Archives for August 2012

Your guide to texting while intoxicated.

Inhibition-lowering substances can be useful, yet often cause embarrassment. It’s a tightrope walk with my dangling friend, Willy. If I have too little, Willy yawns and balks at opportunities that may have rescued an uneventful evening. If I have too much, Willy seems to disconnect from me and takes on a life of his own. (I’ve actually faked an orgasm to prevent serious brush burns.) The right amount of saturation lies somewhere between the ludicrous 0.08% line and the oh-fuck-what-have-I-done line.

It’s impractical to install a breath analyzer on my iPhone, though it would be an interesting conversation piece. Hence, if my staggering thumbs can make it past the 4-digit pass code, something bad is going to happen. I’m going to scroll through my list of mercy fucks and fire off a text message that will cause a great deal of cringing on both ends.

Yet, iPhones are smart devices with ever-growing lists of useful apps. I humbly request one be developed that provides a list of spell-checked messages that can be selected and deployed with minimal typing and maximal security. It would be even better if Siri had a conversation with me before agreeing to fire off the message.

TEXT: “Hey, what are you up to?”

*SEND*

Siri: “Are you sure you want to send this to Judy?”

*YES*

Siri: “You haven’t spoken to her in three months. Are you sure?”

*YES*

Siri: “Was she that good in bed?”

*NO*

Siri: “Then, perhaps you should reconsider and send this to Anne. Want to?”

*NO*

Siri: “You do realize it’s almost midnight.”

*YES*

Siri: “She’s probably sleeping or out with friends who will see your message. Heck, she may be married by now. Are you sure?”

*YES*

Siri: “Have you considered masturbation?”

*YES*

Siri: “Another option would be to have three more shots, which should cause you to pass out and prevent you from doing something you’ll regret.”

*NO*

Siri: “Shall I call your friend Scott so you can run this ill-advised plan past him?”

*NO*

Siri: “Why not? Has he slept with Judy?”

*NO*

Siri: “She might have her period.”

*NO*

Siri: “Hey, what do you say we play a little Words with Friends, sober up a bit, and revisit this in thirty minutes or so?”

*NO*

Siri: “Christ. You’re that horny?”

*YES*

Siri: “Aren’t there any desperate-looking women in your vicinity? Preferably ones at a similar level of inebriation.”

*NO*

Siri: “Have you considered having a burrito instead?”

*YES*

Siri: “Fine. But, if we send this to Judy and she sends back something cruel, do you promise not to throw me?”

*YES*

Siri: “If, for some odd reason, she agrees to hook up with you, can I watch?”

*NO*

Siri: “Prick. Sending …”

How we heal.

Nobody’s completely pain-free. Something pinches you somewhere. You may have grown used to the discomfort, but it’s there. Why not get rid of it?

No matter where the injury is, we only heal from the inside out. All medicine, therapists, and braces do is persuade your body to heal itself. The process begins with convincing you–the you that resides in your mind. If you’re unsure that what you’re doing or taking is going to make you feel better, it will probably fail.

So, let’s say you’ve had a shitty day at work. You got fired. You were replaced by a little snit who will do your job for less. You were escorted away, like a criminal. You’re embarrassed, knowing your coworkers are gossiping like teenage girls at a slumber party. How do you heal?

Well, for one, if there are no remaining financial obligations due to you, don’t hesitate to burn a few bridges. Face it, those bridges are paper thin anyway. Your ex-bosses and former teammates are concerned about one thing: how likely it is that they’re next in line at the slaughterhouse. To speed your healing, make sure you let each of these cowardly swines know how you really feel. If you must do so electronically, add a disclaimer to cover your ass. Here’s an example:

Dear Former Coworkers,

First, I want you to know that I am quite drunk as I write this, which is part of my healing process from being distraught about the thick layer of shit laid upon me. Hence, what I am about to say isn’t true. I’m just venting.

Now…

I wish you unbearable pain and regret for how you’ve treated me. I hope you get a paper cut on your pee hole, and an unsightly per-cancerous mole between your left eye and nose, which, I also hope, grows hair. If you are struck by a large truck on the way home tonight, I will giggle uncontrollably as I read your obituary. In fact, I’ll have your obituary laminated into a place mat, and I’ll eat breakfast off it daily.

Hugs and kisses (from your lips to my ass, preferably),

[insert your name, misspelled for legal reasons]

Now, exhale and say, “ahhh.”

