Joseph: Doormat Of Christianity

I was thinking today: Joseph was probably the angriest dude on the planet. Here he bagged up a hot virgin wife, and before he even gets to test the goods, she gets knocked up by another guy: God.

Now, I don’t know about the rest of the male population, but I get a little insecure when I hear about ex boyfriends. I mean, it motivates me to try to out-do them. How the fuck are you going to one-up the I am? Pretty much, you’re doomed to a life of second best. Way distant second.

“When are you going to start your own Carpenter’s company? My last boyfriend wasn’t afraid to start his own thing.”

“I don’t believe you only made three pieces of copper today. You know my last man lives in a mansion and has all the riches in the earth.”

I mean, can you even imagine how difficult it would be to get naked in front of Mary?

“Gee, Joe, yeah I guess that’s a nice dick. If you haven’t seen God’s.”

“Wow, are you done already, Joe? No, no…that was good. I mean, God fucked me for two weeks, but no, that was ok, I guess.”

No wonder Jesus never had any brothers or sisters.

They say Joseph was a carpenter…I’m guessing he was also an alcoholic. Because that’s got to be a living hell.

How hard would it be to try to follow God? If He was like any of the ex boyfriends I’ve heard stories about He probably got loaded and knocked on the door trying to get Mary to give him head at 4 am. And there Joseph was, trying to stand up to God, because he couldn’t have his wife thinking he was a pussy.

“Come on, YHWH. Let’s be cool here. Just go back home and sleep it off, ok?”

“Shut up! I want a hummer, you faggot! How are you enjoying what I left you? Can she even feel anything you got down there?”

“God. God! Don’t make me get the sheriff down here again. We all remember how that went last time.”

As much as that’s got to suck, it’d be nothing compared to the day to day hassle of raising a kid who knows you’re not his real dad.

“Son, go milk the goat.”

“Fuck you, Joe.”

Yeah. It must have been no picnic being Joe. I guess that’s why I don’t understand how little credit is thrown his way. 2,000 years later and people still don’t respect him. All anyone says is “Jesus” this or the “Holy Mary” that.

Christians are weird.

Will Embarrass Self For Ass

My friends, I have heartbreaking news: I’ve just been diagnosed with a terrible illness for which there is no cure: whiteness. Symptoms include being as popular as a rapist and roughly as cool. Side effects include over-blown sense of self-importance, an obsession with fucking over anything that moves and a complete inability to dance.

Unfortunately, there is no cure. But there is a treatment. So please, my friends, send rap music.

Actually, today I was thinking that I would just embrace my affliction and buy a villain chair for my desk at work. Maybe that would turn my life around a little. I mean, considering I’m white and Jewish, how the fuck am I the corporate bitch with $62.87 in my checking account? By all rights I should be running a crooked investment firm that mercilessly fucks over hard working people of other ethnicities.

I went out drinking last night (what the fuck, it was Tuesday. I earned it) and while trying to figure out why exactly the floor kept refusing to let me up, I noticed a very attractive girl at a table behind me. And I immediately reached the place that I ALWAYS come to when I see a hot girl. I thought to myself, “I’m young, disease-free, and not completely repulsive. I should go talk to her.”

What usually happens next is that I launch myself over there, open my mouth and realize I have no fucking clue what I should say next. So I say something that gives a whole new meaning to the term “awkward silence.” Something like the first two paragraphs of this blog. See, and you thought that I was just going off on a tangent here.

Generally, after I finish there is dead silence while girls study their surroundings for the closest available exit. It’s not that I don’t have balls—it’s just that I completely lack any sort of way to harness my courage and humor. It’s sort of like having a 10” cock and never showing it to another person.

Actually, in this case, the two afflictions are one and the same. I'm kidding. I don't have a sence a humor.

So I have come to a decision: I realize that I suck at this type of thing. And just like with A.A., the first step is recognizing that you have a problem. Now I’ve spent 26 years trying to figure out women on my own and I haven’t learned a goddamn thing. Seriously, I have just realized that I haven’t deepened my knowledge of women since nursery school. Back than, my summery of women could be boiled down to three traits:

1. Warm
2. Soft
3. Smell nice

22 years later, I’m still in the same place. I see I girl and what runs through my head is, “Wow, she’s hot. Maybe I should put a frog down her dress.”

So here is my decision: I am going to completely abandon my current in-person seduction techniques. Because I realized the only time in my life that I got any sort of a real education about women came in an hour-long sex-ed class in seventh grade. And that class can be summarized in two sentences:

“If you have sex without a condom, you’ll get Chlamydia. Here’s a picture.”

And that just sucks. So I’m going in for professional help. I’m one chapter in, and I have to admit it’s a revelation. It's not like my goal is to sleep with hundreds of women, because I've learned that sex for sex's sake is ultimately unfufilling. Sweaty, oily, relaxing unfufilment. So I don't want to bang 2000 girls; I just want to be able to make the leap from looking at a girl to making out with her minus completely degrading myself or handing over money.

My Pants And Other Matters Of National Security

I have to admit that lately my office is really getting on my nerves. I mean, first there was the issue with the chairs and next they install super bright florescent bulbs. Seriously, I feel like I should just bring some tanning butter and a towel for my lunch breaks. In two weeks I’m going to look like George Hamilton.

Secretly, I suspect that the florescent lighting might just be another ploy to snuff out any hopes of inter-office romances. Do you have any idea what it’s like living under those bulbs? Every blemish my skin has suffered through since puberty have all returned at once. I feel like I’m walking around through a perpetual propecia commercial…only there’s no Jessica Simpson walking around whoring the place up. Why the fuck would you hire Jessica Simpson as a spokesperson for anything? Seriously, she is to the English language what Shatner is to music.

So I’m stuck in the office under brutal lighting. As if I don’t already look like I’m 15 years old, the lights make it appear that I’m suffering a major acne attack. Meaning that I’m a bad hair-cut and a zeppelin t-shirt away from looking like I’m awaiting a ride from my mom to a Battlestar Galactica convention. My only refuge from the child services teams that try to haul me down to an adoption agency is the restroom. But unfortunately, there’s a problem on that front, too.

Now, I guess that I understand the need for security in this day and age. You can never be too careful. So I appreciate the impulse to put locks on the bathroom doors. But I don’t pretend to understand why the fuck you would bother on the men’s room.

I’ve been in a lot of skeevy bathrooms in my life…but I’ve never had someone burst in on me to try to rape or mug me mid-stream. Mostly because I think the overpowering stench of urine isn’t something that anyone views as an aphrodisiac.

Look, I know for a fact that if the ladies restroom had a lock and the guy’s didn’t, I’d be right here making sarcastic comments about how I need security because of all the ladies that try to force me to have sex with them late at night in the office. But in my day to day life, I’d appreciate the hassle-free environment. Because here’s the thing: the locks are five digit codes. It’s like my waste functions have suddenly become a matter of national security.

I can’t even remember my own age. What are the odds that I’m going to be able to recall the pin number when I’m ten seconds away from wetting myself? For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to pee, not launch a warhead from a nuclear submarine. What’s next? Am I going to have to simultaneously turn two sets of keys each time I need toilet paper? Maybe we should require retinal scans each time you want to flush.

