If You Think That a Kiss is All on the Lips

There are certain things I can overlook in a relationship. Psychotic behavior. Rambling stories about the ex-boyfriend. Threatening me with an empty Heineken bottle. Having to be carried out of your best friend's wedding because you drank 15 Jaeger shots and proceeded to vomit on every inch of carpeting in the reception hall. Rambling stories about how the ex-boyfriend liked your blowjobs. Erratic, almost irresponsible driving. Refusing to tip the paperboy because he "seems Mexican." Throwing all my clothes out into the driveway because I was a half-hour late coming home, even though you knew I was tending to my sick aunt.

But one thing I can't overlook is a bad kisser.

And, man, they're out there.

Flavor Saver

Once upon a time, there were pretty boys, of indeterminate sexual orientation. And they sure were pretty. Smelled nice, too. Hey, why can't my big drunken hairy slob look like that? Some women wondered. Et voila, a few queer eyes later, the metrosexual was born. Not to be outdone, and sick of being pretty anyway, some men in the gay community became bears. Tired of being dolled up for some bitch who refused to give head, anyway, the metrosexuals gleefully followed suit and became the shaggy faces you see at your local indie rock club, Kinko's and Amish country marts.

I'm just not sure how I feel about that.

A Sucker for the Tramp Stamp

So the other day I'm in line at the supermarket and I see an attractive woman in front of me, no younger than 50 and quite shapely. Each time she bends over to grab something from her cart, her sweater and low-rise jeans part to reveal -- and I'm not making this up -- a tattoo of the cover of KISS' "Destroyer" album.

It got me thinking about the adage how in about 40 years retirement homes will be full of senior women with tattoos on their lower backs. But I gotta admit, I'm pretty down with that.

It's Different for Girls. Kinda.

Yes, I tend to think that my shit doesn't stink, and thank you for asking. However! There are also those times when I am truly humbled, bamboozled, and basically mind f*cked by the opposite sex.

Case in point: the guy that chases me all night, grabs every opportunity to get me alone, wants my number, wants to go out, wants me to meet his parents (by this time I'm so freaked out I'm running out the door) but he finally wears me down and I give him the digits. "Poor sap," I think smugly. "I'm probably the best thing that's happened to him in a while." And then....nothing. No call, no text, no email, it's like he's been abducted by aliens. WTF, indeed.

Or even worse, the guy that totally revs my engines, has me making out with him at the back of the dive bar after an hour, takes me home, removes every article of clothing from our bodies, and then whispers in my ear... "It's getting late--let me walk you to your car." Wha??!?! So off I go, dazed and confused, so hot and bothered I'm ready to hump the nearest fire hydrant, and finally coming to a true understanding of the phrase "blue balls."

Girls in Cars

I remember being about 15 or 16 -- in the throes of those awkward years -- and out with my Dad at a sporting event. My Mom came to pick us up when it was all over, and we piled into the car to sit in gridlocked traffic for roughly an hour as other folks attempted to leave the arena.

At one point, our car came up next to a car packed with twenty-something chicks, at least six of 'em, and most visibly inebriated at that. So they're hanging out of the car, catcalling to all the guys walking by, as my face starts to burn red. because when drunk chicks are catcalling, the last place you need to be is in the backseat of your parents' Ford Escort Wagon, with your folks in the front seat.

The merriment reached a fever pitch when one of the girls started calling to this dude who just kept walking, attempting to ignore her. So she just yells, "What's the matter? You don't like pussy?"

And make no mistake about it: she yelled "pussy" so that the word hung there in the air, tauntingly winking at me from above my parents' car. It was as if the word would never stop reverberating in the air around us. And I just kinda sank down in the seat as my Dad nervously fidgeted with the radio dials.

Thanks, girls who were in that car, for one of the single most awkward moments of my life. And for also confirming that a carload of chicks can be far more dangerous than a carload of dudes.

Breaking: Cell Phone Makers In League With Devil, Anna Nicole Still Dead

223731127_b9fc3aaeef_m, originally uploaded by arielbaby.

If you have the pleasure of making small talk with someone over the age of 30, chances are they'll turn to you and say with a bright, chipper smile, "How did we EVER get along without cell phones?". As if we somehow existed without oxygen until 1996. Hooray for progress.

