Handsome (For a Jew)

Over the last couple weeks I’ve been looking around at various internet dating sites. I mean, as hot and romantic as my right hand is, she and I have an open relationship. And every now and then, I like to spice things up with a hand orgy. Or even add in a mouth and vagina just keep things interesting. Hey, variety is the spice of life.

I had narrowed my options down to two sites: match.com and JDate. Here are the pros and cons of each:

Match: There are more girls available, and they are probably way sluttier than their Talmud-toting sisters. However, there is also way more competition.

JDate: The girls have way fewer options to choose from, so as a result I look way better. Unfortunately, they might not want to sleep with me until I get a medical license, move to Long Island and cut a hole in a sheet.

Obviously, it was not an easy choice. Because each allows you to create a profile for free, I decided to give them both a couple weeks to woo me one way or another. In the end it wasn’t even close. The Jewish girls are three times more desperate than the match.com whores. And if I'm to stand any chance of deceiving a woman into having sex with me, I need them as desperate as possible. Which is why most of my exes are hobos.

This proves my theory that I am handsome for a Jew. Which is sort of like being tan for an Irishman, tall for a midget or fast for a paraplegic.

JDate is a weird place. Hundreds of Jews lured into putting their names on a list. Wow, where have I heard that one before? They could have just exploited Hitler’s master list for marketing purposes when they started up. Sure some of the people would have been dead, but chances are good the survivors were single again.

The site does not actually require its members to be Jewish. I mean, it’s not like they asked me to send in a picture of my circumcised cock to join. Which is good, because that would have gotten very depressing very soon on a Jewish dating site. I believe Lisa Lampanelli said it best when she said, “The only thing shorter than a Jewish guy’s dick is a black man’s to-do list.”

My Muslim friend asked if he would be allowed to join. That would make for some interesting dates. I told him that he should wait until he was inside her to break the news. There he’d be, sliding in, she’s getting all into it and then he yells at the top of his lungs: “Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!”

Or maybe that high-pitch yodel as if he’s about to slay an infidel.

As an alternative, he could strap a bomb to balls and assure the girl that either he or the bomb were going to explode in 5 minutes.

I have another friend who has a huge list of sex accomplishments he wants to complete before he dies. There’s some good stuff on there: MILFS, midgets, Asian twins, a celebrity, and probably 99 other things that escape me at the moment. But if he really wants a challenge, he should try to get an Israeli girl and a Palestinian chick in a three-way. There’s something symbolic about an American fucking a Palestinian while an Israeli works his balls.

Worst Superpower Ever

I’ve been reading a book called “Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story” which is about death and rock n’ roll. A paragraph in particular caught my attention:

“There is an entire cult of disciples (led, I believe by Minnie Driver) who inject the knowledge of [Jeff] Buckley’s demise back into his work, and what they hear on songs like ‘Drown in My Own Tears’ is something that couldn’t exist if he were still alive. It’s a simple equation: Buckley is dead, so [his 1993 Album] Grace is profound. But this is reverse engineering; this says more about the people who like Buckley than it does about his music.”

The idea I found interesting is that events that happen after the work was created have influenced how people interpret the album. And in a way, it’s sort of what’s been going on in my life.

What follows is ENTIRELY the work of my own neurosis, but I’ve begun working up a case on whether or not my ex was cheating on me. Logically, I know she wasn't. Well…I suspect that she wasn’t. I guess no one can ever really know for sure. But logic has no place in my interpretation of past events based on our eventual split. Every conversation we had now takes on a new meaning.

Example:

Me: How was your day?
Her: fine.

Translation:

Me: How was your day?
Her: I’m fucking other guys.

Now, I’m already aware that it’s unfair, unhealthy, and completely stupid. But right now, those three words are a pretty good description of me. Seriously, my mind is doing really bizarre things with this new perspective. Relatively simple facts all seem part of some sinister master plot for my ex to sleep with hundreds of dudes.

