Archives for November 2011

Your Post-Breakup Guide

Aw, babycakes, I’m sorry. Wipe that mascara, blow your nose, and prepare yourself to find your next ex. I can’t have you sitting on the bench feeling miserable. That’s a waste of some fine booty right there. You’re denying mankind access to one of Nature’s finest gifts.

First things first: You need to write a nasty letter to that heartless prick. He’ll never see it, but writing it will make you feel much better. Open your email program, put your own address in the “To:” field, enter a subject (“Letter to the Fucktard” works), and begin typing. Let it all out, sweetness. Here are some excellent ideas for phrases to use:

  • Pencil dick
  • Don’t deserve
  • Asshat
  • Never really liked you anyway
  • Wash your sheets, for Christ’s sake
  • Must have been drunk
  • I was faking it … yes, every time
  • Slob
  • Manscaping
  • I’ll miss your dog more than you
  • You’re not getting it back–it was a gift
  • Waste of time
  • My friends warned me
  • You might be gay
  • It is so not sexy
  • Children play video games
  • Your car is also gay
  • Brut, really?
  • I hope your acorn penis grows fungus and falls off
  • Your breath is fouler than raw sewage
  • Get over yourself
  • I don’t even care
  • I’m going to the cock parade

You feel much better already, don’t you? Go get your nails, face, and hair did. Toss in a spray tan. I think it’s time for a new outfit. Yes. Do it. I’m thinking something black and strappy. Go make room in your closet immediately.

What’s that? You just found one of his shirts? Oh, my. Well, please allow me to suggest you use it for the following:

  • Collect your Labrador’s lawn loafs
  • Clean the toilet rims he spotted
  • Kindling
  • Write on it in bright red lipstick, “This belongs to a dick waffle who should never see another vagina as long as he lives,” and leave it on his windshield
  • Duct tape it to your driveway and make sure two wheels hit it every time you pull in or out
  • Wear it while Mr. Next pounds the pussy snot out of you
  • Give it to an ultra-smelly homeless dude
  • Dust your house with it
  • Enter it in your company’s white elephant exchange
  • Take it to the shooting range and make lots of holes

I can see that smile returning, champ. You’re almost ready to reenter the game. Now, think: Does he have any almost-as-cute-as-he-is friends? There must be at least one. Perfect. You need to blow him. I know, I know. Look, sometimes you need to take one (in the throat) for the team. Make sure it’s a legendary, toe-curling, back-spasming blowjob, the likes of which has only been experienced by immortals and movie stars. Oh, one more thing: Don’t let anyone see you do it, but make sure you forward the text message this lucky fellow will send you to the ex. It will probably read something like, “OMG, I think I love you. I have such a happy penis right now. What was [insert asshole’s name] thinking letting you go?”

Now, you’re ready. Go get ’em, tigress!

What am I supposed to do with your number?

When you distribute your phone number to a potential bedwarmer, what are your expectations? Wouldn’t it be logical to provide instructions along with the number? Why begin the relationship with ambiguity? Why test the man before the first date?

After exchanging a few witty (brushing my nails on my shirt right now) Match.com emails, I received a reply that contained a phone number. This baffled me. I was flattered to receive the number, but I didn’t know what exactly to do with it. Yes, I realized the intention was for me to use it to call her. My confusion concerned how and when. I put on my smart cap and decided the safest thing to do was send a text message asking what was best time for me to call. Gosh, sometimes I wonder how I fit all those brains in my skull.

Then my phone rang.

I allowed it to go to voice mail because I was on the treadmill and wasn’t in the mood for a face-plant, plus I didn’t want all my panting to scare her away.

“Hi, this is Missy from Match. I thought it would be nice to talk on the phone before we meet. So, give me a call when you get a chance and we can chat.”

When I called Missy, she lectured me. This made me and my curiosity shrivel.

“I’m new to this online dating thing. Tell me: Is it normal that guys get a number and instead of calling send more emails and then a text message.”

“Um, normal?”

“Just trying to figure men out.”

“Well, let me ask you this: If I called you seconds after I received your number, what would have been your impression?”

“I don’t know. I guess I would have been flattered and seen it as a sign of high interest on your part, much like providing my number showed high interest on my part.”

“I see. Perhaps you could have left your number with an asterisk and a note specifying a best time to call and the fact that you expect a voice call.”

“Really? I need to be that specific?”

“Or, you can be vague and disappointed, which will result in an awkward conversation with a man you’ve only met in two dimensions.”

“I didn’t mean for this to be awkward. I’m only asking.”

“In the past day, how many text messages have you sent and how many voice calls have you made?”

“Yes, I text my friends more often than I call them.”

“Hence, my decision to send a text fell in line with your tendencies.”

“It’s just so impersonal, especially when first meeting.”

“I understand and had I known your expectations I would have met or exceeded them. Now, let’s put this behind us, cupcake. Would you like to meet?”

“Um, sure, I guess so.”

Please don’t analyze me. I’m old and tired. I won’t chase you unless you’re coated in honey and powdered sugar. Point me to your pleasure buttons and I will comply.

Why are you hanging on?

