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?


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.

Facebook Love is PDA

facebook-pda… and, it’s gross. Being in a relatively permanent state of singledom, my cynicism gets the best of me, again. That’s why I hate happy couple pictures.

“Look at us. Look how happy we are with each other. We are a perfect match. Soul mates. Look at these smiles. You only wish you could find a love like this. Two is better than one. We’ll die together in bliss.”


You see, single peeps like me all know that each huggy, kissy, feet-at-the-beach pic that’s posted is one step closer to becoming a time-consuming task in the inevitable post-breakup cleanup of all social media profiles. That’s why we post pics of food, pets, and funny shit—they’re immortal. (My Chicken Piccata is a fond memory that will never hurt me, barring a batch of bad capers.) This way, when the next bedmate comes along and decides to Facebook-stalk us, we have no explaining to do.

“Odd, you don’t have pics with girlfriends on your timeline. Not many long-term relationships?”

“My selfie stick has narrow focus.”


“Babycakes, it’s not that I’m not in relationships, and it’s not like I don’t have pictures of exes. In fact, I have a folder of juicy, quite-useful ones. I simply choose not to share them.”


“Perhaps, because I’m not a ‘Like’ whore?”

I think the main reason people post all those lovey pictures is insecurity. They need to remind themselves how great not being single is, and others to avoid treading on their love. Kind of like online peeing on their property. I think the time spent gathering, cropping, filtering, and posting those pics with clever captions would be better spent on a sofa next to a shrink.

Unconvinced? I’m just an angry fella? All right. What would happen if I posted a picture of me with a paper fan made of $100 bills, with the caption: “Hey, look what I have?” I’d get some likes and positive congratulatory comments. Those are lies, of course. The actual reaction would be some combination of:

  • So what?
  • Who did you steal it from?
  • I should steal it from you.
  • What an arrogant asswad!
  • Let’s see if you have it next week.

I’m telling you, the same applies to posting pics with a lover-du-jour. The tilty-headed, “Aw, that’s nice” reactions are insincere, socially-programmed, forced responses to keep the public convinced that the commenter is truly a kind, supportive person, not an annoyed about-to-puke human who was just looking for a funny distraction from a mundane existence, when he stumbled upon the happy couple.

Sorry, that does sound angry. I’ll go search kitten pics.

I am the Drug

daliDo you ever wonder what your role is in others’ lives? Does it matter? Sure. If nothing other than surviving this silliness as long as possible, what could be more important than enhancing someone’s life?

I feel used, and I welcome it.

If she texts me late tonight, I’ll respond. I’ve done it before.

“Are you up?”

“Uh huh.”

“Want company?”


I’m fine stacking pillows of security next to me most nights. Still, she offers something less cold. Imagine I do as well. What role am I playing? He pissed her off, and I’m her revenge? Do my emotionless deeds fill some void?

What’s the harm? If she takes that short ride here, taps on my door, and tosses her vagina my way, is it some way moral for me to refuse? Nothing inside me offers any guilt. It’s because I’ll be kind, tell her what she needs to hear, play my role (without many side effects), then allow her to fade away, without tossing guilt her way in return.

Best to embrace it.

Maybe, it’s just an itch she can’t reach. I can.

What would happen if she stays the night, then wakes to tell me she wants more? Unsure. Unexpected. I’m unprepared for that. Guess I’ll say what she needs to hear. I’m the drug. I have a duty.

It’s not sad. Stop frowning. Love is undefined—undefinable. Sometimes pleasure is the goal. Sometimes the drug has a simple role: Make me happy, give me something to recall and smile about, even if it is salted with a pinch of guilt.


She’d laugh if I suggested the boyfriend role. It would be like expecting a legendary high from an Advil. That’s not my role. Take me, feel pleasure, know it will be fleeting, shrug it off, and walk away smiling. No need to wonder what this has done to me. I know my role. My heart gets no part in this. The wall is high.

I’ll provide relief from pain he most likely doesn’t realize he caused. One slip, and into another’s arms she falls—briefly, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I don’t care. I get something from it. It could be practice. It could be some genetic urge to save another soul.

You’re welcome to go and take me again when you need me.

Could that be the joy for me? Could it be in the knowledge that I’m well aware that I’m being used, and I can step in and out of the role somewhat fulfilled, yet emotionally unscathed?


Sex Injury

sexinjuryMy buddy had to bow out of playing in a baseball game this weekend due to a foot injury. It happens. Perhaps he dropped a heavy object or twisted it while chasing a criminal? No. He hurt it fucking.

