Archives for December 2013

Not So Nice Guy

notsoniceDon’t you cringe while waiting for feedback? Whether you’re making a stew or writing a book, somebody is waiting to give you an opinion. The thing I’ve learned about opinions (aside form the asshole analogy) is that there’s no arguing an opinion. If she likes it, she likes it. If she hates it, I can’t make it better. Perhaps a little salt would help.

As I finish book number 14, and begin the tedious process of gathering, re-reading, and tidying up my words, I ask the obvious question:

“So, what do you think?”

“You seem angry.”

“What? Now or in print?”

“In print. I mean, it’s funny and all, but you’re definitely jaded. Some woman tore your heart into a million little pieces.”

“Nuh uh. I’m just trying to translate my thoughts into an escape for readers who may or may not share similar experiences.”

“OK.”

“Look, if I write all mushy, love-y nonsense, readers are going to gag. I’m simply the nice guy who has had a string of bad luck in his relationships.”

“Not so, nice guy. You’re the one who brags about avoiding superstition. If you’re having relationship disasters, you should seek the common denominator.”

“Dogs?”

“No, you.”

“Are you telling me I’m the only one who finds this mating partner thing as hard to master as chess?”

“I’m not saying you’re alone. Most people either don’t admit it or have enough sense to go see a therapist.”

“I wouldn’t pay a penny to a therapist. That’s a fucking racket, almost as bad as organized religion. Maybe my therapy is writing this shit out. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, someone in a similar situation will find comfort in the shared predicaments documented within this book, or someone in the most wonderful of relationships (fucking gag) will find humor in my misery, and pride in his or her blissful marriage.”

“See? You’re jaded. Who would want to date you anyway?”

“None taken.”

“Seriously. You write about everything from premature ejaculation to pussy farts.”

“Oh, how I love a good queef. Ha ha. ‘Good queef, Charlie Brown.’ Uck-uck-uck. I crack me up.”

“Nobody is going to fall in love with an author recording the relationship for the entire world to see.”

“That’s sad. Now, I want to cry in my martini.”

“Aw, poor baby. How about in your next book, you soften yourself a bit, avoid saying ‘fuck’ every three sentences, and tell women all the things you love about them?”

“Hmm. Two things come to mind. Care to guess?”

“You really are the not so nice guy.”

My next book, Not So Nice Guy should be out sometime in February 2014, unless someone in Russia orders an American Groom.

Happy New Year, my friends!

Love usually,

Phil

Apathy Training

homer“What’s the difference between ignorance and apathy?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

We’re nearing the end of another drama-filled year. Now that the 2013 toilet is full, I suggest we flush it. Let’s start 2014 with a new mission: Care less about things we have little to no control over. Deal? It’s a healthy lifestyle. Trust me. I’ve been practicing this mantra for quite some time now. In order to do what I do, I need to.

Let’s say you have a few extra el-bees around the middle, after consuming extra helpings of carbs this past week. How other people view those inches depends on their perspective, not yours. A skinny, salad-munching yoga skeeve might raise an eyebrow, and make an off-color comment. A chubby fella might wink, acknowledging the wonderful shared experience of a scrumptious and memorable dessert. Skinny lacks apathy. All her worrying will help her lose weight, this is true, but she’ll be a miserable, friendless rabbit. If you still fit in your favorite jeans, all is well.

People are too concerned about relationships not involving them. If you take interest in Sally’s little tryst with the pro surfer behind her husband’s back, best to do so from the stance of finding it entertaining. If you attempt to get all moral on her ass, you’re setting you both up for disappointment and annoyance. Sally is doing what she is doing for reasons known only to her. You don’t have her sex drive. You’re not married to her husband. You (most likely) haven’t dipped into her lover’s sauce. Don’t try to stop her, and don’t encourage her. The healthiest response, is a shrug and, “Whatever makes you happy, my dear.”

