Happy Halloween

Here's to those women dressing up as Sexy Nurse, Sexy Cowgirl, Sexy Architect or Sexy Commodities Broker.

Sexiest. Movie. Scene. Ever.

Hands down, the scene in the bar between George Clooney and J-Lo in Out of Sight, right before the two of 'em head upstairs to her room. Here's some of it; rent it to see the full monty.

"Let's get out of here" indeed!

Best.Halloween.Costume.Ever.

NSFW!!!
click here.

Bummer, man. Listen to this one.

An interesting aspect of human social relations is the notion that when one is feeling particularly downtrodden or beaten up by life, our urge is to make the poor soul feel better by telling him or her an even worse possible scenario. It very well could have started with Gertie, the cafeteria lady in grade school, who would scream that children were starving in --insert Third World country here-- when we turned up our noses at the grey mass labeled "American Chop Suey."
This is certainly the case when I go through a break up. If the guy cheated, I'll get "Oh yeah? I knew this girl whose boyfriend cheated on her with her own MOTHER--then they got married and moved in RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO HER." Or perhaps if things simply didn't work out, I'll hear "Yeah, my cousin went through the same thing, the relationship kinda fell apart...then she found out he was addicted to internet porn and call girls, and he gave her an STD that caused her eyebrows to fall out."
I suppose that it's supposed to be a slight variation of "count your blessings, you stoopid whitey full of entitlement and satellite TV". But it never makes me feel better. Instead, I run out to the health clinic and sweat bullets until I get the test results, or call my mother and casually ask, how's the love life with dad?

Ooh, how meta: One of the most popular slutty Halloween costume choices...in a slutty Halloween costume.

Hello my peeps.
Well, it's safe to assume that we've finally jumped the shark with this whole Halloween slutty-cat, slutty-frog, slutty-tax accountant phenom if it's in the New York Times. The article, in brief, states that women allegedly feel "safe" on this one day out of the year to dress outrageously sexy, slutty, jail-bait-esque, etc., and still have brunch with the grandparents the next morning. C'mon, just like girls kissing-- it's about being eye candy. When I went to an all-girls Catholic school (what, you're surprised?) and there were no boys within a 5 mile radius, we would go to school dressed up in costumes for Halloween. I don't recall nary a slutty witch or girl scout in the bunch; instead, we dressed...in Halloween costumes. A few girls dressed as an attractive six-pack of Budweiser (hey, the nuns liked their booze, so it was a hit), one girl dressed as an M&M using a couple of brown plastic trash bags, and me and my friend were Crockett & Tubbs from Miami Vice. (Hmm...dressing in drag...must talk to my therapist about that one.)

So, this year, will I buck the trend of exploiting my sexuality for 24 hours and go as something really innovative and creative? Of course not. As per usual, I'll be the "slutty Crossing Guard who's gonna arrest you naughty boy jay-walkers!".

Friday at the Movies

Okay, I get it. They guy goes around -- like countless others online -- and discreetly shoots "voyeur" films of women as they walk around town, the dentist's office, the supermarket, and Walpole State Prison. But the one I've posted above... how in the name of Christ did he get so friggin' close to his subject -- and I'm talking Luke Skywalker buzzing the Death Star close -- without blowing his cover? At times this thing seems like a bizarre OB-GYN training video.

Butter Face

Would you go out with this? Oh yeah? What if he had a face like this?

Indeed, it's superficial. And shameful. And a real dilemma. See, I could certainly have a heck of a time grinding the shit outta that, looking down from my usual "woman-on-top" position with the pride of a boastful mother hen: "Those abs are allll mine. Aw yeah, byyatch." Or something to that effect. (6-packs/8-packs are classified under "dreamy" in Ariel's playbook.) But then, sooner or later, I'd have to look at the face. And that face would most likely be contorted into something even more distasteful whilst in the throes of ecstacy, like that beak-faced lawyer Anna Nicole married. And what am I going to do in public, grab his t-shirt and shove it over his head so that the killer abs are the only thing the world sees? Great perhaps for a Saturday afternoon trip to the Farmer's Market, but what about dinner at Hal's? (cut out holes in the t-shirt for food/beverage consumption?)

Eyes Wide Shut

I am something of an oddity in the animal kingdom: A guy who doesn't like watching porno.

