I Visit Two Scenic Locals

In the height of all ironies, I was stricken with an illness yesterday. While it certainly wasn’t the Hantavirus, Lupus, or Scabies, the jury is still out whether it was Scurvy, Rickets or just the Black Death that terrorized Europe during the 1300’s. If anyone wants to recreate yesterday’s schedule, here’s a few steps that will accurately simulate the experience:

1. Hire professional Strong Man Jouko Ahola for the day.
2. Buy a 20 Sledge Hammer.
3. Have the former beat your solar plexus with the later every 15 minutes or upon regaining consciousness.

Essentially my day consisted of pain, sleep, pain, things rushing out of various orifices and more pain. I didn’t even know my body held that much liquid. It was as if my digestive tract was the Titanic and the contents therein were screaming women and children.

I’m glad to report that I have since recovered enough to at least journey somewhere other than the toilet and my bed. Let me tell you, as scenic as those locals may be, they were getting pretty old as far as I was concerned. I place the blame for this illness where I believe it’s deserved: Paris Hilton. Some say I’m crazy, but come on. You can’t look at her and NOT think she’s a hotbed for stupidity, poor-fashion, and some really nasty forms of STDs. She’s got to be like the Congo of Sexually Transmitted Illnesses. 20 years from now they’ll be finding diseases on Paris that they haven’t even named yet. How’d I come in contact with her? I’m proud to report I’m one of the 6 people living on the planet that has NOT had sex with Paris Hilton, but she did briefly flash across my screen while I was channel surfing on Tuesday night. Apparently that’s all it takes.

I also think that due credit should go to the God of Sickness, who decided to smote me down for the post where I make light of a number of diseases. Oh Great God of Sickness! Hear my plea! I hereby repent my evil ways and will never mock those who suffer from unfortunate diseases with even more unfortunate names again

…today.

When I get sick, I always think back to college and the one time I actually went to the wellness center to try to get treatment. I had been suffering with a pretty horrible flu—fever, nausea, head-aches, the whole deal. The first question they asked me was, “Are you sexually active?”

The attendant got really nervous when I answered, “Are you asking me out?”

Essentially, any student admitting to being sick was immediately assumed to be suffering from obscure sexual ailments. Not that it really mattered, because the only thing the wellness center was allowed to prescribe was free samples of Claritin and cough-drops.

I guess the moral of today’s post is this: Stop the spread of disease. Stop watching Paris Hilton.

Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Speak In Public

Sometimes I really wish that life happened at slower speeds. Not because I’m over-whelmed by today’s fast-past world, but because I feel like maybe then I could work on my blurting problem.

And I do have a problem. Make no mistake. I mean, it’s one thing to say the stuff I write on this blog. It’s another to blurt this stuff out to the wrong company.

For example, I was walking home with a girl I was dating towards the end of college. She was nestled onto my arm and we were quietly chatting and joking to each other. I made a comment about how soon I’d be leaving this life behind forever, and wondering if I’d really left my mark on the place.

“What do you expect them to do?” she asked sarcastically. “Chisel statues of you and sacrifice virgins in your honor?”

“Hon, you of all people should know that to really honor my memory accurately, they’d have to sacrifice the slutty girls.”

A little free advice: girls you’re dating don’t like to hear that kind of thing.

I’m not sure why I do this kind of thing. Maybe I’m secretly afraid of achieving happiness. I only wish that this was the kind of thing I did only in my personal life. Unfortunately, that train (as I like to say) has sailed.

For more information on me screwing myself at work, check the very end of this post. I swear, sometimes I’m sure I have Tourettes. COCKSUCKERFUCKSHITASSBITCH. You know, I think that’s the answer. Next time I blurt out something unbelievably inappropriate, I’ll just follow it with a string of the foulest language you ever heard. That way people won’t think I’m an idiot. I’m just suffering from a neurological disorder.

The king of all blurt-outs, however, happened a number of years ago. I was sitting in a dining hall with one of my dear friends, and she was talking about her recent man problems. We had reached a point in the conversation where she was really looking deep inside herself, wondering if she would ever be happy. I leaned forward and grabbed her hand across the table.

I looked deep into her eyes, cleared my throat and realized I had no clue what was about to come out of my mouth.

“You know, Jen” I began, looking at her earnestly, “we’ve been friends for a long time now. I feel like you and I have really come a long way; as if we’ve grown up together. I know we tease each other now and then, but through it all there’s no doubt that we’re always there for one another.”

Jen’s eyes opened up wide. She leaned forward just slightly, as if sensing what to come would be a pivotal point in our relationship, forever changing how we interacted.

