I'm not sure how this happened, but I got talked into having a two-hour massage. Normally I get an hour, sometimes an hour-and-a-half. The massagemonger told me that the masseuse was only available for two hours. While that seemed strange, I said, "Ehn." So I wound up getting pounded for two hours. (Spoiler alert: there's no happy ending.)
Katie in pigtails came out and introduced herself. We went back to a dark, mysterious room where I undressed and then wedged my face into the donut cushion thingy. As the marathon massage commenced, I started to have a lot of deep thoughts.
* Say, what would happen if The Bachelor had the opening of the show when the bearded white hunk meets the ladies and the first one is black. She's beautiful, and the bachelor is happy to meet her as they have their insipid greeting chat. Then, the music swells, and the next lady comes out: she's also black. The camera tightens on The Bach's hunky face. He's a bit perplexed, but he's no racist and he's on TV so he keeps it together. Then the third lady: another black! Wait... Now the guy is getting visibly flummoxed. Is this like The Bachelor--Miscegenation Edition? Eventually, all sixteen women come out, all black! Well? That's the way it happens, just randomly. All the woman happen to be black. Okay, and one Caublasian. So now what? The Bachelor smiles and greets each black lady, but he clearly wonders when the white women will show up. But, nope, all black. "I love black people," he says to the camera. "I have plenty of black friends, but... uhm... erhm..." He looks around: where are the white women?? The camera tightens on his douche face as he struggles on national TV with his discomfort and bewilderment and racism... Ha ha. I should be a TV producer!
* Had dinner with Dad and he asked me about the semi-colon. You know, how you use one, and stuff. My first instinct was to say: Don't. As in, Don't hurt the ones you love. But then, sniffing, I delivered a peroration about subordinate clauses, complex sentences, compounds, declensions, the history of the Indo-European family of languages... Good God what I jackass I was. Finally, Dad was just shaking his head. "Now I see where you get it from," his look said. "Your mom!"
How much longer was this going to last? My cheeks, the upper ones, were starting to hurt in that donut thing. A two-hour was just too long. Ugh. Now snot was dribbling out of my nose. I unsheathed my arm and staunched the flow with my finger. (Bloggin': it's fannn-tastic!)
New age music played, bird twittering and chimes and gongs and John Tesh tinkling on the soft, soft piano. I had an image of walking in a primeval forest with my sweetie. Her hair was the color of... no, not gold, not flaxen... come up with something new... Yes, her hair was the color of God's snot. Heh, great. I'll have to write that down when I get home.
* Singing the birthday song is annoying, as we all know. But the ending of it, "Annnd many morrrre!..." --can you sing that part to someone who's turned, say, 95? Wouldn't it be a form of elder abuse as everyone titters and snortles as they sing about you having "many" ha, ha, more years. Is ironic abuse the worst form of abuse? Hm.
* I bought Mom a new computer and she's barely touched it in two plus weeks. I showed her how to get James Taylor on YouTube. And old Barbra Streisand and Judy Garland TV show stuff. But what entranced her the most were the many videos of puppies playing with babies. Some of the videos had 60 million hits. And yet Cookies & Tarts only has 82 views. There's something wrong there.
* Actually, 82 is an amazingly high number.
I was turned over like a slab of thick-cut fatback bacon. The masseuse worked my extremities. I really needed this to be over...
* Hey, does the Keebler elf believe in treacle-down economics? And the creamy middle-class...?
Finally we were done. Just as Katie softly left, I let rip a deep, gonging fart. NOW I felt relaxed!
Showing posts with label Miscellaneous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miscellaneous. Show all posts
Friday, January 20, 2017
Friday, January 30, 2015
Tiny Dancer
Let's be clear: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas--until it gets blogged.
The new saying should be: Don't Get Blogged in Vegas, Dummy.
So Chris Cooper and I decided to repair to the local burlesque establishment, as we'd had enough of the gaming, which means gambling. There was a two-drink minimum so I ordered their finest waters, which came to 17 dollars for two petite bottles of tap. Chris got two beers (Schlitz, I believe) for 20. Heartily fortified and lightened, we were politely shown our seats before a long lonely runway.
The dark, smoky place was fairly empty, so two super hot dudes like ourselves attracted a lot of attention. Immediately on the catwalk before us lumbered a Garfield-sized lady who blearily read my shirt
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and thought I was the cat's pajamas. I had gone back to discussing neo-Hegelianism with Chris when two ladies descended from harpy heaven and sat on either side of us. Chris had a blonde Russian lady, while I had a wild little minx from Columbia named Brigit. We kept saying we were here to enjoy our delicious beverages, but the ladies were having none of it. Brigit started to play with my butt chin, squeezing it and laughing.
"I love eet!"
"Uh... thanks."
She kept squishing my chin folds around in her hard Columbian fingers. Then she kissed my ear and neck and insisted we go have fun in the fun room, for fun.
"Neo-Hegelian--?"
"No, no, you looove it! Come, come! Coochie coochie!"
In the half-light, I half-surmised that Brigit was a tantalizing cross between Sophia Vergara, a muppet, and this lady
Being a big fan of variety shows, I finally agreed to be led away. "Hegel was a charlatan, anyway..."
Next to the VIP room was a scowling meathead who allowed us ingress to its velvety curtained darkness. There Chris and I were seated on the kind of cushioned bench you get on a rolly coaster. AND ROLL WE DID. Brigit started to climb all over me like a spider monkey looking for nuts, or for cash, or for nuts filled with cash. My sweaty hands, however, were to stay inside the vehicle at all times. The meathead scowled in at me periodically.
"Wheeeee! You like chee-chees?"
"I'm sorry?" I shouted over the techno music. "What? Your... qi?"
"Chee-chee!"
She slapped me in the face with them. Then she smashed her chee-chees so hard on my breathe-breathe that I almost passed out.
"Mmmm, I love you," Brigit said.
"Sure," I said.
Being of northern European stock, we don't say I love you until we've been married at least a couple of decades--and then only grudgingly. But I nodded as Brigit went on.
"I looove you, bebe!"
"Uh-huh. Right."
"No, I LOVE you!!!!"
"Mm?"
At last Brigit brought over a candle and lit up the romance placard that ran down the prices. Two dances was a hundred, a 1/2 hour was 300 dollars. She wanted the full hour for 600 dollars but I told her mi no gusta, no dollaro. Finally we settled on the 1/2 hour because I was in Vegas. And I had a boner with bone in it.
"Ooooh, such a muy banana!"
"And banana in Spanish means...?"
"Banana! Banana, muy grande!"
"Oh, we have that in English too!"
We were learning so much together. Then Brigit went back to slapping her chee-chees in my face. And riding on my lap. And poking my butt chin.
"Heh heh, this is great. (Ouch.)"
About ten minutes into my thrill ride, an older couple came in with a hefty stripper. Hefty started humping herself in the husky lady's lap. Husky and Hefty really started humping howlingly. Brigit grabbed my head and turned it back to her.
"You look at me, bebe!"
"Sure, Cootchie."
But I managed to wrench my neck around and saw that Chris had already left the love tent. Now it was just me being an idiot.
"You want more, bebe?"
"No, no, no." I straightened and tugged and staggered out of the room. Brigit followed me out, and Chris and I talked with her but turned down her demands for more money. She kissed me goodbye and told me she hoped to see me again. Then she gave my chin a last squeeze.
"Ow," I said. "My butt."
Oh, and Andy turned 50.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Lacanian Self-Analysis
I sat in the office of Dr Lacan. Time ticked: our session was about to end. Finally, I felt the need to say something. In a baby's voice.
"Mommy didn't wike it when I wettums the bed--"
Dr Lacan held up his hand.
"Not interested," he said. "Nor do I want to hear that jive again about Disneyland."
I made a whining noise. Dr Lacan looked at his watch.
"Well?"
"I'm trying to help people. But what's most important is that I'm seen as a good guy."
"Ah."
"Like, for instance, my transgender student asked me to help him get a service dog. I had to answer questions on the phone about Pat's suitability for this border collie he wants. The interview with this lady went on for, like, fifteen minutes. Don't people know what a busy guy I am? Besides, I really don't know anything about dogs. Or if Pat would be a good owner. And I never mentioned to the lady that he sleeps with cans of food or about his trisectional vagina."
Dr Lacan was very busy writing. "Mm. Go on."
"And then at work Jorel asked me to help her with her stove. She--"
"Who is Jorel?"
"She's the spacey space cadet from outer space I work with. The other day she had a burrito in the break room microwave. But as it heated, she fell asleep in the comfy chair. When she woke again, the burrito had cooled. So she had to warm it up again--only to fall asleep again in the process of warming, which led to it being cool and so it needing warming and she slept and cooled to warm and cooled her warming sleep. Burrito."
"But the stove?"
"Yes, a customer at the library gave her a stove. I have no idea why. Or how. Or wherefore. Anyway, she decided to have some guy hook it up, but he told her the gas pipes were galvanized and needed to be up to code which would cost her nine-hundred dollars, so she said screw that. So she's going to Home Depot and get some pipes and do it herself."
"I thought you were helping her...?"
"Yes, I helped her by giving her advice. Like: don't. And: you will die. But we'll see if she listened. The giant mushroom cloud over Englewood will be a clear indicator."
"Okay, that's all for today..."
"But wait, I haven't gotten to the reason for needing therapy in the first place!"
"What?"
"I just received the latest prose styling from my dad." I took out a folded, stained sheet of paper. "This is from his short story about money. And mattresses....
'Off to rodeo in his apartment they went. He sank into that crazy-ass mare, she bucked, he thrust, she bucked.... he rode her hard till wet. Mariah rose, dressed and left in a breeze looking for more. Only too much was enough for her.'
I mean, my dad wrote this, and he wanted me to read it. Is there any hope for me, doctor? Doctor....?"
But he had already run screaming from the room. Like a crazy-ass mare.
"Mommy didn't wike it when I wettums the bed--"
Dr Lacan held up his hand.
"Not interested," he said. "Nor do I want to hear that jive again about Disneyland."
I made a whining noise. Dr Lacan looked at his watch.
"Well?"
"I'm trying to help people. But what's most important is that I'm seen as a good guy."
"Ah."
"Like, for instance, my transgender student asked me to help him get a service dog. I had to answer questions on the phone about Pat's suitability for this border collie he wants. The interview with this lady went on for, like, fifteen minutes. Don't people know what a busy guy I am? Besides, I really don't know anything about dogs. Or if Pat would be a good owner. And I never mentioned to the lady that he sleeps with cans of food or about his trisectional vagina."
Dr Lacan was very busy writing. "Mm. Go on."
"And then at work Jorel asked me to help her with her stove. She--"
"Who is Jorel?"
"She's the spacey space cadet from outer space I work with. The other day she had a burrito in the break room microwave. But as it heated, she fell asleep in the comfy chair. When she woke again, the burrito had cooled. So she had to warm it up again--only to fall asleep again in the process of warming, which led to it being cool and so it needing warming and she slept and cooled to warm and cooled her warming sleep. Burrito."
"But the stove?"
"Yes, a customer at the library gave her a stove. I have no idea why. Or how. Or wherefore. Anyway, she decided to have some guy hook it up, but he told her the gas pipes were galvanized and needed to be up to code which would cost her nine-hundred dollars, so she said screw that. So she's going to Home Depot and get some pipes and do it herself."
"I thought you were helping her...?"
"Yes, I helped her by giving her advice. Like: don't. And: you will die. But we'll see if she listened. The giant mushroom cloud over Englewood will be a clear indicator."
"Okay, that's all for today..."
"But wait, I haven't gotten to the reason for needing therapy in the first place!"
"What?"
"I just received the latest prose styling from my dad." I took out a folded, stained sheet of paper. "This is from his short story about money. And mattresses....
'Off to rodeo in his apartment they went. He sank into that crazy-ass mare, she bucked, he thrust, she bucked.... he rode her hard till wet. Mariah rose, dressed and left in a breeze looking for more. Only too much was enough for her.'
I mean, my dad wrote this, and he wanted me to read it. Is there any hope for me, doctor? Doctor....?"
But he had already run screaming from the room. Like a crazy-ass mare.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Age Is Just a Number that Determines Everything About You and Will Dominate Your Soul Until You Die
Ever feel like all the men your age are dating women half your age? OK, maybe not half your age, but you get the idea. What makes men attracted to women a decade or more younger than themselves? Is it just about looks and our youth-centric culture? Well, that's part of it. But you might be surprised to learn the real reasons that go way beyond vaginal tightness.
It's all about the law of averages as you get older
"When you reach your mid-40s, your BMs start to feel really weird. I mean, I sit on the toilet and the stuff kind of... I don't know... wiggles out. Sometimes I'll shake my butt to get a turd that's hanging on a hair to drop off and then when you hear that plop in the water it's really a satisfying feeling for sure. I try to stay away from dairy as it gives me bloating and diarrhea and my stomach makes these loud gurgling noises like a small child is trapped inside my guts. But, sure, I like dating younger chicks. Do you know any?"