Hair causes quite a stir, for being so dead and weightless, doesn’t it? Women spend many hours and dollars adjusting their manes, and removing the little nuisances from places where women disagree with Nature about where hair belongs. Men get anxiety over hair, especially the lack thereof. Fortunately, we men have the fuck-it option, where we can simply buzz off the problem, and call it a day. I did this recently. A female friend commented (of course, she did), “Why did you shave your head? You have hair?” I simply grinned. No response was necessary, because it’s my skull to do with as I please.

Lastly, can we please do something about erectile dysfunction mania? Guys, if your cock doesn’t get hard, it’s most likely because you’re not in the mood at that particular time with that particular woman for some particular reason known only to you and your internal blood pump. Men can’t use the “I have a headache” excuse, so they struggle to stuff an over-cooked linguini where it doesn’t want to go. Men do this out of fear that the woman will be extremely disappointed, then proceed to tell her friends and, perhaps, go find herself a stiff riga-Tony.

Ladies, if it’s a stiff penis you’d like, give it reason to rise to the occasion. Don’t crush a Viagra into his Dr. Pepper Ten. Doing so will only cause his natural engine to feel neglected and useless, leaving the poor lad to become completely reliant upon drug-based boners. How sad would that be? Tell you what–play with his nipples. There ya go! See that? Now, touch yourself. Yay! See, Alice … no Cialis!

Cheating’s Fine

cheatersWe’ve all had the miserable experience of learning about a lover’s cheating ways. The important thing to note here is the act of cheating isn’t what hurts; it’s the finding out, especially when your peers knew before you. Also, the depth of the pain is relative to the depth of the love you have for the cheater. If you don’t care, you don’t care.

There are different levels of cheating:

  • Masturbating with another person’s body.
  • Getting drunk and hooking up–a one-time oopsie.
  • Crossing the line with a platonic (no longer) friend at a moment of weakness or need.
  • Getting back together with an ex, because of the familiarity.
  • Revenge cheating.
  • Falling in love with another.

As the cheatee, there are different levels as well:

  • Oh, you didn’t know he or she was married?
  • You dislike the spouse.
  • Just too fine to pass up.
  • It’s preferable to have sex with someone who won’t nag you.
  • Fame fucking. “How could I say no to that?”
  • The promise of divorce, and a whole new life together, forever. (Bwah, ha-ha-ha!)

Sorry, I don’t have time for cheaters, not just because of the bad karma thing; because it’s too god damn stressful. If I’m going to have casual sex with someone, I don’t want to know much more than her name and how she likes her clit rubbed. I don’t want to see a ring. I don’t want to see pictures of her offspring or pets. I’m not in the sorry-your-husband-neglects-you-here’s-my-penis business. Mind you, I’m not judging. You go get whatever stank you need on your bad self. My stank stays stored inside me.

Christmas Orphan – It ain’t so bad.

grinchSingle people, like me, just love it when the other half asks what we’re doing for the holidays. The answer they expect is something along the lines of, “Oh, I’m flying back home to spend time with my family.” How boring. Better choices for answers, whether actually true or not, include:

  • Getting fucking plastered. No, really. I’m having a plaster mold done of my cock … whilst I get shitfaced.
  • Sleeping.
  • I’m putting on plaid and having an Orange is the New Black marathon.
  • I’m cleansing.
  • Sending a text message out to all of my contacts wishing them Happy Festivus.
  • Cutting Christmas lights.
  • Cuddling on the sofa with a fine 18-year-old … Scotch.
  • Staring into space pondering the meaning of life.
  • Laundry.
  • Wrapping, then unwrapping presents I bought myself. Then, acting surprised when I’m actually disappointed. Then, I’m going to hug myself.

If the above sounds Grinch-y, you’re probably one of those over-the-top Christmas people who is wearing something red (ugly) and green (ugly) right now. I bet you have a can of aerosol snow, don’t you? Well, have yourself a Merry Fucking Christmas. I’m masturbating, and going to bed.

Christmas Proposal

proposalA boyfriend-ed girlfriend of mine seemed nervous discussing the coming holiday.

“Think he’s going to be on bended knee in front of thee?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought he might propose a few weeks ago for my birthday. I guess when the time is right, he’ll do it.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Will you say yes?”