Example:

She wanted to move to Pittsburgh. Men live in Pittsburgh. Therefore, she wanted to fuck the starting offensive line for the Stealers.

Unfortunately, my weird irrational imagination also extends to current actions. Meaning not only am I misinterpreting past events, I sometimes manage to convince myself that I have ESP strictly localized to my ex-girlfriend’s vagina.

So I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, utterly certain that she’s doing reverse cowgirl with the guy from the brawny paper-towel commercials. No one in the history of the world is having more unbelievable and mind-blowing sex than my ex…in my imagination.

I find myself praying that it’s only my sick mind and that I haven’t somehow inherited the shittiest superpower ever. Although, the creation story for said gift would probably be pretty amusing:

Once a mild-mannered gynecologist, Clit Vaghammer’s life changed when exposed to gamma radiation while elbow-deep in Miss Cleo. Now, he roams the earth, talking in a crazy accent, righting the wrong, and obsessing over his ex’s vag.

I really need to get out more.

Fantasy Sexball

Now, my recent decent into the single life has been depressing, not only in its soul-crushing familiarity (Jesus…this is what my life used to be? How did I not kill myself?) but the inescapable fact that it’s likely going to be here for a long, long time. At this point, I’m looking for a relationship with less of an emotional connection than a glory hole.

Because I’m unready for any interaction with the opposite sex that doesn’t involve a hole in a pay-toilet, I’ve been spending a lot of time on the internet. As a result, a thought dawned on me. Please consider these two seemingly unrelated facts:

1. The popularity of fantasy sports is simply staggering. According to Rueters nearly 30 million people play some fantasy sport in the U.S. or Canada. And many of them will probably do it on their employer’s dime.
   


2. Meanwhile, almost 7 million people a day watch porn on the internet.

A normal person would see these two statistics as isolated. But a genius such as myself sees an awesome opportunity to make some serious bank combining his two great internet passions into a brand-new past-time sure to take the internet by storm: Fantasy Sexball.

The premise is this: Each year, you’ll gather with your buddies and draft porn stars onto your team (or swinger party, if you'd prefer a term keeping with the milieu). For the next 12 months, you’ll follow your stars’ "sexploits" with points being awarded based on the following accomplishments:

• Scenes Recorded
• Threesomes
• Facials
• Anal
• Fellatios
• Fistings
• Double Penetrations
• Dirty Sanchezes
• Cleveland Steamers
• DV/DAs
• Blumpkins
• Autoerotic Asphyxiations

Obviously, this list could be expanded. I mean, given the amount of porn being filmed at any given time, chances are if you can dream it, somewhere the recipient of a bad titjob is doing it on camera at this moment. Or if you really wanted to get creative, make each team carry a certain number of male porn stars, midgets and ponies. My point is that this is a game that tests not only your level of perversion, but gives you the chance to get to take your knowledge of friends and coworks to a whole new level of creepy.

The only downsides are that it’s probably going to be much more difficult and/or risky to play in the office and after 12 long months, there’s a good chance that there’ll have been some serious chaffing.

Craig's A Pimp

Now that I’m single, I’ve spent a lot of time trolling the internet looking for girls. Yes, most of it is porn, simply because it’s sexual release without the cost of dinner and/or pretending to be interested in something a woman says, but I’ve also checked out a number of the dating sites. I can’t believe that it took me this long to discover the crazy world of internet pimping.

There are several different tiers of dating sites, or pimping if you will. First there are the high class call girl pimps of eHarmony and Match, then the second and third level rub and tug madams of Pure and Mate1, and finally, on the lowest possible level, just below mail-order brides and AIDS-ridden African whores, is craigslist.

