I Knew it Was Too Good to Last

So the Kenette tells me last night, over dinner, that "we need a nickname for your cock."

In my house, that's what's known as "the end of the relationship."

Liyah Liyah

I know that many of you were shocked--shocked! that that writer dude lied about being a bad-ass. Which got me to thinking about all the falsehoods I've professed with various suitors. Such as, My God, That Thing Is Sooo Huge, I Don't Have Any Idea How It'll Possibly Fit! Or, Oh-Ahh-Ahhh--No One's Ever Made Me Feel Like This Before, You're The Best I've Ever Had, OmiGodOmiGodOmiGod.

When someone would ask, where's the craziest place you ever had sex? I would frantically flip through an encyclopedia until I would announce triumphantly, "In a tree house...on Easter Island...with the Survivor reality show shooting 3 feet away." Yeah, maybe a little over the top. Shoulda taken out the tree house. But hey, beats the hell out of a pool table in some guy's uncle's basement in Billerica.

"Don't Worry, Pete... Only a Few People Saw It..."

I've been the victim of many a "passed out photo" gag. Had the head of a deer positioned so that it appeared to be fellating me. Had a couple copies of "Boys Life" magazine tucked under my arm while my other hand was placed on my schwanz. Was even subjected to a bizarre and overly ambitious shoot in which my nutbag appeared to be worked over by one of those old Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. I've been able to laugh it off as just one of those things guys do when they find another guy passed out. After viewing the above photo, however, I'm quite pleased to see that women know a good victim when they see one as well.

My Fear of Commitment

Friends, neighbors, countrymen,
Welcome to my ideal boyfriend shrine. Beautiful, no? His name is Kelly Slater. He is a pro surfer. If he were mine, I would spend most of my free time staring longingly at his picture, whilst he was out on the water 16 hours a day or traveling the world doing pro championships. His piercing eyes and ridiculously gorgeous physique would be in my grasp but for a few fleeting moments per year. And I would never be certain if he was getting happy endings by 90-pound Indonesian girls in Bali or Playmate boob rubs at Hefner's mansion. I would be an insecure, psychotic wreck. And that, my friends, is how I avoid intimate relationships.

If I May Take a Moment...

Someone was good enough to e-mail me this photo a few days ago, and I've been comatose ever since.

This woman will one day rule the world. And that's about all I can say about that.

More later, once my head's on straight.

Dirty Words

These days, foul language has become so commonplace that the forbidden fruit has lost its juicy bite. The local vernacular for "Excuse me" has become "Move it, Motherfucker." Your coworkers refer to you as "that bitch" and no one hardly raises an eyebrow. And just you wait, the next show they roll out on Nickelodeon will be "Lil' Assholes."

This makes things rather difficult for those of us who enjoy a little dirty talk with our foreplay. You have to keep upping the ante as we become more and more desensitized. Which can cause problems. I personally don't like being told that I'm a "cock-sucking, fuck-faced ho bag." And as that immortal episode in Seinfeld goes,"You mean the panties your mother laid out for you?" is a classic example of overshooting your wad, ruining the mood, and having your partner check the public lists of local sex offenders.

So, where do we go from here? Keep aiming for bluer and bluer until we're feverishly looking up the Vietnamese expression for "cuntmaster"? Who knows. But I think I'll hit the reset button. Go back to "gosh", "heck" and "darn". Hey, aint nothing cuter than a wide-eyed innocent getting her first taste of naughtiness. C'mon, who's game?

Open Message to Recent Kenettes

I know you hear this enough, ladies, but let me reiterate: No teeth on the cock. Please. I understand that your last boyfriend loved it or your ex-husband enjoyed a bit of a nibble now and again. But not this dude. I've got one of those ultra-sensitive Irish numbers, and what you may consider a playful nip feels like a quick turn of a meat-grinder from where I'm sitting. Listen, I'll be happy to cook up a batch of red hots after all is said and done to satisfy any personal issues you have to work out, but for now, I'd ask that you imagine yourself as your 87 year old Aunt Gussie, and kindly retract the chompers. Thank you.

I'd like to wake up now, please.

