Talk Dirty to Me

Every guy has their holy shit girl. The one so twisted, so deviant, so possessing of a mind that conjures sexual scenarios rivaling the ones that live in our own fevered minds, we drop to our knees and exclaim, "Dear God, by all that is holy, please let me get a piece of this and I swear I'll go to church every day and twice on weekends."

For me it was... well, let's call her Michele Baccini, because that's her name. She was about five foot four, all hips, lips and tits, with a rear end that launched from the small of her back with such otherwordly curvature that rumor held she couldn't slide her jeans on without applying for a city building permit.

Michelle was a co-worker of mine at my first job out of grad school a couple years back, a gift of eye-candy from the heavens who reduced the menfolk to Spoon-Size Shredded Wheat and had the HR people scrambling to rewrite the company dress code. She also talked about sex the way guys talk about sex and by "the way guys talk about sex" I mean all the time. Over my morning coffee, I'd listen to her describe a titanic blow job she'd given her boyfriend the night before while the circuits that direct blood flow within my body essentially lifted the tollgates and said, "Brain, you can take the day off." After work, crammed into pub booths and dizzy with beer and cigarette smoke, my eyes would glaze as she grabbed her spectacular breasts to punctuate a story or tried to stick her tongue in the ears of Marcie from Accounting.

Needless to say, little or no work got done on my watch. Days I should have been focused on the MacKenzie file were spent tracing the outline of Michele's mouth, imagining her fingernails tearing up my back, and dreaming of her ample derriere slowly being lowered onto my face. I was obsessed; not in a creepy "I saw you in my pancakes this morning" way, but an awe-inspired "surely that girl could tear me apart" way.

Then, one evening, during an after-work drinkfest, the stars aligned and the moon embraced Capricorn and every other guy she knew apparently left the east coast because I became the target of Michele's affections. Or her drunken groping. Or whatever you want to call it, I was it. And I wasn't complaining. It began with a few grabs of my thigh under the table, then a talking-so-close-to-my-ear-I-swear-she's-trying-to-lick-it thing, then a full-on pinned-to-the-walls-by-her-breasts assault when I returned from the men's room. She kissed my mouth in a way that you could have worked over my nuts with a rolling pin and I wouldn't have felt a thing, then invited me to her apartment to "watch Leno," which I assumed to be code for "screw ourselves retarded."

Back at her place, things started working just as I'd always fantasized they might, although without the singing moose and sideline cheerleaders. Her shirt came off, her jeans went flying, and she jumped at me with a fervor not seen since Kerry Strug attacked the balance beam at the 96 Olympics. After about fifteen minutes of floor rolling, as I finally retained control of my senses and began priming myself for the task ahead, she started licking my ear and talking up a filthy blue streak that essentially dipped my brain in the fry-o-later.

At least until she rolled on top of me and whispered, "What if I had a cock?"

I could almost hear my hard-on collapsing. "Huh?"

"What if I had a cock?" she repeated. "What would you do?"

"Er... besides recoil in terror and run screaming from your apartment?"

Apparently that wasn't the answer she wanted. She rolled off me, and looked forlorn for a few minutes before getting up and taking a cigarette from her purse. A few seconds later, the TV was on, and we were watching Leno. And that, as they say, was that.

For the record, she didn't have a cock... and I sometimes wonder what that whole business was all about. But in the vast pantheon of strange-ass shit said to me in the heat of passion, this stands tallest. And still the single greatest buzzkill of my life.

There oughta be a law

When you're going to be taking a trip across country in the size (and smell) of a tuna can, you try to make the best of it. You pick a seat in the window or the aisle, so you can either slowly freeze your brain against the plastic double pane or do calisthenics before the blood clots form. You may even pick out a vegetarian or low-carb meal, because at least it looks five minutes fresher than the rest of the in-flight meals. Hell, you're just trying to make the best of a dire situation for the next 6-12 hours. You fluff your lavender-scented neck pillow and settle in for the long haul.