Perhaps I just find it ironic that the bathrooms are locked while the parking garage opens right to the street and provides little if any lighting. Although I guess it’s comforting to know that if I am raped, it won’t be amidst the overpowering stench of urine from the men’s room, it’ll be in the overpowering stench of urine in the garage. Boy, is that a weight off my mind.

See you all tomorrow. I’m off to go buy pepper spray.

Hitler Takes Revenge On My Ass--Literally

When I arrived at work this morning, I discovered a little known fact: Hitler’s not dead. It’s true. Apparently, the good people at SitOnIt-Seating have resurrected him expressly to design a chair to break the will of employees. And by “employees” I mean me.

At some point over the weekend my company decided that the office had been back pain-free for entirely far too long. And rather than investing in that foosball table I’ve been lobbying for, the company equipped us all with new ergonomic chairs. In case anyone was wondering, “ergonomic” is apparently synonym for “uncomfortable as fuck.”

There are four levers and a seven page instruction manual. My new chair has approximately 18,000 positions, none of them comfortable. I’m beginning to think that I’m not nearly qualified to operate this thing. Seriously, I have the sneaking suspicion that you need a class 3 license just to sit down.

After an hour of the new chair, I began losing feeling in the left side of my body. So I went to complain.

“Listen, I don’t know what I did, but I swear I’m sorry. For the love of Christ, let me have my old chair back.”

“I’m sorry” said the receptionist. “The old chairs have been disposed of. You’ll have to make due.”

“Fine!” I said. “Then when my lunch rolls around, I’m heading down to Spencer’s Gifts, picking up a velour beanbag chair and putting my computer on the floor!”

The receptionist stopped typing and gave me a once over. She saw that I meant business.

“Look” she said, “All the chairs have to be the same. We’re trying to promote a more professional environment. I’m sorry if the new seating is a little uncomfortable, but—“

“A little uncomfortable??? Were the designs for these things swiped from the Spanish Inquisition? I’m pretty sure that these chairs were originally used to punish unbelievers.”

“If you’d like, you can file a complaint with our decorations committee. Maybe they can approve the requisition of an alternate seating arrangement in three or four weeks based on medical problems.”

“Are implying that my ass isn’t a corporate priority? Because I’m ten seconds away from bringing in my La-Z-Boy from home.”

“Ehren—“

“I noticed none of the CEOs are using the new chairs.”

“I can’t comment on that.”

Basically, I’ve been fucked again by big business. I mean, first it was the Enron scandal and now this. Where will it all end?

Clearly, the gauntlet has been thrown down: my ass or my job. Is it worth getting fired for stealing the boss’s chair? We’ll find out tomorrow. I can see it now:

My boss pushes away from his desk, switches off the light, and locks his door for the evening. Ten minutes later, clothed all in black, I descend from the air-duct, Mission Impossible style. It’s the perfect plan. Except for, you know, figuring out how to cram a chair back up through the vent. But what the hell? If I managed to bang a fat girl in a two seater, I figure this ought to be a piece of cake.

Rapist Hot

Bonus Saturday post, because I was off playing Rock Star yesterday and couldn’t get to a computer.

Over the course of the week, something has been made abundantly clear to me. Or rather, it was always clear but it’s only recently been pushed back into the forefront of my consciousness:

Girls are prejudiced.

OK, maybe that’s a bit unfair, because I suppose everyone is. Allow me to illuminate.

I had been dragged to the bar scene to be an escort. Not the kind that gets paid for fellacio, the kind that makes sure that damsels in distress don’t get drunk and fuck a guy they like. It’s really a fantastic scenario: guy meets girl, wants to fuck her. Girl meets guy, wants to fuck him. Of course, she can’t actually give in to her impulses, because then what would he think of her? So I get called in. It’s nice to know that my very presence acts as natural contraceptive. Sort of like my personality is the exact opposite of roofies.

Being the class act that I am, I immediately dropped my escortee and met up with some friends who were drinking down the street.

So allow me to set the scene. My friends and I are outside, talking about all manner of inappropriateness. They’ve been inside, I have not. And they are talking about a woman who’s sitting at the end of a bar. Full-blown model, I kid you not. And they are all discussing how much they’d love to run through positions they’ve only seen accomplished by contortionists. But of course, none of them have done so much as wave hello to the girl. So I glance in and say to myself, “Fuck that, I can go talk to her.”

Whereupon I launch myself in what I assume is my seductive of saunters up to her and glide into the empty chair next to her. And I was good. I don’t pretend to be an expert of the bar-pick-up, but I could just feel that everything was so…perfect. I made her laugh, we talked about Zeppelin, and we argued about which restaurant makes the best pizza. Hell, I even got a request from her friend to sing back-up at the karaoke mic.

Closing time rolls in. And I ask, “What are you up to now?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Pretending I haven’t already cemented my place as the worst escort in history, I ask, “Would you like some company?”

Now, I wasn’t really considering sleeping with this girl. At least not that night. But in all honesty, my intentions were nothing beyond getting to know her a little better and making sure no evils befell her that night.

“Awww…you’re such a good friend. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Now look, I don’t really mind being shot down. It comes with the territory. I’m not exactly everyone’s cup of tea. It’s the “friend” part that I object to. It was the equivalent of patting my head and saying. “Awww…you think that you actually have a penis.”

Flash forward to last night. I had just finished playing a show. My band and I were sitting out by the van, reveling in that post-performance rush that’s almost sexual. And we were all watching what had been the highlight of the female bar patronage literally stumble out of the bar.

She was shapely, slender and had the most adorable face. It was the kind of girl you could picture in black and white jeans advertisements.

“It wuzz good meetin you.” She slurred at a tall, blond guy. Basically, imagine the villain to ever single bad 80s movie involving a young, rich kid.

“Yeah, yeah. You too, sweetheart.”

“I havta--” BOOM, she falls over. Ass over tea-kettle, short skirt goes up over navel. He helps her up.

“I think I’m gonna drive you. Get in the car.”

“K.”

OK, ignoring for a second that the guy is an obvious scumbag, here’s the part that sucks: maybe she’s not thinking clearly. But this rapist is viewed by a hot girl as a sexual object. I provide stimulating conversation, humor and talent and I’m a “friend.”

Maybe I’m being a little hard on date rapists here. After all, date rapists are the most charming of all the sexual predators.

It’s over-simplifying things, I know. And I’m aware that I’m being just as guilty of the same prejudice. There were probably at least two 270 pound girls drinking cans of pabst with whom I could forge a significant and emotionally fulfilling bond. Not to mention a fetish for neck cleavage. But here’s the difference:

I see girls. Regardless of outward physical attributes, I see personality and humor and intellect and talent. Vulnerability, strength, and character. Lately I feel as if when I speak to girls, I’m checking out they’re sense of humor and they’re looking at the outline of my face. Maybe I should start wearing a Zorro mask.

God, I hate bar scenes…But I have another show tonight. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get a hair cut in the hopes of prettying myself up enough to be considered potential date-rapist material. Because at least rapists are viewed as owning and operating a dick.