“That’s why I want you to know that if we’re both still single in 20 years--”

Her eyes started to mist. Her hand trembled ever so slightly.

“—I’m going to keep looking.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before she threw her cup of soda at me and stormed out.

I know it’s going to come as a shock to all my loyal readers, but I have to admit, after looking at all the evidence, there’s a very strong possibility that I’m a dick. Shocking, I know. I’ll give you all until tomorrow to come to grips with it.

Things I Find Hysterical or "Why I'm Going To Die Of A Tropical Disease"

I’ve found, through years of testing this sort of thing, that I’ve got a very strange sense of humor. For example, I was speaking to a particularly AWESOME female who lives in Washington DC, when she mentioned that the popular morning radio personality has Lupus.

I was incapacitated by laughter for the better part of 10 minutes. Not to make light of some one else’s pain…well, ok, I guess I am. I guess I just find the idea that a morning radio man, whose job it is to get people excited and happy about the day, has a crippling, horrible illness.

“Hey folks…today I thought about killing myself again. God, I hate you all. Living your lives. You don’t know what it’s like to suffer, any of you! I hope you ROT, you smug bastards!!!”

Or maybe

“Hey, this is Mad Wolf in the morning, coming to you live on DC 101. I’m glad you stopped in this morning. Today we’ll be talking to Rob Lowe, having strippers in for a hotdog eating contest, and don’t miss part 27 of our ongoing series: the agonizing pain with which I live every waking moment!”

I also observed that there are a number of illnesses that I find hysterical. Not people suffering from them understand. It’s pretty much just the names. Here they are:

• Lupus
• The Hantavirus
• SIDS
• Scabies
• Rickets

You realize what I’ve done, right? I’ve just published the names of one of the afflictions guaranteed to kill me. It’ll be the only time anyone will be able to say, “He died of Scabies. How’s that for poetic justice.”

I don’t even know what scabies is.

The other incident that reduced me to incoherence (well, more than usual. Incoherence is rated on a sliding scale) involved a movie plot. My friend was telling me about an idea for a movie involving a prison in the future, where whatever crime landed you there is committed against you every day of your stay there. Sure, the murderers get off pretty easy, and it’d be difficult to find a dude whose job it’d be to ass-fuck the rapists, but the people I think would have it the hardest? Car thieves.

I can just imagine a car-thief waking up one day, 20 years after his offense and just being utterly reduced to tears.

“Please, God, I’ve learned my lesson! I just want to be able to keep a job or make a date with a girl!”

I know…I’m sick.

Name That Mental Illness Or Physical Defect and Other Joys Of Dating

Princess, thanks so much for mercilessly pimping my blog. I often think if everyone who read my posts here told three friends, and each of them told three friends…I’d still have no social life and make no money. But at least I’d be popular…to strangers…over the internet.

Speaking of online friends, my buddies and I recently had a discussion about the loserliness of internet dating. Lots of people feel that meeting someone over through the computer is the dating equivelent of food shopping at the dollar store. I'm not sure I agree.

When I first started blogging, way back when I was still using My Space, I wrote a bit about how I didn’t understand the online dating process. Now I’m a little bit older and a little bit wiser…well, older anyway. I’ve actually successfully picked a few girls up online so I guess I have more perspective on the whole phenomena.

Picking someone up in cyberspace is like the opposite of going down to a singles bar. At a bar or a club, the music is usually turned up so load that you can’t speak to anyone. When you pick someone up, it’s based almost entirely on appearance. I mean, girls say they like a guy with a sense of humor. How exactly am I supposed to make you laugh when horrible music is blasting at decibels and frequencies meant to collapse high-rises? Essentially, you go to a club to hook up with someone good looking. Why do those relationships fall apart? Because sooner or later you realize that she’s a bitch, or an idiot, or trying to harvest your kidneys for sale on the black market.

When you pick someone up online, you’re getting to know all about their personality. Intelligence, sense of humor, beliefs…you know, all those little things that I hear are so important to a working relationship. The downside is you might not be physically attracted to the other person when you finally get together. Come on, all of us have those pictures that make us look amazing. And we sure as hell flaunt them online at every opportunity. When you finally meet someone you’ve only seen pictures of, you realize little things like: wow, maybe you should have told me that you just got out of the burn-victims ward; leprosy is not Indian for “sexified;” no, you definitely never mentioned that you were not “technically” a woman; and there really is no such thing as a “young 85.”