Now, why the fuckety-fuck-fuck is it that single people, who have no screaming child or other smelly, noise-pollutin' possession to speak of, get SINGLED out by the flight attendants to switch seats? We're not the ones bammin' the call button 80,000 times or wiping snot on the beverage cart or making eardrums bleed with our high-pitched screams for "JOOOSE!!!"

And yet, we're the ones who are accosted by flight attendants with more ability to inflict guilt than the entire Catholic Diocese, followed in the rear by sad-faced LL Bean catalog cutouts who do their best to convince you that if the entire family doesn't sit together for the next 6 hours, the bond between parent and offspring will be forever broken, and the child will be lost, alone, and probably in San Quentin by age 17.

And where, exactly, is the seat they have to offer? Usually smack-dab in the middle of a 5-across, next to a man who hasn't come to grips with the fact that his ass has exceeded the width of three airplane seats, and a person of foreign descent who hasn't come to grips with the fact that crystals have never, and will ever, prevent body odor. Or, you're placed across from the toilet. That's backed up.

So next time, I aint moving. I don't care if they accuse me of being un-American or put me on the No-Fly list or give me an extra-thorough security screening (old-school style, like Ken's friend.) Me and my Sharper Image Soothing Scents Neck Massage Pillow are staying put, and y'all can kiss my bare-fourth-left-fingered, barren-wombed ass.

I've Got a Hand For You

A coupla years ago, me and my friend Shelley were flying to the left coast. Prior to the flight, Shel got an early morning hihowyadoin' from a burly female security guard.

"She tried to put her finger up my butt," Shelley insisted throughout the eight hour flight to LAX and over the course of the next seven days. "Her finger! Up my butt!"

Shelley would be happy to learn that airport security guards will now be forced to get their cheap feels the way the rest of us do: On the subway. Or a crowded bar. Or a concert. Or Wal-Mart. Or... aw, I should just leave it at that.

Things Said to Me by McDonald's Employees or Lines from the Film Thirteen

"Would you like to try the 'Apple Dippers,' Sir?"

"That skank's got nothing on these double cheeseburgers."

"Sorry. No shirt, no shoes, no service."

"No bra, no panties. No bra, no panties. No bra, no panties."

"Can I super size that for you?"

"Hey, my friend wants to suck your dick."

Stare Much?

So I'm out last night on the coldest goddam night of the year in Boston, watching the Patriots game at my local pub. A coupla tables over, about six intoxicated females begin amusing themselves by fellating their beer bottles. I'm not going to say it was a distraction, but as I sit here some hours later and type this, I can't recall the final score of the game. Or if they even played. Or if the bartender ever turned on the TV. But I could sketch you every last goddamn freckle on the face of the impossibly cute redhead who got a Corona bottle so far down her throat I almost wanted to call the Ringling Brothers folks right there on the spot and scream, "Look, fuck your tigers and your clowns and your prancing men in tights and get this girl a gig!"

To whoever you were, I salute you. Again.

Also, for your reading pleasure, the latest Question of the Week has been posted, wherein Ariel gets all hot and bothered over the jealous boyfriend thing.

The Holiday Form Letter, unabridged

Dear all (Whoever the hell you are; you keep sending me cards and I swear I've never met you before in my life):

Well, 2004 is drawing to a close and we thought we'd fill you in on our latest news (set your bullshit detector on Level 11). Susan, our eldest, is just finishing up her college applications as she dives into winter finals (she's hooked on Vicodin, Vivarin, Ritalin and is tweaking in some 7-Eleven as we speak). Her grade point average is 3.8 (thanks to her friend Tina, who has a 4.0 GPA, is curious about bisexuality, and lets her cheat in exchange for fellatio), and she's applied to all the Ivy League schools on the east coast -- keep your fingers crossed! (Otherwise we'll have to move to Utah, become Mormons and marry her off to some fifteen-year old Aryan inbred.)

Tommy, our baby boy, is currently a budding soccer star (well, he loves bud, anyway). His coach says he'll take the team all the way to state finals this year (if he doesn't: a.) knock up some eighth grader, b.) get caught dealing after practice, or c.) die accidentally from auto-erotic asphyxiation). We're very proud (we're taking him to therapy).

