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.

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.

The Sorry Tale of Anthony Weiner…

The most aptly-named man in Washington, D.C. finally admitted to what the even the dumbest amongst us already knew, yesterday, and made a crying spectacle of himself on national television. Anthony Weiner did, indeed, shoot little beefcake photos of himself all over the internet to various women (he says six, but that’s probably no closer to the truth than his insistence that he was ‘hacked’ by right-wing hit squads was). He also admits to some telephonic heavy breathing, which is a vision that has firmly burnt itself into my mind's eye, much to my distress.

The entire apology/self-crucifixion production became surreal when Andrew Breitbart , the man accused of being Weiner’s ersatz hacker just happened to be in the neighborhood, and at the behest of the drooling press took over the event, demanding an apology while informing us that he has even more pictures of Weiner in even more compromising positions. This suggestion makes me fervently hope that my infected mind’s eye will do me a great favor and go blind before those are ever released.

There’s much talk amongst the flapping rectum class on television about Weiner’s ‘political future’. Only in America, and most annoyingly, only in New York, could a Congressman so obviously mislead the public, dissemble so unbelievably brazenly about the facts of his misdeeds, make a public penance in which he has to follow the man who’s been wrongly accused of wronging him, still consider it possible to have a career. Only in New York could such a man, who has a Congressional Ethics hearing or two in his future, probably an irate wife who can’t wait to rape him in the divorce trial (if she doesn’t divorce him after this, even if there’s no actual sex involved, she’s a retard), be considered worthy of having a Political Future.

Sadly, Congressdouche Weiner stands a better than even-money chance of being re-elected as things are now, barring some new revelation that one of his phone/e-mail playmates was underage, or a foreign spy. If it should turn out that one of Weiner’s phone friends was another man, the people of his district – where IQ is measured by that quaint expression ‘room temperature’; after all, they’ve already voted for the most insufferable asshole I’ve ever seen in my entire life six times, so they must be the cream of the crop, stupid-wise – even that wouldn’t stop them from voting for Congressman Chronic Online Masturbator.

Some would see it as an opportunity to vote for the first apparently bi-sexual member of Congress (so far as we know). That’s how liberal they are; voting for Weiner is a badge of courage.

Besides, here in New York we’ve come to expect that out elected officials are criminals, serial adulterers, or sexual deviants, vis-à-vis Rudy Giuliani, Eliot Spitzer, David Paterson, Eric Massa, Chris Lee, and now Anthony Weiner.

Hell, Charlie Rangel never met a tax he didn't write the regs for that he wouldn’t happily dodge, and he’s still in office.

I watched this sorry spectacle yesterday, and wanted to puke. The first vomit-inducing portion was the part where Weiner said “I will not resign”, which I thought was absolutely outrageous. Just a few weeks ago, a New York Republican (Chris Lee) resigned from office after being caught doing the same exact thing that Weiner has done, and there was no week-and-a-half of lying involved, there were no false accusations against a journalist, there wasn’t a ten day ordeal of press conferences where we’re arguing over the meaning of ‘certitude’, and the man in the crosshairs flounders in lawyerly language like Shelley Winters floundered in the flooded ballroom of the Poseidon Adventure.

The second thing that made me want to expel my lunch at terminal velocity was the use of the word ‘apology’. Weiner said ‘apologize’ or ‘I apologize’ what seemed to me to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 times. He apologized to his wife, his family, his staff, his ’constituents’ (i.e. the brain-dead legion that would have pulled the lever for him so as to keep the hot-and-cold running food stamps and Section-8 housing flowing, unless he’d admitted to child rape or tossing puppies into a wood chipper), Andrew Breitbart, but at no time did it ever appear to me to be sincere. Perhaps that’s because I have an instinctual dislike for Weiner that rivals the hatred between cats and dogs, or maybe it’s a by-product from having to listen to him lie out of both sides of his mouth, and his rectum, simultaneously, on ever subject under the Sun for a decade-plus.

Weiner claims to take ‘responsibility’ – another word he used profusely and unbelievably -- for what he’s done, but he truly hasn’t. Had Weiner a responsible bone(r) in his body, he would have resigned yesterday. That’s what responsible, truly sorry people do. Then again, he’s a democrat, so there you go; democrats are neither responsible, nor hardly ever sorry about anything.