“Sure. Wow, then the pressure’s on.”

“Pressure?”

“Yes. Then, I’m going to get married.” (Followed by noticeable fidgeting.)

“Don’t worry, my dear. Everyone needs a marriage or two to figure it out. Might as well get the starter out of the way.”

“You’re so cynical.”

“Right?”

“Well, I’m hoping this is the first and last wedding for me.”

“It can happen. The plane could crash on the way to your honeymoon.”

“…”

“More cynicism. I apologize, and allow me to express my congratulations for your pending nuptials.”

“Thank you, I think.”

I have other thoughts about Christmas proposals:

  • I get the feeling it’s a bit cheap of a man to propose on Christmas, Valentines Day, or birthdays. It seems he’s skating on a present. Legally, though, he should be aware that a ring presented on such a day can be logically interpreted as a gift, therefore, if the commitment implodes (like many do), she’ll have a good case to keep the gift. And, much chagrin will be had by him.
  • It’s a bit showy for my tastes. I realize women in the vicinity will well up, but men (especially the ones with attached women sans rings) will feel added pressure to take the plunge.
  • I’d like to own a jewelry store one month a year.
  • Wouldn’t it be wiser to hand her an x-thousand-dollar gift card, and have her pick out one she actually wants? Sure, each woman I speak to insists there’s special meaning in something he picks out specifically for her. Yet, she must admit it is more likely the person behind the counter is weighing in considerably, without knowing squat-ola about her.
  • With the high quality of manufactured diamonds today, wouldn’t it be wise (and cool) to purchase five different rings with distinct settings? It would be less stressful for both parties, as a lost ring would be an oh-well.

If you’re expecting to be staring down at a quivering mass of masculinity this Christmas, fret not and take my words with grains of hops. It’s basically a 50-50 shot, sort of like playing roulette. Go for it. Practice flitting your fingers toward your gushing girlies, and go shopping for gowns. Try not to think about all the money you’ll spend on the ceremony; it will hurt your brain. Just look forward to a few months of hyper-sex … until you get pregnant. That’s another perilous journey.

I’ll have the oyster.

oysterMy friends and I typically spend our evenings discussing three things: home improvements (5%), sports (10%), and women (85%). We represent a diverse collection of male irreverence including one olive, one tan, and one brown. Not that those shades of men necessarily suggest we’ll take certain stances. For example, not all brown men have huge penises, and avoid eating pussy. Similarly, to each his own when it comes to mating targets.

As a nurse (server) delivered my sedative (Peroni), I commented how she was a delicious oyster, hiding something precious beneath the surface. My compatriots examined her–twice–and asked if I needed my cleanly shaven head examined. True, she was in a Henley and jeans. She wore an apron, and had her hair in a ponytail. To me, that’s nothing but oyster shell. She had a great smile, a cute laugh, and honest eyes.

“She’s working, you ass. You expect her to be wearing a lace top and pumps?”

“Dude, I’m not seeing it.”

“That might be the most beautiful woman in here.”

“You cray-cray.”

“I’m telling you, if I got her out of here on a date, she’d be a totally different person. You two picky fuckers wouldn’t even recognize her, and then I’d get the props I deserve.”

“Doubtful. Hey, I’m sure she could use some lovin’, and you’re ugly enough to be that guy. I’m just sayin’, I prefer than skinny one over there next to the bar.”

“She’s old, and she has bony elbows.”

“Don’t hate the older women. They’re much easier to manage.”

“Good luck with Shagarella. I’m gonna pry this oyster.”

When guys go for the bleach blonde Barbie, with skin showing in December, and a designer clutch, this is what they sign up for:

  • A money pit.
  • Constant competition with other mangy mongrel men.
  • A woman who needs an hour to get ready, even for bed.
  • A taker who, when she does deliver a blow job, treats the penis like a hot piece of bacon–gently, with thumb and index finger, pinky extended, tiny nibbles.
  • Constant whining.
  • A plethora of boring stories about her slutty friends, shopping experiences, and her dog.
  • A woman who always has one eye open for the man with deeper pockets.
  • Someone who is impressed by things she shouldn’t be.