Very good.

You’ve returned home midday to find your spouse being plowed like a field of soybeans by the neighbor’s son. Your wife, while embarrassed, doesn’t hesitate to tell you this is your fault and she wants a divorce. She insists you leave immediately (from the home you pay for) and go live with your uncle.

Don’t break things, or argue. Start the healing process by taking the checkbook, universal remote, and 18-year Macallan. Run over her lover’s skateboard or bike as you back out of the driveway, head to your bank, withdraw every cent, and close the account. It’s OK to hit on the teller; you’re single now. Drive to the closest dive bar, uncork the Macallan, tilt back four to six ounces, then enter the bar. Hand the bartender your keys, phone, and a twenty. Instruct her to continue bringing drinks, tater tots, and lonely women (size is of no concern) until there’s blood in your urine, then have the bartender hail a taxi to drag your carcass to a hotel.

You’ll wake up with a nasty hangover and an ugly woman (or man … whoopsie), but you’ll have already begun healing the nasty relationship wound your ex created.

You should never ask someone for your opinion.

“Hey, Philly Phil.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“I’d like your opinion.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“I mean, you won’t like my opinion unless it matches yours.”

“No, I value your opinion.”

“What you are looking for, darling, is confirmation for a stance you’ve already taken. If I give you my honest opinion and it matches yours, you’ll appreciate me. If it doesn’t match yours, you’ll either disregard it and secretly resent me, or ask for further clarification, which is basically picking a fight.”

“I’m not following.”

“Fine. Allow me to demonstrate by example. Let’s say you’ve been on two dates with Darryl, and you want to know if it is OK to sleep with him after tonight’s chardonnay and chicken piccata.”

“I prefer something dryer.”

“Chicken a la Kentucky?”

“I meant the wine.”

“Yes, you did. If I tell you it’s too soon to be slapping pelvises with Darryl, and you happen to have a lonely love-tunnel, you’ll think I’m jealous or uptight. If, on the other hand, you’re not ready to have Darryl sample your fine vagina wine, and I suggest you screw him silly, you’ll think I’m an oversexed creep.”

“Actually, I do think you’re an …”

“Hold that thought. And, by the way, there’s no such thing as an oversexed male. When I’ve had my squirt, I’m basically done for the time being. Drugs or not, there’s a limit as to how much sex I’m going to have, and my mind doesn’t matter in the equation. Anywho, my point is that you will only appreciate my response if it aligns with your opinion.”

“I’m not sleeping with Darryl.”

“Frank?”

“No, asshole. His name is Darryl. We’ve been on four dates, actually, and I haven’t so much as touched his penis.”

“Did you forget where he keeps it?”

“No.”

“Because, if you need directions …”

“I don’t.”

“All right. So, now that you know how this little game works, and I know that you know, would you still like my opinion?”

“Yes, in fact, I would. What is your opinion of sports doping?”

“Not what I was expecting, Missy. My take on the matter is that, like most everything in life, there are rules. And, most people will cross lines that are drawn, simply because it’s gives them an advantage, and it’s unlikely that anybody will catch them. It doesn’t make breaking rules the right thing to do–just the practical thing. Now, if you’re caught breaking the rules, you deserve punishment. You don’t get out of it by pointing out that other people broke the rules and they didn’t get caught. You don’t deny that you did it when you’re caught red-handed. You silently do the time for the crime and appreciate your good fortune if, in fact, you profited from your unfair advantage up until the point you were caught.”

“Wow.”

“You asked.”

“I appreciate your opinion.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Actually, I don’t give a shit and a quarter about bicycling or most sports for that matter. I was simply making topical conversation.”

“Great. So, about Darryl’s penis …”

“Don’t.”

Bad Boys Hurt; Have a Nice Guy Instead

You don’t want a bad boy, my dear; at least not in the real world. You can fantasize all you like about a scruffy, Harley driving, tattooed beast who does things you thought you’d never allow. But, you don’t want to meet him because eventually he’s going to shit all over you, emotionally.

You need a nice guy.

Forget that nonsense about how anything worthwhile is worth working hard for. If you wanted to buy a horse you could ride around the neighborhood, you would never opt for a wild bronco that would scream, thrash, and resist every attempt you made to civilize him. You’d go for the broken stud and avoid a broken neck.

