Archives for January 2019

Love Thy Belly

You’re lovely — all of you. Don’t let anybody convince you otherwise.

Do you ever give yourself a once-over before jumping into the shower? Yeah, we all do that daily. Some of us also spin, twist, and use other mirror angles to be more thorough. As I did this yesterday, I found that I currently appear to be in my second trimester. This made me sad. I considered radical lifestyle changes to get back to skinny. Then, I began going through the trade-offs.

Stop drinking. Yikes. Short of painkillers, this is the most effective way to deal with daily stress. This can be modified to “stop drinking beer.” But, I like beer. It’s refreshing, inexpensive, and sugar-free. No way. Stop drinking wine. Lots of calories in wine. Fuck that. I love wine. Stop drinking hard liquor. This is fast-acting social lubrication, so fuck that, too. Maybe I can just cut back on drinking. Nah. I teeter under the legal limit. I like it there. Alcohol and I get along just fine. It makes me tolerable.

Stop eating snacks. Do you know what’s better than a bag of kettle cooked jalapeno potato chips? Two bags. Nothing else. This is as close to sex as possible without needing a moist towelette. Maybe I could cut out chocolate. Seriously? Fuck that. On my death bed, you know what I’m going to regret most? Not eating more dark chocolate M&Ms. Well, OK. Not eating more M&Ms from my lady’s love triangle. How’s that?

Exercise more. I enjoy the gym, but spending more time there means spending less time doing the things (listed above) I love more. Running plain sucks. There is no runner’s high for me. It’s a fucking low. Gasping for air while bouncing on a belt is a form of torture. Riding a bike hurts my balls. Here’s my favorite workout: Throw baseballs, spit, then drink beer in parking lot.

Love my belly. This means handing out fuck-offs to anyone who disapproves of my shape. Are my butt, man-boobs, and love handles too much for you to handle? Well, take your blended kale ass away from me. I’m not skipping any meal I crave. I’m eating it, wearing it, and loving it. My fat means I’ll outlive you in a famine, Mr. Abs. I’ll also be tastier in the cannibal apocalypse. A heavier me means more time spent fucking up … literally. Being a bottom means two free hands for her two lovely globs of fatty glands. Yay!

Life is way too short to concern ourselves with a few extra inches when gaining them is so much fun.

Compliment Guide

Let’s start with a disclaimer that I am not an expert in the field of lady compliment delivery. I’ve certainly had my share of failures with a few successes mixed in. Perhaps it’s best to share experiences, which may prevent a trip to HR or bony knee to the nuts.

Your first inclination when delivering any sort of comment to a lady should be “don’t.” A closed mouth gathers no foot. There is an exception — if you’re married to this woman, go right ahead and deliver the compliment. Marriage can usually survive even the most back-handed of compliments. Do avoid giving what I call “as” compliments. That’s not a typo. I mean “as” not “ass,” but come to think of it, I can use both in my example. Here you go: Never say, “Honey the jogging is paying off. Your ass is almost as firm as your sister’s.”

Let’s talk about boobs, shall we? Yes, yes, we all love boobs. Ladies know we love boobs, so leave it there. I’ve had my share of women yank up their tops to conceal the cleavage I assumed I was covertly enjoying. Subtle, I’m not. Help it, I can try. When eyes meet cleavage, train yourself to immediately raise your gaze to her eyes. If you must boob-stare, use a mirror angle, or look through the bottom of your rocks glass. Never, I say NEVER comment in any way about her boobs. She’s knows her rack.

Women are hair experts. Men are hairy apes. Unless you are a hair stylist, limit your hair compliments to “looks nice” and “smells good.” Never refer to the color. Never ask if the carpet matches the curtains. Never touch hair that has any chance of being strapped, clipped, or Velcro’d on. Another thing you should avoid mentioning is the cost associated with maintaining her mane.

Age is immaterial. There isn’t a single compliment you can give a woman about her age that will go over well. I tend bar occasionally. Carding a woman never goes over well. If she’s under 21, she’s pissed she got caught. If she’s in her twenties, she’s tired of showing her ID and suspects I’m trying to get her address to creep on her. If she’s over 30, she’s onto my scheme of carding her to compliment how young she looks for her age. She’ll say, “Aw, aren’t you sweet.” That’s lady code for, “None of this is for you, so just stop.”

Social media posts are touchy areas. If your lady friend posts something, your best bet is to like it. Just click “Like” and walk the fuck away. If you must comment, make it a single emoji like a heart or clapping hands. Don’t write anything on her post. You’re not qualified. This is fucking book #17 for me and I’m not qualified. Just don’t. Oh, and maybe don’t like her post if it refers to her illness or sadness. She’s venting. Let it happen. Read the post, because she’s going to ask if you did. When she asks what you think, say it was insightful.

I hope this helps. The amount if cringing I do as I scroll through posts leads me to believe this may be part one of many dozen. Ladies, if you have any suggestions, please add them here. I will read them and like them, without commenting on them … in writing.

Enough with the Silver Stuff

Wait a minute. She’s not even gray/silver. Are you kidding me? God damn fuck poop!

We get it, already. Yes, our hair turns gray. Yes, we can actually still do many things with silver hair. No, this does not put us into an exclusive silver club where we should be cordoned off like zoo animals that don’t get along.

This week I see ads for Silver Singles and Silver Sneakers run back to back. Good thing I don’t have a brick or my TV would have its silver innards exposed. My silver chin fuzz does not prevent me from working out with nor mating with non-silver types. Your ads suck you segregative, probably millennial, twat bubble.

