As I was disposing of fine tequila at a local Mexican restaurant, I noticed the Lamborghini of women (pretty to look at, fantasize about driving one, can’t afford it) at the end of the bar. November weather in SoCal doesn’t dissuade leg exposure. I glance, appreciate the fine chassis, and return to a task I’m more qualified to undertake — margarita.

You know how you can sense when someone is looking at you? That’s why I try not to stare. Yet, I had the feeling she was looking my way. What gives? I glanced over. She was smiling. She raised a glass and said, “Cheers.” Time for a test drive? I know better.

“Cheers to you, too.”

“My name is Nadia.”

“Hello, Nadia. I’m Phil.”

“Nah-dia.”

“Yes. Nadia.”

“No, Naaaaaaaah-dia.”

“Right.”

“Say it.”

“Naaaaaaah-dia.”

“Come down and sit next to me, handsome.”

“I, um … well, you see, I’m meeting a friend,” I explained as I walked down to clink glasses with her.

“Ah, you are meeting your wife.”

“No. Heavens, no. A friend.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“No. A friend who happens to be a girl.”

“This means girlfriend, no?”

“No. She’s just a friend. We don’t have sex.”

“Sex? Who was talking about sex? You pervert.”

Now I’m completely sideways. Because of her strong Spanish accent, I can’t tell if she’s fucking with me.

“Sorry. I was just explaining that the woman that is coming is not a romantic interest of mine.”

“Why not?”

“She has a boyfriend.”

“So why is she not meeting her boyfriend here instead of you, Pheel.”

“Fill.”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind. Her boyfriend lives in another state.”

“Tell me this, Pheel, if she did not have this boyfriend, you would have sex, as you say, no?”

“No.”

“Oh, you are gay. It’s OK, you know.”

“Yes. I mean, no, I’m not gay and yes, it is OK. In fact, I prefer gay people. They’re far more fun to be around.”

“Ah, so you don’t like Nah-dia because she’s not gay.”

“Of course, I like Nadia. You seem quite nice.”

“Naaaaaaah-dia.”

“Yes.”

“Where is this friend?”

“She’s coming.”

“This friend has a name, I assume.”

“Rachel.”

“Ah, Rachel.”

“No, Raaaaaaay-chel.”

“This is not funny, you know. I’m trying to be nice to you. It is Thanksgiving. You should be nice, not pervert.”

“I’m kidding around with you. You’re very pretty — way out of my league — so I am flirting aimlessly.”

“What this means — aimlessly?”

“It means I realized when I first set eyes on you that you would not want to be with me romantically.”

“I smiled at you and asked you to come over, no?”

“Wait. So, you’re telling me I could be with you.”

“No, of course not, silly. Plus, you have a girlfriend, remember? Or does pretty girl make you forget?”

“She’s not … fuck … all right, let me make sure I have this correct because if I lose this in translation somehow, I might injure myself quite intentionally. Do you, Nadia, want to go on a date with me?”

“Naaaaaah-dia.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to say it?”

“I don’t think I say it the way you want me to.”

“Yes. When you fix that and get rid of the girlfriend, you ask me then, Pheel.”

“Nice meeting you.”

I returned to my humble stool.

“Bartender? Un otro … mas grande … ahora.”

“Hey. So, where’s the damn book?”

That’s the nudge I receive multiple times a week from a fellow horse at our watering hole. You see, I recently had an epiphany (mortgage bill) and moved away from the beach, farther inland. The money I save on payments needs to go somewhere. Why not my liver? Luckily, I found just the spot to give daddy his liquid meds. The most notable thing about my new Cheers! — aside from the lovely doctors — is that it caters to, let’s say, mature men. Of these, I am less mature. Passing days won’t affect that.

The one fellow (Buddy) reminds me of my father. He has his spot at the bar. He has his drink at the bar. He has his meal at the bar. He has his favorite hat. I sorely miss Pop, so seeing my new friend is comforting. Just as Pop would give me a good swat in the keister when I began to slack, Buddy keeps up the tradition.

“Well?”

“It’s stuck in my head, Buddy.”

“A lot of good it’s doing everyone up there.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t written a single word, have you?”

Relentless. I used to come up with all sorts of excuses for Pop. He would put his hand on my shoulder, close his eyes, shake his head, then look back at me with his bullshit detecting hazel blues and dispose of my excuse. I admit my fault.

“No, Buddy, not yet.”

“What’s the hold-up?”

“Guess I just need a little more reminding.”

“Well, get to it.”

