Shaking a Fist at the Shy

No offense, Creator, but sometimes I think you suck. You’ve gotten me a little pissed off here and I’m not about to apologize because as the Creator you must have also created my anger.

You’re a damn bully. There. I said it.

What is your problem? Why must you continue to torture and torment good people who have so much love to offer? Then you reward greedy, self-centered bastards, who have no regard for life–in fact, no regard for anything but their own hedonistic lifestyles. That’s bullshit. They didn’t work for what they have and they don’t deserve what they get. Oh, I see. You’re teaching lessons to us do-withouts: If we try hard and never give up, we can become the next Mark Zuckerberg. Make that horseshit.

I’m tired of your inflicting wonderful people with horrible diseases. No, she doesn’t deserve it. Yes, you’re teaching her a lesson all right. You’re teaching her that you’re a sadistic prick. On top of the debilitating disease you created within her a belief that you are kind. This doesn’t reconcile so her only recourse is to believe that she has done something wrong, has some lesson to learn or teach by example, or her services are needed on your immortal plain. Really? That doesn’t sound kind to me. It sounds cruel.

Well, you can allege that this isn’t your doing. Claim there’s an evil twin of yours who does these things and targets kind people. Who created that evil twin, then? Why don’t you take responsibility, you coward?

“There must be pain to appreciate pleasure.”

I don’t buy it. You fucked up, Creator. Don’t give me that line of bullshit about how all of these negative experiences will teach me to be a better person. They teach me to resent you and the unfair rules you’ve set up, which reward actions that make tears flow. Do we really need rapists, molesters, and people who take advantage of the weak to teach us what evil is? Why can’t unthinkable injustices remain un-thought?

Stop it. Stop tearing apart neighbors, friends, families, and lovers. Stop the horrible suffering you’ve created by giving us desires that the resources you created can’t fulfill. What possible lesson is there for anyone to learn from a suffering infant or animal? None. It doesn’t have to be this way. It was created this way. If things are out of whack, then fix them. You’re the Creator–you orchestrate this stage show–clean it the fuck up.

Or, do you find some sick delight at mankind’s expense? Are we all cast members of a huge reality show on the universe’s big screen? Are you staring at us with glassy eyes and popcorn-buttered fingers waiting to see who is going to be fucking or fucked-over next? You’re sick. Change the channel, dude. Count me out of that cast. Keep your rose. Throw me off the island. Push the reset button. If this nonsense is entertaining, you’re sicker than the sickest among us.

Wake up and cut the shit, Creator. If you need to toss cancer, starvation, and death around, why don’t you try some yourself? Lose a few loved ones. See how you like it. We’re all down here just trying to survive and smile occasionally. Thanks for the sunsets, but either clean up the mess you created or go fuck yourself.

OKStupid Questions

Obviously, I’ll never find a mate there, but I had a little fun answering the silly questions.

Are you an aspiring actor/artist/writer or other creative type?
I’ll do the writing around here and why must I be aspiring? Is the owner of this website an aspiring stupid question writer?

Without using a dictionary or other tool, can you choose the commonly misspelled word? Don’t cheat! It’s okay if you don’t know. Separate, Definate, Committee.
Jezus, whut fuking dumass wuldunt kno thatt?

If you inadvertently found a phone number in a partner’s pocket, which would you do?
I’d slap my partner then ask her to join us in the 90s and stop using napkins for fucking phone numbers when one can easily be typed directly into this handy little device (you may have heard of) called a cell phone.

Are you Christian?
Seriously? Christians are not allowed here. Go away. I don’t care if you can pin your legs behind your ears. You and your hymns annoy me.

When a woman chooses to abort a pregnancy, should she be required to inform the father?
Just give me the bill and get on the pill, will you?

How willing would you be to try out new things sexually with a partner?
Does “new things” include food, hallucinogens, or Paris Hilton? OK, sign me up.

Do you think women have an obligation to keep their legs shaved?
Yes, as well as their upper lips, armpits, and bungholes.

Which is more offensive: book burning or flag burning?
Holy fucking shit! People do that??? They burn books? Jesus!

If you were in a serious relationship and you learned that your partner cheated on you one drunken night, could you forgive him/her?
Depends on whom she cheated with. I’ll give her a pass for circus midgets, jockeys, and Brad Pitt.

Do you have a problem with racist jokes?
Yes, there aren’t enough to go around.

If you were going to have a child, would you want the other parent to be of the same ethnicity as you?
OK, I’m Eye-talian, so I prefer either a hairy Greek woman or Puerto Rican with a dumper like J-Lo.

How often do you smoke cigarettes?
I don’t, but I only accept women who smoke marijuana, cigars, and cock.

Would you ever stop dating someone based on a rumor you heard about them?
Depends on the rumor. If the rumor is that she can hum Lady Gaga songs while delivering an excellent BJ, then I wouldn’t.

Straight women who kiss or fondle each other in clubs in the hopes of attracting men are…
Lovely. Yes, I’m tearing up. They’re so … *sniff* … cute. I wish I could rescue them all, but I can’t. *sniff, snort, sob*

What kind of fidelity (being faithful) is more important to you?
Actually, my favorite fidelity is Hi. Hear that bass?

Do you like to be read to aloud?
Once upon a time, there was this silly site called OKCupid where desperate, horny people (like me) go to find casual sex and crumpets.

If you were in a serious relationship, would you mind if your significant other maintained an active profile on OkCupid?
Yes. I can’t have her banging all sorts of toothless inbreds.

Do you and your ideal significant other enjoy making sarcastic jokes at each other’s expense, knowing that it’s all in good fun?
What’s the most annoying part of a woman? The part attached to the vagina. Ha ha ha! I amuse the piss out of me. Ha ha!

Do you consider yourself to be an honorable person?
I always say please and thank you regarding blowjobs.

Would you consider dating someone who dislikes children?
Yes. Kids are noisy, they break things, and smell like spoiled milk. Yuck.

How would you feel if your partner asked you to get tested for STDs before having sex with you for the first time?
OK, as long as she gives me time to study. I’m not very good at tests.

Your significant other’s ex is coming into town and he/she wants to go out to dinner with them alone. How do you react?
Unconcerned, because I will be going out to dinner with an ex of mine as soon as she gets off the brass pole.

If you were in a long-term monogamous relationship, would you consider your partner “open mouth” kissing someone else cheating?
Yes, if the guy she’s kissing is balls-deep in her vagina at the time.