Now, I’m old and brittle. Sure, I injure myself more often. There are more aches, pains, and increased stiffness nowadays. But, can’t say I’ve ever been benched by a boinking bruise, let alone admitted it to a bunch of baseball buddies.

Come to think of it, I did topple off the funky frame-lit bed at the Vegas SLS Hotel in May. I smacked my skull on the sofa frame. It hurt, but I was under Tito’s vodka sedation, and a boner somehow numbs me. There was a lump in the morning. Still, I can’t imagine weeping to the coach about it.

“Coach, I need to ride the pine today.”

“What? You’re on the hill!”

“Nah. Can’t do it. Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“Hurt my brain. Was fucking little miss thang over there, got in a little over my head, tried some ill-advised maneuvers, and cracked my melon.”

“You dumb ass.”

“I know. Sorry, Skipper. Maybe I can keep score.”

“Here, son. I have just the thing for you.”

“What’s that?”

“A can of MAN-THE-FUCK-UP! Now get out there and throw strikes.”

These sex injuries must be limited to men. I can’t imagine a woman bruising a labia or anything. Maybe a toe cramp. My buddy’s injury was caused by getting his foot stuck between the mattress and headboard.

“What were your feet doing up there?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know. I’ve never slept with you.”

“We were in a certain position.”

“Do you need a fucking helmet and boots? Literally?”

“Man, I was in a groove, literally. I wasn’t about to call time out. I had to finish and assess the injury during clean-up.”

“Good man. You are pardoned.”

I wonder if his wife mentioned his foot-pas to her girlies? Nah. Women are decent and respect privacy, right? She kept it to herself. Naturally, that won’t stop me. Decency isn’t something I relate to. I’ll be sure to lecture her.

“Hey, Rousey. Take it easy on ole cracker bones, will ya? Stick to missionary.”


trackersRemember when Fitbit first came out? How cool! A watch that will count your steps and reward you with a vibration announcing your achievement of 10,000 steps. Then, capabilities expanded to include sleep and weight tracking. All of this conveniently uploaded through WiFi to a website to track progress.

I’m a gadget head. I had to have one and brag about it. After a few weeks, I noticed that it had become more of an annoying leash than a fitness motivator. If it were enhanced to track better things, perhaps it wouldn’t be tracking dust in my dresser next to my MP3 player.

I wish it would track:

  • Alcohol Level (LitBit) – It would be even cooler if it vibrated wildly when approaching time-to-puke levels, then recommended mixing in an ice water.
  • Love Bean Proximity (ClitBit) – Another great time to vibrate wildly when against her goodness.
  • Dump (ShitBit) – It should scan the bowl carnage, and give a readout of mass and consistency. It should identify the phantom shit, and optionally snap a pic and text it to your similarly immature friend.
  • Idiocy (GitBit in UK, DimwitBit in USA) – This would detect when you’re about to do something horribly silly and warn you and those around you with an appropriate sound—a fart, perhaps.
  • Lies (BullshitBit) – This should buzz people who post their true feelings and political opinions on Facebook.

There’s so much sexual inequality that could be addressed with proper tracking. Most men would complain about blowjob to cunnilingus ratios. So, in fact, would women. A LickBit that counts tongue strokes and proper use of fingers during sessions would go a long way toward leveling the playing field. Sure, the sixty-nine position is most effective for guaranteeing equal give and take, but there are times when that’s not practical—like while driving.

The tracker could also track time since last orgasm and perform ejaculation analysis. Had my boys studied back in the nineties when trying to get wifey preggers. My sperm had above-average motility. Cooler would it be, if I could create a few butt-cheek puddles, which could then be scanned by my (you guessed it) JitBit.

“Excellent work, Phil. Your ejaculate was four milliliters—slightly above the national average of three-point-seven. Your sperm seem somewhat exhausted. This could be due to your approaching fifty-fifth birthday, or simply because you don’t use your pecker enough, so they were resting. As far as abnormalities go, there were a few. I found ten two-headed sperm, a few grains of Stevia, and a monkey. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, I’m a kidder. There was no monkey. Fuck, I amuse me. I should go on tour with my teenage son, ZitBit. Ha, ha, ha! Hey, not a bad baby-batter load there, brother. You can discard the evidence now as it is beginning to run down her leg, which she’ll complain about very soon. No, don’t use her … undies … Jesus, man. How could you? You give love a bad name. Good day.”

