What The Hell Is Going On In Japan?

The time has come for me to admit I have no fucking clue what they’re up to over in Japan: The music, the TV shows, the women…they might as well be an alien species. Have you sat down and tried to watch one of those Anime Cartoons? If you’ve really no better way to waste thirty minutes of your life, I have a suggestion: Buy a cork screw and heat it to approximately 400 degrees. Then jam it in your eye socket until you hit bone. Because you’re better off hunting through the discount bin in Davy Jones’ Locker looking for an eye-patch that’s really “you.”

On a side note, one of my friends came up with an idea for a can’t-miss concept band: Pirate Metal. They’d play shows up and down the wharfs, rocking out with super up-beat metal versions of Sea-Shanties. Can’t you just imagine a lead singer with a mic looped through his hook? I even typed up a Wanted Ad:

Wanted: recovering amputee to front Sailor-Metal Band. Peg leg and prosthetic arm a plus. Extra consideration will go towards candidates who “lost their eye in a grog-house fight with a Turk.” Must be willing to work with Parrot.

Sorry, I’m easily distracted. What was I talking about? Oh yeah! The Japanese! Ordinarily, I love Adult Swim on Cartoon Network. But between those Anime shows, Tom Visits the Mayor, and those reruns of Saved by the Bell that they’re running, I’m seriously considering switching to Comedy Central. Anime is unwatchable.

I dated a girl who was into Anime. I even went as far as downloading a bunch of the X-Rated stuff for her. She was enthralled. I have no clue why. Here’s a typical moment from a Japanese Cartoon:

A girl is trying to break into prison. So she whistles and a squirrel the size of an autistic kid’s head jumps out of the tree and attacks the guards.

“What the fuck is that?” I demanded
“Oh…that’s sort of her pet squirrel.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that? That thing’s never been on screen before. And who keeps squirrels as pets? Squirrels that are trained to attack people? If you’re looking at beefing up the home security, why would you want an attack squirrel? Wouldn’t a dog make more sense?”
“I don’t know…they never really explain it.”

And by the way…what’d the deal with every woman in Japanese Cartoons wearing bras that are, conservatively, quadruple G? They are, in the words of Celia Hodes of Weeds, “Freak show big. So large that smaller breast want to orbit them.” I’ve never seen a Japanese girl larger than a B. David Spade has bigger tits, ok? Trade in your training bras and give up the dream.

By far the weirdest thing produced by the Japanese, however, is the Porn. Look, I’m a guy with the normal appetites. Sometimes I like my videos a little raunchy. It’s not like I’m running home to download videos of choir practices. Go ahead and slap that ass! Give her a Pearl Necklace! It's all a fantasy, anyway.

A man can only go so far, however. That's why I’ve stopped downloading Japanese porn. Because no matter how kinky the porn you’re looking for, anything made by our rice-eating brethren to the east is assured of being 900% filthier. I think they’ve given up any straight fucking. Anytime you download a Japanese clip you’re guaranteed to see a video involving 12 live eels, penis warts, and a bathtub full of feces. Or a ten year-old girl getting skull-fucked by a 600 pound ape with Herpes. Or...well, you get the idea.

In college I knew this girl who desperately wanted to be Japanese. She spoke it, she read about the culture, she gave herself a Japanese name...she even refused to date guys who weren’t from there! And she was a skinny white girl from Upstate New York! Apple Pie and Hotdogs are more exotic than her. At any rate, I was out in the hall chatting with a bunch of our mutual friends and her when she slammed on me about something. I nodded laughed and made a mental note to get revenge. A few minutes later she said something that I asked her to repeat.

“I said, ‘I’m an egg.’ You know, white on the outside, yellow on the inside.”
“Oh.” I replied. “I thought it was because I’d get salmonella if I ate you raw.”

Hard Work And The Secret To Drinking

I think hard work, as a practice, is falling out of fashion. Think about it: job performance, movie quality, musical ability, and oral sex are all at all-time lows. Kids are all emulating rap-stars and pop-sluts. For some reason, people actually care what Paula Abdul thinks about talent. Paula, you are to “talent” what Tom Cruise is to “not fucking psychotic.” I’ve seen more watchable performances on re-runs of “The Gong Show.” True story: when I was in kindergarten, a bunch of kids told me that she was a transvestite. I’m still waiting on some glimmer of evidence to convince me otherwise.

I was auditioning people for a band I was putting together and dealing with all sorts of people who just assume that they’re going to be rock stars. This type of thing really pisses me off.

One girl wouldn’t come in unless she was promised full creative freedom and was allowed to play bass and sing. Small problem: she could neither sing NOR play bass. One kid talked to me on the phone for a week before telling me the night before, “OK, small problem: I don’t technically own an instrument.” News flash: if you don’t own an instrument, you’re not a musician: you’re a homeless guy without a sign. You don’t see your mom going to work without her snatch, do you? How else would she score crack?

The story that really takes the cake, though, is a guy who emailed me a few times, missed two auditioned and disappeared for three months. Then, when he finally resurfaced called me to find out if I could “help score amphetamines.” At what other job would that seem even sort of ok? “Hey, I know I skipped my job interview, professor, but do you know a guy for H?”

Judging from continued success of the penis pill companies and the general insecurity of women everywhere, it seems like people want to be good in bed, but aren’t willing to put in any effort. Not long ago I wrote a post about why some men aren’t big on giving head. Ladies, if you want to get, you’ve got to give and seriously step up the effort.

I was with a fantastic woman over the weekend who knows how to treat a man right. But before that, I have to go back a long way to find anyone who was even ok at it. One of my best friends still believes that good head is a myth. Ladies, that should be an embarrassment to all of you. If any of you had an ounce of respect for your gender, you’d knock out your teeth, fly down here and prove him wrong.

Effort, ladies and gentleman, goes a long way. If you want something, you have to work at it. Try to enjoy whatever task you’re doing, or at least imagine it’s something you like. For example, I was out with one of my friends who had never done a shot before. She kept coughing and choking each time she took one down. Being the good pal that I am, I broke it down into an action I knew she’d done plenty of times before.

