of firsthand experience.”
“True. I have experience dating and even more experience observing the relationship catastrophes of others.”
“So, which parts are true? Which one is you?”
“None of it is true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Ah ha! So you are lying.”
“No. I am embellishing.”
“What are you going to write about when you have a steady girlfriend and fall in love?”
“I’m not comfortable with your writing about our relationship.”
“I always change the names and twist the scenarios.”
“Still. Why don’t you write about how much you love me?”
“Because that’s boring to everyone but you.”
Why can’t I learn to give the answer most likely to stoke the relationship fire? I appreciate brutal honesty, so it’s what I’m most comfortable delivering, much to the dismay of my dangly parts. I should simply play along and ensure my lovely lady that, as we approach the altar (due to death more likely than marriage … sorry … more brutal honesty), my tune will change. I’ll write pillowy prose about how my heart soars in her presence and aches in her absence. Blech. Haven’t we heard that often enough?
I know, I know. Play the role or one day in my eighties I will keel over and be eaten by my six cats.
“Look, J. K. Rowling never flew on a broom, right?”
“Right, but …”
“Clive Barker never impaled anyone on a spike.”
“True, but …”
“David Duchovny was never addicted to sex.”
“Um, actually he was recently in treatment for that specific affliction.”
“Shit. OK, bad example. Wait, but he doesn’t write Californication.”
“Yet it becomes him.”
“That’s life imitating art. My musings are art imitating life.”
“I don’t know. I’m uncomfortable with all of this.”
“How can I make you comfortable?”
“Tell me you love me and write about that.”
“I can write about how difficult it is to tell somebody you love them.”
“Love is such a subjective thing anyway. How about adore?”
“Fine, you can tell me you like me and write about how much you like sleeping alone.”
“I kind of already did that.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
We all reach that point in our relationships where ground rules are determined. Unfortunately, they’re unwritten and left open to interpretation. I contend that, since women make the final decision about whether there will be sex tonight, women should initiate.
You don’t realize how ego bruising it is when I reach for a boob and am stonewalled. (I’m not referring to flat-chested females, whom I actually prefer to cereal-bowl-breasted babes.) There needs to be some indication of interest. Aside from the obvious male indicator–lumpius en pantsium–it’s safe for women to assume men are always in the mood. Even one hour after my vasectomy, sexual thoughts arose.
However, women are sometimes ready and other times prefer postponement. They are also in the mood for various acts, not just penetration. Sometimes they just want to make out or cuddle. Occasionally, they want to peak externally. On a rare occasion, when tequila hasn’t sufficiently saturated the bloodstream, they want to get downright freaky.
How’s a man to know?
It’s a precarious balance. If she’s in the mood and I don’t pick up on the signal, it signals a variety of possible issues I might have:
- I can’t get a hard on and am in dire need of little blue pills.
- I masturbated too recently.
- My mind is on other things like taxes, hockey playoffs, and all-season radials.
- I’m gay.
- I don’t like her anymore.
- I’m concerned that I am (or she is) presently a bit unkempt.
- I need sleep.
- I’m not over an ex.
- I have a penis blister from the previous extended session.
- I hear my Mom calling me to dinner.
Typically, the issue is “none of the above.” It’s a matter of timing and communication. No man wants his woman to mercy fuck him. It smacks of desperation and neediness. He wants the desire to be mutual. Believe me, it’s not fun when your woman rolls onto her side, facing away from you, and says, “Help yourself, and don’t take too long. I’m tired.”
What’s the solution?
How about a modern use of the refrigerator magnet? (It’s just my luck that magnets don’t stick to my goddamn refrigerator, so I’ll opt for Post-It notes.) I’m going to invent a horniness meter, similar to that spinning game piece used in Twister. There will be one for each partner.
The women’s indicator:
- Blue – “Touch me and I may de-dick you.”
- Green – “All right tonight, if you must.”
- Yellow – “Open for business, but I suggest you put a towel down first.”
- Red – “By the time we’re done tonight, you’re going to need an icepack and Advil.”
The man’s indicator:
- Blue – “[Pouting with lower lip extended.] But, honey … I’m all backed up. Please? Pretty please with Peppermint Astroglide on top? I promise I’ll do all my chores tomorrow.”
- Green – “I read online today that man-o-naise is good for your skin.”
- Yellow – “I’ll bring home flowers, rub your feet, make you dinner, watch Idol, and visit your parents with you this weekend.”
- Red – “I can hang. No, I’m not done yet. Five minutes. Come on, coach. Give me another shot.”
