Make It Stop

So the other day I'm fumbling through Copley Place when I get stuck behind this couple in their mid-40s. All is good except for two things: They're walking so slowly, they're practically standing still [and, thus, hampering my "on the go" lifestyle]. Also, the guy has his hand secured snugly inside the back pocket of the woman's jeans.

Ass man that I am, I have never understood the allure of the "let me walk around with my hand in the back pocket of my girl's jeans" maneuver. First of all, it's not very comfortable. I love ass, but I also love comfort. And when I'm walking through a crowded mall, a windswept alley, or Copley Place a couple days after Christmas, it's all about comfort. If the hands are inserted into said pocket quickly, say during a spontaneous kiss or while pausing to whisper such sweet inanities as "You rock" or "Let's go dress up as pirates and fuck each other retarded," then I can understand... my hands are roaming your backside and sliding them into your pockets seems amusing in a "gee whiz" kinda way. But to walk for any great distance with a hand in someone's back pocket? Unacceptable. Unless you're lollygagging around Woodstock during Jimi Hendrix' performance. Then it's perfectly okay.

As fate would have it, a few hours later, I see an even greater offense: A hookerish-chick in her early 20s walking with some thick-necked lug in a Gold's Gym sweatshirt who's simply gripping her ass as they amble along. No back pockets, hell not even a beltloop to slide a couple fingers through; just his beefy mitt on her rather bitchin' ass. I'm watching this madness asking myself, "What's the message here?" Is he that enamored of her backside that he has to get his feel on 24/7? Or, more likely, is it a not-so-subtle message to all us pencil-necks: "When I'm not pounding iron or quaffing protein shakes, I'm tapping THIS SPECTACULAR ASS! And YOU'RE NOT!"

Either way, it's a wonder I even leave the house any more...

Kill me Now

OK people. It's hump day of The Holidayz, and what a long, strange trip it's been. Up until the 25th you've been driving like spastic ferrets in dire need of anger management training, and for what? The inevitable tears and recriminations over the gifts that basically sucked or were simply never purchased in the first place. You feel like you just urinated on the baby Jesus, and it's His birthday, no less. Those of you "celebrating" Hanukah and Kwanzaa, our thoughts and prayers go out to you as you are still in the thick of it and will most likely have to extend your mental health coverage through June '06. And now, bloated, hung over, and emotionally lobotomized, we await the coming of the New Year with bleary eyes and a set of resolutions that would put Ghandi's hunger strike to shame. Happy Holidays, indeed!

And Wouldn't You?

With the above photo, I'm submitting my own personal selection for "worst possible place for a sentence break in a digital cable service program description." Or maybe it's the best? Whatever the case, it got me to hang around the Lifetime Channel the longest I ever have for a broadcast that didn't involve Denise Austin. Although, sadly, nobody got laid on my watch.

Certainly, sir. Now, could you please fuck off and take your seat?

This post is dedicated to all those world-weary souls trying to get home for the holidays, who will be beaten down by overbearing relatives, given socks and hideous sweaters, and then will have to turn around and go through it all again just to get back to work:

-May your shuttle van to the airport just happen along the disabled Hooters bus on I-5 and have plenty of room for extra passengers;

-May your wait in the security line be expedited by childless non-octogenarians who are barefoot, don't wear belts or jewelry, and have one carry-on;

-May your flight attendants be the stuff of legends: insanely attractive, super eager to make your flight as pleasant as possible, and completely charmed and delighted by your clever and witty banter about airline food.

-And finally, may your trips to the bathroom be the exclusive priviledge of a confirmed Mile-High Club member, and not a traumatic exposure to an 80-year old changing his Depends who forgot to lock the door.

Group Effort

Listen: The closest I've ever come to group sex was the night I made out with Marjorie Baccarella a couple hours before getting a handjob from Trish Arnold. That said, I'm glad that someone in Canada had the good sense to get this done.

I'm still hoping for that elsuive threesome, but I'm trying to master the subtle art of sufficiently pleasuring one woman before taking that leap.

Who's In Charge Here?

