Ehren's Secret To Filling Out A Pair Of Pants

I am, at heart, a giant packrat. I’m not sure why. When I was a kid, I used to comb garage sales and tag sales looking for cool stuff that I could bring back to my room to hide in some dusty corner to never be looked at again. If asked, I produce essays I wrote as far back as sixth grade.

My closet is a full-blown disaster area. Sure I have clothes in there…somewhere. But I also have:

• Every single Nintendo Videogame system ever produced.
• Shoeboxes filled with games for said systems. Hey, you never know when I might be filled with the over-powering urge to play Duck Hunt or Zelda 1.
• A blender and a rotisserie oven (Because what kind of a party is it without margaritas and a roast chicken?)
• My comic book collection. (This is kept under the vain hope that I had when I first bought them: If I keep them long enough, they’ll eventually be worth money. At this point, however, I’m beginning to think I’d have been better off collecting dirt.
• My baseball and basketball card collection. (Bought and kept under the same assumption as the comic books. Hey, they might not be worth much now, but when Grant Hill finally becomes the Hall Of Fame player he was projected to be out of college, I’ll be sitting pretty.)
• Three rubber chickens.

My closet is bad. I know this. However, the place where my pack-rat compulsion is damaging can be seen every time I have to reach for my wallet. In the course of my lifetime, I’ve carried a grand total of three wallets. The first one went off the side of a canoe when I was in 7th grade. The second was supposed to have been leather, but I carried it so long that I actually wore it down to cloth. The thing was, conservatively, the size of one of those bibles that soldiers carry onto the battlefield. Roughly the size of an autistic raccoon’s head.

I used to keep EVERYTHING in my wallet. And I do mean everything. I had ticket stubs to “Water World,” “Batman Returns,” and "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" And when you’re carrying the county Yellow Pages around in your pants, it’s impossible to keep it in your back pocket. If I did, I’d be perpetually sitting at a 45 degree slope. So instead I was always sporting what looked to be a very square, off-center, flaccid cock swinging around one side of my pants. I don’t care what you say: some women DO think that’s hot.

The wallet I carry now is five years old and I still refer to it as the “new.” I made a conscious effort when I got it to clean out the shit I don’t need on a day to day basis (naturally, I saved it all in my room, just in case I ever need to prove that I sat through a terrible Kevin Cosner film in the late 80s). But that was five years ago and I’m beginning to think that it’d be easier to just haul a mattress around with me to hide my money under.

Let’s face it: men have a lot of shit to haul around: cell-phone, money, change, business cards, credit cards, keys, condoms, knives, flashlights, guitar picks, power tools…and yet we have no socially acceptable way to carry everything. Say what you want, but no woman respects a dude who carries a purse. I used to wonder what the fuck anyone could be carrying that would necessitate a fanny pack. Now I know. The only two things you can't carry around with a fanny pack are your balls and self respect. Seriously, if you’re over the age of 7 and you carry a fanny pack, immediately go out to the garage and hang yourself with it. We need to get you out of the gene-pool before you contaminate future generations.

So I began thinking: Who is the only dude I’ve ever seen that carried a bunch of shit around in a manner that was cool?

Batman.

So I believe I have what will be the next big thing in Men’s Fashion: Utility Belts.

Think about it: secret compartments for your phone, wallet, business cards, and even about 70 other things that you’d never find a use for. Like some of those smoke bombs that let you disappear. Laugh if you want, but I guarantee that your boss will take your raise request with a whole new degree of earnestness if you make your demand and then vanish in a cloud of smoke.

Until then, for the last time people: Yes, that is my wallet in my pants. And no, I’m not happy to see you.

Injuries

In keeping with my vow to aim this blog back in the direction of heterosexual topics, I was thinking last night about sex related injuries. I’m really not sure how it is for women when they sustain damage in the heat of the moment, but I know for a fact that men brag about it to anyone who’ll listen. We’re PROUD of them.

One night I called up my friend to ask if he was going to join the rest of the boys for poker that evening.

“Can’t do it.” He declared. “I’ve scheduled a fuck-weekend. Starting at 6:00 tonight I’m going to do nothing but sleep, eat and have sex until Sunday night. So don’t bother calling me for anything else this weekend.”

“Have fun.” I said. “Remember to stay hydrated.”

Three hours later I got a call from him.

“What’s everyone up to?” he asked.

“Why? I thought you were having sex all weekend! In fact, if you’re not balls deep as you talk to me now, I’ll lose all respect for you!”

“I’m coming over.”

When he arrived and settled into a chair, he told us the story. It would seem that mid-coitus our girl threw her back out. The exact mechanics of the tale elude me, but I believe that the moral of the story was “lift/thrust with your legs, not your back.” Either that or “don’t have sex with anyone twice your weight.” I’ve tried to take both lessons to heart.

I wondered if that girl was waiting for the perfect moment when she was sitting around with the girls, wearing PJs, and watching “One Tree Hill” to say, “My man fucked me so hard I threw out my back.” Is it something that women like to brag about?

It got me thinking to what injuries I’d gotten in the sack. Not counting rug-burn, of course. I threw my neck out going down on a girl once. I guess if I wanted to pull out the big guns of injuries, I could always go to the Condom Allergy, but that seems like a half-assed wound. Men have a clearly defined ranking of injuries we’re proudest of. They are (in order):

1. Sports Related
2. Sex Related
3. Work Related
4. Drinking Related
5. Idiocy Related
6. Viral/Bacterial/Allergy Related.

Every single injury, scar, burn, cut, scrap, tear, or break is infinitely worthy of retelling to your fellow men. However, the point of every story should be:

1. How the injury you sustained would have killed an Alaskan Grizzly
2. How you hardly felt anything at all
3. How you went back and did exactly the same thing again ten seconds after convalescing, or failing that, how it was the only thing that stood in the way of your career as a pro-athlete.

The ultimate Guy-Injury story happened to a friend of mine. He was riding his motorcycle down the highway in upstate NY, when he decided to try to stand on the seat. He promptly fell off, went over the guard-rail, fractured his collar-bone and broke a leg. Three months later, completely healed and having finally scrapped together enough funds to repair his bike, he drove down the same stretch of highway and tried to do the trick again. This time he managed to stay vertical long enough to fall off a bridge, hit a rock and break the same leg once more.

I hesitate to publish his name here, but it’s interesting to note that he now works for (I kid you not) Military Intelligence.

Jesus VS Superman

I’ve been having a lot of Nyquil-induced hallucinations recently. Among my more amusing visions was one for yet another blasphemous comic book. Way back in December when I flipped out and decided I wanted to write “The Adventures of Black Jesus Featuring the God Squad,” I was mostly kidding. I also realized later on that I had sort of subliminally ripped of the idea from the Adult Swim show The Boondocks.

On my desk at work I have two bobble-heads: one of the Buddy Christ from the Kevin Smith film “Dogma” and one of Superman from the film…Superman. People always ask me why I have the two of them, and my reply is always, “Because they’re my favorite fictional characters.” At any rate, I was looking at my desk and I began to wonder who would win in a fight between the Son of God and the Son of Krypton.

Superman can fly, shoot lasers from his eyes, and can move “faster than a speeding bullet.” But he loses points for parading around in spandex and a cape. Plus, he’ll drop anything he’s up to if Lois is in danger. You ever think that maybe Lois Lane should consider retiring? I mean, how many times does that uppity bitch have to be kidnapped? You’d think that she’d eventually get the message: Stop fucking with Lex Luther!