An excuse I tell myself is that I’m so distraught over the orange dick-tater in the White House, that I can think of nothing other than poking the elephant. Buddy wouldn’t approve. Another might be that since I have moved to my shiny new home, I’ve gone 0-fer: my damn home is a virgin. “Whose fault is that?” Pop would ask. Fuck. I can’t even suggest that I’m trying and simply mentally constipated.

It’s not like I’m hermitting. I get out. I even took on another job working banquets at a local country club. Yes, I owned a banquet hall for ten years. Yes, I hated it. Still, for some reason, weddings just make me giddy — I mean, as long as I’m not the one kissing to clinking glassware. It’s an interesting experience, mostly because there I am a minority. I’m old and white. The staff is young and brown. There are no walls between us.

Anyway, my point is I meet people. I’m less and less of a mating option, so breaking my house’s cherry is more and more difficult. Also, things like uninterrupted sleep, bourbon by the fire pit, and talking to my cats in cat voices are priorities rising closer to that of spraying genetic goo.

“Where’s the damn book?”

Fine. I’ll unsheath the beast within my jeans and take him out for another twirl around the block. I’ll flirt, stumble around Bumble, and place myself in sexually favorable situations — around drunk women with neglected parts and pity. I’ll seek women way out of my league. I’ll handle rejection like a champ. When the occasion arises, and I finally enjoy that post-coital bliss, her look of disappointment will be soundly addressed as I point to my crotch and say, “I’m sorry. I’m with Stupid.”

I found this cool app for my Amazon Fire that allows me to stream all sorts of goodies and baddies. I admit to enjoying a bit of pornographic material, and the app gives me a window into a new world of erotica. Just when you think you’ve seen it all, along comes a new way to get off: Video Chat Masturbation.

Yes, I realize (you fellow perv) that video sex chatting is nothing new. The new part of this is the addition of a wonderful device called the Lovense Blue Tooth Remote Control Vibrator—another device rendering my gender obsolete. In case you’re paranoid about searching it, allow me to describe it. It’s a silicone thing that has an internal part and a tail, which is an antenna. The internal part is designed to sit against her g-spot while the pink tail antenna sits outside awaiting instruction.

The device gets paired up to your phone. Then, you (or a very lucky fellow near you) can control the vibration pattern and intensity with the app. You sit on the sofa with a bowl of frozen yogurt, complaining that I watch too much MSNBC. I tap my app and buzz you through the roof. Fun! The cats enjoy spilled yogurt; I enjoy Rachel Maddow.

Where this becomes more interesting is when the device is used in coordination with a Chaturbate. Exceptionally driven and entrepreneurial ladies can sign up, log in, point the camera, lube up, insert Lovense, and begin making money. Viewers buy tokens, which they use to tip the viewee. When tipping, those tokens each cause sounds that make the Lovense vibrate for one second—more tokens, more vibration, more fun for the whole family.

I’m sure there are conservative types (who shouldn’t have made it this far into my book) finding this whole thing disturbing. Tough titty! There’s absolutely no harm in slapping a g-spot remotely. And, there’s no harm in a girl making a few extra dollars to help cover the ridiculous expense of maintaining good looks. So, stop judging.

There are men, women, couples, and transgenders from numerous countries, so no matter your preference, you’ll probably find something that tickles you.

(It may sound like I’m promoting this site, but I’m not. It’s just fascinating to me. We need more sex and less violence. Better it is to beat off than beat up.)

If I can click my mouse and deliver an orgasm to a Ukrainian lovely, what’s the harm? I’m sure Trump will attempt to tax tokens flowing out of the country, but until that day, tip away!

Think of the future as this technology improves. Heck, self-driving cars are here. Didn’t think I’d see that in my lifetime. These remote vibrators are going to become stealthier and more customizable. Imagine a bar full of women with the latest, greatest orgasm delivery system, sized perfectly to hit the g-spot and clit with the ideal intensity, concealed neatly under jeans, all attached to the bar’s Wi-Fi. Instead of using Wi-Fi to check ESPN highlights, men can connect to dozens of vaginas. Heck, we can get the bartenders and servers involved.

“Here’s a couple two-tree dollars for that bourbon, and—*ding* *ding* *ding*—three diddles for your lady fiddle. Cheers!”

In any shitty situation, remember that shittiness can be overcome and forgotten with a strong finish. This year may have started with financial and marital woes, but ended with a promotion and exciting new lover. The good stuff was made better by all the bad stuff leading up to it.

Without becoming too self-helpy, let me offer us both some encouraging words for the new year ahead.