So I'm puttering around on the web, and I come across a video of one of Dane Cook's appearances on the Tonight Show. It so happens that Charlize Theron was also a guest that same evening, and when Cook comes out, he launches into a diatribe about how much he admires her work and loves her, blah blah blah. Then he finally admits, "I'm totally kissing your ass." Right then, Theron stands up and flexes her altogether glorious ass in Cook's face, and he obligingly plants his lips on it.

An awesome piece of television indeed... but it's just so staged [you can check it out in the video section at Cook's website and see for yourself]. Amazingly, Oscar winner Theron can't pull off the casual "Hey, let me be spontaneous and shove my ass in this dude's face" move that comes so easily to drunken college chicks the world over. So I'm left, rather sadly might I add, not with the fantasy that Theron is a complete and utter ass beast, giving away free taste spoons like an insurance saleman doling out business cards, but that this whole affair was concocted in the green room just moments before the show.

My only question is: who suggested it? At first, I figgered it a no-brainer: Of course Dane Cook did, for no other reason than to empower him to call all his high school buddies and ex-girlfriends to chortle: "Dudes! My mouth! On Charlize Theron's ass! My mouth! Her ass! And I'm not good enough for you? Suck it!"

But then, around my seventy-fifth viewing, I started to wonder if, in a Keyser Soze sorta way, Theron wasn't the one pulling the strings, so as to be able to tell her buddies: "Check me out on the Tonight Show... you'll never believe what I got this fucking idiot to do on national television."

Either way, it must have been pretty fucking awesome to have been Dane Cook at that very moment.

Attention Holiday Shoppers

Good to know: when the little tenant of the box above is given on Christmas Day, it's considered a GIFT. Therefore, it doesn't have to be RETURNED. Armed with this and a good pre-nup should ensure a happy holiday.

Behind Enemy Lines

So last Friday, it's someone's birthday in the office. Against my better judgment, I head out after work with a couple folks for a quick celebratory beverage. When I get there, I notice that I'm the only guy. In the dark recesses of my mind, this is the sort of scenario I dream about. No cock-blocking. No flexing and pluming. Just me and a buncha hotties throwing back booze. One drink in, and I'm already envisioning the bit where one of them slips me a roofie and I wake up in some Charlestown apartment, tied to the floor while the women take turns straddling my mouth.

But in real time, one of them starts talking up her love life. And, before long, they're all on to the subject of blow jobs. And what should be an exercise in unstoppable awesomeness actually turns rather uncomfortable. Once or twice, they ask for my opinion... [mostly stuff like, "Where do you guys get that idea? From porno?"] I spend the next half hour blushing, nodding or shaking my head like a trained seal, shifting nervously in my seat, and wondering if the couple one booth over can hear any of this.

You ladies do this sorta stuff on purpose, don't you?

Stocking Stuffer?

Folks, I've perused the Karma Sutra in the back aisles of Barnes and Noble, I've browsed the shelves of many an "Erotica Boutique" and God knows every guy I've dated has had quite the impressive collection of porn. But I have never read the revered bible of procreationists, The Joy of Sex. Anyone care to submit an online review?

Note to Self: Get Invited to These Types of Parties

Have I mentioned that I love women? Because I do.

And to think there was actually a time when chicks would just... I dunno... stand next to each other and smile when having their picture taken.

Thank christ those lame-ass days are over.

To gift or not to gift

This time of year is always difficult, what with the insanity of shopping malls gone wild, family smackdown IV and the inevitable double chin just in time for holiday pictures. So what about gift giving? Do you give your boss a gift? That coworker you've gone out to happy hour with a few times but you would never visit in the hospital? How about...the perfect gift for your special booty call?
Yeah, I saw you shudder from all the way over here. Giving presents (that are not in the form of sexual favors) to those folks you only see between the hours of 2AM and 6AM can make things a little awkward. It's like suddenly you've moved the relationship from its midnight spot on the Playboy channel and put it on Sunday nights on the WB. Or worse, PAX. Pretty funny, though, when you think about it: you know every freckle on his thigh and how one of his balls is bigger than the other, but getting him a Christmas gift?!? Jeez, that's so intimate!
So let's just keep it simple: unless it's a gift that keeps on giving (flavored body oil yes, STD no), I'd leave Rob, Marcus and Joe off the list this year.

