Blog Bites Man

I have finally run into a moment where my blog has worked against me. Look, I started writing because I wanted to express myself. There’s no way I' going to censor my opinions or feelings. I don’t think there’s a reason to. I’ve never written anything that I wouldn’t say to someone’s face. However, there may be a difference between hearing something from someone’s lips and seeing it posted in a public spot. I already feel that the situation I’m about to recount is beyond repair, so I might as well just come clean with the whole damn thing.

A girl inspired a bunch of my recent posts: the friend in the wings, the long distance date, and the “is this a date?” post all owe some of their origins to my recent interactions with her. Here goes: I met her years before and asked her out.

Side story here that I don’t believe I recounted. She and I met working together. We hung out together for a few days and I asked her out by saying something charming like:

“Say, do you ever eat food? I though that some night you and I could go out and I could buy you food.”

To which she responded, “Food is good!” And walked away.

Needless to say, I was perplexed. Was that a “yes,” a “no,” or a “fuck off, I have pepper-spray”? So the following day, not to be deterred, I went up to her and said, “Hey, yesterday I asked you out to dinner and you said, ‘Food is good.’ Does that mean, ‘Yes, I’d be delighted to go out with you some time’? Does it mean, ‘Get away from me you freak and don’t talk to me’? What does, ‘Food is good’ mean?”

She responded, “Oh…Um. Actually, it means, ‘I have a boyfriend.’”

See, this is the kind of shit that I’m somehow expected to know. And people wonder why I’m so crazy. At any rate, she and I remained friends. We hung out a lot and stayed in touch over the years. Recently, it came to my attention that she was single again. I always detected a certain attraction to me on her part, so I figured I’d give it another shot. We had coffee and she invited me to come visit her up at school, 40 minutes away. This pretty well covers the three posts I mentioned earlier.

I'm not going to lie. I thought she was hot! But I also genuinely liked her as a person and had a cool time hanging out with her.

It would seem that she read my blog and feels that my motives are now somewhat suspect. Hey, I apologize for nothing I’ve written here! All this blog is meant to be is a window into a guy’s mind. Yes I focus a whole lot on sex, but if you read closely, you’d see that not all I’m looking for.

I got drunk and asked her exactly what her intentions were. Not an outrageous demand on my part, considering I was going to be driving up and spending the night (perhaps?). I figured asking would be a whole lot less awkward then driving up, making a pass, and getting shut-down in person. She sort of panicked, threw a few lines from my blog into my face and disappeared.

I guess the safe thing would be to not call attention to this and prepare for another opportunity further down the road. However, I’ve decided instead to make a stand:

I refuse to apologize for shit everyone thinks. I also refuse to let women get away with this sort of unpredictability and tip-toeing around the issues move anymore. You know what? If she had issue with anything I wrote it’s fine. Bring it up and call me on it. But I’m done with letting women pick fights on unrelated topics and then refuse to admit what’s bothering them.

You want to know what drama is? Drama is when the person you’re with or interested in has secrets or problems that they won’t own up to. I wouldn’t expect other people to put up with my drama, so I’m done doing it for others. Ladies, if you’ve got drama with me, fess up or you’ll find that your production is playing to empty theater.

I Stand Behind Homosexuals...Well, Not "Behind" Them...You Know What I Mean

I was asked by a friend to write a post on lesbianism. Let me say that I believe in taking requests, but it’s not my intent to start talking about politics. Why? Because as sexist and alienating as my views on inter-gender relations are, my political beliefs tend to be even more divisive. Unfortunately, these days, it’s impossible to mention gay-rights and not get into the recent legislation and “public debate.”

I’ve always been of the mind that the largest problem with this country (other than New Jersey, I mean) is that so many people obsess about other people’s business. If you have nothing better to do than worry about what the hell other people are doing, you’re not being nearly productive enough. Get a hobby, get religion, or get laid; just quit bitching about how other people live.

There is no reason to be against gay marriage. The only people who are threatened by it are closet homosexuals. There are laws in some states against oral and anal sex. I’m proud to be criminal, and somehow, Jesus hasn’t risen from the dead to smite me down yet. Here’s what I don’t get: how many times a year do we see stories on the news about owners marrying two dogs? Where’s all the uproar about that? Are you telling me that two dogs getting married isn’t a mockery, but two loving adults who happen to be the same sex is an affront to all marriage stands for? Please. Get your ass out of the closet and quit your bitching. The only way gay marriage affects straight couples is if you’re into spouse-swapping.

