Ho Ho Ho

Like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, the holidays are fast approaching (as if you didn't know, since the holiday shopping ads started the day after Labor Day). Now's the time to eat too much, drink too much, spend too much, and get nothing you really wanted, or even asked for (when you were sober, at least.) And with this comes the mandatory attendance of the office holiday party, an annual event which has cost many a reputation and sometimes employment, and yet still somehow keeps happening. SO the question is, is it better to have no "+1", a ploy to keep the office group "bonded" and keep down costs but somehow always ends up with Larry from Sales (married with three kids) and Elaine from HR (divorced, horny) playing "let's hide the toner" in the supply closet, OR is it better for people to bring their significant others, with the almost certain assurance that your boyfriend, instantly shitfaced from the dreamy proposition of an "open bar", and fueled by a misguided sense of chivalry and vengeance, decides to tell your boss (even better, grabs the mike from the Rent-a-DJ) what a retarded fuckface he is?

Women Do This On Purpose, Right?

So there's this woman. In my office. Probably about 32, 37 years old, something like that. Sits by herself everyday in the cafeteria. Brings nothing but a magazine and a big-ass banana. I'm talking "grown on a planet different and far stranger than ours" big. And every day, while she sits absorbed in her magazine, she wields the banana like a goddam lightsaber, unpeels it with the precision of a London cop unwiring a package from the IRA, and proceeds to spend the next twenty minutes -- yes, twenty minutes -- working it over like a friggin' prop from Deep Throat.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. But, goddam it, in my twisted mind, a woman eating a banana in a public place isn't interested in getting her vitamin C or potassium or whatever the fuck's in bananas that's good for you. She's interested in making guys think about blowjobs. And me and my hard-on can proudly confirm: mission accomplished!

Happy Monday

Jonathan and Mike just wanted to pass along a toast and a smile as you slog through the soul-sucking shittiness that is the start of the working week. Enjoy!

Free Advice Friday: Your Past, and What Girls Want to Know About It

Dear Ken and Ariel: I've been dating this guy for three months, and I recently discovered a whole stash of photos of ex-girlfriends in his closet. Like, hundreds. Nothing dirty, but I was amazed he'd have that many and that he'd hold on to them. Should I ask him to get rid of them? I hate to have constant reminders of what I'm competing against. Thanks in advance.

Ariel Says: Ah, the proverbial skeletons in the closet. Be grateful it wasn't a neatly-arranged stack of "International Male" magazines or a recently dry-cleaned Catwoman costume. But I'm not sure if 3 months gives you license or permission to start a bonfire fueled with photos of exes and Cuervo Gold. First of all, they're in the closet, not placed in frames around the apartment or propped up in some sort of weird shrine with dead flowers and half-melted candles. Secondly, perhaps he likes photography? You may want to offer to be his muse, a nice replacement for the current portfolio. At any rate, as much as it would be fun to obsess and fixate on these former flames (and draw mustaches and devil horns with a Sharpie), the past is his past and there's no need to make it part of your present.

Ken Says: I'll second what Ariel says. But a greater question is, after just three months, what are you doing tearing through the guy's closet? What comes after five months? Stealing samples of his blood? Running DNA tests on his hair strands? Secretly implanting a micro GPS in his johnson when he's asleep? Okay, so that last one only happens in Mexico, but still. You've got to lighten up a bit. Sometimes I'll date someone for three months and not even know what her middle name is, let alone start scouring her background files like some sorta CIA wannabe. Take my advice and just chill the fuck out and let things unfold at their own pace before you start asking him to torch his photo collection. Hanging on to photos of past girlfriends is perfectly normal behavoir; it's when you find the actual girlfriends themselves encased in glass cages like that guy in The Cell that you have to start worrying that your boy friend is batshit. Also, make sure any photos he holds onto are at least of relatively hot girls; any guy who keeps photographic evidence of his slumming adventures needs to be watched.