The stuff that gets me giggling the most involves humans attempting something they’re not qualified to do. Failure is funny–even my own. You must learn to laugh at yourself, people. To do so requires you to spend significant time witnessing train wrecks.
- Baseball – Whoever invented recreational softball had a marvelous sense of humor. A few years ago, I had a baseball game on a field next to a softball field. The softball field was decorated in Amish: boys in suspenders, girls in pastel dresses and doilies. Between innings of our game, I watched the Amish train speeding toward a wall. One of the girls hit a pop up (a minor miracle in itself), three boys ran under it, two collided and fell, and the ball hit the third square in the forehead. He took a few stagger steps and dropped to his butt. I was gleeful as a kid on Christmas morning.
- Singing – Most people who watch (and not obsess about) American Idol admit they enjoy the first few weeks most. Why is that? Well, that’s when the people who think they can sing show millions of viewers they can’t.
- White Acting Black – When I see a white kid wearing a crooked, flat-billed cap, an oversized T-shirt, and jeans so low he can only bend his legs from the knees down, I get a kick out of it. If he also speaks in Ebonics, drives a low-riding pickup, or has a tatted-up, fat, white chick pushing a stroller next to him, I get downright giddy.
- Fat Bikers – I appreciate the effort, but insist that the first fifty pounds should be lost on a stationary bike, not in public while wearing loudly printed tights.
- Dancing – Wise people (like me) who are aware of their inabilities rarely attempt certain activities unless there is an over-ingestion of alcohol. If we must do so, we take much care as to not draw attention to our maladies lest someone calls paramedics to attend to the seizures on the dance floor.
- Baseball – I know I covered this already, but believe me, there’s enough material here for five bullets. A friend of a friend joined our baseball team last year. He hadn’t played since his school years. He (wisely) went to Play It Again Sports to equip himself. He (unwisely) bought a helmet with a channel cut in back. When he proudly donned it during his first at bat, the rest of us noticed and verbally beat him mercilessly. His helmet with a ponytail holder didn’t protect him.
- Storytelling – We all have those friends who launch into a story that veers off into some parallel dimension and ends with a missing punch line. I frequently sit through half a rum and diet waiting for the payoff while wishing for cliff notes. Still, brain farts are funny.
- Ingesting – When I watch the young-ins drop shots into beers and chug them, I wonder what possible enjoyment there is in it: violent belches and brain freeze? I also love people who proclaim their food can’t be hot enough. They order “nuclear” wings, and cringe and sweat through dinner leading up to tomorrow’s sphincter burning potty sessions.
- Grace – Anyone doing anything clumsy is funny, as long as there are no bone fragments involved. People who walk into sliding glass doors, trip over a sidewalk cracks, and slip on wet floors should each take a bow, that way I wouldn’t need to hold back my laughter while acting as if I didn’t see it happen.
- Baseball – OK, one more. People who bring baseball gloves to an MLB game amuse me. I sat in the leftfield bleachers Friday, next to a pudgy dude with a soft pretzel and a glove. It didn’t matter that we were over 500 feet away. Every fly ball caused him to stand, pound his fist into his glove, and yell, “Here it comes!” What … a ball-less boob.
It began in childhood. I loved those square penny gums that used to come in the glass bubble. Do you remember them? I’d slide the metal lever over as far as possible and hope the machine dumped a few extra. Then, instead of enjoying them one at a time, I’d stuff the red (cinnamon), black (licorice), green (spearmint), and white (peppermint) ones into my mouth and make one large, gray mass of indistinguishable muck. Silly boy.
Mom would say, “One a time, son.”
She was right.
It applies to dating as well. Few women need reminding, but men rarely learn.
Dating more than one woman at a time is stressful, so I don’t do it. Stress kills. It carves deep wrinkles, whitens my hair (what’s left of it), and gives me neck pain. No, thank you. If I attempt juggling women, I’m stuck dropping everything and chasing around the mess I’ve made.
(This reminds me of another funny quote my baseball teammate made. Our second baseman went to field a ground ball, booted it, bobbled it, finally picked it up, and barely got the batter out at first. My buddy said, “Did you see that? He went after that ball like a stripper pickin’ up change.” Ha! Guess you had to be there.)
Dating multiple people simultaneously makes no sense if there’s any interest in having something more than a casual relationship. If I were out to hop from hole to hole, perhaps I could do it. I’m too old for that shit. I want to find one cozy hole and set up camp.
So, when I go on a date with someone and it turns out that I like her (as opposed to the usual blind date that I’m tempted to end with an icy plunge off a bridge), I give her the Phil’s speech.