Anthony Weiner didn’t ‘apologize’ profusely yesterday because he’s genuinely sorry. He’s apologizing and paying lip-service to accepting responsibility because he’s been caught. He’s apologizing because he got caught in such a stupid way, doing such a stupid thing. He’s apologizing because it’s part of a ’damage control’ operation, and the public relations experts told him that it’s time to come clean and at least appear to be contrite (note, however, that Weiner only ‘comes clean’ after irrefutable evidence is suggested of his guilt. Without it, he would have continued this charade for years to come). That series of apologies you saw yesterday was not of a penitent man, baring his soul to the world, begging forgiveness.

That was a man who’s come home drunk at three in the morning, smelling of perfume, lipstick smeared on his collar, and the used condom still stuck in his zipper, begging his wife to unlock the door, pleading ‘Honey, can't we talk this over?’.

Men, as a rule, do things because they can, or because they want to. Scale Everest, split atoms, fly to the Moon, or fuck the secretary with the big tits, and many of them never actually stop to consider the implications or consequences of their actions, especially where the sex drive and ego are concerned. We are biologically hard-wired to take risks, to ignore doubts and fears, and screw everything that moves. Nature made us this way, and it’s only a very smart or dedicated man who is able to control his baser urges.

When you look like Anthony Weiner, the very poster child for birth control, and have the arrogance that comes with power and the fawning adulation of the press – perhaps the laziest and dumbest class of people yet discovered -- that intelligence and dedication quickly flies right out the window. Add the possibility of sex to ego and poor impulse control, and you’re headed for disaster. Facilitate the roller-coaster-to-Hell with a medium that provides (some think) a measure of anonymity and distance, and you’re talking a sure-fire atomic explosion of stupidity.

Weiner’s first mistake was to get full of himself. His second mistake was to fail to engage his critical thinking skills (being a liberal democrat, we may question as to whether he possesses any). His third mistake was to choose mediums where the possibility of getting caught was somewhat remote (although, as we all know, nothing is private in Cyberspace, and even phone bills can be quite instructive). His fourth mistake was to make a habit of it. The final mistake was to believe that he could scrub the record clean, after the fact, brazenly lie about the entire…ahem…affair…and then, after the dust settles, continue life much as he did before, maybe taking a few extra precautions but not much more.

I can promise you: even after being put in a delicate, to say the least, position by the initial discovery of Weiner’s underpants pictures, Weiner would have gone right back to Greasing the Pelican and sending dick pictures online just as soon as decently possible. It’s a compulsion; a mere routine, it all becomes a part of Life, just like the morning commute, the tuna-salad-on-whole-wheat for lunch everyday, the three-martinis after work, the evening newscast, and brushing your teeth before bed.

No, Anthony Weiner was never sorry enough to realize just what he was doing and then stop doing it; he’s only sorry that we found out what he does with his Blackberry, and the thought that the public might believe he’s Yankin’ his Crank While Texting finally got that long-forgotten-and-suppressed shame reflex to kick in.

So, what’s next for Congresscritter Weiner? Well, to judge from past sex scandals (this may be the first where no actual sex, only the suggestion of it, took place. See how the Internet and social networking are changing our lives? When a politician says “I did not have sex with that woman…” and a computer is involved, you can actually half-way believe him! Weiner might give a whole new meaning to the term ‘Palm Pilot’.), the step after admission is usually, and oh-so-painfully-predictably rehab.

Congressman Weiner may be the first famous (or is it now infamous?) Internet Sex Addict. When Weiner makes that announcement -- I'm a sex addict -- his wife will be standing right next to him (somehow, the wives must always be seen as standing by their man, even when their man is a complete douchebag. Although her absence yesterday was telling); there will be the usual rigmarole about personal reflection, ‘my Faith in God’, and ‘coming to terms with the realization that I have a problem’, but dickhead still won’t resign, naturally.