— Christopher, 49, Chicago, IL
Their carefree attitudes make younger women more appealing
"I'd say the allure is that younger women haven't heard all my bullshit lines like 'Hey, mama, call Einstein because Uranus is about to get a drillin',' or 'Better call the cemetery police because I'm about to bury my dick in your ass!' And stuff like that. What? No, it never works. I suppose you have something better?"
— Larry, 35, Edison, NJ
They let me embrace my inner goofball on dates
"Honestly, younger women love it when I roll my belly and make duck noises on dates. The older broads want me to be fuckin' Shakespeare when I just want to crack wise about boogers."
— Marlon, 39, Atlanta, GA
Fewer years of dating equals less emotional baggage to carry
"The appealing thing about younger women is that cute look in their eyes when they believe everything you say. Your wife? Just some old lady who does your laundry. Your other girlfriend? Some chick who's stalking you. That guy you see at the bus station? He's just some guy I let blow me at the bus station. I mean, they'll believe anything! The other day I went on a meth bender and I smashed up her apartment and wrote PRINCE CHARLES REPTILE LORD in black paint all over her walls and she just smiled because what does she know? I mean, she's kind of retarded."
— Alan, 46, New York, NY
Dating without an agenda means having more fun together
"What makes a younger woman a good catch? She's not itching to have a ring on her finger. Though I've developed an itch around my cock ring. Should I have that checked out?"
— Roger, 35, New York, NY
The ego boost helps me maintain my health and vitality
"When a guy reaches a certain age, he worries he will see his youth and vitality wane. A younger woman reaffirms for me that I've still got it going on. Also, I can help her with her fractions."
— Mike, 91, Orlando, FL
Impressing a younger date is easier
"God, isn't it great? I can juggle two balls. She just stares at me like I'm a god, a fucking god. Then I'll play ‘cruise director’ — i.e., show her all the secret favorite places she probably hasn't experienced yet, like her butt. Women like it when you have a plan and it's well-executed with lube."
— Bill, 33, New York, NY
It's all about the law of averages as you get older
"When you reach your mid-40s, your BMs start to feel really weird. I mean, I sit on the toilet and the stuff kind of... I don't know... wiggles out. Sometimes I'll shake my butt to get a turd that's hanging on a hair to drop off and then when you hear that plop in the water it's really a satisfying feeling for sure. I try to stay away from dairy as it gives me bloating and diarrhea and my stomach makes these loud gurgling noises like a small child is trapped inside my guts. But, sure, I like dating younger chicks. Do you know any?"
— Christopher, 49, Chicago, IL
Their carefree attitudes make younger women more appealing
"I'd say the allure is that younger women haven't heard all my bullshit lines like 'Hey, mama, call Einstein because Uranus is about to get a drillin',' or 'Better call the cemetery police because I'm about to bury my dick in your ass!' And stuff like that. What? No, it never works. I suppose you have something better?"
— Larry, 35, Edison, NJ
They let me embrace my inner goofball on dates
"Honestly, younger women love it when I roll my belly and make duck noises on dates. The older broads want me to be fuckin' Shakespeare when I just want to crack wise about boogers."
— Marlon, 39, Atlanta, GA
Fewer years of dating equals less emotional baggage to carry
"The appealing thing about younger women is that cute look in their eyes when they believe everything you say. Your wife? Just some old lady who does your laundry. Your other girlfriend? Some chick who's stalking you. That guy you see at the bus station? He's just some guy I let blow me at the bus station. I mean, they'll believe anything! The other day I went on a meth bender and I smashed up her apartment and wrote PRINCE CHARLES REPTILE LORD in black paint all over her walls and she just smiled because what does she know? I mean, she's kind of retarded."
— Alan, 46, New York, NY
Dating without an agenda means having more fun together
"What makes a younger woman a good catch? She's not itching to have a ring on her finger. Though I've developed an itch around my cock ring. Should I have that checked out?"
— Roger, 35, New York, NY
The ego boost helps me maintain my health and vitality
"When a guy reaches a certain age, he worries he will see his youth and vitality wane. A younger woman reaffirms for me that I've still got it going on. Also, I can help her with her fractions."
— Mike, 91, Orlando, FL
Impressing a younger date is easier
"God, isn't it great? I can juggle two balls. She just stares at me like I'm a god, a fucking god. Then I'll play ‘cruise director’ — i.e., show her all the secret favorite places she probably hasn't experienced yet, like her butt. Women like it when you have a plan and it's well-executed with lube."
— Bill, 33, New York, NY
Friday, September 19, 2014
Libraries........ Do They Exist?
Driving to work the other morning I was listening to the local chuckleheads talking about the Rockies and whatnot (is there anything more whatnotty than the Rockies?) when Vic Lombardi, sage that he is, expressed astonishment that libraries existed. Not that anyone used them. But whether they were actually a real thing, like unicorns or goodness.
"Who even goes to the library anymore?" nasalized Lombardi.
I do, I thought in my profound interior monologue with a tear coursing down my beard. I do. Because I get paid.
"I mean, do they even exist?" he went on. "I didn't know they were even around hyuck hyuck *duck call* *fart noise*"
But his jocktastic sentiments gave me the pause that did not refresh. It's one thing for people to know that silly places exist called "liberry" where there are a bunch of dusty old hags and musty old books that shh at you when you try to fornicate in the restroom stalls. But it's quite another to believe that they DON'T EXIST.
Recently there was a Yahoo Jobs article about the top five jobs that were disappearing, and--next to The McRibs Mascot--librarian was one. If there's a widespread perception that The Google and internet pornography have replaced libraries, then it's no wonder that kids are checking "Astronaut" or "Lunch Lady" over "Librarian" on their career questionnaires. (Do they still do that? Do questionnaires even exist anymore? *whiny Vic Lombardi voice*)
It seems we need to turn this around before the perception becomes the reality and I'm eating a bridge out of an Alpo can (while Dad laughs and laughs at me). Lately we've had very few DVDs available for check-out because of our new circ policy and cuts in the material budget. What will happen when people can no longer walk into their local branch library and in a loud confident voice ask for Manimal Season 5 or CHUD II--Chud the Bud?!?!
I propose that we start doing subtle advertising the way Mad Men puts Mad Magazine in the hands of Don Draper or E.T. eats Reese's Pieces through his ovipositor. (Okay, I'm high.) I propose that in every school building and rec center and marijuana bakery all the across the country we put in arcade games to get the kids to LOVE LEARNIN' again.
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Navigate through a maze of books! But don't get shhh'ed!!
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And the money made from it can be used to fund libraries. Everyone wins!
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Thanks to Vic Lombardi, King of the Doucherati!
"Who even goes to the library anymore?" nasalized Lombardi.
I do, I thought in my profound interior monologue with a tear coursing down my beard. I do. Because I get paid.
"I mean, do they even exist?" he went on. "I didn't know they were even around hyuck hyuck *duck call* *fart noise*"
But his jocktastic sentiments gave me the pause that did not refresh. It's one thing for people to know that silly places exist called "liberry" where there are a bunch of dusty old hags and musty old books that shh at you when you try to fornicate in the restroom stalls. But it's quite another to believe that they DON'T EXIST.
Recently there was a Yahoo Jobs article about the top five jobs that were disappearing, and--next to The McRibs Mascot--librarian was one. If there's a widespread perception that The Google and internet pornography have replaced libraries, then it's no wonder that kids are checking "Astronaut" or "Lunch Lady" over "Librarian" on their career questionnaires. (Do they still do that? Do questionnaires even exist anymore? *whiny Vic Lombardi voice*)
It seems we need to turn this around before the perception becomes the reality and I'm eating a bridge out of an Alpo can (while Dad laughs and laughs at me). Lately we've had very few DVDs available for check-out because of our new circ policy and cuts in the material budget. What will happen when people can no longer walk into their local branch library and in a loud confident voice ask for Manimal Season 5 or CHUD II--Chud the Bud?!?!
I propose that we start doing subtle advertising the way Mad Men puts Mad Magazine in the hands of Don Draper or E.T. eats Reese's Pieces through his ovipositor. (Okay, I'm high.) I propose that in every school building and rec center and marijuana bakery all the across the country we put in arcade games to get the kids to LOVE LEARNIN' again.
Navigate through a maze of books! But don't get shhh'ed!!
And the money made from it can be used to fund libraries. Everyone wins!
Thanks to Vic Lombardi, King of the Doucherati!
Friday, September 5, 2014
I'm An Idiot
I just took a Blogging class at work, and I learned what could be more interesting than blogging?????????? (Tip: use lots of question marks!!!!!!!!!) I also learned to blog about myself. Because what could be more interesting than ME?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
On Labor Day I decided to support the international proletariat by purchasing a chair.
Looks pretty slick, eh? And easy to assemble, according to the box. Why would it lie? I had the option of paying an extra ten bucks to have some strapping lad put it all together, but I thought, hey, why not ruin my day instead?
I got home with the giant box. Then I took out the 200 page instruction book, along with a cascade of screws, bolts, washers, widgets, pins, and bits of fluff. I took some calming breaths and reminded myself that I can do this. I mean, I've climbed Mount Rainier, so certainly I could manage this!
But I hit a snag: my stupidity.
You see, my brain done don't work no good right. I proceeded to screw in parts, agreeably pounding the armrests into the seat. It was really fucking hard though. With sweat pouring down my face, I struggled and strained to push the arms in close so I could penetrate the hole with the long screw. It seemed that lust ruled the day. And idiocy.
I got one arm rest screwed in, and then the next after immense effort. Then I attached the back. That was just as difficult. At one point the screws slipped out and I fell over the chair.
GODDAMNIT I yelled. (Birds scatter from neighborhood trees)
At last I got the back on. But something was wrong. I tried to sit on my deluxe new chair, and I looked like I was suffering permanent scoliosis of the butt. I was tilted forward as if on the verge of getting ejected from a cockpit. I twisted on the tension knob under the chair until my hand cramped something fierce. Still the stupid thing wouldn't act like a stupid chair. I sat on it, pushing hard.
"Be a chair!" I screamed. "I COMMAND YOU!"
This was just wrong. This wasn't how the chair operated when I lounged comfortably on it at the Staples showroom until I was told by a salesperson to stop.
Hm.
At last, toweling off my sweaty face, drinking a cold Pabst, I sat on the floor and contemplated my infinite stupidity.
I had screwed in the arm rests, and the back, on backwards. Literally ass backwards. Literally. (And yet not figuratively, sadly.)
So after reading the Bible for a few hours, I took a deep breath and proceeded to disassemble the chair and start all over again. This time I intended to follow the instructions a little more shall we say assiduously. Okay: assiduously.
Suddenly everything was fitting in rather easily. I didn't have to pound or sweat or drop my robe to get everything screwed together. Huh! Note to self: if you have to assemble your chair as if you're wrestling Leviathan on the high seas, then you're probably doing it wrong.
I finally got my happy ending: my ass cheeks are currently working a new groove into my chair.
Now I think I'll buy this to put in my living room.
Assembly should be NO PROBLEM.
On Labor Day I decided to support the international proletariat by purchasing a chair.
Looks pretty slick, eh? And easy to assemble, according to the box. Why would it lie? I had the option of paying an extra ten bucks to have some strapping lad put it all together, but I thought, hey, why not ruin my day instead?
I got home with the giant box. Then I took out the 200 page instruction book, along with a cascade of screws, bolts, washers, widgets, pins, and bits of fluff. I took some calming breaths and reminded myself that I can do this. I mean, I've climbed Mount Rainier, so certainly I could manage this!
But I hit a snag: my stupidity.
You see, my brain done don't work no good right. I proceeded to screw in parts, agreeably pounding the armrests into the seat. It was really fucking hard though. With sweat pouring down my face, I struggled and strained to push the arms in close so I could penetrate the hole with the long screw. It seemed that lust ruled the day. And idiocy.
I got one arm rest screwed in, and then the next after immense effort. Then I attached the back. That was just as difficult. At one point the screws slipped out and I fell over the chair.
GODDAMNIT I yelled. (Birds scatter from neighborhood trees)
At last I got the back on. But something was wrong. I tried to sit on my deluxe new chair, and I looked like I was suffering permanent scoliosis of the butt. I was tilted forward as if on the verge of getting ejected from a cockpit. I twisted on the tension knob under the chair until my hand cramped something fierce. Still the stupid thing wouldn't act like a stupid chair. I sat on it, pushing hard.
"Be a chair!" I screamed. "I COMMAND YOU!"
This was just wrong. This wasn't how the chair operated when I lounged comfortably on it at the Staples showroom until I was told by a salesperson to stop.
Hm.
At last, toweling off my sweaty face, drinking a cold Pabst, I sat on the floor and contemplated my infinite stupidity.
I had screwed in the arm rests, and the back, on backwards. Literally ass backwards. Literally. (And yet not figuratively, sadly.)
So after reading the Bible for a few hours, I took a deep breath and proceeded to disassemble the chair and start all over again. This time I intended to follow the instructions a little more shall we say assiduously. Okay: assiduously.
