Archives for November 2016

Sedation or Suicide?

budivMy reaction when people proudly say they’ve quit drinking is, “Good for you. More for me.” Same reaction when they quit gluten and bacon. Look, I’m not saying drinking is good for you—it’s good for me. As long as I don’t drive, pee in a planter, or puke in your cat box, what’s the harm?

Well, yes, my head and liver are reminding me right now. One more cup of coffee and they’ll shut up.

I visit this trendy pub last night. It’s self-service. I hand over my ID and credit card. They give me a wristband with a chip. I grab a glass, head to the taps, scan my chip, and dispense the social lubrication. No nurse (server), no doctor (bartender) to monitor my dosage. I prescribe myself. Pretty girls, flat screens, and 50+ beer syringes—lots of reasons to be thankful.

The monkey wrench comes in the form of Little Miss Yoga Pants. She’s not with me, but she’s within earshot. She’s drinking Kombucha (fermented fruit—like smoking weed without THC). She hasn’t had a drink in six months. She feels wonderful—like a new woman. She’s working out five days a week, and signing up for her first half marathon. She’s a walking Facebook post.

I feel like joining that group and giving them my status update.

“I’ve been drinking since 1979. I can still manage to work and throw baseballs. Alcohol has left a few bruises, but has also added spice to a life less interesting. Cheers, fuckers!”

Pop drank a lot. He overdid it. Guess he passed down that high-performance liver to me. I’d like to think I have my drinking more under control. I don’t have a wife or son to tell me otherwise. On his death bed in a VA hospital, you know what he wanted? A six-pack of Budweiser. You might think that’s sad. No, that’s not sad. What is sad is that I didn’t immediately fetch him that six-pack. He only had a few months to go. What harm would six beers do?

Now, that’s one of my life’s biggest regrets. Sorry, Pop.

My point is, we aren’t drinking alcohol to slowly commit suicide. We’re drinking to make the good a little better and the bad more bearable. We know it’s poison, but it’s not killing us. Life is killing us.

I don’t think it’s worth quitting. Heck, we’d just replace the booze with something else—hobbies, pets, or church. Nah. Drink up. Crush a maraschino into a fine bourbon. Sip. Now, tell me that isn’t heavenly.

Your Comfort Human

comfortEvery news channel is showing crowded airports. ’Tis the season to wait in lines. The new addition this year is this ridiculous thing called “The Comfort Dog.” Yes, this partly because I’m a cat man and partly because anything other than a comfort panda is just plain silly. Are these tiny, wet-nosed, black-gummed, gooey-eyed face lickers supposed to distract us from the fact that we’re about to fly 500 MPH in an aluminum tube crammed with human sardines?

I suppose.

I asked my cat, Symon, if he wanted to give back to the community by volunteering to be an airport comfort cat.

“Oh, you’re a hoot.”

“No, seriously. I can throw a leash on you and take you to the Southwest terminal. Think of all the yoga pants you could shed upon.”

“Dude. I’m a fucking cat. Let’s read from this handy dandy cat manual. Hm. Page three, paragraph two: ‘Cats don’t do car rides. Cats don’t play fetch. And, most of all, cats don’t like crowds of smelly humans.’”

“So, that sounds like a no.”

“It’s a fuck no. You go do it. Go be a comfort human. Just leave an open can of tuna and your pride behind.”

Never liked him much, that Symon.

Then again, perhaps, comfort human isn’t inconceivable. Isn’t that the role clowns play? They dress silly and lighten the mood. Heck, I could do that without the wig, makeup, spotted outfit, and bike horn. I could just be wacky me and strike up pleasant conversations with tourists.

“Hi, there. I’m Phil, the comfort human. Let’s chat. Can I sit on your lap? It works better this way.”

“Ew. No. Down, boy!”

“Fine. Say, can I have one of those pretzel bites? I’m starving.”

“No.”

“All right. So, where you headed? Home for the holidays? Turkey time?”

“Seattle. Yes, meeting family.”

“Got any racist uncles?”

“Um, no.”

“How about slutty cousins?”

“No.”