Ah craigslist. How the hell did hookers in Rockland County make any money before craigslist? I mean, besides through my donations. I’m only one man, after all. Actually, I’m starting a new charity: the Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation. Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation (or A.S.S. Fun for short), allows you to get personally involved in the life of someone who needs your help more than anyone. For a small donation, you can make a difference in a whore’s life today and get her the clear-pumps, pleather skirts, and gonorrhea medication she so desperately needs. Our premium sponsors will even receive a personal visit from the girl they’re helping. I predict that it’s only a matter of days before my charity becomes the most donated to non-profit organization in the world. I mean, come on. How the fuck are Jerry’s Kids going to compete with that?

As founder of this charity, I’ll probably need to buy a pink Cadillac, a gold tooth and a cane. Sure it’s “hard” work, but when I looking at the asses of all the girls I’ve “touched” makes it allllllll worth while. Plus, it’s as close to a recession proof as occupations get.

My favorite section of the Craigslist Personal ads is the “Casual Encounters” listings. Holy Christ. It’s 100% ads for call girls, most of whom think they’re cleverly posing as real women. It’s outstanding. The amount of hilarity is almost too much to stand.

I like the ones that read something like this:

"Hot 28 year-old not getting what I need from my husband. Looking for some no strings attached fun tonight. I’m classy, quiet and shy. Please email pictures and credit card numbers."

And then there’s a picture of her vag. Classy.

I’m not sure why any hooker thinks it’s a good idea to try to advertise with photos of the cootch. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d hardly classify any fish taco as being “picturesque.” But after 15 years of paid-for abuse, it’s almost always a downright tragic view. It becomes, as I like to call it, “Chipped Ham.”



And with that awesome visual, I’m out to troll craigslist for a girl desperately seeking a substitution for daddy’s love. Or maybe just some mayo for her chipped ham.

Living Down To Expectations

To all the people angry with me for what’s written here, I urge you to let it go. That’s the wonderful thing about having this blog. I take all the darkest, least constructive feelings I have during the day, blow them up 20 times the size and then banish them from my mind to the internet. This way, they don't fester. The joke is that no one else can possibly be slandered on this blog worse than I slander myself through its authorship.

That’s the whole point of everything. Why would you possibly take anything negative I have to say about someone seriously when this whole blog lowers me below basic humanity?

I’d urge anyone angry with me over what’s written here to consider the inescapable point that I’ve already been punished for my many flaws and shortcomings: I’ve been kicked to the curb. Between the level I drag myself down to with each post and my ex’s utter rejection of every good part of my being, there’s simply not any compelling reason to waste your anger on me. I'm way below deserving your hatred. There's no possible way for you to make me feel worse. There's no endgame for you.

You want to know what the purpose of this blog is? To live down to her expectations. You shouldn’t get angry with me. I’m just proving her right.

Big News And Shit I Love About Being Single

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False Truisms

The first thing to remember about any break-up is that 99% of the time, people are going to tell you the same old shitty sayings.

“There are other fish in the sea.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“She wasn’t good enough for you.”

None of them are particularly helpful, enlightening or even accurate. Shall we take these one at a time?

1. If I was interested in fucking other fish, this would be more helpful. But it took me 27-odd years of dating to realize that 99% of the fish out there are either fat, crazy or just trying to sell you into white slavery. The other 1% is simply hiding in wait to fuck you over when you’re at your most vulnerable. Seriously, dating goes like this: you meet 100 girls, only 15 of them are at all attractive. 10 of those girls have no interest in speaking to you what-so-ever. Only 3 of them will agree to go on a date with you, and 2 of them turn out to be completely insane anyway. The last one turns out to have Chlamydia. That’s what dating is. The endless process of weeding through the trash heaps to find the one person with enough going for them that you’d consider contracting an STD.
   


2. I really do think everything happens for a reason: God loves to fuck with us. You ever notice how just when things get really, really bad and you think your life can’t possibly get any worse, a sudden ray of light appears. And there’s an easy solution to all your problems that’s almost within reach. So you stretch out your weary, tired fingers for hope and BAM. God kicks your fucking teeth in. A break-up doesn’t have to have any cosmic significance. Sometimes life sucks walrus balls and that’s just the way it is.
   