“There’s nothing to it.” I said. “Just close your eyes, open wide, and aim for the back of your throat.”

REALLY fake breasts

It’s not often that I eye-rape inanimate objects. I mean, I’m just not the “blow-up” doll type. I figure if you’re going to be attracted to fake anatomical parts, you’re better off dating a transvestite.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not slamming on fake boobs…at least not the kind you’re thinking of. I was walking through the mall over the weekend, when, for possibly the first time ever, I noticed the breasts of the mannequins in the stores. Yes, they were all perfect plastic sweater-cows, the likes of which can only be seen in virtually any porno movie, but there was something else: they all had nipples. Each mannequin was sporting what appeared to be 2” nipples poking through the shirt, dress or sweater that they were wearing. It was enough to make me stop mid-stride.

It wasn’t as if this was a lingerie store, either. They were selling blouses and generic women clothing, which has definitely gotten racier over the years, but still…nipples? Why would anyone need to see that? It’s not like men were going to be buying the clothing because they thought the mannequins were hot. And why would women want to wear stuff that showed off their nipples? I mean, if they wanted to do that, they’d be better off sporting body paint.

What scares me most about the nipple development is not that I know that eventually 12 year old girls are going to assume that flashing is trendy. What concerns me is that I know that it will never stop here. Mark my words, three years from now I’ll be walking by a men’s department where a mannequin is sporting a full, 12” hard on. It’ll be dressed in a pink button-down shirt, halfway open, to show off enough golden chest-hair to weave a hut for a village of freezing Eskimos. Beige khakis will spill down into sandals and one hand will be casually holding a tennis racquet. But there, unmistakably, unavoidably, undeniably will be a giant, foot-long erection.

I imagine that even through the pants, it would be obviously circumcised. I only hope that by that time, they’ll have the technology to make the throbbing of it’s many noticeably veins fully realistic. Otherwise, what would be the point of dressing up a giant cock in dress pants?

Clothes are meant to cover your body. If you’re THAT into flashing your breasts to the entire world, give it up and just start going topless. Selling clothes using a mannequin that has blatantly obvious nipples is the equivalent of making cereal boxes with a fat dude taking an enormous shit right on the cover.

The fact that they have anatomically-correct mannequins doesn’t freak me out. What I’m really curious about, however, was the first mannequin manufacturer who said, “Damn it, Rupert! We need to make our mannequins with nipples. HUGE nipples. Think ‘porn star drowning in ice-water’ big.” What was the first company that didn’t immediately tell that guy to pack his shit up and get the fuck out?

I guess what the whole thing has taught me is that by the time my daughter (provided I ever ever have one) is 15, she’ll be hurrying off to school wearing nipple-tassels and a thong to show off her clit-piercing.

And people wonder why parents flip out and kill officials at little league games…

My Boycott Of Good Taste

I think that technology has peaked. It appears that there are no possible advancements left to make. At least that’s what razor advertisements have led me to believe.

About six years ago, there became a distinct new trend in the way they try to sell razors to men. It went from “if you shave, you’ll be swimming in pussy” to “Never in the history of mankind has any invention EVER been as revolutionary as this.” Essentially, razor companies are telling you that before their latest product, man was squatting in caves, masturbating furiously and eating bugs.

The change coincided with the release of the first shaving implement that had three blades. I sort of tune out when these commercials come on now, but from what I gather, they’re now up to 79 blades.

“The first 12 trim hair, the next 23 smooth cartilage and ligaments, the next 21 cut bone, while the remaining 23 manicure brain and spinal chords for the closest shave in history. Gentlemen, welcome to ‘The Guillotine.’”

I don’t mind that people are innovating, but come on. I think we’re overselling the evils of facial hair. I remember when I first saw advertisements for the “Mach 3.” The actual line that they used in the commercial was, “Our team of scientists has completed a breakthrough.” THEY ADDED ANOTHER BLADE TO AN EXISTING PRODUCT. It’s the equivalent of adding soap to a rope. Under what conditions do you imagine they’d need a “team” of “scientists”? I can see it now: 20 scientists in lab coats huddled around a blackboard.

“Now I know we should add something to the razor, but what?”

“Sandpaper!”
“Herpes!”
“Tapeworm!”
“Rotting cod!”

The commercials would ordinarily be enough to launch me into a boycott of the entire shaving industry. If I had the capabilities, I’d be walking around like the fourth member of Z.Z. Top. Unfortunately, I have the misfortune of being facial-hair retarded. I’m 26 and I STILL don’t have to shave anything from my bottom lip to my neck. Basically, when it comes to facial hair I can grow bitchin’ Mutton Chops or nothing at all. I may have no chance of understanding fashion, but I’m not ready to completely give-up and start dressing like a Dickens’ character…yet. On the other hand, the four bladed razors have been in stores for a good year and a half now. When they release the fifth blade, I may have to take my anger out on myself and the general public. I’ll just resign myself to having strangers come up to me on the street asking for more gruel.

Men are all blind to how bad their facial hair looks. A man could have the skankiest, ugliest, scraggliest child-molester mustache in the world and he’d still think he looked good. Come on, you KNOW Hitler thought he looked like a pimp.

For example, I was walking through the mall with two of my friends. We’d been ambling around for a while before one of them commented, “You know, we’ve been hanging out all afternoon and neither of you guys said anything about my mustache!”

I replied, “You mean you’re doing that on purpose? I just assumed you were letting yourself go!”

Hey, what are friends for?

Very Bad Things

The subject of “bad sex” recently came up in a conversation with my friends. Bad sex does exist for men, believe it or not and it can be caused by any number of factors. I guess I’ve been pretty lucky in my choices of women to only have had one absolute dud.

Generally, I pride myself on being able to read a woman’s sexuality. Somehow, I can look through a room full of women and pick the girls who genuinely LOVE sex. Sort of like Christopher Walken’s character from The Dead Zone.

“Wait…Tomorrow…you will get up…put on garters…black ones…and have the overwhelming urge for…REVERSE COWGIRL.”