“How boring. Here’s an idea. Blow off that boring tradition. Let’s find a local dive and overdose on bourbon and tater tots.”

“No. Bad human. Shoo.”

All Right, I Need to be Nicer

manappI began driving for Uber to get me out of the house, meet people, and make funds much needed to upgrade from propane-tasting vodka to something better. I’ve been avoiding the 2am drunk-ass rides for obvious reasons, so I’m happy to report most of my riders are quite nice. In fact, I picked up a woman yesterday who needed a lift to LAX. That’s a 90-mile ride. Conversation ensued. Naturally, she asked what else I do for money.

“I write humorous books about dating and relationships.”

“Oh. Let me look you up.”

“Naw. Here’s a book. I keep them in my glove box, just in case. I must warn you: There are dirty words and sarcasm inside.”

She opened the book and began reading. I was horrified. You’d think a somewhat narcissistic prick like me would be apathetic about her reaction. Yet, I kept glancing in my rearview anxiously awaiting smiles and chuckles. There were none. Her reaction was like I had just laid a tritonal hardboiled egg fart and rolled up the windows.

“I don’t believe this is you. You seem so nice in person.”

Ah, the irony of it all. I explained that the “nice guy” thing was my volley of sarcasm. I defended my honor by assuring her about my niceness. There were twenty miles to go. I couldn’t have her diving out of a moving vehicle.

“Sorry. Just my attempt at humor on those pages.”

“Are you single?”

“Duh.”

“Don’t you want a girlfriend?”

“Double duh.”

“Then, why would you write things to scare women away?”

Balls!

There was no defending it. Nothing I could say would make her believe Ms. Right-For-Me would become dewy over my prose. After many frustrations, I have learned that we can’t change taste and preference; We can only respect a person’s right to have them.

This is a lovely woman, married 20+ years, with six children. She loves her husband and children, and can’t begin to fathom a love search through my eyes. She’s not my audience. I should know better.

Or, maybe she’s right. Maybe I should be nicer. I should tame my frustrations, control my anger, and put out a kinder, gentler version of myself to attract the love life people say I deserve. Sure, that would be somewhat disingenuous, but it would certainly make the dating forest more fertile.

Let me try: “Hi. I’m Phil. You’re adorable. I’m ready for love. Give me a chance. I’ll cherish you eternally.”

Ick. Fucking ick.

Stop Sleeping with Powerful Men

powerYes, I’m talking to you, sexy ladies. You criticize men for being shallow when selecting mates. We are, absolutely. In fact, we can’t override our instincts with logic when sex is involved. Guilty. But, as immature as we are, men rarely sleep with a woman based on her social standing or perception thereof. I can’t get my dick hard for an unattractive billionaire, CEO, or mayor. Not possible.

Am I wrong? Have you ever slept with a man you did not consider sufficiently attractive when you first met him to straddle his privates? He talked your jeans off. His watch, clothes, car, home, or job title popped button after button until you found yourself on your back trying to justify it in your mind while the slug breathed heavily on your neck.

You created our president elect.

Some will see this as a jealous rant by a dirty old man who is losing his grip on sexy young things. Fair enough. Like I said, my biology sends me toward the healthiest mate to spread my genes. It’s natural—ewy, at times, but natural. Just like it is also natural for women to seek the best provider and protector. The problem is, whereas my nature may create some embarrassed ladies with low self-esteem and daddy issues, your nature just elevated someone who is expressly and absolutely against most of your interests into the ultimate position of power.

That really sucks. If you don’t realize it yet, you will.

Take Cheeto Mussolini’s wife. If she were single, visiting the states, and the bartender was a seventy-year-old blowhard with a horrible comb over and spray tan, what are the chances she would hook up with him? Um, fucking zero. No chance, no way, no how. If she so much as flirted with him, her besties would pull her away from the bar, slap some sense into her, and force her to drink lattes until she sobered up.

Come on, ladies, you worked so hard to get closer to equal footing with man-apes. Are you ready to roll back all that progress for a beast bearing gifts? Please tell me otherwise.

