Archives for June 2013

Nice Guy Syndrome

fwbThis sucks.

I’m in love with someone who realizes I’m in love with her, but she won’t let me love her because she likes me. Figure that out. Oh, I’m sure she thinks of other reasons why it would never work. I’m too old, too anti-marriage (except for gay marriage), and there are no bullets in my genetic gun. Yet, I love her so much that I would marry her (crazy, I know). Not only that, I am willing to have my balls re-sliced and my dangling ovaries reconnected, to plant my seed within her, just so I can admire the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met in the most beautiful state I’ve ever seen any woman. I cringe when I consider raising children, but my DNA would be blessed to share space with hers in a child who would melt my heart.

But, it’s not meant to be, because of me.

I don’t do the thing I know women want: chase and conquer. Nice guys don’t do that because we’re worried about rejection. Bad boys don’t care. Bad boys shrug off rejection, and move on to the next opportunity. Nice guys take it all in, and wonder what’s wrong with us. We get hair, teeth, and clothing upgrades. We diet. We hit the gym to the point of injury.

“She doesn’t want me. There must be something wrong with me.”

Bad boys are confident, and women love confidence. Women see a passive man as a weak man, unless he’s a friend–then, he’s a great friend. Bad boys know when they are turned down, it’s because the woman isn’t ready. Bad boys realize in many cases, no doesn’t mean never–it means not right now.

Nice guys are aware that no might mean maybe. But, nice guys also weigh factors such as time invested in stalking the prey, and the fact that we can’t change women. Nice guys think logically. We decide if we can’t change women, we can work on ourselves to become more marketable.

“No, you say? Be right back. How about now? No? Hmm. Give me a few weeks. OK, now? Maybe? Wow! That’s an opening. Let me buy you dinner. What? As friends? Jesus. Fine.”

Most of my friends are bad boys. We attract what we’re not. They bring me pearls of wisdom; I shut the oyster.

“Why are you still chasing her? Have you noticed there are probably hundreds of other opportunities within this city block alone? Get over her, already. In fact, once you branch out and stop staring at her like a caged puppy, she’ll see you with other women, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll realize you’re a catch, and give you a shot. You only live once, dude. Stop with the addiction. Quit her, cold turkey.”

“But, I love her.”

“You’ve never even kissed her.”

“Don’t have to. This is something I feel in my core. She’s like toffee–I don’t know why I love her, but I do.”

“And, you’ll feel the same for another, once you stop auto-cock-blocking.”

“If I let her go, I’ll always wonder.”

“Then, go tell her. All this shit you just spilled on me, tell her. Let her know exactly how you feel. But, if she says, ‘No, thank you,’ promise me you won’t crawl inside a bottle of scotch.”

“I can’t. I won’t scare her away. Better to have her in my life as a friend, than to lose her forever.”

“Beware, ladies: Nice Guy Syndrome!”

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

psu(quote by Jim Rohn)

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

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

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

PSU, as in Pussy Support Unit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it dance?”

“Lord, who knows?”

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

“Ee-yuck. Think it has an owner?”

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

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

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

“Sometimes those are more reliable.”

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

Most people are paralyzed by fear. Overcome it and you take charge of your life and your world.

callme(quote by Mark Victor Hansen)

“Isn’t that woman pretty? I bet she used to be a model. You should write your number on a napkin and pass it down to her.”

“I’d need to check ESPN for the official stats on that, but I’d bet for a man passing a number, the pass to penetration ratio is horrible.”

“Nothing ventured …”

“Nothing lost.”

“You’re such a pessimist. What’s the worse she could do?”

“Let me see. How about show it to her friends, crumble it up, and laugh at me while she tosses it?”

“She’ll be flattered.”

“I’ll give you another reason this won’t end well: She probably assumes you and I are together. Hence, sliding my number to you will be seen as a grave act against womanity.”

“Nah, women can tell when two people are just friends.”

“Then, she’d assume I was your gay friend.”

“But, by passing her your number, she’d realize you’re not.”

“Why don’t you start up a conversation with her, and casually bring up the fact that I’m tall, rich, famous, and hung like a rhino?”

“That would be a lie, which would set her up for disappointment, and you for failure.”

“But … hey, wait a minute … which part is a lie?”

“Never mind. Just write your number on this napkin.”

“No.”

“Pussy.”

“You are what you eat.”

“Ew.”

