Archives for August 2016

A Cat Named Scrotoplasty

scrotoEver hear a word and think it’s an excellent choice for your next pet’s name? Well, one of my buds came clean at a dirty dive bar yesterday about an upcoming procedure. Once he mentioned the word (scrotoplasty), all I could think of (to distract me from the painful imagery concocted within my gin-soaked skull) was what a great name it would make for a kitten.

“Here, Scroto. Want some catnip, fella?”

Those of you—I’m hoping for most of you—who don’t know what scrotoplasty is, please allow me to assist. It’s augmentation for the nut sack.

(Pause. Unfuck your mind. Refill your coffee. See you in a bit.)

It involves a tightening of the skin, which tends to see additional sag as we age. I attest, Philly’s balls do sag whence not so chilly. I don’t mind at all. This is why I wear Under Armour boxer briefs. They keep them boys neatly tucked, no matter the climate.

Now, if my bing-bongs became so danglous as to begin slapping off my knees as I jogged on the treadmill, yes, I would consider a nip and tuck. Otherwise, oh, fuck no!

I’ve never heard any woman complain about saggy nuts. Does this happen? I can imagine that pendulous nads could cause some annoyance in missionary position while slapping against your anus. Some might find that pleasurable. Well, if one got stuck that would be an ouchie.

I think it’s part of my pal’s midlife crisis, especially considering he recently had the tip of his penis pierced.

(Pause again. Ow. Mother fucking ow. Jesus.)

Yes, he showed us pictures. It’s a hoop ring though his pee hole, popping out the bottom of his under-head.

(And, yes, my asshole just puckered too, friend-o.)

I asked if he considered a far less painful, more popular, and highly douchey means.

“Couldn’t you just go buy a Corvette?”

“Never. Dude, chicks are into it.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you leave that ring in when you go deep?”

“Yup.”

(I had to get up, visit the john, and bang my head against the cold tile above the urinal to recover from that one.)

He told us he also has both nipples pierced. I told him I wish he’d create a chain loop from his nuts through his nipples to his ears and back. Then, I’d like him to sit in a puddle during a thunderstorm.

Harsh, I know.

Am I the odd one? No tattoos, piercings, or hair coloring? Well, I do have a Jag. Hope it’s not a gateway crisis drug.

Vagina Repellent – 2016 Edition

repellentI’m driving down a busy street in my electric Chevy Volt (yes, an admitted nominee for repellant). While stopped at a light, a man pulls up next to me in the bike lane. He’s wearing pajama pants tucked into white, mid-calf tube socks, an embroidered back pack, and a silly biker helmet. This was the trifecta, ensuring he will not be spreading his genes anytime soon.

As much as I’d love to be a pussy magnet, I admit to doing things that don’t serve my desires. A noteworthy encroachment is use of my mobile phone while in the sauna—third favorite place to be behind Positano, Italy and bed. The problem isn’t necessarily the phone use. We all stare at the fuckers all day long. It’s that I’m playing Candy Crush, and I’m at level 809, which means I have wasted around two years of my life popping candy bubbles.

I’ve been called out on it. My reason is that it distracts me from the intense heat and scent of ball sweat. Now, if I were taking selfies in the sauna, that would be a more effective repellant.

Women still hate farting, burping, and spitting. I can’t see those falling of the list anytime soon. Well, spitting might, based on porn I’ve seen recently. Porn is reality, no?

Bar mating games are amusing to me. I usually order an 805 beer and stare at the TV. Around me, boys peacock for attention. One yesterday (sure, he was half my age, but still should know better at age 27) wore a wife beater exposing his tatted pencil-thin arms. Offensive, but not as much as his reverse bob hair-don’t. “Only cute on a cat, son.”

Ladies are quite observant, fellas. If they see you prance around the pub hitting on every unoccupied princess, you had better not approach them. You’ve been labelled as piglet, and no lady wants to be your third-teenth choice, even if you have abs.

Now that football season is here again, another sure way to kick mating options to the curb is to scream at the TV, or discuss your Fantasy Football prowess where they can hear it. In fact, wearing your favorite player’s jersey has also become passé. However, providing your jersey to your sleepover girl-toy is a great idea. Problem is you need to keep a stock of your rival’s jerseys. I once doggie-styled Troy Aikman. The clouds parted.

Being mean to bartenders and servers is still a surefire way to brick up that baby oven. In fact, don’t complain about anything. It reminds ladies of that whiny little nephew who cries because he wants Oreos for dinner.

Fuck. I want Oreos for dinner, too. Little shit has the right idea. God damn it! Now I’m starved. Jesus. Double Stuff dunked in milk. I could stack them into a quad-stuffed delight. Fuck. Vagina can wait. Be right back.

Facebook posts can be quite repellious. (Yay, new word. Take note, Wiki.) Cute ones that attract vag include gourmet food, wine, parents, children, and pets. Horrible ones that distract vag and get you blocked (from cock too) include political rants, shirtless selfies (unless you’re Phelps, perhaps), and more than ten posts in a day.