Suddenly everything was fitting in rather easily. I didn't have to pound or sweat or drop my robe to get everything screwed together. Huh! Note to self: if you have to assemble your chair as if you're wrestling Leviathan on the high seas, then you're probably doing it wrong.
I finally got my happy ending: my ass cheeks are currently working a new groove into my chair.
Now I think I'll buy this to put in my living room.
Assembly should be NO PROBLEM.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Dating Tips
Remember back in school when you had a coach screaming at you to run faster or hit that softball harder? Remember all those turds in your pants? Well, it turns out that people were looking at you. And judging you. And you know what? You suck.
But don't feel bad. There are professionals who will take your pin number and tell you how inadequate you are. These professionals asses assess how their clients dress, act and roll bits of cheese on their hairy bellies in order to optimize the return of Zosima the Auroch, a pagan deity from my ass.
A date, you see, is a performance. Sort of like Nic Cage on sodium nitrates, but without all the choking noises. But this got us wondering: What kind of insider advice do these coaches have to offer our readers? We decided to find out--and our results are here for you to use (and hopefully get your pancake griddle soaking wet).
FIRST RULE: If you like someone, don't be afraid to show it on your first get-together. Say things like, "Hey, love your webcam show LOL," or, "Show me your tits?" Aloof or reserved behavior conveys disinterest and a police record, not that you could afford a second date anyway. Not everyone wants to sleep in a pile of trash.
"If you're on a first date and you're hard, the best you can do is show it! Take them to a quiet, romantic spot and unzip your magic. What's the worst that can happen? Unless you're really tiny. I mean, that's just weird, right? Okay, I take Mastercard or Visa."
--Rhonda Findling, M.A., dating consultant (rhondafindlingbanging.com) and author of the bestseller, Don't Call That Man: A Survival Guide to Letting Go.
SECOND RULE: Always keep your first few dates short and sweet to avoid veering into awkward conversational territory or violations of Geneva Accord conventions.
"Scheduling a short date sends the message that you're busy--which makes you wonderfully interesting--but that you're still willing to deign to see that person. Having them kiss the ring on your finger always works, especially if you're the Pope!"
--Katherin Scott, dating coach and author of ABC's of Dating: Simple Strategies for Dating Success!
THIRD RULE: Keep the conversation comfortable by focusing on really listening to what your date has to say, even if most of it is complete garbage. To ease tensions, offer to chew the gum that you just stuck in their hair. That way you get close--and also chew some gum!
"A lot of times, when you get nervous, you start talking about Jesus. Then you make these gulping noises and breathe hard through your nose. I mean, you really should stop doing that. How does Jesus not throw up on you constantly?"
--Zohar Adner, NYC-based stress/relationship coach and author of The Gift of Stress -- How to Get that Last-Minute Blog Post Written
FOURTH RULE: Giving a specific compliment that points out something weird about your date's dandy pubes or elephantiasis will leave you both feel good, providing you're mainlining Benzedrine.
"One key I emphasize to my clients is the power of the half-nelson. There's interesting research that shows a person who gives a half-nelson experiences a rush of euphoria while choking the life out of their date. Then run like hell!!"
--Tonja Evetts Weimer, M.A., MRCS, ACC, relationship coach, award-winning columnist and author of Get That Acronym!: Transforming Your Life Through Self-Important Degrees.
FIFTH RULE: Show genuine interest by asking questions about their funeral plans because you never know how much you agree on coffin styles.
"The biggest complaint I've heard from women is that men don't crack their knuckles enough after they use the shitter. I mean, always make eye contact when you hear that first crack. And then the second, too. The third? Ehn, who cares. What are you, the Knuckle Cracker Champion of the world? Get over yourself."
--Michael Geudinan, author of some book you'll never read
So there you have it. Happy dating! And keep biting into that ol' poop apple!
But don't feel bad. There are professionals who will take your pin number and tell you how inadequate you are. These professionals asses assess how their clients dress, act and roll bits of cheese on their hairy bellies in order to optimize the return of Zosima the Auroch, a pagan deity from my ass.
A date, you see, is a performance. Sort of like Nic Cage on sodium nitrates, but without all the choking noises. But this got us wondering: What kind of insider advice do these coaches have to offer our readers? We decided to find out--and our results are here for you to use (and hopefully get your pancake griddle soaking wet).
FIRST RULE: If you like someone, don't be afraid to show it on your first get-together. Say things like, "Hey, love your webcam show LOL," or, "Show me your tits?" Aloof or reserved behavior conveys disinterest and a police record, not that you could afford a second date anyway. Not everyone wants to sleep in a pile of trash.
"If you're on a first date and you're hard, the best you can do is show it! Take them to a quiet, romantic spot and unzip your magic. What's the worst that can happen? Unless you're really tiny. I mean, that's just weird, right? Okay, I take Mastercard or Visa."
--Rhonda Findling, M.A., dating consultant (rhondafindlingbanging.com) and author of the bestseller, Don't Call That Man: A Survival Guide to Letting Go.
SECOND RULE: Always keep your first few dates short and sweet to avoid veering into awkward conversational territory or violations of Geneva Accord conventions.
"Scheduling a short date sends the message that you're busy--which makes you wonderfully interesting--but that you're still willing to deign to see that person. Having them kiss the ring on your finger always works, especially if you're the Pope!"
--Katherin Scott, dating coach and author of ABC's of Dating: Simple Strategies for Dating Success!
THIRD RULE: Keep the conversation comfortable by focusing on really listening to what your date has to say, even if most of it is complete garbage. To ease tensions, offer to chew the gum that you just stuck in their hair. That way you get close--and also chew some gum!
"A lot of times, when you get nervous, you start talking about Jesus. Then you make these gulping noises and breathe hard through your nose. I mean, you really should stop doing that. How does Jesus not throw up on you constantly?"
--Zohar Adner, NYC-based stress/relationship coach and author of The Gift of Stress -- How to Get that Last-Minute Blog Post Written
FOURTH RULE: Giving a specific compliment that points out something weird about your date's dandy pubes or elephantiasis will leave you both feel good, providing you're mainlining Benzedrine.
"One key I emphasize to my clients is the power of the half-nelson. There's interesting research that shows a person who gives a half-nelson experiences a rush of euphoria while choking the life out of their date. Then run like hell!!"
--Tonja Evetts Weimer, M.A., MRCS, ACC, relationship coach, award-winning columnist and author of Get That Acronym!: Transforming Your Life Through Self-Important Degrees.
FIFTH RULE: Show genuine interest by asking questions about their funeral plans because you never know how much you agree on coffin styles.
"The biggest complaint I've heard from women is that men don't crack their knuckles enough after they use the shitter. I mean, always make eye contact when you hear that first crack. And then the second, too. The third? Ehn, who cares. What are you, the Knuckle Cracker Champion of the world? Get over yourself."
--Michael Geudinan, author of some book you'll never read
So there you have it. Happy dating! And keep biting into that ol' poop apple!
Friday, April 25, 2014
Riding The Long Bus
Today's post will be tripartite--because who doesn't love tripartitism??
First we'll begin with AMY's reminiscences about being white. Also, being bused to Trader Joe's... er, I mean, north Denver.
AMY
According to Urban Dictionary, ways out was "heavily used in the Montbello area of Denver back in the day." These scientifically-precise definitions are written by anyone, so someone (not me, I'm lazy) needs to add one that says "also used by peckerwoods in SE Denver." Because of busing back in the 70s and 80s, where kids up north were bused down south and vice versa, cultures mixed.
One black girl threatened to kick my ass on my first day up at Hallett. I didn't know what that meant, but I did not want my ass to be kicked, as I had the distinct impression that it would hurt. I remember her coming to the swings at one point to calm my white ass down and tell me ways out, she was just playin'. I didn't know what that meant, either, but she had a smile on her face, so we started sharing our favorite moments from Roots and wound up setting back the cause of civil rights about fifty years.
Joy W. and Lisa M., both white, and I were told in class to work together with the encyclopedia. I guess the teacher assumed because I was white I had seen an encyclopedia and knew what to do with it. Wrong! I was, and still am based on my Facebook research, the stupidest of the bunch and didn't have a clue. Joy and Lisa were stunned that I did not know how to alphabetize and couldn't read all that well. I remember feeling like a dipshit.
In gym class one day, a black girl asked me if I liked "chitlins." I said, yes, I love chicken! Wow! We have something in common. Only to be mocked mercilessly for not knowing what chitlins were. I still have never had chitlins.
The reason my sister and I were suddenly thrown into this busing scheme was because my parents had divorced and we were sent to live with my dad. My dad, ever the player, had many girlfriends whose names I would confuse at different times. One day, Jane (or Trixie?) came to pick up my sister early from school for a doctor's appointment (what sort of mojo did my dad have that he could convince a professional woman who had never met us to do his parenting dirty work? I mean, he was bald, for chrissakes!). Anyway, she had never seen my sister Lisa before, but the way my dad told the story, it wasn't a problem, as she was the only blonde-haired kid in the class. "Easy!" said Jane (or Lola?), pointing in the general white direction. "I'll take that one!"
I ended up leaving DPS after 9th grade at George Washington to live with my mom and start 10th grade at Wheat Ridge, which I later learned had the nickname "White Rich." I didn't fit in there either, only fitting half of that equation. I'm glad I had the busing experience in Denver, though. While forced integration doesn't have an immediate effect, over time it helps foster acceptance of our differences.
How many black people do I call "friend" today? Zero. My problem is that I don't get out much, so it would take a black family moving in next door with a stay-at-home mom and two kids my kids' age and that black mom being nice enough to bake some cookies and come to my front door and introduce herself and shove the cookies in my face and for it then to occur to me to invite her in for me to have a black friend. Not that she'd want to hang out with me. None of the white moms in this neighborhood do, either. They all want to kick my ass. Ways out.
ANDY (White Guy #1)
Half-day half-year busing. No, it's not a part-time job at Denny's. It's what we did in 4th grade. The powers that be didn't want to traumatize us too much, so they "introduced" busing by only doing it for half a day for half of the year. To confuse things even more, not all the kids were bused at the same time. You alternated quarters.
For me, this meant getting up 45 minutes earlier than usual. I'd walk the 4 houses to University Park, the school I would normally attend. I'd hop on the 525 (not as good as the 526 that all the cool kids rode) and then picked up other kids whose parents were either too poor or too liberal to attend private school (or had moved to the bustling new metropolis of Highlands Ranch) for the 30 minute ride across town to Columbine Elementary. After a shortened lunch period (16 minutes to eat that goddamn pizza with plastic forks!) we'd board the bus for a 30 minute ride back to University Park. Now this was during the oil embargo which was a really good use of fuel and school-time.
Kids Love a Commute
Before 5th grade they wizened up and ended half-day busing. Instead, you'd spend ½ the year at UP (heh heh, youpee) and ½ at Columbine. This meant that even though school ended at exactly 3:20, we'd get home at 4:10, at the earliest, and miss the first 10 minutes of George Reeves as Superman!
Faster than a speeding school bus
Finally, by sixth grade they just went the Full Monty and we attended Columbine full-time. By the sixth grade, many of my past schoolmates had fled the DPS school system for whiter pastures.
Here are the lessons I learned from my years as a lab-rat for DPS busing.
• Sit at the back of the bus. When you drive over the train tracks at Buchtel, you get a much better bounce.
• Good Citizenship Pens can (and will) be used against you. They make excellent dart guns.
• Your mom will not believe you when you describe how you had several Good Citizenship darts shot into your neck.
• Mr. Gale throws a dodge ball very, very hard.
• You will no longer sing "Me and My Monkey" in music class. Instead you will sing, "One Tin Soldier" and "Big Yellow Taxi."
• Playing Daniel Boone in the school play will be the pinnacle of my acting career until I star as "Bad Mugger Guy" in Riffel's student film. My one line, repeated over and over, "Sights. Wonderful sights."
• Snowy days meant very few kids bothered with school (Hey Martha, Cecilia, Kim and DVP) and the elongated bus ride meant very little actual class time.
• Ways out!
GREG (White Guy #2)
donald piper was an excellent puncher. so was gerald hurt. and jenario. they'd punch my arm real hard and laugh and make me bark like a dog. bark like a dog, they'd say. i started crying and they followed me around class as mr. saxon took a vaseline-coated pinky up his vast nostril and swirled it around and outside it was raining with the smell of cafeteria burgers and all day the arms on the clock wouldn't move and i counted cracks in the wall and wished i was anywhere else and somehow the magnets from science class went missing and whoever did it was going to get the punching of a lifetime and those boys came down hard on me hard with their fists hard like little balls of mighty dynamite screaming faggot pussy and kicking me hard in the ribs and i was crying puking snot in the hot gravel blacktop bleeding crying and holding myself to block all the fists on my faggot pussy self and look it was billy kilmer all along who stole those magnets so we'd get recess after all and my life was spared another day but later i was tripped and shoved hard from behind and i turned and some kid peed all over me just turning and drenching me with his hot piss that smelled of hot cafeteria burger mixed with soap and the boys laughing their laughs all over the lavatory tiles echoing harsh flat sound and the hot piss running down my cheeks like hot piss on a rainy piss day and by the time i got back crawling they were waiting to pound my piss face and punch and kick me and hit me and kick me and throw me down and laugh and hit me and i barked like a dog and hit me and i wishing so bad the day would be over just make the day be over i hurt so bad and wishing to end i smelled like piss on my piss faggot body before i had to get on the piss bus back home and counted the minutes the arms on the piss clock going faster now until i had to go back the next day for more of everything the same forever.
ways out.