The Sweet, Slightly Rancid Smell of Desperation

Being single is one of the greatest accomplishments of the 21st century. And yet, it may sometimes feel like being a card-carrying member of the nearby leper colony. Weddings, company holiday parties, and Aunt Bernice's Thanksgiving extravaganza all imply or outright require a "date" for attendance. And when feeling pressured/coerced to find said mate, (in order to fit in and comply with our current aministration's "family values") you go to things that make you feel like a complete dork - speed dating, online blind date, or an auto shop class that is full of - you guessed it, other similarly dorkified, pissed off single women. And indeed, for what? The privilege of being interrogated by nosy relatives and inappropriate acquaintances on, ultimately, the present and future of your sex life: "So, when are you kids getting married? When you having kids?"
It's enough to make you wanna be a ho.

Wishing Myself Invisible

A few years back, I left my apartment to head to work. About a mile down the road, I realized I forgot my lunch. I doubled back, and walked into the apartment to find my roommate, let's call him Bill, sitting on the couch watching porno, a blanket around his midsection and a stunned, what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here look on his face.

Even without proper CIA training, it seemed apparent to me that I'd just walked in on my roommate jerking off, so, immediately repulsed and horrfied and queased out to the Nth degree, I looked away, stormed into the kitchen, yelled something inane like, "I just forgot my lunch so I'm going to get my lunch and here it is in the fridge so I'll just get it right now heh heh heh heh," and dashed out again.

There really is no etiquette for something like that. No standard "hey, what they hell are you doing jackin' off on our couch" kinda thing you can say to break the awkwardness. All you can really do is get the fuck outta dodge, and never, ever go anywhere near that blanket again.

Oh, and I moved out the next week.

Crackberry Dingleberries

hi gang,
IMHO, this is the current scourge of our planet - the guys (it seems to be mostly guys?) on their Crackberries and Treos, thumbing furiously or yapping continuously within earshot. It always seems to be the dudes whose social skills resemble that of a flea larvae, so interaction with an inanimate object (and a disembodied voice) is the most they can handle in public. Also, they clearly believe it bestows them a strong whiff of self-importance. "See?" their man-boobs puff out proudly, "There are PEOPLE and TASKS and PROJECTS and AGENDAS that need my immediate attention. I am a valuable member of [Dungeons & Dragons] society!"

Um...actually, you're a fucking tool.

Am I Being Duped?

Anyone who even casually reads this blog understands that I am a slave to the female derreire in all its shapes, sizes and religions. So it shouldn't surprise you that I get lots of e-mails from folks directing me to a wide range of booty pics and YouTube clips (for which, natch, I'm eternally grateful). But the clip above really has me confused. It's another one of those voyeur, "watch-me-while-I-shoot-video-of-a-woman's-ass-without-her-knowledge" things... or at least it's supposed to be. I suppose I understand how the guy could get that close to her, as he may well have had the camera concealed in a briefcase or pocket or what have you. What gets me is how the chick starts bending over. I mean, if you're a woman, and there's some dude you don't know standing behind you in an aisle of a store -- and I mean right behind you -- do you typically bend over like you're modeling jeans or readying yourself for some twisted OB-GYN tool? Myself, I think she was in on it the whole time.

The Official "Jumping the Shark" moment of Halloween

Hi folks,
Well, as you know, Halloween is the one day of the year when girls can dress like sluts and it's all good, and heck, even my 3 year old niece is getting into the act with her sexy "Bratz" costume, and blah blah blah blah. But yesterday I think was probably the last straw. I saw Hooters girls (what do you want, it's on my way to work) dress as slutty Bo-Peep and slutty Alice in Wonderland, while girls strolled by outside the restaurant...DRESSED AS HOOTERS GIRLS. But then it gets better. I saw....a slutty tow truck. Yes, that's correct; this woman had on thigh-high black stiletto boots, black tights, a tight spandex top and this cute fabric cut out of a TOW TRUCK around her torso. Form fitting! With the hook and everything! So yes, when we've gotten to the point where inanimate objects or various modes of transport start taking on a "sexy" appearance, I think it's time to go back to the 1600's where Halloween was considered evil and people were burned at the stake. Peace out!