It’s a gift that I try to use for good and not evil. Generally, I fail miserably.

At any rate, my ability to follow the old “divining rod” had steered me right in the past. Alas, every streak comes to an end.

As I stated in my “Dating Resume” I don’t discriminate based on religion or skin color. I’m an equal opportunity lover. So the girl I was seeing seemed fair enough. She wasn’t the shapeliest of individuals, but she had a cute face and a good sense of humor. Both of those things go a long way in my book. Essentially, she was a solid 6 in appearance with great personality.

I was ok with everything, until things started to get heated between us. I read somewhere that women have special garments that “lift and separate.” Apparently, I had no idea exactly how much lifting and separating was possible these days. When I saw her naked she had slipped from a 6 to a 3. It was a horror scene. Her stockings and panties must have been sown from reinforced steel. I'd seen better definition and muscle tone in waterbeds.

Despite that, I’m nothing if not determined. I’d already gotten this far and I decided that the least I could do was suck it up and take one for the team. “Do some charity work” as the kids say. If I had known what I know now, I would have cut and run right there.

I separate pubic hair in three distinct categories:

• Shaved
• Trimmed
• Julius Irving, Circa 1975

What I got, however, was totally unexpected. The only way I can really describe it is as a sort of pubic mullet. Generally, when you come across a girl who’s got a horrible 70s bush, you can sort of let it go saying to yourself, “Well, she doesn’t know any better. She’s not trying to do anything fancy down there.” But this…how could you NOT notice that. It looked as if a sweaty Cory Feldman was lying on her lower thighs and trying to eat her stomach.


I knew it was time to cut my losses when I had to grab her back-fat to pull her ass up high enough for doggy style. Let’s just say that the tread on her tires was completely gone. I’ve been down slip and slides with better grip.

Eventually, I decided that enough was enough and I took the easy way out: I faked an orgasm.

This alone should give you an idea about the level of desperation I had reached. Women, I now understand your pain. There was no way I was going to get off and all I wanted was the opportunity to pack up what was left of my self-respect and die in a hole somewhere.

I drove home in dead silence. I couldn’t even stand to have the radio on. Every now and then I would realize that I was chanting something: “Not clean! NOT CLEAN!” 40 minutes of hot shower did little to scrub away the horror of it. For months afterward, I woke up sitting bolt upright with icy sweat dripping down my body.

Basically, I no longer fear death.

I guess what I’m saying here is that the key element in choosing a partner, much like in drinking, is to know your limit. Eventually, you have to realize that the dream is dead and there are just some horrors out there that man is not meant to face. I know, I know. There are nights when you just want to get ripped and only have money for Avocado Schnapps. But sometimes, it’s just better to keep your self-respect.

Girls Who Want Me...Dead

I’ve decided that the main difference between how men and women view relationships is optimism and pessimism. Allow me to elaborate.

Men tend to assume that there are limitless possibilities in the dating pool. A while ago I said that if a guy brings a great girl over to meet his buddies, the buddies say to themselves, “I got to get me a girl like that.” The key word here is LIKE. In a man’s world, there’s always the possibility that someone better might come along. I think secretly all men are assuming that eventually something better will come along. This might be why some men are loath to commit. Deep down, we know that the world is a big place and there will always be women who don’t know better than to date us.

Women on the other hand think that the dating pool is more like a dating puddle. In a woman’s eyes there are, at any given time, no more than 78 datable men in the entire continental U.S. In the event that one is encountered, they must be pounced on and locked down at all costs. It doesn’t matter if he’s dating someone else. Employers, life-long friends, family members: they’re all are nothing more than obstacles standing between what should rightfully be yours.

I’m endlessly amused by women who accuse men of being mean-spirited. When a guy has a problem with another dude, they fight. They knock each other’s teeth out then buy a round for the loser. End of fight.

When women have problems, the whole thing becomes an entirely new level of nasty. A spat between females means spending the remainder of your existence into grinding your opponent into the dust. The idea is to smile to their face, but work behind the scenes to destroy their self-esteem, friendships, employment opportunities, and credit record. When a woman makes enemies, she won’t rest until her opponent dies broken, fat, miserable and alone.

Some people might think I’m over-reacting. Turns out I have a story.

A girl I dated (Let’s call her “Jill”) and I had some problems that led to me ending things. “What kind of problems?” you ask. Well other than decking my friend’s fiancé, being incapable of telling the truth, and having the sex drive of a rock, she was fine, I guess. At any rate, I broke up with her. All would have been ok, except she insisted on remaining friends. I tried to tell her, “Listen, if you want to stay friends that’s great. I’m all for that. But don’t just say you want to be friends and then do nothing but plot about getting back together.”

Of course, that’s exactly what she did. Regardless of what you ladies think, breaking up with someone is NO fun. What I soon discovered was that hanging out with Jill meant that each time I saw her I had to break up with her AGAIN. After the fourth time I completely flipped out.

In my defense, it was right towards the end of finals week. For some reason, I had decided that finals week was also the perfect time to start in with a new girl, who Jill knew nothing about. The result of these two activities was that I had gotten a total of about 6 hours sleep in the past week. I was in the middle of writing a 20 page thesis on “Post-Structuralist Theory and Modern Belief Systems” when I got an Instant Message from Jill.

“Hey. Don’t you think we were the cutest couple ever? Don’t you think that we could get back together maybe in a year or something after you’ve had a little space?”

I snapped. I’d told her a number of times that things were through and she just wasn’t getting it. So proceeded to point the obvious facts that she was:

1. Psychotic
2. Pathological
3. Terrible in bed
4. Had roughly the same build and beauty of a plank of wood.
5. In no way capable of emotion, love, honesty, improvement or understanding
6. Lacked a soul

I went medieval on her. I was wrong to do so.

Once a week later and then again a few months following, I sent her emails to apologize. I received no reply.

That had been my final semester at school, but when the year started up again I started hearing stories from my friends who still attended the university. Apparently, this girl had begun spreading the story to my old friends and professors that I had beaten her and given her an STD. Needless to say both stories were completely false.