Jesus can walk on water, return from the dead and turn water into wine. Granted a never-ending supply of alcohol is infinitely cool, but ultimately fairly limited when it comes to being used as a weapon in hand to hand combat. We all know that the Catholic Church claims that Jesse’s blood is actually wine. Now if he could turn OTHER people’s blood into bubbling spirits, then it’d be a weapon. In fact, if I could have one super power that might be it. How fun would it be to suddenly turn your boss’ blood-alcohol level to .25% just before that big meeting? As for the whole “rising from the dead” thing, I’ve often wondered (especially around Easter), what if Jesus was just a zombie? It’s just something to ponder.

Supes and Jesse actually have a whole lot in common: sent to earth by their fathers to be the salvation of mankind, extraordinary powers, pathetic with women…they’re a spandex suit and a pair of sandals away from being twins. How’s that for the ultimate buddy movie?

24 A.D. Jesus roams the desert looking for his long lost twin brother Clark Christ. The two hit the road in a heart-warming comic adventure about life, beer, and bi-curious man love. Hey, there’s no way I’m the only one whose figured out that Superman is gay. Come on, how many straight men do you know who dress up in spandex, knee-high boots and always seem to have their little spit-curl in place? The man has two identities and both of them are fruitier than a mimosa…getting ass-fucked…in the backroom of a bar named “the toolbox”…by a mimosa of the same gender…while listening to show-tunes.

Clark wears his little glasses and is entirely too conservative and “anal.” The guy lives alone in his neat little apartment, but goes out nights dressed up in tights to grapples with large, scantily-clad men. Or goes and hangs out with other spandex flaunting men in the Justice League. We all know that’s just the name of the gay bar that Batman and Robin hang out at when they’re looking to swing. Face it, the reason he’s not fucking Lois Lane is because he’s too busy going down on Jimmy Olson in the copy-room of the Daily Planet.

All this from a guy who two days ago said that he’d marry 64 year-old British dude. I swear next week’s blog will be all about sex with hot girls.

Say Yes To Drugs

Just a quick something before I run home and try to remove my sinuses using a rusty hook:

I’m the worst person ever when it comes to medication and doctors. Maybe it’s because I was raised under the belief that disease builds character, maybe it’s because the one time I went to the wellness center in college they were convinced that the pain in my ear was somehow related to my sex life. Whatever the reason, I just generally ignore all illness until I’m completely laid out flat.

I dated a few girls who were all about meds. Hey, from what I can tell about our culture based on the commercials on TV, it seems like the whole country is all about pills. Look, I don’t want to appear anti-drug, believe me I’m all for drugs, but why the fuck have commercials for medicine? If it’s the right one for you, shouldn’t the doctor recommend it to you? It seems like they should spend all that advertising money bribing med schools and doctors.

I always get amused when I’m watching TV. They always play about 10 “Say No to Drugs” commercials for the kids. Meanwhile, they have spots for about 7,000 new pharmaceutical meds in between. They tell you that everything is a condition that needs to be medicated: being sad, being happy, being bald, being horny, and not being horny…what the fuck message is REALLY being here? It’s “Kids don’t do drugs…unless you buy from us.”

At any rate, I remember having a girlfriend who was literally on about 15 pills a day: allergies, A.D.D., tendonitis, plus God-knows what anti-depressants. I don’t even take ASPRIN. My strategy for dealing with illness is a simple one: I curl into a ball, drink my weight in tea and prepare a copy of my will. It used to bug the hell out of her when I’d be lying in bed sick, refusing the 50,000 strange color pills she wanted me to swallow. I do think it was a cultural thing: she was raised to believe that people don’t get well unless they take medicine. I was raised to believe that whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.

The last two times I’ve been sick, I completely forgot that I had medical insurance. I was limping into work, drinking a bottle of Dayquil a day, sleeping in the car on my lunch break, somehow over looking the fact that a hefty portion of my paycheck goes to people who are supposed to get me better. Today I did some calculations and realized that I hadn’t even been to the doctor since 1998. Once a decade qualifies as “regular check-ups” right?

It’s times like this that I think about Warren Zevon. He was an awesome musician who wrote “Werewolves of London,” “Excitable Boy” and “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me.” At any rate, he skipped the doctor for about twenty years then went in and discovered that he had inoperable cancer. The doctors gave him two months to live. He went on the Letterman show and said, “Do I have any regrets? In retrospect, not going to the doctor for two decades might have been a mistake.”

In honor of that very cool dude, I’m finally going to try to go to the doctor tomorrow. He skipped for 20 years. I’m only at 8. By my calculations, that means that I still have a good four months to live.

Money Really CAN Buy Happiness--Or At Least Me

Generally I try to steer clear of celebrity gossip and public events. I figure that there are already so many blogs and websites out there covering this sort of thing that there’s absolutely nothing left to say. Besides, celebrity watching is right up there with bleach drinking as far as stimulating intelligent thought.

A few years ago, my friend and I came up with an idea for a business called We Stalk the Paparazzi. Essentially, the concept was that we (with the aid of some top-notch first amendment and trial attorneys) make the private lives of selected paparazzi members a complete hell. For the prize of a few grand a week, we put a van of men on these guys: rummaging through their trash, taking high-powered photos, bursting in on private dinners with inappropriate questions, the works. Hell for a little extra, we’d even distribute handbills and pamphlets to their neighbors on the gossip, rumors, and unconfirmed stories of their lives.

I still think that the idea would be interesting. However, I can’t imagine the level of self-hatred it must take to turn a person into a member of the paparazzi. I do know that these people must be out of their minds, and sketchy enough that I wouldn’t really want to get engaged in a semi-legal invasion of privacy war. Also, I don’t own a van.

At any rate, at the end of last week, Paul McCartney announced that he and his wife were separating. This is the same woman that he married about twenty minutes after Linda died of cancer.

I know, celebrity divorces are about as shocking as the release of another Pam Anderson sex video (seriously Pam, you've already had like three of them stolen and released. Can you stop pretending to be amazed? I want you copy this sentence 50 times: "I will not bang washed up 80's rock stars within 75 feet of a camcorder.") But what caught my eye about this is that there was no pre-nuptial agreement. According to what I’ve read, Sir Paul is valued at about 1.5 Billion dollars. You realize what this means, right? This makes Sir Paul’s ex-wife, Heather Mills McCartney, the most expensive piece of ass since Helen of Troy. Maybe more. I’m telling you this: the war against Troy didn’t run three quarters of a billion dollars.

They were married for a grand total of four years. Let’s break down some of that math, shall we?

That’s $187.5 Million a year
That’s just over $15 Million a month.
That’s about $3.6 Million a week.
That’s about $515,100 a day.

He’s 64, so how often do you figure they had sex? Could we call him lucky if he was getting it once every two days? I figure even that's a little optimistic. And not just because he's old. He’s a national treasure with public appearances and protests to attend and she’s a working model. Shall we say it averaged out to about once every three days? That would work out to over $1.5 million a fuck. For what he was paying I hope he got anal. Because it’d be a shame if he was the only one in the relationship that got ass-fucked.

The irony of this whole affair is that when Ms. Heather Mills McCartney remarries in, of I’d say, the next 15 seconds, you’re damn sure that SHE’S going to have a prenupt. They’re going to have to pry her eighth of the Beatles from her cold, diamond-encrusted fingers. Paul, your marriage may well go down as the most idiotic thing EVER. Really, what the fuck were you thinking? First you sell your music to Michael Jackson and now this???