Divine darlings gathered for a reunion last night to drink wine and catch up on gossip and sex lives. I lurked. Finally, one of the lovelies noticed me and thought she knew me from somewhere. Yep, I dated her friend. I played along, hoping the ex didn’t trash me too thoroughly.

“Hi, you look so familiar to me.”

“You’ve probably seen me on TV.”

“Really?”

“Yep, Awful Chefs, Lifestyles of the Poor and Insignificant, or The Perpetual Bachelor.”

“Ha! No, I don’t know you from TV.”

“Well, Christine, I haven’t a clue.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. You remembered my name.”

“I also remember where we met and what you do for a living. Still impressed, or is this becoming creepy?”

Take note, gentlemen: Remember as much as you can when you meet a woman. Drill it into your memory. Make room by casting away the useless ditties you’re storing, such as:

  • Childhood friends’ phone numbers.
  • A grade school teacher’s name.
  • The details surrounding your first orgasm.
  • Important dates, which can easily be transferred onto an electronic calendar.
  • How to make a margarita. (Leave it to the experts.)
  • The lyrics to “Da Butt.”
  • Quotes from Seinfeld.
  • High school locker number or combination.
  • Pi.
  • The capital of Norway.
  • Who was president before Reagan.
  • Where you hid the porn.

Turns out the woman I impressed was married (*sigh*) but her friend was delicious and ringless (*grin*), so I began my mating dance. Turns out my target had a boyfriend I could tell she was none too pleased with.

“Why do you stay?”

“Because I can’t see myself hanging out in places like this.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.”

“It’s such a scene. Ugh.”

“And you’d rather stay in an unfulfilling relationship?”

“Beats being alone or desperate.”

“Leave him immediately.”

“What?”

“Go home right now and start packing. This is nonsense. You’re wasting your time forcing something to work that has probably been over for months or years. Move on!”

“No. I’m not going to go through dating hell again. I can’t imagine hanging out in bars or online dating sites. That would be depressing.”

“It is what you make it, darling. If you seek desperately, you make yourself unattractive. If you’re amused by the process and see it as a way to meet new people, you’ll thrive.”

“So, are you telling me you’re here in this club tonight to network?”

“That’s not the ultimate goal, but it’s one I can live with. I met you and you’re not going to sleep with me … are you?”

“Doubtful.”

“See? I still like you and am enjoying our conversation even though it probably won’t end in a sex puddle.”

“Fair enough.”

God, I hate to see women hanging onto to the frayed threads of remnant relationships. Please lose the man who isn’t treating you right as well as your fear of being judged for doing so.

Bar etiquette for those with rookie livers.

There’s a difference between people who drink often and people who get drunk often. I am a professional among the former, who dabbles in the latter, when necessary. As such, I’m out practically nightly honing my skills and occasionally slamming my clipboard to the turf as I witness egregious fouls. Play is becoming sloppy, people. Something needs to change. The don’t-be-a-pussy beer commercials aren’t helping because they are self-serving and everyone knows light beer doesn’t taste like anything except rusty club soda.

Here are today’s lessons, which I hope you’ll share with the stumbling, bumbling first-beer-ever boobs you see out this weekend.

  • Do not buy anyone a drink unless there is a legitimate chance it will make you more attractive to the recipient and said recipient hasn’t already warned you that you’ll never see her or him without clothing.
a.       If you’re a man, do not buy me a drink. If you buy me a drink, you create yet another debt I must repay. This annoys me. Also, I’m probably not through with the drink I have, so the new drink is going to become warm and watery before I get to it. This also annoys me.

b.      If you’re a woman, do not buy me a drink. If you’re attractive, you will have emasculated me causing embarrassment as my brothers wonder what happened to my testes. If you’re mediocre, please allow me to determine how much I need to imbibe to make you a mating option. If you’re unattractive, you’ve put me in a difficult situation, which will probably cause me to excuse myself to the toilet and set off the rear-exit alarm as I sprint to my Jeep.

c.       If you’re a bartender or server, don’t buy me a drink. I used to own a club and nothing irked me more than when one of my bartenders said, “This one’s on me.” Technically, it was fucking on me, the owner. Right? So, if you’re the owner, I will accept your generosity and probably frequent your establishment. Don’t be surprised if you find me sleeping in a stall. It happens and you’d be partially to blame. Consider yourself forewarned.

  • If you’re posted up at the bar, use your peripheral vision for more than locating cleavage and cock lumps. Be aware of people who are thirstily waiting for access to the bartender. You’re probably blocking their advance. See them waving those large bills and credit cards or doing jumping jacks? No, they’re not Richard Simmons’ fans; they’re parched. Move it, roadblock!
a.       If you stubbornly block access, this is what you will encounter: The odorous armpit of stoner dude who thinks himself a surfing Kurt Cobain reincarnated and thus refuses to wash his hair while he wears the same goddamn plaid flannel shirt six times before tossing it in the laundry.

b.      The two attractive ladies standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they’re scanning your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and coloring. Ah, but you think you’re slick. You offer to get the bartender’s attention for the ladies or take it a step further and offer to order their drinks. Neither the bartender (trying to make a living off you’re one dollar tip) nor the ladies need you involved in the transaction. Step aside.

c.       You’re going to be dripped upon. It may be as innocuous as condensation or it may be pinot-gone-wild. In some bars–the ones who play Taylor Swift’s music–what lands on you may be tobacco drool from the lower lip of an inbred who just mated with a cousin, four-legged creature, or jar of Mother’s strawberry preserves. Spit leaves stains, so, unless you’re wearing a body condom, scram.