I love this idea. Pitching it to Tesla tomorrow. It’s a game-changer, no-brainer, wealth-gainer. Keep an eye out for my GoFuckMe campaign.

Third Wheel

thirdAny number of fun things come in threes—tricycles, bar stools, strikes. When the happy couple invites you along, embrace it. You’re an adult. (If not, put this book down immediately and tell mommy to feed you fucking donuts.) You can entertain yourself, can’t you? If the other wheels begin playing kissy face, look away.

I realize being perpetually single makes me that guy. I’m the one couples offer the pity invitation.

“Aw, poor Philsy. He looks lonely. Let’s invite him along.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, honey. He’s bar trained. If nothing else, he could be the voice of reason after we get plastered. Plus, he has Uber. A third voice is necessary for a majority vote. No more hung juries deciding if Jane is high or stupid.”

“Last time we brought him along he told the wait staff it was my birthday, then he ate my custard.”

“Pretty Please? His misery will be a constant reminder of why we should never break up.”

“Good point.”

Although I may be miserable and pathetic, I am keenly aware that vagina-keepers find that repulsive. So, I’m sure to keep that to myself (and my prose). In public, I find chilling my upper lip with booze is the remedy—it brings out the best in me.

Now, in the odd occasion that I’m the fifth, seventh, or ninth wheel, things can get sloppy. This is where I begin to toss passive-aggressive sarcasm grenades into the mix. It’s not that my misery desires company; I simply enjoy mental conflict.

“Scott, you’re right, Tom’s wife does have an epic hiney. Bet she does squats. I’d like to join her cross shit team. Ha, ha. Get it?”

“What? I never said …”

“Hey, quick survey. Raise your hand if you’ve ever accidentally shot yourself in the face with your orgasm.”


“Nobody? Oh, OK. On purpose. Who has done it on purpose? Better yet, who has a picture?”


“Really? Just me? Christ. This isn’t working out how I planned. Hm. There’s no Jenga. I know. Let’s play would-you-rather. Would you rather have sex in a Tijuana Porta Potty, or watch Alice masturbate with a cucumber?”


“Tough one, I know. Well, except for Alice. We all know what she would prefer. After all, she is vegetarian, right?”

Perhaps unicycle is best for miscreants like me.

Trump got you down? Need a laugh?



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Insecurity Wanes

insecurityHave you ever thought about how your insecurity has changed over the years? Jealousy and envy seem to fade as we age. I remember being crippled by the thought of my high school sweetheart so much as kissing another boy. Now, if my woman is getting side action, I give minuscule shit, as long as his spunk stays off me.

Wonder why that is? Biological thing, I suppose. During prime mating years, we are in competition mode to get our genes spread. Once those years pass, it’s more about pleasure than reproduction. Plus, we are aware of all the cost and drama associated with spouses and offspring, so we tend to lean away.

As a young lad, if there was any mention of a prior lover, my mind would spin out into comparing my skills versus his, and if she loves me more. If his cock was larger, he made her come more often, or he was a superior anything, news of such could send me into depression.

Now, if a mate gets that eye-sparkle when the ex is mentioned, I simply ask, “What did he do for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did he do that made him worthy of your admiration and dedication?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Look, if you want him back, keep his skills secret. If you want me to improve and exceed expectations, I need to know which skills to work on.”

“I don’t want him back, silly.”

“That’s nice of you to say. All right. I’ll lead with an example. What if I tell you my ex-wife gave amazing blow jobs, resulting in my fondest toe-curling orgasms?”

“Ew. I don’t want to hear that.”

“Yes, you do, and here’s why: Because, you want to supplant her. Second place sucks. Just ask the Warriors.”

“How does knowing your ex-wife is the Lebron James of beejays help me?”

“… by asking me what made her beejays better. Then—and here’s the most important part—use that information to mimic her style, and improve thereupon.”

“Fine. What made her beejays so special?”

“Oh, I was just using that as a hypothetical case.”

“So, your ex wasn’t a beejay specialist?”

“I didn’t say that either.”


“You’re not ready, grasshopper. A bit more skin toughening and we’ll go there. For now, feel secure in the fact that your skills are superb, or I’d have departed.”

If that conversation made you uneasy, you could use some toughening, too. Lose the fear, my dear. Inform your mate, and sleep better.