The reason that these amendments keep getting shot down is pretty simple: about 30% of the population is extremely homophobic. I’m not sure what the percentage of gay people is in this country, but it’s got to be lower than 30%. Everyone else is like, “Huh? This is an issue?” The two ends of the spectrum fight it out and everyone else just sort of looks around blankly and shrugs.

I’m proud to announce that I’ve got no problem with gay people. Go you! Way to teach the rest of us how to dress! I’m strongly pro-lesbian, and not just because of the Cinemax specials. In fact, I’ve been doing my best to convert women to lesbianism, one girl at a time. I’ve got nothing but respect for girls who are fed up with the bullshit of men.

I don’t have a problem with gay guys, either. The way I see it, it’s just less competition for us few, diehard heterosexuals. That’s it, my gay, brethren: give up and leave the woman to me. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!

One of my friends was telling me today that they were asked, “What would you do if your son or daughter turned out to be gay?” I wasn’t aware that that would be something that warranted any sort of action. It’s sort of like asking, “What if your son grows up to like boxing?” In either case, you pat them on the head and say, “I support your decision to take a shot in the mouth from another man.”

Damn, I’m going to make a bitching dad some day.

Rednecks, Religions, and Screwing With Christians

I don’t usually use this forum to start a ruckus on racial issues, but I just saw a really amazing film:

http://festival.sundance.org/2006/watch/film.aspx?which=423&category=DOC

The film really reminded me of my time at college. When I went away to school, I went to a whole new world: Western New York. The whole place is sort of like…imagine a region, where all they really know about cultures, beliefs, and diversity they learned from watching snippets of documentaries that were airing on TVs, as they walked past the electronics department of Wal-Mart.

It’s not that they’re all hicks. They just generally have no clue that other cultures actually exist. It was there that I first sort of ran into anti-Semitism. I want to be clear: no one ever singled me out, made degrading comments or excluded me. They were just pretty much oblivious to anything but their own self-importance in a way that made you want to slap them. I’ll give you an example:

I was up there when September 11th happened. For the next month and a half, all everyone talked about was, “How close to home the terrorists had struck” and how “We could be next.” This from rednecks in a town 9 hours by car to New York and 45 minutes from Buffalo. Unless the terrorists were coming after America’s most inbred farmers, there was no reason to strike there. I had to walk around and tell people, “Please. Terrorists are not coming here. What are they going to blow up? You're sheep? This isn’t even the same state as New York. This is Alabama-lite.”

I once had a girl argue with me that Buffalo had better pizza than New York City.

You get the idea. It was the sort of thing that slowly grew on me until all I wanted to do was to start seriously fucking with the Christians, to make them half as uncomfortable as I was. I got sick of hearing things like:

“Really? You’re Jewish??? How exotic!”
“What do you mean, ‘you don’t celebrate Christmas/Easter/Lent’?”
"I've never met one of 'you people' before."
“Wow. I knew this kid in kindergarten named Harvey who was Jewish. Do you know him?”

I reached my boiling point during my junior year of college. I had a bad week. There were five or six guys on my floor who were members of the Christian faith club. They kept slipping pamphlets under everyone’s door. On top of that, I was hanging out with some friends, drinking one night, when one of them grabbed my arm. She pulled me close and said, very concerned, “Where are you going???”

“I’m going to get another beer.”
“Don’t go in the kitchen!!!”
“huh?”
“I don’t want you to fall in the oven.”

Yes, that’s a holocaust joke. The whole thing was just so weird to me. On one hand, I never considered myself religious; on the other hand most of these people had never met a Jew so I felt responsible for representing an entire race.

So I reacted the way I always do: by making inappropriate jokes and fucking with people. In this case, the two were one and the same. I designed a serious of T-Shirts and bumper stickers, all with the intent of bringing the world crashing down around the ears of culturally oblivious rednecks. Oh yeah, and don't bother me with your screams of religious insensitivity. I've got nothing against Jesus and Christians. These are meant to lash out people oblivious of other cultures. If I put up with four years of it, the rest of you Carpenter Worshipers can get a sense of humor for ten seconds.

Enjoy:

Large Jewish Star, under which is written: I killed your God.