First we'll begin with AMY's reminiscences about being white. Also, being bused to Trader Joe's... er, I mean, north Denver.
AMY
One black girl threatened to kick my ass on my first day up at Hallett. I didn't know what that meant, but I did not want my ass to be kicked, as I had the distinct impression that it would hurt. I remember her coming to the swings at one point to calm my white ass down and tell me ways out, she was just playin'. I didn't know what that meant, either, but she had a smile on her face, so we started sharing our favorite moments from Roots and wound up setting back the cause of civil rights about fifty years.
Joy W. and Lisa M., both white, and I were told in class to work together with the encyclopedia. I guess the teacher assumed because I was white I had seen an encyclopedia and knew what to do with it. Wrong! I was, and still am based on my Facebook research, the stupidest of the bunch and didn't have a clue. Joy and Lisa were stunned that I did not know how to alphabetize and couldn't read all that well. I remember feeling like a dipshit.
In gym class one day, a black girl asked me if I liked "chitlins." I said, yes, I love chicken! Wow! We have something in common. Only to be mocked mercilessly for not knowing what chitlins were. I still have never had chitlins.
The reason my sister and I were suddenly thrown into this busing scheme was because my parents had divorced and we were sent to live with my dad. My dad, ever the player, had many girlfriends whose names I would confuse at different times. One day, Jane (or Trixie?) came to pick up my sister early from school for a doctor's appointment (what sort of mojo did my dad have that he could convince a professional woman who had never met us to do his parenting dirty work? I mean, he was bald, for chrissakes!). Anyway, she had never seen my sister Lisa before, but the way my dad told the story, it wasn't a problem, as she was the only blonde-haired kid in the class. "Easy!" said Jane (or Lola?), pointing in the general white direction. "I'll take that one!"
I ended up leaving DPS after 9th grade at George Washington to live with my mom and start 10th grade at Wheat Ridge, which I later learned had the nickname "White Rich." I didn't fit in there either, only fitting half of that equation. I'm glad I had the busing experience in Denver, though. While forced integration doesn't have an immediate effect, over time it helps foster acceptance of our differences.
How many black people do I call "friend" today? Zero. My problem is that I don't get out much, so it would take a black family moving in next door with a stay-at-home mom and two kids my kids' age and that black mom being nice enough to bake some cookies and come to my front door and introduce herself and shove the cookies in my face and for it then to occur to me to invite her in for me to have a black friend. Not that she'd want to hang out with me. None of the white moms in this neighborhood do, either. They all want to kick my ass. Ways out.
ANDY (White Guy #1)
Half-day half-year busing. No, it's not a part-time job at Denny's. It's what we did in 4th grade. The powers that be didn't want to traumatize us too much, so they "introduced" busing by only doing it for half a day for half of the year. To confuse things even more, not all the kids were bused at the same time. You alternated quarters.
For me, this meant getting up 45 minutes earlier than usual. I'd walk the 4 houses to University Park, the school I would normally attend. I'd hop on the 525 (not as good as the 526 that all the cool kids rode) and then picked up other kids whose parents were either too poor or too liberal to attend private school (or had moved to the bustling new metropolis of Highlands Ranch) for the 30 minute ride across town to Columbine Elementary. After a shortened lunch period (16 minutes to eat that goddamn pizza with plastic forks!) we'd board the bus for a 30 minute ride back to University Park. Now this was during the oil embargo which was a really good use of fuel and school-time.
Kids Love a Commute
Before 5th grade they wizened up and ended half-day busing. Instead, you'd spend ½ the year at UP (heh heh, youpee) and ½ at Columbine. This meant that even though school ended at exactly 3:20, we'd get home at 4:10, at the earliest, and miss the first 10 minutes of George Reeves as Superman!
Faster than a speeding school bus
Finally, by sixth grade they just went the Full Monty and we attended Columbine full-time. By the sixth grade, many of my past schoolmates had fled the DPS school system for whiter pastures.
Here are the lessons I learned from my years as a lab-rat for DPS busing.
• Sit at the back of the bus. When you drive over the train tracks at Buchtel, you get a much better bounce.
• Good Citizenship Pens can (and will) be used against you. They make excellent dart guns.
• Your mom will not believe you when you describe how you had several Good Citizenship darts shot into your neck.
• Mr. Gale throws a dodge ball very, very hard.
• You will no longer sing "Me and My Monkey" in music class. Instead you will sing, "One Tin Soldier" and "Big Yellow Taxi."
• Playing Daniel Boone in the school play will be the pinnacle of my acting career until I star as "Bad Mugger Guy" in Riffel's student film. My one line, repeated over and over, "Sights. Wonderful sights."
• Snowy days meant very few kids bothered with school (Hey Martha, Cecilia, Kim and DVP) and the elongated bus ride meant very little actual class time.
• Ways out!
GREG (White Guy #2)
donald piper was an excellent puncher. so was gerald hurt. and jenario. they'd punch my arm real hard and laugh and make me bark like a dog. bark like a dog, they'd say. i started crying and they followed me around class as mr. saxon took a vaseline-coated pinky up his vast nostril and swirled it around and outside it was raining with the smell of cafeteria burgers and all day the arms on the clock wouldn't move and i counted cracks in the wall and wished i was anywhere else and somehow the magnets from science class went missing and whoever did it was going to get the punching of a lifetime and those boys came down hard on me hard with their fists hard like little balls of mighty dynamite screaming faggot pussy and kicking me hard in the ribs and i was crying puking snot in the hot gravel blacktop bleeding crying and holding myself to block all the fists on my faggot pussy self and look it was billy kilmer all along who stole those magnets so we'd get recess after all and my life was spared another day but later i was tripped and shoved hard from behind and i turned and some kid peed all over me just turning and drenching me with his hot piss that smelled of hot cafeteria burger mixed with soap and the boys laughing their laughs all over the lavatory tiles echoing harsh flat sound and the hot piss running down my cheeks like hot piss on a rainy piss day and by the time i got back crawling they were waiting to pound my piss face and punch and kick me and hit me and kick me and throw me down and laugh and hit me and i barked like a dog and hit me and i wishing so bad the day would be over just make the day be over i hurt so bad and wishing to end i smelled like piss on my piss faggot body before i had to get on the piss bus back home and counted the minutes the arms on the piss clock going faster now until i had to go back the next day for more of everything the same forever.
ways out.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Consumerism Versus Marxism
My name is Gret. And I am a lousy speller. And an even worse shopper. Yes, it's true. And, because of my disability, I am a lousy American. Allow me to elaborate, in blog form.
A few years ago I went out with my doctor buddy
to get a new car. Dad
had already dissuaded me from getting a new one because do I really deserve good things in my life? NO. So off I went to look for the crappiest used car a neglected child with self-esteem issues and seven large could buy. Going in I tried very hard to fight my instinct just to get the first thing I saw. The sad truth of getting old is that one's personality is pretty much set no matter how much rough-hewing is hewn. I was a lousy shopper at 21, and I'll be one at 91. Sure, I tried to seem like an informed consumer, one who's done his homework, one who's ready to haggle TO THE MAX. By God, no one was going to make a sucker of me! But I was getting tired. I mean, we had been looking at cars for THIRTY MINUTES. My God, would the pain ever end? So finally I got an Oldsmobile, it felt like a sweeet ride, and next thing I knew I was signing papers like a mofo. What could go wrong?
Two days later the transmission exploded. Then the dual carburetors melted. And the rear axle got rear cancer. I wound up spending a few thousands to get everything fixed, had my manhood questioned, and I still have to pour antifreeze into the engine thingy. Oh well. At least I'm learning a shit-ton about cars. (The engine thingy makes the car go vroom.)
So, lesson learned? NAW. I recently wandered into Best Buy and looked around for a new computer. Hmmm. 2 terabytes. Fuck. Is that like a pterodactyl? How much overclocking do I need? What the hell is overclocking??... The salesperson came over. I furrowed my brow, asked no questions about overclocking so not to appear foolish, and then said, Ehn, I'll take that one. This one, sir? Sure. Yeah. At home with my shiny new computer thingy, I started to dowload various softwares because why think about stuff when you can just click ACCEPT?? WHEEEE!!
Then everything crashed. Really crashed.
Nothing worked. Files destroyed. Smoke curling from the case. A hacking cough. Loss of appetite. So now it was time to get reacquainted with an old friend called India. The lady tech support had a bit of an accent.
"Press the duluht key, sir."
"Sorry? Duh...?"
"Duluht key!"
"I'm sorry. You want me to dilute my file? With water?"
"DULUHT. Can you hear me, please, sir?"
"What?"
"DULUHT! DULUHHT!!..."
"Oh! Delete." Jesus Krishna...
Six hours later, after resetting my computer completely, and re-transferring all my old files, I got everything back to working order so now I can buy some crotchless panties on Crotchlesspanty.com.
Maybe Marxism is the way to go?
A few years ago I went out with my doctor buddy
had already dissuaded me from getting a new one because do I really deserve good things in my life? NO. So off I went to look for the crappiest used car a neglected child with self-esteem issues and seven large could buy. Going in I tried very hard to fight my instinct just to get the first thing I saw. The sad truth of getting old is that one's personality is pretty much set no matter how much rough-hewing is hewn. I was a lousy shopper at 21, and I'll be one at 91. Sure, I tried to seem like an informed consumer, one who's done his homework, one who's ready to haggle TO THE MAX. By God, no one was going to make a sucker of me! But I was getting tired. I mean, we had been looking at cars for THIRTY MINUTES. My God, would the pain ever end? So finally I got an Oldsmobile, it felt like a sweeet ride, and next thing I knew I was signing papers like a mofo. What could go wrong?
Two days later the transmission exploded. Then the dual carburetors melted. And the rear axle got rear cancer. I wound up spending a few thousands to get everything fixed, had my manhood questioned, and I still have to pour antifreeze into the engine thingy. Oh well. At least I'm learning a shit-ton about cars. (The engine thingy makes the car go vroom.)
So, lesson learned? NAW. I recently wandered into Best Buy and looked around for a new computer. Hmmm. 2 terabytes. Fuck. Is that like a pterodactyl? How much overclocking do I need? What the hell is overclocking??... The salesperson came over. I furrowed my brow, asked no questions about overclocking so not to appear foolish, and then said, Ehn, I'll take that one. This one, sir? Sure. Yeah. At home with my shiny new computer thingy, I started to dowload various softwares because why think about stuff when you can just click ACCEPT?? WHEEEE!!
Then everything crashed. Really crashed.
"Oh, the hard drive...!"
Nothing worked. Files destroyed. Smoke curling from the case. A hacking cough. Loss of appetite. So now it was time to get reacquainted with an old friend called India. The lady tech support had a bit of an accent.
"Press the duluht key, sir."
"Sorry? Duh...?"
"Duluht key!"
"I'm sorry. You want me to dilute my file? With water?"
"DULUHT. Can you hear me, please, sir?"
"What?"
"DULUHT! DULUHHT!!..."
"Oh! Delete." Jesus Krishna...
Six hours later, after resetting my computer completely, and re-transferring all my old files, I got everything back to working order so now I can buy some crotchless panties on Crotchlesspanty.com.
Maybe Marxism is the way to go?
Friday, April 4, 2014
7 Signs You're Getting A Divorce
Every relationship has its own special dynamic, but experts say these signals suggest that you or your partner have stopped dealing with stuff that you probably need to address.
"My husband stopped going places with me--family functions, work events, the pet cemetery." -- Meredith T., Philadelphia
"If your spouse skips out when you want him to button the little silk vest on your dead Corgie, it's easy to feel like he doesn't care about your needs or interests," says Terri Orbuch, Ph.D., author of I Do Not: Don't Do What Hubbie Don't Does Not Do Does. "Don't get me wrong: he does. Got it?"
"Whenever I walked in the door, my husband greeted me by yelling--about the phone bill, about my hairy bush, anything and everything!" -- Judy L., Pittsburgh
Fighting does not mean you're heading for Splitsville. In fact, the first rule of marriage is not mentioning you're married. If you do, Brad Pitt shows up and things get really weird.
"She invited my in-laws on every swinging vacation instead of having us spend time with strangers." -- Nate S., Charlotte, NC
In some big families, a the-more-the-merrier mentality is par for the course, but with larger orgies you need to consider how many condoms to buy and all that damn lube that's squirting around. I mean, that's a LOT of lube for Uncle Joey's funhole.