Would you consider having an open relationship, where you can see other people?
If she’s slutty then I want to be slutty too, to be compatible.

Do you believe in monogamy?
I believe in one at a time, not one forever.

Would you prefer good things happened, or interesting things?
How about both? It would be both good and interesting if this were the last fucking question.

If one of your potential matches was overweight, would that be a deal breaker?
Sorry, my chunky monkey, I can’t do it. My penis will not cooperate with a fatty. Maybe when I get fat someday.

You’re in a romantic relationship with someone you really like. As far as you’re concerned, how long will it take before you’ll have sex?
Every date we wait gets me closer to dating somebody else.

Should evolution and creationism be taught side-by-side in public schools?
No. Go to a museum if your answer doesn’t match, you automaton.

Are clams alive?
Yes, even bearded ones. So are snakes.

How important is it that a partner be capable of intelligent conversation?
Crucial. Otherwise, I might as well date the dead clam from the last question.

What is your quest?
What if I already found it, but every question I answer is tearing it from my grips?

How often do you meditate?
Daily. I usually bring reading material to my throne.

Are you careful with your money?
If you have a whole bunch then why be careful? Buy me a Ferrari, please.

How important is it to you that your partner smells good?
I hate stinky people. That’s why I carry Lysol and Tic Tacs.

Are you attracted to dangerous situations?
How dangerous? I’ll take an occasional risk and eat a cannoli.

Are you smarter than most people?
Oh, have a little pride will you? If you think you’re stupid, you must be exceptionally stupid.

When is suicide okay?
Always. It’s your life and this leaves more candy for me.

Would you consider connecting with someone whose relationship status is ‘seeing someone’ or ‘married’?
If she’s on this site answering all of these idiotic questions, her current relationship must suck.

Would you ever change your religion (or adopt one) because your significant other wanted you to?
What religion?

Do you Google someone before a first date?
Yes and I’ll diddle them on the first date.

Would you–for any reason–read your mate’s email or pose as him/her online, without his/her knowledge and permission?
Why? I’ll only find penis enlargement emails anyway.

Which is worse: starving children or abused animals?
One answer choice is “Both are good”??? Really? What sick bastard is checking that box?

Your significant other is traveling and has the opportunity to stay with a good friend that you know they find to be very attractive. What’s your stance on the situation?
Oh, hell no, but if they are both women, my answer will change.

How willing are you to meet someone from OkCupid in person?
Why the fuck else would I be wasting my weekend answering these stupid questions?

Are you a medical doctor or a scientist of some kind?
No, I give a mean exam, though.

How often are you open with your feelings?
I can’t read your goddamn mind. Throw me a bone.

How much influence or control do your parents have over your life?
None. If your parents have any, they are playing evil tricks on you. Don’t buy into it or you’ll end up in therapy.

How much affection can you tolerate?
Lots! Bring it on! I want to squeeze your peaches.

How important is it to you to have your own unique “thing” (like a weekly Girls’ Night Out or Guys’ Movie Night) that you don’t share with your partner(s)?
Very. Don’t be a tumor. Find something to do. How about Bunco or needlepoint?

If you don’t do anything at all for an entire day, how does that make you feel?
Awful. Sounds like death to me in which case I wouldn’t feel anything, would I?

STALE is to STEAL as 89475 is to…
Don’t be a dumbssa.

Does finding a long-term partner give you license to “let yourself go,” (lower your standards of personal hygiene or appearance or gain large amounts of weight)?
No. Stop false advertising, you yo-yo dieter.

Ideally, how often would you have sex?
Daily. I’m going to have it either way, but my arm is getting tired.

How long do you want your next relationship to last?
I want it to last as long as nothing better is available.

How open are you to trying new things in bed?
If new things include putting things inside me (other than Scotch), please don’t.

Does smoking disgust you?
It depends on the type of smoke and where it’s coming from, doesn’t it?

Which of these is likely to make you more nervous: a date or interview?
Date. At least it’s OK to fart during an interview.

Do you like to cuddle?
Yes and spooning, knifing, forking … all good.

How do you feel about falling in love?
Go ahead, break my heart!

Rate your self-confidence:
High and a hot chick with low confidence can be entertaining as long as none of my friends are around.

Would the world be a better place if people with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce?
I’m not condoning it, but I also can’t deny it. The Palins must stop reproducing.

What’s your deal with harder drugs (not marijuana)?
Jesus, are there a bunch of people with needles hanging from their arms on this site?

What is next in this series? 1, 4, 10, 19, 31, _
What’s next in this series? Date 1, Date 2, s_x. You can buy a vowel, if necessary.

How frequently do you bathe or shower?
Daily. Don’t be stinky. Remember: You can’t smell your own, but I sure can.

Which of these sources do you turn to first for information about what is going on in politics: Fox, BBC, CNN?
There are so many better things to watch on TV, including a blank screen.

Would you date someone if you knew they were a current drug user?
Whatever she can take to make me cuter and her hornier I’m all for.

To you, is abortion an option in case of an unwanted accidental pregnancy?
Yes. It’s a woman’s body and her decision.

Do you keep a budget (of your finances)?
I keep a worn-out credit card.

If you were to die, would whoever goes through your personal belongings be shocked by what they find?
I hope so. If you don’t have anything questionable in your possession then you’re not living.

Should burning your country’s flag be illegal?
Yes, and so should sacrificing goats and burning witches.

Which best represents your opinion of same-sex relationships?
Fine, as long as it ain’t this guy.

Which is bigger, the earth or sun?
Don’t be a dimwit. Oh, and how big is Uranus?

Which is closer to your view on the role of religion in government?
The government should not encourage delusion, but if people need a god to behave themselves, so be it. They still should pay taxes like everyone else.

How important is religion/God in your life?
Not. What if I said that Santa or Thor were important in my life? I live for Snoopy.

How long do your romantic relationships usually last?
Not long, but you can’t judge my future success by my past performance … look at Tiger Woods. Nyah.

Do you generally smile at little kids who cross your path?
No, I try not to knee them in the forehead.

Do you believe that people have a civic duty to vote?
Yes, but if you don’t know what you’re voting for then stay the hell home and deal with what the majority chooses without whining about it.

How often do you use Facebook?
Often. Don’t give me that uppity crap about how you don’t use Facebook, tweet, or watch TV. Ew!

Are you looking for a partner to have children with?
One step at a time, there skippy. Let’s practice first.