If this silver shit makes any sense, shouldn’t we be creating other categories? How about some of these:

  • Ginger Gropers
  • Asian Auto Racers
  • Yoga Stank Foots
  • Bald Boy Giver-Uppers
  • Drunks Against Craft Beer

It’s all so fucking stupid. We should be inclusive.

“Hey, come on in. Everyone is welcome … except for that guy wearing tights under his gym shorts. Ew, Jason. Just ew.”

We managed to get rid of most boys’ schools, girls’ schools, and men’s country clubs. That’s a good start. We’re left with Indian casinos and the NAACP. They each get a pass because of our ancestors totally fucking with them. I’m good with that, but, Silver Singles? Oh, hell no.

While I’m on the subject, stop dying your hair when it turns gray. If you want pink or purple hair, go for it. You rock. If you want a “natural” color to make you look younger, quit it. Everyone knows you’ve done this. It doesn’t make you look younger, it makes you look afraid of aging. Gray is just a lovely as yellow, gold, brown, and black. In fact, gray and wrinkles show maturity and wear — both admirable and more attractive than a scraggly fro beard.

Ooh, how I want to join these clubs just to fuck with them. I would dye my hair silver (not gray, silver), wear shiny silver clothes, and paint my nails with silver glitter. Maybe I’d carry a silver walking cane and get silver tattoos. Let’s add a silver scarf.


Sorry. As you can tell this annoys me not a little. I’m quite fermented.

What is love?

Has love’s meaning changed for you as you have gotten older? I must admit it has for me. I’m referring to romantic love, not the love of ravioli. I do love ravioli in the same way for 50+ years. I do not love women in the same way.

I had a woman my age suggest that the search for love as we age becomes more of a search for companionship and less of a search for strong attraction. I agreed. She was pouring my wine, so I loved that. The stemware carried my companion as I scanned for another companion that might leave less of a stain or bruise.

Sure, a companion sounds lovely, as long as she doesn’t cause too much stress. Yet, I’m not ready to give up the search for a highly-attractive companion. They’re out there. The challenge in finding one who considers me to be a highly-attractive companion. If I’d be just a companion to my dream-woman, that would suck.

The sexual attraction parts of love are still there, although as fleeting as my senses. Perhaps women get over the whole physical attraction struggle quicker than men. Most women tell me they’re fine with a secure, healthy man who will be kind and loyal. It’s not as important that he can tongue-punch her love bean into Blissville.

All right, sure, same here. Less important is legendary BJ skills. More important is smelling nice, liking cats, and having an eagerness to help me dispose of all the fine wine around here. Only good liver hosts need apply.

It’s just such a struggle anymore. I don’t often run into eligible women, smile, flirt, and sprint down the aisle holding hands. I have to create a fucking profile, scan, judge, poke, wait, re-poke, wait, connect, meet, evaluate, etc. Much easier it is to recline and poke my remote. I love HBO. Don’t judge me.

So, what is love to you? Something undefinable? Bullshit. What is it? You’ve been in love, right? What was that like? You got dewy when he was near? Did you think about him all day? You wore his button-down and sailed away to McDreamyland? Your friends and family liked him? He handled the chores you hate? Did he have thick hair or fingers? Was he a great kisser?

Fuck, I’d love to know what love is. For now, I love wine.

New Year, Same Ear

I took my usual position on New Year’s Eve at the bar with an empty stool of opportunity next to me. A huge benefit of living on the left coast is getting to watch the ball fall at 9 pm, then leaving before the DUI checkpoints open. Sure enough, a lovely specimen bellied up to order. I noticed the ring immediately and planned my retreat.

“Oh, hi. Happy New Year,” she started.

“Yes. Happy New Year.”

I noticed she came from a booth behind me with a man and another couple. Figured I’d preempt the inevitable “my husband” mention.

“Do you and your husband come here often?”

“What? Who? Oh, that asshole.”

I opened the can of regret. She ordered her wine and took a seat. Bar therapy began.

“He’s been fucking cheating on me for years.”


“Yeah. I found a pair of running shorts and they weren’t mine.”

“Maybe they were his?”



“Then, I found a Valentine love letter.”

“Pink, too?”

“Red. And, before you ask, I can’t leave him because I make like three times more than him.”

“Well, you can leave him. It’s just expensive.”

“He’s also an FBI agent.”


“Yeah. We got into a fight and he shot my dog.”

The natural impulse here is to determine if she is fucking with me and, if not, begin backpedaling by bringing up my gay lover.

“He shot your dog?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. It lived. But still, that’s so fucked up, right?”

“Right. He didn’t get in any trouble for that?”

“Nope. He’s all connected and stuff. I hate him, but there’s nowhere to go. I can’t even meet anyone because he finds out.”

“Well, sure. He’s probably got you bugged.”

At this point, I looked over my shoulder. The agent was staring future bullet holes through this dog. I smiled and gave him the gayest jazz fingers wave I could muster. He didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering you with this. I’m sorry. You’re sweet to listen. What’s your name?”

“Um, my name is Joe.”

“Well, Joe, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Hey, you know the bartender, don’t you? We’re going out one of these weekends. You should meet us.”

“Ah, yes, definitely. Maybe you should …”

“… get back to my asshole. I know. Fuck. We’ll meet again soon, right?”


She took her wine and left as her dog terminator scanned me. I paid my tab and abandoned a half-glass of bourbon — not my modus operandi. Love is best without bulletproof vests.