I flipped out and called her. While it didn’t go well, I told her that I was sorry for the things I said at the end of our relationship and if she had any problems she could take them up with me directly.

I would have thought that the story would end here. Alas, it doesn’t. 5 years later, I found out from a friend that she (yes this is a direct quote) “prays and plots nightly for my pain, torture and lingering torment.”

I’ve had a lot of bad break-ups and arguments with people. But you know what? There are only a handful that I still keep grudges against. Of those few, there are none that I wouldn’t forgive if they came to me and said the right thing.

Fights, Feedback, and Fellatio...Well, Cunnilingus, Actually. But I Dig Alliteration!

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Impressing The Office With My Hot, Thick Meat

I was grilling during lunch today, when a guy from my office came up to me and said, “Dude, my grill is way bigger than yours. My grill is HUGE.”

I responded, “It’s not the size of the grill, it’s all about how you use it.”

“The classic response from the guy with a tiny grill.” He sneered.

“Yeah, but your big grill burns gas like nothing. I can cook all day with my little grill. Plus, I’m not trying to compensate for my dick size. Open wide and taste my sausage, bitch!”

It was just one of the many jokes involving “hot meat” made over lunch that completely annihilated any hopes of adhering to the company sexual harassment guidelines. It also reminded me of the interesting obsession that men have with their penises.

The whole “I have a bigger dick than you, therefore I’m more of a man than you” really peaked in high school. Back then, pretty much three quarters of everything spoken by a male was trying to convince the opposite sex that they were hung like porn stars. In retrospect, the logic that this would make you MORE attractive seems really, really bad. I somehow doubt any of the girls were itching to lose their virginity to Ron Jeremy. Also, the guys were all white boys from the suburbs. My guess is that their cocks reflected as much. What they should have done was not call attention to their genitalia. That way at least the girls wouldn’t have been so monumentally disappointed when they dropped their pants.

Early on in life, I realized that bragging doesn’t really impress women. So I only make dick jokes when I think it’s funny. You might say I like to walk softly and carry a big stick.

See, that was funny!

I have a friend who decided to take the opposite path. All he talked about was how tiny was. I remember one exchange between him and a girl that went like this:

“I swear I have the smallest dick in the world. The only thing shorter than my cock is a black man’s “To-Do” list.”

“Well, it’s not the size of the ship; it’s how fast you cross the Atlantic.”

“Yeah, but do you have any idea how long it takes to get to England in a row-boat?”

I’m just not convinced that women are falling for anything that a man says about his groin. Women are missing so many promised inches that they’re each entitled to more square feet than the Louisiana Purchase. Starving children in Somalia have been promised more undelivered meat. Taiwanese chicken farmers devastated by the bird flu have lost less cock.

You know, at this point in my life, I don’t really care about it any more. I mean, the kind word that I get now and then about my body is nice. But what I really prefer are compliment on my performance. Because the guys who still worry about the size of their grill, are completely missing the fact that the right spices, slow heat, and eating technique are way more important to a completely satisfying meal.

Espionage Of The Dating World

If my years of dealing with women have taught me nothing else, it’s to treat the flow of information as if it was the distribution of classified documents. Essentially, I want to be kept on a need to know basis. The reason is the same as why spies don’t want to know about stuff that doesn’t concern them: knowing too much can get you killed.

Women drama is sometimes caused by things virtually invisible to the male eye. Did you hold the car door open for your friend two weeks ago but not for her yesterday? Did you forget that she expressly told you last month that she doesn’t like pepperoni when you picked up a pizza for dinner? Did it slip your mind that sleeping with her sister was one of her “hot buttons”?

My point is that women like to freak out about things that, as a man, are completely imperceptible. I used to get concerned when a girl I was dating would get upset or passive aggressive or violent. Now I know better. At this point, my strategy is simply to ignore everything for as long as possible. The benefits of this policy are two fold:

1. If a problem is minor, it’ll blow over without me having to acknowledge it. This is MUCH better than me actually asking what’s wrong and screwing things up even worse by saying the wrong thing.
2. If we never argue about it, she never gets to say that she’s right. Arguing with a woman leads to losing. Losing leads to massive power shifts. Since we men tend to have little if any power in relationships, it’s better to keep what little influence and integrity we have left.

Besides, I can’t even count the times that I’ve asked a woman, who was obviously upset what was bothering her only to get the response, “Nothing. I’m fine.” I’m done playing that game. Why? Because if I do, I’ll never again be sure when a woman is telling the truth. It would forever be me wondering, “Did she REALLY mean that she didn’t want me to harvest her organs while she slept?” And who the hell can take that kind of uncertainty. Now I prefer to take everything at face value and when they explode because I wasn’t paying attention, I just say, “You said you were fine. I thought we could trust each other!!!”

The last time I fell for a girl’s, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine” line was back in college. I was dating a super hot chick that was generally really outgoing. We went out one night and I noticed that there was obviously something bothering her. She was sullen, gave short answers, and generally acted as though I’d violated her ass on international Glass in the Vaseline Day.

At the end of the night, back in my room I sat down with her and tried to get her to discuss what was wrong. It was about 3 in the morning and we had both already showered and changed. I was in bed, and she was in a chair pretending that solitaire was the most fascinating thing in the world. I argued with her for about 20 minutes, asking her to tell me what was wrong, and each time getting the answer, “I’m fine. I’m not mad. Just go to sleep.”
So finally, I stopped asking and closed my eyes. I was awakened about 45 minutes later when a shoe flew across the room and hit me in the head.

“What the hell?” I demanded, blearily.

“You fucking bastard!!!”

Apparently, after about ten minutes of silence, she had decided to unburden herself of her problems, along with some deeply personal revelations about her past and strong feelings for me. She had been right in the middle of some monumentally emotional confession about how her daddy didn’t love her…when I began to snore.