"He always spent money on things without telling me--on tools, electronics, his mistress and their family, etc. The tipping point was when he bought his mom and didn't understand why I felt weird to see her in a maid's outfit hanging around our kitchenette all day." -- Sonya S., Palo Alto, CA
Fighting about money? Why not fight about whether flubber could be a real thing? I mean, come on, a substance that gets you high as shit and you start having sex with people in outer space?? Don't get me wrong. I'd buy a gross of that in a heartbeat and sell it on the street at a nice markup, which makes you wonder why they don't do that in the movie... uh.... What were we arguing about again?
"I started confiding in friends and my drug dealer about our relationship issues instead of talking about them directly with my husband." -- Tracie T., San Francisco
Though it's totally reasonable to want to unload on close friends or junkies, doing so can backfire, big time. What happens when your uncut Bolivian molly gets stashed in that Mercedes SUV and your captain gets set on fire to send a message to a rival gang? The ush.
"Whenever I gave her a suggestion--about a problem she was having at work, about a homeless person we should rob---she would get defensive or brush it off. But when someone else offered the same heist idea, she thought they were so smart and helpful." -- Paul G. Chicago
The issue here is respect. "Blood cement" is something the SS used to gain compliance in their death camps. Why not try something like that at your next fondue party?
"We started going to bed at different times to avoid having sex." -- Tracy T., New York City
To get that sexy bond back, start by changing your mind-set. "Shift the focus from How many fingers can I get up there? to What does the relationship need?" Dr. Haltzman says. Then, instead of thinking of it as giving sex, look at it as getting sex. "That will help you feel turned on by the prospect of all that blood everywhere, rather than having it feel like another chore."
Yeah, maybe we should all just give up.
"My husband stopped going places with me--family functions, work events, the pet cemetery." -- Meredith T., Philadelphia
"If your spouse skips out when you want him to button the little silk vest on your dead Corgie, it's easy to feel like he doesn't care about your needs or interests," says Terri Orbuch, Ph.D., author of I Do Not: Don't Do What Hubbie Don't Does Not Do Does. "Don't get me wrong: he does. Got it?"
"Whenever I walked in the door, my husband greeted me by yelling--about the phone bill, about my hairy bush, anything and everything!" -- Judy L., Pittsburgh
Fighting does not mean you're heading for Splitsville. In fact, the first rule of marriage is not mentioning you're married. If you do, Brad Pitt shows up and things get really weird.
"She invited my in-laws on every swinging vacation instead of having us spend time with strangers." -- Nate S., Charlotte, NC
In some big families, a the-more-the-merrier mentality is par for the course, but with larger orgies you need to consider how many condoms to buy and all that damn lube that's squirting around. I mean, that's a LOT of lube for Uncle Joey's funhole.
"He always spent money on things without telling me--on tools, electronics, his mistress and their family, etc. The tipping point was when he bought his mom and didn't understand why I felt weird to see her in a maid's outfit hanging around our kitchenette all day." -- Sonya S., Palo Alto, CA
Fighting about money? Why not fight about whether flubber could be a real thing? I mean, come on, a substance that gets you high as shit and you start having sex with people in outer space?? Don't get me wrong. I'd buy a gross of that in a heartbeat and sell it on the street at a nice markup, which makes you wonder why they don't do that in the movie... uh.... What were we arguing about again?
"I started confiding in friends and my drug dealer about our relationship issues instead of talking about them directly with my husband." -- Tracie T., San Francisco
Though it's totally reasonable to want to unload on close friends or junkies, doing so can backfire, big time. What happens when your uncut Bolivian molly gets stashed in that Mercedes SUV and your captain gets set on fire to send a message to a rival gang? The ush.
"Whenever I gave her a suggestion--about a problem she was having at work, about a homeless person we should rob---she would get defensive or brush it off. But when someone else offered the same heist idea, she thought they were so smart and helpful." -- Paul G. Chicago
The issue here is respect. "Blood cement" is something the SS used to gain compliance in their death camps. Why not try something like that at your next fondue party?
"We started going to bed at different times to avoid having sex." -- Tracy T., New York City
To get that sexy bond back, start by changing your mind-set. "Shift the focus from How many fingers can I get up there? to What does the relationship need?" Dr. Haltzman says. Then, instead of thinking of it as giving sex, look at it as getting sex. "That will help you feel turned on by the prospect of all that blood everywhere, rather than having it feel like another chore."
Yeah, maybe we should all just give up.
Friday, March 28, 2014
We're All Winners!!
I got tendinitis in my shoulder. I don't know how it happened--though maybe I shouldn't wrench so hard on my lugnut, if you catch my meaning. Here's a picture for all of you who need help with my meaning.
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At the gym I have a trainer named Lyle. He's a cool guy. He's helping me out. I hope we can be friends!
And I've made new friends!
I love doing the exercises!
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I sure hope I die soon!
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At the gym I have a trainer named Lyle. He's a cool guy. He's helping me out. I hope we can be friends!
"I'm working my core! (Only place where one can say working my core unironically.)"
And I've made new friends!
"Who wants to work my core?!? HEEAAGH!!"
I love doing the exercises!
I sure hope I die soon!
Friday, March 21, 2014
A Visit To The Doctor
It was time for my bisexual annual checkup. The doctor looked me over.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"You mean physical or existential?"
The doctor stared.
"This morning I had a dream I was in a Ford Bronco with my mom and we ran out of gas. So we went into this office building and in one of the conference rooms was Kevin Trudeau."
"The Canadian prime minister?"
"Close. Anyway, he was waving his arms around in this rather comical fashion and my mom started crying. I made it out of there and found myself on a VW Bus stopped by the road with these lines of people. They were waiting to get into bars for Saint Patrick's Day."
"Uh-huh. Pull your pants down?"
The doc fiddled with my Marky Marks and Funkybunch. His fingers were cold.
"I was trying to write something very important down on a piece of plastic. Something The New Yorker would be sure to publish. And then..."
"Cough. Uh-huh. Again."
He snapped on the gloves.
"I came back to the VW Bus and some skinny black kid was sitting behind the wheel. I was really upset because all my writings were on that Bus. I asked him to get out, but he just smiled and started driving away. I ran after it. But then I was overwhelmed by the futility of it all. I mean, what's the point? Even if I caught that black guy who was tearing off in a backfiring VW Bus and I got my stuff published in The New Yorker, would it matter? Does anything matter?"
Up went the doctor's finger into my soft anus meat.
"Unnnnhhhhhh!" I said, sexily.
"Some dream," he said.
His finger plopped out. Then he started writing something down.
"So what do you think, doc?"
He tore off a script. "Here a prescription for Welbutrin. Take it twice daily."
Remember, kids: Always share your dreams, because you never know if you'll get some drugs for them!
"Any problems?" he asked.
"You mean physical or existential?"
The doctor stared.
"This morning I had a dream I was in a Ford Bronco with my mom and we ran out of gas. So we went into this office building and in one of the conference rooms was Kevin Trudeau."
"The Canadian prime minister?"
"Close. Anyway, he was waving his arms around in this rather comical fashion and my mom started crying. I made it out of there and found myself on a VW Bus stopped by the road with these lines of people. They were waiting to get into bars for Saint Patrick's Day."
"Uh-huh. Pull your pants down?"
The doc fiddled with my Marky Marks and Funkybunch. His fingers were cold.
"I was trying to write something very important down on a piece of plastic. Something The New Yorker would be sure to publish. And then..."
"Cough. Uh-huh. Again."
He snapped on the gloves.
"I came back to the VW Bus and some skinny black kid was sitting behind the wheel. I was really upset because all my writings were on that Bus. I asked him to get out, but he just smiled and started driving away. I ran after it. But then I was overwhelmed by the futility of it all. I mean, what's the point? Even if I caught that black guy who was tearing off in a backfiring VW Bus and I got my stuff published in The New Yorker, would it matter? Does anything matter?"
Up went the doctor's finger into my soft anus meat.
"Unnnnhhhhhh!" I said, sexily.
"Some dream," he said.
His finger plopped out. Then he started writing something down.
"So what do you think, doc?"
He tore off a script. "Here a prescription for Welbutrin. Take it twice daily."
Remember, kids: Always share your dreams, because you never know if you'll get some drugs for them!
Friday, March 7, 2014
Trip To NYC--
Today we'll be making fun of myself, for once. (And this will be the ONLY time, folks, so enjoy it.)
Flying into LaGuardia, a trip I have never liked, I came face to face with a barf bag. Or the concept of one. The pilot informed us that we'd experience "rough air" for our descent, and before long the plane was having an epileptic fit. Whee, I thought as I clutched my innards and waited sweatily for the pyloric explosion. But, alas, there was nothing to expel my soul contents into. Maybe Delta had given up barf bags for Lent? And there was not an attendant in sight. The only thing that kept me from spewing was the idea of doing it in front of the yuppie Wall Street fucks around me (stock quotes on their laptops, talking about golf, trying very hard to be world's biggest stereotypes). So, thanks, yuppie fucks! The plane shucked and jived. Then the wing broke off and we went into a spiral of death into Manhattan and I screamed and screamed and screamed.
The next day we admired Mr Frick's fuck-you-poor-people mansion filled with world masterpieces. Then Tom, Mary and I had a bite to eat at the local greasy spoon. 150 dollars was the final tab. Maybe I should have held off on the tuna melt? Forty-deuce street. I be trippin'! And be ripped off!
At the Met I made many illuminating and perspicacious comments. However, I was very disappointed there were no sexy unicorns. What the hell kind of place is this?!
Reggie at least finally got one of his paintings into the museum!
At the Strand I encountered a young Hindu lady carrying the very book I was reading and I thought of saying something to her, but then remembered all my many restraining orders. Stupid judicial system. We ate at Trump Tower's Trump Grille where we bought Trump hats, Trump shirts, and Trump condoms. Then I marveled as Tom guzzled down an entire tremendo-vat of coffee at the local Walgreen's. Ahhhh. Caffeine delivery system! Now we can tackle the horror of watching the Oscars! (Didn't work.)
Snowmeggedon was rolling into New York, and it was seeming doubtful I'd get out alive, or uneaten. But then the snow didn't really arrive (Al Gore, you bastard) and it seemed my flight would be okay. HA. When I got to LaGuardia I found that my flight was delayed, and then delayed again. I had many, many hours to kill. So I popped into the Delta Skyclub thinking this would cure my airport blues. I paid my fifty bucks, but there were no go-go dancers. Just no-no businessmen. And all the sasparilla a feller could drink! But after trying to sleep draped over a desk, I saw that my flight was essentially canceled. Thinking of Tom Hanks in that airport movie I never saw, I paid yet more money and checked into a hotel. The next morning it seemed my dreams would be fulfilled at last--until the pilot told us to all get off the plane, there was some flubber problem. Not enough of it, or so is my understanding. So I waited another half-day for another plane to send me to a fiery death in an Iowa cornfield somewhere.
So there you have it. I'm an idiot. (I think that's the moral to draw from all this...)
Flying into LaGuardia, a trip I have never liked, I came face to face with a barf bag. Or the concept of one. The pilot informed us that we'd experience "rough air" for our descent, and before long the plane was having an epileptic fit. Whee, I thought as I clutched my innards and waited sweatily for the pyloric explosion. But, alas, there was nothing to expel my soul contents into. Maybe Delta had given up barf bags for Lent? And there was not an attendant in sight. The only thing that kept me from spewing was the idea of doing it in front of the yuppie Wall Street fucks around me (stock quotes on their laptops, talking about golf, trying very hard to be world's biggest stereotypes). So, thanks, yuppie fucks! The plane shucked and jived. Then the wing broke off and we went into a spiral of death into Manhattan and I screamed and screamed and screamed.
The next day we admired Mr Frick's fuck-you-poor-people mansion filled with world masterpieces. Then Tom, Mary and I had a bite to eat at the local greasy spoon. 150 dollars was the final tab. Maybe I should have held off on the tuna melt? Forty-deuce street. I be trippin'! And be ripped off!
At the Met I made many illuminating and perspicacious comments. However, I was very disappointed there were no sexy unicorns. What the hell kind of place is this?!
"Wull, gulleee. Lookit that wun. And that wun...!"
Reggie at least finally got one of his paintings into the museum!
I like the way Reggie thinks.....
At the Strand I encountered a young Hindu lady carrying the very book I was reading and I thought of saying something to her, but then remembered all my many restraining orders. Stupid judicial system. We ate at Trump Tower's Trump Grille where we bought Trump hats, Trump shirts, and Trump condoms. Then I marveled as Tom guzzled down an entire tremendo-vat of coffee at the local Walgreen's. Ahhhh. Caffeine delivery system! Now we can tackle the horror of watching the Oscars! (Didn't work.)