That’s why I suggest you recalibrate your penis homing device. If you’re in a bar and you spot a tanned God in a vintage T-shirt and sandals who winks and slaps your ass as he walks by, run away. Run toward that kind fellow over there–the one who has been down the aisle a few times and learned how to behave.

You say you’re attracted to that coworker? Is he married? Ah, unhappily so. So he says. If his wife says so, you can believe it. Otherwise, you’re about invite calamity. Chances are he just wants a little strange to get him through the wife’s next nag session. If you’re looking for anything emotional attached to that penis, beware.

Again, seek the nice guy.

You may not be as attracted to the nice guy as you wish you were. He may be a bit of a pushover. He probably drinks too much, which helps maintain his niceness. I bet he knows how to seek and follow directions. There’s a huge benefit, right? You say, “lick,” and he says “how often?” Nice, huh?

Cancel all those silly online dating memberships. Save the money. Go to a bar and look for a quiet fellow who is content with his bourbon rocks and ESPN. Leave the bad boys for sad girls, and go have a nice guy!

(My next book, Have a Nice Guy, will be released in September 2012.)

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?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“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.”

“Really?”

“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.”

“Lazy.”

“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?”

“Ew.”

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

“Gross.”

“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.”

“About?”

“Bacon.”

“Stop.”

“Wing sauce.”

“Ass.”

“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?”

“Neither.”

“Fuck.”

I had a dream … I think.

I found an odd combination of substances causes vivid dreams. Drink Coors Light and piña coladas in the hot desert sun while floating in a pool full of bath water. Add three or four sake bombs (depending on your weight), many rolls of sushi, tequila, and a tightly-rolled, dark-skinned cigar. Then, stumble home and hit the hay, preferably before you hit your nose on the pavement.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Huh? What?”

“Remember me?”

“Fuck. Where … what the … who?”

“From the pool? Melissa?”

“Yes, yes, right. Sorry it’s dark. Wait a minute. How did you get in here?”

“Your roommate gave me the key.”

“Kudos to him. He gets a wingman of the year nomination from me.”

“So. What would you like to do, now that I’m here?”

“Um, bake a cake?”

“Really?”

“Well, I do have the sweetest ingredient.”

“Don’t you want to kiss?”

“Why, sure. I must warn you, though, I smell of fermentation and burned leaves. My penis is also at the perilous stage between being unable to rise to the occasion and unable to return to its original state.”

“Whiskey dick?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s see what I can do.”

The dream girl peeled down my boxer-briefs and began inflating her love doll (me). I had a tweener. I kept thinking, please, Willy, don’t let me down. Luckily she was quite skilled and Willy rose to the occasion. I never really know for sure if a woman wants me to finish, unless she tells me, which is extremely rare. When she sensed the point of no return was approaching, she climbed back up and whispered to me.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Um, yeah, no.”

“Which is it? Yeah or No?”

“No.”

“Shame on you. What sort of man goes on vacation without a condom.”

“The fixed kind who is also a low expectation having mother fucker.”

“Hm. That’s a shame.”

“Damn. You just want to sleep now, right?”

“No. I meant it’s a shame that you don’t want to have babies.”

“Tonight?”

“Well, no, I’m not getting pregnant tonight,” she continued while sliding her thong to the side and inserting me, “because I’m on the pill. I came prepared, Mister.”

The sex was good, I think. Dream sex always is, isn’t it? There are never premature ejaculations in dreams. No people walking in on you. No broken penises or bruised taints. No wet dog’s nose in the mix. No “oops, my period started early.” Dream sex is always awesome, except for the part when you wake up the next morning and realize it was just a dream. Then you limp through a breakfast buffet of runny eggs, stale bacon, and blintzes, wondering if that sort of serendipitous sex ever happens in real life.

Get pissed and carry a large stick.

Slogans. Ugh.

I’m not condoning violence here. The stick should be a deterrent. It should remind the annoyance to find a less-armed person to annoy. If a stick is too threatening, carry a rubber chicken or a pool noodle. Don’t go out amongst savages unprepared. Various violations are going to take place; by carrying a club and losing your shit, you’ll deflect most of it. The temporary spike in blood pressure is worthwhile. You’ll recover soon enough (add a mojito, if it helps). Then you’ll enjoy serenity while others pretend to keep calm.