Lest I seem unsympathetic to the only living contributing member of the greatest band in history (yes that was a slam at you, Ringo), let me just say this:

“Paul, I’m deeply sorry for your loss. In fact, I’d like the chance to show you how sorry I really am. Let me comfort you as only a man knows how. That’s right, I love you. And when we’re making sweet, hot tongue love for the first time, you’ll forget all about that harlot! It’s high time you find out how true your songs was: happiness really IS a warm gun.”

I knew England legalized gay-marriage for a reason.

I’m not really homosexual. But for 187 mill a year, I’d learn. Hell, for that price I’d adopt a British accent, wear a thong, and act like John Lennon was a hack for no extra charge. And don’t even act like I’m alone. I’ve seen videos of women screwing horses. I’ve no idea what it cost to get those chicks to do that…but I guarantee it wasn’t six figures.

Besides, I work for corporate America. I’m already getting paid to be shit on and take it up the ass. I’m really just a bad moustache and a pair of chaps away from being a gay-prostitute. And in the end, isn’t that what marriage is really about?

Grizzly: The Other White Meat

Generally I get along with hippies even though I’m not really one. It’s not that I don’t sympathize with their “Let’s Save the World” rap; I just don’t see how getting stoned and going to Burning Man really fixes anything. I’m pro-chilling in the sun, playing music and seeing boobs, but I fail to see how it really accomplishes anything. This apparently is where my philosophy becomes incompatible with about 99% of the current hippy music.

At any rate, I do generally get along with them by relaxing, drinking, playing music and avoiding politics. But eventually you run into hippies that take themselves so seriously that it would be a criminal waste of an opportunity to not fuck with them. Among the most serious (and thus must fuckable-with) are the vegetarians.

I admit that I’m being a bit unfair by grouping the vegetarians as a subspecies of hippies. After all, I’m completely ignoring the “I’m-a-stuck-up-rich-cunt-with-too-much-time-who wants-to-be-difficult” breed of vegetable-eater. But I definitely don’t wind up hanging out with too many of those types of people. Socialites might say that this is proof that I don’t attend the right parties. I say that it’s proof that I’m doing everything in power to avoid going on a killing rampage.

Generally, I have no problem with vegetarians. I can get along with about 75% of them. But for some reason, as with every other weird cult, religion, and political group, about a quarter of them feel like it’s their responsibility to make my business their shit. You want to survive the rest of your life on tofu and bean sprouts? Go nuts. But leave me and my 87 ounce prime-rib the fuck alone.

It seems like inevitably, I’ll be at a party when someone will come up to the grill master and demand, “You have veggie-burgers, right? And you’re cooking them on a separate grill, right? Because I won’t eat a veggie-burger if it’s cooked on the same grill as beef.”

Let me explain something: if you’ve made the choice to be vegetarian, you instantly lose the right to make any demands at a bar-b-queue. Because vegetables don’t need to be grilled. As far as I’m concerned, if you start making demands at my party, I’m tossing you the frozen cow-turds and saying, “You don’t want to use the one grill? Hope you like your patties rare.”

This is a group of people who thinks that they’re running the grill scene, when in reality they should be thrilled that the rest of us aren’t tossing them lettuce and telling them to get the fuck out. If you ever go to a party hosted by meat eaters, you’ll find that most of the time, they take into consideration their turnip-munching associates. However, vegetarian cook-outs NEVER have meat. Ever. If you even ask, you’re subjected to an hour long speech about the cruelty of slaughterhouses.

I don’t even bat an eye at the speech anymore. “You’re saying that they’re inhumanely butchered while watching their mothers die? Coooooooooooooool. Now, you’ve cooked the meat on a separate grill, right? Because if my burger touched anything vegetarian, I won’t eat it.”

Personally, I don’t think we have enough cruelly raised and brutally slaughtered animals. It’s high time we started bringing back some of the meats that have for too long been deemed “unavailable.”

I have a friend who wants to retire and open a new ranch for specialty meat. I imagine that he’d have to buy a bunch of land up in Canada, and invest in some serious electric fences. The animal? Grizzly.

I can see it now, herds of bears being driven across the tundra on the way to be branded. I keep telling him, that

1. He’s going to have to find some TOUGH mother-fucking cowboys.
2. Bears don’t herd. In fact, I think they’re pretty territorial.
3. The only occupation that’s manned by people tougher than bear cowboys, are bear rustlers.

None of these facts have dampened his enthusiasm. On the plus side, I imagine that aside from the occasional brutal mauling, his ranch would be virtually crime-free. I mean, who’s going to fuck with a guy who raises bears for a living? All I have to say is that if I were a Canadian citizen living next to a large tract of free land, I’d be VERY nervous.

Ironically, I had this discussion with my friend over a meal at a Brazilian Steakhouse. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of self-degradation, allow me to explain some of the finer points. Essentially, you walk in and are seated by a cashier with an amazing ass. This is true whether they have male or female counter person working that day. They sit you down at a table that has a large, thick, wooden stick. One end is green and the other is red. As long as the green end of your stick is up, they bring you food. When you lapse into beef-induced coma or turn the red end up, they bring you the bill. As long as your stick is green cooks come to your table, one after another, bearing huge platters of meat: lamb, pork, turkey, duck, chicken, beef, rabbit, hippo, and sloth. It’s like a group of Brazilian cooks founded the place after misinterpreting a passage from the Bible. It’s the only place I’ve ever known where you can literally sit down and say, “Bring me two of every animal.”

I went there with one of my friends and when the check finally arrived, the waiter asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Yeah.” My friend responded. “How about a gurney?”

Now that’s my kind of restaurant. Remind me to start demanding that my vegetarian friends meet me there for dinner.

Death, Canada, and My Life As An Illegal Immegrant

I was watching Coneheads the other day, and I was struck by the scene where the main character is asked, “If I died, would you remarry?” I’m not really sure if this is a popular question among wedded couples. It’s a rather morbid question. However, if anyone ever poses it to me, I’ve got the perfect response:

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Would you consider moving to Utah and becoming a polygamist? That way I wouldn’t have to wait until you’re dead.”

I’m sorry, that’s a terrible thing to joke about. No one should make light about moving to Utah.

There are a few places where I would never want to live and, although I’ve never actually visited, Utah’s right there, just behind scenic Detroit, Newark, and Saudi Arabia. Also, it would take a lot of convincing to get me to move to the South.

I’m heading down to Virginia tonight, traffic permitting. My recollection of the South will always be an exchange I had with a girl from the region. She was shocked when I asked for sweetened iced tea. I guess they consider it a Southern thing that we heathen Yankees don’t have a taste for.

“Sweetened tea??? I thought you were from the North!”

“What do you mean you don’t sleep with your brother???” I demanded. “I thought you were from the South!”

The more I think about it, the more appealing Canada becomes. See, I’ve noticed something: the further south you get in America, the crazier and more conservative people get. Yes, that was aimed at you, Texas. My theory is that with Global Warming (which, ironically enough, most of the South doesn’t believe exists) insanity and conservatism have been slowly working their way North tainting large portions of the here-to-fore sane New York, New England and, to a much lesser extent, New Jersey. That’s right! I’m blaming Jersey on Republicans and Global Warming.

I know that a lot of people refer to Canada as “America jr.” or “the loft above a really great party” or “America’s disowned, gay cousin.” I prefer to think of it as strawberry ice cream: underappreciated and vaguely fruity. But with the change of climate and the crazy southerners moving ever northward, I'm thinking that eventually I'll just have to move up to Canada. I think it'd be worth it simply to insult New Englandians as red necks. How "y'all" doing in Boston, Nomah? You like watching "the NASCAR" and not showering, huh?