As we traipse through this bizarre experience we call life, we like to think that we are masters of our destiny. We tie our own shoes, thank you very much. We make our own decisions and know what's in our best interests. Our choices have, in effect, molded the life we have today.

...or so we'd like to believe. Then I hear this stuff and I realize we're just the latest version of The Sims that God just got in the mail, and he's laughing his ass off.

Take this guy Tim. Admittedly, he's a pretty complacent dude. He's been dating the same girl for almost five years and doesn't think he's even attracted to her anymore. But he also hates drama. His buddies, his family, hell, even his grandmother can see he's unhappy. They corner him at the family barbeque and tell him to dump her. Emboldened by MGD and their support, he agrees. He'll do it tonight. He makes the call and asks her to meet him later. Then he decides to have a celebratory burger and another MGD.

No one knows what was wrong with the burger, perhaps an errant strain of mad cow, ecoli or just crappy old meat, but Tim got sicker than he's ever been in his life. He was shooting out of both barrels, sweating, shaking, the works. And this all kicked in right when he met up with his girlfriend. She ran him to the hospital, sat in the waiting room while he got his stomach pumped, then stayed by his bedside for days afterwards, nursing him back to health. Tim, delirious from food poisoning and waves of guilt, asked her to marry him. She said yes. The rest, as they say, is history.

Another quickie example of God's gleeful kick in the pants: a friend of mine had a very tumultuous relationship with her ex. She finally managed to break up with him and kicked him out. She was moving on with her life, and we all applauded. She told him to come over Saturday morning to pick up the rest of his stuff. He agreed.

Saturday morning she woke up with the urgent reminder that she'd had an ultimate bean and cheese burrito the night before. After a good 20 minutes in the can, she remembered her ex was coming over and now it smelt like a large mammal had died several days ago. She hurriedly lit every candle in the house and got undressed to take a shower. The doorbell rang. She grabbed her robe and answered it. Her ex, standing at the door, sees all the candles lit and my friend in her skimpy robe. He thinks, right on. She wants me back. He grabs her and kisses her. My friend loses all sense of reason as he sucks her earlobe and they have crazy monkey sex. So now they're back together, and she's as miserable as ever.

What's the moral of the story? Hell if I know. If I were you, I'd just stay away from any perishable food items if you're planning on making any major life decisions.

"Sorry, Jen. I'm just not in the mood."

There's an old adage that states: "No matter how hot a woman is, there's a guy who's tired of having sex with her." Personally, I've never believed it, dismissing it as a cop-out for those dudes who can't land the premium trim. Of course, I haven't been married with kids in a small New Jersey suburb for the past twenty-five years, either. I base my belief solely on the fact that personally, my eagerness to continue to have sex with a woman is precisely proportionate to how hot she is; some former Kenettes were every bit as hard-on inducing by month twenty-four as they were the first time they headlocked me.

Of course, the only place this doesn't seem to apply is Hollywood. When you can reach a stage in your life in which you can actually get bored of Jennifer Aniston sitting on your face, you've clearly passed on to a higher plane of existance; one that mere mortals like myself can only aspire to. Brad Pitt, I salute you.

My biggest competition

In those fantastic books such as "Men are from Uranus, Women are from Planet Bitch" and "He's not into You cuz You Ugly", the central theme is that men have more difficulty with communication than women. That's bullshit, your honor. Guys are always on the damn phone.

I always thought I had to compete with young hotties with fake tits and a penchant for guys with girlfriends. Nope, it's call waiting. It's another way of saying, nyah-nyah-nyah, this call is much more important than yo-u-u...ha ha, you got dead air...and as the seconds turn to mintues I idly wonder about the waiting period to register a dangerous weapon.

If we're on a date and he takes me out to dinner my concern isn't if the waitress is hot. It's, oh my God, his phone is ringing. And HE'S ANSWERING IT?!? So I sit there: me, him, the bread basket and the fucking phone pressed lovingly to his ear as he lavishes words and saliva into its mouthpiece. It's at that point I want to stand up, throw a stale roll at his head, grab the phone and stab the little fucker's heart out with my stiletto. But instead I sulk, pout, give monosyllabic answers for the remainder of the evening and refuse to kiss him goodnight.