Bob's work in sales is going very well, and it takes him all over the country and overseas (which is why he gave me that rare strain of gonorrhea only found in Thailand). He's excited to be home for the holidays (so he can go back to screwing the neighbor's wife). I'm still working part time at the library and enjoying my work with the school's PTA group (because being sexually harassed by my children's principal is a dream come true). Oh, and I've started a local chapter of Oprah's Book Club (No one else will join because they hate me)! What fun (Keep me away from all sharp objects).

Best Wishes to You and Yours during this holiday season (May you choke on the cinnamon stick in your mulled cider and die a slow, painful, apple-cinnamonny-scented death),

The Joneses

Holiday Music, as Composed by My Ex-Girlfriends

"Merry Christmas, Asshole."

"It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like I'd Rather Date Your Brother."

"Here Comes Santa Claus. Meanwhile, Your Weenie Ass Has Failed to Bring Me to Orgasm in Weeks."

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Then Fuck Off and Die."

"Who Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"

"I'll Be Home for Christmas and I'd Appreciate It If You Have Your Stuff Moved Out Before I Get There."

"We Three Kings and the Prick Who Slept with My Roommate."

"What Child Is This? Not Yours, Dude."

"Hark the Herald Angels, Like My Girlfriends, Agree That You're a Worthless Piece of Shit."

"Winter Wonderland, My Ass, I Will Kill You, Motherfucker!"

It's as American as Apple Pie--McDonald's Apple Pie.

I read the New York Times. I listen to NPR. I pick up my dog's poop from my neighbor's lawn. I recycle plastic, glass, and cardboard.

But really, who the hell am I kidding?

Deep down, in my artery-clogged soul, I am white trash.

I watch TV in my grannie pants, a stained "Tweety!" t-shirt from Walmart and no bra.

I pick my toes, watching such intellectual fare as "The Swan" and "North Shore."

I eat anything with -os, such as Cheetos, Doritos, and Fritos.

I believe Ding Dongs and Devil Dogs are an essential part of a nutritional breakfast.

Budweiser is a great source of protein.

Cigarettes are good for you because they make your lungs work harder.

Mac and Cheese is my version of a home-cooked meal.

And last but not least, why I gotta shave my legs? Aint nobody gonna see 'em til next June!

Hola, Chicas

Everyone knows the Spanish Channel. If you don't own Cinemax, and you're a guy, you likely spend an inordinate amount of time staring blankly at it.

And, like me, you probably don't speak a word of Spanish.

This is like TV from another planet, where hot chicks aren't relegated to soap operas and sitcoms, but roam freely through news shows, weather reports, sports shows. Skintight pants. Oversized hair. Breasts that don't simply defy gravity, but taunt its wife and children as well. The Spanish Channel is a good place, and I like spending time there.

Even the kids shows are frighteningly well-populated by golden twenty-one year olds who, in between elaborate, booty-centric dance moves, relate such important lessons as "drugs are bad" and "stay in school" and "Would you please ask your dad to leave the room because I can feel his fifty-year old eyes burning a hole directly through the television screen and it is freaking me out."

The Spanish Channel is my oasis. My escape. Where I don't have to hear about what the President did or who's being voted off the island or how many Russian missiles are aimed at my house. Everybody's dancing. Everybody's happy. The chicks are smoking hot. And I can't understand a bloody word they're saying.

Don't cross me.

You'd never know it, but I have...shall we say, a dark side. And it doesn't just restrict itself to a monthly appearance. Give me any excuse to throw down and this Holly Hobby morphs into Linda Blair in a nanosecond.

I cite the following example:

It was a dark and stormy night. OK, replace "stormy" with the coldest, meanest, more frigid than a witch's tit kind of night. Nights that make us wonder why the hell we voluntarily live in the Arctic. I was driving around...and around, and AROUND, trying to find a parking spot that was within a mile of my place. Finally, 5 hours later, with fumes left in my gas tank, a spot miraculously opens. I praise Allah, Jesus, the Saints and the Red Sox, then I dutifully pull forward like I learned in Driver's Ed and began to back into the spot.