Take these lessons to heart, friends. You must study and remember that practice makes others hate you a little less.

Who deserves thanks?

I’m not spinning a football and pointing to the sky. I’m not doing some oddly choreographed high-five with an on-deck batter. I’m not bumping chests with a sweaty fellow wearing silly shorts and a tank top. I’m not even saying “Hi Mom” into the camera. I’m simply saying thank you to readers who maintain a sufficient sense of humor and logic to be entertained by my rants without calling me a douche … to my face, at least.

“You post some pretty bizarre shit.”

“That’s what I do.”

“Why?”

“Because mundane shit is boring, by definition.”

“Aren’t you worried about offending people?”

“I don’t give offense; people take it.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel bad to hurt someone’s feelings?”

“No, because that’s not my intention. I’m looking for a reaction, hoping it involves a smirk and a giggle, and I’m willing to accept a few casualties along the way.”

“So, why don’t you write more romantic pieces and limit the casualties?”

“That would be suicidal. I’d be the casualty. Look, I can be loving and romantic. I can write deep poems and letters of adoration. Those are saved for that someone special, when and if she ever comes along.”

Think of comedic writers this way: They are handing you, the reader, a loaded whoopee cushion. Now, you can choose to place it on your chair and deploy the most vile sounding yogurt fart just as Uncle Ted is about to carve the turkey. Or, you can eat the cushion and be hurt by it. Obviously, the writer’s hope is that you cause jellied cranberry to come flying from your relatives’ noses. If you take the gag and gag on it instead, how can you blame the writer?

“Why must everything be about sex and dating?”

“They are two of the most desired things there are, and rarely do we get them right.”

“I disagree. I love my husband.”

“And that’s entertaining how?”

“It’s inspirational.”

“No, it’s annoying to your friends, like me, who have not found the golden hen or have decided not to settle for any hen.”

“So you hate me because I’ve been successful with my relationship.”

“I don’t hate you, sweetpea. Your story doesn’t inspire or entertain me. Now, if you go home tonight and walk in on your husband using his flesh baster to semen stuff the turkey while watching Project Runway, you’ll have me hooked.”

“Gross.”

“Ah, what was that? Did I detect a tiny smile? You may be turning to the dark side.”

“Never!”

“Then make sure you don’t read what I post later today.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She don’t know me too well, do she?

Seriously, though. Thank you all so much for tolerating, supporting, encouraging, and inspiring me. Happy Thanksgiving, my friends!

I may need to release a sex tape.

I met with my publicist about taking things to the next level, whatever that may be. Nobody wants to live in a cubicle for fifty hours a week. To avoid that corporate trap, I need to sell more books. To sell more books, I need more exposure. A logical person would surmise that increased sales should come from higher quality books. Untrue. I have one word for you: Snooki. You didn’t hear me? How about this word: JWOWW?

“OK, here’s what needs to happen: You need to leak a sex tape.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m fifty. Have you lost your mind?”

“Look what it did for Tommy Lee, Paris, and Kim.”

“I don’t have half the penis Tommy Lee has and the other two, while closer to me in genital size, happen to be beautiful women.”

“None of that matters. It’s all about exposure and publicity.”

“Well, I’m not exposing anything.”

“It can be done tastefully to help your image.”

“Really? My image is so poor that a sex tape would actually improve it?”

“Well, you are known for dating and dashing as well as picking on poor, defenseless dogs and chubby gals.”

“But …”

“You also poke fun at cougars, bikers, Bostonites, and religious fanatics.”

“Technically, they’re Bostoners. Heh, heh.”

“Hush. So, to combat all of this negative energy, we accidentally release a sex tape featuring you and a fifty-five-year-old woman from Boston.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue.”

“You met her at a café while on a city bike tour. She recently moved to San Diego with her chocolate Labrador.”

“God help me.”

“He will because you two go at it in her bedroom beneath a crucifix mounted above her headboard while you wear your bike helmet and her dog lies at the base of the bed watching.”

“Why the helmet?”

“She’s going to be a little rough with you and the crucifix will fall and crack you in the skull.”

“Well, can she at least wear a nun’s habit then? I used to have a thing for The Flying Nun.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

“I want her to call me Reverend Lance and get nasty without saying any dirty words. We need to be cognizant of the Motion Pictures Association’s film rating. She can be like, ‘Oh gee whiz, yes, freak me, baby. Give it to me. Don’t you love my fragrant tulip? You’re making me tremendously not dry. Your banana is so unripe right now.'”

“What have I done?”

This could work, I began thinking. Still, this dish, like most, could use more topical spice.

“What if the woman is a college woman’s basketball coach and I have my way with her in the locker room? Then, an assistant coach hears the moaning and slapping. The assistant makes all sorts of racket, trying to get us to stop but we’re too busy with the pump soap, hair pulls, and all. Afraid of the fallout, the assistant runs from the locker room and calls Kris Jenner.”

“Kris Jenner?”

