The Six Words That Instantly Command The Attention Of Any Man

The story you are about to read is true. Really, in my wildest dreams, there’s no way I could have made this one up. Those with weak stomachs might want to stop reading now.

About six months ago, I was dating a girl who absolutely loved sex. I sure as hell wasn’t complaining, but her enthusiasm for sin meant that I was going through a lot of condoms. One night, she called me up to ask me over, so I jumped in the car and began driving over to see her. About halfway there, I realized that I was totally out of condoms. So pulled over at a gas-station and went inside.

There’s a weird ritual about buying condoms. No one likes to buy only condoms. Invariably, men will buy a box of condoms and some other stupid trinket or candy that’s lying around. It’s like we want the clerk to think that we came in expressly to buy a 4 dollar pen but suddenly remembered that we needed birth-control.

So I grabbed the first box I found, along with a pack of gum and went to the counter. “Have a good night.” The clerk told me.

“That” I replied, “is the plan.”

When I got to the girl’s house things went as planned. Three condoms later, I staggered up to go to the bathroom. I was thinking about what a perfect height her bed was positioned at when suddenly I felt shooting pain.

“Oh God! My tract!”

20 minutes later, I had squoze not a drop and the pain was worse than ever. I also noticed that my most prized male possession was noticeably swollen.

“Fuck it. I’m driving to the emergency room.”

There are really few things in life that can prepare you for driving yourself to the emergency room at 3:30 in the morning because of an unidentified problem with your cock.

I strolled into the E.R. where an old, weary looking nurse gave me a skeptical once over.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. I need to check myself in.”

“Because?”

“I think I have a kidney stone.”

Look, I was freaked out. We men scare easily when we think anything’s wrong with our block and tackle. It was 4 AM, I hadn’t slept and I had had a twenty minute car-ride alone in which to dream up the most agonizing of ailments that had afflicted me.

They put me in one of those horrible robes and sat me in a little curtained area. Then they proceeded to treat me like a sideshow freak. I’ve had my fair share of women over the years, but I must have shown, by request, my gear to about 16 people that night. That was a personal best for me.

Among the low-lights of the night was when a young doctor came in and said, “We’re going to have to do the syphilis and Chlamydia test.”

For you ladies, or scummy, untested men, said test involves a soft swab on a stick, violating your most tender of openings. Nope, not your ass. Your OTHER most tender of openings. Basically, they rape you with a Q-Tip.

I’d had the procedure done before, and it’s never fun. However, when you’re already swollen and miserable, the test is just about unbearable.

Not 20 seconds after the doctor had ceased violating me like the drunk girl at a frat-party, a second doctor came in with a far more rational explanation of what had afflicted my crotch.

“Were you sexually active tonight, son?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Did you try a new brand of condoms, by any chance?”

“…I guess.”

“You’re allergic to spermicidal lubricants. I see it all the time. You’re having trouble urinating because you’re swollen up so far that you’re cutting off your own pipes.”

Oh, how I wish that the trauma had ended there. I was reading a book, waiting for the pills they had given me to take effect when a nurse entered and started busying herself about the room. I was only half paying attention, when she asked me to move up on the bed.

“Sure” I said. “What are we doing?”

From personal experience, there is nothing, NOTHING that gets a man’s attention faster than the next six words that were uttered.

“I’m just putting the catheter in.”

All in all, I’ve had better nights. In fact, I’m hard pressed to think up with a worse evening. The whole experience led to a few revelations on my part:

1. A man would rather sustain an injury to almost any other part of his body. Give a choice between permanent crotch or permanent brain damage, most men would opt for the cinderblock upside the head.
2. I never, ever want to get a kidney stone.
3. I don’t pay nearly as much attention to the brand or model of condoms as I should.
4. While I may have secretly have imagined scenarios where I remove my pants at the request of a room-full of nurses, the real thing is significantly less appealing than I thought.
5. A set of circumstances actually exsist where I don’t want to hear the phrase, “Wow, your dick is HUGE.”

