Too Hungover for Anything More...

Hey! Me too!

Anyone else?

And How Would You Like That Served?

Requirements for male bartenders:


Requirements for female bartenders:

Can You Find the Bar in this Photo?

So last weekend there was a little melee at a local watering hole. So the Boston Globe, as is its practice, reports on said melee. But what I love is the fact that they probably had a bazillion shots of Daisy Buchanan's, but they chose the one with the chick's ass strolling past it. Can't you just see the decision process leading up to this? A bunch of photos spread across the editor's desk, and with a knowing glance he indicates, "Let's run the one with the ass." Nice work, Josh Reynolds!

Also, this just furthers my theory that the female derriere has supplanted the boobs as our nation's focal point. At last.

These are magical days if you like ass. So these are magical days for me.

Slumber Party

There exists a curious phenomenon amongst the dating populace: sleepovers. This is when someone says, I'm going to SLEEP over, but I'm not going to SLEEP with you. We are just going to SLEEP. Which of course, is absolute bullshit. At least one or more of you is going to toss and turn, having the slightly strange and annoying experience of having someone attractive (presumably) in the bed next to you, and with perhaps some dry humping and feverish groping between fits of dozing off, no one is getting any sleep, literal or figurative, whatsoever.
Why subject yourself to a severe case of blue balls and crankiness? And yet, most of us have done it. I've done it. No, I don't know why.
Some people have said that to sleep (perchance, to dream) with someone is more intimate than having sex with someone because you are so vulnerable. I would assume that these are the people that suck their thumb, wet the bed or sleepwalk their way to the fridge and eat 3 sticks of butter. At any rate, perhaps the best bed partner is the one that you 'cuddle with' for 4 minutes, then turn off and stick back in the drawer.

Calling is for Suckers

Anyone who says that technology hasn't made things better is fucking dreaming. I mean, just think about what your sleek, new space-age cell phone can do for your love life alone. Especially when compared to the "old days," when suckers were limited to just calling people for dates. Went something like this:

Girl: Hello?

Guy: Oh, hi, er... we met last night at the Beacon Hill Pub. Er...

Girl: Okay.

Guy: And, er... ack. [Hangs up phone, instantly dies of embarassment.]

Today, we're an on-the-go society. No time for social niceties or idiotic diversions like, y'know, asking someone on a date. In the new, wireless world, here's how it breaks down:

1. Girl and guy meet at local saloon. Exchange numbers.

2. Two days later, girl gets looped on Jaegermeister and sends pic of herself in thong to guy's phone.

3. Guy masturbates to photo to the point of self-immolation; calls girl.

4. The hook-up, as they say, is on. Story inspires song on next Nelly album.

Sure, Alexander Graham Bell was some pretty hot shit with his coconuts and wires. But it took real twenty-first century know-how to empower us to receive soft core porn on demand.

And though I've come close many a time, one of the reasons I can't bring myself to send suggestive photos via the handy Moto Razr is the crippling fear that I'd hit a wrong button and simultaneously send pics of the ol' steak and onions to my grandmother, Aunt Flo and my brother-in-law the cop.

Do I 86 the 420?

So Jason is a total pothead. He loves his weed like Ariel loves Devil Dogs. In the morning, I strap on my Starbucks I.V. while he takes a bong hit. At night, I come home from work and crack open a Zima while he rolls off the couch and rolls a fattie. I know, I know, we are soooo cute! Anyway, while it may be obvious to even a doorknob that Jason is not exactly life-partner material, he ROCKS in bed. As in rock-hard. For a very, verrry sweet long time. And he claims it's because of the pot. "Dude--" (That's his pet name for me, 'Dude'. And everyone else.) "Dude--this shit is so rad, I can go for HOURS." And he does. And I don't believe I've ever known Jason NOT to be stoned, so I can't really put that claim to the test. So what's a single, really should-get-married-someday-soon, insanely horny gal to do?

Wear It Like You Mean It

So over the weekend, the Kennette drops a cool one-hundred-plus on a pair of Seven for all Mankind jeans. Which means her pants are now worth pretty much everything in my closet combined. But cost and trendy label aside, she was quick to point out that the Sevens won't be replacing her "secret weapon" jeans anytime soon. And I know that she's talking about her thirty-buck Levi's, which magically transform her ass into a work of art -- as if Levi Strauss himself sewed the fucking things right around her body.