Snowmeggedon was rolling into New York, and it was seeming doubtful I'd get out alive, or uneaten. But then the snow didn't really arrive (Al Gore, you bastard) and it seemed my flight would be okay. HA. When I got to LaGuardia I found that my flight was delayed, and then delayed again. I had many, many hours to kill. So I popped into the Delta Skyclub thinking this would cure my airport blues. I paid my fifty bucks, but there were no go-go dancers. Just no-no businessmen. And all the sasparilla a feller could drink! But after trying to sleep draped over a desk, I saw that my flight was essentially canceled. Thinking of Tom Hanks in that airport movie I never saw, I paid yet more money and checked into a hotel. The next morning it seemed my dreams would be fulfilled at last--until the pilot told us to all get off the plane, there was some flubber problem. Not enough of it, or so is my understanding. So I waited another half-day for another plane to send me to a fiery death in an Iowa cornfield somewhere.
So there you have it. I'm an idiot. (I think that's the moral to draw from all this...)
Friday, February 14, 2014
Signs You're Turning Off Your Mate
Sometimes we take a perfectly good relationship and sodomize it. Hindsight is 20/20, but wouldn't it be nice to avoid all that anal bleeding? If you're guilty of any of the behaviors below, you may be to blame for being a ruiner:
1. You've been acting like a green-eyed monster.
It usually starts out innocently: You breathe heavily into the phone and the police are called. But what happens then? Sure, you've got your lawyers and bolt cutters. But greasing up your naked body and taking selfies is not the answer. It's in the Bible, people.
How to stop doing it: The best way to curb feelings of jealousy is to buy one of those Japanese sex ponies. Low on cash? Steal from your girlfriend's parents! That'll show her. Them.
2. You've co-opted your partner's life.
If you've been dating someone for less than three months and you can answer "yes" to any of these questions, you're busted for having appropriated someone else's life. Question #1: Are you really into Project Runway now, or did you just shave your pubes as a joke? Question #2: Do you find yourself warming up the raspberry lube in the microwave, even though you're Amish? Question #3: Would you say that dressing up in blackface and crashing the latest Tyler Perry movie premiere is really great?
How to stop doing it: Just be yourself, as ridiculous as that may be. It's a simple mindset change, but you have to trust that people will see through your bullshit all the time. And stop sticking your fist in your mouth and setting all those fires!
3. You're rushing the relationship instead of living in the moment.
Stop with all the knife pointing! Do you really think that will get you a husband? And you're a guy, on top of that!
How to stop doing it: You know those tigers Siegfried & Roy have sex with? Get one of those!
4. You're being too clingy.
Star Trek is a television show. I think we should watch it together. Seriously, don't make me get my knife. Get back here. I'm serious as fuck.
How to stop doing it: I was just kidding about pressing that knife to your throat, babe. Honey? Damnit. People just can't take a joke, or a punch to the gut. Romance is hard.
5. Everything you say is driven by your own insecurity.
"That lampshade made out of human skin is just no good." "My chest hair has too much dried blood on it." "My ass smells like eggs." All of these phrases have one idea behind them: "I hate myself." And there's nothing wrong with that! Why aren't you married already?!
How to stop doing it: Step 1: Stare into the eyes of your best, and only, friend.
Step 2: Stop sobbing, and start stalking!
I'll be at Shotgun Willie's tonight, folks--it's Large Lady Twerk Off! See everyone there!!
1. You've been acting like a green-eyed monster.
It usually starts out innocently: You breathe heavily into the phone and the police are called. But what happens then? Sure, you've got your lawyers and bolt cutters. But greasing up your naked body and taking selfies is not the answer. It's in the Bible, people.
How to stop doing it: The best way to curb feelings of jealousy is to buy one of those Japanese sex ponies. Low on cash? Steal from your girlfriend's parents! That'll show her. Them.
2. You've co-opted your partner's life.
If you've been dating someone for less than three months and you can answer "yes" to any of these questions, you're busted for having appropriated someone else's life. Question #1: Are you really into Project Runway now, or did you just shave your pubes as a joke? Question #2: Do you find yourself warming up the raspberry lube in the microwave, even though you're Amish? Question #3: Would you say that dressing up in blackface and crashing the latest Tyler Perry movie premiere is really great?
How to stop doing it: Just be yourself, as ridiculous as that may be. It's a simple mindset change, but you have to trust that people will see through your bullshit all the time. And stop sticking your fist in your mouth and setting all those fires!
3. You're rushing the relationship instead of living in the moment.
Stop with all the knife pointing! Do you really think that will get you a husband? And you're a guy, on top of that!
How to stop doing it: You know those tigers Siegfried & Roy have sex with? Get one of those!
4. You're being too clingy.
Star Trek is a television show. I think we should watch it together. Seriously, don't make me get my knife. Get back here. I'm serious as fuck.
How to stop doing it: I was just kidding about pressing that knife to your throat, babe. Honey? Damnit. People just can't take a joke, or a punch to the gut. Romance is hard.
5. Everything you say is driven by your own insecurity.
"That lampshade made out of human skin is just no good." "My chest hair has too much dried blood on it." "My ass smells like eggs." All of these phrases have one idea behind them: "I hate myself." And there's nothing wrong with that! Why aren't you married already?!
How to stop doing it: Step 1: Stare into the eyes of your best, and only, friend.
I'll be at Shotgun Willie's tonight, folks--it's Large Lady Twerk Off! See everyone there!!
Friday, January 10, 2014
Reggie Doesn't Like My Painting
Reggie stood back. He shook his head. We were at the Vida Ellison gallery, on the seventh floor of the main library where my work is on display (text me for more info).
"I don't like it."
"Why?" I said, blowing out a breath of relief.
"It's your face, man! Why do you always have to paint yourself? There's a whole world out there of beautiful ladies! And this..." He waved his hand at my faces. "This is what you decide to paint?"
"Yeah. Pretty great, huh?"
"No. Listen to me. A woman is beautiful. She is art. You should be painting beautiful ladies! And unicorns!"
"Well, maybe next time I'll paint a giant vagina."
Reggie smiled. "Yeah. And titties, don't forget those."
"Right. Some ta-ta's and cunt. Art, in other words."
Reggie looked at me. "Didn't your mom tell you to stop using that word on your blog?"
"True," I said. "She asked me why I was using the c-word. Did I need a woman, was that it?"
"Lay good pipe, son. Your momma is right."
"Mm. So no more c-words. Or f-words. Or x-words. No schwa-words, either. The whole gamut of filth. Mom wants me to write, in her words, pinafores."
"Pinafore?"
"Laura Ingalls Wilder fan fiction, apparently."
Reggie was quiet. Then he held out his hand. "Loan me four bucks for cigarettes?"
"Nigger, please."
(Sorry, Mom!)
"I don't like it."
"Why?" I said, blowing out a breath of relief.
"It's your face, man! Why do you always have to paint yourself? There's a whole world out there of beautiful ladies! And this..." He waved his hand at my faces. "This is what you decide to paint?"
"Yeah. Pretty great, huh?"
"No. Listen to me. A woman is beautiful. She is art. You should be painting beautiful ladies! And unicorns!"
"Well, maybe next time I'll paint a giant vagina."
Reggie smiled. "Yeah. And titties, don't forget those."
"Right. Some ta-ta's and cunt. Art, in other words."
Reggie looked at me. "Didn't your mom tell you to stop using that word on your blog?"
"True," I said. "She asked me why I was using the c-word. Did I need a woman, was that it?"
"Lay good pipe, son. Your momma is right."
"Mm. So no more c-words. Or f-words. Or x-words. No schwa-words, either. The whole gamut of filth. Mom wants me to write, in her words, pinafores."
"Pinafore?"
"Laura Ingalls Wilder fan fiction, apparently."
Reggie was quiet. Then he held out his hand. "Loan me four bucks for cigarettes?"
"Nigger, please."
(Sorry, Mom!)
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Dealing With Rejection
Rejection is never fun. Comfort yourself with a) the harshly worded “thanks, but no thanks” that some poor guys got, below, as gathered in a recent Match.com survey, and 2) a bump of crystal meth, high cut.
We asked Dr. Lillian Glass, Ph.D., communications expert and author of I Know What You’re Thinking and He Says, She Says to assess these women’s excuses. And for once, guys, it might really be them... and totally not you! But it probably is, assholes.
Turn-down #1: “I was told that I’m too neat. Neat?!” - Gary, 56, Toronto, ON
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “What a mincing homo. I mean, come on. Who's neat anymore?! We have the internet now, people. Wake up!”
Turn-down #2: “She didn’t think her father and I would get along.” - Curtis, 43, Jacksonville, FL
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “That's because she's having sex with her father. I mean, hello? Let's get real, people. Wake up! I can hear you breathing! Hello!”
Turn-down #3: “One woman told me I was too intelligent for her. Sure.” - Ray, 37, Raleigh, NC
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Pulling on your nipples while you rub your balls on the ottoman can be a real turn off for women. Turn on, I mean. Damnit, I keep getting those terms messed up. Freshen me up?" *holds out whiskey flask* "Don't be a dick."
Turn-down #4: “A woman told me she was probably going to be too tired the night I asked her out... but she told me this two days ahead of time.” - Kevin, 41, Dallas, TX
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Time is purely an illusory concept, in case you haven't heard. I mean, don't be an asshole. As Zen Buddhists say, what did your face look like before you put that conditioner in your hair? Probably pretty pissed. I mean... come on. So tired."
Turn-down #5: “A woman I liked said she wouldn’t date people born the same month that she was.” - Greg, 22, Wilmington, DE
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Maybe it would work if you weren't also sixty years apart. Up top." *holds out hand*
Turn-down #6: “A woman told me that her car broke down and gave me a big, long story about what was wrong. Only problem? I have a car and could have driven her. Plus, I’m a mechanic.” - Wally, 20, Chicago, IL
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Plus, maybe you should stop trying to put your penis in her butt so much. Not every woman likes a penis in her butt. So, guys, listen to me when I say don't keep putting penises in your lady's butt. I mean, hello?”
Turn-down #7: “She told me she had to go buy the donuts for her Cheaters Anonymous group. Point taken.”
- Greg, 32, San Diego, CA
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “She's the best!!! I hope you're dating? What? You're not? Man, just when you've got the whole dating scene figured out.” *rushes out of Denny's without paying*
Well, I hope this was helpful, men. And you too, ladies! (But not the hermies.) (Or the Irish.)
We asked Dr. Lillian Glass, Ph.D., communications expert and author of I Know What You’re Thinking and He Says, She Says to assess these women’s excuses. And for once, guys, it might really be them... and totally not you! But it probably is, assholes.
Turn-down #1: “I was told that I’m too neat. Neat?!” - Gary, 56, Toronto, ON
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “What a mincing homo. I mean, come on. Who's neat anymore?! We have the internet now, people. Wake up!”
Turn-down #2: “She didn’t think her father and I would get along.” - Curtis, 43, Jacksonville, FL
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “That's because she's having sex with her father. I mean, hello? Let's get real, people. Wake up! I can hear you breathing! Hello!”
Turn-down #3: “One woman told me I was too intelligent for her. Sure.” - Ray, 37, Raleigh, NC
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Pulling on your nipples while you rub your balls on the ottoman can be a real turn off for women. Turn on, I mean. Damnit, I keep getting those terms messed up. Freshen me up?" *holds out whiskey flask* "Don't be a dick."
Turn-down #4: “A woman told me she was probably going to be too tired the night I asked her out... but she told me this two days ahead of time.” - Kevin, 41, Dallas, TX
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Time is purely an illusory concept, in case you haven't heard. I mean, don't be an asshole. As Zen Buddhists say, what did your face look like before you put that conditioner in your hair? Probably pretty pissed. I mean... come on. So tired."
Turn-down #5: “A woman I liked said she wouldn’t date people born the same month that she was.” - Greg, 22, Wilmington, DE
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Maybe it would work if you weren't also sixty years apart. Up top." *holds out hand*
Turn-down #6: “A woman told me that her car broke down and gave me a big, long story about what was wrong. Only problem? I have a car and could have driven her. Plus, I’m a mechanic.” - Wally, 20, Chicago, IL
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “Plus, maybe you should stop trying to put your penis in her butt so much. Not every woman likes a penis in her butt. So, guys, listen to me when I say don't keep putting penises in your lady's butt. I mean, hello?”
Turn-down #7: “She told me she had to go buy the donuts for her Cheaters Anonymous group. Point taken.”
- Greg, 32, San Diego, CA
Interpretation by Dr. Glass: “She's the best!!! I hope you're dating? What? You're not? Man, just when you've got the whole dating scene figured out.” *rushes out of Denny's without paying*
Well, I hope this was helpful, men. And you too, ladies! (But not the hermies.) (Or the Irish.)
Thursday, September 26, 2013
A Trip To Montrose
In Montrose I found a super piece of literature.