Some motherfucker in a Nissan Altima across the street bangs a U-ie and pulls into the spot behind me. I'm in shock. Did this really just happen? But there's the cocksucker in my rear view mirror, turning off his lights and happily collecting his things like he just pulled into the church parking lot for midnight mass.

I back up, slowly, my dark side contemplating various ways of disembowelment and torture. I make sure my car is 2 inches from his driver side window and stare at him, forcing him to turn and look at me. I roll down my window.

"What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing."

He begins to argue. "I saw the spot first, I was across the street," and other bullshit that I can't hear because there's a roar in my ears. My dark side is doing pushups.

"This spot was mine. You stole it from me. And I'm not moving." He looks at me, dumbfounded. Then he tries to open the door. But he can't, because a Toyota RAV4 and The Incredible Hulk are blocking it. So he sits there. Five minutes pass.

Finally, like a wounded animal, he crawls over the stick shift and stumbles out the passenger side door.

"You know what?" he yelps from the sidewalk, "You're a real bitch."

"AND YOU'RE A PUSSY!" Linda Blair screeches back, lights and fire shooting out of my eyes and ears. Green vomit starts to trickle from my mouth. Pussy takes one look at me and runs.

To make sure he doesn't forget his new name, I write it on his windshield in MAC Chile matte lipstick.

Fitnury Co.'s Annual Holiday Party!

Friday, December 10, 2004
7PM-11PM
you+one guest are invited
2 free drink tickets per person
SURPRISE GUEST!

6:58PM: The Accounting Dept. perpetuates the social retard stereotype and arrive precisely on time to an empty hotel ballroom. Don from Accounts Payable patiently explains to the waitress serving appetizers his severe allergy to cheese.

7:26PM: The ballroom is now filled with people that work together 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, who suddenly realize they have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Wives and dates, ridiculously overdressed, suddenly realize they are not at their high school prom. The bar suddenly resembles an emergency food drop in Somalia.

8:16PM: Drink tickets exhausted, the warm and fuzzies kick in. John from Sales and Mike from Legal both swear the band's version of "Get Jiggy With It" is the best they've ever heard. Don from Accounts Payable keeps telling Susan from Property Management that "she cleans up good!".

9:10PM: Public intoxication is rampant. Lewd and lascivious behavior is commonplace. Barbara from Human Resources is sucking face with Bob from Inventory. Bob's wife is blowing the barback in the coat check. Leslie and Grace from Front Desk Reception are grinding to "Here comes Santa Claus."

9:30PM: The surprise guest, Mr. Fitnury, CEO, comes in dressed as Santa Claus. He invites the female employees to come up and sit on his lap. Mike from Legal and John from Sales make a running leap and land directly on Mr. Fitnury's scrotum. Tom DeLuca, CFO, tries to save Mr. Fitnury and gets a supreme wedgie instead. Hotel security is called on the scene.

Next year's holiday party: cancelled until further notice.

Open Letter to the Record Store Clerk Who Made A Snide Comment as I Purchased Rod Stewart's "Great American Songbook, Vol. 3"

Okay, first of all, the holidays are coming, motherfucker. And it just so happens that this is for my great aunt. My sick great aunt, might I add. She's mostly confined to the house since her asthma got real bad and it's all she asked for and I'm her favorite goddam nephew and I won't deny the lady who has precious little happiness in her life the one thing she really wants for Christmas.

And what if it was for me? Huh? Who are you to question my taste in music? You, dressed so nattily in your Good Charlotte tour shirt. You, looking no more than a week or two younger than myself and making roughly seven bucks an hour. You, who moments after I left the store were either restocking the shelves with Lindsay Lohan cassettes or embarking on another fruitless attempt to score with the purple-haired girl the next register over.

And yet, here I sit, almost fifteen hours later, with your careless aside still echoing in my head: "There goes a real queer."

But Do You Think He's Happy?

Typical Day on the Job for Ken:

Ken's Boss: Have you finished up that ad copy on the Belgian arch supports?