And I thought she was mad before I went to sleep…

(Rich) Girls Gone Wild

I was on E Skelton’s blog yesterday and I couldn’t help but run across one of his posts about Anna Benson. For those of you not familiar with this particular black hole of intelligence, taste and clothing (Anna Benson, not E Skelton), her claim to fame is being married to a mediocre pitcher for the Baltimore Orioles. She’s a former stripper who dreams of being a super model. Or so I gather.

On a side note, what the hell is the difference between models and super models? The job of a model is to walk down a runway, spin and then walk back. How can one person be better at that than another? What are the regular models doing? Just spinning the whole way out there? Do they get to the end of the runway and forget to stop? What the fuck?

Anyway, back to Anna Benson. E Skelton bemoans the fact that she’s become famous when she has no redeeming qualities to offer the world. He also says that she’s not all that hot.

She’s definitely a celebrity in the vein of Paris Hilton: a rich, dumb skank. I’m really not sure why people keep paying attention to her. I mean seriously, if releasing a poorly made sex tape on the internet is all it takes to get your own TV show and movie roles, where the fuck is my contract? All I got out of that was a lawsuit and a bad case of genital warts. On the other hand, it goes a long way towards explaining Motley Crue’s continued existence.

Here is all the thought I put into Paris Hilton: “wow, that’s one strung-out looking grasshopper.”

Still, Anna Benson doesn’t really piss me off nearly as much. Why? I have three words for you: Anna Nicole Smith. Anna Benson is a failed reality show and 50,000 Big Macs away from being spit out the bottom of the Porn Industry. Paris is no fun because she’s always going to have Daddy’s money. In 7 years she’ll be a whore dying of hepatitis, but she’ll still be rich. Anna Benson is much more fun because she has no idea that her life has already peaked. I keep rooting for her because the more successful she is now, the more entertaining her crashing and burning is going to be.

Besides…I think she’s hot. She falls into this whole category of “hot” that I have, and girls, don’t EVEN tell me that it’s an exclusively male view. I think she might be even more attractive because I know she’s borderline retarded and brings nothing to the table in terms of a personality.

Allow me to explain. Her exterior is about flawless, but inside, she hardly qualifies as human. This means that no matter what you did to her, it would be guilt free. Sort of like having sex with a really attractive insect who’d managed to get breast implants. I want you to understand, I’ve never really had any particularly outrageous sexual urges…but for her, I’d make an exception. I’d fuck her like the South fucked black people.

I know someone’s going to chime in and say, “How could you write such an awful thing.” Ladies, don’t even tell me that you’re all waiting to jump Brad Pitt because his tight, hot personality. I’ve sat with girls through movies before. The shit they say about men is WAY more sexist than the foulest stuff I’ve heard from guys. And I don’t blame you for it! I salute your crassness and I completely understand.

My friend has similar feelings for Jessica Simpson. He was telling me how hot she was and all the unprintable things he’d do to her if given half a chance.

“You know she’s an idiot, right? Like, roughly the same intelligence of a brain-damaged chimp?”

“I don’t care!” he answered. “Have you seen her ass? I’d fuck the stupid right out of her.”

Crude. But, oh so true.

Must See T.V.

I love Spanish television. American TV has somehow lost its way down a dead-end of plot, dialogue and production values. I’ve really no idea what the hell they were thinking with that. Spanish entertainment cuts through all that garbage and gets right to what the small screen is really about: unbelievably hot women parading around in sexy outfits, 24 hours a day.

I’m serious, watch a Spanish station for 30 seconds. It’s guaranteed that in that time they will show the most attractive woman you’ve ever seen. I really don’t know how they do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a soap opera, kids show, news desk, or soft drink commercial. It’s as if these stations have access to some special planet exclusively inhabited by females with perfect breasts.

I’m not sure why the U.S. hasn’t caught on to this. Why the fuck would I care about anything a bunch of washed up actresses and no talent comics have to say? Balls to that! I’m living proof that everyone does NOT love Raymond. Ray Romano can kiss my white ass.

Sure we have still have the monopoly on cartoons. I’ve been closely watching the progression of animated TV. Basically, it’s gone from kids programming to adult shows, to pushing the envelope on what can be shown or said on the air. I think I know where animated shows have to go next: HBO. We need a full-on anything-goes cartoon: cursing, nudity, graphic violence—all those things that American Entertainment does better than anyone else.

I know what a lot of people are going to tell me: they already have that! It’s called Anime. Listen, I don’t know what passes for entertainment in Japan, but those ass-wipe cartoons they’re shipping here aren’t going to cut it. I’m talking about a cartoon that actually has a plot.

I’ve never encountered a Japanese show that didn’t require a ten minute explanation by a diehard fanatic of the show in order for ANYTHING to be even sort of coherent. If you’re not watching with someone who’s been memorizing episodes for ten years, you’re essentially just watching stabbings set to epileptic color-changes and nonsensical screaming.

Why can’t the Japanese learn from the Spanish stations? I don’t even SPEAK Spanish, and I find it more enjoyable than anything on the major networks. Some would say that this is proof of how shallow I am. I like to think it’s a tribute to how well Telemundo does game shows. It’s programming that truly transcends language barriers. And soon it won’t even have to do that.

I strongly believe that this news story signals the end of all American Broadcasting with the possible exception of Sports Center (who the hell wants to watch Soccer highlights all day?). Today it’s our television, tomorrow it’s our government. Hey as long they bring their women, I’m ready to start wearing sombreros and riding a burro to work. Vive la revolution! Vive los television! Vive las tetas!

The Ultimate Concealed Weapons: Tampons

I think that there should be a flashing neon sign that flashes over each girl’s head. A special blinking light that goes off when they call, and a florescent red warning symbol that precedes each email sent by a member of the fair sex. Mostly it would be off. But 2-6 days a month, it should be a fucking bat signal.

I understand that some girls aren’t as regular as others and that it occasionally catches them unawares, but come on, ladies. Enough is enough. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been shut down by the menstrual cycle.

I want to make something clear: I have no problem with girls being angry, bitter and moody. God knows I’d be the worst one of them if I had to deal with anything close. I certainly don’t begrudge them the right to use their days of bitterness to lash out at the men in their life. They are free to abuse us as much as they want and blame their periods. Have at it ladies.

