There's a Reason Why They're Exes, You Know...

...or in this case, closer to 10,000 reasons...

Men Are Pigs...

Contrary to Einstein’s theories about the speed of light, this simple formulation is, without a doubt, the true Universal Constant.

I was reminded of this time-honored rule of thumb by a snippet of conversation I heard between two pimpled guidos of approximate high school age in the local Dunkin’ Donuts just yesterday.

A Lunatic in Love?

I haven’t been blogging recently because I’ve been rather busy. You see, here I was doing some research for a post last week when I came across something I most certainly did not ever expect to see.


An obituary.

And not just any obituary; this one belonged to the father of a young lady I once dated at the tender age of 19, or at least it was someone with the same name. So, I checked it out, and sure enough, he was survived by a daughter who had the same first name as this old girlfriend. It gets worse, because her name was cross-referenced several times.

In three other obituaries.

The girl had lost her father, a sister, a brother, and her husband, all in the space of two years.

Something was awakened in this Lunatic, an emotion that he vaguely remembers from the very distant past. I think they called it ‘sympathy’ once. It’s not something that comes to me naturally in my Old Age. There’s been too much damage done, too many miles have been put on this ancient mental engine. But I did put my absolutely freakin’ awesome internet skills to work and tracked down this poor unfortunate woman, who coincidentally, lives less than 5 miles from my own front doorstep (and has for some time. Itmight have been dangerous had either known this previously). He made that call to say “I’m truly sorry…if there’s anything I can do…” and…

…The Lunatic and The Lady met three days later. It was the first time they had seen each other in nearly 14 years, and they were almost instantly transported back to a time when they were 19, couldn’t keep their hands off one another, and could get completely day-you-were-born naked before you could say “John Smith”.

That was the problem the first time around, you see.

Youth, they say, is wasted on the young. You could say that was never truer than in the case of The Lunatic and The Lady. We were so young -- and stupid. The courtship was whirlwind, it was passionate, and it was all-too-short. It burned too bright and far too hot, way too soon. This young buck was an immature doofus, completely ruled by his emotions; possessive, demanding, obsessive, jealous. In some ways, she wasn’t a Girl; she was a fortress to be stormed, relentlessly, until the walls all came tumbling down. I frightened her with sheer intensity; She became my drug of choice, and I did actually think I might die if I didn’t at least hear her voice every few hours.

I was convinced that this was THE ONE, but in retrospect, that decision was made by a horny, needy, clingy, 19-year-old who knew nothing about the realities of Life, and even less about True Love.

When she did the sensible thing and suggested that we see other people (we were about 20 at the time), this Lunatic was devastated. He became vindictive and took her up on her offer with a little trollop who made no bones about what she intended to do, which was to stake her claim upon me. Not to brag, but as a young dude, I was damned cute, I had a job that literally showered me with cash, and I could do The Nasty for hours on end.

I was a catch, as they say. But my heart lay elsewhere. No amount of consequence-free sex was enough to overcome that feeling that I should be with a special someone else.

I then did perhaps the dumbest thing any young man driven crazy by love and all-consuming passion could do; I told The Lady – who was on the verge of changing her mind about the status of our relationship at the time, unbeknownst to me – the truth about my indiscretions, and worse, who they were with (The Trollop had a reputation, built upon the scrawls found only on the finest Men’s Room walls in all of Brooklyn, and by salacious word of mouth. We (my group of male friends at the time) used to say of the Trollop that her greatest ambition in life was to screw her way through the White Pages).

But what can I say? Men are dogs, even in the best of circumstances, and drunk 19/20-year-olds with an erection and a broken heart are perhaps the biggest hounds of all.

In some strange way, I think, it (telling the Lady of my dalliances) was even an expression -- a mentally-deranged one, though it may be -- of love and loyalty. Or at least I may have thought it was at the time. Really, it was more a case of guilty conscience; I was a rotten (in the sense of not being a good one) liar at the time, a skill I unfortunately would acquire as the years went on and mental disorder crept in, and could never hide anything. Besides, we were bound to bump into the Trollop at a later date (we did, and it wasn’t a pretty scene, long story short).

The Lady and The Lunatic continued to see each other on and off for a while, lingering in some sort of relationship Limbo, until IT happened.

IT was an unplanned pregnancy. It almost always is.

We were 20, we were pregnant, and despite The Lunatic’s (totally genuine) proposal of marriage, The Lady was having none of it. She was too young to be a wife and mother, and who the hell knew what sort of husband/father I would have been? In retrospect, I most likely would have been absolutely lousy in both roles. I would have tried my hardest, but these are two areas in life where “A For Effort” just doesn’t cut it. You either succeed or you fail spectacularly.

And here I was, a heartbroken, emotionally-insecure-and-immature drunkard (I had already begun drinking heavily by this time, although I was managing to be the absolute best functioning alcoholic you ever did see) when the decision was made for me; The Lady would have an abortion.

She would have done it without me, but I couldn’t let her face that by herself. I didn’t want to do it, either, but what choice was there? I took her to the clinic. I waited for her. I tried my best in the days after to comfort her, but I was hurting something fierce, too.

We formed what psychiatrists call a trauma bond after that. We could never truly abandon one another, but we also couldn’t be together in quite the way we used to. This sad state of affairs went on for nearly 10 years. We would see one another occasionally, we would even…you know…but things were never quite the same after that. I wanted her, and I hated her. I loved her, but couldn’t forgive her. I could not let it go. She did. She couldn’t have survived otherwise, I think.

Me, on the other hand, I need my wounds to remain raw, to wallow in guilt, shame, and pain, if only because without that agony I will simply forget what not to do and become that which I hate the most; Your Average Male.

We finally said goodbye about a week before she was married. And then there was nothing for 14 years until I had accidentally found an obituary searching for information on someone else. Serendipity. Or was it?

I haven't told you about The Dream…

Three days before I had found that obituary, I’d had a dream. It was one of those dreams that occurs just moments before you awaken, and you don’t know where the original premise came from, or how it started, or even how it ends. You seem to have been just dropped into the dream at some random moment with no idea of what came before, what it’s about, or what you’re doing there, and somehow, you manage to just get swept up in the action before you get pulled out abruptly at yet another random moment. And then you’re awake.

In this dream, I found myself having to explain to my nephews just who The Lady was, why they never knew her, and where she might be now, and finding myself with no answers for their questions.

I don’t believe I had even thought about her for at least a decade before then.

I don’t really hold with that whole “dreams as a predictor of the future” nonsense, but this is the second time in my life -- that I’m aware of -- that I have dreamed something and then had Real Life throw me something directly related to the Dream. Both times it was about a woman from my past, and both times I got the impression that they needed me, or wanted something from me, at the time. Why can’t I dream winning Lotto numbers, instead?

We’re 44 now. There’s been a lot of growing up done in the interim. I’m determined to be a better person nowadays (yeah right!), one who isn’t ruled by his feelings (or his privates), who looks very carefully before he leaps, but that plan was blown to smithereens almost in an instant. In a sense, we’ve become 19 again, you see, transported back in time and space and what felt right and natural then feels very much the same now, and it all seems to have happened seamlessly and quite accidentally. We fell into our old bad habits almost immediately, but this time around, it’s somehow better.

Maybe now we actually know what we’re doing? Or rather, perhaps there have been some boundaries established even if we haven’t actually talked about them, as such.

I don’t know where this all eventually goes (two dates with your Ex from the Iron Age does not The Rest of Your Life make!), but I don’t seem to have the usual supply of venom to put on the page these days. I haven’t felt much like blogging, or railing against the stupidity of my fellow bags of protoplasm, and truthfully, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything else this past week, either. I seem to be a bit preoccupied, so excuse me if you come here expecting your daily dose of caustic word vomit, only to leave miserably disappointed.

I’m trying my best whilst laboring under some very unusual circumstances, so please bear with me.

I’m positive that in the coming days, someone will do something so completely stupid that it simply cannot be allowed to pass without comment and all will be right with the world again.

Cure for the Jihad? More Sex...

A Good Wife is a Sex Worker To Her Husband.

So sayeth some Muslim Women's group or other. There's two ways to intepret this story:

a. Women are the cause of all the evils of this world. Best they should just shut up and become somebody's willing slambag.

b. If these women actually succeed, you might just see the Jihad disappear overnight.

Because one of the primary, motivating factors in the Global Jihad (apart from Muzzies being uncivilized little ignoramuses) is sex. The Islamonazi just can't get enough, and he lives in a sewer of a culture which denies him outlets outside of marriage...unless we're talking livestock.

Or the other boys in the cave.

What the woman in this article seems to be describing is what we in the West would refer to as the Madonna/Whore Complex. The crux of this complex is that a woman must fulfill two, often contradictory, roles, simultaneously: she is to be the very model of the 'Good' Wife and Mother. Obedient, pious, meticulous in her care of children and household, publicly respectable, in all ways an extension of her husband, who should never be embarassed in public.

But behind closed tent flaps, she'd better have all the sexual skills, adventurism, and morals, of the A-list porn star.