“See? I’m juvenile. She’d never want to go out with me. Besides, nobody uses phone numbers any more. I might as well pass her my Facebook page.”

“There ya go. Why don’t you slide her a book?”

“Have you read my books?”

“Good point. You do realize that this woman could be the one, and you’re letting her slip through your fingers.”

“She could also be married, gay, or a murderous psychopath.”

“You’re insane.”

“She could have three toddlers, a Harley, and a good friend in Jesus.”

“Still unlikely.”

“She’s probably attracted to young hipsters who have the stamina to drink till two, and still do morning yoga.”

“Take a pill then.”

“I’m fine in that area, thank you very little.”

“Sure, you are.”

“Actually, I tried a blue pill for the first time with the most recent ex.”

“And?”

“The friend who gave me the pill forgot to disclose the side effects. I was having precoital conversation when, suddenly, the lights in my house changed. They turned from a yellowish glow to bluish. Totally fucked with my head. I got up and started flipping switches. She thought I was losing it.”

“Even I know that’s a side effect, and I don’t have a penis. So, how was the sex?”

“I’d say somewhat impressive, but not monumental.”

“Wonder what she would say.”

“Probably something to the tune of, ‘I can’t believe I let that asshole have sex with me.'”

“I’m going to start calling you Eeyore.”

“Oh, shit. Look. There she goes. Oh, well. Her loss.”

“Really? You’re just going to let her fade away?”

“If she were interested in me, she would have slid me her number.”

“There she goes–your soul mate, your baby mama, your everything.”

“My next ex, at best.”

They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.

rbflag(quote by Andy Warhol)

Living near the coast in San Diego is wonderful, but the marine layer often chases me east for vitamin D and vodka. A favorite destination of mine is Palm Springs. If you’ve never been, you should visit. In the summer, temperatures approach 120 degrees. What’s better than blazing sun, ice cold beer, cool misting systems, and a dipping pool? Strawberries and Cool Whip, perhaps–only if they are fed to me by a buxom young lady.

Another fine thing about the weather is it remains warm at night. It’s fun to stroll around town, admiring the packs of bachelorette parties. I always offer three words of advice, “Don’t do it.” Occasionally, I’ll break out my Bugs Bunny voice and say, “You’ll be SOR-ry.” People don’t appreciate Looney Tunes nor my marriage aversion, for that matter.

Palm Springs is also a popular destination for gay men. In fact, my favorite restaurant is a haven. These men usually have fine-tuned straight-dar, and realize I prefer pussy. Still, I seem to present a challenge. Much as I’m not offended if the man next to me likes meatloaf, I don’t mind if he likes meat injections.

“Look, I know you’re not gay, but I’m still going to hit on you. You have lovely eyes.”

“Thank you and, you are correct.”

“Which part?”

“The not-being-gay part. I am flattered, though.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Um, no.”

“Not even a little experimentation during adolescence?”

“I experimented plenty, mostly with myself, a magazine, and sperm-absorbent tissues.”

“You might like it, you know.”

“Nope. Again, sorry. You’re a handsome fellow. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a young man to enjoy.”

“What if I want to enjoy you?”

“Wouldn’t you agree it’s more fun when both parties enjoy it?”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it. I’m very good.”

We continue our discussion–absolutely blocking me from vagina, which was scarce to begin with. He has a partner he’s been with for thirty years. They rarely have sex any more, sleep in separate beds, and go have their little trysts, which are known but never discussed.

Relationship paths are remarkably similar, regardless of the types of people involved.

He spoke about his first love: the high school football star, who had to hide his sexuality. It was the stuff Lifetime movies are made from. (OK, maybe Bravo!) Then, we got into the typical destination for most discussions involving me.

“So, why are you single, Phil?”

“You say that as if there’s something wrong with being single.”

“Well, don’t you want someone to love and take care of you as you get older?”

“I love and take care of me.”

“Ah, but we all need more.”

“There’s the difference: While I want more, I certainly don’t need it. Neediness is unattractive. You have someone you love, yet you sleep alone and you’re out here trying to turn me like a vampire.”

“I do love my man. I have a bird I love, too.”

“What do you love about them?”

“I love being able to take care of them, as well as the interaction.”

“So, love to you is not having someone taking care of you; it’s having someone to take care of.”

“I guess so.”