Why Ike Beat Tina

My friend recently sent me an email discussing potential problems with my “Long Distance Dating Formula.” One of his problems with the theory was that he felt that it would be impossible to carry on a relationship with a girl who was negative 10 beers. A hot girl who drank 10 beers would be comatose, thus unable to do anything in bed or offer any good conversation.

He has a point, but I think he’s missing an important rule of dating women: while getting a hot girl is extremely difficult, maintaining a relationship with a hot girl takes almost no effort. So she might have to be drunk to go to bed with you, but once she's done so, it takes very little effort to keep her around as a steady girlfriend. So she wouldn't actually have to be drunk for the entire duration of your relationship. Probably just the first romantic, enchanting, barely-consensual night.

Getting a hot woman is hard. I usually feel that if I have a few hours of one-on-one time with a girl, I’ve got a 75% chance of convincing her to go to bed with me. Or at least agreeing to consider going to bed with me. Believe me that this isn’t me being conceited: it’s just that in my opinion most women are just looking for a funny, compassionate guy. In a club or bar environment, though, women are in this whole other environment and attitude. It reminds me of what it must be like pitching an idea for a TV show: make me laugh in 7 seconds or get the fuck out of my face.

In a club or bar, girls are more inclined to just shoot a guy down based on his appearance or some snap decision. It’s like they’re just conditioned to say “no.” That’s why there’s really nothing better than the network of friends. Girls who would have thrown a drink in my face at a bar have spent whole evenings telling me their inner most thoughts and desires just because I claim to have a mutual friend.

Women take a lot of convincing, but, in my experience, once they’ve made their decision, they show a dedication to getting what they want that no man can top. Think about it: women are willing to put up with bad sex, outlandish body hair, immature behavior AND repulsive body-odors—and that’s from the good men. Everybody knows a hot girl who’s managed to put herself with some loser who mistreats her. You know what the constant is? SHE ALWAYS STICKS BY HIM.

I’ve been dumped all of once. In my experience woman are looking for a reason to stay, rather than an excuse to leave. Which is shocking, because it seems like they’re qualifications for acceptance seem so high or particular. It’s like hiring an employee based on one good interview, turning over the keys to the company, giving him an unlimited budget and then never checking in on him again.

I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: low standards for interviewing, high standards for promoting. It’s really the only way to run a business. Sure, I waste a lot of time dealing with candidates who are absolute disasters, but I also find some great diamonds in the rough.

I was watching a new HBO show last night called “Big Love,” which is about a family of polygamists. Even after seeing the episode, I have no clue how that works in real life. The guy in the show has three wives, 12 children and downs Viagra like Whitney does coke. That was wrong of me. I have no proof that Whitney actually does coke. It might just be crack and crytal-meth.

At any rate, over the course of the show, you learn that each woman was married at a different time, usually about 6-10 years apart. My question is: how do you have the balls to be married to two women and then start dating a third? This really ties in with everything I was just saying. Why the hell would wife number one still be around? Because she loves her man. And even if he’s bringing home more women to marry, she’s not going anywhere.

Listen to me, women. If you wonder why men treat you so badly, it’s because you don’t hold us to the standards you set when you picked us up. You let us get away with being selfish, careless, and clueless because we know that Tina’s always going to be there for Ike.

Funny Lines Without A Home And I Call A Duly-Elected Representative Some Very Bad Names

A lot of people ask me, “Ehren, how can I write like you?” My answer’s pretty simple:

Discontinue sleep for 8 days while gorging on a steady diet of cocoa puffs, cartoons and enough mind-altering drugs to bring down a bull-elephant. I keep telling people: I run almost completely on sarcasm and alcohol.