3. What does it say about me that a person who isn’t even good enough for me can’t stand to have me around? How does that make me feel better? Even if she were a fat, alcoholic with a hair-lip, she’s leaving because thinks she can do better. This sort of thinking is implying that I should set my sights lower to someone who’s really scraping rock-bottom. Like a crack addict with a clubfoot. Or a homeless hermaphrodite with leprosy. Or a toothless hooker with narcolepsy. Which in my case, is probably true…but you don’t have to TELL me that.

But I suppose that it’s the job of your friends (and complete strangers in bars, video shops, and mortuaries…damn, maybe I’m talking about this more than I thought) to try to offer you advice to get through this difficult time. Most of them fail. However, I’m lucky to have a few very special friends in my life who really made this challenging time more bearable. They are the few people who really understand me and know how to comfort a man in most satisfying non-blowjob-inclusive manner I’ve ever encountered. I’m not big on thank yous, but I’d like to take a moment to reach out to two very special friends I couldn’t have done it without:

Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker

I love you guys. In fact, it’s high time I paid them a visit.

Return From The Dead

So I’ve been gone a while. You may have noticed. You’ve moved on to read the scribbling of other degenerates. I understand. You’re in a different place now. What we had was great, but you’re just a different person. It’s not you, it’s me. That sort of thing.

Who the fuck do I think I am just crawling back into your life?

I’m the motherfucking king, that’s who.

Look, whatever other short-comings I have (and there are a SHITLOAD of them, believe me), I can still throw words on a page with the best of them. And after shedding my girlfriend and 20 pounds, I’m back, vicious and ready to spread my vitriol across the web like a herpes outbreak.

Last you heard about my personal life, I was happily dating and gainfully employed at a new company. Well, I’m 0-2 in those respective departments. I know, it’s stunning that neither a woman or a place of business would want me hanging around for years on end. The profanity, my inability to keep my mouth shut, my degradation of women, religion and the country…really, where did I go wrong?

You know what I blame? Pittsburgh. Fuck that shit-kicking, hick-ridden, inbred-infested, gay-steelworker employing backwater. Seriously, what the shit was I thinking?

Back in NYC (well…within hailing distance, anyway) things are pretty bleak…but at least it’s not Pittsburgh. I think that’s about to be become my new favorite phrase.

“Hey Ehren, that fat chick you’re taking home is balding, covered in acne and sweating like thermal tighty-whitey encased balls in a sauna.”

“Yeah, but at least she’s not Pittsburgh.”

Actually, they have a name for fat, sweaty, balding, acne ridden girls. They call them "Pittsburgh 10s". And by “they” I mean “Me”.

It’s weird as hell being single again. I haven’t seriously flirted with a strange girl in like 3 years. At first I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to remember all my old lines and pick-up routines. Then I remembered that I never had any. Unless you count Rohypnol and astroglide.

In my prime, I could pick up the phone and be guaranteed ass from at least one of 5 or 6 girls. Granted, some where a drive and a half away, but the option was there. In my absence from emotion-free sex (or, since it was a live-in relationship, should I simply say “absence from sex”?) they’ve all found better things to do with their vaginas. What the fuck! They should have been home by the phone with a vibrator on the off-chance I decided to call. One of them has a kid now. It’s depressing to me that a girl I once anger-fucked on the hood of my car is now somebody’s mom.

Fortunately, the real beauty of having a blog like this is that even when shit goes horribly wrong, I can think “well, at least this is going to make a funny fucking post.” My supply of ass has been cut off, forcing me to branch out and meet new people. I like to call this “the recipe for disaster.” You should call it “your lucky day.” Hilarity is the only possible out-come. I’ll be back soon, bitches.

Decision 2008: Fanatics, Old People, Women, and Blacks: Who Does America Hate Less?

I do my best to remain as politically uninvolved as possible. Because as far as I’m concerned, politicians have won: I don’t care. I can’t afford to.