If you voted for Trump, you made a mistake. It’s like when you slept with your friend’s father who was twenty years older with a gray, hairy back and tube socks in leather mandals. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe you were mad at someone, drunk, high, or feeling vulnerable because Sean left you for that slut five years younger than you. Whatever the reason, you did it, and you regret it. Well, regret is not enough. You sold your soul to the tangerine tiny-handed crypt keeper. Now, you had better buy your soul back or get used to pussy grabbin’.

“How do we repent?” you ask. Look, if I sleep with a woman who shouldn’t have slept with me, I shrug it off proudly. Her lack of taste hurts me and my brothers not. I may even shine my nails on my chest and boast to the swine about my concubine. You, ladies, need to own it as well. Admit to yourself and your friends (fuck, post it on Facebook) that you mistakenly marginalized yourself due to your genetic attraction toward power. Then, vow to fight that urge and unfuck us all before powerful men grow stronger and hasten the apocalypse.

How to Grab a Man by His Junk*

grabbananaSince our president-elect has mastered the art of grabbing a woman by her pussy, I thought it would be only fair for me to provide some guidance around grabbing men. Lord knows, it should be much easier. I mean, it’s kind of just hanging there like a handle. It screams, “Pull me!” Heck, I bet most people could do it blindfolded.

To be fair, the art of grabbing a penis if often affected by the elements. I’ll be sure to cover each in depth below. These usually don’t apply to pussy grabbing. Consider grabbing a penis in a walk-in freezer. That little fucker (tee hee) will require precise maneuvers. Conversely, a pussy doesn’t shrink in cold weather, does it? Nope. The method remains like the bowling ball grip: Thumb up, middle and ring fingers curled, pinky and index fingers extended. Thumb extension helps prevent accidentally poking the anus. The extended fingers act like the walls of a bobsled course, keeping you centered.

Enough about the obvious. Let’s learn how to grab a penis, shall we?

First, in cold weather, it is best to approach pimple penis as you would a zipper tab. Or, think about how you’d tweak a nipple. Curl your thumb and index finger, space them one inch, extend arm toward crotch, grab, and yank gently. Repeat until other fingers become necessary. If they don’t, giggle, Purell your hand, and leave.

If the target penis is beneath tight jeans, this will require some reconnaissance. You must determine if the shlong is dangling left or right of the seam. If it’s dark just assume it’s right (which is your left, silly). Best to make eye contact with the penis carrier to keep him distracted. Ask him a jock-wannabe question, such as, “Hey, is Connor McGregor the top pound-for-pound fighter of all time?” This penis, since constricted, requires a full open-handed approach. Cup the crotch like a grapefruit, squeeze gently to confirm the angle of the dangle, then grab firmly. Best not to yank. I suggest rubbing. Yanking may cause beer spillage.

For sneak attacks (oh, these are my favorite), it is best to approach from behind. Let’s say you’re at the gym. This an ideal place for cock-grabbery. Find an ape wearing shorts who is standing at a machine full of cables. Once he begins his exercise, make your approach. The thing to keep in mind here is that his stanky ass and balls are in the way. That means you’ll need to use more arm and wrist action. I find it best to drop to a knee behind him (a la the Kaepernick douche stance). Use the same arm as the knee that’s down, extend inside his knee, and curl upwards. Try to align your wrist with his oniony testes. That should place your palm mid-sausage.

Finally, how does one grab a sleeping penis? This must be done gently and, unless you’re wearing a helmet and facemask, I recommend this also be done from behind. This will be an around-the-torso maneuver as opposed to the tween-legger. Tilt your head down in case he jerks his head back to avoid breaking your nose. Lift the sheets. Steady yourself then snake your arm around him, hovering around six inches above his hip. Extend fingers at the top of his boxers. Slide your hand through his waistband, and you go get that love snake, girly! Mm, hmm.

*Disclaimer: Don’t do this to children or Republicans.

Beginners Guide to Dating

morningafterMet a lovely specimen Saturday who recently booted her spouse of twenty years. Instead of eagerly anticipating a new sex toy attached to a less complacent man, she seemed frightened. Where would she meet men? At bars? Should she join a dating site? Get another dog?

As a wily veteran who was once in her stilettos (figuratively … except than one Halloween I purged from my memory), I offered a few tips.