Over the months I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve had a bunch of lines, ideas and stories that I was never able to successfully work into a post. Below are some of the good ones:

• I was down in Philadelphia last weekend. I didn’t really get a good look at the sign for the city, but I gather it’s the home of some kind of man-on man love.
• Some guys would be insulted when their girl asked, “Is it in yet?” I wasn’t. I just said, “Bitch, I’m already done!”
• Here’s a tip: if you’re dating a very flat-chested women, don’t ask “Why do you even bother wearing a bra?”
• I was with a girl who told me that she wanted me to talk more when I was having sex with her. But I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just started yelling the lines I heard in the last porno movie I saw. “Hi, I’m here to fix the pool.” “God, it’s so much better than my husband.” “Oh baby, you’re so big!”
• Fat, talkative friends: God’s birth-control.
• Once a girl asked me, “Is it ok if I call you ‘Daddy’ while we’re making love?” I answered, “Only if I can call you ‘Aunt Phillus.’”

In reality, only one of the above situations ever happened. I think it’d be better if I didn’t say which one is real. I’ll leave it to your imagination. Still, this is the kind of shit I think about at 3 A.M. on Tuesday nights when I can’t fall asleep.

Here’s a story that really did happen: Apparently I told the mayor of my town to go fuck himself.

My sister came home shaken one day because a man around the block started screaming at her when she was out walking her dog. So the next day I took the dog out, and sure enough, a fat dude in a bathrobe came charging out of the house when he saw me.

“Get that fucking dog off this street, dickhead.” He said, by way of a greeting.

“The street is public property. The dog’s not on your lawn.”

“I’m calling the cops, jerk-off.”

“Call the cops, you tub of shit. Is this the way you compensate for being a failure in the rest of your life? Harassing 12 year-old girls and strangers? If you talk to my sister again, I’ll come to your house and I will fucking crack you.”

“You can’t talk to me like that! I’m calling the cops!”

“Go fuck yourself! I already told you to call the cops. Take another step towards me and I will drop you like your mother for two bucks at the truck stop.”

He stepped back up on his lawn and proceeded to howl obscenities at me. I turned my back on him and extended a middle finger by way of farewell. All things considered, I thought that it had gone rather well.

It was two weeks later that my father mentioned something in passing about sharing the neighborhood with the mayor. “Really?” I said. “Where’s he live?”

“Just around the block. The house with the wood paneling.”

Look, I didn't know he was the mayor. I thought he was just some local idiot with too much time on his hands. Turns out he was both. Hey, at least now I know why I keep getting parking tickets.

Dating Commandments and Lesser-Known Drinking Holidays

I was thinking today about the different balances men have to strike. If women are stuck between Madonna and Whore, then men are always trapped somewhere from Warrior to Minstrel.

When I wear my Harley-Davidson boots and don’t slouch, I can reach about 5’11” and change. Add in 160 pounds, glasses, and cheeks that make girls want to pinch them and I’m far from an imposing figure. So it’s impossible, or at very least, improbable for me to act like a warrior. I’m roughly as physically imposing and intimidating as Calista Flockhart.

I’ve made peace with that. And I know that plenty of women out there are looking for a creative, intelligent, compassionate guy…or at least THINK they are.

I’ve decided that no one really knows what the hell they want. That’s why I don’t make lists of what I’m looking for in a girl.

I was speaking to someone today who’s led a very goal oriented life: looking for the right school, the right program, the right job, the right partner, the right house and so on. But now, having gotten all that, they’re not happy—and they’re running out of accomplishments to aim for. And after speaking for a while with them, you just get the sense that something’s going to give. Sort of like O.J.’s marriage.

Years of dating and experience with the opposite sex have led me to develop guidelines about what doesn’t work. Things like:

• Girls who get drunk and sucker punch my friend’s fiancé.
• Girls who decide to spend $3,000 a month on blow, Ritalin, and X.
• Girls who passive aggressively maintain lists of my faults to spit back during arguments.
• Girls who decide blow dumb, skinny rednecks and think I won’t find out

You know, just some basic guidelines of what I’ve found hasn’t worked in the past. It’s sort of like the ten dating commandments. Thou shalt not date girls who gargle with hillbilly semen behindest thine back! Now that’s catchy.