Have you ever had a sexual encounter with someone of the same sex?
All penises and balls are repulsive … except for mine, which are quite lovely, actually.

How much can intelligence turn you on?
Stupid people should be neutered.

How important are your political beliefs to you?
They’re not really beliefs, are they? They’re freaking opinions and mine are always right, as are yours.

Are you vegetarian or vegan?
I avoid meat because it enlarges my muffin top and gives me acne, but you go right ahead and chow down on that veal if it makes you happy, there sister.

How would you describe yourself, politically?
Look around, people! Sarah freaking Palin was nearly a clogged artery from president and that’s some scary shit right there.

How often do you tweet?
I prefer to growl as tweeting annoys my felines.

Would you need to sleep with someone before you considered marrying them?
I ain’t buyin’ nuthin I cain’t try on first, dang it.

Which of these options most closely describes what you’re looking for in your next relationship?
Someone to come home to, unless one of us has a very roomy backseat, tinted windows, and disposable sex towels.

What’s your relationship with marijuana?
We’re good friends. Wait, pass the Doritos, will ya?

Do you space out or daydream a lot?
It’s my job to space out. If necessary, I’m OK with drug-induced trances as well. Ohmmmm.

To you, which adjective best describes hopeless, unrequited love?
How about the adjective: fake, but fun?

How often do you brush your teeth?
Seriously? If people wince when you speak, go fucking floss, will ya?

Is contraception morally wrong?
What?! Are you freaking kidding me? I don’t need any expensive surprises. I’m also OK with oral sex as contraception.

Politically, which are more important to you right now, social or economic issues?
Both and if you like Bush(es), please move along to the next profile. I’m not interested.

Is it a requirement that you communicate with your significant other daily, in some way (phone, email, in person, etc.)?
Don’t be a damn nag. I hate cell phones because my cell service sucks … and I … hear … breaks up.

How often do you keep your promises?
I avoid making promises and thereby avoid disappointment.

Are you happy with your life?
Yes and if you’re depressed, go get therapy and drugs before whining to me.

If you had to name your greatest motivation in life thus far, what would it be: Love, Wealth, Expression, or Knowledge?
Don’t be a greedy bastard and say wealth. How can expression be a motivation, anyway? That is stupid. See, I just expressed myself.

Which makes for a better relationship, passion or dedication?
If passion exists, the rest can be worked out, unless you’re in prison.

Make Room

“We’re both single and frustrated with the dating scene, so why don’t we just give this a shot?”

“But, we just met.”

“So? I’m just like any other guy you meet for the first time, and you wound up falling in love with one or more of those men from your past. Hence, I am qualified.”

“I can’t even tell if we have chemistry yet.”

“Chemistry, shmemistry. We’re attracted to each other or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. That’s something to build upon.”

“How do I know you’re not just playing games?”

“You don’t and neither do I. We’re even.”

“No, we’re not. Men have the upper hand. Women need to be careful about to whom they choose to commit. I need to know that you’re clean, kind, and dependable. There’s no way for me to know that after one glass of wine.”

“Point well made. Give me a chance to prove all of those and more. How will we know if we are compatible if we don’t make the effort? If we set aside time to spend together and it turns out the spark is missing, then fine–better to know earlier than later. But, if there is a spark (and I’m placing my colorful chip on the ‘Spark’ square), we’ll be relieved that we didn’t drag out the typical dating nonsense.”

“Hm.”

“Look, I’m not asking you to marry me. All I want is for both of us to make room for that special person. I don’t care if it’s a thirty-minute lunch two days from now. We need to make an appointment, keep the appointment, and give it a chance. If it ends with a kiss on the cheek or a pat on the fanny, so be it.”

“I’m so exhausted by this dating game. It would be such a relief to find a fit.”

“Then, try me on, girlfriend. I’m somewhat adjustable (except when it comes to large dogs and bondage). You may not convince me to skydive, but I cook a mean lasagna. How many match.com dates have provided orgasmic lasagna? None.”

“There’s more to a relationship than good meals.”

“Ah, yes, but that’s a good start, isn’t it? The fact that I want you to moan your way through a plate I prepared should encourage you. If nothing else, you’ll get a few giggles from the sight of me in an apron laced with spaghetti sauce splashes.”

“I can’t imagine it.”

“Good, don’t try. Just say yes and enjoy my treats. It’s better than being in treatment. We’re both heading there if we continue with this online dating nonsense. Give me a title shot. Come on.”

“I have such a busy week ahead of me.”

“Make room for love, my dear, or love will pass you by.”

“I have to be responsible. I have bills to pay, you know.”

“Make room.”

“What about next weekend?”

“Is that what you want out of a relationship–weekly appointments?”

“No, but this is a rough week.”

“Find three slots for me during the week, even if fifteen-minute ones. I’ll arrive at your convenience and show you I’m worth sliding over for.”

“OK, deal.”

Unskilled Labor

Based on how often I see and hear comments regarding a mate’s sexual abilities, I fear we have a serious problem. Most women keep it to themselves. I’ve even heard, “He’s not great, but that’s OK–I can take care of myself.” Sad. Sex is a critical part of most relationships, so we’d better figure this shit out. No more faking it, ladies. Check your ego. I don’t care what your ex-lover did or liked. If this is going to work, we need full disclosure. Oh, and four to six ounces of tequila may help.

Here are the typical shortcomings (nyuk, nyuk) in men:

  • Low attraction level.
  • Not using romance to set the proper mood.
  • Not enough foreplay.
  • Anatomy familiarity issues (AKA, “love-button lost.”)
  • Boredom with typical sexual positions, methods, and locations along with insufficient use of props including clothes, lotions, toys, and visual aids.
  • Quick trigger.
  • Unreciprocated efforts, especially oral.

If you’re not physically attracted to your man, whether it’s due to his age, height, clothing, shape, or scent, you probably shouldn’t be having sex with him. You can make some subtle adjustments to bring him more in line, but that’s quite an undertaking. I suggest you keep this fellow as a platonic friend and move on.

Men are typically in the mood. Given the proper stimulus, I could have sex at a funeral. The disconnect comes when women claim to be frequently in the mood and men take that to mean women are as easily stimulated as men are. Most men can’t push a button to convert the kitchen into a lush garden scene, no matter what E.D. commercials portray. Men must stimulate the cerebral clitoris before going any further. If you don’t know what starts a woman’s engine, ask her.