Two chicks going at it? I'll watch that any day. Three or five chicks? Even better. But watching a guy and a girl get into some straight-on fucking? I just can't watch it.

The problem: Nothing sickens me more than the male "money shot."

In college, my roommate and some of his drinkin' pals used to live for that shit. "Here it comes!" they'd shout in anticipation, right before the obliging female pornstar got drenched. But I couldn't even watch. Guys, I wanted to yell, that's a fucking dude shooting his load. Honestly, I don't need that shit in my life, thanks.

And when it comes to, y'know, wanking to porn, the law of averages dictates that you're every bit as likely to be staring at Ron Jeremy's greasy mug when you reach climax as you are Jenna Jameson's ass.

Too risky, as I see it. Just hand me a DVD copy of Swedish Lesbian Stewardesses in the Jungle of Doom and I'll be fine.

The Not-So-Friendly Skies

As it happens, my full-time gig requires that I travel a lot. In airplanes. And not little jaunts from Boston to, say, Connecticut, but full-blown, cross-country extravaganzas to the southwest, midwest and west coastal U.S. So, yeah, when I sit my ass in an airplane, it's gonna be there for some time. And before each flight, I go through the same ritual in my mind: praying to the Gods of Air Travel that I find myself wedged comfortably between a couple hot females.

Interestingly, for all the travelling I do, such situations have been rare. In fact, according to my latest tally, they're practically non-existant. You'd think the odds would be in my favor, but no. Nothing. If there's an overweight grandpa or seven-foot-two Malaysian guy with a lisp and bad breath on the flight, they're next to me. Automatic. The two cute chicks from Detroit looped on airport tequila? They'll always end up at least seven rows away.

I used to play a game whereby I'd sit at the gate, scan the crowd, and select the hottest women in the group. I'd then try to mentally calculate the chances that said woman would end up sitting next to me. Now, just to make things easier, and to keep my mood on even keel, I simply pick out the most disgusting human beings in the lot, and quietly make plans for sitting next to them for the next six hours.

The Only Difference Between Girls "kissing" and Girls KISSING is Male Demographic

Obviously, I'm fond of this title, thanks to Panic! At The Disco.

But it's true, isn't it. Would chicks really want to suck face as, seemingly, so many of us do, if there wasn't a bunch of hot young bucks rooting us on, (and some sort of recording device to capture the moment)? Say you're at the bridal shower for your dear friend Susie. It's all chicks except for Jonathan, who's gay. Everybody's drinking champagne, having fun. Do you want to start tickling Jennifer's molars now, or wait until Susie's finished opening her presents? Well, why not? I thought you loooooved to kiss girls, and there's a bunch right here! OK, OK, then how about this: you're at a bar, and you're surrounded by guys who would just love to see you get it on with Shirley, the cute blonde. Oops, I forgot to mention that you're at the Oak n' Bucket, the local dive bar, and your guys are well on their way to retirement and a daily Viagra/Celebrex cocktail. Hey, wassa matter? C'mon, it's soooo much fun!

Do You Fluff(er) and Fold?

The local laundromat is a bizarre social experiment in which one does, really, air his or her dirty laundry. It's kinda gross. I mean, it's your skivvies, your smelly socks, your suspiciously-stained sheets. It also opens you up to all sorts of silent scrutiny and eventual condemnation. When was the last time you bought underwear, and was it during the current tax year? Are you still using the sheets that mom bought for you...freshman year...of high school? And, for chrissakes, what's with all the A&F ironically-captioned t-shirts?
Women who don't go to the trouble to carefully handwash their lingerie in the bathroom sink (that would be me) have to endure particularly intense examination, usually by dudes who haven't seen bras and panties outside of a pilfered Vickie's Secret catalog. And you know what's going through their minds. Well, actually, I don't, and no, I don't want to know. But I'm sure every time I toss in a thong or try to surreptitiously pre-treat my red lace boyshorts, the silent auction of my sexual promiscuity and/or prowess and/or conquests begins. Hell, I do it too. Boxers or briefs? Boxer briefs? Mmm, CK Hip Briefs? Eww, they're not white, they're....gray.

I have never been picked up in a laundromat, so perhaps my current crop of undergarments doesn't pass muster. Too bad. Because I was really, really curious what it would be like to do it on top of the $3.50/load, TurboWash LZ800...