In all seriousness, though, I think it’s much better to be open to whatever comes by. Or at least, not be so intent on what you think you’re looking for that you miss something great right in front of your nose.

St. Patrick’s Day is upon us again. Let me ask a serious question: Are we, as a culture, really that desperate for another drinking holiday? I mean, between this, Cinco de Mayo, Fat Tuesday, Marti Gras, and all the rest of these ridiculous little binge-fests that we create, are we really fooling anyone? Have we reached the point in our society where we can’t drink just because we want to? No one really knows what the fuck St. Patrick’s Day is celebrating anyway, aside from some half-assed salute to Irish Homosexual parades. That’s why I like to pick random days to enter bars and bellow, “Give me five shots! It’s a holiday, bitches!”

To which someone will invariably go, “Really? What’s the occasion?”

My answers depend on my mood:

• Guy Faulk’s Day
• St. Swithin’s Day
• National “Venereal Disease-Free” Day (beware of people who don’t drink on this holiday)
• Canadian Independence Day
• Australian Thanksgiving
• That crazy Mexican Dead-Person’s Christmas

It’s amazing how many people will suddenly decide that it would be the gravest of insults not to honor the struggle of our slow speaking, mild-mannered Mountie neighbors to the north by getting absolutely falling over drunk.

The Long Distance Dating Formula

My friend has composed an ingenious system of ranking how beautiful a woman is. We call it the beer scale. The idea is to measure how many beers it would take in order for you to sleep with a girl or for her to sleep with you. Thus, an ugly girl would be 5 beers and an attractive girl would be negative 5 beers.

A while ago, I wrote that there is a direct relationship between how hot a girl is and how long distance a relationship a man is willing to tolerate. However, I realized that I wasn’t fully taking into account ability in bed.In order to come up with a worth-while formula, however, we need to first come up with an accurate measurement for a woman’s bedroom abilities. I submit that we divide the bedroom portion into four distinct portions, each deserving of a grade between 1 and 25.

• Foreplay: how well does she rev your engine and make you want her?
• Oral: does she have a silver tongue?
• The Main Event: No real explanation needed here…
• Creativity: can she get both legs behind her head? Extra points are awarded for “nailing the dismount.”

Now that we have our ranking systems, I am proud to submit the first ever “Long Distance Dating” formula:

So let’s try an example. Say you’re dating a blazing hot girl, with decent foreplay skills, no experience in oral, great in bed, and moderately creative. Then she ups and moves 200 hundred miles away. Should you break up with her?

-10 (57) + 400 < 0
-170 < 0

Conclusion: stick with that girl! In fact, we can definitively see that that girl is worth sticking with if she moves up to 285 miles away. I really don’t know how men functioned before the advent of this formula. I’ll be sending this to the patent office next week. I fully expect this to replace Einstein’s relativity theory as the single most important equation of all time.

A few side notes about what an evil person I am. (Note: I recently discovered that a small segment of the population suffers from a condition known as “Sarcasm Interpretation Deficiency. People with SID can’t tell when I’m making a joke, so they write me angry messages at 4 A.M., accusing me of not having a soul. For their convenience, paragraphs in red are meant as sarcastic, tongue in cheek comments.)

As I was writing this, a friend of mine came up behind me. I asked for his assistance in thinking of one last category in ranking bedroom performance and he said, “How about the way you two interact afterwards.”

I stared at him blankly for a second and said, “Why would a man care about what a woman does after sex? I just assumed that 2 minutes afterwards you’re already driving home again.”

In the words of Dave Attell, “It’s a fine line between cuddling and holding someone down so they can’t escape.”

My friend responded, “Well, you know some times relationships require brief intervals of speech between the two parties involved.”

“Relationships? The most speaking I’ve ever had to give on the subject is, ‘Whoa, honey. I think that by sleeping with me, I may have inadvertently given you the wrong impression.’”