But folks, there is a dark side to all this convenient technology. I refer to the "accidental call back": your celly, Crackberry or Treo somehow gets triggered and calls the last incoming or outgoing phone number. And, it always seems to do this at precisely the moment in which the number called in question, and the person who picks up their phone and innocently asks, "hello"? should be the LAST PERSON ON EARTH you should be calling. For example: your boss, who you called to let her know that you have a rare form of avian flu and will not be coming to work, somehow gets a call back from your phone right when you are regaling your unemployed friends with stories of her granny-panty lines and saggy boobs. Or, your girlfriend, who you dutifully called to tell her you'll be going out with friends, gets a call back to thoughtfully let her know that you're getting one hell of a lap dance with three exotic dancers-in-training.
Key lock? Pfff. You're dealing with Lucifer here. I would strongly suggest throwing it in the nearest trash can as soon as you leave the house. Problem solved.

P.S.-How long can you hold your breath?

Book of Revelations

As much as I believe women who wear thongs are proof of a benevolent deity, I'm beginning to realize that chicks who wear boyshorts could back up the theory as well.

VD 07

Hello my sexy motherfuckers.
That overrated, insanely-commercialized, unrealistic-expectations-leading-to-tears-and-disappointment-Hallmark-created-holiday is upon us again. For several of us, Black Wednesday indeed. Soon, the office will be filled with $120 bouquets of genetically engineered long-stemmed roses, and the desks bereft of floral display will have their furious occupants locked in the handicapped bathroom stall with a cell phone and a laundry list of demands.
Good times.
So, is this also the one day of the year in which Singeltons are put on display with a a neon sign, "AVAILABLE FOR A LIMITED TIME! ON SALE! TAKE ME HOME IMMEDIATELY!"? Or do they just stay home and watch Lost?

Anyway, my advice is, regardless of your status, use the picture above as inspiration. And Have a Happy VD!

Made for Walking

Here's a question for the ladies. I read a lot of men's magazines. Mostly for the pictures of women, although I do pick up some good grooming tips as well. Anyway, there's one point that these mags hammer home time and time again: The first thing a woman notices about a guy is his shoes. The rationale is, according to the female "experts" they interview for these mags, that "if a guy takes care of his shoes, he's probably a nurturing type of guy -- the sort we'd want to date."

Is this just something they print to satiate Cole & Haan and other men's footwear advertisers... or are my chances of getting laid inexorably linked to how well-shined my shoes are?

'Cuz I gotta be honest. If a woman has a great ass, she could be walking around with tennis rackets tied to her feet for all I'd care.

Free Advice Fridays

Dear K&A,

My girlfriend and I have been together for close to two months now, and I love her with all of my heart. Unfortunately, there’s one thing about her that I just can't get acclimated too. She’s the self-proclaimed “girl” in the group of guys. Yes, that’s right, she has just as many if not more guy friends than I do. Just yesterday I called her to see what she was up to only to discover she was going “out for dinner and drinks with Pat,” some long-time guy friend of hers who apparently just got back from fighting in Iraq. This isn’t the first time she’s gone out with just one guy friend, either. Is this something that I should be worried about?

Ken Says: Whoa, whoa. First things first: Some dude just got back in from a war and one of the first things he needs to do is take your girlfriend out for drinks? That, my friend, is what we specialists call “a red flag.” Especially when you consider that he likely spent the last couple years of his life toting heavy artillery through a desert and living a pussy-free existence. But the bigger question here is: can men and women be friends without fucking? Now, from the guy’s perspective, I am utterly convinced that we cannot. Unless the female friend in question is 400 pounds, rife with infections, or Hilary Clinton, we, as men, are going to want to bang her. It’s just the way we’re designed. We’ve been hot-wired to toss our seed in as wide a circumference as possible during our limited time on this earth. And if there’s an even reasonably attractive woman hanging out with us, drinking and socializing, there will inevitably come that point in which we begin to wonder what it would be like to shag her. Sure, there are some women who think this way as well. But not all of them; women are much better at distinguishing boundaries between the “friends” camp and the “hot damn I have to fuck him” camp. Men just don’t give shit one. If it’s cute and available, we’re gonna hit it if offered the chance.