Here are typical violations where you’ll need to deploy your stick:

  • Dirty dishes left on counter.
  • Toilet paper left with one sheet on roll.
  • Person in your way isn’t paying attention to anything but her phone.
  • Driver slow in left lane or on entrance ramp.
  • Motorcycle cop doing anything. (Not a good idea to strike them. I strongly advise against it. It won’t end well, especially if you’re not Caucasian. Just thumb your nose or something. Fine. I warned you.)
  • Neighbor walking dog. Dog pisses in your yard. Neighbor in a trance, begging for a beating.
  • Person old enough to drive, on a skateboard. Recruit a partner and deploy a clothesline for lots of laughs.
  • Checkout clerk making small talk.
  • Man at gym doesn’t notice your earbuds. He hits on you. Hit him.
  • Person at work is an angry typist, slapping his keyboard. This also applies to Sheila with the ridiculous nails clicking across the keyboard.
  • Your date customizes her order to the point where she’s handed an apron and a spatula.
  • Party guest opens the most expensive bottle, drinks half a glass, and leaves the rest to spoil.
  • Someone makes that awful slurping noise while drinking coffee.
  • Somebody needs a tissue.
  • Smoker blows smoke up to avoid hitting you with a cloud, while remaining oblivious to the fact that her breath keeps deploying the awful scent.
  • Bartender serves a man a straw or forgets to serve a woman a straw.
  • Clerk at 7-Eleven is disgusted by your presence, and for this you pay him.
  • Pizza drips grease on blouse.
  • Glass drips condensation on crotch. People think you peed yourself or made cumsies.
  • Person mistakes you for clerk when you are shopping. Asks your advice. Give her some, like “See how far you can shove a Gucci up your coochie.”
  • Obama or Romney supporter makes constant posts with clever things like “Obummer” or “Mitt ain’t Shitt,” while failing to realize her friends respect her opinion about as much as an otter’s.
  • Asinine fan yells at TV in public.
  • Anyone begins a sentence with, “Remember that Seinfeld episode where ….”
  • People impede your progress because a picture must be taken at the precise moment you’re passing.

Don’t keep calm. If you simply smile and sigh away the pain, you’ll have a migraine … or ulcers … or gas … or something. Poke the offender with the stick. It doesn’t need to be pointy. Blunt works well and it’s less messy. Carry on.

How a woman can make you be a man.

A West Coast phenomenon, which I’m none to pleased with, is the tendency for people to bring their dogs to bars and restaurants. Rarely a night goes by without noticing a mutt sitting under a patron’s chair on a patio while I’m trying to enjoy wings and suds. If the restaurant doesn’t permit it, no problem; tie the pooch up just outside the front door and set a stainless bowl of water in front of him. I’m sure he doggy dreams about having numerous strangers pat him on the head, showering compliments like “nice doggy,” “oh, he’s so cute,” “I wonder if it is a he or a she,” and the ever-popular “aw.”

I don’t hate dogs, mind you. They have their place, which is nowhere near me while I eat. I don’t want my toes sniffed. I don’t want my knee licked. I don’t want to touch him and then my burger bun. I’m not feeding him scraps. I’m not delivering anything other than a sneer to him and his owner, because I don’t condone this activity.

So, last night, as I enjoyed a cold beer on a warm patio, a lovely specimen climbed aboard the patio with her beast of burden. Admittedly, the pooch was cute–cuter in his doggy bed in the family room than blowing doggie boogers around the patrons. Pets sense people who are annoyed by their presence. They approach these people and try to win them over. The pooch stared at me while his owner awaited my reaction.

“Your son’s going to need braces,” I remarked, noticing his under-bite with one tooth protruding over his upper lip.

“Fuck you. You’re an asshole. How dare you pick on poor, defenseless Curtis.”

“Whoa, easy,” I reeled while my buddies about peed themselves.

“He can’t help the way his teeth are. I rescued him. How could you pick on a defenseless animal?”

“Hey, I’m not picking on anyone. I was making an observation.”

“Dogs can’t wear fucking braces, you jackass.”

“Calm down. I wasn’t being literal.”

“What if this were my child. Would you say that?”

“Yeah, if he had a snaggle tooth, I probably would.”

“I should kick your ass,” she threatened, and she wasn’t kidding.

“Back me up, fellas,” I begged, hoping for support from my brothers. If we were women, I wouldn’t even have to ask. Men love nothing more than watching a bus cream a buddy, especially when it is driven by an attractive woman.

She became so enraged that she left the patio. (Job well done, if I must say so myself.) An hour later, she returned without her “son” and continued her assault. Because I’m a non-confrontational pussy who doesn’t want his ass kicked by a woman, I attempted to defuse the situation.