A large cross, with bold lettering reading: “Love Jesus*” at the bottom was written, “*Violators will be persecuted.”

“Who says the Jews are no good at sports? We ran down Jesus!”

Bed, Blankets And Beyond

I don’t usually like to post quizzes or “top ten” lists, but I was speaking to someone the other day who asked me some really fabulous questions. I’d like to repost them for you now (credit for list goes to Mandy):

1. What’s on your bed?
2. Blankets or comforter?
3. What side of the bed do you prefer?
4. Do you sleep on your side, on your back, or on your stomach?
5. Pajamas, underwear/t-shirt, or in the buff?

These things are all of high importance in maintaining a healthy relationship. Sex is only the beginning of bedroom activities.

I’ve always been a big bed person. It probably all goes back to my room growing up. In my room, I had only one other area where it was possible to sit: on a chair. Unfortunately, my chair also served as the default clothes hamper; so if you had hopes of doing anything off your feet, it was the bed or the floor. As a result, I became meticulous about the state of my bed. It’s weird, I know. It continues to this day: when you walk into my place, everything else might be a wreck, but the bed is always made.

I’m a strong believer in blankets, comforters and a whole lot of pillows. Men, I’m going to let you in a little secret that we as a gender seem to be behind the ball on: pillows are fantastic—and I ain’t talking about for sleeping on. A little imagination and bunch of pillows will do wonders for your bedroom performances. Maybe that’s a topic for another blog…provided I can track down some of those karma sutra pictures to help illustrate.

The girls who own 40,000 stuffed animals are really pretty scary. Not only can they be a literal pain in the ass, it’s this whole factor of 80,000 eyes watching you. If I wanted to have sex in public, I’d be running website instead of a blog. Hey, I own a webcam!

A bit of a side-note illustrating how I’m not really a “stuffed animal” guy. Back in college, my roommate and I were browsing through an antiques store when we happened on a dead, stuffed fox. We were considering it as an impulse buy. I mean, I figured it’d be a cool conversation piece. My roommate turned to me and said, “What do you think?” I paused and finally said, “You know, as cool as that thing is now, it’s probably going to be a whole other story when you wake up in the middle of the night and think it’s looking at you.” That sealed the deal. The money was spent on beer instead.

I once had to spend the night in the same room as a ventriloquist dummy. I swear, every time I woke up, that thing was a little closer to my bed.

Aside from actual bed comfort, there are a whole lot of other intangibles that come into play when trying to share a sleeping space. It all reminds me of a sweaty, ill-conceived, incredibly complex game of Tetris. Just when you think you’ve finally positioned your arm under her, you get an itch, or you have to go to the bathroom, or one of you is slightly warmer than the other and you get pools of sweat forming between you.

I’ve been told (unsolicited, I might add) from a number of women that I’m a good cuddler. The line I like to use is that I was a pro for the Olympic team—until I was banned for using performance-enhancing drugs.

What to wear is another key element. Generally, I’m a pajama guy…in fact, I had an amazing pair of flannel cowboy p.j.s that absolutely killed with the ladies back in college. But when there’s company, I don’t like to make my guests feel under-dressed, so I opt for boxers or nothing. Of course, I believe in promoting easy-access (I suspect that’s why so many girls love the kilt). There’s nothing better than a girl who know how to wake you up right.

Then again, I had no idea that morning foreplay could be such a challenge, until I started seeing a certain girl. I guess morning sex was hugely important on her list of needs. Hey, generally I wouldn't complain, but she had no idea how to actually go about getting it when I was asleep. Girls, I’m going to let you in on how not to get morning sex:

I was dreaming about fighting crime on the streets of Hong-Kong with an elite vigilante group, when suddenly my opponents became a whole lot more physical…in fact they started landing punches. I finally realized that the foot to my sternum was not part of my dream-world.

“Hzzz? Huh? Wha?” I stammered, in my usually coherent and insightful manner of speaking.

“GET UP! I NEED SEX!!!”

“Then haul your ass to the curb. I'm sure you can find someone with 15 bucks and a backseat!”

I grabbed the blankets, turned over and continued my dream.

The Misery of Virginity

Sex is a really funny thing. I remember being generally puzzled about sex when I was growing up. On one hand, it’s something that’s hugely publicized across our culture: it bombards us from sit-coms, commercials, videos, movies ads, books, music…virtually everywhere. On the other hand, it’s something that kids weren’t supposed to talk about. Grown-ups got SO uncomfortable around kids talking about sex that they usually told them to be quiet.

