Color Me Surprised?

Honestly, on the "shocking" scale, this ranks somewhere between Nathan Lane and Harvey Fierstein. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Have You Seen My Baseball?

Hey, if this is the brilliant winning strategy of the new World Series Champions, take me out to the ball game!

Must... Keep... Focused...

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Writer for the children's program "Hi-5."

Stop.

Just... stop.

I know what you're up to. Okay, sure, a kid's program. With well-scrubbed teens singing songs and performing skits for an animated crown of five year olds. Everything's bright and shiny and ever-so-innocent.

Only, it isn't.

Case in point: A couple month's back, you'll recall my raging against the abomination that was the song "Let's Blow Blow Blow Some Kisses." This morning, I'm greeted with the equally affecting "Cow Milking Song," in which one of the cast members -- "Karla" -- milks an imaginary cow, pumping her fists with the fluid grace of a pornstar while belting out the lines "pull and squeeze/pull and squeeze."

Are you fucking kidding me?

Dudes, I'm a busy man. Work to do. Money to earn. Women to attempt to satisfy. There's only so many times I can explain my tardiness to the boss until I accidentally slip up and say, "Christ almighty, I just can't make it to the office on time because I can't stop masturbating to the girls of Hi-5." And when that day comes... shit will go nuts.

You know I'm not a strong man. Hell, a woman could read me the ingredients off a sack of cinammon bread and I'd be fighting a hard-on. But this stuff is getting far too blatant. I'm gonna have to ask you to curb it for a while -- or maybe reschedule the show for the evening hours. At least until my next review.

And, hey, I notice on the Hi-5 website that "Karla specializes in fun movement."

Fuck, yeah, I'd say.

"Yeah this is Joey, I met you at Hurricane O'Reilly's..."

If I ever run into that "Can You Hear Me Now?" Verizon dweeb, he's gonna get a beat-down. Because cell phones ruined my escape plan. In the B.C. era (Before Cell), if you're at a club/watering hole/bus stop and some dude asked for your digits, you could just give them any old number: MER-MAID (the time,) 332-7222 (Domino's Pizza,) 876-0967 (Gino, my ex-boyfriend.) And you'd have at least a couple hours getaway time and the heartening possibility you'd never run into them again. If you did have the misfortune of a reunion, you'd giggle, squeeze his arm flirtatiously, and say, "No SILLY, I meant..."and give him the same wrong number, one digit off. And the two-hour, get-out-of-jail-free card would reappear, etc.
NOW, this is the scenario:
"Hey, what's your number?" Whips out cell phone/crackberry, thumbs poised at the ready.
"Um, it's 637-6243..."
"OK, I'm gonna call you now, so you'll have my number in your phone." Hits 'Send' and listens intently:
"At the tone, the time will be 12:57 AM..."
Looks up, confused, to see my ass fly out of the door lickety-split, muttering to myself "Goddammit, now I have to cross that bar off the list..."

Reading Material

Alright, maybe I don't get out much these days. But outside of "Welcome home, Ken," this is the coolest thing I've ever seen written across some girl's arse. To think back in the day -- just a few short years ago -- if you wanted any kind of messaging across the backside, you had to settle for "B.U.M. Equipment."

Sweet Jesus Blues

Tight clothing on men is like trying to dress up your cat as Spongebob Squarepants for Halloween--generally not a good idea. And yeah, unfortunately not all of them got the memo. So we got a few muscle shirts strutting around, showing off their man-tits--sorry, I mean, "pecs". And what's the first word that comes to mind? That's right: Douche Bag.
Then you have the other extreme, guys that are so terrified of showing any possibility of body outline that they dress like a large hamper of dirty clothes.
So what's the happy medium? Easy. A good-fitting pair of well-worn jeans. By "good-fitting", I don't mean snug to the point of sterilization, I also don't mean loose to the point that I wonder if you were born without a backside. Just give me a quick trailer of the main attraction, and make it seem effortless. Make it seem that a happy convergence of the stars and planets caused your ass to look fuckin smoking in blue denim and Gosh Gee Golly Willikers, you just had no idea. And as I reach behind to squeeze those heaven-sent cheeks, of course I'll believe you.

Never Out of Style?

So here's a question that gets raised in the latest issue of Barstool Sports: At what age is a woman too old to wear a thong?

My initial feeling is that she's never too old... hell, Tina Turner prolly still looks quite fetching in one, and she could be somebody's grandmother.

Of course, reality sets in and reminds me of the horror that would be seeing my own grandmother in a thong. Again.

Your thoughts on this matter are welcome.

Lovemaking Lesson #245: Stick to the Script.

If, between hot bursts of breath in my ear, you proclaim the astounding beauty of my inner thighs and how you are planning to pack an overnight bag and spend a few nights inside them, with perhaps a couple of day trips up to Mount Breastus to admire the view, don't suddenly slide into home base and pound me through the floorboards to the downstairs neighbors' weekly Poker tournament in a manner of seconds.