Ah, but when you go for the oyster, sometimes there’s a precious pearl. You might find:

  • A person who knows how to say please and thank you.
  • Someone who offers to pick up a tab more than once a year.
  • Adorable lopsided, natural boobs.
  • A cute, little belly, which means she doesn’t mind yours.
  • A friend who is fun to hang out with, without needing to have all the attention.
  • Someone who has actually read the book before seeing the movie.
  • A woman unimpressed by wealth and popularity, because she know they are fleeting.
  • Someone who is with you because she wants to be with you.

That’s my kinda gal.

Are you a Bad Boy Girl or a Nice Guy Woman? – Part Deux

niceguyAll right, all right, all right. Perhaps that test contained what some would call “leading questions.”

“Is it not true, Mr. Torcivia, that on the night of October 19th, you hired male strippers to perform at your venue?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it’s true?”

“Yes, your statement is true.”

“So, you admit to hiring male strippers.”

“I do not.”

“But, you said yes to my initial question.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m confused.”

“Yes, you are.”

The previous exchange was an example of leading questions that was more real-world and less irreverent.

So, to redeem myself from the previous test, allow me to provide five scenarios with the same rating system. Here, the scoring will be interpreted differently.

Scenario #1:

Nice Guy Andrew pulls in front of your condo, gently taps on your front door at precisely five minutes past his scheduled arrival, smiles, and presents you with a fresh bouquet of tulips. He hands a treat to your pooch, offers his arm, and guides you to his car. He opens the door, and assists you into the passenger seat. After he closes your door, a teenager skateboards past, and spits in his face. Andrew gets in the car, asks you for a tissue, wipes his face, and says, “Kids these days. Oh, what a kidder.”

Scenario #2:

While making love, Nice Guy Brian says, “You’re so amazingly beautiful, and I’m the luckiest man in the world to have this honor. Keep your lovely eyes open as I sink emotionally and physically deeper into you.”

Scenario #3:

You’re watching Thursday Night Football, and Nice Guy Carl’s favorite quarterback, Peyton Manning, has his arm hooked as he throws an interception, costing the Broncos the game. Carl begins sobbing, and blows his nose loudly, and exclaims, “Why? Oh, dear Lord, why?”

Scenario #4:

While enjoying couples’ night out, your ex-husband makes an impromptu appearance. He’s intoxicated. He approaches you and your date, Nice Guy Daniel. The ex introduces himself, shakes Daniel’s hand, and says, “I apologize for stretching her vagina out, pal.” Daniel smiles, and responds, “Thanks for the warning, friend. Haven’t been there yet, but after I down three more of these Cosmos, she might get lucky.”

Scenario #5:

You’re at a local pub with Nice Guy Evan. The server has been flirting with him the entire night. You suspect something is up. You take a potty break, and discuss the situation with someone in an adjacent stall. When you return, you notice the skanky slut-bag server handing him a card. Before you have a chance to mention it, Evan shows you her card, and says, “Baby, isn’t this woman a hoot? She just gave me the bartender, Jonathan’s, phone number. The silly goose said she thought I was gay because of my nicely coiffed hair and scarf. Gosh, I haven’t had a homosexual relationship since I don’t know when.”

Time to tally the scores again. This time, a score under ten means you were probably raised fatherless, and your hero is Rachel Maddow. Ten to twenty means you enjoy having a man take care of most household chores, and having your toes licked. A score of twenty to thirty means you need to rewrite your Match.com profile so you don’t attract so many pansies–remove the parts about long walks on the beach, and salsa lessons. A score over forty (Is it just me, or are you always tempted to write 40 as “fourty?” Fuck, I’m an imbecile.) means you meet most of your dates at MMA fights, and need your ass spanked and hair pulled … hard.