“Yes, of course. Kris just happens to be in the middle of a torrid lesbian affair with the coach. Kris storms into the locker room in a jealous rage–OK, with a dog–and demands an explanation while spraying Chloe and Lamar’s Unbreakable fragrance to clear the scent of sweaty old-people sex.”

“Why haven’t I learned not to tempt you?”

“Have the camera crew ready by six. I’ll go shave my balls.”

Are you a john to media whores?

We enjoy poking fun at famous people who make lots of money with little talent, such as reality TV stars. Ironically, by doing this we are feeding the frenzy. We should consider the art of making oneself popular (branding) to be a talent worth admiring and cultivating. Why? Consider the following:

  • Snooki is paid more for college appearances than Nobel Prize winners are.
  • The Situation will make over $5 million in 2011.
  • The Kardashians will make over $65 million in 2011.
  • Publications pay millions of dollars for the rights to publish celebrity baby pictures, weddings, and “Just Like You” pictures of stars who couldn’t be less like us (unless we were popular enough to hire publicists and paparazzi to pose us).

At first, I was disgusted by this. I take part of the blame because I subscribe to magazines like Us Weekly and regularly watch shows like The Bachelorette and Jersey Shore as well as shows that generate most of their success by commenting on reality shows (e.g. Chelsea Lately).

Women are the primary johns as they can’t seem to get enough of housewives, dancers, singers, daters, addicts, and dieters. I had a female friend stay with me for a few days on her vacation. She chose to stay in one night to catch up with the Kardashians … on her vacation! I watched her watch. She was mesmerized, as was I.

Then, I fell deeper into the trap.

I enjoy watching The Millionaire Matchmaker. When I moved to the sugar daddy and gold digger capital of the world in 2004, I was fascinated by how many women would trade their pride to be with unattractive men with thick wallets. I witnessed these men (most of them faking it) reel in women with ease, only to treat them like cufflinks. That’s why MM appeals to me–Patti, the host, exploits the freaks on both ends of the transaction. Clever woman!

This concept only works with spoiled men and desperate women. Try putting together a Barely Getting By Matchmaker and it will be cancelled in two weeks. “Meet Joe, a middle manager at a financial planning company who works fifty hours a week, struggles to pay his bills and child support, and forces himself to hit the gym to combat his expanding belly. He can’t find time to meet his soul mate. Meet ten women who spend most of their time fighting aging with clothing, makeup, treadmills, and hair coloring, which too often is wasted on unappreciative men.“ *Yawn*

I ran into Patti Stanger from The Millionaire Matchmaker at a local club this past summer. She was attractive, kind, and buried in her Blackberry. She fascinated me, so I bought her a drink and flirted as she checked me out over her reading glasses. No luck. Afterward, I thought, Why did I do that? I’m not attracted to her. Obviously, her show is produced and scripted. Liking her on the show isn’t the same as liking her in person. I guess I was star struck.

Then, a few weeks ago, a friend of a friend contacted me saying Patti asked him to find her “a nice San Diego man.” He had me send an email with some personal ditties and pictures, which he forwarded to her. “Be patient. She’s very busy,” he warned me. No shit.

After I sent the email, I felt icky. Why must I sell myself to a woman I hardly know? Screw that! She should send me a sales pitch. Then I considered the fame aspect. If she agreed to meet me and actually began dating me, this could help my brand immensely. She might mention my books. I might appear on an episode. Paparazzi might become curious about me. More eyes on me would translate into more book sales.

Still, it felt dirty.

I wavered and waited for her response. Finally, we spoke on the phone and I was encouraged because she didn’t seem like the hyper-critical woman from her show. She asked me to text her another picture. I complied and then I didn’t hear back. Oh, well. A friend persuaded me to send just one more follow-up text, in case she was too busy to respond. Finally, she responded, confessing she “didn’t feel the chemistry.”

The ego punch was gentle, actually, as I had low expectations. To me it felt like losing a business opportunity or being turned down for a job. I responded saying, “Fair enough. Still a fan. Best wishes.” Naturally, her next text solicited me to become a customer. Ugh. Must it always be about the money? She has the goods and I almost paid. I nearly became a john.

Can’t we admire people for their personal qualities instead of their financial influence? Can’t we find love based on what’s deep inside, instead of the shiny bows and wrapping paper that conceal the goods? Must we consider taking on certain relationships for the non-emotional benefits they offer? Can we distinguish the person from the brand and love one regardless of the other? I’m not sure it’s possible.

Uh-oh, ex alert!

You run into people in the strangest places, don’t you? You’re just out minding your own business when you see someone who looks oddly familiar. Your brain scans the files of relatives, coworkers, and classmates. No matches. The person is closing in on you. You blow the dust of your cerebral “names of people I once knew” box and flit through the folders. Hurry!

It’s no use. You’re about to be reintroduced. Last-ditch effort: do the alphabet scan thing.

A – Albert: No. I would never date an Albert.

B – Brian: Hmm, I think I had a one-nighter with a Brian once.

C – Chris: He doesn’t look like a Chris. Maybe if he had lighter hair.

D – Damian: Scary.

E – Edward: My grandfather’s name was Edward. I wouldn’t have forgotten that name.

F – Oh, fuck … too late.

