Someone. Please. Explain.

Time to shut down the internet, folks. Every conceivable fetish is officially represented.

So I married an alien

.

Awright, I guess I've been living in a freakin' cardboard box the past 10 or so years, but recently I've met quite a few people who just happen to mention, around the keg or buffet table, that yeah, they've been married before. But, it was only so Javier or Mele or Gunther could have a green card. "No biggie, the guy/gal needed a favor." Or "I got $3000 out of the deal. It was only for 2 years." Well, let's just say I was shocked. Shocked, I tell ya! Why the hell didn't anyone give me that brilliant idea, when my dad was screaming for grandkids, and my mother kept addressing mail to "The Bitter Old Maid"? I could have gotten them off my back and made some sweet benjamins in the process! BTW ladies, I think you can now get a green card with gay marriage, at least in Massachusetts--gimme a call! Good rates!

Why the Christ did Mom toss my kindergarten masterpieces?

Here's another excuse to blame the parents for my failure to accumulate vast amounts of wealth and retire by age 4. Piano lessons, my ass.

Potential terrorists on spring break?

I'm sitting on the couch right now watching One Bad Trip, a show that surely Tom DeLay must've pitched to the producers at MTV. Surefire proof we're living in Big Brother land--parents, possessive boyfriends and girlfriends spy on innocent people simply trying to party and get laid. Homeland security, indeed.

Same Thing Happens Every Night...

Remember back in the day, when the only place you could see two chicks kissing was a porno tape? Or a website? Now it's happening everywhere, having made the quantum leap from my twisted fantasies to the next booth over at the Cask n' Flagon.

Look outside your window. Chicks are kissing. In the bars, the danceterias, the subshops, the casinos, the pancake house. This is a world in which chicks will grab other chicks and kiss them square on the mouth. And, here's the thing: many of them are not gay.

These are magical, magical times for people who like watching women kiss. And I am one of those people. So I am delighting in these days of sun and crunchy leaves and girls kissing each other.

Why do they do it? I'm not sure, but I'm certain the response it provokes is a factor. This stuff works like kryptonite, bringing grown men to their knees, forcing them to remove their wallets, keep the rounds of drinks coming, and stretch out their hands while exclaiming to the heavens, "Fuck, god almighty, thank you for girls who kiss other girls."

The only exception is when the women in liplock are over the age of 78. This is simply disturbing. I watched in terror as my Great Aunt Zora went through her "experimental" phase (shortly after Uncle Pete died) and I may never recover fully from the horrors I witnessed. Horrors!

But hot, young, vibrant chicks kissing? Man, that's the stuff. And by "the stuff," I mean, "thing I want to see happening as much as humanly possible." Keep it coming, ladies, and, as always, the next round's on me.

Finally, the latest Question of the Week concerns the "move." Enjoy.

Greatest mystery finally SOLVED

Thank you, Greg Behrendt. Finally I can be at peace. For years, I wondered: surely Johnny must've broken all his fingers in the car door when he didn't call after our second date. Or that Ralph was most likely abducted by aliens when he failed to show up for my nana's 90th birthday party. Thanks to Mr. Behrendt, I've uncovered the truth: Those guys are fucks.

Damn you, Queer Eye--give us back our neanderthals!!!

Gentle reader, please advise. Hath hell frozen over? Hath pigs flown by your window? Hath the Red Sox won the World Series? (oh please, oh please...) I am completely bamboozled by this one. One night I happened upon a bar/nightclub establishment with a name like "Shakeys" or "Joey's"--something that usually translates to "get laid--FOR FREE!". So in I went with my mates. I met a cute boy on the dance floor, and we proceeded to give a free showing of "Dirty Dancing II-Hot Havana Nights" for whomever was interested. We laughed. We drank. We exchanged globs of saliva. The bar closed, and he grabbed my hand and led me home. All was going according to plan. Extraneous clothing was removed. Erogenous zones were given thoughtful attention.

And then, the phrase that stopped me cold: "It's not my style to bang chicks on the first night."