The Science Of Sex

I was thinking today that they should really change the slogans for condoms. I got so many good ones. And by “so many” I mean two. The first is stolen from a Lottery scratch off game, but would make so much more sense when applied to rubbers. How about this:

Trojan: all you need is a dollar and a dream.

My second idea would be specifically for those climax control condoms. You know the kind that is coated with Novocain and makes you think your cock’s fallen off?

New Climax Control: Me Love You Long Time.

I know. The real wonder is that I haven’t already made billions by sleazing my way up the corporate ramp of some advertising agency.

Seriously though, I was thinking about the role that technology plays on promiscuity, mostly because the FDA has loosened restrictions on the “morning after” pill, and partly because my friends own a DVD of a model being fucked by what appears to be a modified rowing machine. Sure, it’s kind of creepy, but it’s also unbelievably depressing to know that somewhere, there’s a nautilus getting more ass than me.

But back to the morning after pill. Personally, I think it’s great news. I’m going to go stock up on this product so I can slip into the morning coffee of girls I’ve slept with. You know, right before I kick them out the door.

Critics say that the availability of this drug will lead to an increase in unprotected sex (and so more STDs) and unwanted pregnancies. I’d probably take this argument more seriously if these same opponents didn’t later launch into arguments against the “mongrelization of the races” and that “fucking makes baby Jesus cries.”

See here’s the thing: people have always had sex. It’s true. We all know that Mary was only a virgin if you don’t count anal.

Come on, people WANT to have sex. I’m not going to get into the debate of whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I really don’t think technology promotes promiscuity. See, I’ve been drunk and made some bad decisions over the course of my life. But I’ve NEVER said, “Well, I don’t really want to bang this girl…but I already have a condom, so I might as well fuck her like the war fucked Chechnya.”

It doesn’t happen that way. Before abortions, condoms, and lube, people still had casual, irresponsible, drunk sex. You think Genghis Khan was wearing a rubber when raped God knows how many Asians?

The availability of all the family planning technology isn’t making people more promiscuous. The truth is that people have NEVER been all that pure to begin with. You’re out of your mind if you think that surfs in the dark ages weren’t constantly screwing milkmaids. The only difference is that now we don’t burn them as witches afterwards. Instead we film it and give them their own websites.

People are going to have sex. The worst thing you can do is teach them that’s it evil and leave them undereducated on the subject. Because if you do, when they screw up they’re not going to have birth control to catch them, because they won’t know how it works. And make no mistake about it, people ALL fuck up sooner or later.

I dated a girl whose mother worked in a family planning center. After running a number of tests on a girl, she sat her down and said, “Listen, honey. You’re pregnant.”

“That’s impossible.” Said the girl. “I’m not…you know…active.”

“You’re pregnant. To get that way, you had to having sex with someone.”

“But I’m not sexually active!!!”

“YOU. ARE. PREGNANT.”

“But I don’t—“

“Does your boyfriend put his penis inside you?”

“Yes. But I swear, I lie perfectly still the whole time.”

The Circle Of College Life

Sorry for not posting yesterday. I was too busy revenge fucking an ex-girlfriend for making me sit through episodes of “One Tree Hill.” Not really. But I was considering it. And lately it seems like that is the closest I'm going to come to having sex for a long time.

Now on to matters at hand: drunk chicks.

I had a chill evening of working out, downloading some new porn (FYI, Tory Lane is AMAZING), and watching the Yankee game. So there I was: huge fluffy slippers on my feet, a ripped T-shirt, my “Back In Black” AC/DC boxers riding up, as I slouched in a chair shoveling cheerios from the box into my mouth. Then a drunk girl sat down on my desk directly in front of me.

Thankfully, my latest video acquisitions had wound to a profoundly gratifying close. I was just chilling out in what I assumed was the privacy of my own home, watching a little baseball and idly wondering whether getting up to floss would be a worth-while endeavor; then, suddenly, I was looking at boobs in a tight black tee shirt.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” said my guest. “What’s your name?”

Now, it’s not like I had been caught doing anything widely inappropriate. I was at least nominally clothed, and not probing my ass-cheeks for lint, or shaving my nether regions. But there’s something so creepy about being burst in on when you assumed you were alone. I resisted the urge to shriek like a woman and make a desperate dive for my pants.

“I’m Ehren. What are you doing here?”

“Oh I know your brother. I’m Summer.”

Small side explanation here: I’m living in my parent’s house for the summer. My brother is home from college, and in between stealing my beer and sleeping, generally stays out of my way. I think I’ve seen him awake and walking around twice since June. My parents are out of town for the summer.

“Hi…Summer. So where is my brother?”

“He’s downstairs. Some of friends are coming over and we’re gonna have fun. I just thought I’d try to find a place I could sleep if I get tired later.”

“Ummm…”

“I’m not a slut, I’m just drunk.”

Honestly, I’m not 100% certain whether she actually knew my brother, or if he had just hired a prostitute. Either way, I grabbed her waist, pulled her into bed and banged her until the early hours of the morning.

Just kidding. See, this is why I get no respect: I’m too nice of a guy. Sure, I could have taken advantage of this drunk chick. But the next day I’d get that terrible, burning feeling deep down inside. And not just while peeing. And while both burning sensations are treatable, neither is ultimately enjoyable.

“That’s ok, Summer. I suspect you’re a slut even when you’re sober. So, how old are you? Judging from those crows’ feet, I'm guess that when you were a kid you watched Game Shows where the big prize was fire.”

“Whu?”

“What are you studying in school? Have you gotten up to ‘fetch’ yet?”

So instead of giving this girl a night that would teach her not to be a whore (read: anal fisting), I insulted her until she stumbled off in search of easier fun, and was, presumably, gang-raped by frat guys. And so the circle of college life continues.

Putting The "Ex" Back In "Sex"

I was thinking today about the pros and cons of sleeping with girls whom I’ve already dated. Or as they like to say, “Left crushed and broken after devouring the delicate flower of their best days/weeks/months/years.”

I'm kidding. Honestly, I tend to have a pretty good relationship with my ex girlfriends. Maybe it’s because deep down, they know that I always respected them and never lied. Maybe it’s because I tend to date girls with whom I have a good rapport. Or it might just be because I never have to see them anymore. Whatever the case, I have gone back and slept with a couple women that I dated before.

I think this is an appealing proposition for women because they already know what they’re getting. They don’t have to go through the drama of seducing a guy then finding out that he’s into water-play or can only orgasm while a donkey shits on their chest. Also, a lot of women feel guilty about the number of men they’ve slept with. Even if their ex is bending them over a trash compactor, while gargling medical waste, they can tell themselves that they’re clean because it’s a guy that they’ve already slept with. “It’s as if it doesn’t really count!” they think.

I’ll admit that it’s tempting to go back for another tumble with girls I’ve dated. Mostly because I’ve already broken them in: they know what I like and there’s no hassle. When sleeping with a girl I already dated, I never have to say things like:

• “No, it’s not cool if your brother watches.”
• “Now you know: I don’t like it when you fist my ass.”
• “What’s that plastic bag for?”
• “You really want me to punch you when you reach climax?”
• “What the hell is a ‘safety word’? Is it—OH MY GOD!!! HAMBURGER!!! HAMBURGER!!!