1. You’re fucking awesome. Why? Well, because you have a sense of humor. You made it this far into my lump of sarcasm without tossing it into the shred pile. You giggled and nodded. (I saw you. Look over your right shoulder. Hi, there! I know. Creepy. Sorry.) That marvelous sense of humor of yours will serve you well as you shrug off minor setbacks in expectation of better things to come.
2. The most attractive among us will die first … and hungry. Stop forcing rabbit food down your throat when there’s cheesecake on the menu. Stop destroying your joints running marathons. Wear your wrinkles and curves proudly—you’ve earned them.
3. Rich people need all that money to buy lawyers and pills. They’re not happy; they’re depressed. The larger your stack of cash, the more time you spend worrying about somebody taking it. Your goal should be to die with the largest debt possible and $0 in your bank accounts. It would prove you lived your life to its fullest.
4. You don’t control how people feel about you, so fuck ’em (in the nicest way). When people are mean, walk away. They’re not worth defending yourself. Next!
5. Enjoy your own company. Stop looking for other people to complete you. You’re done just right. You’re lightly glazed, salted, and browned to perfection. Now, if there’s a delicious side, which would complement you, add it. We should all seek bilateral emotional enhancement.
6. Do the unexpected. Pay the tab of the person behind you in the Starbucks line. Pull over at a busy intersection and dance with a sign twirler. Start a food fight. Ask someone you have no attraction to out for drinks. Then, marvel as their cuteness grows with every drink (kind of like a Chia Human). Call your uncle just because you were thinking of him.
7. Watch more sunsets and sunrises.
8. Sleep in. Note: This may be in direct conflict with #7, but there are apps and websites. Remember, the sun is always setting and rising somewhere.
9. Unsubscribe from all those emails. Look at your inbox. (Go ahead. I gotta pee anyway. Meet you back here in a few.) How many emails did you get today? 100? More? How many of those were useful? Clear the electronic clutter that bogs you down and wastes your time. I realize lots of emails, Facebook likes, etc. feed your ego. But, it’s your time and attention they’re hoarding.
10. Every heartbreak is one step closer to love. Don’t avoid heartbreak; seek it. Fall in love quickly and often. Heck, get it out of the way on the first date. Tell him you love him, and it’s his responsibility to appreciate it or lose it.

Develop a strong case of amnesia around all things shitty. Remember only the good. Finish strong, my dear. Hold up your big blue “W.” You are a lovable WINNER.

Very few women read books designed to help men find mates. That’s a shame. I’m sure they’d find them sometimes insightful and often funnier than anything I can come up with. I’m always looking for other perspectives, so I devour these books and audio books like popcorn. What have I learned? Nothing. I’m still single.

One suggestion I did take to heart was to place myself in situations where there is an abundance of target women without a saturation of fellow predators. I’m not moving to Manhattan. Another suggestion was yoga classes.

I’m not spiritual at all. My imaginary friends disappointed me, so I evicted them. The spiritual base of yoga was always a main reason for my avoidance. Another is my lack of grace. I fear my imbalance would cause me to tumble into a cascade of domino-ing damsels.

Groupon has a special on yoga classes within a mile of my house. It’s right next to a favorite vodka dispenser of mine. Maybe I should get a head start on all the New Year’s resolutions. “Sign up, Philsy. What could it hurt?”

So, I did.

When I showed up fifteen minutes early for the beginner class, the instructor instantly knew how uncomfortable I was. Guess I had that please-don’t-cripple-me look. She pointed me toward the mat, blocks, and pad. I took them to the far corner, de-shoed and de-socked myself, and watched the march of the yoga pants (in my head, to the tune of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”).

The lovely Brazilian instructor began the class. The woman next to me warned that I might want to grab a towel as things can get sweaty. I thanked her and said I’d avoid lawn-sprinklering.

The music started. It sounded like Gregorian chants—not the Metallica I had hoped for. Then there was an odd tone and bell bongs. The yogi was rubbing this large rocks glass with an extra large cotton swab. Naturally, all I could think of was the better uses for such, including home for a salt-rimmed margarita.

I managed to twist and turn my corpse-in-training into many of the poses. Others required her to “adjust” me. A few times the sound of my joints popping shocked her. Other times I assured her my body simply could not do the things she asked of it.

As I looked around the room, hoping nobody was pointing and laughing, I reminded myself why I had shown up: women. There were lots of women, and one other man. The thing the books failed to mention is something I realized quickly: women are not there to meet men, and any advance made by such would be result in stink face and likely stink foot in ass.

Fine. I’ll stretch.

At the end, she had us lie there and relax while she placed cool lemon water towels on our foreheads. When she got to me, she de-slouched my shoulders, and plopped the towel on my brow. I relaxed and dreamed of infused martinis: “Dance of the Sugar Rimmed Goose.”

