Archives for May 2016

Slump-Breaker

disposableAllow me to assist those of you who might be unfamiliar with the term (women). It stems from baseball. When a hitter is struggling over a long period, his teammates will suggest he find a slump-breaker. That “thing” is usually non-baseball related. He is encouraged to do something out of the ordinary to break the curse.

Now, legend has it that, in some cases, this would entail sleeping with someone he ordinarily wouldn’t. When I say “wouldn’t,” I am referring to a woman beneath—not above—his standards.

True, there are people who find that concept offensive. (I find people who find offense offensive. Yes, including me.) Assuming it is consensual, there’s no reason for offense. The slumper needs to get his mind off that damn curveball, and the slump-breaker gets some much-needed penetration from a handsome athlete with scabby knees.

One might suggest non-sexual slump-breakers, such as:

  • Meditation.
  • A juice cleanse.
  • Sleeping on the other side of the bed.
  • Wearing your hat backwards.
  • Masturbating with your opposite hand. (Sorry, that one could be considered sexual. At least there’s no walk of shame involved. I guess the hand could hide in a pocket. Poor thing.)

I can speak from experience here. Non-sexual slump-breakers don’t work. Unfucking requires fucking.

“What about women, Uncle Philsie? Don’t women go into slump periods? How’s a girl supposed to snap out of it? Bang a beastly boy?”

Sure.

Let me be clear here that no man would be offended to play the role of slump-breaker. Sign my ass up. Shit, I’ll wear a mask, if you want. Your girlfriends can toss all sorts of “ew” at me, and I’ll remain unscathed. As long as my evening includes a non-self-induced orgasm, I’m a happy camper.

“You’re telling me that if Janice needs a slump-breaker, and she picks you, that doesn’t chaff you?”

“Not even a little.”

“She’s basically saying she would never sleep with a swine like you, but she’s desperate, so you’re it.”

“Yes, I am.”

“She’s using you based on a silly superstition made up by a bunch of clubhouse perverts to justify their inabilities to place bat on ball.”

“I’m happy to be a disposable lover.”

Cute

puppy“My girlfriend thinks you’re cute.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. Look. Here’s her text.”

(It’s a Bitmoji of my admirer winking with the caption, “He’s cute.”)

“Right. But, is that cute like a puppy or a mate?”

“What do you think?”

“Fuck if I know. While I totally appreciate the compliment, it would be nice to know if she wants to play fetch with me or fondle me.”

Communication is supposed to have become simpler and clearer, yet I find myself in a fog of confusion. The crystal clear answer would be, “He’s attractive, and I’d go on a date with him if he asked.” Right? That tells me all I need to know. Next steps: I get her number, I call her, and I ask her out.

Simple as a pimple.

But, no. The message is ambiguous, and I’m usually too old and lazy to take the time to gather clarification. Or, is that the intent? Do women enjoy the dance? Is this some sort of test? Keep tossing breadcrumbs (text messages) and see if the cute puppy follows or stays behind and licks himself.

Just once, I want a woman to call me (not text me) and come right out with it. She should tell me straight up she’s attracted to me and is willing to spend one-on-one, in person time with me to determine if I’d be a suitable mate. Sounds so easy and logical.

Yet, I’m left in a puddle of emojis.

How is this dance enjoyable? We can’t see body language or hear tone in print. (If you could, you’d see a vein pulsing on my temple as I write this.) I’m almost to the point where I take every lady-text as a mating call. Heck, the odds will catch up with me eventually, and I’ll score. Sure, in the meantime there will be collateral damage as I proposition the uninterested. Meh. What’s another stink-eye? I’ve collected millions.

“So, are you going to ask her out or what?”

“Does she want me to ask her out?”

“Duh.”

“Fine. Give me her number.”

“I’ll give her yours.”

“Cool. Can’t wait for the next Bitmoji.”

Roll forward a few scenes, and guess what? Radio silence. I’m un-laid and empty. Ah, but I’m cute! Scratch my fuzzy ears.

Despicably Quotable Me

motorboatingI realize it’s somewhat narcissistic, but I signed up for Mention.com to track my “brand.” My last name is uncommon, so when it shows in a new search result, it’s usually attached to adjectives like “vulgar” and “irreverent.” Meh. I’ll take it. Today, I was notified that I was quoted on Wiktionary. Seems my use of the word “motorboating” in my 2010 book Nice Meeting You was a real ground-breaker (listed just above that plagiarizing toter of quite significant funbaggery herself, Snookie).

For those unaware of the meaning, I was not referring to speeding across Lake Hopatcong. The official definition given by Wiktionary:

“The act of placing one’s head between a woman’s breasts and making the sound of a motorboat with one’s lips whilst moving the head from side to side.”

Indeed, I was referring to this titty-slapping of one’s cheeks in a marvelous valley of the mammarial melons—a far superior definition, if you ask me. Also, I don’t think the clarification “with one’s lips” was necessary here. What else would the motorboater use to make the noise? His ass? I prefer making no noise (a la Tesla electric boat) as to enjoy the slapping noise. If she’s sufficiently endowed, there’s a noteworthy possibility similar to rudder jamming or propeller impairment: nipple stuck in ear. A similar method would be windshield wipering. Think about it.

I noticed a few more quotes of mine on that wonderful site, including GILF and fuckumentary. I’m equally proud of those. My Third Grade teacher, Ms. Sinclair, probably just shredded her teaching credentials. What’s better than a five-syllable word for a cinematic gem about mating? Nothing, I say.

People love quotes almost as much as Horoscopes. We need more of them, and we need newer ones. I say we get rid of everything before Kennedy’s, “Ask not …” quote. Fuck those old windbags Lincoln, Homer, and Twain. Give me something fresh and timely. How about something from the brilliant and beautifully boobtastic Ilana Glazer?

“The vag-yine-ya is Nature’s pocket.”

Pause. Take a moment and reflect on that. Wow. Feel free to make that mind-blowing gesture we all love. (Place right fist on hear, pull away, and spread fingers while making “pah-kow” noise … yes, with your lips, Wiktionary. Optionally, you can roll your eyes and tilt your head left from the recoil.) There’s no better way to describe my source and optimal destination.

Yet, my favorite phrase remains “fuck nugget.” How is it that the websites that be have spurned me? Horrible injustice. Miriam Webster, you need to recognize the brilliance behind that cerebral birth from my wine-saturated mind. That phrase deserves to take its rightful place between “fuck nub – tiny penis” and “fuck numb – the result of three tequila shots and two prior orgasms.”

Although feeling somewhat neglected, I, America, pledge to continue cultivating vulgarities in the hope that one day, before my dirt nap, those ditties of depravity will make me famous enough to outdo Tom Cruise by motorboating Oprah.