Also on the plus side…sex with someone you’re dating is different than sex with a $15 prostitute you picked up outside of the V.D. ward of the hospital. And hopefully not just because of the ”name that fungus” game. There are just some things that you won’t do to a girl you’re dating. Like making her sleep in the wet spot, or really slapping her ass, or calling her names. I mean, generally I make love to girls I’m in a relationship with. Everyone else, I fuck. You’d better believe there’s a difference.

Why does this come into play? Well…have you ever carried a small petty grudge against someone you dated? I don’t mean filed charges against a stalker who sent you the severed heads of puppies, or the time you assaulted the whore who stole your car and gave you herpes. I mean small, almost insignificant frustrations you had against someone with whom you shared a mostly enjoyable part of your life. Maybe it was a phrase they said that drove you nuts, or a mannerism that was totally unconscious, or maybe it was just that you hated one of her best friends. There are few more satisfying revenges than anger fucking someone.

“Nag me about my facial hair, will you? Let’s see how much you like being poked in the eye!”

Bill W. And I Are "Just Friends." I Swear.

Today I got the following email from a close friend:

"so, i hadn't read your blog for about two weeks and i sat down and read them all in succession tonight. i fear that your addiction to sex may have surpassed your addiction to soco. am i really off the mark in saying that?"

I must admit, after a quick scan of my posts over the past week, that she may have a valid point. So I decided to investigate the issue a little deeper.

According to Jennifer Schneider, MD, PhD, the patterns and symptoms of sex addiction are:

1. Fantasy sex: neglecting commitments because of fantasy life, masturbation
2. Seductive role sex: extramarital affairs (heterosexual or homosexual), flirting and seductive behavior
3. Anonymous sex: engaging in sex with anonymous partners, having one night stands
4. Paying for sex: paying prostitutes for sex, paying for sexually explicit phone calls
5. Trading sex: receiving money or drugs for sex
6. Voyeuristic sex: patronizing adult bookstores and strip shows, looking through windows of houses, having a collection of pornography at home or at work
7. Exhibitionist sex: exposing oneself in public places or from the home or car, wearing clothes designed to expose
8. Intrusive sex: touching others without permission, using position of power (e.g., professional, religious) to sexually exploit another person, rape
9. Pain exchange: causing or receiving pain to enhance sexual pleasure
10. Object sex: masturbating with objects, cross-dressing to add to sexual pleasure, using fetishes as part of sexual rituals, having sex with animals
11. Sex with children: forcing sexual activity on a child, watching child pornography

Well, there’s no way I can pretend numbers 1, 2, 3, and 6 don’t apply. Forgive the expression, but you could say I’m “fucked.” I’ve cut classes, obsessed about flirting (umm…haven’t you read the rest of this blog? That’s pretty much ALL I obsess about), had one night stands, and have a pretty extensive porno collection. Thankfully, however, I have the decency to keep my pornography at home.

It’s rather depressing that I’m wondering whether extenuating circumstances come into play. For example, I’m not really into number 9, but this one time I was dating a girl who owned one of those big paddles that fraternities use to initiate new members and…well, you get the idea. And number 7, too. They don’t say whether having sex eight feet from your girlfriend’s slumbering roommate counts. I mean, it’s not like it happened all that often. 5, 6 times tops. OK, maybe 10.

The good news is that I’m definitely in the clear for numbers 4, 5, 8, 10 and 11. The bad news is that means, at worst, my score says that by a count of 6-5 I should check myself into a support group. I’d say “fuck me” but that might only exacerbate the problem (not to mention leading to more of number 3).

Wow…You know, I really didn’t think that it would be all that close. Seriously, I knew I enjoyed sex, but an illness…You know, if I had to pick one sex-related disease that I’d wind up with, nymphomania would have been near the bottom. I always assumed it would be one of those exotic illnesses, like “tropical crotchrot,” “bubonic testiculitis,” or “Explosive-hemorrhagic-whopping-cockhead-fever.”

Who would have thought that writing a blog with 183 posts on the general top of sex would be a tip-off to that I had a sex addiction?

I guess the bright spot in all this is that while recovery might suck, at least Sexaholics Anonymous is an unbelievable place to meet women.

Girls Who Don't Know Better

A depressing thought occurred to me today: I might be officially too old to bang high school girls now. Granted, there’s no law against sleeping with an 18 year old. But common decency says that if I want to bang a senior, I first have to be locked in a loveless marriage and have three kids.

It’s weird how time sneaks up on me like that. I’ve reached the age where being legally able to buy beer no longer translates into easy hand jobs from women desperate for the taste of cheap gin. And that’s just depressing beyond words. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to live in a world where that’s no longer a realistic expectation.

My friends have often said things along the lines of “If I knew when I know now back when I was in high school…” I never really went through that. I ALWAYS knew that kids I went to high school with were unconscionable pricks. It was a bunch of kids in a tiny pond who thought that they had a grip on what life was.

At my high school graduation I was walking around turning down people who wanted to sign my year book. Seriously, it was girls coming up to me with a pen crying and saying, “Oh my God, I’m going to miss you SO much. Please stay in touch.”

And I’d look at them and say, “You psychotic cunt. Do you have any idea how big of a bitch you were to me for the last four years? You never gave a fuck about me before, so let’s not pretend that you care now. You’re just terrified because you realize in about 4 months you’ll have failed out of college and will be blowing guys on a street corner somewhere. Fuck you!”

You know, in retrospect it’s not all that hard to see why I was a virgin through high school.

But back to the point at hand: barely legal girls. I’m 26 years-old. I’ve got shit like business parties and family holidays that I’m expected to bring a girl to. And damn fast, too. If I show up at another family functions single, I’m officially going to be the relative everyone suspects is in the closet. Yeah, that won’t be awkward. Family members will stop asking when I’m getting married and start telling me about the stylish young men they work with. If I show up at another Thanksgiving without a date, ten bucks says my aunt sends me a butt-plug next year.

So I need a woman. And if I’m dragging in 18 year-olds, it’s not really going to fly. All I need is my date telling my mom that she has to get home because she’s on the prom planning committee.

Sigh, I guess it’s time where I’ll just have to turn my attention to defiling College Students. I mean, I’m only 26. I figure I’ve still got a good two years left before it starts to get creepy. After that, I have no idea what I’ll do. I suspect that grad students would be too smart to get involved with me.

It’s depressing. In two years there’s a real possibility that I’ll have to date a girl who actually knows better.

Being "Set Up"

The worst part about being single is that suddenly everyone thinks there’s something wrong with you that can only be cured by flinging any unmarried acquaintance in your general direction. It’s as if my friends think that now that I’m out of a relationship, I’m ready to settle for the first female with a pulse and a lazy-eye that wanders into the soup kitchen of my dating life. I have standards! See yesterday’s post for specifics.

I also have a theory that people in relationships can’t stand seeing any of their friends single, or as I pronounce it “happy.” Seriously, I love how I can hang out with someone all day and hear nothing about how miserable their boyfriend/girlfriend/unguarded paraplegic cousin makes them. Then they find out I’m single and immediately try to get me into a relationship with some random girl they met on the subway.

It’s not a coincidence they call it being “set up.”