Once I reached puberty, I held out a pretty respectable amount of time before I gave away my virginity. I waited until I was 19. The circumstances leading up to this monumental event were kind of interesting.

My graduating class in High School was 26. Not only that, but I had been at the same school since 2nd grade. What this meant was that by the time graduation rolled around, dating anyone was pretty much akin to incest. How the hell could you be attracted to someone you’d known since they were 7? To make things worse, I pretty much hated everyone in my class. I had three friends, two or three acquaintances and as far as I was concerned, I could care less if everyone else was wiped out in a tragic boating helicopter accident.

Despite all that, I did have a girlfriend my senior year, one who made the offer to put out. I politely declined. For those of you knew to my on-going saga, she was the one who proved to be pretty nuts: she sent me threatening letters when we broke up.

Once I reached college, I sort of launched myself at the freshmen girls. It was a natural reaction. I had spent my entire dating life choosing from a very limited pool. Suddenly there were all kinds of choices, varieties, and possibilities. So I was a man-whore for about a semester and a half. But, I was a whore who wouldn’t put out. Years earlier, I had settled on some important requirements for the event:

1. No losing it to other virgins. The way I looked at it, the last thing I needed was to try to figure it out with someone who also had no idea what the fuck they were doing. This turned out to be a wise move on my part. Years later, I bedded a virgin. The event was so traumatic that if it had been MY first time too, I probably never would have tried to have sex again.
2. The girl I lost it to would have to be in a long term relationship with me. I didn’t want, years later to say, “Yeah, it was a magical night with…uh…umm…what’s her name?”

This second rule had another benefit that I hadn’t even considered. See, almost every outlet of our culture portrays sex as a talent: either people are good or they’re bad and that’s it. In reality, sex is really more of a skill particularly for men. Girls can say what they like about the work they do in bed, but the reality is that men are the ones up there shooting the free-throws. In a long term relationship, I was able to progress from a total bust to a barely competent lover. Hey! The important thing was that progress was made! I think I’m pretty good now. And if you don’t believe me, feel free to take it up with my sex-references.

Virginity is a strange thing. I remember that as a virgin, I spent so much time building up what sex was supposed to be, that when I actually did it, it was something that wasn’t nearly as big a deal as I thought it would be. That was the REAL lesson of that night. After that, I was able to relax about sex enough that I could relate to girls better because it wasn’t always forefront in my mind. That is to say, when I was speaking to girls I thought about it only 85% of the time instead of 99% of the time.

Usually, I’d say everyone should take things at his or her own pace. However, if a person holds out too long, it’ll become nearly impossible to do. The longer you wait, the bigger you make it in your own mind until it’s something that totally devours you. That being the case, I’d like to draw attention to a truly noble cause. My faithful readers, I urge you to dig deep in your pockets and help give a young man the greatest gift of all: hot stripper ass. Praise you, brothers and sisters!

Guns, Wal-Mart and The Mexican Stand-Off

Guns are a weird part of American life. I’m not really sure where the big obsession with owning guns comes from. I mean, I’ve somehow managed to survive 26 years without owning anything more powerful than a pellet gun…and I didn’t even use that all that often. Please understand, I’m not really pro-guns or anti-guns, I’m really more of the “puzzled by why the fuck anyone would need 8,000 different types of guns available around the clock and at a moment’s notice.”

Wal-Mart is like the ultimate version of this weird part of the American mind that says:

Nudity = bad.
Cursing = Evil.
Guns = Hurray weapons, mayhem and death!

I went to a school in a town so small that it was inconceivable to think of surviving without patronizing Wal-Mart. People used to go grocery shopping there. The thing about the place that always pissed me off was that you could walk in there and buy guns, ammunition, and condoms, but not any CDs with curse-words on them. Essentially, Wal-Mart’s stance was that it was ok to kill people and it was ok to fuck people, just don’t write a song about killing or fucking people.

My friend and I were looking for apartments in the paper recently, when he stumbled on this little beauty:





Yes it’s charming, spacious and in our price-range, but if you look closely, you’ll notice what we can only assume is Police Tape over the door. My friend’s exact words were, “For that price, we can afford to stay strapped.”