I went to college about 30 minutes from Niagara Falls, and frequented our northern neighbor on a fairly regular basis. Let me just say this: for a country that’s allegedly slightly gay, they have an awful lot of alcohol (drinking age of 18), gambling, legalized marijuana and strippers.

One of my favorite Canada stories happened shortly after September 11th when a van-full of friends and I went up for a birthday celebration. Our car was stopped by the Canadian Authorities who separated and interrogated us, searched us and completely stripped down our vehicle, luggage, and spare tire.

I really have no clue what they thought 6 white kids in a mini-van were up to. No matter.

The next day, ill-groomed, unshaven, and thoroughly hung-over the same car-full of guys drove back down to the U.S. Boarder.

“Where you headed?” asked the officer at the booth.

“New York.”

“Go on through.”

That’s right, no question about our business and no request for vehicle registration or ID. He just waved us right in. So laugh if you must at Canada’s low crime rate, public health care, and crazy coins that keep stopping me from buying vending machines sodas. All I know is I’m a draft, drug-addiction, or stripper-binge from running up there to seek asylum. Or maybe I’ll just be an illegal immigrant. When the next war rolls around, I’m changing my name to Juan Romero Mendoza Guappo Fernandez Caballo XVIII.

Gender Blindness

I was walking down the street today in the wonderful weather, when I passed a couple eating lunch in an open air restaurant. The woman had her back to me, but I could see the man, a slightly nervous looking youth, chatting over his drink. I turned my head as I walked past and caught a glimpse of the woman he was talking to.

“She wants to fuck him” I said.

Here’s the funny thing about men: we’re absolutely DESPERATE to get girls, learn about girls, and have girls. But we know almost nothing about them. At least not when it concerns us directly. This was the perfect case.

The girl on the lunch date was sending out all the physical cues that said “just stop talking and bend me over the hood of that Jalopy:" leaned slightly forward, one finger on her neck, lips parted, laughing at smiling at the first hint of a joke or witticism, the top button of her blouse undone…everything about her body screamed: just come over the table and take me.

Sure I could see it, but I don’t think that the guy she was talking to could. He continued blundering on, looking more nervous, and hardly allowing her a word edgewise. I couldn’t help but wonder how often I’d done the exact same thing. That’s the weird part about men: we can see that a girl across the street is attracted to the guy she’s eating with, but when we’re across the table from her, we’ve got no clue what’s going on.

The extreme case of this was back in college, I was hanging out in my room with a few friends, when my buddy called me. He was going to school hundreds of miles away and I spoke with him for a little and then passed the phone off to a girl who was drinking with us. He spoke to her for about 40 seconds, before she gave the phone back to me.

“He wants to talk to you” she said.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Yo, you know she likes you, right?” he asked.

To this day I have no clue how it was that obvious to him. I’d known the girl for an entire semester and had no idea.

I began wondering today whether women are aware of the physical and verbal cues they send out. Are they thinking, “For God’s sake, run your finger over the rim of your glass! Push out those breasts!”? Is it something planned? Are they doing those things purposely? The only reason I ask, is because generally I’ve got no clue WHAT my hands are doing when I’m talking to a girl I like. I suspect it’s nothing nearly as erotic. No woman’s ever said to me, “The moment I saw you rub your eyes with your fists like a six-year-old, I knew I had to have you.”

So I guess my questions for the day are:

1. Are women aware when they’re sending cues that say, “Can’t you just rip my clothes off right now?”
2. Do guys send out physical cues when they’re interested in a girl? And no, slipping roofies into a drink doesn’t count as flirting.

Cracking "The Code" of Illiteracy

I’ve stopped trying to “get” the hype around the Da Vinci Code. About two years ago when this book was all anyone spoke about I went down to the library and started reading. I mean, from the way people were carrying on, I thought that this was the next War and Peace. There’s always this weird sort of hype about these crazes. The only thing I can think about to describe is by looking at the first two seasons or so of The Sopranos. To everyone who was into the show, it was this gigantic amazing experience. To everyone else, it was just some weird cult of people who were obsessed with some cable TV show about opera singers.

There’s a point where hype and buzz actually begin to work against the product. That’s where The Sopranos, The Simpsons, and Metallica are right now. They’re so big that everyone just assumes that anything these beasts turn out is pure gold. Let’s be honest. The Sopranos hasn’t been great since the end of Season Two and hasn’t been good since the end of Season Three. The Simpsons haven’t made a funny episode in about 6 years. And Metallica hasn’t had any decent music since The Back Album. These are hugely hyped machines coasting along on their own enormous success of last decade.

Let me just say this is not the problem the Da Vinci Code has to worry about. Now that I read it, I’m even more puzzled about why people are crazy about is. I’ve read it and I STILL have no clue. For those of you who haven’t read the book, take one dimensional characters—seriously, the most hollow, most lame, and transparent characters ever conceived—stick them in a plodding, predictable plot and then add lots of poorly researched and interpreted history lessons, and drag it on for about 300 pages. Seriously, it’s “See Spot Run” with bad Middle Ages cliff notes.

I mean, if you’re looking for a summer reading experience with more thrills and plot development, go down to the local truck stop and read the men’s room walls. That’s roughly the same reading level the book is at.

And I don’t want to hear people tell me that I’m a stuck-up English major shitting on popular culture. I’m a sucker for a good page turner. I think Michael Crichton is amazing and Stephen King is perhaps the most under-rated writer of all time.

I really don’t know which is more laughable: the people who think this book is great because it’s based on “facts” or the insane Christians who think that this book is undermining religion and Godlessness. Let me explain something for both sides: this is a work of fiction. Fiction is stories. Made up stories like your mommy or priest used to tell you. In no way is anything in this book even resembling something factious. Here’s the new deal: if you think that The Da Vinci Code is an accurate portrayal of history, sit down and actually read some historical documents. Until you do, I don’t want to hear SHIT out of you. Any time I turn on the TV, or open a book, some dude with a P.H.D. is tearing the author of this piece of shit to shreds. The man knows dick, ok? If The Da Vinci Code is based on history, The Disney Movie “Alice in Wonderland” is a documentary. If you think that the Da Vinci Code is undermining your religion, sit down and read the entire Bible. It’s been around for a couple thousand years. I might not agree with everything in it, but it’s in no danger of going anywhere. 100 years from now, the only reason that people will be reading The Code is to prove what illiterate losers schools in the late 1900's produced.

So this leads me to my point of this whole little piece. Is this really all it takes to keep people entertained and turn someone into an international hit author? Is this really all that the World wants to read about? Because I’m seriously starting to think that anyone could poor-research and broken English themselves to a book deal.

In other news, I’ll be quitting my blog to write the new smash hit novel: The Jesus Jam

Here’s a sneak preview:

In the year 2026, one museum curator makes a startling discovery: Jesus was Jamaican and played in a Rastafarian band. Now, with the help of Bob Marley’s grand-daughter, he must unravel the secret progression of seductive island rhythms, before the two thousandth anniversary of the Savior’s death. But who is the mysterious narc out to “kill his buzz”? Is he really looking for ghost pirate drug smugglers on a cruise ship, or is he a member of ancient society whose object has always been to get teenagers to cut their hair, get jobs, and stop listening to “the rap music”? As each mystery deepens, our hero must learn the true meaning of Jesus’ Rasta jams as the fate of our world swings in the balance.