I know several women south of the Mason-Dixon who would fall into this category; the church-going, well-known pillar of the community kind, maybe of a prominent family, who become a completely different chick as soon as someone's naked and the lights go out. Northern women don't even wait for the lights.

You know, these Muzzie chicks just might be onto something. If Abdul is too busy watching his wives perform oral sex upon one another while the third one performs a nasty upon him, he might stay home more often. Men up to their armpits in pussy tend to be too busy to build roadside bombs, plot terrorist attacks, or snipe at American troops.

Think of it this way: while Hassan is busy porking (doh!) his Good Lady Wives, we could...ahem...pull out...of Afghanistan and Iraq, and nobody would notice.

It's a good sign that in at least one backwards place on Planet Earth, some women are actually suggesting something positive in the efforts to stem the worldwide Jihad. This suggestion is a far cry more useful and doable than anything that has come from the mouths of Western Feminists, who incidentally, don't really give a shit about their oppressed Muslim sisters unless they can attack a Republican by feigning concern and outrage.

If the terrorists are too busy busting a nut, they ain't hijacking anything. And getting your rocks off in this life sort of takes the 'can't wait' factor out of thepromised 72 virgins in the afterlife. Besides, don't you want some chick who knows what she's doing? There's nothing worse than a woman who can't cover her teeth...unless she's chipped one, then that's far worse.

It's also for damned sure a much simpler view of male/female relationships than the one we've evolved here in the West, which has gotten so complicated, so full of extraneous bullshit, and which simply drips with the greatest stupidity and aggravation that the female mind can contrive. Dating is damned difficult nowadays, Ladies, and you made it that way. Don't think so? Then read this:

18 Things All Men Need to Know That Women Won't Tell Them.

My, how helpful you are. We need information, but you won't give it to us. So much for the vaunted 'communication skills' of women. But then I read the article, and no wonder they can't tell us these things!

The article (despite it's glaring grammatical and spelling errors -- someone actually got paid to write this?) is basically devoted to s single premise: women want a Metrosexual. Be the best damned  Metrosexual you can be, young man, and you'll soon be swimming in snatch, yesssiiirrreee!

I think this was once covered in an episode of South Park, truthfully.

At least one third of the article is devoted to hair care and hairstyles, fashion, and...hand lotion. I especially loved this line:

"You need to have the right amount of sex, money and career in [your] hairstyle."

Really?

Just what the fuck does that mean? No wonder you haven't told us, girls! You'd probably be ashamed to utter that in public, wouldn't you?

And people wonder why divorce rates are so high, why consumption of porn is at an all-time high, and why the Japanese are busy devising the sex robot: how the fuck -- as a Man -- do you relate to a shallow dingbat who demands the 'right amount' of 'sex, money and career' in your fucking haircut? By what standard are such things measured? Gentlemen, doesn't shit like this just drive you insane?

It's no wonder I find this fake woman to be the sexiest in all the world!

The Sexiest Woman in America...

…just would have to be a fictional television character. By the way, that photo is obviously Photoshopped and I didn’t do it: I simply found it on the web.


Flo the Progressive Insurance chick is, without a doubt, the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. This is both exciting and a crying shame…and maybe a little disturbing, too.

Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something about that perky, quirky babe in her 1960’s up do, and 1950’s eye makeup, but if you’re a red-blooded ‘merican male, after a while you start to wonder just what is underneath that hospital-white apron and the ‘tricked-out nametag’, and what the Unicorns and Glitter girl just might be like in the sack.

And herein...ahem... lay (sorry) the genius behind Flo: She’s cute. She’s lovable. She’s so goddamned girly. And a far cry from what's available to the Average American Male.

It’s a pity that in Modern America most women fall into a category somewhere between ‘rabid piranha’ and ‘wounded wolverine with cramps’. Nearly fifty years of feminism has made your average babe about as approachable as a bear trap with a hair trigger. Women today are nasty. They are suspicious. They have a chip on their shoulder that causes a good many to consider anything with a beard and testicles to be a rape just waiting to happen. Where feminism hasn’t destroyed the natural affinity between Men and Women, it has fed the Modern Female with a great deal of other nonsense with which to clutter their brains; a Woman, they say, can do anything a Man can do, only better. And maybe this is true under certain circumstances, unless, of course, it requires brute strength, an ability to whizz standing up, or squashing spiders. It has also created a mindset wherein Men are often seen as dangerous, unnecessary, or, at best, an accessory.

Feminism has also dictated that wherever possible a woman should feign to think and behave as Men do, which is kind of a screwy idea since no Woman can think and behave as a Man does, if only for the simple fact that they’re not Men. Instead, women get their ideas of how they believe Men Think and Behave from the worst possible sources – the media, some book written by a half-baked therapist, or Cosmo, and until recently, Oprah. Nothing like getting advice on how to act like a Dude from another Chick. This has produced what I like to privately call “The Bruno”; a woman who goes out of her way to behave in a most unladylike manner, usually laboring under the deluded belief that she's ‘liberating’ herself. This sort of woman is combative, she uses foul language casually, has tattoos, tells dirty jokes that might even make me blush; she probably takes up a trade that once was the sole domain of Men (usually something to do with power tools, because they are a symbol of masculinity, and in a pinch, vibrate a lot).

Bruno doesn’t want you to come near her. You can tell from her demeanor, and the puss on her face that could curdle used motor oil. She bares her fangs and threatens to kick your ass if you do come near her, and if she decides that she will, indeed, have you, she reserves the right to be the aggressor. She's learned the Art of Wooing Men from watching re-runs of Oz. If you ever try to turn the tables on her, or can't figure out her convoluted system of when to treat her like a woman, and when to treat her as whatever the fuck she wants to be treated like at this very second, she gets pissed and tells you to fuck off.

That’s when you don't find one from the other end of the spectrum: the complete, sperm-burping sluts who never met an STD they didn’t enjoy passing on, usually out of spite or stupidity.

Flo, on the other hand, seems infinitely approachable. She seems friendly. She’s so naturally feminine. If you aren’t turned on by that then there’s something wrong with you, Homeboy.

But, alas, Flo isn’t real. She’s the invention of an advertising agency and a rather talented comedic actress. I’m almost positive that a ‘real’ Flo must exist somewhere in America (there had to be a role model, after all), but I have yet to find her. This is the greatest tragedy of all…for Men all over America.

If there were a million Flo’s, there’d be a million more happily married couples, I should think.

Why, if Anthony Weiner had had a Flo to go home to he wouldn’t have to momentarily stop rubbing one out to type “Baby, that feels sooooo good…” into his Blackberry, and trying exceptionally hard (shit,I had to go there, didn't I?) to make it sound convincing, and perhaps never daring to put his Congressional career at risk. If Arnold had a Flo to go home to, he wouldn’t be banging hideously ugly domestics…or hideously ugly Kennedys (sorry, that’s redundant), either, for that matter.

And before someone (usually some frigid, trailer-trash, diesel-dyke-bitch with a Community College Sociology Degree) starts accusing me of harboring some sick male fantasy of wanting to return to the ghastly days of the pre-sexual revolution, when Women were mere kitchen slaves and baby-makers, mere objects to be put upon a pedestal and fawned upon, I want you to think about just how liberated Flo truly is:

She has an important job. One, incidentally, she seems to enjoy immensely, and one in which she appears to have a great deal of responsibility. One gets the impression that Flo runs the entire operation there at the Progressive Store, and in some of the commercials she’s seen training her male colleagues in the in’s-and-out’s of the insurance business (oops, shouldn’t say ‘in-and-out’ in reference to Flo, someone might get the wrong idea), and sometimes giving them orders and directions. She’s obviously the leader of All Things Progressive Store.

Flo dances to the beat of her own drummer. She can be flighty, but is always serious about the business of insurance. She’s funny and witty, and in her own way, as sharp as a tack. She appears to be one of those ‘people persons’ I keep hearing about but never seem to actually encounter. Flo talks to everyone in the same friendly and helpful manner, regardless of race or sex. She doesn’t seem to notice such petty distinctions in any way whatsoever. Flo is never judgmental, she’s never harsh, and you can never imagine a four-letter invective flying out of her mouth.

One almost believes that Flo never uses a bathroom; when she has to answer Nature’s Call, you imagine a flock of snow-white doves and little pink elves descending from the skies to take it away for her.She's sweet, she's pure, you could never in a million years attribute anything dirty, unseemly, or disgusting to her.

But Flo has a rebellious side, too, you know; She knows and loves her motorcycles (she rides a 950 V-twin, in case you’ve forgotten), and yet somehow she always manages to pull that helmet off with her exquisite and meticulous hairstyle completely unruffled, with nary a bug in her teeth, her make-up undisturbed, and her virgin-white apron showing proudly beneath her leather jacket.

Flo is simply an awesome chick, in all respects. If all THAT isn’t the true Feminist Ideal – without the perpetual and figurative water retention – then I don’t know just what the fuck is. No man in his right mind would even dream of cheating on Flo. If there were more Flos, there'd probably be fewer homosexuals, too, and if not, then they could at least share eyeshadow.