“Hi, Beth, how are you?”

“Fine. So nice to see you again.”

Here comes that awkward hug. Maybe I can match the scent.

“Nice to see you too.”

“Gosh, it has been so long.”

“Oh, silly, last spring isn’t that long ago.”

Time to recover. I wish my dumbass friend would introduce herself before I embarrass myself.

“To you, maybe. I’ve been so busy.”

“So, who’s your friend.”

Come on, girlfriend. God, she’s stupid. This bitch is buying the rest of the night.

“This is Allie.”

“Hi, Allie. I’m Franco. Beth and I met on eHarmony and went on a date last year.”

Fuck!

“Look at that: My glass is empty. Be right back. Anybody need one?”

It’s wise to remove yourself from the stressful situation to regroup and analyze. Search your phone. Nothing. No use signing into eHarmony here. I suggest you use humor to diffuse the situation. If that doesn’t work, lie.

“Oh, hey there, Beth. Welcome back. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka.”

“… and club soda?”

“… and more vodka.”

This is where your friend excuses herself to allow you to do some treading in the tears of your ex.

“So, I never heard back from you.”

“Um. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“That’s OK.”

“Good.”

“I mean, I liked you and thought we were a great match.”

“Aw.”

*gulp*

“I still do, in fact.”

“You’re sweet.”

“But, you never returned my calls or text messages, so I assumed you weren’t interested.”

“Right. Well …”

“You don’t have to explain. Jeez. It’s like almost two years ago. I’m over it. No biggie.”

“Ah, OK.”

“I’m still single. How about you?”

“Kind of dating someone.”

“Is it serious?”

*gulp* I’m going to kill Allie.

“Serious enough.”

“Do you think you’ll marry him?”

“I don’t know. Gee, where did Allie go?”

“She’s over there talking to the bartender.”

“Oh, maybe she needs a hand.”

“I get it. You’re trying to ditch me. That’s OK. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“No, not at all. Look, Franco, you’re a great guy. I just wasn’t ready back then, I guess.”

“Well, if you weren’t ready you shouldn’t have been on eHarmony and you certainly shouldn’t have let me take you out.”

“Yep. You’re right.”

*gulp*

“Why don’t you make it up to me by letting me take you out tomorrow night?”

“Because I’m dating someone, remember?”

“You’re just making that up as an excuse to get away from me.”

*gulp*

“Be right back. Hey, Allie …”

As we toss bodies on the pile of exes, we’re eventually going to have to deal with the stench or find new landfills.

Are you looking to date your daddy?

Not literally, silly. Take a little inventory of your recent bedwarmers. How many of them–specifically, the ones you liked for more than their sub-sheets skills–had similar personalities to your father? Go ahead and think about it. I’ll wait.

Just got a tiny chill, didn’t you?

It’s actually not so creepy. You’re expected to love your parents and you probably developed a deep appreciation for the sacrifices they made to help create the ball of wonderfulness you currently are. Consider how many evenings your father would have rather done almost anything other than spoon feed you candied yams, pick up all the Cheerios you tossed on the floor, and change shirts stained by your projectile “stuff.” You’d damn well better appreciate it, young lady!

I exploit this tendency when I meet a potential lover. I have her describe her father. Based on that description, I know if I have a title shot or not.

“How is your relationship with your father?”

“Oh, it’s great. He’s a magnificent person.”

“So, you’re daddy’s little girl.”

“Yep. He spoiled me with gifts and hugs.”

Duly noted: Buy things and cuddle.

“Aw.”

“He always made sure I knew how proud he was of me.”

Also noted: Voice appreciation often. Emotional propping may be required.

“I’m sure he’s proud. Look how amazing you are.”

“Thank you. He maintained a positive outlook and went out of his way to help people.”

Another note: No whining about my misery and carry some spare change for the homeless.

“Well, I hope to meet the fellow someday.”

“I’m sure you two would get along famously.”

“Hey, as long as he’s not allergic to cats or a Tim Tebow fan, we’ll be tight.”

Women need a reality check, though. Not every father can be the best father ever. Some, frankly, had to suck. One easy way to see if your admiration is justified is to review your last five or so lovers and see what percentage of them were considered by most of your friends to be unworthy of you.

“What on earth did you see in Stan?”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He totally is not. He treats his ex-wife like shit.”

“Maybe that’s because she’s psycho.”

“What about his insecurity issues? He was the most jealous man I ever met.”

“That’s because he loved me so much. He couldn’t stand the thought of me with another man. It would make him crazy to consider that I loved anyone before him.”

“… and then he cheated on you.”

“I know. Well, I guess things weren’t going as well as I thought.”

“What?”

“If I gave him what he needed, he wouldn’t have cheated on me. It was momentary weakness. He apologized and promised to never do it again.”

“Wait. Didn’t he get a different girl pregnant right after you forgave him and took him back?”

“True. Well, it’s over now. He’s a good guy though.”

“Oh my god. Please stop defending him.”

This woman was obviously neglected by her “wonderful” father, as were most women who find themselves hopelessly attracted to bad boys and abusive men. She needs to meet a nice guy and change her expectations of how men should treat her. If you have a friend like this, tear her away from her father figure and guide her gently toward a gentleman.