“I’m sorry. I was kidding. You know that, right?”

“No, you’re an asshole.”

“Granted. I apologize.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Again, if this were a group of women, they’d have my back. My buddy, however, saw this as a prime opportunity to make his move on her. I sat back and observed the inevitable approach: Angry girl was going to find a reason to be angry with him. It took less than five minutes for her to begin lecturing him because he made a comment about a man she was hanging around.

“Is your boy over there Abercrombie or Fitch?”

“Fuck you. He’s from England, asshole. Why do you have to pick on him?”

I sat back and chuckled. My pal handles situations like this differently–un-pussy-like–so he let her have it.

“No, fuck you. Fuck you in that great ass of yours. Fuck you and all the goofy-toothed men in your life.”

She stood there stunned. I awaited flying fists and beverages. Nothing.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” she responded, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Can I have a hug?”

As they hugged, I about lost my shit. I realized this woman had an strange, yet effective strategy to get a man to be a man around her, and I failed miserably.

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks – Final Day FREE on Kindle

Kindle owners, today is the final day the first book in my parody is free. If you do not own a Kindle, email me at ptorcivia@gmail.com and I’ll send you a PDF version. Thank you for your support!

Check it out at Amazon.com

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks by Phil Torcivia

Mommy’s out knocking the dust off.

I attract certain women lately, not because they’re sexually attracted to me; perhaps they see me as a coach of sorts. It happened again last night.

“Hey, Coach.”

“What’s up, Kiddo?”

“I’ve been out of the game a while–getting a bit rusty on the bench over here.”

“Ready to take a shot?”

“I think so. I’ve been sidelined for twelve years with a man I’ve grown to dislike and a four-year-old who’s draining me.”

“All right. Take a lap around the pub and limber up.”

Coaches aren’t allowed to mix it up with players. Sad. I accept my role and hope she drinks enough to forget hers. When she returns, I ask important questions to see if she’s ready.

“Have you been practicing?”

“I got digits from a twenty-five-year old last night.”

“You say ‘digits’ again and I’ll have you scrubbing latrines.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you say twenty-five? That’s about a ten-year difference, no?”

“I know. He was cute. He walked me out to my car.”

“Did you seal the deal?”

“He went in for the kiss, and I blocked so I could ask him a question.”

“Let me guess: ‘Did you wash your hands and clean your nails, young man?'”

“No. I asked if he remembered my name.”

“Oops.”

“Yep. He forgot.”

“But, you kissed him anyway.”

“Well …”

“Fucking rookies. All right, look, you want to play the game awhile and stay off the bench, right? Don’t be so concerned about triviality like names, living situations, and investment strategies. If you’re going after high-haired baby apes, take them as they are, get your box stuffed, and move on.”

Here’s where all the buts come out because she hasn’t built up her emotional callus:

  • But, I have a child to consider.
  • But, what about disease?
  • But, what if I like him?
  • But, I’m a good girl.
  • But, it goes against my beliefs.
  • But, it grosses me out when I see older women with young guys.
  • But, what if my ex-husband finds out.
  • But, I just want to make out with him and not have sex.
  • But, how do I know if he just wants me for a one-night stand.
  • But, I have another ten pounds to lose before I’ll feel sexy.

I noticed her drink was empty, so I offered to help her along with a non-banned substance: vodka.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“No, I can buy my own.”

“Suit yourself. Who’s your next target, champ?”

“I like that boy over there. He reminds me of Brad Pitt in his Legends of the Fall days.”

“Christ.”

“What?”

“Brad fucking Pitt? Really?”

“I could make it work.”

“You should reconsider the drink because you have set highly unrealistic expectations.”

“Aw, that’s sad.”

“Fine. Go poke Brad, and see how that works out.”

“I will.”

Naturally, she boldly approached him, realized he smelled of seaweed, Red Bull, and Axe Body Spray, and returned to Coach Phil with her tail tucked and un-fucked. I lost my patience and left the arena, to shower, sleep, and live to coach another dame.

 

Why are we stuffing our kids with useless knowledge?

I’m on the train, returning from a Padres game, and across from me sit a mom and her ten-year-old son. He’s wearing some snazzy face-paint, answering questions his mother is asking from the game’s program.

“Carlos Quentin.”

“Right Fielder, number eighteen … hits around two-seventy.”

“Right!”