Likewise if, between hot bursts of breath in my ear, you proclaim that you're gonna fuck me so hard and so fast that the downstairs neighbors will think it's an earthquake, drop their royal flushes and duck for cover under the card table, don't suddenly stop everything and spend a ridculously tiresome amount of time nuzzling my breasts.

Thank you. Please proceed to the next lesson.

Open Letter to the Current Kennette

I'm very happy with the comfort level that has quietly developed between the two of us. The fact that I'll even entertain the notion of sporting my "big man" footie pajamas in your presence speaks volumes to the way I truly feel about you.

That said, why in the name of god you felt I needed to know anything about the consistency of your last boyfriend's semen is light, light years beyond me.

I mean... why? What would give you even the slightest idea that this was information I needed to have uttered within 30 feet of me? Was I pining for this sort of detail? The answer, and I must be emphatic, is "no." Hell, there's a reason I don't wax rhapsodic about the taste of Kennette #261-D's ass. It's because I know you don't want to hear it. In the future, I invite you to whack me in the jimmy with a garden spade before sharing such references, just to complete the job.

And if you find me even slightly "turned off" at any point over the next couple days, it's because I'm still haunted by the mental image of "Froot Loops in Jell-O."

The Beginning of The End?

Let me say first that I am Steve Jobs's bitch. Yeah, I got the iPod, G5 iMac, and the matching Apple iDrapes and Sleeper iSofa. Anything this dude rolls out, I wanna buy. But man, if this keeps up, no one is gonna talk to anyone anymore.

Cell phones already keep you at a distance: "Hey Joe. I just wanted to offer you my deepest condol--what? oh, sorry, you're on the phone. Sorry--with the funeral going on, I didn't think--oh fuck it, I'll just text you later."

Lightweight iPods and iShuffles now make it impossible to speak to anyone performing any sort of physical activity. And most likely it will soon be ANY sort of physical activity. Think about it: he wants to fuck to "Enter Sandman" and you want to make sweet love to "What's up Pussycat." No problem. Each of you can plug in and pump away to your own sex soundtrack.

And now, the video iPod Nano. Hoo-fucking-ray. Face it,any remote chance you will meet your future wife or husband in an airport, airplane, subway, store, or other public venue has just been smashed with a device the size of a cigarette lighter. Tom in seat 14D is exceedingly handsome, charming and single, and it turns out we both went to St. Joseph's elementary school. Too bad I'll never know it because I got fucking 6 episodes of Desparate Housewives to watch for the third time. And an Usher video.

One bright spot on the horizon: convenient, travel size porn. Anytime, anywhere--waiting in line at the DMV, or your nephew's Christmas pageant. A nice thing to have when all human contact and interaction are relegated to third world countries.

My Hetero Crush

As even casual readers of this blog will attest, there isn't a single fiber of my being that isn't heterosexual [not that there's anything wrong with, y'know, not being that way]. I love me the ladies and have dedicated perhaps too much of my existence to trying to thrust my tongue at or into them, and often getting whacked in the jimmy for my efforts.

That said, I'm willing to admit that there probably isn't a better looking guy in the universe than George Clooney, particularly in the curiously underrated film Out of Sight.

Okay, now that I got that out of my system... back to chicks' asses!

Horny Chick Alert

...Mimbo show to premiere on ABC tonight!

Thanks to all your letters and emails demanding gratuitous and mindless pretty boy sitcoms on primetime TV, ABC will be premiering "Freddie", starring Mr. Buffy The Vampire Slayer and that dude who boned Tori Spelling (or was it Kelly?) on 90210. With your help, we may soon be able to eradicate the fat-ugly-men-with -anorexic-wives-shows and replace them with this kind of quality programming. Thank you for your support!

Asian Girls Do It Better

Once upon a time, I got laughed out of a meeting for suggesting that the best way to grow a company's brand would be to create a commerical featuring some hot asian girls simulating fellatio, while intermittently flashing the company's logo on the screen.

To the folks who chortled me out of said meeting, I say watch this ad [which is worth it for the gratuitous slurping sounds alone] and weep, you stodgy, grossly-undersexed dinks.

Also, until the FCC and American censors realize the harm they're doing to the gross national product by keeping blowjobs -- both real and simulated -- out of our commercials, you can reach me at my Hong Kong address. Fuckers.

By the way, if the dude who makes those Oreck vaccuums does TV ads for the Asian market, I wanna see 'em.

[File can be played with Windows Media Player, dudes.]

Sorry I'm Late

Dear Boss,
I arrived for work at approximately 11:46 AM for the following reasons:
1. The bus driver did NOT look like him.
2. The barista who screwed up my vanilla latte did NOT look like him.
3. You...do NOT look like him.
4. The guy in my bed...looked exactly like him.
Unless any of the above changes, I'll be late again tomorrow.