What DOES bother me are the times that women on their period decide to divulge the condition of their most desired of entrances. Without fail, the topic is not brought up until we’ve been making out for at least 30 minutes, I have her top off, and my balls are a color that’s downright unhealthy…like…imagine Papa Smurf with pneumonia.

What bugs me is that at no point during the night was the “sorry you can’t get ass tonight” topic brought up. Generally, what’s proceeded this moment is me picking her up, going to dinner, paying for some recreational activity, not to mention endless chatter that I’m some how supposed to understand and care about. At no point while I was wasting an evening that could be sent playing video games and downloading porn, paying for food in a vain attempt to shut her up, and pretending to care about her sister’s friend’s cousin did she mention that her cootch was redder than an Irish-haired communist.

Granted, it’s not the easiest tidbit to work in over dinner.

“I absolutely love your car. It’s the same color as the tampon I’m wearing right now.”

“That was a great dinner. Now my stomach’s as stuffed as vagina!”

“Wow, that’s some outfit. Speaking of rags, you’ll never guess what I’m on!”

I think women are trained to be ashamed of their bodies and it’s not something they like to talk about. More power to them. We men don’t like talking about your periods either. But just letting me know at the beginning of the night would be such a courtesy. I’m not even saying that I would cancel a date, but it would certainly allow me to realign my expectations of the evening. This way I don’t do 30 minutes worth of foreplay and go home with a desire to kill anything with an ovary.

Honestly, though, I don’t think women take enough advantage of their periods. Men want NOTHING WHAT-SO-EVER TO DO WITH A WOMAN ON THE RAG. We are willing to take endless amounts of abuse, blame and shit so long as it involves not being privy to the workings of a woman and her menstrual cycle. Maybe you girls could just start wearing pins to alert men of what you’re going through. During the days when you’ve got the pin on you could literally kill a guy and no one would care. As long as you let us know you're bleeding, every single man would instantly flee the crime scene. It’s the ultimate license to kill.

“You just stabbed that guy!”
“On the rag. I’m above the law, bitch!”

Men are just conditioned to put up with hell during those few days a month…up to a point. One of my friends asked a man who was getting divorced how long he’d been married. He considered for a moment and answered, “About 144 periods.”

Fear Of Flying

Airports and I have a weird relationship. On one hand I love traveling. On the other, I keep getting sucked into strange experiences each time I visit one. But I guess that I just sort of get involved in really bizarre adventures no matter where I go.

A few weeks after September 11th I had to fly to New York. For some reason, I was the only person in the world who figured out that flying was briefly going to be far safer than it had ever been before. Did everyone really think that terrorists were going to attack the same way twice? Give me a break. I’m just assuming they're going to use a bus next time to try to blow up the Lincoln Tunnel.

At any rate, I was a college kid at the time, traveling home with a duffel-bag full of dirty laundry. Now, if you know anything about being a college student, you know that if there’s a visit to the folks’ coming up, you don’t wash any clothing. At home, Cleaning clothes is a free activity and those quarters could be used for much greater purposes. Like beer. Or…ok, beer was pretty much all I bought.

Because all my day-to-day clothes were filthy enough to be classified as medical waste, I was forced to travel in my less-warn threads: the dress clothes. So there I was, low 20s, looking as if I was in my mid-teens, painfully white, and dressed in my best clothes when I was asked to step out of the line by a few angry looking security guard.

They took me aside and three security personal proceeded to drill me on my reasons for travel. “We’re going to have to search your bags, sir. Is there anything hazardous that you’re carrying with you?”

“That depends on your definition of ‘hazardous.’” I replied. “All I’ve got is dirty laundry, but at this point my socks might be classified as biological weapons.”

It was not the first time my humor went unappreciated. I doubt it will be the last.

I was searched before checking in, immediately after checking in, when I went through the metal detectors, once while waiting to board, and when they announced that they were going to do a few random bag-checks, you’ll never guess whose name they called.

At this point, I'd had more people had paw through my underwear than Jenna Jameson ever had. I was seriously considering how I could hide some anthrax so the security guards would stop looking so disappointed.

I think it’s good that they randomly search 5 people a flight. I think the idea is LESS good if they’re all going to be me.

The second time I came to odds with Airport Security was even stranger. I was a year out of college and decided to go up to visit my old school for the big party weekend. I left on a Thursday morning and, the second I set foot outside of work on Wednesday night I raised my hands in the air and yelled:

“I vow no liquid will pass my lips except alcohol from now until I step off the plane on Sunday night!”

Yea and it was so.

So four days later I arrived at Buffalo International Airport and walked up to the deli in the terminal. It was 8:15 in the morning, I hadn’t shaved in five days, I’d had a total of 10 hours sleep the whole trip so my eyes had more rings than a transvestite street-walker, and I was falling over drunk.

I somehow steered myself up to the counter.

“What’ll it be?” asked the clerk.

“Give me a cinnamon bun and a Heineken.” I demanded.

“Sir this is a dry county on Sundays. I can’t serve you alcohol.”

“What!!! This is an international airport! You’re not technically part of the county! That’s why you can sell tax-free items in the duty-free shop!”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

“I find this law to be discriminatory! I’m not Christian! Why the fuck can’t I get drunk just because religious zealots think consuming alcohol is insulting to Jesus?”

“I’m calling the manager.”

“Good! Call the manager! And tell him to bring me a fucking cinnamon bun and a Heineken!”

The manager somehow failed to be swayed by my arguments. Maybe it was because he wasn’t a lawyer. More probably it was because he hadn’t drunk 30 beers and a bottle of Jack over the course of the last 48 hours. Either way, the end result was that I was faced with a choice: fly home, or spend the night in solitary. Neither case involved me getting my beer, so I opted to avoid a prison record.

After considering my history at airports, I’m beginning to second guess saying that I wanted to have sex on an airplane. If I managed to fuck up something like buying a beer, imagine what could go wrong if I bent a girl over the sink of an airplane restroom. Somehow the words “International Incident” and “Federal Marshals with guns drawn” keep echoing through my head.