“I’m a one woman at a time kind of guy. No pressure on you, though, but I’m only going to be dating you until we decide if this is worth maintaining. I can’t concentrate if I have to keep more than one lover.”
“Can’t do it. There’s keeping the names straight and remembering which one drinks red, has living parents, and enjoys having her back tickled. It’s too complicated.”
“Hm, that’s refreshing.”
“I know. I’m quite a catch, huh?”
Yep, easier said than one woman. Typically, when I make such a pronouncement, Nature arranges an amazing pussy parade, the likes of which I have never seen. It’s difficult to stay on the curb with my propeller hat and balloon while admiring the once-unobtainable floats from a safe distance.
I can do it, Mom.
Especially when people start sleeping together, they should be monogamous–not because of some religious threat, either. It’s safer and more logical. If sex turns sour then end it and move on (in that order).
So, here I am: one-at-a-time man. I’m as loyal as a Labrador, and I won’t chew your furniture. Promise.
You’d like to think men don’t consider the economic side of relationships. We do. We may not all admit it (because some of us hate sleeping on the couch with Coco’s cold, wet nose), but we all apply a little grade school algebra. It smacks of prostitution.
My pal, Hank, just broke it off with a woman he dated for six weeks. He saw diminishing returns (e.g., blowjobs) and decided it was time to sell, sell, sell.
“Wow, I thought things were going along magnificently.”
“It sure started that way. After date two she sexted me a topless photo.”
“Quite a fine prospectus, if you ask me.”
“Indeed it was.”
“Since you are no longer invested, may I have a look-see? I’d like to review the assets.”
“Here ya go.”
“Bravo! How were the returns?”
“Early returns were encouraging.”
“I figure I invested close to two thousand dollars in the six weeks. I probably got laid twelve times.”
“Well,” I scratched my head as my sexual abacus went to work, “that’s on the pricey side, my friend.”
“The missing element is the value of your orgasm. Are there any other factors to consider, such as road head or hiney sex?”
“There were, I estimate, three bonus blowjobs.”
“OK. So, fifteen orgasms for two thousand dollars means each orgasm had to be worth one hundred thirty-three dollars, give or take thirty-three cents and repeating threes. Damn, those repeating threes and sixes are annoying.”
“Yep. I vowed to withdrawal any investment with orgasms costing me more than one hundred dollars.”
Ah, capitalism at its worst.
Various expenses go into the investment part of the equation. The largest investment is usually dining out. We apply more than fifty percent because we probably would have opted for Carl’s Jr. if she wasn’t along. We definitely would have skipped the bread pudding. Other expenses include gas money for the ride to her house and restaurant and back, the bottle of wine delivered as a kind guest gesture, and contraception. It adds up.
Perhaps women perform similar financial calculations. Their returns must require consideration of penis width, length of sexual session, oral favors, and proper post-coital conversation and cuddling.
Where’s the investment for women?
Oh, I almost forgot. There are substantial investments in preparing the asset for delivery. First, there’s the investment in hair, nails, and makeup. Time is money and, although it takes most men ten minutes to get ready, women need an hour, or else. (There’s logic behind the length of ESPN News loops.) Second, women’s clothing is pricey. Toss in designer shoes, purses, and sunglasses and there’s a substantial investment.
Here’s the difference: Her investment is a capital asset, which may be spread across numerous investors (lovers).
I can’t reuse a condom, recover half the bottle of Bordeaux, or take a tax deduction for taxiing my investment all over creation, now can I? It’s a sunken investment. Maybe, I should see it as a donation and hope for karmic returns. Ah, but the next thoroughly exhausting orgasm makes it all worthwhile, so I’ll keep investing without thinking too much about the ROI.
As I float around my kitchen on this national (well, it should be) holiday, odd thoughts enter my mind. They’re sort of random. Not that they’re born out of boredom–just vacancy. I’ve done some mental spring-cleaning and made room for arbitrary thoughts.
- How does pot taste when sprinkled on top of pizza? Hey, oregano is tasty so why wouldn’t pot be tasty? I’m going to Pizza Port tonight with my own personal baggie.
- What’s that blue reflector doing in the middle of the street? The rest are yellow or white. WTF? OK, I’ll Google it. Stand by. Ah, it marks the location of a fire hydrant. I was hoping it was some satellite homing device assisting the delivery of my Publisher’s Clearing House winnings. *sigh*
- Why does Symon (orange cat) make a noise when he yawns? For that matter, why do humans do that? Can’t we just exhale?