Look, I appreciate the effort, but let me just say this: there’s a reason that your female friends are single, ok? I’m unattached, not blind and hopeless.

My personal favorite, however, is when I’m hanging out with someone who says, “You’re single? You know, I have a friend who would be perfect for you.”

“What’s she like?”

“Well, she has a great personality.”

“So she’s fat?”

“Why do guys always ask that? She’s SO much fun.”

“So she’s over 200 pounds?”

Shut up! She’s sweet.”

“Christ, how fat is she??? Can she walk under her own power or does she just ride around on a moped?”

Listen, no ever describes Victoria’s Secret models as “having great personalities.” It just never happens. And I know the reason: because women don’t want to hang out with girls who are exponentially more beautiful than themselves. Every girl secretly believes that she is the hottest member of her group of friends, so when they offer to hook you up it’s never with some playmate. It’s always some charity case that your buddy uses to improve her self-esteem. Just once, I want the conversation to go:

“I have a friend who would be perfect for you.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s a total cunt, but Christ does she have a great ass.”

See that would be someone I’d be interested in meeting. Because you know what? I know enough about my female friends to know that they have a better idea about a girl’s ass than anyone’s personality. What the fuck does that even mean, personality? You just finished telling me about your ex boyfriend who fucked your sister and tried to steal your car. Now you think I’m going to trust your judgment on someone’s character?

Besides, the term “personality” is way too slippery and capricious. People have opinions on whether your friend Bertha is nice. No one ever argues about whether Jessica Alba has a great ass.

Ehren Posts A Personal Ad

So I was thinking today, that maybe I should make a list of exactly what it is I’m looking for in a woman. If nothing else, it would help me organize precisely what I wanted to so I could keep my eyes open.

As my list grew, I decided that it would probably be easier to just post a wanted ad. Because I’m too cheap to buy newspaper space however, I figure I’ll just post it here and hope that my dream woman happens to randomly come across my blog, drawn thither by the power of fate, destiny and true love.


Hopeless romantic seeks filthy whore.

26 year old white male who enjoys long walks on the beach, candle-lit dinners, and snuggling seeks limber female companion to anger fuck. The successful applicant must be willing to perform in any and all of the locations below:

• Construction Site
• Office Desk
• Mall Changing Room
• McDonald’s Bathroom
• Crowded Street Fair
• The Vatican
• During High Speed Pursuits by Local and State Officials

Applicant will be needed to show up with-in ten minutes of a phone call (sort of like the “whore” equivalent to the bat-symbol) and perform without thinking, speaking, or crying about how we never talk about feelings. Special consideration (and an extra $50) will go to women who get the fuck out of my house before I finish my post-coital cigarette.

Position requirements include but are not limited to: Missionary, Doggie, Conch, Inversion, Cowgirl, Reverse Airplane, bondage, role-playing, anal, oral, and some light typing. Applicant must be so hot that she makes men want to "fuck the whore out of her."

Ehren is an equal opportunity dater. No applicant will be terminated based on race, religion, or sexual preference…that’s right, bring on the lipstick lesbians. I will, however, commit hate crimes against idiots, the humorless and fat people.

I know you're out there somewhere, dream woman. And it's only when I've penetrated your ass with the broken ends of a florescent light while strangling you, that we will both understand the meaning of "true love." Sigh...

Wanted: Hot Girl With Headwound

“You know Ehren, I’ve been thinking about your situation surrounding your break-up. I think I know the solution.”

This statement was delivered to me by one of my friends. From his tone, it was obvious that he had been considering it for sometime.

“Oh?” I said. “What’s that?”

“You should date hotter girls.”

This right here is why I love my friends. He said it to me like he genuinely believed it never dawned on me to date hot women before. And I don’t think that he was implying that my exes were ugly, but to him the solution for my problems was easy: unhappy? Date more attractive girls. I thanked him for his input and assured him that I would do my damndest to comply.

After some reflection, I’ve decided that an easier way might be to start drinking more so that women just appear more attractive. And hey, if that means I have to stay drunk for the next 50 years of my life, so be it. Because honestly, me with a ridiculously hot chick would be a pain in the ass. It’d be her walking around and everyone asking who the fuck that 15-year-old with her is.

Sure I could say, “I’m the kid that’s hung like a black porno walrus.” I’m sure a lot of people would ask “what exactly is the difference between a porno walrus and a regular walrus?” Come on, you think all those walruses they film mating on the discovery channel are just “average?” It’s all a fantasy.

“Oh baby, I love it! Slap my tail! Spit seaweed in my mustache! Call me a whore!”

Worst job in show-business: walrus porn fluffer.

Where was I? Oh yeah, hot chicks.

See the problem is that hot girls get hit on so frequently that their standards for men are much higher. And it’s not that I can’t get a hot girl…it just takes a lot more work. Because I’ll admit it: I’m not a handsome man. I’m cute, but certainly nothing that stands out in a crowd. In order to get a girl I need time.

Usually my “seduction” of women occurs over a course of days or weeks. She resists initially, but through a series of psychological torments and mind-fucks, I break her like a torture victim. At first I’m repellent, but eventually I grow on women like a fungus. And with roughly the same aesthetic effect. Basically, my only hope for romance relies on Stockholm syndrome.

What I need is a hot girl with a learning disability, head-trauma, or heroine addiction. And really, who wants to deal with the day-to-day hassle of teaching her to read, wiping saliva, or testing for Hep C?

Therefore, I’ve decided I need to drink more. Because the drunker I get, the hotter girls become. My plans for the night involve two gallons of wine and that homeless girl who lives under the overpass.

Why I Don't Watch Football

At any given time, I only have time in my life for about ten different things. They are, in order of importance:

1. Girls
2. Music
3. Blondes
4. Work
5. Redheads
6. Writing
7. Boobs
8. Reading
9. Asian Girls
10. Baseball

My life really can’t handle anymore interests. I just wouldn’t have enough time, particularly because numbers 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9 lead to my 11th interest: masturbation.

So every year, when the leafs change and I know baseball is winding to close, I think, "maybe I should start watching football, or basketball, or that weird ice sport played by guys with mullets and missing teeth…"

Here’s the problem: I don’t think it’s worth the stress and the time. Everything on the top ten occupies my mind roughly two hours a day. That leaves a precious four hours in which to take care of shit like bathing, paying bills, and being socially presentable. I don’t think I could deal with another sport. It’s more of my time that could be spent pretending I give a fuck about girls’ feelings.

Let’s see, I could either learn the intricacies of the “pass-interference rule” or listen to Wendy and her stripper-ass complain about how her boyfriend doesn’t appreciate her new underwear.

Every once in a while I think about branching out and expanding my interests. Honestly, it gets to be way too much of a hassle, because I can’t just pick something up and have fun. I have to set out to learn everything there is to know about it until it consumes my life and makes me miserable.

A few years ago, my friends decided to start a poker night. Now an ordinary guy would be happy just showing up, hanging out and drinking a few beers. No. I had to go buy a simulator program and commit four books to memory. And for what??? It’s a stupid, $20 once a week game!

I was the same way about sex. When I first starting having sex, I practiced so much I didn’t even enjoy it. It was “wow, here’s something you suck at. You’re going to learn to do this right or die trying.” A week in, my balls were emptier than a titty bar at 10 am.