Unless we’re under the influence, most men deliver foreplay of insufficient duration. Men misread dampness as a ready-for-entry signal. Many men are unaware that kissing is an important part of foreplay–kissing ALL over. This problem is easy to overcome. Just like in MMA, women should provide a signal (tapping, perhaps?) when ready.

I don’t know how the love-button got lost. They’re all in the exact same place. I can understand the elusiveness of the G-spot, but the clit is always right there. (How does that feel?) Here’s what typically happens: Men mistake the urethra for the clitoris. There’s a real simple solution, ladies: “A little higher, darling.” While you’re at it, why not place your hand on top of his and work his finger as you would your silver bullet? Then he’ll learn exactly what is required to get you to the doorstep.

Since keeping a variety of lovers to get variety in our sex lives is rarely a viable option, we need variety from our mates. This is where lovemaking becomes fun. Add a little mystery. Pick a new location. Model something sheer and sexy. Bring home some oils and lotions. Light candles. Turn on some Nina Simone background music. Assume a new position. Why not porn? Hey, here’s a great idea: Read a sexy story aloud. (I am available for private readings. *wink, wink*)

Hair-triggers abound. Then again, I’ve also heard the opposite complaint: “He just keeps going and going, not realizing that I’m getting sore.” The best solution to the hair-trigger has to do with pacing and practice. Get close to the edge, stop, stay still a few seconds, and restart. To do this, the woman needs to cooperate (without sighing, please). The ideal pacing method for me is a condom. Ugh–like banging a warm bucket of water. Perhaps you should ask for more foreplay to get you closer to the same edge for the time being.

Yes, some people really get off on giving oral pleasure. The key word there is “pleasure.” If I’m below the border and my ship’s captain is vocalizing her approval, steering my noggin by the ears, and squeezing my head in her thigh-vice, I can spend an eternity there. If she’s texting, not so much. I suggest the use of a chess timer during oral favors, where each mate can accumulate fair durations. I’m sure you can find one at Amazon, right next to your favorite author’s books. (The combination may also get you free shipping. You’re welcome.)

I don’t know what else to suggest, other than total disclosure and honesty. If your mate has no potential to become an excellent lover (for you) then cut him loose. Don’t waste his time or yours. Most men can be molded into fabulous lovers when you provide gentle feedback. You do this all day at work: Providing constructive criticism in the form of rewarding good behavior. Please don’t post a Facebook status update to the tune of, “Another orgasmless night with my incompetent lover.” Simply call the klutz into your office (the master suite) and let the lessons begin.

Tiny Buttons

When engaged in a debate with a man, the argument stopper has always been, “Well, what do you know? You have a small penis.” The only possible comebacks are saying “I do not” or unzipping to display the merchandise (preferably after a two-minute hiatus whilst said unit is coaxed into making a more significant entrance).

I’ve covered this before, people. In fact, I fully documented the experiment with my pet, Willy, in a previous book. He’s average and I’m O-fucking-K with that.

According to Wikipedia:

Results vary, with studies that rely on self-measurement reporting a significantly higher average than those with staff measuring, but a mean human penis is approximately 12.9-15.0 cm (5.1-5.9 in) in length.”

A “mean” penis, indeed. Look, eggplant lover, 95% of penises fall into that range, so you’d better get used to it. Don’t expect every man you meet to unroll a hose or you’ll be frequently disappointed. It’s better for you to hope for abnormalities that get the unit closer to your personal pay dirt.

I’ve seen my share of freakish floppers at both ends of the spectrum. Unfortunately, in locker rooms there’s no avoiding them, especially the ones on elderly men. (That’s some super-scary, Friday the Thirteenth shit right there–definitely not for the faint of heart.) Granted, most of the wieners I see are flaccid, but I still get a good idea of what’s going on when I catch an inadvertent glimpse.

My roommate in college was lugging around a pet python. Oh, his poor girlfriend. Seriously. It was as if he were riding on an elephant’s head. I bet he could wash his back with it. I’m sure somewhere in western Pennsylvania there is a happy, bowlegged woman.

I don’t want any woman I am with commenting on Willy. If she compliments his size, I’ll realize that she’s showering the compliments to nudge me closer to Tiffany & Co. If she expresses disappointment, I’ll be forced to find a flaw and blog the shit out of her. Hey, I’m protective of my little guy the way any proud father should be.

Maybe this picking on peckers stems from men being so demanding about boobs. I’m not one of those fellows. I prefer natural, little ones. Big ones may distract me, but a handful is plenty. Plus, I would never use breast size to end a debate with a woman. I can’t imagine saying, “Well, what do you know? You have fried-egg tits.” That would earn me (and Willy) a well-deserved boot to the head.

By the way, all penises (except my Willy, of course) are freakish. They have bulbous ends, winding veins, and occasional scars from mutilation (circumcision). In that sense, rating penises based on anything other than size is unrealistic. I could have a police-lineup-esque display of ten topless women and I bet nine out of ten men will pick the same top three. Do the same with flaccid penises and it’s a crapshoot. Do it with boners and the three largest will win every time. How shallow.

Ladies and men with chestnuts or mushroom caps in their laps should not use penis defamation to win an argument. It’s just not right. (Willy is winking his approval.)

State of the Independent

Fellow single people, I am making this speech on your behalf to help shoo away those annoying friends and family members who are paired up and convinced you have a serious affliction because you dine alone. Fear not. Most of these blissful boobs will be joining us soon enough. Oh, how I enjoy the arrival as I welcome them with open arms and a sliver of encouragement–“Grab a glass. It ain’t so bad. You’ll see.”

Far too often, human bed warmers create stress through obligation. Adopting one can cause hives–itchy, scratchy, blotchy, ew-y hives. They’re not for everyone and certainly not for a person who recently fought to return her dog to the pound. Suddenly this liberated woman finds a better night’s sleep in pajamas instead of itchy lace. She sighs with delight as she has only one person to persuade to fall asleep with a romance novel instead of Sports Center.

I sound jaded, don’t I? My ex-wife is a saint, so don’t blame her. The longer I am single, the less lonely and more accustomed I become. Is that odd? You’ve felt the same angst when you considered adopting a pet, sex without condoms, refinancing, or checking monster.com from a work computer. There’s a moment of hesitation as the little voice (logic) in the depths of your skull whispers, “Are you sure?”

Love, romance, affection, tables for two–all lovely. Ah, but at what price?

