Gender Blindness

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

“She wants to fuck him” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I guess my questions for the day are:

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

Cracking "The Code" of Illiteracy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s a sneak preview:

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

Late Night TV and Things NOT to Ask Your Significant Other

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hardcore Porn, Roaring Twenties Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy, bitches!

Tom Can Suck My Dick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck you, Tom!

Cell Phones

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Working Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Best $50 Ever Spent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I picture it going down like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drinko De Mayo and Ehren's Guide To Roadside Assistance

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

Mmm…classy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ballad Of The "Easy Rider"

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

“Yeah, but--”

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

“OK, do you--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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