You can keep your Miss Americas; you can have your surgically-enhanced “Real Housewives”; you can forget every Supermodel (except Kathy Ireland or Brooklyn Decker, maybe?) that has ever graced the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions, and I’ll take Flo over them every goddamned time, hand’s down, and twice on Sundays.

One of these days, when the Japanese finally perfect the Companion Robot, they could do far worse than to use Flo as their template and then mass produce the shit out of the sucker. The American Market for a robot that’s based upon a facsimile of a fictional woman that is far more appealing than most real live ones is a guaranteed money maker.

It might even save the Japanese economy.

You couldn’t produce a Flo Robot in this country, primarily because the Indian and Chinese Engineers we’d have to import know jack shit about Sex and girls, but mostly because the mere suggestion of it would send some Femzilla into a hissy fit for the ages (mostly out of jealousy), complete with lawsuits, boycotts, crying, and the withholding of sex….from someone….assuming someone would want any from a woman like that.

I’d like to see that potential Feminazi Champion hop right up on her Menstrual Cycle and challenge Flo to a bike race, if only to see Flo leave the bitch in the dust.

Pretty Girls Get Free Stuff...

No shit? Usually, though, the really pretty ones get husbands, engagement rings and three-bedroom Colonials-with-maid-service in the Suburbs. This chick held out for bus rides, cab fare and cake. Imagine what she could have gotten had she really been trying?

Personally, I am happy to give pretty girls certain bodily fluids that I'm otherwise not using and have no desire to keep, absolutely free of charge.

(H/T The Frisky.com)

"Whore" Is Never A Good Career Choice...

There's two sorts of trollops in this world: the ones who end up decomposing on a beach on Long Island, and the ones who willfully, blindly, and unconsciously choose physical and mental serfdom because it's easier than getting a real job, while laboring under the false impression that they are 'empowering' themselves.

A Playboy Bunny complains about her Sexual Serfdom. Yawn. You have to give her points for this belated observation:

"Little did I realize that by moving into the mansion I was losing all the freedom I associated with the Playboy lifestyle."

Well, DUH!!!! What do you think happens in a whorehouse, Dipshit? It might be a fancier, better-decorated whorehouse, in a ritzy zip code, but it's still a whorehouse all the same!

It's also good to know that there's plenty of STD's, unwanted pregnancies, and dog shit floating around Hef's digs (allegedly) to make the place a Disneyland of the Disgusting. It all certainly must provide the proper ambiance.

Not to be a jerk, but some women can be monumentally stupid, even after 50 years of 'Feminism', and probably BECAUSE of 50 years of Feminism, if you ask me. The 'Why" is not all that difficult to understand: Feminism tells women that they posses a weapon more powerful than a nuclear warhead -- a vagina -- and then instructs them on how to use it to their supposed advantage, using it liberally in this case, judicially in others, as the circumstances dictate.

It never tells them that while Men might be grateful for sex, and thus -- for a time -- behave themselves in a way the Woman requires for so long as she sees fit to bestow her graces upon him, it singularly neglects to inform them (because then this would cause the entire mentality that underlies Feminism to collapse under it's own (water) weight) that Men are perfectly capable of going someplace else for a little Belly Bumping when you won't oblige.

Feminism, -- much like Communism and Barack Obama Economic Schemes -- discounts human nature and reality, when it doesn't obstinately refuse to acknowledge the existence of either completely. Any serious study of biology will tell you a simple truth about Men: we're Opportunists, and we're hard-wired to fuck everything that moves. If you won't, then surely someone else will, and if the basis of our relationship is you using Sex in order to profit(materially or professionally), then we'll, eventually, figure it all out and head for greener pastures rather than continue to be played for suckers.

You want to know how I know Feminism is a complete failure? Because I've never met a HAPPY Feminist, and they all have the same complaint about Men: they're all Sunshine and Skittles when you're giving it up on a regular basis. but as soon as you ask for that Promotion, the better grade, or the Diamond tennis bracelet, they're out of there so fast they leave a vapor trail behind them.

Feminism conveniently forgets to tell them that Men are Masters of Manipulation. Offered as proof: it has been (mostly) Men who have invented things like Psychiatry, Marketing, Mass-Media and Propaganda, which are all often concerned with feeding you the biggest plate of bullshit you've ever seen in your life, while making you eager to scarf it all up with a tablespoon and then ask for more. In one of the greatest ironies in all of History, it's apparent that without Men to lay the groundwork (political, ideological, scientific, legal, communications, moral, etc) for it, Feminism could probably never have existed in the first place!

It's enough to make you wonder if Feminism wasn't always some nefarious plot hatched by an evil genius with overactive gonads.

Hell, even at my advanced age and expanding waistline, I still have a phone book (relatively) full of booty calls, fuck buddies and hump-and-a-hot-dog dates, and the only reason there isn't a steady supply of hot-and-cold running vaginas here at Lunatic Central is because there's no challenge in it (we do still enjoy The Chase, and forming the intellectual and emotional bondsnecessary for a committed relationship, even if we never say so), and because I've (mostly) outgrown the Easy Conquest. And even if I didn't have such a resource at my fingertips, there's still enough low-hanging fruit available on a daily basis to ensure that the problem of where to park a boner for an evening when the usual, ready supply is unavailable is not an insurmountable one, on par with climbing Everest or splitting the atom.

Thank you, Feminists!

(Ed. Note: Rule of thumb, Gentlemen: the more divorces a woman has on her record, the easier she is to get naked. I personally know two who have three or more to their credit who screw like minks without you having to buy a mink, first).

Hugh Hefner simply recognized a set of circumstances that these ladies didn't, or which they already knew but wouldn't/couldn't admit to themselves -- they're all looking for a free ride in life; they've discovered that their looks open a lot of wallets, they've been trained to give it up with little thought by Feminists as a means of 'personal liberation' for the last five decades, and most people lack the same critical thinking skills you'd expect to find in an armadillo. These women (Hef's Harem) are basically trading their bodies for a nice place to live, a measure of fame, unlimited plastic surgery, and a thousand bucks a week. And some of them are so desperate for even that questionable bounty that they're willing to further degrade themselves and fuck an 80-yr-old cardboard cut-out hopped up on Viagra.

Because it beats working for a living, doesn't it?

Predictably, the dumber ones find themselves grateful for the opportunity, and the ones with at least two braincells to rub together eventually become bitter when they finally realize they've been had. When we reach that stage then someone has to be blamed for this bitterness and feelings of being taken advantage of -- but not to worry, Feminism has an answer for that one too -- it's called 'Victimhood'. The idea that someone who's made a bad life choice and doesn't like the consequences isn't really complicit in their own descent into crapitude is the hallmark of Feminist Thought (contradiction in terms).

It's always someone else's fault, and someone is always being taken advantage of. No one is ever responsible for anything, unless of course, it becomes convenient that they should. Like when you file a sexual harassment/discrimination suit.

Hefner simply discovered the metaphorical equivalent to an Arms Control regime in the War of the Sexes: You may have a pussy, Sunshine, but it's always been for sale. It's just that some come with a lower price tag.

And before I get nasty e-mail: yes, Pussy has always been for sale. The only differences between prostitution and marriage are a license, a bunch of legal/social protections/obligations, and the fact that The Man has made a choice to forsake all other vaginas because he likes your's best. And the Scarlet Woman doesn't get to have a judge dispose of your house and property and hand half the proceeds over to her, just because you left the toilet seat up. This is not just me being a sarcastic dipshit, either: it's biology at work. Don't think so? Read The Naked Ape and The Human Zoo. Those books are far more informative and a better investment of your time than that Jacqueline Suzanne or Jodi Piccault shit you all seem to read these days, and it won't give you a migraine and make you all menstrual, like Oprah does.

They're also an excellent How-To guide on picking up chicks. But, I digress...

As for the Bunnies: I have no sympathy whatsoever for any of them. Choices -- especially bad ones -- always have consequences. You break it, you bought it, as Colin Powell used to say before he became a moral coward.

Remember Ladies: if you wish to be valued and respected, then value and respect yourself, first. Then assholes like Me and Hef will be forced to treat you accordingly, and then you won't have to complain about being obligated to blow a rapidly-aging adolescent on a tight schedule.

The Words That Make Me Want to Puke...

...or go on a shooting spree. Take your pick.

Sunday, I had a date. Nothing much, just meeting an old girlfriend for coffee and desert, to catch up on things and maybe spend a few hours doing something other than playing Empire Earth (yes, I still play that game. It's still fucking awesome). Earlier in the week I had been nearly done in by an (I assume) illegal alien in a Ford who apparently hasn't learned that Rojo significa detener, pendejo! , who nearly snuffed Your's Truly, but only managed to cause me to fall and sprain my ankle badly. We'll be seeing an orthopaedist this week (like I can afford that?) to find out if I'm going to be crippled for life. 