Single people as well as people with grown offspring have a similar reaction to children. I love kids. They’re fun, fun, fun and when the whining starts, “Here’s junior.” You hand the little pest back to his rightful owner, collect your security deposit, and smile as you recall a thoroughly enjoyable experience with a tiny human, sans the tears, poop, and cottage cheese puke.

That’s why I occasionally look to rent-a-date. The company of a woman is usually fun, except for the interview process, which can be tedious. I poke, prod, and massage an ego with the hopes of finding a fit. If my square peg doesn’t fit her round hole, “Off with you.” There are plenty more holes to be found by this asshole.

Life with minimal obligations is blissful. We should all strive to extricate that which causes strife and a shortened life. When you adopt a lover, you take on a responsibility. It may not be as gross as scooping steaming dog shit with an inverted baggie, but it could still stink. Suddenly you are obligated to make a certain number of touches in every 24-hour period. If you forget, your plant wilts and requires more than the usual attention to revive.

The next time a paired-up braggart suggests there’s something amiss with your love life, tell that person to kindly fuck off. You are unattended as intended.

Ugly Sexy

I went to see Black Swan last week and enjoyed it. Some scenes were disturbing and some were sexy. What surprised me was when the woman I was with described the artistic director role (played by Vincent Cassel) as both ugly and sexy. The role came with a deep French accent and was sexist and manipulative. I couldn’t find one feature other than his height that could possibly be attractive. I’m still stumped.

There are no spoilers here. The movie contained a predictable plot and ending. I enjoyed the subtle effects and yes, Natalie has unique combination of innocence and sexiness. Few would disagree with me there. But, how can anything about her boss be sexy? He was overly demanding, he took advantage of his role as her boss, and he made sexual advances toward her that would land the average man in prison. And that was sexy? Really?

Maybe women secretly enjoy playing a submissive role occasionally. Some like it rough, I guess. Perhaps women get turned on by a man’s physical strength and the power coming from holding an influential position. His artistic talent is so admired that his flaws can be overlooked. I still don’t get it.

I don’t find powerful women to be sexy at all, unless they are somewhat attractive and kind. A woman condescending toward me the way the director was toward his ballerina would repulse me beyond words. I had a few female bosses on man-hating power trips in the past and found them as attractive as rotten oysters.

Physically, the director wasn’t completely repulsive; I admit it. Still, he wore turtlenecks, had huge sacks under his eyes, and sported a man-fro. Maybe he’s sexy in the same way Hugh Laurie from House M.D. is. The unpolished edges and scruff seem to draw women in. The way he treated the cast really had me wondering how people maintain any sanity in similar real-life roles. I guess artistic geniuses get free passes–not from me.

So, what is it, ladies? How can such an evil man be sexy? Is this what makes vampires so popular? Is this how Jesse James, even with his pre-pubescent voice, can reel in a princess like Sandra?

Maybe I’m too nice. Perhaps I should cultivate more chin-grays and turn my nose up at the women I consider out of my league. I may be too kind, accommodating, and submissive. Do you want a gentleman or a rough-edged man? Or, do you want one type of man in public and another in the bedroom? How can a man who doesn’t treat you properly be sexy? Let me in on the joke–please!

Re-dun-dunce

I am more easily annoyed than the average person is. You should thank me because my whining will help you appreciate your happiness. Conversely, you may relate to my misery and gain some vicarious displeasure from my discourse. Today’s complaint has to do with the noises people make with their mouths.

Sure, I could slap on a pair of noise-canceling headphones to keep my blood pressure under control. I don’t. Why? Because I want to be able to hear peace and quiet. (“Peace and quiet” is redundant. I know. Stay tuned.) On my train ride home from work, I look forward to an hour of serenity with my iPad and it never quite works out that way.

Culprit #1. This distraction was wearing a loud poncho and aviators. He carried a litter bucket (I cat shit you not), which contained snacks for his ride home. First thing out of the bucket was an apple. God placed apples into that Garden of Eden scene to pester humans. A small factoid (redundant) inadvertently left out of the Old Testament. I hear God laughing. You have heard a person eat an apple, correct? *Crunch, slurp, chomp, chomp, chomp* and repeat. It’s as if I’m inside his head with his munching molars. Help!

Culprit #2. This surfer dude fantasizes that he’s an eco-friendly Major League Baseball player. In one gnarly mitt, he carries a 99-cent bag of sunflower seeds. In mitt number two, he carries a spent Starbucks cup sans vented lid. Dump seeds into mouth, suck salt (imagine the amplified sound of two French-kissing teenagers), crack shell, suck out seed, and, my personal favorite (another redundancy), spit seed casing into empty cup, and repeat.

My eyes are bloodshot, another hair follicle leaps to its untimely demise, and my breathing becomes quick and shallow as I try not to faint into the aisle.

Culprit #3. The train conductor who is convinced he missed his calling as a 1940s disc jockey, bingo caller, or comedian making regular appearances on the Soupy Sales Show. His voice annoys me far less than his ghastly (and I wish it were intentional, but it’s not) habit of being redundant. Here is a small sampling:

  • “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, persons of all ages: Our next stop is ….” – He could easily cover the entire species with one word: people. Or, since there’s nothing else on the fucking train that could possibly be listening and in need of clarification, he could omit the entire introduction. I mean, it’s not as if a seeing-eye dog perks up, hears the intro, and then says to himself, “Oh good, he’s not talking to me. Back to licking my balls.”
  • “Our last and final stop is our destination ….” – A triple redundancy so incredible that it leaves me dumbfounded. Last is the same as final, which would also be the same as the destination, would it not? If he needs a run-on fucking sentence, he should begin with, “Our next and final ….” God help me.
  • “Please exit the train through the open doors immediately, if not sooner.” – People can’t very well exit through closed doors, now can they? What could be sooner than immediately? Nothing.Editor, Linda Au, is partly responsible for the hyperventilating mess I have become. Life was so much easier when I was unaware of grammatical snafus.

My personal opinion (redundant) is that he is either an absolutely unique (redundant a-fucking-gain) human being (yet again) or he’s obliviously unaware (and that makes four) of how funny he isn’t. Ah, I feel better now.