Are you a Bad Boy Girl or a Nice Guy Woman?

hcdbThe average female claims to be disgusted by bad boys, and dreams of settling down with a nice guy. She either doesn’t know what she wants, or she’s fighting her urges. Of course, my impression offends certain women–the ones in denial. Look, it’s fine. Bad boys need love too, and they act that way precisely because hot women seem drawn to their antics. *sigh* Don’t assume that bad boys are stupid, and nice guys are smart. Untrue. Bad boys are street smart, as evidenced by them having a bevy of buxom beauties willing to take hot loads to the face. (Offended yet?) What we need is a test to determine what sort of woman you are–the kind, yet self-assured type who would never allow herself to be demeaned, or the slap-my-ass-and-pee-on-me-if-you-like type. (Got ya, didn’t I?)

Answer the following questions about each scenario with a number from one to four as follows:

  1. This gets me wetter than a sea sponge during monsoon season.
  2. There’s definitely some v-juice in me drawers (said with a British accent, please).
  3. Yes, I’m a bit misty, but certainly insufficiently prepared for penetration.
  4. Dry as a pile of salt on the Sahara.

Scenario #1:

Bad Boy Alex is driving you in his BMW with the top down, even though it’s freezing out, to Carl’s Jr. for your date. Nice Guy Nick cuts him off in his Prius. At the next light, Alex puts his car in park, gets out (even though you asked him not to), stands in front of Nice Guy Nick’s Prius and head butts the hood. Then he returns to the car, bleeding slightly from his shaven head.

Scenario #2:

While having sex, Bad Boy Brock says, “You like that, don’t you? You’re a nasty little fuck pig. You don’t even deserve my massive meat. Beg for it like a baby bird.”

Scenario #3:

You’re watching the move, The Descendants with George Clooney. It’s the scene where George says his final goodbye to his dying wife. As you dab your eyes, Bad Boy Chris says, “Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking movie. He should have suffocated her long ago.” Then he farts, and tells you make him a sandwich.

Scenario #4:

At your company Christmas Party, your boss drags you out to the dance floor while your boyfriend, Bad Boy Dean orders shots from the hot babe bartender. (He slides her his number too … but, you don’t know that. The jury shall disregard.) He notices you two dancing. Bad Boy Dean drinks both shots, walks out to the dance floor, taps your boss on the shoulder, asks to cut in, and then slaps your boss on the back of his head, knocking his hairpiece crooked.

Scenario #5:

While at the local pub, you notice your boyfriend, Bad Boy Eric, laughing and flirting with some bimbo (your words, not mine). He returns, doesn’t mention her, and asks, “Where the fuck’s my beer?” When you ask him about the hosebag (the woman, not the beer), he responds, “That’s just a silly cunt I used to bang. She sucks in bed. Baby, I’d so glad I found you, and so is my happy cock.”

OK, tally your scores. Anything under ten, and you need therapy, a cry pillow, and a nice box of wet-naps. Ten to twenty, and there’s some hope for you–perhaps you’ll find love after all, three months at a time. Twenty to thirty and you should start a blog, and consider applying for that management position. Over thirty and you, my love, are destined for long-term happiness, not brought on by prescription drugs.

Please stop kicking him in the privates.

edGrowing up a late-blooming runt, a fellow hobbit let me in on how to win a fight with a giant: “Poke him in the eye, or kick him in the balls, and run.” Seems like a decent strategy, until you realize you can only run so far, for so long. Eventually, you will encounter a very angry giant, who is likely to do more than deliver a wedgie.

This carries into adult life, as I hear jilted women use a similar strategy–verbally. First, call him names, then kick him in the pee pee.

“The douchebag had the nerve to hang all over this whore with big, fake tits right in front of me.”

“You poor thing. You broke up with him, right?”

“Of course. And, you know what?”

“What?” he said, fully expecting the arrival of a ball-shot.

“He has a tiny, flaccid penis.”

“Oh, my.”

“Seriously. He could barely get it hard and, when he did, he lasted like one minute.”

“Well, that could be a tribute to you … the second part.”