Huh. Maybe I have a problem with communication.

First Things First

I have a confession to make. I've never slept with a girl on the first date.

Don't get me wrong. I've had my share of one-night stands. Some I'm quite proud of. Others... well, let's just say I may have already earned my Class One driver's license.

But looking back at all the actual, honest-to-Joe relationships I've had, none of them began with a bang. In fact, the furthest any of them went was a handjob.

One of my female friends claims that's the kiss of death. "If you give it up on the first date," she explains, "where do you go from there?"

On the flip side, another female pal said she's been let down by so many dudes who were lame in the sack, she uses the first-date fuck to weed out the inept lovers.

If you've got any thoughts on the matter, lemme know.

Cute or hot?

Hi kids. Ariel here. Sorry we've been MIA. Ken got held up by INS after a particularly spectacular donkey show in TJ and I'm currently suing my plastic surgeon for giving me Tori Spelling boobs instead of Pamela Anderson's. Anyhoo, there was an article in the NY Times recently about "the cute factor." (I'd link to it, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna pay $3.95 to those capitalistic liberal whinebags. Great newspaper, tho'.) Reaction to "cuteness", from puppies to babies to panda cubs, was quite astonishing, making the viewer want to squeal and jump up and down and squeeze the shit out of the thing, whereas beauty would elicit wariness, seem cold and unattainable, and cause the viewer to be slightly intimidated or, in my case, exceedingly resentful. Cute is cosy, comfortable, tugs at your heartstrings and makes you want to take them home for dinner. Hot is whoa, danger-danger-danger, I'm so nervous I'm gonna throw up, he would never go for someone like me, who the hell am I kidding, where's my therapist's phone number?

So tell me. What would you choose? C'mon, surprise me.
BTW, a big fat kiss from me or Ken's donkey (your choice) if you can name the two chicks above. WITHOUT googling 'em.

Kinda Makes You Wish for a Plague of Locusts

Fuck the Orkin guy. Next time I have a roach problem, or any kind of problem for that matter, I'm calling this chick.

Ariel's night

So for whatever reason the holidays brings the dudes out of the woodwork, exes or past hookups or the guy who keeps asking you out but never seems to materialize. Maybe it's because the holidays bring out our softer, sentimental side, reminding us it's a time for togetherness and sharing the gifts of the season. Or maybe it's the desperate plea for a sympathy fuck. At any rate, I got a blast from the past who was quite insistent that we meet up IMMEDIATELY, despite the fact that months and months had gone by without contact. Like suddenly it was a matter of national importance, hundreds of innocent lives could be lost if we didn't have dinner. So I agreed, sure, Wednesday night. And I waited. And waited. No call, no appearance, not even a secret agent at my door with those earpieces for the deaf, telling me that the meeting will commence at 0800. Huh. So I settled on the couch with cold pizza and turned on the last quarter of the Rose Bowl.
Holy Shit! What an amazing game! Can you believe that Vince Young?!? Uh, who's the Heisman Trophy winner again? Carroll, I thought you were gonna show us Pats fans what we lost. Wha happened? That last touchdown by Young actually made me a little weepy. Those legs! Those wobbly throws that somehow connect! What a QB!
Wait a minute, aren't I supposed to be checking my phone with the panic-stricken nature of a heroin addict flicking the needle? Am I going against my evolutionary nature? Are my testosterone levels increasing to the point that I'll have to start shaving? Or have I simply stumbled upon the real gifts of the season?

Ken's To Do List '06

Taking a cue from the goddess Ariel, I respectfully submit my own to-do list for the new year:


Vivica A. Fox.


The mighty Denise Austin, who could crush me into fine powder with her spectacular glutes, and I'd relish every second.


Scarlett Johansson, seen here in the opening image from Lost in Translation, which has been freeze-framed so much on my TV, it's pretty much permanently burned there.


Jessica Alba.


Christina Applegate, my perennial crush.


And, of course, the mother from Good Times.

Oh, and I'd be silly to not mention TGIC and Avatar. When they hear rustling outside their windows... it's me. Or chipmunks.

Ariel's To Do List '06

Remember, it's a work in progress...