Love Hormone

Cool. Did you know about this stuff? It’s called oxytocin. Check this out–according to Wikipedia:

“Oxytocin evokes feelings of contentment, reductions in anxiety, and feelings of calmness and security around the mate. Many studies have already shown a correlation of oxytocin with human bonding, increases in trust, and decreases in fear. One study confirmed that there was a positive correlation between oxytocin plasma levels and an anxiety scale measuring the adult romantic attachment. This suggests that oxytocin may be important for the inhibition of brain regions that are associated with behavioral control, fear, and anxiety, thus allowing orgasm to occur.”

Whoa!

It sounds to me like a cocktail (heh, heh) made from a combination of vodka, tequila, marijuana, firemen’s slacks, and Johnny Depp’s sweat. That’s some powerful stuff right there. A woman explained it to me last night.

“This is why women need to be careful about whom they sleep with. Once a woman has sex with a man, oxytocin is released, causing her to feel bonded to him–even if he’s a dumbass.”

“No way.”

“Yep. It’s natural and difficult to override with logic.”

“Well, that explains why some ex-lovers put up with my nonsense. It also explains why I see so many lovely women with knuckleheads. OK, maybe I’m just jealous.”

“It seriously messes with a woman’s head because even if she knows the man is wrong for her, she can’t help coming back to him.”

“Ha! I’m a cock crack dealer!”

“Really.”

“And a juvenile one at that. Oh, come on–I kid. Here I thought men lured these women with wealth, biceps, humor, and Benzes. Have you experienced this phenomenon?”

“Yep.”

“Fer reals?”

“All right, I admit if the sex is awful, it’s easier to break away, but if there are feelings and sex is good, there’s a problem.”

Huh. How can I use this new information to my advantage? Well, for one thing, I had better learn to be exceptional in bed. I’m loading up on G-spots for Dummies books and items ribbed for her pleasure as we speak. Also, if I’m not sure I’m into a woman, I need to override my willy and avoid penetration until I’m prepared to deal with her oxytocin.

Wouldn’t it be cool if oxytocin came (heh, heh) in pill form? One minute I’d be at the wine bar seated next to a woman showing me her shoulder and the next minute it would be “[*sigh, blink, blink*] You’re dreamy.” I know–I’m dreaming.

This stuff isn’t exclusive to women, you know.

“Oxytocin injected into the cerebrospinal fluid causes spontaneous erections in rats.”

Boing! How long before Pfizer figures this shit out and we wind up with clubs full of rat boners? Mark my words: Within five years, Red Bull will be replaced with Red Rocket. At least women will be able to check out the merchandise before wasting three dates, a Brazilian wax, and expensive panties only to be poked by a pindick. Bars will do away with the under-bar hooks for purses and hat racks. Patrons can locate the closest bender and hang away.

So, ladies (as if you need me to tell you this): Be very, very careful with whom you copulate or you might find yourself addicted to a dick.

Nice Profile, Dog

I’m browsing through my matches and realizing some people could use a wee nudge when designing their profiles. I’m no fashionista, nor am I necessarily photogenic, but I know what attracts and repels me. I am a typical male in many aspects. Then again, I may not be the type of male certain ladies are looking to attract. Still, most will find my gentle guidance valuable.

Ladies, here are things that do not belong in your profile pictures:

  • Dogs.
  • Puckering. Stop it with the fucking duck face, I implore you.
  • Friends who are more attractive than you are.
  • Large hats, sunglasses, scarves, and bangs concealing most of your facial features.
  • Your ex-boyfriend, even if his face is mosaicked out.
  • Your tongue.
  • Your arm extended, holding a camera while you face a mirror. (Have you no friends, for Christ’s sake?)
  • Weapons.
  • Your father.
  • A cigarette.
  • A baby bump.
  • Surfboards.
  • Dogs … Oh my god, stop!
  • Yearbook pictures.
  • You and your gay visor crossing the marathon finish line looking sweaty, tattered, and worn.
  • Junior Seau.
  • Motorcycles.
  • Pigtails.

Men, you are by far the more frequent offenders. When I check out my competition, I often catch myself uttering the phrase, “It’s obvious to me that you have never seen a vagina, nor will you.” I imagine these dudes hitting the upload button while beaming with pride. They eagerly stare at their inboxes waiting for them to overflow with lustful notes from centerfolds. [*crickets*]

Guys, these do not belong in any of your profile pictures:

  • A bare chest unless it’s from a Shake Weight commercial and you enjoy man ass.
  • A can of beer.
  • Handlebar mustaches.
  • Your head tilted back with a scowl.
  • Hairy shoulders.
  • Missing teeth.
  • Your mother.
  • A camper.
  • Webcam portraits, obviously taken right after you finished masturbating.
  • Nose hair.
  • A helmet.
  • Video game controllers.
  • Skateboards.
  • Strippers.
  • You flexing, sucking in your gut, or trying to draw attention to “the gun show.”
  • Ru Paul.
  • A bowling ball.
  • Winking.
  • The cell phone you took the picture with, in a bathroom mirror.
  • Bathing suits.
  • Today’s date if “today” falls during the nineties.
  • Bike shorts.
  • Your drinking buddy.
  • Hooters waitresses.
  • Visors.
  • Large belt buckles.
  • A cigar.
  • High school football photos.
  • Corvettes.
  • Blinding white skin.
  • DOGS

Plunger

Dear ReallyNiceGurl,

I really likes yer profile. I can tell you has you some nice boobies. Is they real? Wow. I have a nipple ring. Sexy, huh?

Check out my picture. I got that tattoo for my daughter. Well, you can’t see it because it’s on my lower back. I never met my daughter, but this officer keeps coming to my camper insisting I give him money for her. He said her name was Melonie or something, so, just to be safe I had my tattoo guy use the abbreviation: “I luv Melon.”

Anyways, tell me more about youself. Do you get out much? How many beers can you drink in one sitting? I can drink twenty. I did it last week, in fact, with cousin Skillet. We pounded down a bunch and then shot BB guns at each other. He shot me in the pecker. That wasn’t fair, so I peed blood on his Camaro. Guess I should get that checked, huh? I don’t know. I kinda like the swelling. Makes me feel like I’m hung like my pit bull Otis. Come to think of it, my pecker’s sorta red like the one on Otis too. Hope I don’t start shitting on the rug the way he does, ha ha.