Late Night TV and Things NOT to Ask Your Significant Other

Generally, I have a TV “safety zone” that I stay in. I figure that if I can’t find anything on my few favorite channels, I’m not going to find anything. My zone consists of:

ESPN
HBO
Discovery
Comedy Central
And after 10:30: Cartoon Network
For small periods of time when I want to oggle hot girls: Telemundo or Univision

I'm sorry, but I just don't have the patience to deal with network TV anymore. So basically, if there’s nothing on HBO I just give up and go download porn. Last night at around midnight, I was so bored that I was channel surfing through the unknown wilds of the dial. I was like the Magellan of the cable TV globe. Until last night I didn't even know that my TV went higher than 50. As is my nature, I usually give each channel about 2 seconds to captivate me or I move on. Hey, that’s longer than I give most women! Being a man, I heard the word “orgasm” and stayed my hand on the most unlikely of candidates: the Oxygen Network.

There, dressed in huge glasses and a sweater, was a 70 year old woman named Sue Johanson talking about the most outrageous sexual acts I’ve ever heard. If I’m the last one to hear about this show, forgive me. I have a tendency to be slow in keeping up with today’s youth. For example, did you know that some singers (or “rappers” as they like to be called) yell the lyrics instead of singing the melody properly? When did this happen???

I have trouble picturing what the average person from the Midwest looks like, but if I had to pick one person, it’d be this sweet-tempered old skank. I tried describing the weirdness of watching what looks to be my grandmother describe in graphic detail the finer points of fisting only to have a Doctor Ruth reference brought up. It wasn’t exactly fair. See, no one could look at Doctor Ruth and not think she wasn’t a little crazy. She just had that look and strange accent that was out there. But no matter how long I watched this show, and no matter how long I heard Mrs. Sweet Old Grandma talk about swallowing semen, threesomes and bondage, I was never prepared for the shit that came out of her mouth. Every time she opened her mouth, I expected her to talk about cookies or knitting. For an hour the world was a better, less sarcastic place, because I was literally rendered speachless.

The highlight of the episode was when she took a call from a woman complaining about her boyfriend’s penis size. Without blinking an eye, she said, “Honey, what you need to do is head down to a good sex-shop and pick up a penis-extension like this.” Where upon she reached into her desk and pulled out…a penis extension. It was a silicon piece that would fit over a man’s rig and add an extra few inches of length and girth. I wasn’t stunned that such a thing had been invented…but I was pretty shocked that she had one lying about. I mean, even if you’re the host of a call-in sex show, how often would you really need something like that? For purposes other than your poorly-hung sound-guy, I mean. Who carries something like that around with them?

Also, I have difficulty imagining a scenario where a man could be asked to wear a penis-extension and not be a little insulted. I think that if I were ever with a girl who asked me to get one I’d have to say, “Only if you get that pussy-clamp I’ve looking at. Deep-sea shipping barges have tighter handling than you. I swear, last night I thought I was balls deep in the storm cellar.”

Hardcore Porn, Roaring Twenties Style

I was speaking to a friend today who was recommending a porno movie. She said. “It’s fantastic! It’s a porno version of Alice in Wonderland.”

“Uh-huh” I replied, only half paying attention. Ever since I saw the porn remake “The Lord of the Cock Rings” I guess I’ve just been cynical about hardcore adaptations of mainstream films. Oh well. I guess you can only capture the magic of “Forrest Hump” and “Saving Ryan’s Privates” so many times.

“No, I’m serious.” My friend insisted. “It was a really good. I think it was made in the 20s.”

That snapped me back into awareness. Suddenly my “History of Film” class from sophomore year of college vaulted to the front of my brain. As I recall, talking pictures weren’t introduced until “The Jazz Singer” in 1927. What the fuck kind of pornos were they making before that?

Then my imagination kicked in. I was suddenly deluged in images of grainy-black and white sex scenes. John Barrymore, the male lead, is wearing a bowtie, suspenders and has a cane leaning up against the wall. Bent over the canopy bed is Louise Brooks wearing an enormous hoopskirt and garters. The piano track from Charlie Chaplin plays wildly to the action. The actors’ mouths move as though speaking and suddenly the screen cuts to bold white letters on a black background.

“Oh baby! You’re the king! Smack my ass! God, you hurt so good!”

I was still struggling with this imagery so I asked my friend, “Are you sure that it was made in the 20s? You realize that back then they didn’t have color? Or sound?”

“OK, fine. I guess it wasn’t the 20s. I think it was the 40s.”

That didn't sound right either, so finally I went on the internet and looked it up. I was having trouble picturing pornos similar to "Gone With The Wind." For the record, the porn version of Alice in Wonderland had been released in 1976. I guess she was close. After all, what’s 50 years when weighed against the history of man-kind?

I have a friend who collects 70s porn. He contests that it includes some of the finest films ever made. I’m not as big a fan of 70s bush as he is, but I must agree that his collection includes some very entertaining films. And not just because of all the cheerleaders and pizza-girls they had in various stages of undress. See back then, I guess the porn industry assumed that they were making legitimate films. As a result, they subjected audiences to the most horrible acting, dialogue, plot and production values the world has ever known. Remember the films shown on “Mystery Science Theater 3000”? Anything from the 70s is about 800 times worse.

My favorites were the ones that tried to cross horror and porn. Like the one about the cheerleaders captured by Satan-worshippers. Or the one about the girl whose snatch was possessed by a demonic spirit. It spoke and everything!

Ah yes, those were the good old days before astroglide, silicon, and shaved testicles. What a minute, what the hell am I bemoaning again? Look at how fare we’ve come! I figure by 2015 all our porn will be digitally created so that the actors and actresses are completely flawless. And they’ll have crazy camera angles, like scenes out of “The Matrix.” Also, they’ll be downloadable straight to your brain so you can participate.

I guess the point of this post is to lift the spirits of us downtrodden individuals who sometime feel as if the world has gone to shit. If you ever have any doubts about how far we’ve evolved as a culture, just picture May West’s first sex scene.

Enjoy, bitches!

Tom Can Suck My Dick

From what I understand, people are really into wasting their lives on My Space. I still think that I’m missing some hugely important piece of information about that site. I keep expecting to suddenly find out that Tom is cult leader who has enslaved the minds of anyone that’s ever visited.

Back in November, I was finally hauling myself out of the soul-crippling depression surrounding my last break-up and was getting ready to launch myself at any female I could find. Through the process of elimination, I had narrowed it down to three realistic candidates. All of them had My Space accounts and talked about it obsessively. So finally, in a decision based about 60% out of boredom, I signed up for an account. I’ll be honest: the other 40% was so I could look at pictures of hot local girls.

I would say I was interested in the site for all of two weeks. I’m really puzzled by the people continued to be captivated by it longer than that. I mean, sure it’s moderately entertaining to personalize a page and cyber stalk hot girls that don’t really exist…but how much of that can you really take? Essentially it’s a painfully slow site, riddled with technical problems are over-run by narcissistic losers! Like me! Seriously, I know that no one will find my page in the least bit entertaining. I’m just too lazy to take it down. Also, I like having an extended profile up for the people who read this blog: you know, one last ditch effort to scare anyone who’s interested in the psychopath that writes this shit.

I keep hearing this theory that My Space is a fantastic place to meet singles. I guess that might be the case if I were looking for a girl with absolutely no personality. For a while I was into combing the local profiles to find a hot single girl in the area. Then I realized every single one had the same information:

Hi, I’m 24, single and great music is my LIFE. I’m into everything from Nick Lachey to Daniel Powter. I even like classics like Eminem and Nickleback.