But I should first backtrack and talk about my lovely trip to Montrose, cuz the title of this post demands it. I rented a 2014 Chevy Impala and zipped off into the mountains for my first trip into said mountains in years. The mountains were big and stuff, with trees. Some were yellow. Others were green. Ocean. Big. Blue. I'm a poet! I zoomed past Fairplay and thought about eating there, but I did not. Then I zabbed by some other bumfuck mountain town and thought of eating there, but I did not. In fact, I got all the way to Gunnison before I stopped at some fumbuck diner and ate lots o' grease. Then I got back on the road, thought about turning into oncoming traffic several times (more a matter for my therapist), listened to some local '80s radio (I mistook Big Country for Echo & The Bunnyman for a minute, sorry, Andy), checked into my motel, made the acquaintance of PASSAGES in brochure form, and then headed off to the wedding ceremony. Then I came back to my motel and wondered if I would have time to shoot on over to The Springs. Instead, after a nap, I drove around Montrose and got lost quite predictably and thought how much I hate On The Road and beatniks in general. Then I thought of my days in Charlotte NC, another city where I knew no one and just sort of tooled around feeling like Mary Shelley's Last Man, and what not. I got to the reception and wished my good friend Sara a happy marriage and then sat with Vanessa who had a big Picasso on her back and her boyfriend Jon who is a program director for this thing called a radio(?). A good time was had by all and I ate something greasy for dinner and returned to my motel and went to sleep after watching a laughable newscast from Grand Junction with a chunky lady stumbling through her teleprompt news. I hugged myself asleep, smirking.
In the morning, I awoke refreshed and thought about my plans to visit the Biblical experience in Colorado Springs. But then I felt very lazy and decided to do something much lazier instead.
Some people just don't understand art, least of all me.
But I should first backtrack and talk about my lovely trip to Montrose, cuz the title of this post demands it. I rented a 2014 Chevy Impala and zipped off into the mountains for my first trip into said mountains in years. The mountains were big and stuff, with trees. Some were yellow. Others were green. Ocean. Big. Blue. I'm a poet! I zoomed past Fairplay and thought about eating there, but I did not. Then I zabbed by some other bumfuck mountain town and thought of eating there, but I did not. In fact, I got all the way to Gunnison before I stopped at some fumbuck diner and ate lots o' grease. Then I got back on the road, thought about turning into oncoming traffic several times (more a matter for my therapist), listened to some local '80s radio (I mistook Big Country for Echo & The Bunnyman for a minute, sorry, Andy), checked into my motel, made the acquaintance of PASSAGES in brochure form, and then headed off to the wedding ceremony. Then I came back to my motel and wondered if I would have time to shoot on over to The Springs. Instead, after a nap, I drove around Montrose and got lost quite predictably and thought how much I hate On The Road and beatniks in general. Then I thought of my days in Charlotte NC, another city where I knew no one and just sort of tooled around feeling like Mary Shelley's Last Man, and what not. I got to the reception and wished my good friend Sara a happy marriage and then sat with Vanessa who had a big Picasso on her back and her boyfriend Jon who is a program director for this thing called a radio(?). A good time was had by all and I ate something greasy for dinner and returned to my motel and went to sleep after watching a laughable newscast from Grand Junction with a chunky lady stumbling through her teleprompt news. I hugged myself asleep, smirking.
In the morning, I awoke refreshed and thought about my plans to visit the Biblical experience in Colorado Springs. But then I felt very lazy and decided to do something much lazier instead.
Some people just don't understand art, least of all me.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Reunion Recrap
We preempt today's usual GALAXY REVOLT death horror march to bring you a death horror march of a different sort (magnitude?): a high school reunion! (Let's leave the number out of it for decency's sake.)
Significantly, I was kissed by Lisa Lombardi, Trentie Oliver, and (best of all) Scott Yates. Of course, being a selfish prick I did not return the kisses (sorry, gang). Trentie and I compared sexy bicep bulges (Trentie won; this was the bibulous part of the evening). I conversed with Eddy Peters about the Generic Car we had designed in 1982 and who owned all its subsidiary rights (lawyers are drawing up the papers).
Also talkety-talked with: John Afshar (not sure why), Mickey Mangold (Rotten Bratten lives in our hearts forever), Nancy Morrison (getting defriended on Facebook is fun!), Kim Shaak (The Impossible not a good vacation), Kelly McPherson and Cynthia Kirk (Tom Griffith is a dreamboat, yes?), Mandy McMurtry (Andy RIP), Martha Wells (even the Homecoming Queen had low self-esteem(!)), Marnie Rundiks (comparing ex's whee), Frank Herzog ("Herzogian pass" lives in our groins forever), Cecilia Johnson (us being married never gets old, Ziad), Dave Van Pelt (don't let Lisa see you eat that slider, buster!) and Mike George (all that toilet jamming makes people super fertile, apparently). Also, Andy ("I can remember William McKesson's phone number!") and Amy ("Die, small talk.") were involved in some capacity but I had too much Riffel (Outstanding Senior Kiss Ass) to remember it all clearly. RIFFEL
But enough of my jibberjabber. Time to play match the person with the writing they scribbled in my yearbook. Fun for no ages!
Quote 1: "Greg, Don't drop dead. (I know you won't but look on pg 30)."
Quote 2: "Greg, you awesome rock & roller you. Don't fry too many brain cells this summer. It was nice knowing ya." (Hint: Clearly this person didn't know me that well.)
Quote 3: "So, looks like I missed out on the Latin fun and such this year. Oh well. Please don't make anything sarcastic about this signature. Yeah, I'm paranoid." (Too late, jerk.)
Quote 4: "Greg, Mega-basketball summer uh-ah Maybe I'll see you at C.S.U. Probably not."
Quote 5: "Dear Greg, You have exclusive rights to the Generic car. Could Be worse, could Be raining. P.S. Mrs Perez is a bear!"
Quote 6: "Greg, You are a great person. Even if a person wanted to forget you they could not. Your humor and warmth and serenity make the course to the heart making it impossible. Keep in touch, your personality can overwhelm a person and I don't mean it as in Love."
Quote 7: "Hiya Baby! Now that it's the end of the year, I feel that it is okay to tell you my true feelings. I love you more than Mr. Deal. Boy, it feels good to get that out of my system. They really screwed up this yearbook; my picture should be dominating this page--[NAME]--BSA PRESIDENT. Oh, well. I work my butt off for this school and what do I get? NOTHING! Getting back to the serious side of things, it has been a great pleasure making your acquaintance this last semester of this here senior year. But, as long as we're being serious--who cares?! Sharing English classes with you has been a great joy. It's so sad to say goodbye to all of my friends here at South. I have one final question-- May I pick you nose? Your friend & mine, Uncle C. Fester"
Quote 8: "Greg-- So a penny saved is a penny earned-- I've never hear that before, and I'm going to have to write it down before I forget it. That's good, but who is BF? We should all get together and have some football games this summer. I still don't know how you can make baskets without looking. Well, in the words of my assassin victim-- Sweeeeeet!! (Guess who that is.)"
Quote 9: "May 31, 1983. This day will live in infamy! To my sweety gregy-poo-- Don't ask why I signed on [Dr Ton's] face. I guess I just can't tear myself away from that sexy pug of a nose. Well, it's been fun. Kissy kissy and all that good stuff!"
Quote 10: "Did you know Trentie & I traded identities when we were sophomores? Anyway, I hope I can be there when the sodomists disembowel your first-born child. I'm so tired of this school! I know you're thrilled to have known a Belcher scholar. I'm almost as excited, and I can tell the yearbook was equally impressed. In case you see this and don't remember what I look like, I'm on pages 202, 94, 95 and 122."
a) Jeff Arnold
b) Sara Canady
c) Andrew Homburger
d) Pam Chittivej
e) Eddy Peters
f) Tom Griffith
g) Priscilla Perkins
h) Laurie Strasburger
i) Scott Yates
j) Chris Young
k) Tom RIFFEL
Next Week: The answer key and more answers to burning questions.....
Significantly, I was kissed by Lisa Lombardi, Trentie Oliver, and (best of all) Scott Yates. Of course, being a selfish prick I did not return the kisses (sorry, gang). Trentie and I compared sexy bicep bulges (Trentie won; this was the bibulous part of the evening). I conversed with Eddy Peters about the Generic Car we had designed in 1982 and who owned all its subsidiary rights (lawyers are drawing up the papers).
Also talkety-talked with: John Afshar (not sure why), Mickey Mangold (Rotten Bratten lives in our hearts forever), Nancy Morrison (getting defriended on Facebook is fun!), Kim Shaak (The Impossible not a good vacation), Kelly McPherson and Cynthia Kirk (Tom Griffith is a dreamboat, yes?), Mandy McMurtry (Andy RIP), Martha Wells (even the Homecoming Queen had low self-esteem(!)), Marnie Rundiks (comparing ex's whee), Frank Herzog ("Herzogian pass" lives in our groins forever), Cecilia Johnson (us being married never gets old, Ziad), Dave Van Pelt (don't let Lisa see you eat that slider, buster!) and Mike George (all that toilet jamming makes people super fertile, apparently). Also, Andy ("I can remember William McKesson's phone number!") and Amy ("Die, small talk.") were involved in some capacity but I had too much Riffel (Outstanding Senior Kiss Ass) to remember it all clearly. RIFFEL
But enough of my jibberjabber. Time to play match the person with the writing they scribbled in my yearbook. Fun for no ages!
Quote 1: "Greg, Don't drop dead. (I know you won't but look on pg 30)."
Quote 2: "Greg, you awesome rock & roller you. Don't fry too many brain cells this summer. It was nice knowing ya." (Hint: Clearly this person didn't know me that well.)
Quote 3: "So, looks like I missed out on the Latin fun and such this year. Oh well. Please don't make anything sarcastic about this signature. Yeah, I'm paranoid." (Too late, jerk.)
Quote 4: "Greg, Mega-basketball summer uh-ah Maybe I'll see you at C.S.U. Probably not."
Quote 5: "Dear Greg, You have exclusive rights to the Generic car. Could Be worse, could Be raining. P.S. Mrs Perez is a bear!"
Quote 6: "Greg, You are a great person. Even if a person wanted to forget you they could not. Your humor and warmth and serenity make the course to the heart making it impossible. Keep in touch, your personality can overwhelm a person and I don't mean it as in Love."
Quote 7: "Hiya Baby! Now that it's the end of the year, I feel that it is okay to tell you my true feelings. I love you more than Mr. Deal. Boy, it feels good to get that out of my system. They really screwed up this yearbook; my picture should be dominating this page--[NAME]--BSA PRESIDENT. Oh, well. I work my butt off for this school and what do I get? NOTHING! Getting back to the serious side of things, it has been a great pleasure making your acquaintance this last semester of this here senior year. But, as long as we're being serious--who cares?! Sharing English classes with you has been a great joy. It's so sad to say goodbye to all of my friends here at South. I have one final question-- May I pick you nose? Your friend & mine, Uncle C. Fester"
Quote 8: "Greg-- So a penny saved is a penny earned-- I've never hear that before, and I'm going to have to write it down before I forget it. That's good, but who is BF? We should all get together and have some football games this summer. I still don't know how you can make baskets without looking. Well, in the words of my assassin victim-- Sweeeeeet!! (Guess who that is.)"
Quote 9: "May 31, 1983. This day will live in infamy! To my sweety gregy-poo-- Don't ask why I signed on [Dr Ton's] face. I guess I just can't tear myself away from that sexy pug of a nose. Well, it's been fun. Kissy kissy and all that good stuff!"
Quote 10: "Did you know Trentie & I traded identities when we were sophomores? Anyway, I hope I can be there when the sodomists disembowel your first-born child. I'm so tired of this school! I know you're thrilled to have known a Belcher scholar. I'm almost as excited, and I can tell the yearbook was equally impressed. In case you see this and don't remember what I look like, I'm on pages 202, 94, 95 and 122."
a) Jeff Arnold
b) Sara Canady
c) Andrew Homburger
d) Pam Chittivej
e) Eddy Peters
f) Tom Griffith
g) Priscilla Perkins
h) Laurie Strasburger
i) Scott Yates
j) Chris Young
k) Tom RIFFEL
Next Week: The answer key and more answers to burning questions.....
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Things To Do To Attract The Opposite Sex
1. Hold steady eye contact
A man should look deeply into a woman's eyes, even lingering and holding her gaze a bit too long after she's finished speaking. That way she'll never speak again, which is the goal.
For women, try this trick: Make eye contact, then allow your eyes to linger on his hairy balls. Look up again, as though he's caught you checking him out, and give a small smile that says Game on, caballero.
2. Give an engaging handshake
A basic strong handshake requires that you place your hand firmly and fully in the other person's, putting subtle pressure on the base of the thumb so you shut off their lower GI functions. Then snarl, "Nice to meet you too" as they dissolve in their own diarrhea. To make your handshake extra special, try placing your pointer finger lightly on the vein of the other person's genitals and then press down really, really hard. Watch their reaction as they call the police. They won't forget that handshake, that's for sure!