I’m pretty smart. In fact, I almost made it through high school. Pop made me quit and go to work in his body shop. He said I was dumber than a lug nut. If that’s true then he’s dumber than crescent wrench. Sorry, you probably don’t even know what them things are, beings that you’re so pretty and stuff. I bet you cut hair. OK, then Pop’s as dumb as a bobby pin. You know what that is, right? Fuck, wish I had more hair on top. I can make a ponytail in the back. Momma always told me I look handsome with it. Pop asked if that’s how my boyfriend holds onto me. I ain’t got a boyfriend. Pop’s stupid. Jesus, don’t tell him I said that or he’ll beat me with that bike chain again. That fucker smarts, I tell ya.

Does you have any children? Want to? I wish I had me a little fucker to slap around. I sure could use some help around the camper too. Damn cousins are always coming over and leaving Cheetos all around. They end up getting ground into the rug. One time we sucked them orange crumbs up into a handvac and then dumped them into a bowl of bacon fat. It was kind of like salty oatmeal dip. Not bad, if you ask me. Yer probably more of a turkey and salad eater though, as I can tell you ain’t fat like my sister Agnes. Damn, she fat. It don’t stop the boys from coming around though. She has a pet raccoon and four or five kids last time I counted. Not bad for eighteen, huh? Yep, we Millers is a fertile bunch.

Make sure you write back to me quick. We need to go drink and screw. I have a pickup and can throw a mattress in the back. We can take it out into the desert, pound a box of wine, and fuck like minkses. Not sure I know what a minks is, come to think of it, but I hear they like to fuck a lot, like me.

Well, I got to go for now. Lunch break is over and I has to throw some sand down on that pool of oil over there. I hope your sweet ass gets back to me soon so we can get all romantic over some citronella candles and whiskey soon. Oh, I like to dance too; you should see me two-step. Write back, OK?

Tookie Miller

P.S. You can call me by my nickname, Plunger. My cousins nicknamed me that because every time I take a dump I need to get the plunger and fix the pot. Guess I needs more ruffage in my diet. Ha!

Peacock

Don’t let a goddamn beer commercial dress you. That’s today’s lesson. Sure, some fashions burn out quickly and become the brunt of teasing jabs. Most of them seem to come around again and again with slight modifications. The fashion industry thrives when styles change frequently so they encourage it. Still, if you’re out and about and you want to stand out, you need to peacock (and grow thick skin).

Long hair for men, short hair for women, platforms for men, leg warmers for women, tattoo shirts for men, halter tops for women, pinky rings for men, satellite-dish-sized middle finger rings for women, jeans with holes, jeans with cuffs, baggy jeans, skinny jeans, mirrored sunglasses, round-lens sunglasses, square-lens sunglasses, wire frames, thick frames, large-faced watches, and on and on. How could anybody keep up?

When I check out the latest fashion magazine, I find most of the trends odd. If I wore anything out of the back of Details magazine, I’d definitely attract more men than women. So, what’s a man to do?

Sure, it depends on my age, height, weight, and ethnicity. It also depends on the forum. Things were so much easier when Mom laid my clothes out and when dark slacks, white shirts, and any ties were in. Now, most of the clothing I find cool makes me look like a skateboarder, cage fighter, or stoner. My wearing such elicits barbs from my female friends who insist I’ll never find a bed warmer while I’m wearing anything with holes, foil, or rhinestones. They’re probably right. I hate them and want to kick them with my square-toed shoes.

Seriously, though, if I walk into a bar and all of the men are wearing flip-flops, dark jeans, striped button-down shirts, and duck’s ass hair bangs, I don’t want to blend in with them, I want to stand out. Same if all of the women are wearing black boots, skinny jeans, and a pink top with spaghetti straps. It’s monotonous and boring. I need some way to differentiate the women. How will I distinguish the truly slutty from the poorly dressed Born-again Christians?

It’s all about attitude anyway. If a man exudes confidence while wearing nerdy sunglasses, black nail polish, or a porn star mustache, it will work for him. He’ll attract attention, absorb the teasing, and probably end up banging the hottest chick in the bar just because he’s different. He raises curiosity with his style dysfunction and creates an in for himself. The girls may point and snicker at first, but soon fall victim to his covert strategy.

It works for women too. You can wear a glowing bracelet, blinking pin, skin glitter, fishnet gloves, a diamond stud in your nose or eyebrow, dark laced bra under a white shirt, pink or purple hairstreaks, or a derby. None of them are in style, but they all will attract interest.

Fuck Miller Light. Wear your man-thong, sunglasses, skinny jeans, and Ed Hardy shirt. Carry your man-purse and drag Mom out for a beer with the boys. Go get that tramp stamp, young man. If the hot, female bartender gives you any shit, remind yourself that her callused, spoiled-beer-smelling hands have wrapped around enough bouncer and bar manager cock to make Jenna Jameson blush. (She wasn’t going to go home with you anyway.)

She Loves Me Maybe

With almost fifty years of training, I should be able to tell if a woman likes me or not. I don’t mean “likes” as in wants to share a tub of Hagen-Dazs and discuss how dopey this season’s bachelor is (Um, exceptionally dopey, by the way). I mean “likes” as in she wants me inside of her eventually.

I guess I could ask.

“I like you. Do you like me? If not, it’s no big deal. I mean, I’ll be disappointed, but that’s OK. It’s not as if you’re the only woman in the world. Don’t get me wrong–you’re certainly one of the finest. I think there’s chemistry, but you might only like me as a friend, in which case the jury is instructed to ignore the previous statement and we can proceed as before. It won’t be awkward or change anything knowing that I like you, right? It’s flattering to have someone like you, isn’t it? Then again, I may not be your type–not that I have any clue what your type is. It would be cool if I were your type because you’re my type, even if you don’t like me in that way. If you do like me, we could hang out more often and maybe make out a little and see if sparks fly … or not. I promise I won’t be upset if you say you just want to be friends. I’ll back down. Naturally, if there’s alcohol involved I may try again. I can’t help it. Hey, isn’t it better to have me attracted to you than not? We can still be friends either way. I’ve been attracted to friends whom I haven’t slept with. Still, if you prefer a purely physical relationship, I would consider it. I’m an accommodating sort of fellow. What can I say? You so want to get naked with me right now, don’t you?”

Wishy-washy.

Why don’t you women carry bouquets of miniature roses in your LVs? This way you can pluck one from the side compartment, walk up to the clumsy boy, and hand him official notice that you’re interested in the form of a silk rose. What? That’s my job, you say? Rats.

I can give subtle signals–ones I can retract and insist meant nothing. I can lean in, gently caress your arm while engaging in conversation, mimic your posture, or fix that stray hair. Those can all be indications of interest. If you return my gesture with a facial bath of chardonnay or a leg sweep, I’ll get the message. I promise.