The Palisades Mall: Death Star Of Suburbia

A few years back they opened a monstrosity of a mall not far from my house: four floors, an ice-rink, and enough sweat-shop quality merchandise to make Indonesia the powerhouse that it is today. Seriously, the tag of every item of clothing that comes out of that place should read, “Made lovingly at gun point by starving 10-year-olds.”

The place is perhaps the largest man-made disaster since Star Jones. In searching desperately for a location, they finally decided on a place 6 miles up the road from the other mall, and in the middle of a swamp. I kid you not: the west side of the mall is literally sinking each year. It’s as if God, looking down, has finally taken an interest in thwarting the ever-expanding evils of Rockland County.

In staying with the “worst location ever” theme, there is a large section of land in the middle of the acres upon acres of parking lot that is not paved. “Why?” you ask. “What could be more important than building a decadent monument to consumerism and poor taste?” It seems that there was a small interest that would not sell their land: a veteran’s cemetery.

At this point, you have to wonder what the fuck the builders were thinking. It’s like they were trying to build a mall based on all the horror movies they’d ever seen.

So, the mall is sinking, located in a stinking swamp, a stone’s throw from the old mall, all while violating the memories of a group of dead veterans. As far as first impressions go, that’s a tough one to overcome. It’s like breaking the ice with your girlfriend’s parents by professing your love of necrophilia.

The inside is giant, ugly, tough to navigate and about as dry as Barbara Bush’s snatch. Migrant, Arizona dust farmers have an easier time staying hydrated than anyone who spends 20 minutes in that hell-hole. I heard they used it as a training ground for troops about to be shipped to Iraq on how to survive desert environments.

One time I was shopping there with a group of friends. We had been there for about three hours and I refused, out of principle, to buy any beverages from the vending stores in the mall. I figured as long as I was supporting evil anyway, I might as well try to minimize it. By the end of the three hours I could barely open my eyes. Each blink was accompanied by a sound that I’d associate with tearing duct-tape off the roof of a shanty. I was pretty sure that I was going to drop dead at any second.

So we all went to a local diner. We sat down at a booth that had a large pitcher of water. However, there were no glasses in sight. Finally, in my last effort before I crumbled into a mound of dust and blew away on the next gust of wind, I grabbed the pitcher and proceeded to drain half of it without taking a breath. When I came up for air I noticed two things:

1. Water had a far more bleach-like after-taste than I remembered.
2. The bus-boy was looking at me as if he discovered me violating the corpse of a week-dead goat

I placed the pitcher back on the table, and, without saying a word, he took it, dropped a dirty rag in it, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

At my age, walking through the mall is an experience that leaves me feeling dirtier than the urinal in a Bangkok whore-house. At some point in time, (long after I had turned too old to take advantage of it, I might add), it somehow became standard practice for barely pubescent girls to dress in clothing that would make a transsexual street-walker blush.

Tiny tank-tops that say “dirty, cum-craving skank” and tight little ass-pants that say, “I want you to rape me in a dumpster behind a bar” are apparently the height of fashion. After spending 20 minutes walking through the mall you suddenly develop an overwhelming empathy for pedophiles. Girls who can’t be a day over 13 are dressed like they moonlight as strippers. It’s enough to make any man say, “sweet statutory!”

However, if Star Wars taught us nothing else, it’s that all evil things have a single, tiny, flaw in their design. And just like the Death Star, I’ve discovered the mall’s one fatal weakness.

I was walking on the fourth floor one day, looking at the thong riding up on the ass of a 10 year old girl, when I felt the entire floor vibrate. I stopped and retraced my steps. Sure enough, when I reached the same spot again and set my foot down, the entire floor shook. In light of everything the mall had inflicted on me, my community, and the memories of a group of veterans whose grave now overlooks a Cheesecake Factory, I think my next action was duly measured and justified. I immediately began jumping up and down.