3. Find the perfect body position
Ladies, break convention and stand just a bit too close. Americans who don't know each other stand an average of 24 inches away, but close friends close the gap to about 18 inches so there's a lot of armpit hair involved. To make him tingle, position yourself so your thigh rubs against his forehead and his shoulder rubs your pineapple. Guys: If she's trying the tip above, go with it — you've already made a good connection! Otherwise, that kind of proximity could be threatening to a woman. Try releasing your grip on her throat just a little, so that she breathes raspily but not more than a gurgle. Keep the face red not blue, guys!
Three ways to get noticed at a party — and make sure you have fun:
1. Take a spot near the center
Forget the wallflower maneuver. See someone you like? Draw your weapon. But talk in a low tone because no one likes a high talker. Don't see anyone fuckable? Then walk straight to the center of the room — that's where gravity keeps the hotties. Before you know it, you'll have people forming a ring around you and you'll have to fend them off with a blowtorch. Ignore their screams of "Monster!" Let's face it, you're in the thick of the action, the center of attention, looking like the most interesting manwhore at the party. If tear gas is used, just kick your way out and thank the host for a great party.
Bonus: Here's a trick to appear popular: smile and wave at an imaginary friend across the room. Then talk to your imaginary friend. Before you know it, you'll be going home with your imaginary friend. Maybe you'll get some head!
2. Connect with someone across a crowded floor
When you spot an attractive stranger walking in alone, chop them across the neck. I mean, who wants to compete for trim against an "attractive stranger"?
3. Become an instant best friend
Now that you're chatting, there's one simple trick to make a warm connection that is often skipped. Make yourself sound like you come from a different world. How? Start squeaking and squawking with plenty of glottals and pained facial expressions. Get plenty of spit in there too. If she doesn't run away, then roll on the condom, caballero! If she does run off, then it's the neck chop for her. Remember, no paper trail.
Three ways to make sure the other person calls you:
1. Emphasize your similarities
From laughing at her cancer story to showing interest in her favorite type of noodle, you know you need to communicate your connection. A subtle way to enhance the effect is to shift from simple responses such as "uh-huh" and "no shit" to more empathetic phrases such as "Oh, I can see the infinite loneliness in your eyeballs" or "Wow, did you just blow dirt?" Steer clear of touchy-feely emotional comments. Not only do those come across as too personal, but you don't want to violate any restraining orders. I mean, who can keep track of them all anymore?
2. Assign a pet name
Women love being called "toots."
3. Provide an excuse to meet again
Steal her purse. Later when you meet up at the police station you can share a funny story. And be sure to tell her how much you like her taste in handbags. But don't sound gay about it, faggot.
And the #1 way to seem irresistible:
1. Seal the deal with some physical contact
"During one of the early encounters I had with my future husband, he said something funny and I threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug, saying You're so funny!' You could practically see his eyes widen as it dawned on him that he wouldn't have to pay for sex, at least at first. It was true love." Hugs may not always work. But when they do, see if they can get away!
The approach for men is a bit different, because of the law. As you help her into her coat, gently lift her hair out of the way and then wipe your greased up hands across her tits. If the opportunity to be creepy doesn't arise, do something that conveys how thoughtful you are by waving a knife around. Hell, just tell her to get in the car already and not make a sound. Romance really isn't as hard as people make it out to be.
A man should look deeply into a woman's eyes, even lingering and holding her gaze a bit too long after she's finished speaking. That way she'll never speak again, which is the goal.
For women, try this trick: Make eye contact, then allow your eyes to linger on his hairy balls. Look up again, as though he's caught you checking him out, and give a small smile that says Game on, caballero.
2. Give an engaging handshake
A basic strong handshake requires that you place your hand firmly and fully in the other person's, putting subtle pressure on the base of the thumb so you shut off their lower GI functions. Then snarl, "Nice to meet you too" as they dissolve in their own diarrhea. To make your handshake extra special, try placing your pointer finger lightly on the vein of the other person's genitals and then press down really, really hard. Watch their reaction as they call the police. They won't forget that handshake, that's for sure!
3. Find the perfect body position
Ladies, break convention and stand just a bit too close. Americans who don't know each other stand an average of 24 inches away, but close friends close the gap to about 18 inches so there's a lot of armpit hair involved. To make him tingle, position yourself so your thigh rubs against his forehead and his shoulder rubs your pineapple. Guys: If she's trying the tip above, go with it — you've already made a good connection! Otherwise, that kind of proximity could be threatening to a woman. Try releasing your grip on her throat just a little, so that she breathes raspily but not more than a gurgle. Keep the face red not blue, guys!
Three ways to get noticed at a party — and make sure you have fun:
1. Take a spot near the center
Forget the wallflower maneuver. See someone you like? Draw your weapon. But talk in a low tone because no one likes a high talker. Don't see anyone fuckable? Then walk straight to the center of the room — that's where gravity keeps the hotties. Before you know it, you'll have people forming a ring around you and you'll have to fend them off with a blowtorch. Ignore their screams of "Monster!" Let's face it, you're in the thick of the action, the center of attention, looking like the most interesting manwhore at the party. If tear gas is used, just kick your way out and thank the host for a great party.
Bonus: Here's a trick to appear popular: smile and wave at an imaginary friend across the room. Then talk to your imaginary friend. Before you know it, you'll be going home with your imaginary friend. Maybe you'll get some head!
2. Connect with someone across a crowded floor
When you spot an attractive stranger walking in alone, chop them across the neck. I mean, who wants to compete for trim against an "attractive stranger"?
3. Become an instant best friend
Now that you're chatting, there's one simple trick to make a warm connection that is often skipped. Make yourself sound like you come from a different world. How? Start squeaking and squawking with plenty of glottals and pained facial expressions. Get plenty of spit in there too. If she doesn't run away, then roll on the condom, caballero! If she does run off, then it's the neck chop for her. Remember, no paper trail.
Three ways to make sure the other person calls you:
1. Emphasize your similarities
From laughing at her cancer story to showing interest in her favorite type of noodle, you know you need to communicate your connection. A subtle way to enhance the effect is to shift from simple responses such as "uh-huh" and "no shit" to more empathetic phrases such as "Oh, I can see the infinite loneliness in your eyeballs" or "Wow, did you just blow dirt?" Steer clear of touchy-feely emotional comments. Not only do those come across as too personal, but you don't want to violate any restraining orders. I mean, who can keep track of them all anymore?
2. Assign a pet name
Women love being called "toots."
3. Provide an excuse to meet again
Steal her purse. Later when you meet up at the police station you can share a funny story. And be sure to tell her how much you like her taste in handbags. But don't sound gay about it, faggot.
And the #1 way to seem irresistible:
1. Seal the deal with some physical contact
"During one of the early encounters I had with my future husband, he said something funny and I threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug, saying You're so funny!' You could practically see his eyes widen as it dawned on him that he wouldn't have to pay for sex, at least at first. It was true love." Hugs may not always work. But when they do, see if they can get away!
The approach for men is a bit different, because of the law. As you help her into her coat, gently lift her hair out of the way and then wipe your greased up hands across her tits. If the opportunity to be creepy doesn't arise, do something that conveys how thoughtful you are by waving a knife around. Hell, just tell her to get in the car already and not make a sound. Romance really isn't as hard as people make it out to be.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Tips For Successful Online Dating
Listen up, guys--if you're wondering why you're not getting as much interest online as you'd like, let's take a closer look at your profile. Here's my list of seven common mistakes men make, and, if you're guilty of any of them, use our quick, gal-friendly fixes to get the online spooge you deserve.
Profile problem #1: An unappealing username
Avoid handles like "successfulguy" or "downtoearth68" because who would believe that? Woman know you are full of shit, so you might as well let it projectile from every orifice!
Female-friendly fix: Usernames like "mommydiaper" or "welloiledtaint77" or "rapist" will enhance your profile immediately--and your pants!
Profile problem #2: Posting a resume instead of a profile
Mentioning how you mowed lawns as a kid, and now as an adult, is really not the way to get chicks (unless you work on a poultry farm). Sure, scraping diarrhea from the bathroom stalls at the airport tells a prospective date that you know how to get shit done, but women want to hear about your emotional side too. Don't have one? No problem, just say you have Asperger's! LOL
Female-friendly fix: Aside from a few funny anecdotes about finding feces in the shape of Swoosie Kurtz, leave the chit-chat about your 9-to-5 for the grinding agony of marriage. Instead, focus on what you do when you leave the office--shake out the cramp in your shallow-grave-digging hand!
Profile problem #1: An unappealing username
Avoid handles like "successfulguy" or "downtoearth68" because who would believe that? Woman know you are full of shit, so you might as well let it projectile from every orifice!
Female-friendly fix: Usernames like "mommydiaper" or "welloiledtaint77" or "rapist" will enhance your profile immediately--and your pants!
Profile problem #2: Posting a resume instead of a profile
Mentioning how you mowed lawns as a kid, and now as an adult, is really not the way to get chicks (unless you work on a poultry farm). Sure, scraping diarrhea from the bathroom stalls at the airport tells a prospective date that you know how to get shit done, but women want to hear about your emotional side too. Don't have one? No problem, just say you have Asperger's! LOL
Female-friendly fix: Aside from a few funny anecdotes about finding feces in the shape of Swoosie Kurtz, leave the chit-chat about your 9-to-5 for the grinding agony of marriage. Instead, focus on what you do when you leave the office--shake out the cramp in your shallow-grave-digging hand!
Profile problem #3: Sounding too
picky about your match
Chances are, when you type in the ideal age, height, and build of your perfect match, you're overlooking how their skin as a lamp shade may not match the rest of living room decor. I mean, THINK FIRST, guys. So always ask for a skin swatch before you get too far in the dating process. It only makes sense.
Female-friendly fix: Don't demand they put the lotion in the basket on the first date, or they get the hose. Also, try to hide your prosthetic limb(s). They can find that out later in the sack! *nudge, nudge*
Profile problem #4: Negative comments about past relationships
Don't talk endlessly about the "one that got away." That's for the police to worry about. Instead, focus on the right three-hitch topsail knot or those handcuffs with the funny spring-lock.
Female-friendly fix: Turn any of your negative statements about corpse-eating into positives. Instead of saying "The thigh is my favorite part," which translates to, "I'm a picky eater," try, "I love all of you, from your eyeballs to your toe meat." P.S. Save the details about your exes until the plea bargain phase.
Chances are, when you type in the ideal age, height, and build of your perfect match, you're overlooking how their skin as a lamp shade may not match the rest of living room decor. I mean, THINK FIRST, guys. So always ask for a skin swatch before you get too far in the dating process. It only makes sense.
Female-friendly fix: Don't demand they put the lotion in the basket on the first date, or they get the hose. Also, try to hide your prosthetic limb(s). They can find that out later in the sack! *nudge, nudge*
Profile problem #4: Negative comments about past relationships
Don't talk endlessly about the "one that got away." That's for the police to worry about. Instead, focus on the right three-hitch topsail knot or those handcuffs with the funny spring-lock.
Female-friendly fix: Turn any of your negative statements about corpse-eating into positives. Instead of saying "The thigh is my favorite part," which translates to, "I'm a picky eater," try, "I love all of you, from your eyeballs to your toe meat." P.S. Save the details about your exes until the plea bargain phase.
Profile problem #5: Breezing
past the essay section
Playing the silent, psycho type doesn't translate well online. Even if it's meaningless jibber-jabber or you're speaking in tongues or channeling Chthulu, fill up that essay section! Women want to know you are utterly insane, and that you like to cuddle.
Female-friendly fix: Stop putting pressure on yourself to conform to "society." It won't work anyway. Let your readers know about the voices in your head, about the blank times after a "date," and your plans to open your own stationery shop with cards made of organs.
Playing the silent, psycho type doesn't translate well online. Even if it's meaningless jibber-jabber or you're speaking in tongues or channeling Chthulu, fill up that essay section! Women want to know you are utterly insane, and that you like to cuddle.
Female-friendly fix: Stop putting pressure on yourself to conform to "society." It won't work anyway. Let your readers know about the voices in your head, about the blank times after a "date," and your plans to open your own stationery shop with cards made of organs.
Profile problem #6: Posting a
shirtless photo
This is actually not a problem. In fact, try to show as much of that delicious chassis as you can, men. And show off a lot of pube action too. Dyed pubes shaped like a juggalo? All the better!
Female-friendly fix: Let's face it, guys, not every woman wants to know about your inches, but most of them do. This is where the metric system comes in
handy: advertise that you have a 25 centimeter "monster" and watch as your
readers run to the conversion tables, panting! (Describing your shaved balls won't hurt either.)
Profile problem #7: Being overly
romantic
Women love romance, right? Wrong.
They want to be tossed around like a rag doll--and not one of those kiddie ones
either, a full-size one. So emphasize your upper body strength. That lets your
readers know you can throw them like a can of garbage clear across the alley!
Female-friendly fix: Work
on those lats and those delts, men! Get 'em until they pop out those squiggly
veins and be sure to lather them with scented oils. Then shave your eyebrows, get scrotal implants, and have THUG LIFE tattooed on your chest. Now you're ready for love!
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