Perhaps I should hire a sidekick. She could guide me away from improper (under thirty) targets and closer to keepers. She could spot that annoying sparkle coming from the back of finger number three, since I don’t seem to notice. She could advise me on the proper timing of approach (not while on the phone or waiting in a restroom line). She could read the body language that’s so Greek to me. Ideally, when another hitless night is about to end, she could offer to ice my ego or be my no-strings-attached reliever. Unlikely. She’d probably pat my fanny and remind me tomorrow is another night.

Rosie

I spent last weekend in Palm Springs playing baseball with friends. We checked into Tom Bodett’s finest, which wasn’t so fine after all. It seems he left the light on, but also left out the fact that freight trains rumble by every hour.

I asked the lad at the counter where a group of fine gentlemen like ourselves could find some fine ladies.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I’m not twenty-one yet.”

“Dude, I don’t care if you’re an eighteen-year-old blind Mormon. You need to know where single women hang out. This can’t be the first time a guest has asked you this, can it?”

“No. I get asked all the time. I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, no tip for me means no tip for you.”

I drew a line through that tip space on my credit card slip and my two pals and I hit the road in search of desert damsels. We found a sports bar and tipped (bribed) the bartender, asking where the single ladies might be.

“You guys need to go to Cougars.”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously. It’s up the road in Palm Desert and it’s exactly what you think it is.”

“Well, at fifty we’re certainly not their target demographic, but I’m always up for giggles. Let’s go.”

Cougars Bar & Nightclub was full of mirrors, lasers, fog, and packs of wild animals. The DJ was sixty with long hair and ball-tight jeans. The band was playing KC & The Sunshine Band. This was Phil-Heaven.

I settled next to one of my favorite specimens–a large, loud woman with lots of tattoos and a raspy potty mouth.

“Hi, boys, I’m Rosie. You fuckers obviously ain’t from ’round here. Where’re ya from?”

“San Diego.”

“What brings ya out to these parts?”

“Baseball and fine ladies, such as yourself.”

“Aw, quit it, dickhead. [Punching me in the shoulder.] I just got done with a hard day’s work and I need a fucking beer.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a heavy equipment operator. You?”

“Ballerino.”

“Ha!”

I told my buddies that I was falling in love with this cuddle bear. I’d estimate her measurements to be 42-39-56–you could say she had it all. (Thank you, AC/DC.) I so wanted to arm-wrestle her and talk football.

“Tell you what. See those bitches across the bar? Those are my daughters. Let’s play a little game with them. Hey girls, it’s time for the ice game.”

We had no idea what she had in mind as the two girls pulled out their shirts, exposing their cleavages.

“OK, now each of you boys gets one ice cube. Whoever can toss it between one of their boobs gets a drink on me. You’re baseball players, so this should be easy.”

I intentionally threw mine five feet over their heads to avoid a lawsuit, but my pal Mark sunk a three-pointer. Actually, with the size of her cans it was about as difficult as hitting the side of a barn with a beach ball.

“Yay! You get a free drink. What’ll it be, partner?”

“How about a cosmopolitan?”

The bar went quiet.

“Just kidding. Rum and diet, please.”

“Mr. Bartender, one rum and diet for my man here. I’m goin’ outside for a smoke.”

She slapped me on the ass as she walked outside.

We continued the playful banter with Rosie. As immature man-beasts, we naturally discussed what it would take to bed such a woman. We agreed that it would be sexual bungee jumping, but none of us had the guts. It turns out Rosie was married after all. Phew! Some rides are too dangerous.

Brain Mess

The messages are not getting though. My body is aging and my brain is pulling a Benjamin Button on me. TV is partly to blame with all of the men’s hair dye commercials. Take a little gray out and suddenly ole cracker hips can skateboard around an empty swimming pool. Bah! My sidekick has been getting me deep into a bottle of Advil lately, so I have been taking note of the conversations.

“Hey! Hey, Body.”

“What?”

“Let’s go to Palm Springs and play four baseball games over the weekend. It will be fun. We can throw, run, slide, and then go drink lots of margaritas with our buddies.”

Three days later: “Ow. Ow, OW, ow. Maybe if I elevate my feet my joints won’t hurt so much.”

“Hey, Body. The young ladies are out tonight. Yay! Let’s do shots with them. Come on. Oh, and buy a bottle of bubbles–girlies love them and bubbles go well with shots.”

“I don’t think my liver can handle it.”

“Don’t be such a buzz-kill. You can do shots and not lose control.”

The next morning: “Did anyone get the number of that bus? My mouth is full of lemon flavored cotton and my eyeballs hurt.”

“Wow, Body, check out those jeans. They’re cool!”

“They have holes in them.”

“That’s the style. Try them on.”

“Well, they’re comfortable, but they’re slim-fit. Aren’t they a bit tight?”

“Nah.”

That night: “Yo, Justin Bieber, are you going to grow out your bangs too? Nice cock bulge, Meat.”

“You can jog down the beach with her. How hard can that be?”

“I’ve only been running on the treadmill. She does marathons. This could be embarrassing.”

“Stop it. She’s a chick, damn it. You can keep up.”

During the run:

“Are you OK? You look kind of purple.”

“No … I’m … fine.” [Hands on knees, gasping for air.] “Medic!”

“She has been talking to you all night. Take her home and make sweet love.”

“No.”

“Don’t be a pussy. At least get her number.”

“What if she rejects me?”

“I can take rejection. Go for it!”

After she leaves, with her number: “See? I told you she was just being friendly.”

“Oh my god. This body is old and undesirable. Can I get a transplant?”

“It’s a buffet, for crying out loud. You’re eating a salad?”

“I’m a biscotti short of two hundred, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“But, it’s a buffet featuring all the Cajun shrimp and prime rib you can eat. You can burn it off.”

Next day at the gym: “This scale can’t be right. Maybe my sneakers are heavy. That’s it–I’m going on a damn grapefruit diet.”

“The band is great and they’re coming to town. Get good seats so you can see.”

“I don’t know. There’s probably going to be a mosh pit and I’ve heard the band is loud, live.”

“There’s no sense in attending a concert and sitting in the back. Come on.”

Next morning after no sleep: “[Diiiiiiiiiing.] I think I broke my eardrums. Ugh. I can still smell that awful mix of beer, pot, and fog machine. What was I thinking?”