Look Sharp

You know how you get to the point that you've been doing things for so long [taking the D train, buttering your toast, flogging the girl from Accounting] that it becomes almost second nature? Today I realized that every day for the last asfarbackasIcanremember, I've come out of the shower, towelled off, then given myself two quick shots of Kenneth Cole Black -- one on the chest, one on the lower abs, dangerously close to His Majesty.

I'm trying to figger when this started. Did I, one morning, think I'd be getting blown at the office and it just kinda took hold from there? I mean, I can see pre-date... but pre-work?

Hunhnnnhgh....

This ode to joy that flies from my lips is in honor of the hot bod. You dudes, for the most part, can tell from the wrapper what you're getting: Reese's Peanut Butter Cup means chocolate and peanut butter. Tight shirt with cleavage and low riders means big tits and cute ass. But the moment of truth for me is when the t-shirt comes off and is tossed casually aside. It's the Cracker Jack box prize all over again: will I get the cool rub-off tattoo? Or the stupid puzzle game? When the prize looks like that pic, I've been known to become dangerously dehydrated from loss of drool; swerve dangerously into oncoming traffic due to excessive admiration; and throw myself like a sex-crazed warthog into your bedroom window. So guys, please: when undressing, proceed with caution.

I ::Heart:: T-Shirts

So I'm sitting in a bar last night, trying to beat a cold with alcohol, and there's some sort of bar promotion going on in the background. A dude with a microphone yammering on about some new booze he's peddling. It's about 7:00 and the Red Sox are getting pounded and I've finished my burger and all I wanna do is hop back on the train, get back to my place, and dissolve into the sheets.

Then the dude starts waving a fistful of T-shirts. And shit gets nuts.

I've never understood the allure of the free T-shirt. Sure, I wear them. I like 'em. But I've also watched grown men get into fistfights whenever free T-shirts are up for grabs in bars. Figuring that things might get interesting, I ordered another Guinness.

Sure enough, Promotions Guy has soon got a chick on each arm. They say they're from BU, but my buddy's convinced they're ringers from the Foxy Lady. Nevertheless, the question comes up: "What would you guys do for these T-shirts?"

The answer, apparently, is a quick smooch. The girls press their lips together, the crowd cheers, and they've each got a T-shirt.

A table of girls seated near the action starts hooting, conviced they can do better. So one of the girls hops on the other girl's lap and starts making out with her. Not surprisingly, the crowd loves this. And the free T-shirts are surrendered.

This went on for the next twenty minutes. College chicks stepping up to the plate, so to speak, performing outrageous shit for a free T-shirt. One girl took a swig of beer and transferred it to her girlfriend's mouth. Another held a beer bottle between her legs while a willing male chugged it. As the 56 year-old chef shuffled back from his cigarette break, one girl screamed that she'd blow him for a shirt. Another girl said she'd show her boobs, then reconsidered until downing a "courage shot" handed to her by a friend. We saw her boobs. She got a shirt.

I asked one girl sitting near me -- who had obtained a shirt after walking into the packed mensroom with a hand-written sign that said "Cock Inspector" -- if I could see her shirt. It was pretty no-frills. Just a white shirt with "Bud Light" across the chest.

So what's the root of all this wonton exhibitionism? An inherent need for the spotlight that requires only the flimsiest of excuses to blossom? Or has passion for T-shirts reached a sort of fever pitch?

Regardless, I'll be placing my order for a gross of baby doll Ts at American Apparel. Look for me at the Beacon Hill Pub very shortly, where I'll be conducting an experiment of my own.

Bitch is goin DOWN

I'd like to think of myself as a fairly mellow, peace-loving individual. I say good morning, hi, isn't it a swell day. I use please, thank you and excuse me in every declarative sentence. I avoid arguments on such topics as religion, politics, and/or sex. If you still have a problem with me, well, let's sit down over green tea lattes and try to work it out. My treat.

But sometimes, when the moon's in retrograde, I'm PMS-ing, or I just woke up in a real shitty mood, you best avoid me at all costs. Guys usually get it; they take one look at the head spinning and the flecks of green vomit flying towards them and they simply turn heel and run away. But girls...why you gotta choose TODAY to size me up, give me a snotty look, or make a catty remark about my shoes? Why you gotta choose today to be throwing yourself, like a cheap, two-bit hussy, at my boyfriend? Because, much to my chagrin, I then have to grab your dry, overprocessed, rat's nest of a hair-don't and slam it into the nearest wall, over and over. Or take your knock-off Gucci heels and pop out your eyeballs with 'em. Or break off those badly-done acrylic tips, one by one. Can't you just leave me be? Can't we all just get along? OK, tell you what. After you get out of the hospital, let's try to work this out over a green tea latte. My treat.