I think this is why there are so many things I just refuse to take an interest in. Like cars, or football, or…fisting. Yeah, I guess it would be cool to know about that shit, but eventually it’s one more thing that tears into my time…or my girl. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s Busty Asian hour here at Ehren’s house. Hey, I’m multitasking!

No Means No

I was thinking today about how little respect men are given when they say they don’t want sex. I mean, women are offered sex just about every waking moment from the time they reach puberty until death. And in some very rare instances, sometimes even a few days after death. But I digress.

Because of the wide availability of dick, women think little of turning it down. They know that there’s always another dick six inches or so down the road.

Men, on the other hand, know that the number of girls offering sex to them is limited. So we’re supposed to feel grateful at every scrap a woman throws at us. Which why girls never take it seriously when a guy says “no.”

Think about it. All I’ve ever been told since I became aware of these things is “No means no.” When I went to college orientation I learned about when date rape is a man’s fault. It breaks down this way:

• If you’re both sober, it’s your fault.
• If you’re sober and she’s drunk, it’s your fault.
• If you’re drunk and she’s sober, it’s your fault.
• If you’re both drunk, it’s your fault.

Legally, if a woman even thinks “maybe I don’t want anyone to look at me tonight.” You’re guilty of rape.

Don’t get me wrong, sex is great. But there are times when I’m going to lay down the law. And without fail, the few times I did it, I got zero respect.

Back in college, I was fooling around with a girl. She was hot and things were getting pretty heated. And then she made a play to get my pants off. Now, maybe it’s a foolish line to have, but this girl had only been broken up with one of my friends for about 3 days. I could justify making out…both of us were very drunk, but I wasn’t going to do that to a friend.

I told her I didn’t want that. And she said, “ok.” Five minutes later, she went back for it again. So I got up and left. You would have thought I’d slapped the girl. She was so pissed she never spoke to me again.

Now reverse the roles. Imagine that I had tried that on a girl who said no. Girls saying, “no” is the story of my life! How big of an asshole would I be to try again and then be pissed when she wouldn’t put out?

My friend tells a story of hooking up with a girl in his room. They were getting hot and heavy; she was naked, he was naked and doing…various things. He describes the actions as “warming the oven.” So the two of them were having a great time getting her amply “warmed” and he had every intention of getting down.

But then, out of nowhere, she piped up, “So, are you going to fuck me or what?”

He stopped and looked at her for a moment. Then he got up, tossed her panties at her and said, “No, get the fuck out.”

We all know that women hold about 51 of the cards when it comes to sex. And girls, you can get sex 99% of the time by asking for it. But don’t mistake that for total power. Because sometimes, we men will play our one card just to let you know what it feels like. Hey, you’re the ones screaming for equality. And bitch, this is as equal as it gets.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

Yesterday a friend got me a giant red “easy” button. Staples used to use these things in their ads a while ago. I’m staring at it now and thinking of alternate and devious uses for this thing.

So far, the run-away favorite is to attach it to one of my belt buckles. Mmm…classy.

I realize that as a man, I’m inherently easy. Hey, if I see cleavage on a 90 year-old burn victim, I’m popping wood. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. But a man’s got needs, and right now my needs have me twenty seconds away from picking up a hooker.

But I’m not bitching about that. The important bit of information to take away is that I’m at the point where I want sex so badly that I’m unable to think, speak, or act coherently—even when I’m not actively sabotaged by my friends.

Over the weekend I was dragged out with one mission: find Ehren a girl. I didn’t ask, in fact, I didn’t really have much of a choice. However, it was made clear to me that I had two options: go out trolling for pussy, or have my tires slashed and then go trolling for pussy.

We arrived at bar where one of my friends had agreed to meet a girl she thought might be my type. Now, the night was growing old by then. We’d reached the point in the evening where the single girls finally realize that no better options are available tonight, and if they want dick they’ll have to make due with what’s available. So as we sat at the bar and made small talk, we were doing our best to ignore the couples making out three feet away. Drunk people making out are gross. It was like watching a scene from Aliens.

To take our minds off the horror movie unfolding one stool over, we ordered a few rounds of whiskey.

First whiskey: I introduce myself to the girl I’m being set up with. Some mildly uncomfortable jokes are exchanged.

Second whiskey: We’re all friends now. I help myself to her hat. She throws a fuss.

Third Whiskey: She makes a joke about her boobs. I flash the bar to the horror of everyone, I’m sure.

Fourth Whiskey: I’m outside. Alone.

See, somewhere between the third and the fourth shot, my friend muscled her way between us and began talking to the girl. I mean, as unsteady as my friend was walking at this point, I was shocked at the unstoppable flow of words that escaped her mouth. I would have needed a crowbar to pry my way into that conversation.

There was no getting them apart for the rest of the evening.

Later, I asked my friend, “What the fuck was that? I thought you wanted me to get to know that girl? Do you have any idea how much you just cock blocked me?”

“No, don’t worry!” she protested. “I told her that you really, really like her. And that you’re very single and have no prospects!”

“Thanks.” I said. “Maybe you could have made up some diseases that would have made me more attractive.”

I guess I have a few points to make with this story:

1. My friend can’t handle her whiskey.
2. I’m going to be single for a loooooooooooooooooooong time.
3. I don’t need an easy button. I’ll just get my friend drunk, and she can announce my level of availability to anyone in 200 yards.

My Funeral

I was thinking today about death. Very cheery, I know. However, I’ve decided that I really have to get cracking on my last will and testament. Otherwise God knows the kind of heathen ceremony they’ll have for me when I finally die saving the earth from killer sea mutants. Hey, it could happen!

First thing’s first: open bar. And I mean at the ceremony, not the after-party. I want there to be a keg right next to that fucking casket. Hmmm…considering I’m an odds-on favorite to die of alcohol poisoning, do you think that would be insensitive?

Next, I want no less than 12 supermodels dressed in black, wailing and weeping uncontrollably. I’m talking rending clothing, passing out and screaming.

I want a pirate, complete with eye patch, hook, and parrot to show up, drop a stone artifact into my casket and say, “A deal’s a deal. Here’s the stone head of Karkutua’s Mine, curse you!”

14 Chinese monks in full ceremonial garb.

7 Sherpas, complete with pack mules.

5 Aborigines. When my casket is lowered into the ground, they’ll play amazing grace on their didgeridoos.

A single, gigantic Native-American to weep silently but refuse to speak a word to anyone.

An entire Ox, roasting on an open flame.

A man with an unidentifiable accent to deliver a eulogy in a language no one understands.

Except the Native American who laughs, cries, bows his head and applauds along with what is apparently the most eloquent eulogy ever—silently of course.

Man…if only there was some way for me to attend my own funeral. The whole thing sounds like entirely too much fun.

Sigh, I wish I was dead.

The Fashion Vigilantes

I was driving to work this morning when I suddenly realized what’s wrong with this country: there’s no one in charge of saying, “What the fuck is wrong with you leaving the house dressed like that?” That’s why I’d like to nominate myself as the dictator-for-life over people who can’t dress themselves. The Nazi-General of the Fashion Police, if you will.