In the span of about 15 seconds I was surrounded by three mall cops. It would seem I was not the first to discover the one spot with which to rid the County of this eye-sore. I doubt I’ll be the last. What I will say is that if you ever hear tell of a rag-tag group of rebels assembled to make a plucky counter-attack to forever free Rockland of evil, you’ll know who was behind it.

May the Force be with us.

Jealousy

Jealousy is a strange thing. I’ve only ever been jealous of one girl that I dated…but then again, it was the only time it was justified.

I was dating a girl who lived about 40 minutes away and we had been having some problems—little arguments, nothing out of the ordinary. But one morning I woke up, sat bolt upright and I just KNEW she was cheating on me. It was like some weird silent alarm. “Somewhere, another man has trespassed on the cootch that I own!”

To this day, I’ll never be able to explain that one moment of clarity or psychic enlightenment. Maybe it was a bunch of clues I’d picked up subconsciously—or maybe I should start playing the lottery. Whatever the case, the jig was up.

Even at my jealous worst, I wasn’t that bad. I called her up and asked her what she had done the night before, if there was anything she wanted to tell me, or how she thought our relationship was going. She denied everything.

Little did she know that I had inside sources, mutual acquaintances, and that she had the mental quickness of a bag of rocks. Great ass, great at arguing, but no brains behind it. I started asking what she did nights and who with, then matching them up to my sources. She failed every time this kid “Andy” she knew was involved.

That was pretty much enough for me, but the fact that he avoided me like the plague and never made eye-contact with me when I was around was the final kicker.

I broke up with her pretty much right after that, and it was one of the few times in my life that I seriously contemplated violence. I’m no weight lifter. I’m about 160 pounds soaking wet, and not an inch over 5’10”. Still, there was little doubt in my mind that I could have beaten this kid into a pulp. I was lean—he was scrawny. It was the only time that I sort of understood a certain psychotic girl I dated briefly who cold-cocked my friend’s fiancé.

I finally decided against it. There was nothing really stopping me from rolling down there with a crew and beating him like a minority suspect, but I realized that I wasn’t really mad at him. I was really just pissed that my ex had lied to me and I had no real good way to direct my anger back at her...until I got drunk a few weeks later and left a passive aggressive away message. Besides, he was going to find out soon enough what kind of a woman he had gotten involved with.

It’d be best if everyone came around to this point of view. Why get mad at the other man if your girl runs off? Your girl was the one who cheated! Guy number two was just an available cock. And really, that’s all some girls need. Temptations are everywhere—it’d be like beating up a butcher when your girl got fat. The butcher was just offering the meat; your girl was the one who couldn’t turn down the extra sausage.

College Sports: The Most Crooked Sport This Side Of Foxy-Boxing

March Madness is on us once more and all I have to say is “Fuck College Sports.” Really. College sports are SO wrong on SO many levels. I refuse to attend or watch college games on principle. Let’s start with the least deplorable bit of this disgusting past-time and work our way up.

First, I don’t understand why people would WANT to watch college sports. Are there not enough pro-sports out there to satisfy your need for pointless competition? If that’s the case, I’ll give you three to one that you haven’t seen a woman naked in years. College Basketball is even worse because they do it while NBA is in full swing. If you’re into basketball, why would you want to watch semi-pro over professionals? It’s like banging Margaret Thatcher when Selma Hyack is naked, oiled and spread eagle on your bed. Where are we going with this next? Retarded, Paraplegic French-Women’s Softball?

Second, I have no idea why anyone would root for a college team. How many dumb rednecks are into Duke or Georgetown, but never even open an admissions booklet? Seriously, spend that energy and attend some of your kid’s little league games. If you attended one of these schools, how can you be anything pissed off at these student athletes?

Let me explain something: I graduated from college and I had to bust my ass and accrue a sizable debt to do it. These “student athletes” are an embarrassment. I’ve watched post game interviews, ok.