I’m into obscure movies and hate mainstream cinema. I’m sorta a film nut. My favorites are:
Pretty Woman
Wedding Crashers
Princess Bride

I love to dance and go out to my friends. A huge shout out to my sista Denise! Best friends 4evah!

Then there are pictures of 15 girls, obviously taken about 5 years ago with no description about whose profile this is. And maybe one of the owner wearing a giant cowboy hat, Wrap-around shades, a scarf, a wig, and a ski-mask.

If we eliminated every single profile that contained the information above, we’d be left with 50 members: bands and porn stars that would spam each other mercilessly. Essentially, My Space is exactly like a cell-phone with a camera: completely irrelevant.

Twice a week I get the following messages to my account:

• Hi hottie! I just started a web-cam. Maybe we can get together! http://watchslutsfuckwhilewestealyourcreditcard.com/
• Hey bro. I’m the singer for “The Chuck Finklestein Experience and Bar-Mitzvah Band.” We’re doing a killer set in your area, so come check us out!

So my question is: what exactly is the big attraction? What’s the big mystery that I’m missing? And what’s the deal with the people that have 900 billion “friends” on their list? Here’s a news flash: “friends” are people you actually speak to in what I like to call “real life.” Unless you’re running a business here’s a good test of how big an asshole you are: the larger your list of friends, the bigger dick you are. By that indication, we get an idea who’s the biggest dick on the planet. I’ll give you a hint: he’s the creator of the most pointless site on earth.

Fuck you, Tom!

Cell Phones

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Working Girls

There are some professions that are just sexy. I was thinking today about employed women that I find hot and decided to start compiling a list. Here’s the top three:

Cheerleader: I know it’s obvious. But there’s just something about those short skirts, high kicks, and vacant personalities that makes you want to show them the real meaning of “human pyramids” “splits” and the “dismount.”

Stewardesses (stewardi?): After thinking this one out, I’ve decided that they’re so attractive to men for two reasons: one, women in uniform are hot, and two, you know it’s only a few days before they’re off and moving again. Plus, there’s the fun of having her demand unlimited access to your “cockpit.”

Nurses: I’m pretty sure that this is just one of those professions that SEEMS a lot sexier than it actually is. Partly it’s because the uniforms aren’t nearly as hot as the porno videos make them out to be. And partly it’s because they’re working 18 hour shifts with lunatics, drug-addicts, and gun-shot victims. Still, the pros include that they have a thorough knowledge of how the body works, the fun of “oral thermometry” and “hernia exams” not to mention easy access to morphine.

There were a bunch of occupations that missed the cut, but are still worth mentioning. They include: sexy catholic tutor, cop, French maid, and Shania Twain. I had a friend who had a poster of Shania hanging on his wall. He was a punk rock drummer. The first time I saw it I said, “Why the fuck would you hang that up? You know she’s a country singer, right?”

“I ain’t interested in anything coming OUT of that girl’s mouth, bro. If I was dating her, the only thing you’d hear out of her was [insert choking sounds here].”

The occupation thing works both ways, though. While the above professions add to a woman’s appeal, there are certainly a few ways to bring home the bacon that can work against you. They include:

Hog Farmer: Sure, it might seem hot to date a girl whose living depends on sausage handling. But there are few romance killers stronger than the inescapable aroma of pig-shit.

Coke Mule: The hotness of knowing that her ass is well practiced in being violated by huge condoms is canceled out by the fact that if you punch her in the stomach an entire cartel will drag you ass-first through a cactus patch.

Abstinence Councilor: Sure I could make a cheap joke here about the hundreds of guys she’s probably sucked off or had pound her ass, but I think my readers deserve better. So I have two words for you: Seventies Bush. Girls who don’t believe in premarital sex also tend not to believe in trimming the hedges. Seriously, we need an 11th commandment like: “Trim that shit.” Considering that Cleanliness is next to Godliness, there are an awful lot of religious abstinence councilors apparently bedding down with Satan.

It's a partial list, but if you're a lonely Hog Farmer who makes a few bucks smuggling H over the boarder in your colon and you’re wondering why you have trouble finding a man, you might want to consider a new profession. Then again, we men are pretty shallow. If you really thought you’d miss the feel of a condom in your small intestine, you could just spring for breast implants. Because the moral of the story is that we men tend not to have too many rules when it comes to dating. And the few that we do have are made to be broken. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a very sexy abstinence councilor.

The Best $50 Ever Spent

Male friendship is a weird thing. Girls never randomly tackle their friends across the table as a joke. Girls don’t seem to find it funny if their friends color on their faces in permanent marker. And no matter how openly girls chat amongst their friends, there is NO way that the conversations are anything like the ones guys have over a few beers.

Example: I was playing cards last night when one of my friends asked who at the table had ever performed a “Spiderman” on a girl. I had no idea what the act entailed, but I immediately envisioned some superhuman balancing act involving a rope, spandex, and the creative use of the term “web shooter.” Well, I was part right.

The “Spiderman” is when a man finishes in his hand, makes a fist and then hurls his “web” at the girl.

“That’s GREAT,” commented another of my friends. “Have you ever given a girl a ‘Chicken Cutlet’?”

A “Chicken Cutlet” is when a man who is having sex with a woman on the beach removes his “chicken” and “breads” it with sand before continuing intercourse.

Hey, I’m beginning to wonder how I managed to survive this long without knowing this kind of shit! Obviously I’ve been doing something wrong.

Another blatant example of the strange companionship that men develop is the extent to which “Breaking and Entering” and “Assault” are tolerated. I have a friend who bet one of our buddies (let’s call him ‘Hans’) that he wouldn’t drop-kick Hans in the chest. The practical outcome of this bet is that if my friend ever does launch himself feet-first at Hans, he then has to pay Hans fifty beans. It may sound like my friend got the raw end of the bargain here—if he had shut his mouth he could have conceivably planted two steel-toe construction boots ankle-deep in Hans at no charge. However, think about it this way: we have just put a price on a potentially fatal assault charge: $50. And none of us wonder “if” Hans will ever have to be paid. We all know it’s simply a matter of WHEN.

I picture it going down like this:

At 2:30 in the morning there’s a knock at Hans’ front door. He fumbles with a bathrobe while bleary answering it to see a Fed-Ex delivery man holding an envelope.

“Priority delivery for Hans. Sign here, sir.”

Without thinking, Hans signs, tears open the envelope and stares blankly at what appears to be a check for $50. Then, just as the realization dawns and the terror grips his face, two feet horizontally enter the door and plant themselves squarely in his chest.

That pretty well covers the "Assault" portion covered by male camaraderie. What about the "Breaking and Entering," you ask? Well, I have a dear friend who will be returning to town after a three month business trip. He rooms with three guys who are in our circle of cohorts, so the ideas have already been suggested regarding a “welcome back” prank. Among the better ideas I’ve heard so far are:

• Lacquering gay porn to all four walls and the ceiling
• Hiding a number of devices around his room that beep every 5 minutes or so
• Filling the entire room with packing peanuts
• Adding a layer of catsup packets underneath his sheets
• Releasing a swarm of locusts/fire ants/snakes in his linen closet

If anyone else has some particularly fiendish pranks, please let me know. I guess what this really underlines is that with friends like these, I’m not sure that I can handle anymore enemies.

Drinko De Mayo and Ehren's Guide To Roadside Assistance

Have you ever seen the T-Shirts that say, “Everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day”? I have an idea for shirts that read, “Everybody’s an illegal immigrant on Cinco De Mayo.” Maybe I could get “Now clean my toilet, Pablo” on the back.

Mmm…classy.