Because it’s become apparent to me that people can't even be trusted to extend common courtesy towards each other. This country needs a “No shoes, no shirt, no service” policy.

All of this occurred to me while waiting at a stoplight this morning. Because as I sat there trying to convince myself of a good reason not to just turn around and go back to bed, a jogger of about 60 ran by my car. He was wearing white sneakers and sweat-socks pulled up to his mid-thigh. Probably in the vain attempt to make up for his jogging shorts which had started the morning about 2 centimeters below his testicles. Apparently, after an hour of jogging and two gallons of sweat, the shorts had decided to gradually migrate north, as if desperately trying to escape into his navel.

I’ve seen porno movies from the 70s with less wiry, sweat-drenched hair. Honestly, I might have gotten his wardrobe all wrong—maybe he was just wearing water-logged chaps fashioned from the finest of high-land gorilla hide.

You’ve no doubt noticed by now that I haven’t mentioned a shirt as part of this enchanting ensemble. There’s a reason for that. Either the man was draped in absurdly thick body hair or an obscenely thin sweater. Normally, I’d have guessed the sweater if only for the sake of my queasy stomach. However, the gray hairs and eraser hard nipples screamed otherwise.

This is the kind of thing that makes me want to pull my car up on the sidewalk and commit a hate-crime. Let me get this straight: it’s illegal for a hot supermodel to stroll around the streets topless, but Sasquatch is allowed to jog through rush hour traffic essentially naked? What has our society come to?

And why is it that joggers and bikers are always the last people on the planet to comprehend basic laws of fashion? Have you noticed that anytime you see depictions of the future, everyone’s wearing spandex? Joggers must assume that they're already living in the year 4000. News flash: I’ve been living in one of the most densely populated areas on the planet for 26 years now and the only people I’ve ever see who looked good in spandex were in comic books. Why the fuck would that change in the future? The sign of a truly advanced society would be one where 90% of our population is draped in moomoos, capes, and cleverly designed masks like the elephant man used to wear.

I’ve decided that enough is enough. If the government refuses to grant my request as a duly appointed elected official with the power to levy out beatings as I see fit, I’ll have to resort to vigilante justice. So if you don’t want to be assaulted with a bat by a maniacal white kid in a Honda, here’s the list that will save you a trip to the intensive-care ward:

1. Topless jogging is permitted only for females between 18-35 years of age, and only if the individual weighs between 95-150 pounds.
2. Above rules also go for spandex. Time for you bikers to give up the dream, ok? You don’t look like Lance Armstrong. You look like the morbidly obese motorcycle twins.
3. Speedos are hereby forbidden. It makes you look as if you can’t figure out how to carry grapes.
4. For men, wearing pink shirts is now punishable by death.
5. Unless you’re wearing it with the collar up. In these cases, the “cruel and unusual death” clause is waved. So ask yourselves: is this the day that I want to be strangled with my own nut-sack on my daily trip to Starbucks?
6. The punishment for mullets is beheading. If you can’t figure out how to cut your hair, I’ll show you how it’s done.
7. Josh Rupe, relief pitcher for the Texas Rangers.

Ahh…it’s a good solid list. Some coming amendments might include sweat pants with writing across the ass, sleeveless t-shirts, and anything from “Abercrombie and Fitch.” Keep your eyes pealed for headlines this weekend. Because the fashion-vigilantes could, quite literally, be striking a blow for good taste at a mall near you!

Screwing With Public Speakers

Back when I was in college, I had a dream that I never got to live out. Besides banging the girl’s soccer team, I mean.

What I wanted to do was show up at one class each day, neatly dressed, bright eyed, smiling and participating. I’d sit in the front row and raise my hand for each question. Then one day, I’d stumble into class late, unshaven, in a bathrobe, scowling and clutching a cigar in my teeth. And I’d sit in the center of class and just glare.

Sadly, I never got around to living that dream. The closest I ever got was in my senior year I carried a flask around to class with me for the last week or so. And let me tell you, to the untrained public speaker, the flask is a brutal weapon.

Now, my last month at school I got a letter declaring that I had to attend a lecture held by a bank about the importance of paying back loans. If I didn’t go, I didn’t get to graduate. Now, I don’t know a lot about finances, but I understand this basic premise: I’m fucking poor. And if I don’t pay what I owe, they’re going to send someone to break my legs.

Seriously, my parents handled all my student loan debt and I’m beginning to wonder who the fuck they borrowed money from. I owe money to some bank that doesn’t even have a website. Frankly, I’m shocked they even accept checks. I’m 90% sure that this “bank” is one guy who doubles as a bookie somewhere in Albany. Someday, I know I’m going to get a letter informing me that I have to make my next payment in an unmarked envelop in a back-ally somewhere. Pretty much, it’s the Bank of Joe, and he operates out of his trunk.

So because of the grief that the bank had put me through, when I was told I had to attend some dumb-ass lecture, I just snapped. They want me to waste an evening I could have spent hitting on drunken freshman girls? Fine, they were going to feel my wrath.

So I showed up at the meeting, dressed in a sweatshirt. And I proceeded to sit down, front and center as the rest of the uninspired looking poor kids filtered in. Finally, the bank representative strolled in and stood before us. She was young, and fresh looking. Blonde hair, tied back, and a black business suit/skirt neatly adorning her. She looked like she was so eager to begin her struggle up the corporate ramp. I could tell by the glint in her eye that she believed that she was going to be the one to break through that glass ceiling.

And then I went and crushed her dreams. I waited until she was about five minutes into her speech and then I pulled out the flask. What followed was an absolute train wreck.

The first rule of performance is “the show must go on.” Apparently, this girl had never heard that rule. Because as the smell of Jack Daniels wafted through the room, and all eyes turned towards me, Ms. Banker suddenly had problems remembering what the fuck she was trying to tell us about credit scores and differed payment options.

She kept stuttering her way through her presentation, and I kept taking blatantly obvious gulps from my flask.

I know what some of you are thinking: Why would you do this to some poor girl? If you like, I can send you a copy of my monthly payment plan. Let’s just say that I’ll be paying these people off long after the continents have merged into a new land mass. So I’ll repay my debts, but I’m not going to thank them for it.

All in all, it was a valuable lesson. I’m tempted to try to repeat the experiment next time I have to sit through a meaningless meeting here at work. That should make for an interesting sit-down with the CEO. Christ, I don’t believe I haven’t been fired yet.

This Nation Is Hopeless Screwed

I stopped in a diner last night to pick up some food, when I happened to look up at a flickering TV behind the counter. There, before what appeared to be 5,000 screaming teenagers was a kid of maybe 13 with the stupidest fucking haircut I have ever seen. Imagine Vanilla Ice, Mr. T and New Kids on the Block decided to collaborate on hair for a Halloween costume that would make Erika Badu seem low maintenance.

At first I thought he was having a seizure. But I was having difficulty picturing a Primetime TV series based on exploiting medical curiosities...other than "Making the Band," that is. Finally, after confirming that Sebastian Bach was no where in sight, I realized that this kid with the unfortunate hair must have been dancing. I would have recognized it sooner, but the terrible noises blasting behind him didn’t even closely resemble anything I’d heard classified as “music” before.