“We juz…you know pulled together for coach. And I know’d da lor’ juz wanted uz to win cuz we done ex’cuted fundamentals.”

Is this the image you want projected to the world about the kind of graduates your school produces? These kids

1. Don’t know dick
2. Don’t pay dick
3. Don’t do dick

I would be PISSED OFF that a kid, who doesn’t have to meet GPA and SAT minimums, attend classes, or apply for financial aid was getting a degree similar to the one I sweated, crammed and bankrupted myself for. He can put the ball through a hoop. Big fucking deal. Remind me again why this is something that makes one deserving of a free-pass?

And don’t give me that “school spirit” bullshit. Your school is mercilessly fucking you for any and all funds they can squeeze out of your parents. My student loan officer is one late payment away from breaking my knees with a crowbar behind a bar. There are Siberian Prison camps that showed more compassion than I received at my school (that was aimed at New Paltz where, thankfully, I spent one hellish semester before transferring. FUCK SUNY NEW PALTZ!). You want my school spirit, here you go: if I see you walking down the street with a sweatshirt from my university, I will make an effort not to swerve up onto the sidewalk and grind your face into the pavement with my front tire. Yay, Blue Devils!

Lastly, I detest the sheer dishonesty of it. I understand that the world is corrupt. But the corruption displayed in college sports is the kind that is so blatant that it makes you want to riot. Every 30 seconds, some portion of the following cycle is publicized:

1. A school is busted and/or fined for a news story where it’s revealed that some of their athletes had people taking their tests for them, received cash, committed crimes that where covered up by the university.
2. The School expresses shock, outrage and disbelief. The coach is promptly fired.
3. 1 year later the same coach is hired by another school and the cycle begins again.

Basically, what each one of these schools is saying is:

"We don’t care about academics, morality, or even the pretense of honesty. If you attend this school and you’re not an “athlete,” fuck you. You’re a third class citizen. All we care about is you paying your tuition or, for you females, providing a place to deposit precious Student Athlete-semen."

I would have far more respect for these schools if they stopped with the pretense that these kids were students. In fact, I might even be able to stomach the whole event if I thought that these academic instuitions were displaying a portion of the integrity and excellence they're always claiming to stand for. These kids are not there to learn and we all know they’re getting paid. Just because you’re giving scholarships to idiots, doesn’t mean everyone else is one. Then again, judging from March Madness ratings, maybe we are.

Public Humiliation: The CVS-Guide To Safe Sex

I needed to buy condoms so I stopped by the drugstore near my house, a few months back. I went in and, since I’d been there a few times before, went down the “Family Planning” isle to make my selection. However, when I reached my destination, I found something new: the condoms were now locked away behind glass. I was a bit deterred, but I marched up to the front to talk to one of the employees.

I was standing on line, in front of a mom and two kids, roughly 8 and 6 years old. Behind them were a father and his son of about 7. I like kids. I get along with them, so I shot them a smile and even stuck my tongue out at one of them. They giggled and the mom smiled at me. When my turn in line came, I explained my need for protection to the chick behind the counter. She promptly got on the intercom and announced:

“Manager, to the front. A customer wants to buy condoms. Manager to the front.”

See, this is why I'll never be a politician: I completely forget how one aspect of my life impacts another. Ten seconds ago, I was just a goofy looking kid making harmless fun with the children in line with me. Now, I was a sexual deviant, trying to lure middle-schoolers into my basement with promises of toys and candy. I mean, from the looks I was getting, it was clear the parents thought I was planning on using the condoms on one of their kids.

The manager finally arrived (Which was good, because I was fairly certain that the mom was outside jotting down my plate number and calling the cops), bearing a key ring and we walked back to the “Family Planning” section. He opened up the precious items and then proceeded to stand over my shoulder and watch me make my selection.

This latest development was something that totally blindsided me. There’s an unspoken rule that govern men when it comes to buying pornography or condoms: take what looks good and get the fuck out. When a man spends TOO much time deciding which condom or movie or magazine really suits his needs, it’s disturbing. I however, was suddenly struck by indecision.