So this exchange got me wondering about any "secret weapons" in my own closet, and I must say it's looking painfully like the Swiss Airforce. There's this one pair of chinos that looks kinda nice on me. Oh, and there's that Banana Republic "Going Out" shirt -- yes, it's actually called the "Going Out" shirt -- which the Kennette lovingly refers to as my "Going Down" shirt, because she can't keep her paws off me when I'm wearing it. But for the most part, I find nothing to match the nuclear arsenal that is her Levi's. Guys are just so much toast on this battlefield.

So now I pose it to you, folks. Tell me about that one piece of clothing you own that you might consider the ultimate weapon of mass distraction. I'll be here all day, rolling quarters.

"So, where do you get off?"

Anytime someone mentioned an office romance I'd snort and roll my eyes. Puleeze. I tried that once, and came close to plucking out my eyeballs with paperclips. It's like pouring A-1 sauce over your naked body and getting airdropped into San Quentin. Your office cubicle dwellers, half-crazed with boredom and mediocrity, devour you and your sex life limb from limb. No thanks. But what about--Office Building romance? Share an elevator, but not a 401(k) plan? Share a lobby coffee shop, but not 'Jeans Day' on Fridays? Perfect, I thought. I'll actually have a reason to get up in the morning, while those gossip-hungry fuckers would be left discussing "Lost" over non-fat Lattes.

Hmmm...not quite. Things with Tyler the ad agency dude didn't go quite well as planned--he came on super strong, we went out, we screwed, and he vanished. This admirable behavior turned me into psycho-stalker bitch. I visited that damn coffee shop 8 times a day until my caffeine-addled nerves were screaming for mercy. I took up smoking, just so I could pace the sidewalk, waiting for that chance encounter. Oh, not pretty. Avert your eyes. Unfortunately, my coworkers didn't, as they decided to get another round of lattes right at the moment I had my chance-encounter-meltdown on Tyler the Ad dude in front of the sugar/creamer station. I slunk back to the office, knowing that I had given the animals enough food for weeks; Lost would be put on the back burner until the season finale. Yippee.

Drink, Or I'll take oot ma wee knife n' chop oof yer balls.

Ken wanted me to wish you and yours a very Safe and Happy St. Patrick's Day. That crazy Irish lad wanted to do it himself, but tradition and loyalty to his ancestors dictated that he commence drinking at the moment Ireland began its St. Patrick's Day celebrations--approximately 6:01 PM on Thursday, EST.
Me, I will do my best to avoid the amorous overtures of Colin Farrell and other pale men with big drinks and wee dicks. Of course, I may be sending mixed signals with my "KISS ME, I'M IRISH!" babydoll t-shirt, "I got some Irish in me, but I want some more!" blinky button, shamrock hat, green socks, thong with sewn-on Lucky Charms, etc.

Nice Work if You Can Get It

So today, at the office, I'm leaning back in my chair reading some e-mailed memo that was so utterly inane I had to print it up and re-read it just to make my eyes believe what I was reading. And as I'm leaning back with said memo in my lap, my boss -- a very hot 49 year old woman -- walks into my office to discuss the same memo. So I tell her I've got it printed out, and she walks over and starts reading it over my shoulder. She then points to the offending portion of the memo, running a long, sleek, perfectly manicured finger underneath it -- very, very slowly -- as if to underline it as she reads it aloud.

And all I can think about as she's pointing and reading is that her hand was inches -- and I'm talking inches -- away from my weenis.

And that's all it takes to get the mind rolling. To start imagining her whispering, "Actually, I came here to talk about this" and grabbing herself a handful. I mean, all the makings of spectacular handjob were there. We had the hot chick's hand. We had the jimmy. We were in an office which is fairly cut off from the society that is my place of business. Again, I must stress, we are talking an inch at best. An inch of air separating my crotch from my bosses' hand.

I like to think that at some point in the proceedings, she herself thought, "Wow, I could practically touch his package from here." But probably not.