I Write The Greatest Song In History

There are certain groups of people who take themselves so seriously that it’s just entirely too much fun NOT to fuck with them. These are the individuals who are so into their thing that they’ve lost all perspective of the outside world. Much like the people who think that Mullets are still cool.

Among my favorite groups of people to insult are Ani DeFranco and Dave Mathews fans. Why? It’s not really because I hate the musicians themselves—it’s that people who listen to them have completely become brainwashed and incapable of any sort of judgment calls.

This is the conversation I’ve had at least 20 times with every single Dave Mathews fan I’ve ever spoken to.

Me: So what music are you into.
Dave Fan: Dave Mathews is GOD. GOD. You like Dave, right?
Me: eh…it’s not really my scene.
Dave Fan: You HAVE to hear this song off the new album. It’s AMAZING. It’s the greatest song EVER.
Me: yeah, I’ve heard him before. It’s really not my thing.

At this point the Dave fan shushes me and proceeds to play one of those lame acoustic numbers that really never goes anywhere. I politely pretend to listen.

Dave Fan: GOD, he’s so talented. Wasn’t that absolutely perfect?
Me: I told you, I’m not into this.
Dave Fan: No, you must not have heard it. Really listen.

Whereon the freak proceeds to play the same weak-ass whiny bitch-fest that I had already suffered through. At this point I usually get up and leave. Because the alternative is being stuck in an infinite loop of sucky music and a person in denial that they like sucky music. Dave fans are literally unable to accept that there are people out there who don’t think Dave Mathews is the second coming of Jesus—provided Christ One cried about his feelings all day and sang as if he was perpetually 5 seconds recovered from being kicked in the nuts.

Ani Defranco fans are similar. Every single Ani fan I’ve ever met speaks about her in a hushed tone. It’s as if they think she’s a god whose wrath you could awaken simply by breathing her name. Ani fans are the only people I’ve ever met who really take it personally if you say anything bad about their favorite musician. You can be joking around with them having a great time, but the second you say anything about Ani, forget it. It’s as if you just told them that you want to fuck their underage sister.

“Hey man. Ani isn’t just the greatest musician in the history of the world; she’s a hero, ok? She’s out there every day making the world better for all of us. It’s not cool, man. It’s NOT cool.”

At my college we had a girl who played at every single coffee-shop and open-mic. She had quite a following, too. Basically she would play bad Ani knock-offs while unwashed hippies applauded hysterically. The worst part about her act was that she would get up on stage and every single tune had a long preamble like:

“Ok, I wrote this song like two years ago when my fish died. It was then that I like totally realized that death is bad and stuff. So I was so sad and no one understood. Like, I tried talking to my parents and they were all like, ‘blah-blah-employment, blah-blah-snorting kitchen solvents, blah-blah hygiene.’ They totally didn’t understand that like, Flippy was like my soul mate and now he's gone. And not gone like the time I got sent to rehab for spending $15,000 of my parents money on acid, weed and Burning Man tickets. Like, gone forever. It was like, sad and stuff. So I wrote this song to really express like my emotions or something.”

Then she would sing the most horribly banal song you ever heard and the idiotic hippies who followed her around would applaud like they had just heard that washing your hair caused cancer.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat down and I wrote a song purely out of rage. I then proceeded to follow this hippie at coffee shops and sing the song over and over again. My tune was actually picked up by the college TV station. They ran a video of one of my performances over and over again. The name of the song was “Ani Fucking Sucks.”

Essentially, the song accused anyone who listened to Ani of being an idiotic, unwashed, talentless, drug-addicted hack who would never amount to anything past mooching from their parents and living off food stamps. The greatest part about the song wasn’t the stunned silences I’d get when I walked off the stage; it was that for months afterwards, I had Ani fans storming up and trying to reason with me.

“Man, you don’t get it. You should totally listen to her music and you’d see that she’s really just an amazing spirit. Why are you hating on such an inspirational goddess?”

My response was always the same.

“Because she’s a dirty, talentless skank. Get a job, hippie!”

Words Of Wisdom And Places To Get Busy

Some friends of mine were discussing the role of sex in marriage yesterday. They were talking about a trip one of them was taking that involved 10 days on a tropical island in a wedding party. She said something along the lines of, “Wooo, 10 straight days of sex. I LOVE being single.”

To which I responded, “Sex everyday? Isn’t that the point of getting married?”

Both my friends, who either are or have been married promptly burst into laughter.

OK, maybe I’m naïve about marital relations, but is the sex drop-off really that big? The longest relationship I was ever involved with lasted nearly two years. Granted, it’s not marriage and it’s not 20 years, but we had a LOT of sex. I mean, even by the end of the relationship we were on a pretty steady at least twice a day schedule. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be one of those old guys who has crazy sex until he drops dead at 93.

I’m not sure women realize who important sex is. And I’m not talking about just the physical aspect, either. Think about this way: you know those times when your man hold the door for you, or sends you flowers at work, or calls just to chat with you? It’s not REALLY the door, the flowers or the call that’s important. What gives you girls that gooey feeling is what those actions symbolize: that your man desires you and wants to make you happy. THAT’S the real issue of sex in relationships.

Mario Puzo, the genius who wrote The Godfather, said in his book Fools Die, “The first time a woman refuses to put out, it’s over. No excuses, no headaches. If a woman turns you down in bed, start looking for a new girl.” For the longest time, I thought that it was bullshit. Now I’m not so sure.

Looking back on the one girl who cheated on me (that I know of that is), I remember that she DID turn me down once. Maybe I should have listened to Puzo and packed up my shit right then.

Let me ask this: if your married sex life sucks, could it be that you’re just not with the right person? In the relationships that worked really well for me, neither one of us could keep our hands off each other. I’m not sure that familiarity could ever really destroy that. I imagine that there are always new places and positions to try, new outfits to be found…sex is really only as boring as you let it get.

In the off-chance I find married life considerably more G-rated than I anticipated however, I’ve decided to start compiling a list of places that I’d like to have sex. If any of my readers have other suggestions, please feel free to chime in.