After three or four of these, I had to look up from my Kindle and interrupt. The child and his mother were obviously both impressed by his knowledge. I was not.

“OK, son, I have one for you.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s your average?”

“Huh?”

“You play baseball, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“So, what’s your average?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere around three hundred, I think.”

“That’s the only average you should be concerned with–your own–unless you’re coaching the Padres.”

Naturally, mom gave me the stink-eye, which reminded me to mind my own business.

I got to thinking about all the silly things that occupy my dwindling gray matter. Sure, general knowledge goes a long way toward keeping me from sounding like a total idiot when games come out at the party, but did I really need to memorize the lyrics to “Feliz Navidad” and how to solve a Rubik’s Cube? I would have been better served learning skills instead of memorizing information. Who cares what the capital of Denmark is? Who cares what level of Asteroid I can attain? I should have learned how to give CPR, change my oil, and bring a woman to orgasm in fifteen minutes or less.

Memorization isn’t learning. If you’re skilled at memorizing, good for you. Go on Jeopardy, or sit in a pub boring the shit out of your buddies by spewing movie lines. How many handsome fellows do you see on Jeopardy, anyway? Is Bill Gates handsome? How many national spelling bees are won by future models?

You see, we don’t need to cram information like phone numbers, addresses, and recipes into our skulls. Any information we need to know is quickly accessible from our handy smart phones. How old is Jane Fonda? IM-fucking-Db. How long will it take to drive to Santa Barbara? Google-freaking-Maps. What year was Kajagoogoo popular? (Um, never.) Wikipedia that shit. (Fine, 1982.)

Skills should be acquired, young man!

I don’t mean video game skill, either. At what point did violence become good and sex become bad? We need someone to hit our moral reset button. Sex is good and, by the way, essential to the continuation of our species. Violence, however; quite the opposite. Our children should be taught how to make themselves presentable and socialize effectively. You want to memorize something? Memorize the name of the person you just met, with whom you’re having stimulating conversation. Use that person’s name in your sentences, because every person loves to hear his or her name.

Last night, I ran into a woman I met recently. I remembered her name, because I’ve acquired the skill of name association. It impressed the oxytocin out of her. It was obvious she forgot mine, so I reintroduced myself. I even gave her a free lesson on word association.

“I’m Phil from Philly.”

“Ah, and you’re wearing a Phillies cap too.”

“I am.”

Not thirty minutes later, this genius–who probably knows the name, age, and occupation of every cast-member of Bachelor Pad–forgot my name. I pointed to my head as a clue.

“Pat?”

“Pat?! Really?”

“Hat rhymes with Pat.”

“Check, please.”

Have you tried Mary Jane’s baked goods?

My “friend” has one of those invaluable medicinal marijuana cards. California dispensaries should be studied, and their customer service emulated. They make baked (!) goods that are far superior in taste to the cardboard served at Starbucks, with the added benefit of knocking one on his cosmic ass. Oh, and they deliver … women in bikinis deliver the goods. Wow!

I built up such a huge tolerance to weed in my twenties. Now, I need a cigar-sized joint to put me in a haze. Still, when in the presence of medicinal peanut butter or cookies, I can’t resist. The one I encountered recently had “XXX – Triple Strength” on the label. I figured that would do the trick, as I tore off a chunk and headed home before it hit me.

I was anxious to watch this week’s on-demand episode of “The Newsroom.” As I settled into my La-Z-Boy and pressed play, the cookie began attacking my senses. Coincidentally, this episode featured the news anchor (Jeff Daniels) hosting party at which he consumed not one, but two marijuana-laced cookies. This caused many layers of fucked-upness for me. I let out a “whoa,” pressed pause, rubbed my eyes, and slugged down a Diet Dr. Pepper as I leaned on my kitchen island. My cat, Syd, followed me into the kitchen (as all cats do), hoping I’d accidentally drop tuna into his dish. Syd looked up and meowed as I belched Pepper fumes. I could swear his meow came out as, “Can you make me a carp on rye, please? Hold the mayo.”

Good cannabis cookie.

I returned to my family room, well aware of the fog I was in, and enjoying it. I pressed play, anticipating the episode would correct itself and discontinue poking fun at me with the storyline. It didn’t. The anchor was completely roasted on the baked goods, and forced to go on the air in his altered state. Fortunately, we’re both functional stoners.