Think about what you’re occupying.

When you want to be heard, you speak in a place where the ears you’re trying to reach can hear you. You should also have a point, not just a gripe without a proposed solution. Nobody wants to hear whining. This is what annoys me about all of the “occupy” protests going on. People are gathering in places where the intended audience spends little time. The protesters are carrying signs and chanting aimlessly. You wouldn’t pray this way.

“Dear God, I’m pissed.”

“What about?”

“Everything.”

“Well, you know where the exit is.”

“Seriously, Dude, this sucks.”

“What does?”

“For one thing, I don’t have as much money as I used to.”

“So, you think you should be paid for sitting in a tent in a park playing Angry Birds on your iPhone.”

I’ve had little luck in the romance department; that’s no secret. Would it make sense for me to plop a beach towel down in front of a hair salon? Should I chant to the ladies getting their weekly blowouts, “I lost my wife, now I got no sex life”? Ladies would step over me while delivering condescending glares. Sure, some would show pity. They’d probably toss me a porn magazine or suggest I get a puppy.

I would love to protest about this recent trend: Women give me their phone numbers, don’t answer when I call, and don’t return my message. Some take it a step further and complain the next time they see me that I didn’t pursue them sufficiently. What’s that all about? If I chase them, I’m the creepy leech guy; if I lie back, I’m the aloof low-ambition-having goof.

To protest the above mistreatment, what do you suggest?

  • Don’t ask for phone numbers. Ask for Facebook friending.
  • Take my shirt off so they can decide if they really want to waste a number on such a furry beast.
  • Disclose my feline fancy.
  • Import a bride from overseas.
  • Take a yoga class wearing a T-shirt that reads, “I prefer doggie style to downward dog.”
  • Scan the obituaries for emotionally unstable recent widows.
  • Stuff a pool noodle in my pants.
  • Go to a gay club, pose as a gay male, and infiltrate an all-girl table telling them I’m curious.
  • Netflix.
  • Hair coloring, chest shaving, teeth whitening, Spanx for men, elevator shoes, and trade my 401(k) for a Mercedes.
  • Beg an ex to take me back.
  • Aim a lot lower.
  • Become a marriage counselor.
  • Write about it, hoping to find the ticklish spot on a woman in a similar situation.

Don’t date a dummy.

If you are a dummy, then move along. Otherwise, why would you waste your time dating someone who is as intellectually stimulating as a cold speculum? It’s like taking a class where you know more than the teacher does. Sure, it’s nice to have arm-candy, but eventually that human bracelet will open its mouth and ruin the fun.

You need to find someone who is slightly more intelligent to keep you engaged. There’s a tiny problem you’ll need to overcome due to the paradox–you’d be the dumber one. That’s where you can tout your other skills to make your ignorance tolerable. If I date an intellectually superior woman, I concentrate on my foot-rubbing, lasagna-cooking, and giggle-inducing skills. She won’t need my help completing crossword puzzles.

“I’m seeking a four-letter word for ‘An instrument of love.'”

“Cock?”

“Quit it.”

“Dong?”

“It’s not a dirty word, nimrod. This is in the New York Times.”

“Phil?”

“How self-serving.”

“Can I buy a vowel?”

“No, this isn’t Wheel of Fortune. Ah, I figured out the adjacent word. The one I need begins with R.”

“Rail?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you, I think. That is a compliment, right?”

“Not exactly.”

“Don’t be mean. I bought you roses today, remember?”

“Rose!”

“No, roses. There were twelve. I counted.”

“The word is ‘rose.'”

“Oh. Of course it is. I knew that. I was just playin’.”

See? I can cover my mental gaps with humor. Most dummies don’t understand my jokes or they take them personally. Hence, dummies don’t last. I offend them and they respond by calling me a “douche” and restricting access. Case in point: Yesterday, I posted what I thought was a clever tweet based on a trending topic.

“#iknewitwasoverwhen Adele sang.”

This created a hippo stampede of women calling me an insensitive “h8ter.” I’m actually a fan of Adele. I’ve read numerous interviews where she refers to herself as overweight and, in fact, she prides herself on not giving a shit what people think about her appearance.

“I like having my hair and face done, but I’m not going to lose weight because someone tells me to. I make music to be a musician not to be on the cover of Playboy.” – Adele

So, why am I being mean when I agree with her? Whatever.

Back to my original point: You need to date someone who inspires you. Playing the teacher role is exhausting. Dating a sexy dummy is like:

  • eating microwaved filet mignon.
  • drinking lukewarm espresso.
  • playing catch with an iPhone 4S.
  • wearing a sexy skirt with tighty whiteys.
  • watching an NFL football game on the stadium TV.
  • complaining about the current president although you didn’t vote.
  • spraying Chanel on your cha cha.
  • paying the valet although you parked your own car.
  • dunking a Milano cookie in light beer.
  • wearing a biker outfit on a stationary bike.
  • going to the library to read comic books.
  • masturbating in jet bathroom to join the Mile-High Club.
  • ordering a Reuben without the meat.
  • adopting a yorkie for protection.
  • eating egg whites. 
  • getting a spray-tan in preparation for your beach vacation.

Are you a butt girl?