I’ve stopped being entertained by these meaningless drinking holidays. I still think if you’re using 1862 Mexican Victory at Puebla over the French as an excuse to drink, you might be reaching. Don’t get me wrong, I think Mexican General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguin was great. But are you really going to tell me that you HAVE to rush out and down 28 Tequila shots in his honor? Let’s not go crazy, people.

You should all know that I’m drunk as I write this. Hey, I’m proud of my Mexican-American Heritage! No less then none of my ancestors are from Central America.

You know, I was just thinking: the Irish have a drinking holiday, and the Mexicans have a drinking holiday…where the fuck are the Russians on the celebrated drinking front? They should be all over this! They should have a “Drink-Because-Stalin-Said-It-Must-Be-So” Day or a “Curse-Those-Capitalist-American-Pigs-Because-They-Have-Food” Day or at the very least a “Drink-Vodka-Because-Tomorrow-We-Go-To-Siberian-Prison-Camp” Day. Actually that last one sounds more like an eight-day holiday.

The more I think about it, the more fun this idea sounds. I can imagine it now: drinking limitless shots of vodka in enormous furry hats while eating endless bowls of Goulash and Borscht. The best part of the night? Community bar tabs. Want to get an idea why The Soviet Union fell? Try getting 300 drunken people in fur hats to split a bill evenly.

What am I talking about? They already have a Russian drinking celebration. It’s called “Weekdays.”

Maybe we Jews should have one too: Drink Because You Feel Guilty Day!

Speaking of drinking, I think it’s time that I confess to everyone that I have discovered the ultimate roadside assistance kit: Southern Comfort. What the fuck are the rest of you keeping back there, road flares? If I’m ever broken down on the side of the road, I’m going to do the only possible constructive thing I can: get completely toasted.

Over the years, I’ve slowly expanded my Road-Side Emergency kit. Currently, it consists of:

• One Liter Bottle of Southern Comfort
• One “Fun-Sized” Bottle of Jack Daniels
• One Pack of Playing Cards
• One pornographic magazine

I’m always looking to expand my kit. Unfortunately, I think if it gets any larger I’ll have to take out my spare tire. I LOVE my emergency supplies. At this point, I might start looking for bogs to drive into.

“Sir, this is the eighth time this month we’ve fished your car out of the river.”
“You don’t know me! Shaddup! I love you, man!”

Let me tell you, the way I know I’m REALLY fucked is when I run into an emergency where my kit doesn’t help. At that point, we’re probably facing a meteor heading to destroy earth.

I guess what this underlines is how different people can be. Tonight, millions of people will get shit-faced in the honor of some dead Mexican general. I’ll get hammered in honor of a faulty head-gasket. Saludos a todos mis hermanos!

Ballad Of The "Easy Rider"

“I want you to know that I love and respect your boundaries. You should know that I would never cross a line that could damage the trust you and I have built together.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Seriously, honey. You know I love you, right?”

“OK, do you--”

“I feel as if we’re just two bodies with one soul.”

“Uh-huh, I’m still not going to let you go bareback.”

Who says that men are incapable of being sweet? I think the dialogue above proves that men can be every bit as eloquent and open about their feelings as women—given the right motivation, of course. No, as beautiful as the lines above are, I can’t take credit for the conversation above. I was at work yesterday, when one of my friends called me to recount the conversation above. She was the “lady” (and I use that term loosely) in the exchange above.

Seriously, though, I know I’ve said a lot of stupid things in the past, and I’m sure that I’ve tried far more idiotic arguments, but come on…how could anyone think that one would fly?

“Yeah, well my boundaries end with you not wearing a condom.”

“OK, I respect that. But if you ever change your mind about that, I want to be the first person you call.”

Somehow, I have difficulty imagining someday receiving a call from a girl that goes:

“Hey, Ehren. How’re you doing? Uh-huh. How about that weather? Oh yeah, I just wanted to let you know I’ve decided to stop using rubbers. Ta!”

Here’s a tip for Mr. Prince Charming. If you’re really going to suggest that a girl you’ve known for all of a week give up on latex-burn, you may not want make jokes like:

“I started to write out a list of people I’ve slept with, but then I realized that I already had a copy of the phonebook.”

It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

I might be the only guy in existence who doesn’t think that wearing condoms is that big of an inconvenience. Yeah, it doesn’t feel as good, and it kills the mood when you have to get up and sort through your bedside drawer, but in the big picture is that really such an enormous inconvenience? Maybe it’s just me, but given the choice between latex burn and burning discharge, it’s not even close.

I’ve been with a few girls who, when a condom wasn’t available, said, “It’ll be ok this once. Just pull out when you finish.” Bitch, I can’t even remember my name the instant before I orgasm. I don’t even feel pain! How the hell else do you think I could support your fat ass? There’s no way I trust myself to remember to pull out.

Believe me, sex is important. Once I walked 2 miles through the snow in Mid-January…in Buffalo to get condoms. I almost lost a toe!

At any rate, back to the story I heard yesterday. The punch-line is that a day after telling my friend that he loved her not once, but three times, she called his cell-phone.

“The number you have dialed has been disconnected. No further information is available.”

All I can say is that this is a man who obviously has his priorities straight. They are in order:

1. Sex without condoms
2. Finding lots of girls who will have sex without condoms
.
.
.
47. Sincerity
.
.
.
108. Cleanliness
.
.
.
7,981,630. Paying phone bill.

Tattoos: Why Not Just Ask That Guy At The Bus Stop To Give You Herpes Instead?

Today at lunch I sat across the room from a shapely redhead: cute face, nice body, low-cut-top and a tongue-ring. She flashed a look at me over her sunglasses in that way women do. It’s a look that seems to say, “If you can’t impress me from across the room in 4 seconds, I’m mace-ing you next time you make eye-contact.”

I was checking her out…but not because I was attracted to her. See, she had a banging body, a great face, and perhaps the ugliest tattoos in creation covering her arms and shoulders. It started at her elbow and was solid ink all the way up to her collar-bone. The tips of what I assumed to be flowers rose out of her tube-top and ran up to her neck. I’m sure she thought it was the hottest thing in the world, but all I could think of was the red asses on those baboons in the zoo.

I think, if done correctly, tattoos can be really hot. Unfortunately, in the history of the entire world, only eight people have gotten it done right. Here’s the problem with girls who have a hot tattoo: they see it, decide it looks great and then they decide to get another. And then two more. Pretty soon, they’re getting a life-size depiction across their face and chest of Gene Simmons shitting into the mouth of a chimp.

The maximum number of tattoos that a woman can have and still be considered hot is three. After that, you’re a pair of busted leather pants away from blowing bikers behind a truck-stop Denny’s.

I hear so many people say, “It’s art! I’m just expressing myself!” They don’t hang the Mona Lisa an inch from a giant, sweating, ass-crack. And think about this: if you have a Rembrandt, a Picasso, and a Pollack, you wouldn’t cram them all onto one, six-foot wall in your house. While each might be individually pretty, they all conflict with each other in close quarters. It’s too much for the eye to take in.

Also, for something that’s supposed to be a true expression of one’s individuality, I see an awful lot of ugly, generic tattoos floating around. Here’s a tip: getting a flower, star, moon, heart, or unicorn in the small of your back doesn’t really express who you are. Unless, of course, you’re trying to say, “I have no taste.”