See, I’m not frightened about living at the site of a brutal triple-homicide. Where they hell else do motivated sellers come from? What I am afraid of is the inevitable bloodbath that is going to break out, not as a result from people outside, but from within.

I read somewhere that the majority of people who are shot, are shot by people they know. That should be a great comfort to those who fear random violence. I somehow envision the number of gun-shot woundings by friends taking a dramatic leap upwards the second my friends and I start purchasing firearms.

The problem is that I know that every argument in the house would ultimately be decided by who was sitting closest to the gun.

“Yo, turn on the game.”

“No, man. I’m watching this.”

“Turn on the game.”

Click “Ask me again, mother-fucker. ASK ME AGAIN!!!”

It would be a perpetual scene from Pulp Fiction playing out every waking moment.

A lot of people would think that the solution would be to simply purchase two guns. If anything, that would only make matter much, much worse. If each of us had guns, my life would instead turn into a never-ending Mexican-standoff.

I can see it now, each of us inching our way over to the sink to brush our teeth, slowly pouring cereal, guns cocked, and easing our boots on with our fingers on the trigger.

See, I guess here’s the difference between my friend and me: He looks at a good apartment in a bad neighborhood and sees a deal. I look at a good apartment in a bad neighborhood and see a 4 year Mexican-standoff.

Kilts, Soccer Moms, and Fashion Rage

One of my jobs at school was driving the “rape van." The rape van drove around the campus until 4 every morning so that women didn't have to roam the parking lots at all hours of the night. I loved driving the Rape Van. I used to have theme nights: Funk Night, Surf Night and Disco Night. But one evening, I decided to conduct a poll: If socially acceptable, would you wear a kilt (if male), or be attracted to a guy wearing a kilt (if female). The results were a staggering near 80% pro-kilt. I’m telling you, The Gap is missing out on the next big trend. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’d like to announce right here, in the presence of God, friends, and random Internet Weirdoes that I own my own kilt. I always get asked if I’m Scottish, when I wear it. The answer is no. I just like fucking with people.

I’ve had some great times in kilts. I started wearing it when I was working at a day camp, just as a gimmick. But then I began rocking the kilt in the real world and I’ve had fantastic results with it thus far. It first dawned on me what a chick magnet a guy in a skirt is when I was working at camp, directing traffic. I would wave the single moms through and they would be all prim and proper until they’d dropped their kids off. Once the kids were out of the car, they all turned into sailors on shore leave. The filthy things these moms would holler at me defied belief, courtesy, and all levels of dignity. Needless to say I was thrilled. One of my favorite moments was when a mom slowed down to yell, “Hey, what are you wearing under there?”

To which I immediately responded, “My girlfriend’s lipstick.” A stunned silence followed.

I used to wear it around college on warm days. It was spectacular. I remember sitting in class when I happened to notice a girl checking out my legs. My first thought was, “That chick’s looking at me like a piece of meat. I feel so violated. This is AWESOME!"

Girls used to come up to me in the dining hall and just give me their numbers. It was unreal. First Scotch Whiskey and now kilts? God bless those drunken, moor-dwelling Scots.

The whole phenomena got me wondering about men’s fashion. Understand that I’m not pretending to know anything about style. It just makes me think that current fashion doesn’t really help you get ass. Maybe it’s because men’s fashion tends not to reveal much, or maybe it was simply that I had the balls to wear something so non-conventional. Whatever it was, all I know is that women love a man in a kilt. I had a girlfriend who would absolutely molest me every time I climbed into the thing. I got pulled into so many closets that I people just assumed I was a janitor.

I'm beginning to think that I'm the same way about non-conventional dressing women. I get really turned off by girls who are dressed too trendy. Something about says, "I need culture at large to tell me how to do everything--including how to dress." I’d never wear anything just because someone told me it was cool. For example pink.

Every weekend I’ll be walking around the mall and I’ll see some dude in a pink shirt with the collar up. When I do, it takes every fiber of my self-restraint not to kidney punch him and beat him with the nearest blunt object until he loses bladder control. Wearing Pink is the perfect example of someone doing something ONLY because they heard it was cool. Guys don’t wear pink. Guys don’t look good in pink. Guys who wear pink deserve to be castrated immediately with what ever is handy before they contaminate the gene-pool.