Ken: Not yet.

Ken's Boss: Well, step it up.

Ken: Yes, sir.


Typical Day on the Job for Mike Myers:

Director: Okay, in this scene, Mike, I want you to just kinda sit there while Madonna rubs her ass against your face.

Mike: Okay.

"The bars just closed--Ariel should be calling any minute!"

Listen closely, children. One of the most chilling side affects of alcohol is not listed on the warning label of your favorite brewski. I speak of the dreaded Drunk Dial. Oh, Ken, don't act like you have no idea what I'm talking about. Hell, I *69-ed your ass last Saturday.

Drunk Dialing is a sneaky little bugger because we never plan for it. "Making a complete ass of myself" is usually not scribbled in my Palm when I'm making weekend plans. Even on the day of, we're confident of success. A la Stuart Smalley, we tell ourselves, damn, I look good. I'm the shit. I don't need anyone but myself, I got big plans, I am GOING PLACES, thank you very much. But 6 Kamikaze shots and 8 Bud Light drafts later we're speed dialing exes like we're on the goddamn Titanic, blubbering into the phone about how we're lonely and depressed and tired of watching "Joan of Arcadia" by ourselves.

Thanks to text messaging, the Drunk Dial now has a far worse spawn--written testimonial of our idiocy. One of my friends has a paramour who "drunk texts" her on any given weekend. While we're fairly impressed with his digital dexterity whilst besotted, 90% of his messages come out completely retarded:

"Hey BAB U R hoT cant w8 2 C 1FgghkH?!!"

Needless to say, he hasn't gotten so much as a boob rub for his efforts.

The problem of Drunk Dialing has become so widespread that in some countries people have decided to take precautionary measures. One can only hope that someday we, too, can put child locks on our cell phones before we enter the bar.

Fantasy vs. Reality

Practically every straight male has had the "doctor's office" fantasy. No, not the one in which you find yourself tied down to a table as Charles Nelson Reilly walks into the room to administer something he calls "the full tomatoes." I'm talking about the one in which two [or possibly three] sexy-ass nurses come into the examining room and proceed to "manhandle" you. But in the good way.

Mine always began with a routine exam for, I dunno, a sprained index finger. The nurse would ask me how it felt and if I could bend it, and before I could pick out which color splint I'd prefer, she's mounting my face like it was a front row seat to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular.

That was before last week. When I took an unfortunate tumble off a ladder and landed balls-down on a can of paint.

Pain? Check. Mind-numbing, in fact. And the next day, with my boys still feeling like someone had them in a vice [and my el sacko now an impressive five sizes bigger than before], I sucked up what little pride I had left and went to the emergency room.

Of course, once there, you don't want the world to know you've hurt your nuts. So you tell the woman at the desk you've got abdominal pain and take your place in the waiting area. Sure enough, when your name is eventually called, it's by the most stunning blonde you've ever laid eyes upon. Six foot ten or something close, bright blue eyes and an outfit that fits so snug you have to blink to make sure it's not painted on.

So you go back with her, get seated in a little exam room, and when she looks at you with those goddamnfuckingmarvelous blue eyes and asks you about your abdominal pain, you explain that it's actually a bit lower. And she cocks an eyebrow. And says, "Oh?" And you melt. Because this is how you'd always dreamed it.

But the Issac Hayes music never kicks in. Instead, she proceeds to ask questions. About your balls. And you talk to this gorgeous, statuesque blonde for ten minutes. About your balls. You explain how you hurt them. How one is now larger than the other. How the ol' bag has inflated significantly since the tumble. And as you talk, you almost can't even hear the words spilling out of your mouth, because all you can think about is the fact that you're talking to this woman about your balls. In a detail you've probably never spoken about your balls in your life. Ever.

So she finishes her notes. And gets up and smiles. And says the doctor will be in soon.

And you and your balls sit there. For twenty minutes.

And in walks the doctor. Again, a gorgeous woman. This time, she's Asian.

And she looks at the chart. And you want to laugh because you know she's reading about your balls. And it's funny and horrifying all at once.