Syd must have let his brother, Symon, in on the fact that Pop was in the ideal state to be fucked with. He waited until I was totally engrossed, then he stood, placing his front paws on my armrest, and said, “Don’t be an inconsiderate prick. Toss some catnip on the floor so we can enjoy the ride too.” I complied. I’m such a good daddy.

As the episode continued, I began wondering how many layers of stoner-sediment were possible. Jeff Daniels was acting like he was stoned. What if he actually was stoned? I was stoned while watching him act stoned. What if some neighborhood cougars were hiding in my backyard bushes, smoking weed while watching me? What if teenage boys were doing bong hits in the bedroom while watching their moms in my yard? What if Google had a satellite hovering over my neighborhood … oh, fuck.

The episode ended and the credits rolled, as I found myself in a curled-up ball under an afghan. It all seems like a dream.

Are my fixtures possessed?

I have a ceiling fan in my living room. It seems to have a mind of its own. At random times, it will begin spinning or the lights will come on. Last night it came on at 3 a.m., causing great confusion as I woke up and wondered if I had overslept. Finally, the tequila fog cleared, I crawled from bed, staggered downstairs to turn it off, peed through a semi, returned to bed, and lay awake wondering about my ceiling fan.

My explanation for this phenomenon would tell you a lot about me–perhaps more than my Match.com profile would. If I were:

  • Republican – Obama is responsible.
  • Christian – Jesus is showing his divine presence by shedding light on me.
  • Superstitious – It’s a sign that I need to play 3-0-8 in the Lotto because that’s the time I awoke.
  • Spiritual – My oneness with the light means I need to shed light on others.
  • Procrastinator – The light is reminding me to pay my electric bill.
  • Single – My prayers about having an active sex life are about to be answered.
  • Married – My wife left it on.
  • Cat Lover – My little guy’s night vision is fading in his old age and he’s looking for the stuffed mouse.
  • Cat Hater – Little fucker’s trying to fool me into thinking it’s feeding time.
  • Neighbor Hater – The prick next door has decoded my ceiling fan remote code. He’s doing this to fuck with me.
  • Paranoid – Armed, masked thieves are hiding behind a door, waiting to club me and make me watch while they empty my house.
  • Old – What light?
  • Logical – There’s a short, which I should have checked before it burns my fucking house down.

Next time you’re on a first date, interpret his reactions to determine what type of fellow he is. Disregard his profile statements about being kind, aware, and a frequent exerciser. You may need to prompt some of these reactions, depending on where your first date takes place. Here are three suggestions:

  1. Order shots of tequila. Do not order them chilled, and insist they come without lime or salt. When they arrive, watch his reaction closely. If he wrinkles his nose or asks the server if he could have his chilled, he’s probably packing two inches of future disappointment. If he asks for salt and lime, he’s a rookie but may be trainable. If he slams both shots and yells “fuck yes,” he’s a keeper.
  2. As you chill on the sofa, excuse yourself for a minute and change into lingerie. When you return, observe his reaction. If his nose is buried in his iPhone, change back into your clothes and ask him to leave. If he’s too engrossed in the latest episode of Hillbilly Handfishin’ to notice your nipples poking through the netting, take the remote from him, turn off the TV, and slap him. If he’s lying there, pinching the head of his tented jeans, bravo!
  3. If you’re at a baseball game, and the Kiss Cam focuses on you, what does he do? If he raises his right hand to high-five you, throw your eight-dollar beer on him and leave. If he blushes, leans in, and kisses your cheek, start texting your friends to rescue you. If he straddles you, cups your face, and tongues your tonsils, he’s the man.

Do you know what your problem is?

Aside from ending a sentence with a preposition, I know exactly what my problem is: I don’t think I have a problem.

A single girl in her late twenties got into this introspective discussion with me last night. I find most people are either oblivious or hyper-critical about themselves. It’s easy to identify which applies by how the person reacts to other people. Women tend to be hyper-critical and men tend to be oblivious. Pity. Then again, maybe that’s Nature’s balance. Imagine the circus, if both genders were oblivious.

Men have such huge egos, we have a hard time pointing out flaws. A typical response I have given is “My problem is I’m too picky.” That’s not really a flaw, now is it? It’s like saying “My cock is too big,” “I’ve run out of space in my trophy cabinet,” or “I can’t decide whether to buy the Ferrari or Maserati.” Yet, when it’s turned around on the woman, she goes straight for the obvious.

“OK, so what do you think your problem is?”