“There’s another reason why we get along, but won’t be doing so nakedly: We’re both nurturers, not nurturees. We relate. But, we each require a little project/person to make happy in order for us to be happy. As long as that person shows appreciation, love flourishes.”

“Sounds poetic. Are you a writer, by chance?”

“No, I am a writer by choice.”

Strength lies in differences, not in similarities.

differences(quote by Stephen Covey)

When I stumble across–or, more likely into a potential mating option and the pre-insertion interview process ensues, I often wonder why things must follow a certain script. The woman interviewing me typically seeks answers to the following important (to her, at this particular moment) questions:

  1. Is he dating someone else or married?
  2. Is he a player?
  3. Does he have any children or roommates?
  4. Does he have a good job?
  5. Does he believe in the same god?
  6. What pets does he have?
  7. Is he a good kisser?
  8. Can I mold him?

Seems most women are looking for similarities in mates. True, an occasional woman looks for similarities to her father or ex, and often she’s unaware that she’s doing it. Yet, most want to here me answer as if they are interviewing themselves. How fucking boring!

I don’t want to date me with tits and a vagina.

I’d bore the crap out of me. Sure, nobody knows how to touch me as well as I do, but as long as she’s trainable, I’m fine with it. I want to date a woman who adds something to the relationship: a different perspective or skill, perhaps. This will improve my life by exposing me to new things. (The insides of most vaginas feel remarkably similar. It’s unrealistic to expect something new there.)

Now, I’m not about to hit church on Sunday, in search of a tall, highly religious, dog-owning Republican who smokes, runs marathons, and enjoys peeing in the shower. Be reasonable. I’m seeking something different, not opposite. As I grow older, parts of me are less pliable. As long as she understands that, and appreciates the fact that I’m willing to try something new, there’s potential. The other thing to keep in mind is my pliability is directly proportional to how attractive she is. Yes, that’s shallow; so be it.

This past weekend, I met a lovely pair of Colombian women. Naturally, my first thoughts were, are they desperately seeking citizenship, and how desperately? Alas, I once again misapplied a stereotype.

“We are artists. We’ve just come from a gallery where my friend here sold her first painting.”

“Wow! Very cool. We’re both artists. We’d probably parent the next Michelangelo.”

“You paint?”

“Um, no. I write books. That’s art too, you know.”

“What do you write?”

“Ah, that’s unimportant. Say, do you like wine?”

“Yes, obviously. I’m drinking wine.”

“Fuck, I can’t believe how much we have in common. It’s seren … serendip … um, uncanny?”

“What is uncanny?”

“Have any kids, my sweet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Same here. Jesus, I feel like I may have just met my soul mate.”

This is where my eagerness causes skepticism in my target, but her friend is on a mission to get her friend laid (for reasons I can only speculate), so she begins to plead my case.

“You should take her out. She’s a very talented artist; well-known. Isn’t she beautiful.”

“I would be honored,” I respond and bow.

My target hesitates, and redirects the questioning, seeing if I could potentially unlock her chained-up heart.

“Are you Christian?”

“No, I’m Phil … remember?”

“I mean the religion.”

“I’m a recovering cath-aholic.”

“What does that mean?”

“No imaginary beings in my life, darling.”

“Oh, too bad. I only date Christians.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

“Sorry, that was supposed to be my inside-my-head voice. Tell you what. I propose a compromise: You can read scripture to me …”

“Yes?”

“… as long as you do it naked.”

Scientists discover miracle cure: Talking to the little man in the boat.

douglasFOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Mufflick, Alabama – Scientists went hard to work after hearing Michael Douglas’ claim that he acquired throat cancer from “eating too much pussy.” Not since the movie Sideways destroyed sales of Merlot, has an actor’s line had such an effect. Women’s vaginas all across the nation have been sadly neglected. Some claim this has also affected sales of peanut butter. Major metropolitan areas have seen significant water shortages, possibly due to women straddling tub faucets.

We asked random men on Box Lunch Boulevard downtown to get their reactions to Michael Douglas’ claim.

“Jesus. Throat cancer? Guess I’ll stick to anal lingus.”

“Never really liked doing it anyway. Now I have an excuse.”

“On what part of the vagina does the cancer live? If I just concentrate on the love button, am I safe?”

“You down with HPV? Yeah, you know me.”

“What if I lay down a thick layer of packing tape before I lick it? That should protect me.”