“You need to learn phrases you’re going to hear from men penetrating you, and their true meaning.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Also, you’ll need to memorize a few phrases you’ll need to deploy.”

“Such as?”

“Say, for instance, you meet a handsome fellow who causes a tingle in your taco. You decide, against better judgement, to bang him on date uno. If the sex is pedestrian, thank him and call Uber. If it was spectacular, you probably would like to do it again, so you need to soothe his slut-shaming mind.”

“How?”

“Simple. Say, ‘Oh my god, I don’t know what came over me. I never do this. There’s something about you. I’m so embarrassed.’ Then pull the sheets up to your chin.”

“That works?”

“Like a charm.”

I’ve heard that feigned-innocence line enough times to have developed a few responses of my own. If the sex was awful, I smile, pat her on the head, fetch a towel, retrieve her chonies, and show her to the door. If it was noteworthy, my response would be one of the following:

  • I know. We must have some ridiculous chemistry going on.
  • Me neither. Jesus. I’m so sorry. Fuck! You’re so sexy, I can’t help myself.
  • Hey, just think about all the idle chatter we avoided. This is something special we have here.
  • My heart is racing. God, I needed that. Been so long since I’ve had that feeling. Why are you so cute?
  • The minute I met you I could tell there was a flow between us. Now, I know it’s real. I hope you still respect me in the morning.

Those of you like me who have volleyed numerous post-coital lines may have felt a little verklempt when reading the above. Well, my love-cynical freaks, we must consider the little people. Those who are new to chasing three beers and two tequila shots with one vagina or penis can find great solace in the above. One heart unbroken makes it all worthwhile.

 

How Should I Treat You?

dogWhen you reward behavior, you encourage it. This applies to dogs and humans. Pop offered me $5 for each “A” on my report card, so I worked hard to get them. I was told to honor, respect, and be kind to others regardless of their gender, skin color, or favorite football team. Excluding Dallas Cowboy fans, I’ve done my best, and received such fine reactions as, “Well, thank you for holding the door. You’re a fine young gentleman.”

So, how does my next lover want to be treated?

I don’t want to turn this into a political statement. (Save that for Facebook.) Yet, I watched and listened to ten years of Trump bashing women and immigrants. Was he punished to discourage this? Well, let’s see: He has a hot, young wife, he went bankrupt numerous times and was forgiven, he called his opponents names, made false accusations, and said he likes to grab women by the pussy … and we just elected him president.

Wait … what?

Saying and doing the things he has done is fine in the context of entertainment and comedy. I admit that I’m a dickhead, but I’m kidding, and I’m not running for president. But, we just rewarded his behavior in the most profound way. When I say “we,” I’m not just referring to uneducated white redneck men. The very people he maligned voted for him as well. Fuck, Hillary may have voted for him. Sounds crazy? Shit, I’ve heard plenty of women defend their abusers.

I’m confused. It’s as if I were managing a group of women, and treated them Trump-like. Daily activities would include:

  • I pay them handsomely.
  • I set up my office in their restroom.
  • I slap their asses twice a day.
  • When they’re caught not giving me sufficient praise, I call them liars and suggest they be shot.

For this, I would receive their loyalty.

Come on. Help a brother out here. I’m going on another first date tonight. This suggests my previous first dates were failures. So, what am I doing wrong? I shower, dress nicely, wear cologne, arrive early, compliment her, ask her questions about her, listen, ignore my phone, pay the tab, escort her out walking behind her, hold the door, give her a respectful hug, ask when I can see her again, and confirm she got home safely.

I must have it all wrong.

Perhaps, I should try the president-elect approach. I go straight from the gym, arrive late, ask to see her tits, tell her about my stock portfolio, interrupt her, pinch her ass, call my buddies and brag about how I’m about to bang this bar slut, tell her I forgot my wallet, tell her I’ll meet her in the parking lot after I take a dump, hit on another bar patron on my way out, meet my date at her car and shove my hand down her pants, tell her she had better fuck me tonight, or I’m not answering any texts, screw her in the backseat of her car, come in her hair, and leave.

Then, I expect her to blog about how wonderful I am.