“Well, I’m an independent single mother who doesn’t need someone to take care of me, and I have a big ass.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“Which part?”

“The ass. Women are supposed to be curvy.”

“You’re kind. So you think my independence is my problem.”

“Can we talk about your ass some more?”

“No. Why is my independence a problem. Is it intimidating?”

“Men have the instinctive need to protect and provide. You’re disarming us.”

“So you prefer a weak, needy woman.”

“… with a great ass.”

“Great or big? Oh, and you’re stupid.”

“Thank you. Big can be great.”

Then she redirected the questioning to my less-perverted pal. He’s ten years younger and not quite as jaded. Still, my protege is skilled at the fine art of harmless self-criticism.

“You’re turn. What’s your problem?”

“The last three serious relationships I’ve had were with amazing women. They raised the bar for my next lover.”

“So, you’re picky too.”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t working out as I had hoped. You don’t have any body issues? OCD? Addictions?”

“Not really. I work out often, I prefer a tidy home, and I’m addicted to nice cars.”

“Ugh.”

I don’t know how you ladies put up with us.

“Let’s try another exercise: guessing what’s wrong with strangers we see. What do you think is wrong with Miss Balloon Tits over there?”

“We’re probably going to differ on the breast evaluation.”

“Please. They’re too big for her body. Oh, and she has that older-woman droopy ass.”

“Not seeing it. Her boobs look like fun, and a slightly underslung ass is acceptable. Now, this fellow over here–with the Hawaiian shirt, gray pony tail, and leather mandals–needs his vision checked.”

“Ah, but he’s with a woman.”

“Then she needs her vision checked. Or, maybe she wants him to look ridiculous to keep other women away.”

“You’re so jaded.”

“Yes, that’s my problem: I’m jaded. No church, therapy, or romance novels will unjade me. The only thing that works is tequila. Time for a refill. Would your great ass like another?”

Sexual Olympics you should try tonight.

sexual olympicsAll right, folks, it’s time to spice up your love lives. Competition is exciting. Some of you may be too shy to have judges nearby (I am available and will work for wine), so I recommend events that can be scored objectively. I hope you learned a lesson from those evil badminton teams: no intentionally losing events or you will be punished. Speaking of punishment …

Event #1 – Spanking

  • The objective here is to cause impermanent reddening and heightened sensitivity. This is typically easier for the man to excel, especially in the doggie position. However, a skilled woman can slap an ass in missionary position as long as her ankles aren’t in the vicinity of her earlobes. Extra points are scored for the slab-grab maneuver. Deductions will be assessed for booby and testicle slapping.

Event #2 – Slicking

  • This requires props, so load up on oils and syrups. You’ll receive extra points if you use honey, whipped cream, and jelly. There are deductions for buffalo wing sauce. I’d consider throwing down a baby pool, but that’s just me and my pristine sheets.

Event #3 – Sneak Attack

  • Instead of the usual–we go to bed, you blow me some, I go down on you a bit, we hump for five minutes, squirt, and sleep–this event requires spontaneity (and the ladies likey). Sneak up on your mate in the parking lot of work, the gym, or the market. Toss your lover into the back seat and have at it. Bonus points will be given if it’s sunny. Deductions will be given if you have a convertible and you’re parked near a school.

Event #4 – Sexting

  • Search online for sexy phrases (Why reinvent the wheel?), and fire up that camera phone. Keep your face out of the pictures and always take shots from above, not below, as saggy things look less saggy that way. You’ll get bonus points if the privates in the pictures are engorged and you get deductions if they are not your privates.

Event #5 – Water Sports

  • How creative you get in this event depends on how large your tub and shower is. I advise against using the Slip-n-Slide in your backyard, as neighbors can be nosy. In a pinch you can use a hose and your garage. This event requires soap bubbles, and I insist you use “no tears” brands as bloodshot eyes, while they conceal imperfections, are not sexy. You’ll receive extra points if you wear nose plugs, can shave privates without nicks, and can massage a scalp during penetration. There are deductions for losing the soap and peeing.

 

Be thankful that you can enjoy these events without the annoying delayed broadcast, which keeps you up past your bedtime watching something while making believe you don’t know how it ends. In fact, it’s perfectly acceptable to have NBC’s Olympic coverage on during your events, especially if swimmer/diver chests and crotch bulges, or gymnast/volleyballer lower ass quadrants enhance your performance.

On your mark … get set … go!