Anywhoo, the radiologist who took my x-rays turned out to be an old girlfriend of mine, Debbie (not her real name). Debbie and I were an item for about....oh, a whole two months..back in the day. The reasons why it ended:
       
1. Debbie was a drug addict. A functioning drug addict. Who required a steady supply of manufactured drama in order to justify every trip to the medicine cabinet so as to avoid the shame of realizing that she was an addict. As far as she was concerned, if we'd argued about whether the sky was blue or not, this was just enough conflict to justify the eternal My-Life-Sucks-I-need-to-forget- about-it-where's-my-percocet? cycle. Naturally, she would usually start that argument for no reason that I could ever discern, and then tell me to get lost, apparently so I that wouldn't see her taking drugs.
       
2. I'm not exactly certain that I was a prince among men in those days, either. I think I was still drinking, though not as much as I had been previously -- I may have begun sobering up by that time -- and I'm sure that emotionally I wasn't exactly at my best. I remember being wary of Debbie, and not really trusting her as far as I could throw her. I was pretty much convinced that whatever happened in that relationship, she would almost definitely break my heart (story of my life), so I broke hers, pre-emptively.
         
But hey, the sex was awesome. And Debbie was a terrific cook. She could turn a dead snake, a thorn bush, and a desert boot into a gourmet meal. But, I digress...
     
So, there we are, Sunday night, tiramizu and coffee. Debbie looks better than I ever remember her looking. She looks healthy. She was always very pretty, but often sick. She's put on some weight, yes, but then again, she is 45 now (I think. I never really did know how old she was to begin with). She apparently cannot wait to hear my life story, which freaks me the fuck out a little bit. She's become a little intense (as opposed to when she was supremely intense, and not always in a good way), I think you'd call it enthusiasm rather than the manic energy that she used to have, and she smiles a whole lot more. Back then, Debbie only smiled if genuinely amused, and rarely emitted more than a stunted chuckle. Now, you can't stop her from doing both.

 It is both a pleasant change, and an indication that something is wrong with this woman. No one who isn't taking something is this happy. Is she still high? It's unnatural. Then again, I'm a cynic and a compulsive worrier, and probably reading far too much into this whole thing.
     
She's totally immersed in my words, and truth to tell, I'm not even sure what the fuck I'm talking about half the time. It's small talk, mostly, until she asks direct and pointed questions. Because I'm an asshole, she gets direct and pointed answers. She maintains eye contract the entire time, interrupting only to ask a polite question or inject an insight or two. I'm not telling her everything, because that's a sure-fire way to blow any chance of getting laid. That's on page one of the Manual, you see. Have to hold the worst of the bad stuff back, dammit, while still being relatively truthful. Not that I really have anything to hide, anymore.
            
But there's something...unusual...going on here. I've seen that look, experienced this all-too-cheerful ebullience before...where was it...? My radar is on. If I quickly turn the subject from me to her, I'm sure she'll say something that'll give me a clue. Why is this person so completely different from the one I used to know?

And just as sure as your Muslim next-door neighbor eventually being implicated in a bomb plot, I heard those words that I knew must enter the conversation at some point, and then I knew why Debbie wasn't Debbie anymore.

"Well, first I want you to know that I have accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior...." Where's the fucking door? I'm about to get killed by an avalanche of bullshit and I need to flee right fucking now.

But no. I would like to think that I've mellowed a little bit in my old age, and have finally learned not to judge too quickly, but after enduring two solid hours of Jesus-this-and-Jesus-that, I've come to the conclusion that first-impressions, no matter how fleeting or facile, are probably still the best arbiter of When to Stay and When to Go.

It turns out that I knew the particulars of her story before she even told them; after we parted ways, Debbie took up with a someone we both knew...from a bar we used to frequent...who's only saving graces were that he was an Adonis...and a small-time drug dealer. Otherwise, he was a loser with the intelligence of an ox, and he probably smelled like one, too. They dated for a bit, and then married, with predictable results. When he was finally arrested, and she was being looked at by the cops as an accessory to his stupidity, she'd finally come to that rock-bottom moment that all addicts must have.

You can't avoid that rock-bottom moment. It's set out at the end of your path for you the moment you begin your descent into stupidity. The lucky ones survive the rock-bottom moment and the unfortunate ones don't. The really lucky ones are those around the moron who happen to avoid being taken down with them.

The Church 'saved' her. Now, I've known quite a few lowlifes in my time, and it never ceases to amaze me how many of them have found their way into some religious douchebaggery as a means of salvaging their lives. I'm of two minds on this phenomenon; the first is that finding Jesus is easier than a 12-step program, and cheaper than a psychiatrist, and also requires the least amount of thought or effort. All you need to do is believe, in effect, surrendering your ability to think and learn for the comfort (possibly false comfort) that Life is something which is outside of your ability to control; rather than continue to fight, rationally, for mastery of your own out-of-your-hands-anyway Life, why not just give up now, and put your trust in something Invisible and All-powerful that loves you so much that He/She/It apparently was not even willing to make any effort whatsoever to keep you from smoking crack, drinking yourself into oblivion, or attempting to kill yourself? Yep, makes perfect sense to me; God only helps when you decide that blind and unquestioning obedience to Him/Her/It is the only option left open to you. Now if that ain't Love, then just what the fuck is? I think I saw that on a Hallmark Card, once.

But then again, it seems to work for many folks. I must admit that I gave it a try once or twice, and then finally figured out why it works:

People who would take to drinking, shooting heroin, destroying their careers, bodies and families, people who would take the lowest road to Perdition that you can imagine, are preternaturally stupid and cowardly. If they had any brains or innate courage, they probably wouldn't have gotten to that low point in the first place.

I took an informal count of all the Born Again Christians I know, approximately 30 of them, and discovered what I thought I would: before they were washed in the Blood, they were probably the most despicable people you'd ever hope to meet. A good number were people who were simply 'lost'; they never seemed to fit in anywhere, and had no sense of 'belonging'. Most had unhappy childhoods and family lives, and whatever crap they had gotten into was both a means of escape and an entryway into some kind of camaraderie.with others. Whatever. I know I drank because I was a miserable bastard who was under the mistaken impression that Life Owed Him Everything and it Was All Fucking Unfair, so who am I, really, to criticize?

So, there she was, arrested, her child taken from her because she was an addict married to a dimwit who made his living pushing poison and outside the law. She was released after a day or two, and then went right home to clean out that medicine cabinet. No more percocets, no more halcyon, the stash of pot the cops never found went right down the toilet. She filed for divorce, she started Narcotics Anonymous, she wanted her daughter back, and then she wanted some measure of normalcy. She finally passed that radiology certification exam that she had studied for like 10 years to take, and had failed twice before.
She got the kid, she got the house, and Dimwit died in the can, lucky her.

She still prays for him, though.

The rest of the evening went something like this:

Boy, you're not the same person I remember. Do you think I've changed much?

Yes, I would say you're a completely different person now. I rather like it.

Weird, you know?

Well, we all have to grow up at some point, right? We hope to, anyway. Neither one of us was really mature, or ready for some kind of commitment, back then.

That is sooooo right. You know, that reminds me of St. Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians where....

 ...YAWN...

You tired?

Excuse me! I don't know what's come over me. I'm not really tired but somehow can't stop yawning. So, you think the Yankees will win 100 games this year?

The conversation, such as it was, repeated this most-annoying cycle; she would throw out an inanity, try to correlate it with whatever verse of Scripture that inanity 'reminded her of', and then I'd quickly try to change the subject. Despite my best efforts, I still got an earful of Jonah, Moses, Thomas Aquinas, and Pope Benedict.

Roman Catholicism hasn't changed much since I gave it up. I can see why: it doesn't need to. The world is still full of assholes who will swallow it all whole.

And then she told me I that was "a good listener...a lot more patient than you used to be...I've really enjoyed seeing you again. Would you like to do this again? Maybe I'll cook something...?"

She just couldn't stay out late on a Saturday night, she tells me, because she is expected to be at Church bright and early, cleaning and polishing the place within an inch of it fucking life before services. It calmed her, she said, gave her a feeling of peace and purpose.

Good for you.

I told her that I'll be busy for the next couple of weeks, and want to get off these miserable crutches, but that I will call her soon. As if.

Then again, her boobs seem to have gotten bigger, so who knows? Maybe if you can steer her away from the Beast of Revelations it might be possible to talk about the Beast With Two Backs?
Yes, I'm terrible. Spare me the e-mail, please, ladies?

The Sun, The Moon and the Stars.,.

The moon tonight will be the closest to Earth than it has been in the last 18 years,and will also be full this evening. Some advice, Gentlemen: Chill some wine, or warm some cocoa, set out a couple of lounge chairs in the backyard, get a nice, cozy blanket, and then call that special someone. Do this right, and you'll be doing the Horizontal Mambo before you know it.

Just wrap that rascal, okay?

A Trip Through My Mailbox,Part III...

There are an awful lot of new visitors to the Asylum this week. I welcome you, and hope you enjoy your visit. Feel free to read anything you want and to post anything you like. I usually don't answer my e-mail (unless it's really good), but the Asylum Elves are on strike (they want dental, you see) and so in my capacity as Management, it behooves me to take on the menial tasks that they used to do in the name of good customer service.