Then again, who am I to pass judgment on a dude wearing a “girl color”? This is, after all, from a guy who rocks a skirt. So lassies, I present a picture for your viewing pleasure and so you know what to look for next time you're out on the town. Just a warning: I don't always wear the face-paint.

Federally-Mandated Lovin'

I was speaking to a girl recently who said, “You should come and visit me up at school.” This can be a tough one. The key to the date where there’s travel involved and a sleep-over is implied is making sure that you can actually tolerate the other person. The worst thing is driving to see a girl, being stuck in a situation where you know no-one else and all you can think is, “Damn, she’s really not worth the drive.”

The worst situation I was ever subjected to involved Halloween. I was up to visit this super cute girl—short, dark hair, adorable face and amazing boobs. Good lord were they fantastic…but I digress. The point is that I showed up and had to deal with mooching friends who stole my liquor, cock-blocked me endlessly and made me the default driver. On top of that, I found out that the girl was on her period and had no intentions of sending the room-mate off. The whole evening was pretty much a total disaster, though I did get her top off. Look, I know I keep going on about her breasts, but if you had seen this girl topless, you’d understand. They were spectacular. Not spectacular enough to make up for the rest of the trip, but spectacular none-the-less. The whole evening was disasterous enough that I pulled a “slink out before she wakes up” walk of shame.

The point is that I’m getting too old for these ambiguous “drive an hour and visit me” dates. I think from now on, the rules need to be laid out before I get in the car. Here’s another case of someone getting figuratively screwed by one of these deals. Figurative is the key word here. If he had been literally screwed, there would have been no issue.

My friend was talking to a girl who lives about 6 hours away. The two of them had been chatting for some time, when the invitation was made for them to go camping together. So my friend took a week off and drove up there, picked her up, set up camp and…nothing. Look, I believe that a woman’s got a right to say no. But if you make a dude drive six hours and spend his one week off a year with you, you’re obligated to at least give head. That’s the deal. Don’t agree to the trip otherwise, even if the dude swears you’re only going as friends. The guy is expecting ass. It’s just one of those times where, as a woman, you girls just have to "suck it up" and "take one" for the team. That’s the price of an all-paid vacation.

I know the girl involved in the story above reads this and she’s a sweetheart. She’s one of my dear friends, but hon, you should have put out. Sorry.

In the future, I think I’m going to have to fed-ex the girl a contract to peruse before I agree to travel.

By agreeing to host this visit, I, the under-signed, do here-by swear to:

1. Make the necessary arrangements to have at least 6 hours of alone time with my guest
2. Promise that I have romantic or at least physical attraction to the guest
3. State that bodily functions will not interfere with the possibility of ass
4. Will not put my guest in the position of placating my whining, mooching, good-for-nothing friends for fear of blowing his/her chances.

Signed: __Some hot girl__

I can’t wait for the opportunity to say, “I’m sorry you have a head-ache…but I’m afraid you and I have a contract. So take some Tylenol and prepare for some hot, federally-mandated lovin'!”

I’m such a hopeless romantic.

The Easy Let Down

I understand that everyone gets rejected now and again. Hey, I’ve had to do it myself. But when it comes to the rejection, there’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. Ladies, please take note of the following story, because in this cautionary tail, everything goes wrong that possibly could go wrong.

I was at a party a few years ago, when a kid that I knew came in and introduced me to his cousin. We all chatted for a while, and I eyed the cousin like a starving man looks at a roast. She was visiting from Iceland and was pretty much the reason that men continue to travel north: tall, thin, blond, and busty.

I decided to bide my time and make a play at the end of the night. Around two in the morning, I head over and we start talking for real. I make her laugh, we talk about her plans in the states, and we talk about her home; it’s a very chill vibe. I go in for the kiss and physicality went from there. A good time was had by all. ‘Nuff said.

The next morning a bunch of us all went out to breakfast. I bought her waffles. She gave me her number and said, “I’m going to be out of town until Thursday, why don’t you call me then?”

So Thursday night I call her up. I said, “How was your trip to Long Island?”
She said, “I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll call sometime.” Click.

I didn’t even get a chance to get through the small talk. It was just raw.

OK, I don’t mind being used for a one night stand. In fact, I sometimes wish it happened more often. But that is just too cold for words. If you didn’t want to hang out, why didn’t you say something after breakfast? Let me down easy then and I wouldn’t have bugged you. But no! She had to go hardcore, evil rejection on me. In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to get carried away with these sorts of things.