Take note, my brothers. Or, keep doing your thing, and leave more lady parts behind for others.

Girlfriend Causes Writer’s Block

lapcatI’ve done some statistical analysis of my writing habits as they relate to my relationship status and found that having a girlfriend pretty much fucks my flow. This is my flaw, not hers.

You see, I’m not easily offended. In fact, the one thing that offends me most is easily offended people. You’d find most comedians feel the same way. It’s exasperating. If the offended party happens to be a sex provider, it increases the angst. A few misplaced words or misinterpreted phrases can result in access denied.

So, when dating, I’ll pound out a sentence, pause, re-read, soften, re-read, soften more, re-read, get disgusted by the Dr. Seuss I’ve become, backspace the entire line, and return to inanity.

What’s a boy to do? The little friend in my pants insists I keep his playmates around—any not the hairy ones attached to me. In order to do that, I have to find ones who don’t read or won’t be offended. That’s as easy as finding a man who doesn’t have “being blown” at the top of his life-hack pyramid.

Friends don’t help the situation. The typical comments I get when they find a female attachment on me include:

  • “I don’t need to know her name, since she’ll be gone inside a month.”
  • “What’s this one’s flaw? No chin? Teeth too big? Dog lover?”
  • “Wow. How much did she cost?”

It’s so much easier to stay single and search for nothing more than one-night-stands. While in that state, I can turn the tables on those curmudgeons. All I need to do is wait for the inevitable misdeed followed by the wish to live vicariously through solo me. I sip, smile, and suggest the infirmed has cow buyer’s remorse.

Yes, of course it gets lonely. That’s why we have pets, right? I had fat turd Symon cat curled up on my lap last night while I watched a movie. He purred and left a layer of orange fur on my black tee. Was that preferable to spooning with a ginger human?

Depends.

Symon can’t read. He wants food and a comfy bed. While he seems to shit more than the average human, he gives no shits about my relationship condition. If my female “toy” would scratch behind his ear and feed him tuna, he’d suggest I keep it. Otherwise, especially if it is a noisy toy, it needs to be recycled.

I’ve tried to plod on with my prose while maintaining a lover. She claimed uninterested in my words, and left them be unread. She lied. I could tell. My blog is like an unlocked mobile phone, left next to the remote. It has caused many a sexual river to dry.

Fuck it. I’m single and meant to be as I am. I’ll probably die lonely, left to be eaten by my pets. My relatives will sort through my past and cast away what little remains, but these words will live on to remind my exes that I did them a favor by “ghosting.”

On to Ms. Next. Hey there, lovely. How you doin’?

Solitaire is Best Played Alone

solitaireEver try playing Solitaire or Sudoku, or completing a crossword puzzle with someone over your shoulder? Not so much fun, is it? The uninvited player always has suggestions. Those suggestions, while possibly useful, are usually taken as, “Why are you trying to make me look stupid? I can figure this out on my own.”

Being recluse, I usually play alone, and often prefer it that way. It applies to my relationships, too. Sure, there comes a time when Two-Handed Pinochle is more appealing than two-handed semen extraction, but the stress involved with dealing in another hand and waiting for the playmate to make a move is tedious and unbearable.

Maybe, that should be a criterion for dating profiles, “How much time to you spend playing one-person games versus multi-player games?” People like me, who greatly enjoy a good level or two of Candy Crunch whilst riding upon the porcelain throne, would be avoided by people looking for a Bridge partner.

I realize this is somewhat unnatural. We are social beasts, right? We are supposed to desire the company of lovers, friends, family, coworkers, and even thousands of strangers at certain events. So, are we introverts odd because we’d rather play next to you than with you? Perhaps. Oddness isn’t a flaw; it’s what helps humans mutate into something better.

How long does the lonesome love’s typical romantic relationship last? One night? A few dates? Three months? Years? In my case, I can get it close to three months before I’m pulling out the drain stop. My bar-mates theorize and therapize. They call me “scarred and scared.” I defend my stance, although I’d rather sip my G-and-T with me.

“At the three-month point, I’m assessing whether this relationship is extending my life and worth keeping.”

“That makes no sense. How would a relationship extend your life?”

“If it enhances it. Happy people live longer; stressed people get clogged arteries. I’m not taking a dirt nap over some lover’s misgivings about the frequency of my text messages.”

“You’re just fucking scared. Once you start developing feelings—like you should—you freak out and run away. Would you rather have a lover on your lap tonight or a cat?”

“I need more information before I can answer that. A lover who needs me can be inferior to a cat that kneads me. The cat needs food, a clean box, and an occasional chin scratching. The lover needs much more, which she’s unwilling to ask for, but will continue distracting me until she gets it.”

“You’re going to die the jaded old man who was eaten by his cats.”

Look, you’re reading this alone, aren’t you? You need a partner to tell you when to turn the page? Nope. You want him asking what the word “misgiving” means? Nope. Then, you should be able to relate to the seven columns of cards I’m about the deal.