Q: Wow! You've been blogging for a long time now! How come I never saw this blog before?

A: Because you weren't looking for it, obviously. Then again, I wasn't sitting here trying to be noticed. I don't advertise, and frankly, when I started this crap seven years ago it was supposed to be therapy. I never really expected anyone to actually read it, so I didn't promote it. Really, I mean, some of the stuff I wrote back then is absolutely awful, but in my defense, if I wasn't drunk, then I was zonked on Xanax or Zoloft , or suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Promoting my blog -- with my mental distress pasted all over it -- wasn't exactly something I was out to achieve.

If you've found this blog in the past, it was completely by accident. If you've found it in the last week or so, it was pretty much under the same circumstances. I didn't expect to find my rantings on Twitter, or for the New York Times to come a'callin' with a request for an interview. Anyways, so long as you're here, you might as well get a drink and fasten your seat belts; it's a wild ride pretty much all the time.

Q: Why are you so angry?
A: This is NOT anger. Believe me, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry -- as it's not even half as funny. What some take for anger is simply me being at a point in my life where I simply do not give a shit about what anyone else thinks of me. Therefore, I pull no punches, and I say exactly what is on my mind. Some people are uncomfortable with this level of frankness, but as I said, I really don't give a shit what you might think about it. This is still America, and I can say whatever I goddamned please.

I don't expect everyone to agree with me, and I certainly expect that most won't. I'm also aware that this sort of blunt expression makes some people shake their heads and tsk-tsk, especially with the language that gets used here, but I'm sorry: I'm a native New Yorker and it's fucking genetic. Deal.

Q. Why do you hate Muslims/Christians/Women/Blacks/Poor People/Democrats so much?
A. If you seriously have to ask why anyone should hate Muslims, then I suggest you have your family sign that Do Not Resuscitate Order right fucking now. But if you must know, the story goes something like this:

I had a freakin' absolutely awesome life before 9/11. I had a bitchin' career. I had a ton of money. I was comfortable, and although I had to work hard, that never really bothered me any. Then 19 idiots who couldn't get the blond girls to chuck' em one decided that it would be a good idea to ram a couple of airliners into the tallest buildings in New York City in the name of their phony-baloney God. I was lucky --no one close to me was hurt or killed that day --but mostly because I had only left 1 WTC a minute or so before the first plane struck. But I did find myself directly underneath the first kamikaze, and if that, plus witnessing the murders of 3,000 other people, doesn't freak you out, there's something wrong with you. The resulting mental disorders cost me everything, and seven years of my life.

As for Christians, well, if one God would force 19 douchebags to kill themselves in order to get it's attention, then any God is likely to do the same. Besides, I get a chuckle out of people who tell me their God is all-powerful, all-knowing, knows what's in my heart, and is watching me 24-hours a day who can then turn around and tell you that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are pagan constructs that will lead the True Believer off the Righteous Path.

I don't know about you, but I can't remember the last time Peter Cottontail or Ol' St. Nick demanded the blood of innocents, flooded the planet because no one would listen to them, sanctioned war and slaughter,and threatened to return to lead the last great battle that will destroy the world. Apart from a little bit of good-natured breaking-and-entering (in which they actually leave stuff behind!), Kris Kringle and Peter Rabbit are actually far more amenable; the worst they ever did was to skip someone's house, or leave a lump of coal as a gentle reminder of the wages of sin; Yahweh tosses people into great big lakes of fire and brimstone to their eternal torment at the hands of a fallen angel that She created, but then couldn't control, either.

I don't hate women. I love women. I just hate the confused-by-feminism little girls hiding in a woman's body. Especially the ones that tell you "I don't need no man!", and then beg you to pay their rent, buy shit for them, and then solve all their problems brought about by their own stupidity for them, and then take out their unrequited revenge fantasies against the Ex Husband/Boyfriend that did them wrong on you. Sorry, but there's plenty of vaginas out there, and I prefer the ones without baggage and some common sense.

I don't hate blacks, either. I just think it's easier to automatically assume that all black people are clueless, insensitive, loudmouthed, selfish. pigheaded, bigoted doofuses, because after a lifetime of ersatz "Reverends", Affirmative Action, and spending what seems like a year of my life in Diversity Training and monthly Diversity Meetings, that's what they seem to think of me, sans evidence. What's good for the goose, and all that. However, if a black person should happen to earn my respect (much like I expect to have to earn theirs), then we're cool.

As for the rest, what's to LIKE about welfare queens and democrats (sorry, that was redundant)?

Hope this answers some of your questions, Newcomers! Oh, and Merry Fuckin' Christmas.

Do NOT Ask this Man for Relationship Advice...

Because, you know, Gay Men know all bout Heterosexual sex, and stuff.

Don't know who Stephen Fry is, don't really give a shit, either. However, someone who could say something like this:

‘If women liked sex as much as men, there would be straight cruising areas in the way there are gay cruising areas,’ he said.Women would go and hang around in churchyards thinking, "God, I’ve got to get my ******* rocks off", or they’d go to Hampstead Heath and meet strangers to s**g behind as bush. It doesn’t happen. Why? Because the only women you can have sex with like that wish to be paid for it.’

...has probably spent his entire adult life fucking other men in the rectum. Probably more time receiving than giving,if you ask me. This is, indeed, the very last person I would ask about all things heterosexual.

First of all, his theory is fundamentally incorrect in this regard; modern women, brainwashed by feminism, practically give sex away as an exercise in "personal growth". All day, every day. and no cash has to change hands. Confused, conflicted females with no self esteem nor values abound. They're not all that hard to find. Low-hanging fruit. I could practically trip over all the stray vaginas on my way to the bathroom each morning, if I didn't have some standards and scruples. Thankfully, I do have some, and the days when I saw women as little more than a convenient place to park a boner are long gone (it's called "Growing Up". Some of us Men actually do it, you know).

Second, the reason why there's Gay cruising areas -- out in the open -- is that Homosexuals are sick individuals, who in part become homosexuals because they wish to reject and shock the sensibilities of conventional society. They do this because most of the homosexual men that I know are insatiable attention whores. They want you to know, in the loudest, gaudiest, most unmistakable fashion that they not only reject common moral values and sensibilities, they want to rub conventional society's collective nose in it, as well. It gives them a high to piss people off on such a visceral level. It's part of the whole twisted mentality.

There ARE straight "cruising areas", however, Mr. Fry probably doesn't recognize them because there isn't a 6' 4" douchebag in size-14 Kenneth Coles dressed up as Carmen Miranda, singing torch songs, no ankle-deep puddle of infected semen on the floor, no loose scabs, and no men in eyeshadow, platform shoes and sequins drawing out their sibilant essess over the background noise of extremely bad European techno, clinking Appletini glasses. Probably less drug use, too.

Quite frankly, it's been my experience that the best places to meet women have absolutely nothing to do with a social setting or party-like atmosphere, at all. The traditional Heterosexual Cruising Areas, like singles bars, booze cruises, etc., are perhaps the worst places to find decent babes, because those women went out with the intention of getting drunk and taken advantage of. They're almost daring you to do so. Don't even think of finding "a good woman" in church; She's there because she feels guilty about something, after all. No, if you want to find decent women, give those places a very wide berth and start looking in the most unconventional places you can imagine.

Places Mr. Fry would not recognize as "Cruising Areas" because there aren't any used hypodermics to step on, no one scooping peanuts out of the bar bowl with the same hand he's just jerked some anonymous douchebag with, and no Village People playing in the background.

The laundromat.

The Supermarket.

The Library.

The Local Dog walk.

The best way to score easy lays with no emotional connection or responsibilities is to have (like I do) a female best friend who also happens to be a drinking buddy, and insists on telling all your would-be conquests -- in that conspiratorially-female way when you leave for the restroom that "He's the best I've ever had...". Who needs a "Wingman" when you have a gold-plated reference like that? Now THAT'S a friend! It's almost a slam-dunk at that point.

Anyways, to get back to Mr. Fry's original, tortured, clueless point:

Women DO enjoy sex, Mr. Fry...when you do it properly. The problem (from a woman's point of view)is that most men don't. Then again, Modern Man has also been bathed in the atmosphere created by Modern Feminism, and he's done what he was done since the species first walked upright: he's adapted to the environment, and learned to take advantage of the resources available to him. The mixture of Feminism and a culture of moral relativism have combined to make women so lonely, so bitter, so confused, so fucking stupid, that even a misshapen lump like me has to, sometimes, beat them off with a stick. Why? Because we have learned how "to listen" (i.e. let her talk her fucking head off about anything and everything, while controlling the impulse to look at your watch), we have learned how to be "attentive" to her moods and needs (i.e. pretend to give a shit about her innermost thoughts and feelings), we have learned how to nod, and say "I agree" to whatever load of crap she's shovelling this evening. That, after all, is what Oprah, Cosmo, and the other "women's forums" tells them is what they need most in a man.