Holding It

cloudThis can’t be something only I experience, can it? Is it a nervous reaction? Perhaps, something to do with aging, or my some-would-say poor diet choices? Can’t be solely a male thing, either.

OK, I’m going to let it out, and you tell me if you can relate.

PFFFBBLT! (Excuse me.)

Quite often, when I am about to receive the finest of gifts a man could ask for (yes, a blow job), an annoying bubble of noxiousity (new word) threatens to ruin the relationship. So, I lie there concentrating on squeezing my ass Kegel instead of fully enjoying the moment.

Now, for all you prim and proper girlies who just went, “Ew,” I hear you, and don’t try to tell me you never had a burrito fart brewing whence your man was face deep in your mufficity (new word #2). Worse yet, whereas we men at least have a barrier between anus and chin, your tucked in goodies leave the Mexican border wide open, which could result in quite a chin rattling if one of those bean babies were released.

This is particularly stressful, because gas release during other sex acts can be done tactfully. Heck, even the doubly precarious sixty-nine position is superior since one gets to play both offense and defense. Any other situation requires minimal sphincter control to keep things silent. Or, simply put on some marching band music during nookie, as to disguise any oopsies by confusing them with trombones.

Holding it is important early in a relationship with someone you actually like. A fart you can’t blame on a pet will likely live you lonely and a popular topic of her next lady rant. So, allow Dr. Beano to provide some insights as to how to handle that butt burp.

  • A great time to let that critter fly is when you are fetching the sex towel. If it’s exceptionally awful, you can also fetch a damp, warm wash rag while it dissipates.
  • In the odd chance that she scrambles to the half bath to squeeze out your unwelcomed deposit before you fetch the towel, fear not. Lift the sheet, blast away, then use the sheet as a fart sail, making sure no remnants remain.
  • Just hold it all night. Get up early to make her morning coffee. Enter the downstairs or guest bathroom. Turn on the fan, and let it rip. Might be wise to put some yellow police tape up afterward, in case she ventures that way to adjust her morning bun.
  • Tell her you forgot to put your monthly March of Dimes contribution check in the mailbox. Scurry outside. (Take any piece of paper. I know you’re not giving hard-earned money away.) Open the mailbox, and wake the dead as you blast away. If she hears it (wow, you rock), tell her you accidentally stepped on a frog.

Ladies, I thank you for making it this far, even after you said, “I’m not reading this. He’s gross.” You’re a true friend. Now, next time you’re down on him, I dare you to push his bellybutton to see what he’s holding. Come on. Great comic relief. What’s better than shits and giggles?

What Makes a Hot Mess?

20141229_170448The phrases of the year so far must be “literally” and “hot mess.” In fact, I’ve heard them literally used in the same sentence. I understand the word “literally.” Yes, I realize it is used improperly most of the time, so I avoid it lest I trigger the red-penned wrath of my editors. I also resist the temptation to corner the person speaking by saying, “Really? That really happened? Seriously?”

This “hot mess” thing I’ve been struggling with. I was under the impression that the term described a gorgeous woman with the mental agility of a senile gnat. I’ve learned my impression was far too limiting. Hot messes can be men, children, and even inanimate objects, such as cars.

I’ve been called a hot mess. That’s ridiculous—about as accurate as calling me a chess master. The woman who said that was simply trying to use a new phrase, and I happened to be in the way. Yes, I am a mess at times. My brain is cluttered with an odd combination of vodka, sex, and a low regard for the entitled generation. So, call me an old mess. Fuck. Print it on a red cap, and I’ll wear it.

As I type this and my cat, Symon, whines at me for Greenies (kitty crack), I wonder if he is a hot mess. He’s really fucking cute … and annoying. That would be two of the pre-requisites for the title, right? He’s orange. His belly wobbles. He has horrible tartar and cat-atosis. But, damn he is a cute bugger. Much like I would bring a shot to a hot mess rambling about all things Kardashian, I toss Symon a crunchy green ball of yuck. And, like a hot mess, he begs for more.

I wonder if the hot part is meant to be somewhat literal (eee-fucking-gads, again), as in steaming hot pile of shit. Lord knows a hot pile of shit is much more repulsive than frozen shit. So, a hot mess is far worse than a cold mess because a hot mess is smellier and harder to toss.

A buddy-with-boobies once told me her car was a hot mess.

“What makes it a hot mess?”

“It’s a Mercedes, hence hot, and the mess is inside of it because I’m a bit of a hoarder.”

“Um. OK. So, your car doesn’t forget her underwear and run around trying to make out with high-haired boys.”