I had the urge to get a tattoo once. Then I decided I’d just buy a new T-Shirt instead. Bam, problem solved. No needle, no fat sweaty-guy strung out on crystal meth hunched over me in the back of a store somewhere, and no regrets. Tomorrow, next week, 50 years from now, I can always go out and buy another shirt. I know what you're going to say. “I know what’s cool! I wouldn’t get anything tacky tattooed on my body!” Really? 20 years ago I thought jams and parachute pants were cool. 15 years ago people thought Vanilla Ice was cool. For some reason, people keep going to see Brendan Frasier movies. Seriously, Brendan, give it up. You’ve proven that you’ll do any script that falls in front of you. I heard that you thought your kid's copy of See Spot Run was your next project. Hard Core Porn actresses have done less humiliating things in front of the camera.

My point is, if you’re looking for a way to permanently mark up your body, consider Herpes: it’s cheaper, easier to get, and you can share it with your friends. Plus, in 50 years when your belly sags down over your genitals, it’ll look the same as that lame-ass heart you got on your navel when you were 19.

Why Buy The Milk When You Can Fuck The Cow For Free?

I was thinking today about people who get married before ever having sex, and trying to weigh the pros and cons for both sides. On one hand I admire their commitment, on the other it seems like a weird sort of goal. You wouldn’t buy a car without taking it for a test drive, would you? No, that’s an unfair analogy. Try this: You wouldn’t buy a car when you don’t even have a license.

Maybe I’m missing the whole point of the exercise. Sure these days it speaks volumes for your self-control, given the seemingly limitless supply of sorority girls and date-rape drugs, but the end game is still you rolling off an unsatisfied girl after two strokes on your wedding night. Or, for you ladies, bleeding while holding a traumatized guy and wondering what all the fuss was about.

I guess maybe this comes down to a fundamental difference between how people view sex. I’ve never just viewed sex as recreation…even when it was for no other purpose. I always go into each encounter trying to learn something new. I figure girls are all different, so no one thing is going to work for everyone, but by the time I get married I’ll be able to rock my wife’s world. Have you ever seen the old Kung Fu movie: The Seven Deadly Venoms? Basically, there are a bunch of different martial arts styles. I think of each woman as a master who knows one form of Kung-Fu, and my whole purpose is to learn. When I get married, I’ll be DEADLY in bed. I’ll be a master of all seven styles.

I’d be interested to know what percentage of people who saved themselves for marriage end up having affairs. One might think that it would be low because people who avoided temptation in the past can probably continue to stay the course. But maybe it would be higher due to the greater chance they’re having bad sex in marriage. Sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship, but it’s a real good indicator of how a couple is doing. Because bad sex means (barring medical problems) there’s no communication, bad sex leads to no sex, no sex leads to resentment, resentment leads to temptation, and temptation leads to cheating. And we all know what cheating leads to…other than herpes, I mean: shattered trust. And when the trust is gone so is whatever relationship you had.

On the other, I’ve noticed that people who have a lot of bad sex tend to completely forget that good sex exists. This number’s probably dramatically increased with those who’ve only ever slept with one person. Like I knew a girl who said that oral sex was disgusting. And she meant receiving! THAT’S the kind of thing that worries me about people who save themselves for marriage. You don’t even have a clue about what’s good and what’s bad.

Sometimes I think that’s why religious types tend to marry much earlier: they have to save themselves for marriage, while every fiber in their body is telling them to go fuck like rabbits. Something’s got to give. If I were saving myself, I would have been married at 20. I have no idea how anyone waits longer.

I don’t mean to knock the people who do it. The fundamental rule about sex should be: don’t do it unless you’re comfortable and sure. And I’m sure it’s going to make the person you end up with feel extra special that you saved yourself for them. But in the end, I’d rather do a job right then do it first.

Sexlexia

I was reading the headline news today and it appears that illegal immigrants are holding some sort of protest rally. I don’t really want to get into a debate about the politics of the matter, but doesn’t it seem like a monumentally stupid thing to do? If you’re living in this country illegally, why exactly would you want to draw attention to yourself? If INS was smart they’d be waiting with helicopters, nets, and about 50,000 trucks. That’ll teach you to stand up for your rights, Pedro! FYI, rights are for people who pay taxes. I wonder how patriotic these people will be the first time they have to go to jury duty.

I’d be more politically correct, but I doubt anyone who’d be offended can actually read English.

OK, now on to good stuff:

I had a little while to look back over my scribblings here, and I have to say I’m pretty shocked about the sheer number of words I’ve put down inside of 5 months. Who knew I had that much going through my head? I was thinking of compiling a “Best Of” list for people who are new, so if anyone has any suggestions or any favorite posts, please let me know.

Also, it was a landmark month for me in terms of traffic. I’ve never had a blog or website before, but for the first time I had over 1,000 hits in a month. A super huge thanks to everyone who visited…Also an incentive: I vowed if I ever got over 1,500 in a month I’d actually spend some money on the site and make it attractive. So congratulations, bitches! You’re two thirds of the way to making me spend precious beer money.

It’s been a while since I wrote, and I’m sure people have been wondering where I disappeared to. I wish it was something dramatic like, “kidnapped by a futuristic species of alien women who need an earth man to teach them how to love” or “engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse with pirates of the Volcanic Rim” or “hunting the deadliest prey of all: machete-wielding gorillas.” Unfortunately, it’s nothing nearly that cool. I’ve been dealing with writer’s block. When I first started my angry rants here, I hadn’t written a creative thing in about two years. I had plenty bottled up. Now, I guess the ideas are a little harder to come by. At any rate, I intend to keep up with the blog more reliably from here on out. The temporary plan is to write once a day, Monday-Friday.

What’s behind my writer’s block? Simple: I’m DYING for ass. I’ve gone from pathetic to desperate to just looking to penetrate something with a pulse other than my hand. I know, as sexy as Ms. Right is (and, sometimes, her Swedish half-sister, Ms. Left), things are looking bleak. I’d like to tell you I couldn’t write in my blog because I was solving world hunger or curing cancer. Unfortunately, it’s been nothing so selfless or noble.

Whatever else masturbation is, there are two things it’s not: productive or deeply satisfying.

Don’t get me wrong, there are nights when I just want to finish up so I can get some sleep…but generally, the difference between my hand and a woman is like hitting a homerun in batting practice compared to game seven of the World Series.

I’m not sure if anyone else is like this, but my sex drive varies based on the season. Basically, I have two levels of sexual frustration: Ultra and “Rabbit-on-angel-dust-and-Xtasy.” I wish I knew why I go through months where recovering senior citizens, burn victims, and amputees suddenly seem “kinda hot.”

What sucks is that I never know when the urge to spread my seed goes from life-damaging to “criminal.” If I did, I could at least plan to take that week of from work and do nothing but masturbate till I got calluses. I know, I know, things would be much easier if I lived with a steady girl. But what you’re missing is that when I’m like this I go from “moderately entertaining and occasionally charming” to “deranged lunatic.” I go CRAZY. My usually weak game deteriorates until I’m about as witty, personable, and fun as a lobotomy patient. When I get like this, I suddenly remember what it was like to be a teenager living in a perpetual catch-22 of sex: I want sex because I can’t get it and I can’t get sex because I want it.

That’s right my friends, I’m afraid I’ve been struck by the deadly illness I call “Sexlexia.” Symptoms include inability to function, maintain conversation, or do anything productive because of a lack of ass. The cure: half a bottle of Jack Daniels, whipped cream, fuzzy hand-cuffs and two bi-curious airline stewardesses.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: as soon as they make a patch-substitute for sex, I’m there. In the meantime, it looks like I have a date with two girls tonight: Ms. Grabby and Ms. Squeezy. And they’ve both been VERY naughty.