So I guess it comes down to how you see things. If your perspective is different from mine, and you feel that men can go hang and drink with women and keep their hands on the table and their thoughts on, say, hockey fights and hot wings, then God bless ya. Just kick back and relax and get ready for a winter full of “sorry, I’m busy. The lacrosse team wants to take me to an off-campus kegger.” But even if you trust her, if you’re the sorta guy who’s gonna worry about who she’s drinking with or dining with or fending off the advances of, then just spare yourself a lot of stress and move on to something else.

Ariel Says: It’s too bad “Pat” wasn’t short for “Patricia,” because then you’d think Pat was a bad-ass and probably has a killer GI Jane bod. Ain’t it amazing how the simple addition of a penis can screw with your head? Look, your girlfriend has the right to choose who she’s friends with, and who she dates (which is you.) That’s right dude, she chose you. So I don’t think you need to worry. It takes a confident, secure man to date someone with male friends, and I do believe you’re up to the task. However (now get ready for the caveat), I do suggest that you keep your eyes and the lines of communication open. If all of her free time is taken up with her friends (male or female) and you are relegated to a sporadic Tuesday night or Sunday afternoon, you may want to rethink the relationship. Because, hey, you’re a cool, confident dude, but you’ve also earned the privilege of first refusal as her main squeeze. Finally, if you want to be a real dick about it, apply for the busboy position at your local neighborhood Hooters and see how she feels about you hanging out with your new “friends” after work.

Need fake advice? Fire away, Sailor.

You Sexy, Psycho Bitch

I guess I used to be that once. Screaming fights, throwing his shit out the window, having tantrums on holidays, making huge scenes, preferably in dimly lit restaurants... And let me tell ya, some guys loved it. Those, of course, were the suckers who stuck around for more. Well, what if I...throw your wallet on the roof? Flush your cell phone down the toilet? Aim Ginzu knives at your head? Sell your identity to that midwestern Meth addict? OK, maybe I exaggerate. And to tell you the truth, being a nut job gets real tiring after a while. But what I find so interesting is that just like girls love the bad boys, there are some boys who will do anything to keep their psycho girlfriend.

Exercise Must Be Good For Me Because I'm Feeling Better Already.

I take a lot of heat for my rampant Denise Austin fetishism, but this clip, unearthed from what looks like 1985, has just turned my world on its axis. It's little secret that these "hey, it's chicks exercising!" shows bank on most of their ratings coming from couch-bound, beer-swilling punks like myself. But this clip really hits it home for me: the leotard with the cherry designs, the camera angles evoking a sort of Kama Sutra documentary, the trajectory young Denise's hand takes as it slowly rakes her thigh... I have little doubt that whoever directed this bit is now working porno in South America.

Oh and those legwarmers. Holla!

Oh Please Shaddap

We only just met recently, but that doesn't seem to impede us from going back to your place and taking off all of our clothes. Granted, those 6 Martian-Piss shots were a great ice-breaker, but I do believe we were destined to be together tonight, what with my 34-D's and your above-average...intelligence.

So this has been really fun. And now I'm stumbling around your bedroom looking for my panties, or perhaps a sock, trying to get back to my car before street cleaning and you're lying in bed watching me with an amused smirk on your face (or if you're really polite, you're standing in your boxers, making a half-hearted attempt to assist in the search but really just checking out my ass). And then, it comes: "I'll call you."

Goddamn it.

Why did you have to do that? We had a good time. And along with this good time, we had an unspoken agreement that this was, is, and most likely will be a one-night stand. But then you had to go and say it. And as cool and nonchalant I act, or the look of mock disgust I give you with a flippant response, you've planted the seed. You've given me Expectation, possibly worse than an STD. And try as I might to go about my day, and the business of living my superstar life, I'll now be checking my phone like a tweaker looking for his next fix.

So thanks. Thanks a lot.

Asshole.

Because It's Always Someone's Birthday Somewhere...

Let me be the first to say, "Happy Birthday." If, y'know, today happens to be your birthday.

If it's not your birthday, well... just consider the photo above an early present.

I'm not a boob guy -- as has been well documented here -- but I've been staring at this goddam photo for the past six hours. Now it's your turn.