Ladies and Gents, I was in my car heading home by 2:37 a.m., completely dazed and confused. What in God's name is the world coming to?!?!?

Open Letter to the Girl Whose Ass I WASN'T Staring at on the Green Line

Okay, first of all, I didn't have anything to read. I had the friggin' Globe in my hands when I headed out, but I finished it off at the station and foolishly dropped it in the barrel. So I'm left in that netherworld of avoiding eye contact with all the twisted, babbling goons around me as I sit basically staring straight ahead.

As you might recall, when you got on, I did offer you my seat. You declined, and proceeded to turn and position your ample hindquarters in my direct line of vision. So direct, in fact, the only way to NOT look at your arse would have been to either swivel around and face the 90-year-old trout fisherman sitting next to me [yes, the same guy who kept announcing to us all that he had every episode of "Match Game 78" on tape], or crane my neck to inspect the car ceiling. Which I did.

But I was cool with this. Until you turned around and gawked at me as if I was trying to swipe your purse. So you "harumph" and push your way to the other side of the car, and suddenly I'm the official pervert of the 10:15. Thing is, though, I was innocent. Yes, your ass was spectacular and hypnotic and under any other circumstances (say, had I met you in a bar, the laundromat, or Spooky World) I'd have carved out my own eye-teeth just to press my hands to it. But I wasn't staring at it. Not this time.

Okay, yeah, I'm the guy who once equated the T to a cheap feel paradise. And, sure, everyone on that train will no doubt be sitting at the dinner table talking all about the big Irish doof who basically undressed this poor young lass with his sinister eyes. But I stand comfy in the knowledge that it simply wasn't so.

Also: great ass, whoever you are.

My Latest Obsession

Chicks with beer breath. Hell, chicks who drink beer in general. None of these fruity, Love Boat-inspired concoctions. None of this Jimmy Buffet drivel. No more "I've got vodka and six pineapples! let's party!"

Just give me the girls who drink beer. All of them. Particularly Janet DeLongovarian of Boston, Massachusetts.

Wash Me

"I got your prints from my hood, thank you very much!!! I will find your lame asses!!! OH! and Thank you hooch for scratching my paint with your nipple piercings and dime store MR T rings!!!"

Brilliant!

Start Walking Backwards

So the guy walks around London, discreetly taking pics of women's derrieres and posting them on his site?

Why the hell didn't I think of that?

Also, to whomever this is in the photo above: My marriage proposal is en route.

I will gladly bear thy offspring, Thomas.

I may have been a late bloomer to this great American sports tradition, but I can now proudly say that I love football. I love Al Michaels. I love linebackers and tight ends. I love the funny orange chain thingy they drag out. I love the yellow line thingy they paint on the field to show us where the first down is (they paint that, right?)

I wasn't always this appreciative of all things NFL. I used to view Sundays with alarm, when my boyfriend would wake up, roll over to kiss me, then suddenly get the wild look in his eyes: "Holy shit, the game's on!" And off he'd go, never to be seen again. Sometimes I'd follow him and pretend I was the coolest chick in the whole world, that spending a Sunday in a bar, with no fresh air or sunlight and reeking of last night's beer and puke was my idea of a good time. I watched, and watched, but just couldn't understand it. "Ooh, they're running! Wait, now they've stopped. Why did they have to go and hit him? Oh, it was a congratulatory tackle?" And so on, until the said boyfriend would politely tell me to please shut the fuck up.

Years later, it wasn't a boy who brought me to the bliss that is Sunday afternoons and Monday nights. It was a girl. She explained to me, very patiently, the beauty of a strong defence, the intellect, poise, and precise calculations of a great quarterback. The amazing feat of a stunning interception. The blitz. The hail mary. But what really worked was her gently pointing out the fact that I could watch, for hours and hours, men with perfectly-shaped asses running up and down the field in tight shiny spandex pants. Thank you, God, for that gift called football.

Jessica Alba Update

E-mails to Jessica's website requesting that she call me "immediately": 36

Calls from Jessica: 0