See, there are a few things in life that make me even crazier than my alcoholic, incoherent, foaming-at-the-mouth norm: popped collars. Club music. Paris Hilton. But as far as I’m concerned, politics is well on its way to becoming more retarded than any other item on the above list.

I’ll let you in on an observation of mine: the point of this process is to punish you for knowing anything. This is a bipartisan effort on behalf of the people who run things. For example, let’s take any one of the debates:

Moderator: What would you do to turn around the economic collapse?
Candidate 1: Not be a douchebag like my opponent, who looks like a terrorist and is responsible for fucking up in the first place.
Candidate 2: I would continue not being a whore of big oil, unlike my aging, decrepit opponent who wants to deregulate loan-sharking.

Then for the next two weeks, the news networks have partisan speakers who both claim that their candidate won and made the other guy look like the cock-tampon he really is.

It's times like this that Futurama's Phillip Fry makes the most sense: "If I were registered to vote, I'd send these clowns a message by staying home on Election Day and dressing up like a clown."

Why get involved in that process? Seriously. My blood-pressure and I were better off sitting this one out until Election Day, reading a print-out of the candidates policies, and then showing up in the local high school gym to vote. Nice and easy. No need for a complete mental breakdown involving a high-powered rifle and a book depository. Speaking of which, if Obama wins, let’s just say I don’t think he’ll be parading around Dallis in a convertible anytime soon.

Like everyone else wasn’t thinking that, too.

Unfortunately, my plan has gone to shit because of Sarah Palin. Sound-bites that fucking dumb simply cannot be ignored, no matter how hard I try. So here are some observations that have come to me after my reluctant reawakening to politics as usual:

1. Conservatives keep referring to Sarah Palin as attractive as if saying it will make it true. She’s not. She’s just hot for an insane, hate-mongering, barely-self-cognizant cultist. Exactly like Ann Coulter.
   
2. At first, I thought she and McCain were insane for constantly referring to themselves as “Mavericks.” They’re part of the Republican system that went completely mad with power following 9/11. They are “mavericks” in the same sense that Charles Manson is a “beltway insider.” Then I looked up the definition of the word: “Maverick, noun: an unbranded calf, cow, or steer, esp. an unbranded calf that is separated from its mother.” And I realized, yes. Palin is a fat cow.
   
3. Palin = Dan Quayle + tits.
   
4. Every two days, Republicans come out with a new buzz-word, and fly-over states go completely crazy with adoration:
1. Main Street
2. Gotcha Journalism
3. Liberal Elitism
4. Hockey Mom
5. Joe Six-Pack
   
5. I resent being referred to as “Joe Six-Pack.” I’m really more of a “Johnny Vodka” or “Crandall Schlitz” myself.
   
6. No one else mentioned it, but during the debate, Palin said that she “was opposed to another holocaust.” Way to take a stand. Anything else you want to come out against? Maybe child molestation? How about the prostitution of the mentally handicapped? Seriously, though, I’m relieved. When someone thinks that dinosaurs and carbon dating are part of “God’s Tricks” to test our faith, you can’t take opposition to killing off Jews for granted.
   
7. Joe Biden is kind of scary. Why does he always refer to himself in the third person? Unless…he’s not the REAL Joe Biden.
   
8. No matter who is elected, we’re completely fucked. The difference is that Obama might be able to buy us another 10-15 years. McCain, probably gets us 5. And, God forbid, Palin immediately signals the apocalypse. On a completely unrelated topic, how difficult is it to become a legal citizen of Canada?
   
9. Some people have been asking whether America is ready for a black President. I think we are. Except Idaho. I know. You were probably expecting a joke about the south here, but according to CNN, the state that supports Obama least is Idaho. What the fuck, Idaho? Apparently, McCain’s message resonates most strongly with inbred potato farmers, explaining why he’s currently behind in the polls.
   