“I see you’ve met my friend, Diana.”

“She’s a hot mess?”

“Literally, the hottest. I mean, she totally skanks out every time we’re drinking. Then, she usually winds up calling me the next day asking which end the morning after pill goes in.”

“I like her … even more than your car.”

“Whatever. I should give her your number so you can make hot mess babies.”

There’s a time and place for a mess. Don’t hate on it. Don’t try to fix it. Sometimes you just gotta get dirty with it.


Hitting on Her

gymI drag myself to the gym and reluctantly climb aboard my latest nemesis: the curved self-powered treadmill. Next to me is one of the gym’s trainers who is off duty and riding a stationary bike. She’s 30ish and adorable, as one would expect. I appreciate her like a Ferrari—from a safe distance.

In the measly ten minutes I spend jogging on the torture device, she is hit on no less than three times. Obviously, she’s used to it, and handles it gracefully. Take a wild guess how many times I’ve been hit on in my almost 40 fucking years of going to the gym. I’ll give you a hint: It’s fewer than once.

I realize societal pressures make it rare for women to hit on men in general. But, never? Not one fucking time? No woman has ever seen my shapely (round is a shape) body and thought, There’s a cute fella. Maybe I’ll give him a go. Sad. All those presses, curls, and lifts, and I’m left with squat.


Still, as these man-beasts approached the goddess, all I could do is observe and cringe. It’s like when construction workers whistle—it has never resulted in flattery and penetration. Why do it? There’s nothing they can say to her or ask her that is appropriate while she’s off duty, with earbuds in, trying to maintain the lovely body she has built.

Then, I thought how it must suck to be her. I bet she’d rather be the chubby girl on the elliptical. She works there, so she can’t deliver the line that comes to mind: “Seriously? I can’t even pedal once around this virtual track without avoiding man-swine? Beat it, creeper!”

If I sat one of the guys down for an interview, I’m sure I’d hear all sorts of reasons:

  • “Dude, nothing ventured beats a bird in hand.”
  • “I was just being nice.”
  • “She didn’t tell me to fuck off, so I have a shot.”
  • “Chicks dig confident men … I think.”
  • “She made eye contact. She was begging me to approach her.”


Guys, please stop hitting on women in the following situations:

  • At the gym.
  • In court.
  • At a funeral.
  • In a restroom.
  • When she’s bartending.

Those are all poor choices that make our entire gender look bad. It’s the reason that, by the third sentence she utters, she will have mentioned a boyfriend or husband, even if she has neither.

Conversely, I highly encourage women to hit on men anytime, anyplace. Nothing is inappropriate. Make your intentions clear, and the stuttering puppy will follow you anywhere.

Trump Lies for the Bedroom

trumpliesIf I give you a compliment or tell you something you want to believe, you probably think I’m being honest. That’s how Trump has found so much political success, when he deserves absolutely none. He keeps telling masses of people what they want to hear, while he is well aware he is spouting lies. Then, when he gets caught in a lie, he creates another lie to offset it or distract the suspicious.

That’s some dangerous shit, right there.

How would that work for me in the dating world? Could I become a comb-over Casanova by fibbing? Sure! I just need to target women who are gullible, insecure, and desperate, then tell them what they want to hear.

I’m convinced I can find something beautiful about every woman I meet, if I look close enough (or stand far enough away). The key is I need to compliment based on her insecurity, not my preference. Telling an amply-busted beauty that she has nice tits will be fruitless. She knows her glands are loved by many, and my affirmation is worth little. However, a woman with silver dollar pancake titties will welcome my adoration and give me bonus access to such, thus making me a happy boy. (Tiny titties you can touch are better than big ones you can’t.)

Women are often concerned about weight, even more than men. Men need to tread carefully here. You can’t tell a fat girl she’s skinny. She’ll become snarky. She’ll kick you in the beans and blog about you. You need to tell her she’s perfect as she is. Remind her you don’t want to date a woman with abs, and you need someone to share your love of New York cheesecake. This works better if you actually play the part, order, and eat the dessert instead of turning in your man card by wearing bicycle pants while dining on a bland pile of kale fuckery.

Both genders love hearing about how smart they are and how great they are at their role—be it a job, bedmate, or hobby. Again, it is more important for your sincerity to be inferred than genuine. Any words of appreciation will pay dividends.

“Ooh, sweetie, you’re so gorgeous on top of me.”