If men suck (no pun intended) at sex, it's because they've been conditioned to do it in a haphazard manner. Why make the effort to do it properly when this broad won't be here after breakfast? And she'll still be grateful?

We've learned to pretend to give them what they've been told they want. That's the key to the whole operation; I can get laid every day of the week and twice on Sunday by simply assuming my "Nice Guy" persona. It's not difficult to find women upon who this charade works.

However, for some of us, that is simply not enough. It certainly isn't enough for me; I'm past that stage in life where I can overlook "Miss Right" for "Miss Right-Now". I could spend an entire day screwing, as a mechanical function, but it doesn't satisfy for very long. Besides, it's hardly a challenge, and that, after all, should be part of the equation.

Sex, Mr. Fry, is easy to find. Someone you can stand to spend more than a few hours with without the urgent need to get naked, do the deed, and then send her packing, is a completely different beast altogether.

Never ask a Gay Man for an opinion on a heterosexual matter. It's like asking your plumber about your colon cancer.

(H/T Instapundit and HotAir)

Girls, Girls, Girls!

I had occasion to go into Manhattan yesterday (see next post for details). It was raining to beat the band here in New York, and a wet commute into the city is pretty much always something extremely unpleasant. Most people would rather have their wisdom teeth yanked out -- via their rectum -- than have to deal with a commute from Staten Island to Manhattan: standing on the train platform in the rain, the soggy ferry ride, the having to dodge the spray from cabbies who don't see (or just don't care about) the rain-filled potholes.

It's even worse to have to do it in a suit which you're to used to wearing, and, horror of horrors, dress shoes that you've just spent two hours the night before shining within an inch of their lives (I have a fetish for always having my shoes properly shined. It's compulsive, I think), which will now be ruined because of all this water. Don't get me started on what the wet does to my carefully-creased pants (I like sharp creases and stiff cuffs). And besides; I so rarely wear dress shoes these days that it often hurts to do so for any length of time, especially when your feet get wet.

On a day like that, you have to find any reason you can to justify the trip (besides the prospect of money, of course), to find some way to positively occupy your mind, because otherwise the combination of miserably wet platform, miserably crowded train, miserably cramped ferry, the dreaded trip from West Side to East Side through flooded streets, just might be enough to turn you back. I didn't really need to make this trip, you know. You need to find something positive to think about, something inspiring to push you forward.

Thank you, Ladies, for giving me a reason to continue my arduous journey!

I must have awoken in one of THOSE moods yesterday, because I don't think I missed a thing.

The "Snooki" look is alive-and-well here on the Island. Velour track suits, with the shirt/top just short enough to show everyone your muffin top are all the rage amongst the young girls. When I say "young" I mean, ohhh, probably the 16-30 year olds. This is how the Goombahs (blue-collar Italian men) used to dress; it wasn't attractive on them, and it's even less-attractive on a woman. And a lot of you seem to be busting the zippers up top, too.

When they aren't rocking Snooki, they're going for a more sophisticated-upper-crust look, and wearing what appear to be riding clothes. I think they used to be called jodhpurs, a sort of ultra-tight-fitting pants with velvet or suede lining the inside of the thighs. This is very sexy, for two reasons: first, who doesn't like tight pants on a woman who has the proper assets? Second, that suede is sort of like a visual cue, which cannot help but draw the eye in a line from knee to crotch -- right this way, boys! I wonder if they realize...?

Then you notice that they're wearing 'em so tight that cameltoes begin to abound. I'm sorry, but there's something about cameltoes that just turn me off; you might as well just break it out and show it to everyone after that. Really, we won't be shocked: we've already pretty much seen it all already, thanks. Once you notice the cameltoe, the vision is ruined. You manage to shrug off the bitter taste of disappointment, to make yourself a brand-spankin'-new discovery:

Geeky chicks are looking pretty damned good these days! Whatever libtard political pundits have to say about her womb and political beliefs, Sarah Palin seems to have had a most-unusual affect upon the fashions of the day; glasses are in. The "Natural Look", with little makeup, is back. So are pony tails and up-doos, and...glasses. Dorothy Parker was wrong: this man definitely makes passes at girls who wear glasses! Always did, probably always will, Especially when they wear tight jeans and now-clingy t-shirts made even moreso by the humidity and rain.

I just might make the trip again tomorrow specifically to try and get me one!

Arriving in Manhattan, you become aware of another trend: the artsy-fartsy city types are dressing like 1960's go-go dancers. Tight leotards, elastic-sided knee boots. They're going braless. It's fun to watch on a bouncing bus that lurches to a screeching halt at every red light, or every traffic bottleneck. Sorry to all of you who caught me staring, but I'm male, and can't help it. I'm just wondering if I was drooling at some point.

My trip took me from South Ferry to the East Side, which meant a trip through the outskirts of Chinatown. What I saw was amazing, and I found myself wondering; when did Asian chicks get nice, rounded behinds? Hell, when did they get hips, and wonder-of-wonders, C-cups? It seems as if the American diet, heavy on hormone-injected meat and poultry, has finally had an effect on the latest generations of Asian women that is sure to please every red-blooded American male.They're even wearing make-up now, too! I need to get out more! There were hundreds of them!

The ride home was just as...umm...entertaining.

We Men used to mark the arrival of June in New York by one obvious change in the prevailing fashions, because that's when the short skirts-and-barelegged-look marked the official beginning of Summer. When I worked downtown, from June to mid-September was a time of little work, and numerous cigarette breaks to go out and take a look at the women on the street. Now, it seems women are going all out to look sexy all-year round. I think they always were, but it appears as if nowadays it has all been elevated to a fine art. It made an otherwise dreadful journey a rather delightful experience.

If the City government made an effort to let Men all over the world know just what beauties we have roaming the streets on a rainy fall day, tourism would increase tenfold!

I have to get out more.

Iowahawk Talks to Barack Obama...

If you are not reading Iowahawk regularly, get help.

Wanted: One Husband...

I'm late to this one, I know. Forgive me?

This woman needs a husband, quickly and desperately.

Then again, one look at that mugshot seems to imply that there just isn't enough Viagra in the world to help you do the deed. Then again, I've heard that most black men would screw a telephone pole if it held still long enough, and I'm pretty positive, based on appearances only, this one has at least one Baby Daddy somewhere, so I could be wrong.

Some men have no standards, beyond a) breathing and b) offering.

With regards to this woman, the male mantra of "close your eyes and she can be anyone you want her to be" doesn't apply; I couldn't imagine my way through a rut with that for all the tea in China, and if I did find myself in the unfortunate and desperate straits required to even think about doing it, I would have to rush right home and scrub myself thoroughly with a Brillo pad.

The crackpipe is merely the icing on the cake, and probably par for the course.

Hell Hath No Fury...

...like a woman you took on a "date"... and then painted an unflattering-but-accurate portrait of in your blog.

And herein is the lesson to be learned in this day-and-age where romance, culture and technology have combined to turn women -- I'm sure it does it to gay men, as well --into stark, raving lunatics. Pay attention, Men.

A certain lady that I briefly met, and to whom I then suggested we perhaps never meet, briefly or not, ever again, apparently was under the mistaken impression that I just didn't get to know the "real" her, and that I was too hasty in declining her invitation for a second encounter. This is a common trait in single women these days, and it apparently gets worse with age; I wasn't turned off by her manners, demeanor and drinking habits, I just wasn't prepared to do the work of peeling back all the layers, and so I missed the "real person" beneath all the bulging spandex.

Perhaps if you ladies would help us out a bit by not presuming to turn the whole relationship thing into a mind-fuck by making us work to "peel back the layers" of anything, life would be considerably easier for all involved. I'm not your fucking psychiatrist, and I don't like being made part of your little head games. There's a point beyond which some of it surpasses "flirting" or "protecting yourself" and this lack of communication on intimate matters -- defined as personal feelings/beliefs, not sex -- becomes a fucking ridiculous exercise in vanity and stupidity. Don't be surprised that when a man believes you're hiding something (or trying to), the thing you're hiding looms ever larger and more dangerous in his head the longer he can't discover what it might be. A little honesty would be refreshing.

I know women do think this way all the time (I've listened to them whine in group therapy about just this sort of bullshit), and apparently don't believe that men do, too. But we do. At least the ones who don't consider a woman to be just a convenient place to park a boner every now and then do. On the other hand, some women set far too much stock in simple possession of a vagina, and believe that having one is a license to be insufferable. That was, naturally, the driving idea behind Modern Feminism, a truly mentally-destructive ideology if ever there was one. Trust me; Vaginas are notoriously easy to come by, but Ladies are hard to find, because for every woman who is judicious in the bestowal of her Favors, there are at least five who are dumber than dogshit and would fuck anything without a thought about commitment -- or even of calling you the next day -- for a Jimmy Buffett t-shirt.

And believe it or not, that sort can typically at least fake more modesty than you when she tells you, with a straight face, "I've never done this before..." as she opens your zipper...with her teeth. (Yes, I have lead an interesting life in that regard. It's nothing to be proud of, really).