- Now that my balls are disconnected, where are all of my sperm going? They’re lost and confused. This makes me sad. What if they travel to my lungs and I sneeze. If I don’t cover my mouth, could I get any fertile woman within ten feet pregnant?
- When they legalize it, will bars be able to sell Marijuana Mojitos? Oh … my … freaking … GAWD! How awesome would that be?
- Does Puerto Rican pussy taste like tacos? Jesus, where did that come from? Sorry. I’ll take a few online diversity classes.
- What’s Venus Williams like in the sack? I bet she’s rough. Oh, she’d toss me around like a sweaty towel. Sounds like love to me.
- How often do women masturbate? What do they think about when they do it? And, do they ever do it while driving? I’m going with: Daily, Firemen, and Yes.
- Is it wrong to fantasize about a character who is underage if she is played by and actress of legal age? I may need to go up to the booth for a ruling, but Haley from Modern Family gives me evil thoughts and lumpage. I apologize. If you have a penis, you can relate. If you don’t … again, I am sorry.
- Since I can smell the cigarette smoke from the smoker in the car in front of me, can people in the car behind me smell my farts? Well, if so, they should consider themselves blessed by my rosy emissions.
- In the history of humanity, has anyone ever had heterosexual (of course, the other type has happened) sex in a public gym sauna? That would be gross unless it involved me.
- How much time do the Kardashians spend watching The Kardashians? The producers should record a segment showing them watching themselves, watching themselves. It would be recursive hilarity … or not.
- Why is it illegal to pee on the side of the road, but legal to pee your pants in public? When ya gotta go, ya gotta go. You know?
- Who watches women’s sports? I can understand beach volleyball, but the rest of them make no sense to me.
- Why, in rap songs, is every rhyming word emphasized? So, you can RHYME. Don’t brag and waste my TIME. Ain’t no big SHIT. Websites help you do IT.
- Why are men fascinated by disproportionate asses? Have you seen the dumper on Nicki Minaj? Christ! First J-Lo, then Kim K, and now this. Where are we heading? I prefer my rumpus to be slightly less bulbous.
- To whom are homeless people taking? There was one fellow I saw yesterday who was playing air guitar (making all of the typical lead guitarist faces). He then switch to what I assume was air saxophone. Then he told somebody (me) that the end is near. I sure hope so.
I learned from all the chick magazines I read that women frequently want to know what men are thinking, especially while getting busy. So, I brought my iPad to a recent sexual escapade and recorded my thoughts during the entire process. Granted, I had to clean up quite a few typos, because touch-screen typing isn’t easy in certain positions (in fact, in every position except 69).
Once I realized I was going to “get it in” my next thought concerned where. Couch nookie can be fun, but I prefer larger fields of play, hence I nudged her toward the bedroom. This was an away game for me so I had to be subtle. I considered saying, “Race ya!” Then, I thought that was too juvenile. When I flipped her over and she banged her right elbow on the coffee table, the timing was perfect. Off to the master suite we went.
Three thoughts entered when I entered:
- Is she going to leave a light on? (Geez, after all the carbs I had today, I hope not.)
- Should we undress each other or ourselves?
- Is the comforter stain-resistant or should I be a (compulsive) gentleman and pull it down?
She left her panties and bra on so I did the same … with my boxer briefs. (I don’t wear a bra. Quit picking on me.) I love removing bras for some odd reason. I always attempt the one-handed, three-fingered undo first. That can work against me, though, as I’ve heard more than once, “Hm. You’re good at that. You must have had a lot of practice.” Like my lawyer taught me, I deny and distract.
Underwear removal is tricky for the person on top. It requires a pushup. With my long arms, I can usually get hers down about mid-thigh before employing my signature move by using my feet. Then I think, Hm, is this gross? My feet are clean but still my toes are going into a sterile area of clothing. It can be dangerous as I’ve had the hip strap of a thong caught between my large toe and index toe (Is that what it is?). That little maneuver induced a severe foot cramp and cost me fifteen minutes trying to regenerate wood.
Early in sexual relationships, I prefer woman-on-top because that way she can lead. There’s typically a few minutes wasted as neither of us wants to reach down and direct the love missile to the target. After numerous hands-free attempts resulting in civilian casualties around the taint and such, the woman usually guides things along. Yay!
During the act, my biggest concern is timing. Don’t come too quickly. Don’t take too long. I insert various thoughts to delay (algebra) and quickening (Bullock).
Noises also concern me. Some moans sound disturbing similar to cries of pain. I don’t want to ask if it hurts, because that sounds arrogant. If she says something sexy, I need to retort with something more creative than, “Me too.”