So, the following weekend, extremely drunk, I called her up to yell at her:

“What is wrong with you? You couldn’t have let me down easy? You’re cold as ice! Do you even have a soul?”

When she hung up, I got a friend to drive me over there. It’s not as bad as it sounds.

1. I knew the cousin with whom she was staying, and he agreed I should give her a hard time.
2. I’m not the violent type and had no intention of getting out of hand.

When I arrived and the cousin let me and I proceeded to berate her on common courtesy (ignoring the fact that it was 1:30 in the morning, I was drunk, unannounced, and generally shattering every existing rule of etiquette). The cousin and my friend were laughing hysterically as I continued to chew her out for another ten minutes or so.

Finally, when I had gotten it all out of my system, she apologized and we all agreed to have a “bury the hatchet drink.” So I relaxed, and we were all sipping vodka like civilized adults, when she said, “Listen, I feel really bad about everything. I thought things might have gotten weird, since I’m leaving the country in another two weeks. Let me give you my email address.”

So she scribbled it out on a piece of paper. I stared at the paper for a moment and said, “Yeah, I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll email you sometime.” RIP.

T N' As: The Skaniest Place On Earth

I have a number of friends who really enjoy strip-clubs. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy naked women just as much as the next man, but it’s really not my scene. When I walk in to a strip club, I just end up all kinds of uncomfortable.

I have no problems watching porn. The difference is when I watch a movie, I don’t have the girls actually looking back at me. There’s just something so fundamentally creepy about people who are really into porn.

For example, we were driving back from Atlantic City one morning when my friend said, “Stop at the Romantic Depot! I need porn! PORNO!!!” What can I say; these are the kinds of people I hang out with.

So we stopped at the Porno shop at 10AM on a Sunday. We slunk inside, and my friend asked the guy behind the counter for “Island Fever 3.” The eyes of the shop keep light up.

“My friends!” he says, “Come with me!”

He proceeds to throw his arms around us, tell us what a great choice the purchase is, runs down some of the highlights of the film and begins ratting off the names of similar movies we might enjoy. There’s really no words for how creepy it is to hear this kind of thing from a complete stranger, much less a complete stranger who’s making body contact with you. After we left, my friend turned to me and said, “Why can’t we just have a porn shop where we can slink in and feel ashamed about our purchases? Why’s there got to be eye-contact?”

This is exactly how I feel at strip clubs. When I’m in a place like that, I just want to be invisible. The worst part is when a stripper sizes you up as a dumb kid and starts walking over. I’m like a dear in headlights. Because usually, the headlights ARE showing. It’s hard enough to carry on a conversation with a woman who’s got fantastic breasts. When she’s purposely flaunting them, it’s damn near impossible.

“Hey honey, do want to go have a private party? We can have a real good time.”

“Ummm…no thank you…Honey. Uh, umm…I’m afraid I’ll get herpes just from talking to you.”

I don’t even like to use another person’s toothbrush.

One of my favorite strip-club stories involves the town where I went to school. It was a tiny little cluster of houses, churches, bars, a Wal-Mart and no more than 5 traffic lights. Underage drinking had been going on there for time out of mind…I mean it was a college town! Finally, one of the bars had been closed after something like 6 different underage drinking incidents.

So some stalwart entrepreneur decided to open a skin place. This caused no end of an uproar. There were protests, pickets, angry letters to the newspaper; the whole town acted as if there hadn’t been a perpetual live version of Girls Gone Wild taking place in local house-parties for the last 50 years.

In order to try to discourage this new business, they were denied a liquor license. Unfortunately for the townsfolk, they were unfamiliar with the loophole in law that this created. Allow me to explain: it is illegal to show full nudity in a place that serves alcohol: topless only. I guess that some state founders decided that men couldn’t control themselves with alcohol and full frontal nudity. Like anyone’s going to get drunk enough off 12 dollar beers to start a ruckus. If, however, there’s no alcohol you’re allowed to show full nudity. AND if you’re not serving liquor, the only thing required to be employed at such a place are working papers. Translation: in an attempt to keep their town clean and morally-upstanding, they had helped create a bar where one could sip 12 dollar cokes and watch fully nude 16 year-olds.

God bless America.