“No, he has issues. God, I dreaded having sex with him. He was awful.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you can’t. His dick was like pinky-sized, and limp as an overcooked noodle. You know? You’d think he’d learn how to eat pussy or something to make up for it. Nope. He eats pussy like a bird. Piss me off. Well, I hope Miss Big-Titty-Barbie is happy with old thimble cock.”

“So, she kind of did you a favor, I suppose.”

“She sure did. What an asshole. I can’t believe I dated him. There’s definitely a fucking ED epidemic. He’s not the first one to have that problem. Christ.”

“Really? I can’t imagine.” – Yes, I can.

“Guys supposedly always think about and always want sex. You’d think they’d learn how to get their damn dicks hard.”

“Isn’t that partially your responsibility?”

“Do you masturbate?”

“Fine. Unpause rant.”

“If you had a problem getting your dick hard, wouldn’t you go get drugs?”

“Um …”

“I mean, if all you can think about is squeezing big, fake titties while having sex with some young bimbo, doesn’t that suggest that you’ll need a hard penis?”

“Right, but I …”

“So, be a man, see a doctor, or send twenty dollars to a Canadian pharmacy for fuck’s sake. Literally. For fuck’s sake!”

“But, I … has someone told you I can’t …”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not talking about you. I have no idea if your dick works or not. I’m just saying his dick sucked, and I’ve been with other men who couldn’t stuff a flour taco shell.”

“Thank God for that–the my penis part. Heck, mine is like a fucking re-bar spike when I get wound up. I could re-bore eighteen holes at Augusta, and still have enough turgidity to bruise your internal organs.”

“Calm down there, Spike.”

“Sorry.”

Games People Played

gamesI was shocked to see a child ride past my office window on his scooter. Thought all kids did after school was play “kill things” video games. (Yes, here comes another back-in-my-day rant.) Not only was this child on a scooter, it was a self-propelled scooter. Amazing.

One of the reasons children stay in their little cells called “rooms” is because the media has convinced their parents that if the children go outside, they’ll be kidnapped, raped, and murdered. Guess it’s more humane to kill your children slowly with fast food.

Anywho, back in my day, we spent as little time as possible inside. We wolfed down food, and flew from the house every chance we got. Once I turned teenish, I discovered bare-naked titties on HBO–tuned between channels three and four–and spent less time outside. Still, as much as I looked forward to the next set of glorious black-and-white glands, my greatest love was to be outside playing games with my buds.

Aside from the ordinary games such as basketball on a slanted driveway, wiffleball in a small yard, and football on any random piece of land with few trees, we created and played various games, and I admit that some were quite violent.

  1. Fumble-Rumble: I think this might have been called “Kill the Queer” before sensitivity training. All we needed was a group of guys and a football. If you had the ball, everyone simply pounced on you until someone got the ball away from you, then it was his turn to get pummeled. I’m unsure what the object was, but I was smart enough to drop the ball quicker than a girlfriend with a lip sore.
  2. Capture the Flag: This was usually played in the dark. Two teams would be formed. Each would hide a piece of cloth somewhere on their side of the yard. There was an imaginary boundary midway between the teams. If you crossed it and were tagged, you had to return to your base (some tree in the back of your half). Folks, running in the dark in the days before electric clothes dryers was precarious at best–hence, the term “clothesline.”
  3. Tick-Tacking: We’d husk old corn (hard as rocks), sneak up on houses where we’d see some old fart reclining with a pipe and a paper, then chuck fist-fulls against the aluminum siding. Made quite a racket. Not sure why that was fun. Oh, we’d also take bars of soap and write dirty words on parked car windows.
  4. Pyromania: One of our buds would have the cool father–the one who never grew up. That father would venture to North Carolina, and bring back firecrackers and sparklers. We’d have Roman Candle battles, and throw lit sparklers at each other. Our fathers would beat us for leaving the sections of burnt wire all over the yard, which would become dangerous projectiles while mowing the lawn. We’d also blow up mailboxes … because. When we discovered the interesting effect magnifying glasses have when combined with the sun, we’d burn ants, leaves, and friends … because.
  5. Bang: Nothing is much cooler to a kid than making a loud noise. We’d buy explosives (yes, completely legal for an eight-year-old to buy gunpowder in the form of rolls of caps back in the day), grab a ball peen hammer from Pop’s toolbox, and proceed to deafen ourselves by striking rolls of caps on the sidewalk.
  6. Jump Off Shit: Kids don’t comprehend gravity very well. Must be caused by all the movies, cartoons, and pro wrestling we watched. We’d make ramps, and skin/bruise ourselves as we went over them on bikes and sleds. No material to build a ramp? No problem! Jump off stairs and rooftops. Heck, a carpet or pile of leaves should break the fall. Ow, my head.
  7. Throw Things at Things: I didn’t develop my pitching arm by throwing baseballs. The older kids in the neighborhood pelted me with snowballs, dirtballs, and walnuts, so it was either learn to catch and throw back harder, or be a sissy baby. Often this was as simple as find a can, put it on a branch (or have little brother hold it), then knock it off with rocks. When this bored us, we discovered moving targets. Living next to a busy street presented many prime wintertime targets. We’d toss balls of ice, trying to hit cars going around 50mph. What’s a few dents? Back then cars got dented. Nobody gave two shits. But, when one exceptionally no-fun-having driver would pull over and chase us, that was the stuff legends were made of.