Other random thoughts:
- Ow, she bit me. I wonder if I’m bleeding. I guess I should bite her back.
- Damn, this is fun.
- Would she like it if I thumbed her clit during this? That’s tough on the wrist. OK, I won’t use my pitching hand.
- Should I pull out?
- Various songs from Broadway musicals, including “If my friends could see me now …”
Post-orgasm discussion and maneuvers tend to be the most stressful. I hear that undocking can be discomforting for women. It’s inevitable, though, so is it best to use the Band-Aid removal method, AKA the quick-withdrawal? Perhaps. I get giddy when it makes a noise. Tee, hee!
In the end, I omit the first-tap and insert the three best post-coital words I know of: “That was nice.”
I’m usually on the wrinkled nose of this scene so I am highly qualified to provide a guide to couples in public settings who feel the need (amongst other things) to put their love on display. You may sense a tinge of jealousy. That depends. Why must I be convinced that you’re in love? Who told you I care? Ah, wait a minute. Is this display an act of marking your territory? She’s all yours, brother.
There are subtle displays of affection that work exceptionally well, even when deployed in crowded spaces. Try these first:
- Holding hands
- Gentle caressing of non-private areas
- Whispered naughtiness
- Peck-style kisses
- Pat on the head
- Tiny squeeze of the rump (one hand only)
- Minor adjustment of stray hair (often stuck to lip gloss)
- Spoon feeding a dinner or dessert morsel
None of those cause indigestion, do they? Well, sure, there are exceptions, but as long as an old geezer isn’t bouncing a buxom Playmate upon his arthritic knee, it’s tolerable.
Conversely, when I am cuddling my rocks glass, the last thing I want to see across the bar is some lizard-tongued stooge face raping his woman. That ain’t pretty, not even on late night Skinemax. All that induces are elbows from patrons, groans, and the ever-famous line: “Get a room!”
In case the various unacceptable acts aren’t apparent, please allow me to detail them:
- Grabbing the back of your mate’s hair while licking her esophagus.
- Standing there with a boner, after your woman leaves your embrace.
- Running your greasy-nailed fingers up the front of her sweater.
- Rubbing her feet.
- Exhaling moisture into my fucking earlobe. (Sorry, that one’s personal and exceptionally icky.)
- Tweaking nipples.
- Grinding into him while you sit on his lap or dance in front of him while bent over.
- Body shots from anywhere but forearm or neck.
It amazes me that people having public foreplay are so oblivious or nonchalant about their effect on bystanders. I wish people would treat it like public urination. (OK, side note here: JWoww, if you really, truly peed behind the bar in that nightclub at the Jersey Shore, how the hell were you not incarcerated? Hey, Seaside police: IT’S RIGHT THERE ON FILM. Arrest her before other idiots begin copycatting!)
But, I digress.
It doesn’t matter if the PDA-tards are attractive or not–it’s fucking gross.
“Holy crap! Look at those two. Are you kidding me right now?”
“Oh, great. Thanks for pointing it out. Aren’t there any vomit puddles or children with cleft palates to bring to my attention?”
“I think they’re going to disrobe and have sex right there on the bar stool.”
“It’s certainly heading in that direction. With any luck he’ll misfire into his jeans and spare us the agony.”
I’m fine with sudden urges and affection. Just consider the audience and, if you need to, take a ten minute trip out to your window-tinted (except where illegal) SUV and make your deposit privately. We, the cringing cohabitants of the bar, thank you.
There are things better left unsaid. That said, I’m going to say them. I can’t cause any offense by saying them here because I’m saying they shouldn’t be said. Get it? For example, if I say men should never use the word “moist” around women, I’m exonerated although I have obviously just used the word around women. Context is everything.
I’ll begin with things ladies should not say to their men.
- “We need to talk.” – Any conversation beginning with that sentence isn’t going to be pleasant.
- “What was the bet you lost?” – Granted, this is more subtle than asking him outright why he is dressed like a teenager, clown, or Grandpa on a cruise, but the sarcasm stings.
- “Did you remember …” – Don’t be rhetorical.
- “Have you ever had a lover’s finger up your ass?” – It’s not the same.
- “You didn’t need me to save [insert invaluable item], did you?” – Whether it’s an episode of True Blood, his baseball card collection, or that cap he always wears, yes, he did.
- “You can’t imagine how big his unit was.” – Mentioning the lump that was once in your throat will probably create a lump in his.
- “My ex never took issue with my …” – Yes, he did.