All the Sexual Revolution did was make that which was somewhat-difficult to obtain (Sex), low-hanging fruit for the opportunistic Neanderthal with an erection and no conscience. But I digress...

And really, it wasn't about me missing anything about Her. I think I got everything there was to get; If I wanted a bitter, immature, borderline-personality barfly who has probably been down on everything but the Titanic and probably killed or wounded a lover or two, I know exactly where to find one. Several score of them, actually. They're not all that hard to find, and great many of them won't even ask for as much as a cocktail or a hotdog for the pleasure of their company, either. Then again, I can see where she might want to keep that maladaptive personality thing under wraps. If I wasn't supposed to "peel back the layers" and find that out, then I guess I didn't do my "job" (to be willing dupe and adoring lapdog with bedroom privileges) properly, and it's not as if she didn't make it all-too-easy to discover.

I was polite the four times she requested the pleasure of my company after that initial meeting in saying "No, but thanks". I tried to be nice and show a level of patience and forbearance that was, in my estimation, far more than she was entitled to. I thought I was particularly and unmistakably definitive during the fifth and sixth rounds of "negotiations" (she was actually bargaining for a second date!) with her when I not only said "No, I don't think we should see each other again", but embellished this basic premise with "Would you please leave me alone, you fucking psycho?" when my temper finally got the better of me. I was totally within my rights when I asked the "service" to block contact with Her. I would have thought the message would get through, and she would eventually give up and inflict her nonsense upon some other loser.

But I guess that by that time it was no longer just a question of a desperate woman clinging to the idea that she can make you love her (trust me: that mindset never gets you anywhere, Sunshine). No, there was a revenge factor brought into play, primarily because I rejected her, but mostly because of what I wrote about her here.

This moonbat hired another "service". This one tracks people down online by picking up the electronic "trail of breadcrumbs" that we all leave behind in cyberspace. Nevermind how a) presumptuous, and b) fucking creepy, this sordid idea is, it's all legal. The records in question are Public Domain. This "service" also found my blog, and brought it to her attention. She read it (frankly, I was surprised that she could read)

She realized that one of the failed "dates" I had blogged about a week or so ago was HER, even though I did not use her real name in the post.

Guess who found my address with the help of the same "service", proceeded to hop on her menstrual cycle and then peddled her skinny ass on over to the Lunatic's Compound to do the full Glenn Close routine? Thankfully, there were no sharp objects involved.

Oh, it was a scene. The only way it could have possibly been worse would have been if I had actually taken her up on her offer(s) and Made the Beast With Two Backs with this pig. Then there might have been some sort of obligation to her on my part, and a real emotional attachment on hers.

It began with "What's wrong with Meeee? Why don't you like Meeee?" Oh, where to begin! Let's start with the fact that you're such a psychopath that you dropped $99.95 to hire the electronic equivalent of a Private Detective to get my phone number and address...and I'm a complete stranger who never took anything from you, nor laid a finger on you. I'm not your cheating husband; I'm not your Baby Daddy skipping out on child support; I have no connection to you AT ALL, except that I spent a few hours in your company strenuously avoiding any physical contact or making any sort of unwarranted commitments that might be misconstrued for exactly this reason -- you showing up on my doorstep to make a fucking spectacle/pest of yourself. I don't remember inviting you over.

It then progressed to "What? Is there someone else?" Umm...there wasn't even an "Us" to begin with. I had three or four drinks with you, that's it. During that time you spent the majority of the evening showing me off as some sort of trophy to your girlfriends (the first indication that there's something wrong with you!) then you did in speaking to me. In fact, I found most of those other women to be far more appealing than you are. At this point in time, Sunshine, ANYBODY ELSE would be as good, and probably a fair sight better. Mussolini in a cocktail dress, Pol Pot bearing Valentine's Day Wishes with a Whitman's Anthrax Sampler, a Bullwhip, and a 55-gallon drum of KY in hand, would turn me on more than you do. And besides; it's none of your business if there were anyone else. Boundaries, woman; respect them!

She was especially upset about the blogging, even though I didn't use her real name. Apparently, the description I gave was accurate enough for people to infer who she might be-- I got the impression that someone might have already -- and was quite unflattering. Well, if the shoe fits. I tried to explain that I hadn't really "done" anything to her, and that only brought on the predictable eruption of two-fisted, full-blown, estrogen-fueled fury. I figured the best thing to do was to let her have her say, let Nature take it's course, nod my head a lot, and just agree with her that, yes, I am a fucking dick, and then let her leave. If it meant she just went away, she could have her pound of flesh.

Which is exactly what happened. With any luck, she'll be well-and-truly out of my life, but I expect she'll stop in here to see what's being written about her, because, well, let's face it; the whole episode was all about her, wasn't it?

Maybe if you read this Sweetheart, and take a second to reflect on what you've done and how you've behaved, perhaps you'll realize why I would rather lose a limb than see you again. And get some help, will ya?

Dear God: Can I Have My Rib Back? - Part II

"Janet" is a handsome woman. Pleasant looking, she has a little bit of "extra" here and there, but it is mostly in all the right places. Sandy-colored hair (natural, she assures me), not a speck of grey. She is 44, and is a Nurse-Practitioner. She wears a bit too much makeup for my tastes. Her most outstanding feature (apart from an ample rack) is her eyes; Janet has hazel eyes that seem to change color, blue or green, with her moods. Really unusual.

Anyways, the date had been arranged for us. Janet and I are both sports fans (me, hockey, she baseball), so the "service" arranged tickets to a Staten Island Yankees game (that is the New York Yankee's A-ball affiliate. See tomorrow's Stars Today!). We met at the Ticket Window for an afternoon game. Janet arrived in full S-I-Yanks regalia.

That should have been my first clue.

Janet is a rabid baseball fan. "Rabid" might be too tame a word. From the second she arrives at the ball park she's into every pitch, every crotch grab, every call of ball-and-strike. She calls the pitches before they're thrown (and often, she's right!), and will tell you all you need to know about which strategy the coach should use in this situation, does The Wave at every opportunity, leads the cheers in your seating section. explains the nuances inherent in the way a particular player spits his sunflower seeds out. It's like watching a game with Tim McCarver off his meds...only with bigger tits.

Okay, that's a little intense, but it's not catastrophic. It just means she has a passion for something, and it may be off-puttin, but now that the game is over and dinner is on the horizon, perhaps things will take a different tack, right? That optimistic thought was nearly annhillated when she started dressing for dinner....in the stadium parking lot. I was asked to "stand guard...and try not to peek" while she changed clothes for dinner in the back seat of her SUV. Okay, kinda strange, but not terrible.

Dinner, however, revolved around three subjects; her ex-husband (a.k.a. the Fuckin' Bastid!), her job (all you ever wanted to know about vile bodily fluids, but were afraid to ask), and....baseball. In fact, she asked the waiter it if would be possible for the television over the bar to tune into the Mets game.

I figured I must have been pretty boring company, or that she just wasn't interested. The ballgame on TV, and all the talk about puke and enemas were designed to make me lose interest, so that she wouldn't have to tell the truth when the dreaded"Shall we do this again?" question was asked later on in the evening. Apparently, this is not the case at all -- I'm "a blast" --and a gentleman -- she says, and would go out with me again. However, "Janet" is a bit too much of a tomboy for my tastes. I'm thinking "no".

Date #2 was "Tara". Tara is a brunette, a hairdresser (although she kept correcting me; the proper term nowadays is Professional Stylist). She is 41 years old. She's not unattractive, but for someone who is a"professional stylist" she seems to have none. Her hair reminded me of those curly up-do's you often see on girls attending the Junior Prom. Her makeup is slathered on with a trowel. it's far too obvious which parts have been surgically altered. She has a voice that makes you wonder "whatever happened to Fran Drescher ("The Nanny")?"

Tara is dumber than a sack of hammers once you get past the surface chit-chat...and the second Margarita. I should have known when the date she had arranged involved a noted meat market for the over-35 set that this was not going to go very well. Tara, you see, is still single, always has been, and it's because she's a barfly. Not an alcoholic, mind you, just someone who never outgrew the 80's, when all the happenin' young folks in Brooklyn were out in the bars, or"down the Shore". Mentally, as far as her social life is concerned, this is where she still is. It's like having your own personal version of the "Jersey Shore", only with more fake tans, more fake nails, and more nasally conversation.

She's a nice woman, though, seems very decent underneath it all, and I'd decided to give the evening one more chance, nonetheless.I might have missed something in a rush to judgement. I shouldn't have bothered.

"Tara" chose this particular bar because that's where all her girlfriends hang out(also all single Professional Stylists with too much makeup and terrible haircuts...go figure) and she wanted to be seen with someone. Presumably so that they would have something to talk about in the salon for the next six months. While I was flattered that they all loved my hair (Oh my gawwwd! It's so thick and sawwwft! What do you do to it?) and couldn't stop running their hands through it, and the compliment that they would all "kill to have eyelashes" like mine was, to say the least, a new one on me, I don't think I could take this sort of mentality for anextended period of time without reaching for a pistol.