Normally, I’d buy whatever the hell first looked ok. Now, however, I was worrying about what the store manager would think of my selections. It’s dumb, I know. What the hell did I care if the guy thought I was a freak or a deviant? He was just some loser CVS manager!

“Lubricated? Too boring. Ribbed? What, I’m not good enough on my own? Flavored? Am I saying that I can’t convince my girl to go down on me without flavors? Glow-In-The-Dark? Would that mean I’m too uptight to have sex without the light off?”

On a side note, do women really care what kind of condom a guy uses? Isn't a dick still just a dick, no matter how you dress it up? Until I hear otherwise, I think we can just assume that the condom enhancements have gone too far. I actually own a pair of "Whiskey-Flavored" condoms. They're from Scotland, naturally. When I saw those, all I could think was, "Wow, how bad does cock taste that women prefer the taste of grain alcohol?"

Finally, I just grabbed a box my “usual” (if anyone wants to know, please send a headshot, personal measurements and a list of turn-ons to my email address) and started up towards the front. I stopped after a pace or so and turned back towards the manager.

“Why’d you guys start locking them up?” I asked.

“People kept stealing them. We figure that they were too embarrassed to buy them.”

“Oh, right." I said. "This is MUCH better.”

Dinner Is Served

One of the key differences between men and women is this: women like good sex. Men like ANY sex. I knew a few girls who, through years of bad sex and incompetent lovers, had almost completely been turned off to sex.

I met a girl at a concert once. She was tall, had a great body and a very pretty face. I flirted a bit with her, but I noticed an almost sexless aura that she gave off. It was just something about the way she spoke or the way she moved you could just tell: she was not very sexual.

Despite that, I persevered. I’m nothing if not determined. I had been speaking to her for perhaps a week when I said, “You know, you’ve never had really great sex. I don’t care what you say about your old boyfriends or hook-ups, I can tell just by talking to you that you’ve never had GREAT sex.”

She protested, but I didn’t back off. I asked her about her last boyfriend.

“He was a virgin”
Strike one.
“He didn’t really have any other experience with women.”
Strike two.
“He wasn’t really into foreplay”
You’re outta here, buddy.

This poor girl had been with the same bad lay for over a year, proof that men are far too insecure about their performances in bed. If a man can go a year without giving a girl and orgasm and she still sticks with him, there’s nothing that he can do in bed that will make her leave him. Seriously, that to me is more reprehensible than the girls you see on the internet blowing horses. Because in that scenario, at least you know the horse is enjoying itself.

At any rate, my attempted seduction was made doubly hard by her ex. Not only was she really hot, she had completely forgotten what adequate sex was. Let me tell you: if I have to argue a case before the Supreme Court, I will never again be as persuasive. If I ever have to talk a jumper down from a ledge, I’ll never be as soothing and as inspiring of trust. I shit you not, by the time I was done working this girl, I could have gotten her to agree to a threesome involving herself, her mother, and some sort of water creature.

When I finally got her into bed, I made a conscious decision. Generally, I do what I can to make sure the girl involved has a great time. This time, I went a step farther—I was ready to give up my body. Forget my own pleasure, I was going to give it my all, chaffing, cramps and latex burn be damned!

From then on, she was even hotter. She began flirting more, making more lewd comments, and on top of that seemed so much more happy and relaxed. Later, she told me that I had reawakened her interest in sex.

What can I say? I go where I’m needed.

Seriously though, it’s this type of shit that makes me despair for the state of gender relations. I don’t care how great you get along with eachother outside of the bedroom, when it gets to the point that either of you has no interest in sex, that’s a dysfunctional relationship. On one hand, I wish that men and women could talk about sex without being defensive and really work through their issues. On the other hand, I’m more than willing to revive the appetite of a girl who’s been fasting for time out of mind. Ladies, dinner is served.