- “I signed us up for a class.” – Unless it involves swinging a bat, racquet, or club, he has no interest in going back to school. OK, one other exception: beer making.
- “The car is making a funny noise.” – Funny to whom? The mechanic?
- “My friend, [insert name of annoying pest], says we should …” – Who asked her for advice?
- “Your phone buzzed while you were in the shower, so I checked the message.” – Start packing.
- “I ran into my ex last night.” – The next sentence will downplay the meeting, to no avail.
- “Does this dress make me look fat?” – No, your fat makes you look fat.
- “Maybe you should consider shaving your head.” – Why, thank you. I’ll leave the shavings in your sink every morning.
- “Did you know that most women need more than fifteen minutes of stimulation to have an orgasm?” – Is that cumulative? Two minutes a night for about a week should get you there.
Women are more sensitive, so men must be extra-careful when speaking. Men, just shut yer yaps before you say:
- “Damn, look at the butt on Joyce. She must be doing squats.” – Thus insinuating that your plank-assed woman is doing squat.
- “I’ll pull out. I promise.” – Oopsie.
- “Do you have any ones?” – She knows they are destined for some tramp’s g-string.
- “Honey, come take a look at this. Is shit supposed to be green?” – A courtesy flush is in order.
- “This shirt makes me look buff, huh.” – No, it makes you look like someone who sat in front of the mirror admiring himself, making us late.
- “They hired this new chick at work. All the boys are drooling over her.” – Be prepared to be called by her name in a future nookie session.
- “Would you look at the picture on that TV? It’s like staring out a window.” – There goes a year’s worth of hair-coloring.
- “Can we put porn on while we do it? That might help me.” – Oh, brother.
- “Do you really need another pair of shoes?” – Yes, she does and if you forbid her, you will pay.
- “I can’t understand why anyone watches this crap.” – Typically asked right before the joystick is picked up and he begins shooting aliens.
- “Wow, I didn’t even realize you got a haircut.” – Not noticing is not good.
- “How cute! Did you know your left boob is bigger than your right one? Ha, ha, ha.” – Grab a mirror and have a gander at your lopsided balls.
- “I thought women liked it when men rip their panties off.” – Not the thirty-dollar brands, you idiot.
- “Why must you keep putting that shiny stuff on your lips?” – Well, you just gave her one fewer reason to.
- “It doesn’t hurt. My ex used to love it.” – Then let me try it on you first.
I was fortunate to grow up in a diverse family. My parents adopted four children, each with a distinct ethnicity. My cousins were mostly Italian, but we had some Japanese mixed in one branch. That was cool. I never saw ethnicity as anything to judge a person by any more than hair color or shoe size. So, when I tried to set a woman up with a friend of mine (who happens to have a really dark tan) I was shocked by her answer.
“… not that I’m prejudice, but I wouldn’t date a man of color.”
That’s some last-century shit right there. Assholes come in all shapes and colors. It’s safe to say the shelves are still overstocked with large, white ones.
I didn’t get into it with her. Some people are (improperly) raised to make snap judgments about a person’s value at a distance. It’s silly. I hope we’re growing out of it, then I hear people say some shockingly ignorant things about people they’ve never even seen in 3-D.
“Hey, Donald. I don’t give a shit in which country or planet our president was born. He’s an exceptionally smart man doing his best to clean up a mess he didn’t make, while you bankrupt companies and whore yourself in prime time to the pudding-headed masses.”
“… but, the rules say …”
“Yeah and those rules were written long before we had enough sense to realize how silly they are.”
I’m sure my buddy would have shrugged off the woman’s statement, if I told him about it. Still, it pissed me off. She may have meant she isn’t normally attracted to certain men. I’m OK with preferences–I have quite a few of them myself. I wouldn’t say (or even think) something like:
- I would never date a tall woman.
- I would never date a blonde.
- I would never date a Mormon.
I would say it in the form, “I’m not typically attracted to older women.” That leaves the opportunity door open and allows me to pleasantly surprised on occasion instead of frozen in my ignorant isolation.
Maybe if that woman were less intelligent, young, or oblivious, I wouldn’t have been so derailed by her statement. She had no excuse. My exposure to racists doesn’t give me the desire to become racist any more than my exposure to 4x4s makes me want to attend a monster truck rally.
Sure, I enjoy jokes about stereotypes–even Italian ones (since we’re easy targets). In fact, last week I had a woman ask me about the origins of my last name. I said it was Sicilian and she remarked, “Wow, I guess I’d better be careful or you’ll break my legs.”
I smiled and said, “Nah. I’m more liable to cook for you.”