“So, I’m not gorgeous on bottom?”

“Actually, you’re equally gorgeous on top, bottom, and in front. Allow me to thumb that delicious little love bean of yours whilst you grind.”

“What are you saying? Is my clit too small?”

“Come on, baby. Nobody wants an oyster-sized clit. It fits my thumb perfectly.”

“… but, not your tongue? You haven’t been there in a while, if you know what I mean. Am I not fresh?”

“I … what? Um. No, silly. You’re quite flowery. I just assumed I was spending too much time down there. Don’t want to bore you.”

“Bore me.”

This is the point where the great lie-master Trump has taught me to switch gears.

“Hey, what’s that noise? Did you hear that? Fuck, did I leave the car running?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“You have any idea how many people die every year from carbon monoxide poisoning? It’s scary.”

“You want me to hop off and check the garage?”

“No way. I’m the man. There could be a burglar making noise. You keep your loveliness right here while I check. I’m bringing a baseball bat just in case. I will protect you from the Mexican rapist with my all-American Louisville Slugger. Oh, and keep things going down there while I’m gone.”

“What? Am I too dry for you?”

“Dry? Heavens, no! You’re an Amazon forest of moisture.”

“Amazon? So, my clit is too small, and my vag is too large?”

“They’re ideally sized, actually. Can’t wait to get back in there, sweetie. But, first, I’m going to introduce Jose to my wooden rod of submission.”

“That sounds kind of gay. Do you like men too?”

“No. Fuck. That came out all wrong. Look, I’ll be right back.”

Time for another misdirection. Women are all about the combination of food and sex. Time to hit the fridge.

“Look, honey, I brought cherries and a banana.”

“What was the noise?”

“Aw, it was nothing. Probably the neighbor’s mutt.”

“So, you’d rather eat than have sex?”

“What? No. We’re going to do both. I’m going to string these cherries together and shove them in your naughty place.”

“What about the stems? That seems uncomfortable.”

“I’ll remove the stems.”

“And, the banana?”

“I’ll peel it.”

“I mean, where is that banana going?”

“Where would you like it, you naughty little girl?”

“Ew, you want to have sex with a little girl? That’s pretty messed up.”

“Just this sexy, little, over-eighteen girl in front of me.”

“All right. Um, let’s eat the cherries. Cool?”

“… as a cucumber.”

God, this lying stuff is hard work. How does The Donald do it?

Tasty is the Foot

footinmouthOften, when trying to lighten the mood, clowns like me serve a verbal gem that winds up causing a good foot chewing. We forget that the things we find amusing may not be taken as intended, or the timing of the delivery has room for improvement.

I consider myself a master of crassness and poor timing, as exemplified by a few good foot munchings this past weekend.

Scene #1 – The Clerk

I enter a 7-11 to pick up seeds and Gatorade for my adult baseball (not fucking softball) game. In tow, I have a lovely young lady. She grabs some lady stuff (US Weekly). Clerk asks if the purchases are combined. I’m a gentleman. Yes, of course they are. Clerk begins friendly banter.

“That’s nice of you, buying this for your …”

(I fear the word “daughter” or “maid” about to emerge, so I interject.)


“Of course. You’re a handsome man. You deserve a young lady-friend.”

“Thank you, and you need a vision check-up.”

As often is the case, I was not making eye contact with the clerk during this discussion. This is my introversion. I’ve been working on it. People, unlike wild beasts, prefer to be looked in the eyes when addressed. I know this. I should do this. I pick a bad time to begin—after my vision comment.

When I made eye contact, a horror swept over me, as one eye across from me had a blueberry sized growth.

“Yeah, I have eye cancer, which kind of messes me up at times, but I can see well enough to say you’re handsome.”

All I could do was thank her, leave, and beg my lady-friend for forgiveness. Fortunately, while being early in our relationship, she knows me well enough to point and laugh at my misstep.

Scene #2 – The Game

We arrive at the baseball (does not involve kegs at loose bases) game. While putting on my spikes (softball players wear sneakers, dammit), a teammate begins applying tar spray on his bat handle. A black teammate hears the spraying and quips.

“Hey, anybody got sunscreen?”

Yes, I know he’s black. Yes, I know he doesn’t need sunscreen. Yes, I know he is being silly. I’m still brain-locked from the clerk encounter. I respond.

“That’s not … well, maybe for you.”

A silence fell across the dugout.

Does Home Depot sell brain-to-mouth filters? I’m in desperate need.