A Good Sport

Kids, I enjoy a sense of humor in the bedroom as well as the boardroom. A couple of dirty jokes before, say, a 69 is usally a great ice-breaker. Or if you fall off the bed during a particularly gymnastic-Cirque-du-Soleil sexathon, I'll probably laugh my ass off. But I am NOT a good sport when it comes to general retardedness. Using my boobs as bicycle horns, per se. Or worse, mistakenly thinking that every woman wants the money shot right in the face, cuz hey, that's how they do it on Spice! But it gets worse. I was told, very gleefully, by a guy aquaintance, that when his girlfriend gives HIM a rim job (yep, we're back on the rim jobs again), he repeatedly thwocks her on the forehead with his penis. That's right, THWOCKS. Now, I don't believe giving rim jobs is in my immediate future. But say I died and was reincarnated as this woman, right at the unfortunate moment that she was getting THWOCKED on the forehead, I do believe I would go all Puppetry of the Penis on his shit. Like in the permanent shape of a monkey getting beat by a tire iron.

A Brief But Ultimately Self-Serving Public Service Announcement

Women of America, if I may have your attention for just one moment.

Do I have your attention? Excellent.

::Ahem::

Don't fear the rimjob.

Seriously. Don't.

Because you know me. And you know I'm going to ask eventually. Sure, I can make with the witty banter over dinner. The obligatory reference to the latest Wayans Brothers movie. The questions about your Aunt Netty. I sure hope she's doing okay. But make no mistake: While I'm droning on and on about how Kellie Pickler seems a lock for this year's American Idol, I'm really thinking about rimming you.

Also, understand two things: Every step will be taken to ensure your maximum enjoyment of said rimming. And I never, ever, ever look for reciprocation in this arena. I am strictly about rimming unto others. Never the other way around.

Like, never.

Thanks for your time. And, oh, can I rim you?

The Good Samaritan

There have been times, during my loooooong career as a single woman, that I have met ordinary guys who offer me extraordinary propositions. One such exchange:
"I don't want to have sex, I just want to give you pleasure. Let me go down on you, no strings attached, nothing required in return."
Upon my quizzical, eyebrows-raised-to-the-ceiling response:
"I just enjoy making women happy. What can I say, I'm a giver."
Folks, I must admit I have never taken them up on it, cute boy scouts as they are. Call me a cynic, but there has to be a catch. I'd imagine as I'm lying there, gasping for breath after my seventeenth orgasm, he'd suddenly emerge from between my legs, horns sprouting from his head and fire shooting out of his eyes--"HA HA HA! NOW I OWN YOUR SOUL!!!!"
--Or something like that.

Three Things I Did Last Week That Will Surely Hasten My Direct Flight to Hell

1) Waited until everyone left the room after a team meeting, them promptly buried my face in the seat of the chair used by the department's resident hot chick [as detailed in this post].

2) Jerked off while driving down 95 South at 2:00am, endangering every driver, deer and sheep farmer along the way.

3) Attended the wake of a friend's uncle, then spent the next hour thinking about what a spectacular ass the widow had. For an older woman, I mean.

Anyone else?

Obstacle or Opportunity?

I've had those reoccurring dreams where I'm sitting in Algebra class, and even though I graduated 10 billion years ago, it seems perfectly normal. However, I suddenly notice I'm naked. And oh the horror, the embarrassment and shame, etc. etc. etc. But now in the dream I just sit there, proudly, holding nothing but my Mead 3-Subject notebook, because hey, what's wrong with a free preview? Might as well get that whole inhibition/self-conscious crap out of the way ASAP. Some lucky fella's gonna get the DVD screener anyway...

Like Fish to a Line

So here's a question for a lovely Tuesday morning: Imagine that you're well-ensconced with a significant other -- hell, let's say you're married. One evening, a mysterious and altogether captivating hottie strolls into your life, and you have the opportunity to engage in back-breaking sex with no catches, no obligations -- and no chance of your partner ever finding out. You simply indulge, then walk away a free man or woman, back to your life of romance and hottubs and martinis and robot butlers (oh, like you don't have one).

Do you partake? Or pass on it?

The Stuff That Keeps Me Awake Nights

Okay. So. I've heard the song about a bazillion times. Watched the video to the point that I've had to pack my jimmy in ice to calm it down. But I still have no fucking idea about one thing.

Are her "humps" her boobs or her ass cheeks?

If the Lifetime Channel were for Men

Coming up on Lifetime:

Sleeping with Strangers: One Man's Heroic Return to the Dating Scene

Mother, May I Boink My Stepsister

My Son is Innocent, So Who Cares?

The Three Lives of Jenny: Stripper, Porn Star, Housepainter

The Moment of Truth: I Have A Beer Gut

If you wanna come up with your own titles, try this on for size.