She was just trying to be funny. I wasn’t the slightest bit offended, but I could tell by her reaction to my response that she wished she hadn’t let those words pass her lips. See? I can tell the difference between someone being goofy and someone being malicious. No harm, no foul. That other woman, however, isn’t worthy of dating any of my colorful friends or me.
The ideal way to seduce your man is to play pool with him. It’s so simple and obvious. It vexes me when I consider how it took me almost fifty years to notice. Pool was definitely invented by a man. You ladies already know this, don’t you? You’ve been acting unaware, just to humor us.
Think about what the game requires: lots of bending over. Leaning across a pool table, when towards the man, exposes cleavage. Bending over, taking a shot while facing away from the man exposes the fine curvature of the buttocks. On top of it all, taking a shot requires the wrapping of both hands to around a pole. (OK, in my case one hand will do, unless she’s a dwarf. I’m not proud.)
So, it’s simple: If you want to seduce a man, suggest a game of pool.
A woman wisely suggests that her man break. She uses the excuse that she isn’t strong enough to hit the rack of balls hard enough to cause an effective scattering. She offers to take care of the racking and–oopsie–forgets how to arrange the balls, which requires the man to rub up next to her and assist. Another clever ploy.
The woman I played pool with this weekend had me all lathered up before my first 75 cents were gone. I tried to concentrate so she wouldn’t suspect I was letting her win or that I was an unskilled player (especially disturbing because I have a pool table in my living room). She had to lean over a corner and raise one leg to make a shot. I became aroused and forgot if I was stripes or solids. Ah, but I did discover a wise strategy to add to my enjoyment. Pool is all about cue ball placement. Henceforth, I consistently placed the cue ball as close to the center of the table as possible. Brilliant!
No other sport, except perhaps naked tapioca wrestling, has such seductive qualities. Bowling does require posturing and bending, but it can’t be done while wearing heels. Similar to pool, bowling allows for (requires, if you ask me) alcohol consumption during the game. That always helps. Still, bowling balls are greasy and often cause broken nails and annoyed women. Granted, some women may get a rush from watching their men send pins flying, but the finishing pose with arm and leg lifted isn’t flattering.
How about golf? Miniature golf, perhaps? She must bend slightly over the putter while striking. Not bad. True, there are sticks and holes involved. It could be considered a more monogamous game since it’s played one hole at a time instead of having six to choose from. Nah, it’s too goddamn frustrating trying to get the ball past that fucking windmill. I hate windmills. Windmills blow.
So, pool it is. Not darts. Not paddleboats. Not skee ball. If you want to get a non-chemically induced rise out of your man, chalk your stick, bend over, and wink while he drools.
It’s fun to be a pig, occasionally. In fact, the only diet I have ever found to work is one I tried recently that had me limit my carb intake for six days and pig out on the seventh. Sounds like God’s plan. We all love treats, right? This method works because my misery is offset by the anticipation of a treat.
It seems this method works for just about anything, not just food. What’s the old adage: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”? So true, to a point. It depends on the length of the absence. For my greedy ass, I’d say six days is about the limit before complacency or frustration sets in.
We can’t just go around following our urges, can we? I’d probably be a biscuit shy of three hundred pounds if I did. I stroll the aisles of Ralphs with an angel (Jack Lalanne) and devil (Dom Deluise) on each shoulder.
Phil: Mmm, Oreos.
Dom: Yes! You must! Look at how hard you worked at the gym all week. Reward thyself.
Jack: Keep walking, blubber-butt. If you so much as touch that package, I will have you running stairs until you puke.
Phil: OMG, jalapeno flavored Snyder’s Pretzel Pieces.
Dom: Ooh, spicy goodness with a pleasant crunch. They’re very low in sugar. You can do it.
Jack: Really? Look at the fat content, Mr. Three-Necks.
Phil: I haven’t had a Twix in so long.
Dom: A true delicacy. You’ve earned it, my friend. Hold one gently between thumb and index finger, snap one-third from the chocolatey log, allow the goodness to melt, and swallow a small lump of gooey heaven.
Jack: What are you, twelve? If you eat one of those, you will hate yourself.
Phil: Iced raisin bread brings back memories of childhood. I need this.
Dom: While you’re at it, you must buy some real butter. Fake butter tastes like pavement. You can mix it with cinnamon sugar and create a crusty delight.
Jack: Oatmeal. You eat oatmeal and, if you behave (spend one hour in the gym lifting weights, not staring at fitness instructors), I’ll reward you by allowing you to dust the top with half a packet of Splenda.