When matchmakers circle around me, I’m asked typical questions. Then I wonder: Are women probed in a similar fashion? I mean, how many times has a friend asked if you’re a butt or chest woman before hooking you up with a brother, cousin, or coworker? Ladies are more concerned the three Hs: height, hair, and how much.

“So, Phil, are you a boob or butt man?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Kidding. Actually, I’m neither.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m a man who appreciates a proportionate woman, if that makes sense. I don’t like tits on a stick. I don’t like chocolate buns on a vanilla momma.”

Don’t get me wrong; I realize women like chests, arms, legs, and butts. They’re just more concerned with the firmness than the size–penis excluded, sort of.

If I describe my latest blind date to a buddy, he wants to know certain attributes excluding hair color, clothing choice, and which perfume she wears. Imagine how haywire this conversation would go:

“Tell me, studly, how did it go with Match.com date number two hundred forty-nine?”

“Fine, thank you very much.”

“And?”

“She’s got light brown hair, she’s around five-foot-four, she wore a tan cardigan over a sheer blouse with Joe’s jeans in indigo, and she was carrying a fine leather clutch from Coach.”

“OK, pull the cock out of your ass and try again.”

“She’s an aesthetician, she enjoys romance novels and walking on the beach. She ran her first half marathon this past spring.”

“Does she have hairy balls?”

“Fine, asshole. She came up to my nose, she had teardrop titties, and a delicious arch in her back. We made out a little, including some over-the-clothing play. She wore a lace thong and I’m pretty sure she dampened up a bit and will grant me a second date.”

“Much better. You can have your man card back.”

Then there’s the celebrity crush question. Most dorks respond with the usual including Kim, Halle, J-Lo, and Jessica. Not I.

“I’d have to go with Patti, Chelsea, Sandra, and Reese.”

“Interesting. Why?”

“Every woman has bumps and holes. I want one with that plus intelligence, pride, skill, and a sense of humor to tolerate playful kidding without leaving me on the sofa with a spare pillow and blanket after one of my wisecracks.”

Women are naturally concerned with how financially secure men are. I don’t care and I don’t want someone liking me for the size of the lump in the back of my pants. Ladies don’t really want sugar daddies, do they? Would some really trade all their pride and pleasure for an Amex Black? Gross!

The safest thing to say is you’re not typically attracted to men who … blah, blah … but, if there’s chemistry, who knows? That’s the truth, right? How many times have you described Mr. Perfect in your journal and then fell in love with a man who couldn’t be more different? I was married to a beautiful nurse with thick, curly hair and marshmallow lips. Will my next love be similar? Unlikely.

Don’t challenge Nature by placing constraints on yourself. Let love come and flow where it may.

Does somebody need a hug?

Sure you do. Hugs are good for you and they’re free. Make sure you deliver the proper hug. Depending on the hug-ee, you must adjust your strategy. Females need not be as concerned as males.

If you are male and the receiver is …

  • your lover: This one’s simple. You can get away with almost anything here, depending on your audience and what you’ve done to piss her off lately.
  • your best male friend: Unless you just won the World Series, this needs to be a handshake hug where only your right shoulders meet. It’s OK to add a quick back tap or two. If your stubbly cheeks meet, there’s a problem, unless you’re both Italian.
  • an exceptionally attractive server who is twenty years your junior: Keep in mind which of the two of you is intoxicated. You can push the limit here if you’re a 20% tipper. Still, if you double clutch her butt and lift her like in the movies, you’ll probably be kneed in the kerbangers and banned for life.
  • a person who is seated: This person does not want to hug you. Smile and wave instead.
  • a female coworker at a company event: This is dangerous territory. The safest thing to do is follow her lead. Extend both of your arms to show your willingness, and turn your head slightly to the left (as to not give the impression you’re about to do something completely freaky, like kiss her on the lips). Then, just do what she does.
  • a first date you met online, who looks nothing like her pictures: She probably won’t appreciate the high-five, so be nice and shake hands. This too shall pass.
  • a first date you met online, who looks better than her pictures: Congratulations on finding a unicorn. Be careful not to scare it away. Definitely go in for the full-body hug, tell her how lovely she is, and alert the media.
  • an uncle: Unless you’re fed up with women and he’s a priest or coach at PSU, you shouldn’t be hugging him. Buy him a beer instead.
  • a buddy’s wife: Best to be respectful here. You can embrace above the nipples but keep your hips twelve inches apart. If, by chance, your buddy took certain liberties in his hug with your woman, then one-up his ass by giving his girl a gorilla reach-around and an earlobe kiss. That’ll teach the ingrate.
  • a high school senior cheerleader without proper identification: Nope.
  • the bachelorette: That silly tiara, veil, and “I’m a cock gobbling slut monkey. Please show me your penis.” T-shirt she’s wearing give you permission to be as nasty as you want to be. The problem is her fullback-sized bridesmaid will be doing her blocking and tackling, so you’ll probably need to show Lori Czonka some loving before you gain access to the idiot announcing to the world that she’s about to ruin her life by strutting down the aisle with a man her parents disapprove of.
  • me: I don’t want to hug you unless you’re the current president, handing me the keys to a free Ferrari, or the agent who just signed me to a million-dollar book deal.

If he doesn’t call you, what does it mean?