Online dating sucks…but I don’t think it sucks any more than regular dating. I guess meeting people is hard, because ultimately, we’re not looking for “people,” we’re looking for a special someone. I don’t think that online dating should carry any kind of social stigmatism these days. There are bad dates aplenty out there, both online and in bars. Some have goiters the size of a football helmet. Others stab you with a power-drill while you sleep because they think you’re “planning to leave, just like daddy.” So don’t hate against the online daters. There are plenty of psychos and sideshow freaks to go around.

Men: Chimps Of The Fashion World

Perhaps the greatest part of being a man is that the bar is set so low for us. We’re not expected to know how to dress, cook, decorate, clean, or groom ourselves. Women just sort of assume that we’re completely incompetent. That’s why I always love the amused smile that appear on the face of girls when the see men shopping. They look at us the same way they’d look at a monkey who can fly a kite. You almost expect them at any moment to point and say, “Awwwww…That’s adorable. He thinks he’s people.”

If a woman tells another woman that a dress they’re wearing is ugly, it turns into a scene from High Noon. I think that’s why they tend to tip-toe around the issue if (or more accurately, WHEN) their boyfriend dresses like a slob. What they fail to realize is:

1. We really don’t care.
2. We know that women are more than happy to do it for us.

Really, all you need to know about fashion, you can tell by looking at the styles. Women have all manner and styles of dresses, skirts, blouses, sweaters, and shoes. God, don’t even get me started on the SHOES. The last time I noticed a woman’s feet was because I was holding both her ankles up over my shoulders. Then you come to Men’s clothing: suits. Basically, you can get three styles of suit: black, grey, or striped. Even fashion designers say, “You know what…three colors is pretty much all men can handle anyway.”

I had this theory for a while that women like to passive-aggressively project their opinions of their man’s failure through fashion. Some girls wanted me to dress more sensitive, some more rugged, some more upscale. It was as if they subconsciously expected me to change depending on the shirt I was wearing. Then I decided that women only date men when they run out of stuff to accessorize. Married women just have kids. My mom had two boys and then, finally, a girl—the youngest. By the time my sister was 2 weeks old she had more clothes than I had owned in my entire 12-year existence on Earth.

Even well-dressed men are still dwarfs in the world of taste, as far as women are concerned. A man who's fashionably attired is sort of loked at as a huge step forward for our gender: like chimps using tools.

Today I decided that I needed a drastic bedding up-grade. Let me tell you, when a MAN decides he needs new bedding, that's how you know it’s a disaster. If I had slept on my gear for another night, I’m pretty sure that I would have woken up in a government containment area, like at the end of E.T. I had been dragging around the same motley assortment of blankets, sheets and pillows since college. There are rape wards that haven’t seen as much potentially scaring sexual activity as my blankets.

So I wandered around the mall for about three hours of pure hell. After staring blankly at different bedding sets for an hour I took my phone out and tried to decide whether to call a fashion expert to walk me through the next two hours or the Suicide Hotline. I’d like to tell you it was an easy choice.

One part of me wants my living space and my body to look absolutely stylish, but the other part revels in being able to get away with throwing on jeans and a hoody. The deciding factor in how I dress is that it takes me 15 minutes to buy jeans and hoodies for a year. If I wanted to look nice it would take up entirely more of my life than I’m willing to part with. When I’m wandering around the men’s section, all I can think about is all the vastly more important and constructive things I could be doing with my time: like…videogames…starting fires…cheese-eating competitions…you know, stuff that really helps make the world a better place.

I guess I’ll just have to marry a woman who’s willing to dress me. In the meantime, I’ll just continue to approach shopping the way married women approach sex: bored, distracted, and praying for a speedy conclusion.

Jerking-Off For Jesus

The whole goal of sex, in my humble opinion, should be the enjoyment of the other person. I mean, let’s be honest, as a man (and therefore a chronic masturbator), the whole thrill of the experience is from the other person. The fact that you don’t know what’s next and that they don’t know exactly all the right spots to hit. I mean, if the point of sex were simply to get myself off, I’d be better off doing it myself. Hey, if God didn’t want us to masturbate, he would have made our arms shorter. I’m proud to admit that I do God’s work on a regular basis.

Any man who says he doesn’t masturbate is either lying, in a relationship where sex is plentiful, or edgier than Rodney King at a Police Charity Ball. I mean once I held out for a month without doing it. If you think I’m angry and crazy now…let’s just say I went through a span of a few days where I developed an irrational hatred of the Dutch. I’m really not sure why.

One of my friends, a Muslim, maintains a “list” of places or people that he refuses to deal with. He fasts every day of Ramadan: from sunrise to sunset, no food, no liquid. The amusing part is watching his list triple in size every Ramadan.

“Did you see that waitress look at me when I ordered water??? She thinks I’m a cheapskate. Fuck her. Fuck this place!”