You Call It Jerking Off. I Call It Saving My Life

According to the November 2005 issue of Men's Health: "Researchers discovered that men who ejaculated frequently between the ages of 20 and 50 were at markedly lower risk of developing prostate cancer. [Also,] Men in their 20s who ejaculated at least five times a week were one-third less likely to develop aggressive prostate cancer during their mature years."

In other news, you're all invited to my 175th birthday. Mark your calendars.

You're a dink. Let's fuck.

In our fair cities and towns there exists a curious conundrum. It has to do with the act of intercourse (so what else is new?) and the creation of the sex timetable. Here's whit I mean:

You and I meet at a bar, a party, the church bazaar. I think you're kinda cute, and you keep staring at my tits. Then you open your mouth and the most ridiculous-bullshit-in-a-halitosis-wrapper comes out. I'm all done and politely excuse myself to stare at the bowling championships on TV. Sex Timetable? Uh, that would be never. Does never work for you?

Next scenario: you and I meet at a bar, party, etc. I think you're really really really cute and you keep staring at my tits. Then you open your mouth and all I can think of is Vinnie Barbarino. Sex Timetable? t-minus 40 minutes, because we just ordered another round.

Final scenario: you and I meet at a bar, Plushie convention, etc. I think you're pretty cute and you keep staring at my tits. Then you open your mouth and tell me how you've never met someone so funny, so beautiful, so amazing. And isn't it weird how we both like Neil Diamond. And you want to take me to dinner tomorrow night. Sex Timetable? A few weeks, possibly a month.

Aint that a hoot? And we all do it, boys and girls, vegetables and minerals. If we likey, we wait. And if we don't give a flying fuck, the clothes come flying off. The nice ones get blue balls while the dinks are screwing like rabbits on speed. What a crazy, mixed up world...

In Other News, Your Date's Arrived...

Okay. Every now and then, you reach that point where the dry spell becomes unbearable and you need some kind of release. The only advice I can offer here is:

a) If you absolutely, positively have to fuck a horse, don't bring along a buddy to videotape it.

b) Don't get caught.

Alls I know is, somewhere, this dude's parents are shielding themselves from the relentless catcalls: "Hey, their son screwed a horse."

The strangest place you've ever...

I had sex on a pool table once. It wasn't particularly thrilling, especially when my elbow kept slipping into the left corner pocket and my ass got a rash from the felt top. Sex at the kitchen sink wasn't exactly exhilarating either because the damn faucet kept trying to give me a rim job. Truth be told, I prefer missionary in a big ol' California King. Does that make me a bore? I understand the excitement of having your letter published in Hustler, but am I missing something?

Just try and be friends with THAT

OK, so I just saw "Just Friends" and I'm a little ryanreynoldscrayzay. But anyhoo, the movie and a previous comment/link by JeN got me thinking about the "friends zone". I know Harry & Sally covered the whole "men and women can't be just friends, blah blah BLAH" and I don't feel like pulling a VH1 trip back to the early 90s. But it does make me wonder: are there guys, and girls, who have been perpetually doomed to the "friends zone" for life, in every single co-ed situation? I mean, I've been in ridiculous melt-down crushes before but the obstacle wasn't friendship. It was more like, oh yeah, you're dating my best friend. Or oh yeah, if we fucked you'd get 5-to-10 for statutory rape. Or oh yeah, you're the president of the company and I'm your (naughty) secretary. If friendship was the only thing standing in the way, hell, a little Jager, a can of Ready-Whip and a "oops, I'm too drunk to drive home!" would take care of that right quick. So c'mon people, step up to the plate and tell me what's UP.

I've Said It Before, But It Needs to Be Said Again

Dear co-workers:

If you're wondering why I'm suddenly wearing shorts in the winter, why I show up during blizzards wearing sandals, or why I never seem to have my umbrella on rainy days, it's because I only watch the weather reports on the Spanish channel.

Also, today's forecast for L.A. shows excellent chance of the sun being blocked out by a hot weathergirl's ass.