Last night, I ran into a woman I dated once … once. Actually, I was chatting with her friend and when she introduced us, a tiny sensor went off in my Bushmills brain that said, “She looks familiar.” My sensors are less sensitive nowadays, leaving me in embarrassing situations.

“Oh, don’t even act like you don’t remember me.”

“Huh?”

“We had dinner date then went back to my place and I kicked your ass in Foosball.”

“Um…”

“What? You were so butt-hurt about a girl whooping you that you forgot to call?”

“I … but … losing in Foosball? That’s impossible.”

“Pathetic.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“No. You’re an author from Philadelphia. You drove a white Infiniti.”

Holy fucking shit. I’m such an ass.

“I’m just messing with you. Of course I remember.”

“Right. Let’s go, Betsy. Buh-bye, loser.”

Off they went. Well, I didn’t take a chardonnay bath so it could have been worse. Her friend was cute, but my chances were diminished now that Ms. Jilted tore me a new one.

Honestly, I don’t remember her or the date. I’ve dated numerous women since becoming single eight years ago. I can’t expect to recall every detail of every date, can I? I don’t think we had sex. Hm. Nope. I usually remember that. She probably had an annoying dog or halitosis. Whatever the reason, if I didn’t call her, I must not have been that into her so I did her a favor by tossing her back. It was only one date. How could she be sufficiently into me to hold such a grudge?

My buddies found it amusing. As much as I try to stay in the shadows, drama finds me and I eventually become the entertainment.

“You know she probably practiced your beat-down in the mirror for years just waiting for this day to come.”

“Stop. It was one fucking date.”

“Right now she’s taking laps around the bar telling all the single women you’re a heartless swine.”

“I know. Damn it. Her friend was cute, too.”

“No shot.”

“Oh, I bet if I pushed it, I could get a date out of her friend.”

“No way.”

“Women have egos too, dude. Her friend must know she’s a sassy pain-in-the-ass-y and is confident she’d have better luck with me.”

“That’s some twisted-ass logic.”

“Seriously. If you went on one date with a chick and she never returned your calls, that wouldn’t scare me away from her.”

“What if I told you she can burp the alphabet?”

“Fine.”

Jesus, woman! I’m sorry I didn’t call you. What would I have said, anyway? “Thank you for the date last night. I’m not feeling it, so there won’t be a second date. Have a nice life.” Radio silence is gentler. My conflict avoidance gene insists I skulk away quietly. If I burn a few bridges along the way, so be it. Life is too short to go on second dates with dead ends.

Do you know where your common sense went?

As humans, we have a tendency to seek reason where there is none. Most of what goes on in our lives is random. It may give us a sense of control when we blame the supernatural for causing noteworthy events. Still, I suggest this is mild insanity.

The modern calendar wasn’t even developed until 1582, which technically wasn’t the year 1582 until the calendar was created. It amazes me when intelligent people suggest ancient man simply started counting years after Christ was born. Many of these people also believe man once coexisted with dinosaurs and a magic pill will cause unlimited boners and weight loss.

So, it’s 11/11/2011. Wow. Technically, there is an annoying 2 and 0 within that date confusing things. I mean, if it were 11/11/1111 then we’d have something. Oh, I bet a shit storm of epic proportions would happen, including:

  • Happy hour portions wouldn’t be so damn chincy.
  • Teenage boys would cut their bangs and pull up their pants.
  • Teenage girls would stop dressing like Hollywood ho-bags.
  • Politicians, coaches, and evangelists would stop lying.
  • My sheets would fold themselves without eating one of my socks.
  • Cat fur would no longer stick to my clothing.
  • I’d watch an entire sporting event on TV without ads for Dremels or ED medicine.
  • A cop would pull me over and give me $300 and a gold star for my superior driving skills.
  • Children would leave the sofa, go outside, and play football.
  • An attractive woman would offer to buy me a drink without selling me anything or introducing me to Jesus.
  • Amazon would reward me as their 111 millionth customer by giving me unlimited free books to read on my Kindle.
  • Elvis, Freddie Mercury, and Michael Jackson would be discovered alive on a remote island in the south pacific.
  • My neighbor’s dogs would develop incurable laryngitis.
  • Hair would begin growing on the top of my five-head instead of inside my ears.
  • I could drink coffee and Coors Light without peeing every thirty minutes.
  • The US would foreclose on Bank of America, seize all of their assets, and hand them over to their rightful owners while relocating senior management to Guantanamo Bay.
  • Fast food commercials would stop featuring skinny, attractive people and show the lard-ass booth busters that more typically frequent those establishments.
  • President Obama would tell Michele Bachmann to take a flying fuck at a rusty pole.
  • Reality TV and adult cartoons would be cancelled and replaced by Laugh-In, Soap, Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and The Carol Burnett Show.
  • NBA players would be forced to compete on Cupcake Wars.
  • 50 would be the new 30.
  • Scientists would discover that melted cheese causes immortality.
  • Women would burn bras again.
  • First dates would include playful touching instead of twenty questions.
  • Bikers would be forced to live on a carless island of spandex, leather, and silly helmets.
  • Aliens would arrive and hand out chocolate covered cherries and cannabis.
  • God would part the clouds and yell, “Psyche!”