1. Airplane. Yes, it’s probably uncomfortable beyond belief and requires that your date be extremely thin and flexible, but come on. Mile High Club. No quibbling, it’s something that should be on everyone’s list.
2. Dressing room at Victoria’s Secret. Why buy the garters when you can fuck your girl in them for free? I imagine the secret would be for the guy to stand in a shopping bag so his legs are not visible to people walking by.
3. Drive-In Movie Theater. OK, so I’ve already done this one…twice. But it’s fantastic! It gets two thumbs way up from Ehren.
4. Library. Maybe it’s because I used to work at one, maybe it’s the fact that it’s a place where people are supposed to be quiet, restrained and disciplined. Either way, it sounds like a shushed-good time.
5. Church. It’d have to be a catholic girl, though. As a Jew, it’d be nice to fuck a Christian for a change. Besides, I suspect that Jesus is getting tired of only getting to watch men fuck boys in his house.
6. At a National Landmark. Don’t really care whether it’s the Eiffel Tower, The Empire State Building, or Easter Island. I just want to make a post card that I’m SURE would cause a lawsuit from the Historic Society.

NASCAR and Walmart: Bane of American Society

Last week I heard a story that reawakened my hatred for NASCAR. For those of you who missed my rant on the subject, it’s definitely worth checking out. The story goes like this:

Apparently a winning driver accidentally said “shit” on the air during a victory speech, causing hundreds of angry letters to the station and the FCC. Apparently, it seems that a number of parents were incensed that a curse word was uttered while they watched TV with their kids. I guess they feel that this could potentially scar their kids for life.

At this point, I wanted to slap every single NASCAR dad who wrote in. I mean pimp slap. Open palm, right across those gap-tooth, inbred mouths, so hard their heads ring and those eyes well up with tears like the first time they sat on Uncle Ray-Ray’s lap.

Let me explain something: last week the same kids and parents got to see a guy killed live on TV. KILLED. As in, run over at 200 miles an hour. As in he no longer breathes. How the FUCK is that less damaging than hearing an adult yell a four letter word in a moment of joy?

This is the type of hypocritical bullshit that absolutely drives me nuts about this country. Here’s the deal: if you’re REALLY into protecting children from damaging influences, you’re not allowed to be pro-violence. No quibbling. It’s exactly the same beef I have with Walmart. Walmart sells guns, condoms but no CDs that contain any curse-words. Basically, they’re saying that it’s ok to kill people, and it’s ok to fuck people, but don’t you DARE write a song about killing or fucking people.

Walmart really sums up America for me: bloated, out-of-control, and completely over-run by rednecks.

Sometimes I get really bothered by the fact that it’s so uncool to care about anything these days. I think back to the 60’s and all the bands writing about serious controversial stuff: anti-war, anti-establishment, anti-government. Yeah the hippie movement burned out on weed, acid and the 70’s, but at least it was a generation that encouraged kids to be interested, empowered, and active. I think kids today are too interested in getting rich, getting laid, and sitting on their ass.

I think we need more angry role-models. It pisses me off when girls want to be like Paris Hilton and guys want to be like 50 Cent. Yeah, it’d be great to be rich, pretty, dumb, and slutty, but maybe it’s time that our generation set our goals a bit higher.

Ben Franklin and The Grain Industry Can Go Fuck Themselves

And now a phrase we, as a culture, don’t say nearly enough: DAMN YOU, BEN FRANKLIN!

Ben Franklin first came up with the wonderful idea of Daylight Savings back when he was working for France, and those damn farmers in America's Heartland have been holding the rest of us hostage ever since. I swear, I'm not sure I can take another year of these random time changes. That means you're all about 365 days away from a headline that reads:

Lunitic Arrives Hour Late At Ben Franklin's Tomb. Arrested For Descrating The Grave Of Founding Father.

Every single spring I wake up one morning and find that I’m an hour late for everything. You can’t do that to me! I have enough trouble trying to keep my life together as it is! I understand that according to Einstein, time is relative. It shouldn’t be a variable in day to day life, though! Lazy, shirking farmers! Let it never be said that the Grain Industry isn’t trying to mercilessly screw us. And by “us” I mean “me.”

Twice a year, at daylight savings time, I have the same thought: “That’s it! I’m moving to one of those loser states that doesn’t believe in changing time around for the convenience of some inbred hillbillies.” Then I get angry, and consider starting a profession that can make innocent people comply with completely outrageous demands.

This post is to declare myself the official founder and Dictator-For-Life of the Guild of City-Dwelling Mystics: we provide rational thought, irrational anger, and general discontent about our entire society, while contributing nothing of value of our own. For tax-reasons, this organization doubles as a religion.

Now on to the good stuff. Our list of demands is as follows:

• If the grain industry gets to change time itself, we demand the right to change quantities to suit our every whim. Paychecks, goods, services, and distances are all fair game.
• We also demand the right to declare up to 3 “Honorary Saturdays” a week. A declaration is valid up until 2 A.M. of the day in question. No formal announcement is needed. Everyone else will have to learn to adjust their schedules accordingly.
• Each month, the members of our guild will receive a tribute consisting of: a hogshead of brown M&Ms, four pennywhistles, two suckling pigs, and “a comely lass of virtue true.”
• We, as an organization, find it inconvenient to memorize a lot of names. Forthwith, anyone with a name beginning with the letters “R” “K” “S” or “W” must immediately change their names to “Gladys.” Men and women alike will have to suffer on this one.
• Each member of the GOCDM have decided that spelling shall change, based on the time of year. Each month, we will add, remove, or alter the alphabet, based on our convenience. For example, for the remainder of the day, the letters “Q” “B” and “O” shall cease 2 exist. Als, the letter “F” will hereby be replaced with “C.”

I think that ur demands are relatively simple, reasnable and ratinal. Rememer, it’s nt like we’re asking yu t change time itself.

CUK YU, EN CANLKIN AND ALL YU LAZY CUCKING CARMERS!!!!