So she asks me to take down my boxer briefs. And I do. And she starts feeling my balls. And she asks if this is the swollen one and I wince and say that it is. And she keeps squeezing and feeling. And there is no mood music. There is no sudden change in her grip as she starts to massage the staff and says, "Mr. Ken, what you need is just a bit of release." There is no "let me get my friend Buffy in here to give a second opinion."

Just a gloved hand on your balls. And then it ends. And she explains that sometimes when your nuts are struck there is swelling that lasts for days. But I should have an ultrasound, because on occasion, you can get what is scientifically referred to as "twisted testicles" [which, ironically, is also a new play by Neil Simon starring Nathan Lane]. And when they twist, it's bad. Because they get no blood. And then, well, they gotta go.

So you panic for a couple more days, then have the ultrasound. Again, a cute nurse is holding your balls, and this time she's even applying a warm, gelatinous goo to allow the machine to see your nuts clearly. But you're immune to it now. Just let it end. Let the boys live in peace and I promise to never set foot on a ladder again.

And the results come back. And your balls are fine.

And you sit back now, some days later, reflecting, and wondering if maybe, just maybe, that cute Asian doctor is sitting at home thinking about the night she held your nuts.

Six Foot Three and Worth The Climb

Tall women rock my world. I've dated short women, I've dated women of "average" height. But the tall ones... holy jesus.

And don't even get me started on Gabby Reece. Clearly why god invented eyes.

This may be your version of sexy...

And hey, it's a damn good one.

Except for those wings.

They look like a seagull's.

I hate those dirty birds.

They always shit on my beach towel and steal my potato chips.

This is MY version of sexy.

Those lips, those eyes, that caterwauling scream...Mr. Tyler, may I submit my application to be your next concubine?

But, in case you're not convinced,

Check out his gene pool.

Just Another Day at the Office

Today, I am tipping my hat to the unsung heroes of the porno industry: The guys who "star" in those fetish films aimed at the I love it when chicks kick my ass and step on my nuts market segment. Films with names like "Tokyo Trample" and "While You Were Smothered."

I've not seen many of these films [you can buy a motherlode of them here], but the thing that always strikes me is... where do they find these guys? Guys who are willing to be tied and gagged, have their heads sat on and stepped on, their guts kicked, and their backs jumped upon. If, like any other profession, there's a caste system among porn stars, I'd have to figure these guys occupy the bottom tier. I mean, Ron Jeremy gets to bang Nina Hartley for hours on end while these guys [whose names are usually something akin to "Bob the Slave" or "Punished Paperboy"] get suffocated and dope slapped?

Okay, yeah, I know... there's a world full of pervs who would probably line up at the chance to do this for no money at all. But don't these guys have any family members or -- god help us -- children who might someday discover this sordid gig? The day some dude hears "Hey, isn't that your dad getting a stiletto up the ass?" at a frat party, it's safe to say he's gonna need to be talked off a bridge at some point in his life.

I could ramble on more, but I'll just sign off with the actual copy from the DVD case of the film "Freaky Facesitting." Copy that someone got paid to create.

Angelica invites a subby-boy named Rich Handsome over to help her re-arrange her living room. What guy in his right mind would refuse to help a gorgeous porn star? But this sadistic madam of mayhem has designs of her own. Deftly tying Rich's wrists to the grillwork of the staircase in her living room, the scene turns nasty. "You kinda got out of breath when you were moving my furniture, weren't you?" she purrrrs. Then she plants her ass right in his face: "You'll be outta breath now!"

Why can't Tom Hanks get scripts like this? Is Julia Stiles even getting a call? Why isn't Meryl Streep's agent on the horn right now, assuring her that she's being "seriously considered" for a part in "Freaky Facesitting 2"?

Oh, female domination and trample films! Your mysteries, so deep! Your wonders, so immense!

And by the way, the new Question of the Week is finally up. And it's all about suspicious minds. We have a backlog of questions which we will be getting to, now that Ariel is back from her "lost summer" with a couple surfer boys.