The kid finished his spasms by grabbing his cock and staring at the camera. And it was then that I experienced a cultural moment.

Up until last night I figured that I had a pretty good bead on things. Sure there were major cultural icons or fads that I didn’t understand (Greg Kinnear), but generally I felt as if I could see where the rest of this country was coming from.

So I sat there and watched this kid who had just finished convulsing in on national television grab his cock and look at me in a way that made me want to slap him, and I expected one thing: instant retaliation. I don’t really follow a whole lot of network television, but from what I could tell, public humiliation is still big for Primetime, right? I mean, isn’t that why they gave Charlie Sheen his own show?

But then the weirdest thing happened. The audience started applauding and going nuts. And I came to a startling realization: I have no fucking clue what is going on anymore.

If the country thinks this good, literally anything is possible. I’m ready to start ruling leprechauns, unicorns and intelligent blondes back into reality.

The name of the show that brought this revelation on was “So You Think You Can Dance?” And at first I thought people were applauding because all you had to do to win was THINK you could dance. And from the way he was grabbing his pants, it was pretty obvious he THOUGHT he could dance. Even if he couldn’t do it in reality.

But no, the audience actually thought that he was amazing. All I could think was, “Wow, I really hope that they bomb the Midwest soon.”

Of course, the whole experience really strengthened my stance on dancing. The kid and the audience were so white I thought a Klan meeting to break out at any minute. I expected the douche bag to end his routine with the white power salute before burning a cross. But think about it, all these dumb crackers were having a dance competition around full-body dry heaves. And I realized, thank God I don’t dance.

There’s really no other way to describe the level of shock I experienced. But I very clearly realized that I am, apparently, the only sane person left in the world. There is no longer anything that this country can do to shock me anymore. If I saw teenagers smearing each other with feces at a club while chanting anti-Semitic limericks, I’d just have to say, “OK, sure. Why not?” Or maybe, “Don’t worry! It’s Natural!”

I’m very unhappy with this development. Because I don’t need that kind of stress in my life. It’s hard to come to grips with the possibility that you are going to spend the rest of your life wandering through a civilization of 4 year-olds. I mean, look at me! I get stressed trying to figure out Japanese Cartoons. And that was before I realized that I’m the only person left not wearing rubber pants.

If I’m the last hope of this country, this nation is hopelessly screwed.

Revelation

I suddenly realized why I’ve been hating my writing recently: I haven’t been really angry about something in a while.

See apparently, I have this emotional disorder where the shit that I write best is when I’m pissed the fuck off. I first noticed this trend back in College when I was a theater reviewer. A lot of you are no doubt thinking at this point, “OK, so this dude slept in the same bed as a guy AND hung out in the theater??? How fucking gay is he???”

My answer is not at all. Because while most of the guys who hang out in a theater are gay, the women are generally hot and desperate for anything with a cock and an interest. And God blessed me with both…though I won’t make any claims about which is bigger. I like to think they’re both disturbing large.

But the most fun about working as a reviewer was the chance to take my rage out on under-paid, over-privileged actors who sucked. I mean…I heard I actually reduced some people to tears. Here are some actual excerpts from shit that was published:

“…the main character wears a white wedding outfit. That’s fine if you’re western, but I believe that in China white is the color of death and spirits. But who knows, maybe the lead was mourning the death of Mao Zedong. Or her acting career.”


“…emerging from this play I had a feeling similar to that you get after exiting an all-you-can-eat-Chinese-buffet: queasily full of sub-par, deep-fried crap.”


“His voice and technique were lacking quite a bit. If his partners were speeding along in racecars, Greene was trying to crack 30 mph in a ’72 Buick Skylark. Rather than beating a dead horse, let’s just say his singing was “Shatner-esque” and move on.”


“It’s a very long play. There’s no way around that. This sucker clocks in at just under four hours, making it nothing short of an epic. The Star Wars of gayness. The Free Bird of bisexuality.”


Look, I know I’m a psychopath. But I approached my reviews with this in mind: if there wasn’t an out-cry at least once a month to get me fired, I knew I had to ratchet up the hate a little more. Because when it got right down to it, all the funniest shit I wrote was done when I was all worked up and fucking fuming about some aspect of a God-awful show I’d had to sit through.

And that leads me back to my point about my blog. Looking back over the last few weeks, I think I’ve been way too fucking pensive and moody. “Wah, my life sucks because I have girl problems I can’t talk about.” “Wah, I wrecked my car.” It’s high time I get back to the basis of lashing out at unsuspecting targets.

So allow me to rededicate myself to rage by saying:

Fuck the government, religion, society, race, business and the economy. Fuck dating, whoring, and flirting. But mostly, fuck your mother!

I’ll be back tomorrow with more anger issues.

Don't Worry, It's Natural

About a year ago I was in Italy on vacation. In case anyone was thinking of visiting, I have some inside information about the country that you may not know: Jesus Christ is big there. Who knew?

I also learned about the things that we in America take for granted. Things like personal space.

I have a friend who I’ve known since second grade who now lives in Italy. What’s he like? I have a story that illustrates the kind of guy he is.

In seventh grade my class was sitting in math class being yelled at for being the hormonal little savages we were. The teacher was screaming at us for about 5 minutes, and the room was dead silent except for this poor, underpaid babysitter.

“I WANT YOU ALL TO SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET! IF I HEAR ONE MORE SOUND OUT OF ANYONE, YOU’LL SPEND YOUR LUNCH TIME DOING GROUNDSWORK. QUIET!!!!”

27 13 year-olds sat perfectly still.

“NOW DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY QUESTIONS???”

My friend’s hand urgently shot up in the back row and began waving frantically.

“WHAT???” asked the teacher.

“Yeah, you know those broom ends that Roman soldiers wore on their helmets? How do you think those got started?”

That pretty well sums up my friend.

So back to my trip. By the time I’d hunted down his email address, I’d already reserved lodging for my stay. I let him know he was welcome to tag along with my little group of friends and crash on our hotel room floors. He agreed.

So the first night there are four guys sharing a room in Rome. Three of us are in separate beds no more than a foot wide, and my friend is on the floor with all the extra bedding we could spare.

“Are you ok? Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m comfortable.”

So I drift off to sleep, trying not to think about the fact that if I roll over, I’m going face-first onto semen-stained hostel floors. In the middle of the night I awoke suddenly. Maybe it was the time difference, maybe it was a cramp, or maybe it was because my friend had pushed two beds together and was lying about three quarters of an inch away.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, it’s natural.” The great part was how casually he said it. Like he was stating an indisputable fact. It was the same tone you would have used to say, “My car is red.”

I guess to fully appreciate it, you have to understand that he was extremely straight and wasn’t making a pass at me. He just figured it would be more comfortable up on the bed, despite the two guys already occupying them. But I laughed so hard I almost fell on the floor. It became the ongoing joke for the rest of the trip. We would take turn thinking of random shit and yell them across the street to each other in fake Italian accents.

“In Europe is natural for three men to share a bed.”
“In Italy is natural for straight men to share open-mouth kiss in elevator.”
“Ciao, is natural to make love to a woman’s eye socket.”

Who says that Americans lack class?