Phil: Venti … Caramel … Macchiato.
Dom: Ignore the calories, sweetie. You see, the caffeine offsets them. You’ll be a bundle of energy, buzzing around the house handling all sorts of chores you’ve been ignoring. It’s a sin-win.
Jack: You may have a mug of green tea. I realize it tastes like wet lawn, but it’s good for you.
It’s an epic battle.
It has been many moons since my previous “serious” relationship, but I do recall her suggesting that we resist the weekday nookie to make the weekend boink-fests more intense. Bad idea. I simply made more shower babies during the week. I lack discipline. A better option would be to make each day special by making it a sexual position day.
- Missionary Mondays,
- Tie-My-Wrists Tuesdays,
- Against-the-Wall Wednesdays,
- Through-the-Back-Door Thursdays,
- Fellatio Fridays,
- Syrup Saturdays, and
- Sixty-Nine Sundays.
The breakup process is distinct between genders. Men are lazy and want to finish the task as quickly as possible so they can move on to the next vagina. Women, however, need closure. It takes time to flush the oxytocin from their systems.
I’ll take a pass/fail over a letter or number grade any day. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to hear it. I want to make up my own reasons why I was left at the curb. Give me back my T-shirt and let me believe you’re breaking up with me because all the sex you want to have with me is detracting from your daily obligations and giving you a noticeable limp.
My biggest concern during a breakup: Is she going to cry?
If tears start a-flowing, I’m in deep shit. I’d rather have her swear at me and throw china. If we’re out in public–don’t ever break up with a woman in public, you ass–and her face starts leaking, it’s more embarrassing than eating a banana while shopping at Abercrombie & Fitch. Every man that sees her cry wants to beat my ass and rescue my woman. Every woman that sees her cry instantly places me on the Chris Brown Memorial Entry Forbidden list.
When I’m dumped, I try to spin it into something positive, expected, or insignificant.
“Hey. You’re a nice guy, but I don’t think this is working out.”
“I don’t feel like we’re connecting the way we should be. You know?”
“Oh, definitely. Yep. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“Yes. Nothing personal. You’re great.”
“How long have you felt this way?”
“Um, probably about as long as you have.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Don’t you think it’s best to be honest?”
“All right, look, I was hoping things would progress. Oh, well. It happens.”
“OK, whatever. We’re going to be seeing each other out, so I don’t want it to be weird.”
“Totally. It won’t be weird. We should remain friends. You’re a cool chick.”
“So, we’re good then?”
“Of course. Hey, do you want to come over and watch a movie?”
“Or not. There’s this other woman I wanted to date anyway.”
“Oh, nobody you know. So, it’s cool now. You won’t feel weird when you see us out, right?”
“Well, don’t make a point of having PDA with her around me. That would be weird.”
“Why? Would it make you jealous?”
“No. It would just be awkward because other people there know us and have seen us together.”
“All right. I can wait until you’re over me. Do you think a year is long enough?”
“It’s not that I’m not over you.”
“Yes, it is. That’s OK. You don’t have to admit it. I understand.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just please don’t make a scene.”
“I would never. We’re cool. Hey, let’s do some celebratory shots. Want to?”
“You so want to have closure sex with me right now.”
“Is that what you’re sensing?”
“It’s natural. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“Like I said, we don’t connect the way we should. Goodbye.”
“Hey, why are you walking away? Honey? Baby? Um. OK, fine. Whatever. I’m over you already.”
It’s tempting to make use of modern technology for breakups. Email, chat, and text messaging are cowardly means, perfect for pussies like me. Ouch, the e-dump. I’m not proud to admit I’ve done them all. I’ve also received my share, so it’s even.
Here are some creative methods for future consideration:
- Skywriting – “My vagina is under new ownership, now open for business.”
- Scoreboard Announcement – “Adopt this fellow. His shots are current.”
- Bar Napkin – “I hate your ass. Please go away.”
- Paid Search Ad – “Stop googling yourself. You’re stupid and now you’re single too.”
- Obituary – “Our relationship died because he can’t control his f-stick.”
- Rap Lyrics – “Yo shawty, you be whack. Now bounce and gimme my sheeyit back.”
- Sign Language – “Middle finger extended on left hand while right hand waves bye-bye.”
- Barista – Have your favorite Starbucks clerk write the following on his Venti cup: “Your girlfriend is sick of your shit, and will henceforth be referred to as your ex-girlfriend.”
- Coupon – “Get out of one relationship free.”
- Bulletin Board at Work – “She fucked me in conference room B and now I’m fucked. Sorry about the stains.”