Fortunately, scientists didn’t take the actor seriously (especially after seeing his droopy lip and ass on Basic Instinct), and performed numerous trials. Amazingly, the tests overwhelmingly invalidated Douglas’ claim, and proved quite the opposite. We interviewed chief specialist Clamford Lapinski.

“Dr. Lapinski …”

“Please, call me Clam.”

“Clam, tell our viewers what you’ve found.”

“Well, not only has cunnilingus been conclusively found to not cause cancer, it has many unforeseen benefits. First, it has been found to ease joint pain, except for in the neck. A protein in the female ejaculate has been positively linked to hair growth–not just any hair, in fact: dark hair on the scalp. Not that we’re encouraging this, but this same protein has been shown to cure acne in teenagers.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I know! But, that’s not all,” continued Clam, “turns out vaginal juices are more effective at curing erectile dysfunction than Viagra, all without altering the patient’s vision. Pfizer is rushing to develop a 5-hour Erection Drink that contains a synthetic version of the substance. And lastly, we’ve found that the divorce rate for men who head south at least five times a month is almost half the national rate.”

“Damn.”

A collective sigh of relief could be heard across yoga classes as women rejoiced at the thought of once again being tongue punched in the baby box. We caught up with a few babes in sweaty Lululemon, and asked how this new scientific study might change their lives.

“Guess I can resume giving blowjobs. Gettin’ pretty tired of seeing my husband mope around the house.”

“Thank god. I was a bit concerned about that tiny experiment I had in college.”

“I think the scientists should study butt sex. There’s probably a link to shingles or something. Damn tired of my man thumbing my butt.”

“I’m rushing home to sit on a face as we speak.”

“This is the best news–sorry, I’m a little choked up–since they discovered that wine is good for you. Say, your camera man is cute. Interested in a little miracle serum, hottie?”

Douglas’ wife, CZJ, could not be reached for comment as she reportedly is hanging out with the entire San Antonio Spurs squad.

We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.

unfriend(quote by Kenji Miyazawa)

I preferred the days when if someone pissed you off, you handled the situation with a pistol and ten steps. Nowadays, if a friend does you wrong you need to rush online to un-friend them before they un-friend you. We’re such pussies. If the person did you way wrong, then you need to block them. Good luck finding that button. Next, you need to go through all the pictures they have of you and untag yourself and save your own version of the picture, scribble out the offending party’s face using Photoshop, and then repost it on your own profile. Whenever I find a Match.com profile picture with Mr. Ex painted-over, I know to avoid that woman.

Then there’s the mobile phone conundrum: Do you delete the contact to remove any possible alcohol-induced temptation to reconnect at the hips? You do realize if you do this you will also not be able to identify a call or text from the cretin. That might be a good thing, because what is more offensive than responding to the ex with, “I’m sorry. Who is this?” Insignificance is so painful. If you strike the ex from your contacts, what do you do with the lengthy string of text messages, photos, and emails? Perhaps there should be an ex archive where you can send all of this awfulness, in case it needs to be retrieved for legal or medical reasons.

If the relationship lasted more than a few hours (good for you), there’s probably a physical item or two that has been orphaned. These items include toothbrushes, creams, lotions, soaps, shampoos, earrings, bracelets, hair pulls, mini cologne sprays, books, DVDs, clothing, lubricants, toys, and various kitchen items. You won’t realize some of these things are missing for days or weeks. When you do, you need to weigh the importance of the item and replacement value with the painful exercise of contacting the ex and figuring out how to retrieve the item(s) without coming face-to-face with ole monkey-face. Most people opt with “Leave items in plain paper bag on porch while I’m at work.” A superior choice, if you must, would be to send a prepaid UPS box. Be aware the female exes are sometimes so jilted that this option may result in a quick revenge fuck with the sexy UPS fellow. Let’s hope that gets you a future discount, or at least on his Christmas card list.

The final decision is what to do about the places you both frequent. Lord knows we can’t have other patrons seeing you both in the same establishment (like they give two shits). This is a tough one to work out. Chances are you will both avoid the establishment and find a new one. This will annoy your friends, who like the original establishment and would highly prefer you grew a pair (balls or labia). The best solution is to silently agree that the first person in the establishment gets dibs and the second gets lost. This should be silently understood. No need to yell, “Scram, fucker!” in a crowded wine bar.

If you need any further rulings on parting, feel free to contact me. I’m an expert breakologist, and I work for fermented grapes.