I could go on, but most of my readers were dressing Barbie and Ken while I damaged my internal organs. Sorry, ladies. Let’s just hope you don’t have any boys like me.

Things to Weep About

weptI dislike the phrase, “and Jesus wept.” It doesn’t help that I’m a flaming atheist, but even if I were to drink my wine kneeling, I’d have a hard time believing a supreme being would weep over his own creation. Seriously. If the dude is all-powerful, he should just stop the weeping and fix that shit. Unless, of course, he’s the depressed type who enjoys a good weep.

Do you cry over spilled milk? You might cry because my spellchecker won’t allow me to use “spilt,” although it would sound better. How about spilled wine? Red wine could yank a tear from your skull, I bet, especially if you’re wearing white. I knock shit over all the time, which suggests that I may be deformed–my fingers are ET-like. Cross that with my Italian heritage, and you’d better hide the crystal. If I were dating you, it could cause some weeping on your part if you mistakenly assume ET fingers implies elephant penis. *sniff*

If I think about a dead pet, I tear up. In fact, if I see a cat, dog, or bird carcass freshly pancaked on the pavement, it makes me sad. Honestly, if it were a douchey biker in tights, not a weep would be wept.  I had someone weep next to me (more like complain) about a fruit fly in his beer. I thought, do you have any idea how many insects and rodents walked, shed, and defecated on the hops plant, beer glass, and bar? Don’t think about it, just drink up. Same weepage happens when people find hair in food or drinks. “You know what? It’s probably your fucking hair. Maybe one of your eyebrows committed suicide. It won’t kill you. Jesus. Pluck and flick if you don’t want to eat it.”

Speaking over weeping over hair, I recently saw the worst comb-over known to mankind. One cross wind and this fella’s flailing mop would have taken out a family of six. He could have won the America’s Cup, I tell ya. When I disposed of some wine, I glanced at my dome in the mirror. Nothing to comb over. “Fuck it,” I said, “this shit needs to go.” So, when I returned home, out came the clippers and off came the nuisance. The pile of fur at my feet was almost worth naming. I didn’t have the balls to take it all off. Actually, I realized my sun-deprived noggin would resemble one of those helmets infants with misshapen heads wear. I left one-quarter of an inch. Then, I almost wept as I realized I just exaggerated my other cranial imperfections. *sniff, sniff*

Jesus wouldn’t weep about much. If he plucked a nose hair, maybe that would garner a dewy eyehole. OK, maybe if he got hit in the nuts with a soccer ball. Nah. I’m sure he has a divine cup–a brass chalice of sorts protecting the nads of the holy. An under-nail splinter would make any being weep, even superior ones. I just dripped on my keyboard as I typed this. So, unless you got a splinter … oh, Jesus … nails through the hands … fuck. OK, weep away and have a bad day.