(**Yes, that is Sean Hayes, in that Doritos laundromat ad. Pre-Will & Grace, obviously.**)

The Only Difference Between The New Yorker and US Weekly is a Penis

Yes, indeed. My Ms. Hyde morphs from a toe-picking, dirty Pats t-shirt wearing, E!Online-watching couch potato eating Sun Chips Harvest Cheddar(tm) to a Jekyll who's coiffed, manicured, thoughtful reading material opened with a authoritative snap, eyeglasses perched upon my nose (I have 20/20 vision, BTW)at the suitably-disenfranchised alternative book store. And all the while, I'm peeking above Harper's, through these phony glasses, trying to see who's checking me out. Because I'm smart. S-M-R-T. This is not just a pretty face, people. And this intellectual poseur is on the prowl.

The Only Day Worth Coming In Sober

Today is "denim day" at the office. The day in which everyone gets to wear jeans. Including all the impossibly hot chicks in Finance. Yeah, that's right. Hot chicks in Finance.

Thank you, CEO.

And thank you, Hot Chicks in Finance.

Anyone else wearing jeans to work today? Don't just fucking sit there, tell me about 'em!

Myself, I'll be sporting my Levi's and a Banana Republic sportcoat. Because I like to project the "young associate professor who can't get laid" look as part of my strategy to actually get laid.

Not really workin' so far. But I'll keep you posted.

Another Reason Not To Send Me To The Conference

I find that whenever I'm at any kind of Conference, whenever there's a female speaker at the podium, all I can think about is how it would feel to go down on her.

Seriously. From the minute she steps on the stage to the minute she leaves, I just sit there, tracing the outline of her legs with my eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where on her body I'd begin my descent, and mentally conjuring what her reactions might be.

Have I reached the point of irreversable perversion? Do other guys do this? Do women do this when watching men speaking at a conference?

Wearing the Uniform

I like to think I have my own style. It's unique, it's funky, it doesn't follow the beat of any drum but my own.

That, of course, is bullshit.

In LA County and the surrounding environs, we seem to have more flexibility when it comes to fashion. Or, as I like to put it, more rope to hang yourself with.

So when it's 9:28PM and I'm supposed to be at the party (surprise party, mind you) at 8:00PM sharp, and the piles and piles of rags I formerly called clothing surround me at all sides and I'm still clutching my towel (usually stifling sobs at this point), I suddenly think, I saw this on the street the other day!

Never mind that I was always barfing at the jeans-under-skirt-dress-sheet-phase which has scourged our streets for the past two years. Fuck it, just put it on and go.

Then I am restored to sanity. All is well with the world. Until the next social outing:
Hey, hey! The 80's are back, right? I think I saw that in Cosmo, right? It's not just for Halloween anymore? Fuck, I gotta mapqest this goddamn address, where the hell is Baldwin Park?!?!?

You know this is the inevitable next chapter on that particularly panic-stricken, bad-hair day:

Crunch Time

So the Kenette comes over yesterday evening after her weekend gig, and as I'm known to do, I launch into a little "horseplay," throwing her over my shoulder, biting her ass, mussing up her hair and all that. And in all this playful tussling, her knee accidentally meets my sack.

Now, I know that this was an accident, because she mentioned it about 1,000 times as I laid on the floor, writhing, groaning, stripped of the energy or wherewithal to get back up on my feet. So she eventually departed to the kitchen, leaving me splayed out on all fours for about twenty minutes.

When I rejoined her later, after apologizing yet again, she asks me exactly what it feels like to get knocked in the balls. And after thinking about it for a few minutes, all I could say was... you know how a hard-on can control the male body? Pull it in all sorts of devious and potentially shameful directions? Well, the balls are the only thing in the male body that have the hard-on's override switch. When they get hurt -- tender buggers that they are -- cancel your fucking plans, mate. With one word from the balls, the mightiest of erections crumbles to nothing in a matter of seconds. All that pumping, white-hot testosterone is replaced with shots of searing pain. Everything shuts down so that the balls can announce to the rest of the body, "We're injured, chaps. And you're all taking a break until we feel right again." And, yes, when my balls speak, it's in that silly-ass Irish accent.

You ladies have to put up with a lot of pain. There's that once-a-month thing you got going on. And childbirth, which my mother constantly reminds me was no picnic. And of course dealing with us guys is probably a special sort of hell.

But you can be thankful that you will never know what it feels like to take one to the nuts.