I grew up with "Tara", in a manner of speaking, in that she is the Prototypical Brooklyn Club Girl, but whereas most of the ones I knew grew out of that Club-and-Bar-hot-makeout-session-in-the-parking-lot lifestyle, she most certainly did not. Viewed in that light, all the makeup, the plastic surgery, the sparkly spandex catsuit with the oversized rhinestone-studded leather belt and four-inch stilettos, suddenly made sense: this is someone who wants to stay 21 forever.

Date #3 went surprisingly well, however.

"Kim" is a VERY well-preserved 43 year-old librarian. She's a bike rider and swims. A natural redhead (so she says!), with a wonderful sense of humor. She is delightful, intelligent, extremely well-read, but not nerdy. She has two children (one about to start architectural school, the other joined the Air Force after graduating from high school), who apparently have never given her any grief in their entire lives, which probably accounts for why she didn't say a word about them after acknowledging that they exist. She seems extremely well-adjusted and happy...which scares the shit out of me.

Kim and I met at the Rambles in Central Park, where she suggested a picnic. I'm not one for picnicking, but I figured "what the hell?". She said not to bring anything, and she would handle it all. And she did!

Kim apparently likes to cook, and does it well. Somehow, she managed to cram quite the spread into that little cooler of hers. It was like a walk down memory lane for me; Bocconchino with the REAL Mozzarella -- not that plastic supermarket crap -- roasted red peppers, fresh olives, Sotto Aceti (an Italian pickled vegetable salad), Parma ham, three kinds of salami, fresh bread...and two bottles of the Orvietto region's finest. She made it all, she said, THAT morning. This is how my Grandmother used to cook. As soon as she had discovered that I am Italian, she decided that this was THE way to meet. We spread a blanket out under a tree on the edge of the Sheep Meadow (it was "only" in the low-90's that day; the week before had seen 100+ temps in New York City), and feasted and had a blast.

And then the cop caught sight of the wine bottle, and gave us a choice: pack it up and leave in the next five minutes, or take the summons -- and possible arrest --for drinking in public. So, we left.

We found a coffee shop, and had a couple of cups each, and had a wonderful time. It turned out that six hours had passed since we had first entered the coffee shop until someone checked a watch. "Kim" has already gotten a call for a second date, and has accepted.

Fingers crossed.

Dear God: Can I Have My Rib Back? - Part I

One of the reasons why I haven't been here on a daily basis screaming uselessly into the wind is that I have some new pre-occupations these days.

The first of these is (arguably) gainful employment (see next post), and the second is that I have started dating again. If my first three "dates" were any indication of what the "Singles Scene" is for over 40's, I'm thinking an Asian Mail-order bride might be in order. At least they don't speak very good Eng-rish, do the laundry without complaint, and won't talk the hind leg off a donkey.

To begin with, let me make this clear before I take my dates apart at the joints; I am no Prince. I'm a good 40 pounds overweight, I'm so stubborn that stubborn oxen look at me and say "Hey, that guy's a fuckin' douche!". I'm opinionated, can be arrogant, and I'm one of those people who is psychologically hard-wired to point out the stupidity of others and make obnoxious comments about it -- without noticing my own stupidity in the process.

In my favor, however; if I care for you, you will have no better ally, no more intrepid defender. I will shut up just long enough to listen to you (if I must --heh!), and you can be assured that when you TRULY require my undivided attention -- in all things -- you will have it. You will be respected, valued, and loved. Loyalty, Respect and Consideration are all I have give, and they're also all I'll ever ask for.

Now, here I was thinking about dating again, but taking a different path than I have for, say...the last 25 years of my life. Part of my problem with women is that I seem to find the same sort over and over again; women who need to be rescued. I've been told I have this "White Knight" syndrome by my female friends for like...forever...and it's led me to nothing but trouble. So,this time around, I have decided to be especially critical in my choice of potential mates. No more losers for Your's Truly, because I've finally learned that I'm not capable of fixing someone else's problems, and I'm not going to anymore. I have my own, Thank you Very Much. Leave your baggage at the door, Lady.

Having been on the shelf for a bit, I have had to learn a few things all over again, like making small talk. At first this was difficult, but with my natural fucking charm (ha!) and acute sense of humor, this becomes easier as things move along. I've also had to learn that we live in a different day-and-age: there was a time when Women were expected to be Ladies, and Men were expected to treat them as such. Not anymore. I mean, I have a foul mouth, and use the coarsest language you might imagine, but can manage to control it in (most) social situations. Imagine my surprise when I find myself out on the town with three...ahem...ladies who can a) outcurse me, b) drink me under the table, and c) make no secret about their sexual desires -- and/or deviances.

I'm meeting chicks through a dating service, which is local, and I shan't talk about here -- just in case this all turns out to be a huge pile of dogcrap.

I've had three dates so far, and none of them were anything to brag about, primarily because the selection of women available after 40 leaves a lot to be desired, although this is not entirely fair to them; the selection of men can't be that awesome, either. Suffice to say, at this stage in life, you're dealing with a few, basic categories of females:

1. The Career Chick - she's never had time for a husband or family because she was busy trying to break glass ceilings, or to out-hustle the Boys in the Office to make Salesperson of the Year, and up until now, she has been filling her emotional holes with the trappings of success; cars, vacations, clothes, etc. She presents a dichotomy; she wants you to believe that she's tough, aggressive, able to take the rough-and-tumble of the Board Room and the Bedroom, worthy of your respect and admiration, but all she ever talks about is how tough it is to be a Woman. In fact, she never shuts up about it. She does nothing but give you her resume...all evening.

When she's not whining about having a menstrual cycle, she's a fucking predator. She's learned, through the Darwinian process of the Business World, to take advantage of every opportunity that presents itself, whether that's professional, financial, or sexual. One minute, she's complaining about the burden of her vagina, and the very next offering it you on a silver platter. She's torn between a lifetime of bad habits, and a biological/psychological need; she behaves like a Man, but wants to be treated like a Woman, and the lines about where one should start and the other end are often entirely too blurry to discern.

2. The "Second Lifer" - This is a middle-aged woman, usually recently widowed or divorced, who has decided that NOW is Me Time. Her children are grown and have left the nest. Her duty as Wife and Mother have been dispatched to the best of her ability, and are now no longer required; she can enjoy the remainder of her life free of responsibility. It is now time to see to HER needs for a change.

Except that she can't stop talking about that former life, because it has been, for a very long time, her only frame of reference. This sort usually married young, and was not very socially active in a way that didn't involve her children or husband. Consequently, every activity you engage in, every conversation you have, every passing reference to anything in creation, usually results in a long-winded tale originating from deep within the Old Life, and you are expected to fake nostalgia for people and events that you never knew or experienced. This kind of woman is usually very nice, very lady-like, but about as interesting as a tunafish sandwich.

3. Lucy the Loser -this woman has, as the saying goes, been "ridden hard and put away wet". Lucy types come in two varieties; an original thought and a cold glass of water might put her into a coma, or the ones who don't have a thought that originates above the waist. Usually they're both.

You can smell this one coming from a mile away because she's just too eager to please. In all respects. It's all forced, it's all an act. Here's a mental checklist to use, to see if you've ever hooked up with Lucy before:

a. Divorced more than once, often three times or more, and quite possibly abused along the way.

b. Talks freely about her boobs/oral sex skills/the threesome with another girl that she had in college, and makes certain that everyone in the room hears her. She might even repeat it all several times for the benefit of those who didn't get it the first seven times.

c. She can't go five minutes without complimenting you/buttering you up, even if she has to interrupt you and change the subject to do it.

d. Everything anyone says or does immediately evokes a sexual reference.

e. Despite the dazzling smile, the girlish laughter, the come-hither eyelash batting, the all-too-obvious low-cutness of the dress, and the inviting sexual undertone, one look into this woman's eyes reveals....nothing. Her eyes are dead; there's nothing there. That's your first hint that Lucy is a fucking psycho, and that no blowjob on Earth is worth that much trouble.

4. The Reluctant Traveler-This woman insists that she's only doing this because "my girlfriend made me", or "I had nothing better to do, so why not?", but she's playing a game that makes you want to reach across the table and fucking choke her within an inch of her life.

This date is a mental minefield; she's really toying with you in a passive-aggressive manner, dropping (often-contradictory) hints all the time -- because plain talk would blow her "cover". If you do manage to pick up a hint along the way and follow this thread past a certain point, she suddenly changes direction. It's a game of Encouragement-and-Discouragement, and it serves two purposes;

a. It's a test to see just how into her you are. This is judged by your willingness to play this stupid game; respond to her like panting puppy, and you might be getting somewhere...but not very far.

b. It's a test to see just how into you she is. Refuse to play her game, and you're toast. But, she will be nice about it and let you pick up the check, anyways.

In both cases, it's all about what She can get out of You. She's a selfish cunt, best given a wide berth, and perhaps a punch in the mouth.

Next, the Dates....Or, at least, the best of them so far.