Met a fine pair of self-described middle-aged women last night. That term “middle-aged” bugs me. I don’t mind being young or old, because those are based on my relative age to the describer. But, when someone calls me “middle-aged,” they are implying they know how long I will live. Doubt I’ll make it to 110, so maybe I’m two-thirds-aged.

Anywho, these two lovelies also described themselves lost in the sense that they are at an awkward dating age. They’re approached either by young boys or old men. Men their age want young women, so they look right past the beauty before them.

That’s kind of sad.

The ladies went on to explain that young boys want middle-aged women because the boys assume they come with experience—know their way around a ding dong, so to speak. Also, boys expect these women to be in touch with their needs and desires, and have no problem communicating them without all those confusing emojis.

Old men (they placed at 60-65) want the middle-aged women because they need women who can take care of them—know their way around the kitchen, so to speak. Also, these are usually not the rich old men, since those slobs still chase around young skirts willing to curtsy at the sight of fast cars and job titles. The old men who want the middle-aged women are aware of their hastened slide toward ashes and dust.

Alone is no way to die, but we all die alone … unless Trump gets us nuked.

As I age, I see young girls as pretty to look at, nice to hold, and mentally exhausting to maintain. I can appreciate a Ferrari without owning one. Plus, I like sleeping. Young girls are in the bathroom finishing up getting ready for a night on the town. I’m in there scratching my ass while taking the first of three slumber pisses.

“Have fun, sweetie. Be a darling and take off your heels before staggering upstairs when you get home. Daddy needs his ugly sleep.”

The more I speak to the forgotten women, the more I reassure myself that this is an island I need to visit. Sure, there’s an attitude. These ladies do know what they want and don’t want. They have no problem insisting I open doors and send zero dick pics. It’s not that they neglect their looks; they obsess less about them. They replace vodka Red Bull with a snifter of fine tequila.

They mentioned a third type of man who does notice them: married. This man is bored with his ponderous sex life, and is looking for a testosterone boost without all the nasty side effects. Fortunately, these women are tuned to such and able to avoid the silliness. They empathize with the wife’s neglected love button and cast the married men from their shores toward Slutty Barbieland.

So, I found out which woman was single, and I asked her out. She said, “sure,” and gave up the digits. What a fine, age-appropriate souvenir for me! Let’s hope we enjoy numerous rides between her land and the place I call home: Nice Guy Island.

The term “young lady” changes meaning as I age. I’ve revised my calculation to this: If she could be my daughter, she’s young and, to her, I’m old. There’s no judgment associated. Let’s call it classification, shall we? She’s not a different species, because I could still mate with her. So, if she were to refer to me as a dinosaur, that would be a false classification. Humans can’t fuck dinosaurs. Never could. Not even West Virginians.

Where am I going with this?

Just want to set the proper mental scene for you before I tell the sad story of an abandoned dinosaur, I mean puppy—me. You see, I met a young lady with unoccupied seat next to her next to me in my office (bar). I took advice from all the relationship help audio books I have been consuming, and initiated idle chit chat. She responded, although somewhat guarded. I slid closer, attempting to convince her of my innocent lovability.

She was new to the area. I was old to the area. I offered to escort her on a tour of fine sights and establishments in the form of dive bars with cheap beer sold in dirty glasses. I took a chance there. She was wearing sneakers, so I inferred a local IPA would do. My wallet sighed relief.

I usually begin feeling out prospects with the following:

“How are you finding the dating scene here on the left coast?”

“Um, strange.”

“How so?”

“It usually goes like this. I meet a new guy. We hit it off well. We hang, we drink, we dance. Then, he disappears. No number exchange. No reason. Poof!”

“Ah. That is strange. Look, I won’t do that to you. Promise.”

What this dinosaur/puppy should have considered, however, is the likelihood that she would use this opportunity to get back at boys who ghosted her. She took me from my cage, tickled my chin, and played fetch (beer). Then, just when I was pee-puddle excited to have a snuggle buddy, she placed me back in my dog pound cage and drove away.

Didn’t even get a chance to lick her.

Before you start a Go Fund Me campaign to keep me from the doggie ovens, rest assured that my calloused heart is fine here alone. I’ll not whimper, whine, and claw at my cage. I’ll simply wait patiently for the next adopter with emotional vacancy to consider me.

It’s weird to greet women I meet with my hand extended. Thanks to our Pervert in Chief elect, women often react to that by covering their cats, not extending their hands. I won’t bother trying to kiss the back of a hand. My nose doesn’t need more deviation. So, it seems, the thing to do is make myself a cuddly bear by extending arms and offering a hug.