“Dude, she didn’t do anything.”

“No, fuck that! I’m not going to be treated like a third-class citizen! They’re on the list now. I’m never coming back!”

It’s like this just about every single night. The man has blacklisted HOSPITALS. By the end of Ramadan I’m always shocked that places exist that he hasn’t placed on his list.

Masturbation is vital to the peace and harmony of the planet. I was probably twice as crazy as my friend was when I quit masturbating. Can you imagine if all the people in the world quit?

“What the fuck did you say to me Pakistan? Fuck you! I will BOMB you, bitch!”

Do you want to know why so much of the Middle East is in turmoil? Two words: sexual frustration. Seriously, if the fundamentalists beat their dicks half as hard as they beat up on everyone else, each other, or the Jews, we could probably cut war in half.

Masturbation is the single biggest deterrent to violence, crime, and voting republican. Every time some one jerks off, it’s assured that they’re not starting a fight, stealing from the poor box, or publishing racist pamphlets. If you don’t believe me, try it yourself! I like to do it anytime I get mad and think I might punch someone. What do you do, count to ten? Ha!

So my brothers and sisters, I urge you to do the world a favor, drop your hands, close your eyes, and rub one out for God, yourself, and World Peace. Halleluiah!

Epilogue To "Six Words"

I’m really not sure how I can possibly top yesterday’s blog. I had been thinking about writing a post on that incident for a while, but decided it would be too weird. When I finally broke down and wrote it, it made for a great story…but I’m not sure how to follow that one up.

Let’s see…I guess I should answer a few questions that were posed to me, regarding the story:

1. I’m happy to report no lingering problems with my equipment. Though it took about a week before I could pee without flinching. I tell you, there’s nothing like horrible, agonizing pain and trip to the E.R. to make someone a little gun shy. All is well now, however. In fact, the whole incident had an unexpected bonus. You know those penis pills that appear all over the TV and Internet? The ones that promise to increase size? Well, they work by increasing a man’s blood flow, which in turn stretches out the ligaments. My allergic reaction caused a whole lot of blood to rush to the area. However good those pills are, I’m sure they’re not life-threatening. Meaning I experienced a growth spurt that I’m sure is not offered from any of those pills.
2. The allergic reaction was NOT caused by cheap, or bizarre, low-level condoms. A few months later I ran into a similar (though not hospitalizing) incident. It seems that a fairly large portion of the population, both men and women have the same allergy. Gives a whole new meaning to what we define as “safe sex,” doesn’t it?

Here’s an interesting side note to the story. About two months after the incident, my parents confronted me asking, “Were you in the hospital?”

“Huh?”

It seems that when they submitted me I had given my medical card which had my parent’s address on it…so naturally they sent the bill along with the results to the veneral disease tests they ran to my parents.

I love my parents, but there are few nightmares more horrifying to me than a conversation between my parents and I, which begins with:

“So I was fucking this girl until early hours of the morning. Anyway, finally when I got up to piss, I noticed how swollen my cock was.”

Yeah, given a choice between living the story and recounting it to my parents, I might have to prep the E.R. and go buy some spermicide. At any rate, I told them that I had been submitted for an allergic reaction…to sunflower seeds. Hey, it was the first thing that popped into my head!

Unfortunately, it appears that they had already gone ahead and opened the bill that hospital sent. While they didn’t contradict my story, they had definitely seen the section where the hospital had indicated all the diseases I was tested for. So now I’m fairly certain they think I was rushed to the hospital for some sort of bizarre sexual ailment. I can tell, because now they ask me about “the kind of girls I go out with” and tell me how there’s “no shame in waiting for the right girl.”

Let me explain something to you about my parents: I have never so much as smoked a joint, but my mother (who STILL smokes weed, I might add) is absolutely convinced I’m a drug-addict. Personally, I think it’s just one case of that paranoia kicking in.

At this point, my parents are convinced I’m a crack-smoking, sexual deviant. Since they never believe me anyway, I’ve given up trying to convince them otherwise, and am now thinking I might actually start fucking with them. I’m seriously considering leaving a dildo, used syringes, and a catalogue for mail-order brides in clear view on the passenger seat of my car.

The Six Words That Instantly Command The Attention Of Any Man

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

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

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

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

“That” I replied, “is the plan.”

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

“Oh God! My tract!”

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. I need to check myself in.”

“Because?”

“I think I have a kidney stone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you sexually active tonight, son?”

“Uh…yeah.”

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

“…I guess.”

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

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

“Sure” I said. “What are we doing?”

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

“I’m just putting the catheter in.”

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

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

Why Ike Beat Tina

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m calling the cops, jerk-off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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