10. McCain looks like a muppet. Nothing north of his overbite moves, other than his eyes, which blink way too frequently. It’s as if he’s consciously over-blinking in an attempt to convince voters that he’s alive.

Now, in truth, I’m not really happy with either party. I think they’re both fuck-ups pandering to special interests. Republicans are hate-mongering oil-whores, and Democrats are spineless spendthrifts. But in the end, I have to go with the party currently owned by slightly less scary lobbyists and corporations, and a few percentage points less likely to completely destroy the country, world and life as we know it.

And after all, isn’t that what politics in America is all about?

Ratboy

My girlfriend, Scientist, kills mice for a living. In theory, she has the kind of job that can only be described as a budding sociopath’s wet dream: Each day, she is responsible for the death of 250 mice.

Before the little furry vermin are sent to their death, they get shot up with illegal drugs, including Heroin, cocaine, and PCP.

It’s weird to think that she got a degree to shoot mice up with H.

Because of the staggering amount of mouse deaths in her lab, my friends and I have come to call her office “Maushwitz.” And yes, we’re aware that we’re probably going to hell for that.

Ironically, one of the reasons Scientist hates her job is not because of the mouse, but a rat. Allow me to explain.

One of her co-workers bears an uncanny resemblance to the offspring of Edward Norton and a rat: the beady eyes, pointy noise, and huge incisors have all contributed to his nickname: Ratboy.

His grotesque, rodent-like appearance is not the only reason for the moniker, however. Ratboy might be one of the most irritating people I’ve ever met. There’s just something about a rat-like idiot with a superiority complex and an inability to keep his mouth shut that just rubs me the wrong way. Call me crazy.

Ratboy was talking to Scientist when he said, “So I’m thinking about leasing a car.”

Scientist: OK. Why don’t you just buy one?
Ratboy: Because I’m not an idiot like you.
Scientist: What?
Ratboy: Well, look: in three years you’ll be done pay for your car and you’ll be stuck with a cheap piece of shit. In three years, I’ll just be able to start over fresh with no commitment.
Scientist: I really like my car. And in three years I’ll OWN my car, which will be worth about 15 grand. I can use that TOWARDS a new car, if I want one. You, however, will have flushed about 20 grand down the toilet and will have to start over.
Ratboy: You’re so shortsighted. Leasing is the best possible long-term investment you can make.

This is exactly the kind of fiscal savvy that can only be seen in companies like Enron. I wonder if there’s someplace he can go to lease a set of teeth that don’t look like they were just gnawing drywall.

As the conversation above clearly illustrates, Ratboy is not what you would consider “smart.” But it’s not because he doesn’t read. As my girlfriend discovered in a separate instance:

Ratboy: Hey Scientist, I have a site you should join.
Scientist: Oh yeah?
Ratboy: Yeah, it’s like the greatest idea ever: booksfree.com
Scientist: OK, what is it?
Ratboy: Well you know Netflix? It’s like that, except for books. I pay $30 a month, and they send me any book I want, with no late fees.
Scientist: So…it’s not really “free.”
Ratboy: But I can borrow any book ever made!
Scientist: You mean like the library, which is actually “free.”
Ratboy: No, this is cool because it’s online. And this is unlimited.
Scientist: …Like the library?
Ratboy: But there are no late fees!
Scientist: Late fees at the library are like a nickel. You could keep your books for 2 years and not owe $30…which you pay every month.
Ratboy: But they have EVERY BOOK. Not just some old research material.
Scientist: Have you ever heard of interlibrary loan? Libraries can borrow books from other libraries. So you can get any book every printed.
Ratboy: You’re so shortsighted, Scientist! I can’t believe you don’t understand why this is the best site ever.

While I was writing this post, I decided to do a quick image search of the web. Apparently, before he committed crimes against common-sense in a Westchester laboratory, he spent his evenings in the Gotham City gutter trying to thwart Batman.

The resemblance is eerie.