It is important, my male readers, that we go about the hug properly. Much like when going south on a lady, we are rarely going to get verbal clues. The safest approach for us is to wrap only the right arm around her, targeting her right shoulder blade with the right hand. Our chin should rest near her left shoulder, at least four inches from her neck and ear. If you are sporting fuzzy chin as I, be mindful of Velcro-ing her mane. The only contact should be your right shoulder with her left and the aforementioned chin and right hand things. Torsos and legs should not meet. Feet should not be stepped upon. (I’ve fucking done this. Hated myself for weeks after. Call me “Frankenphil.”)

Please don’t make any weird grunting noises or groans while hugging her—so fucking creepy. In fact, hold your breath. She doesn’t want her shoulder smelling like your happy hour draft beer. You can add two or three pats on her shoulder blade. That’s a nice touch. Don’t do it with a clenched fist, and remember she’s a delicate flour, not a running back in the end zone.

“How long should a hug last?” I’d say two seconds. No need to use your iPhone timer, silly. Just do the mental one one-thousand, two one-thousand, then back away.

Now, the most important part: interpreting how she approaches the hug. I’m assuming you’ve gotten past, “Aw, hell no you don’t.” The embrace has ensued. If she whimpers like your puppy at the vet, that’s not good. Release the embrace immediately, apologize, and leave. If she submits to your borderline physical abuse, here are things she might do to offer you a clue:

1. She may nuzzle in to your neck. Bully for you, young man. I’m hoping you placed a dab of something nice-smelling on your neck this morning. No, not Axe. Try something oaky.
2. She may back away. Chalk this one up in the “Women I’ll Never Have Sex With” column. Learn from it. Next time you see her, wave.
3. She may move closer and straddle your leg. Holy fucking shit, brother. ’Tis quite a good day to be you—well, of course unless she happens to be related. Let’s assume she shares no genes. It was awfully generous of her to give you hints of things to come. Don’t ruin in by lifting your leg. A clitoris cannot be properly stimulated with a knee. Nay. Just take it, deposit the memory into your spank bank, and determine her level of intoxication before proceeding.
4. She may cry. Jesus. This is horrible. Sorry, my brother. I got nothing. Could be any number of reasons, one of which is not how happy she is to have rubbed against your baby-arm-sized manhood. Let her leak. Deal with it. Drink more.

Again, the most important thing to remember when going in for the hug is that you’re being slightly aggressive and creepy, but you’re also being a risk-taker. Chicks dig that.

Angry white boys spoke up and put the angry orange boy in the White House. Nobody likes dealing with angry people, but some of us are required to deal with them in the form of politicians, customers, reviewers, bosses, lovers, and family members. You can’t avoid most of those, but you certainly can remove angry lovers from your life.

The problem is many people don’t realize they have an angry lover. They think it’s normal to deal with fits and rage. Only when you’re dealing with an infant, is it normal. Otherwise, you need to shut that shit down before the mental abuse escalates into physical abuse.

If you’re unsure you’re dealing with an angry boy, allow me to give some examples.

When watching sports, and his team loses:

• ANGRY – Yell at the TV and throw things.
• NICE – Shrug and have another buffalo wing.

While driving behind a slow car in the passing lane:

• ANGRY – Throw up his hands and call the driver names.
• NICE – Sign, turn on his signal, pass on the right, and ignore the driver.

When unhappy with the food he ordered:

• ANGRY – Demand to speak with (yell at) the manager or chef, and get a refund.
• NICE – Don’t eat it. Don’t order it next time.

When he catches you masturbating:

• ANGRY – Demand to know who you were fantasizing about, and yell, “Gross!”
• NICE – Offer his assistance.

When you offer navigation suggestions:

• ANGRY – Insists he knows where he is going and tells you to shut up.
• NICE – Thanks you and offers to finger bang you, unless the kids are in the back seat.

When a pretty girl walks by:

• ANGRY – Leers and denies doing so.
• NICE – Notices, appreciates, and remarks about how beautiful you are.

When he makes a mistake:

• ANGRY – Reminds you of a mistake you made.
• NICE – Laughs and blames it on alcohol and age induced brain damage.

I could go on, but I assume you are getting the picture because you are exceptionally insightful. Oh, and I love those jeans. Are they new? My god, your ass is heavenly. Let’s drink wine and watch The Nutcracker. Want to? Ah, you’re the best. What did I do to deserve you? Lucky me. Hey, how about a foot rub? Dang, I love you so much, dear reader. Smooches. (Insert three or four emojis here.)

My 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.

Every 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.”