There is a Congressional Ethics Committee investigation coming. Considering that democrats usually don’t find anything wrong with deviant behavior by one of their members, it’s merely a formality. It’s a kabuki play intended to lull the public into the false belief that, indeed, Congress can be trusted to police itself, which is complete and utter bullshit given the history of Congressional Ethics Investigations of the last 40 years. Weiner will receive but a light tap upon both wrists and told to sin no more. If they’re smart, they’ll take his Blackberry and Smartphone away, and cancel his subscription to AOL (people still have those?).

Despite all the public mea culpa, despite the coming-soon orgy of putting all his psychoses on public display, despite all the talk about ‘responsibility’, deep down in what passes for his black soul Anthony Weiner still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He still believes he’s a victim…of something…but not of hubris or stupidity. Somewhere in his tiny little mind, he still feels justified in what he has done, and can’t believe people would make such a big deal out of such a little thing (I mean the scandal, not his Little Thing, per se). He’s wrong.

We’re the victims here. A sitting Congresscritter making a casual mistake with his send options on Twitter has just told everyone in the Solar System that he’s dumber than dogshit, and ripe for blackmail. He’s just told the American public that far from his usual insistence that he’s ‘fighting for the common folk’ he’s instead spending a great deal of time taking pictures of himself in the buff, e-mailing them hither-and-yon, hitting up women half his age. His subsequent actions – trying to delete the incriminating photographs, inventing a weak conspiracy theory cover story out of whole cloth, accusing an innocent man of potential criminality, stonewalling, misleading the public and press, lying to his wife, and the Staff or other members of Congress who may have defended him – show the character, or rather, lack thereof, of the man. If he’s capable of lying about this, what else has Anthony Weiner lied about? If he’s capable of going to these extreme lengths to avoid having the truth come out, what does that say about the benefits or veracity of anything he’s ever voted on?

And finally, his Twitter Bunnies are going to be exposed to public scrutiny. Two already have. I wonder if either will make an attempt to find Monica Lewinski and ask her how her career and life have gone after she was identified as the paramour of a once-powerful man. Everywhere she goes, men probably ask her to do her famous ‘Cigar Trick’, and automatically assume she’s up for a little ‘Executive Action’ at a moment’s notice. Monica had at least one saving grace in her favor: the Internet was in its infancy, and public memory is often short. For these women, once they’re publicly identified, Weiner’s Weiner will be permanently stapled to every job application they ever fill in.

They might as well have actually done the deed for real, because for all intents and purposes Anthony Weiner has shackled each with a permanent, electronic, Pearl Necklace.

And the Happiest Man in the World Today is Arnold Schwarzenegger, because Anthony Weiner just took the spotlight off of him, at least for the foreseeable future.

Weiner's Weiner...

I almost threw up in my own mouth when I read this.

Rep. Anthony Weiner is both an insufferable twat and the most-aptly named man in Washington. He behaves in a manner that makes you want to stick an icepick through his eyeballs. Twice. Assuming that no one on Planet Earth could ever find a reasonable, defensible, logical or provable defense FOR anti-Semitism, Anthony Weiner could give them one just by opening his piehole (not that we advocate such a thing here at The Asylum. If you feel the undeniable need to hate someone, then please direct your hatreds at someone who might actually deserve it...like a Muslim.)

I've said before on these pages: New York State has the worst, dumbest, and most embarrassing Congressional delegation in American history.

This is how you know your elected officials are incapable of running a country: we live in an Information Age, where communications are instantaneous, and the ability to transmit and diffuse information at -- almost literally - at light speed is a fact of life. We live in an age of a 24-hour news cycle, with thousands of outlets constantly searching for any bit of anything that is even of the slightest interest, hungry for even more channels of input, and ways to devour more airtime at a profit. We live in an age where everyone and his dog has a video camera, recording device, cell phone, computer, and access to thousands, if not millions, of databases where they can record, store, examine and retrieve almost every fact of your life -- every utterance, every (you think) secret, every correspondence --from the most inconsequential to the greatest of All-Time-Biggest-Bonehead moves.

They should know these things are becoming the New Normal in our diseased modern culture, and that you cannot escape these traps...and yet our ruling class still does it, anyway.

John Edwards is quite possibly going to jail because he couldn't keep his pants zipped up, or a camera out of his bedroom, and it's only by the grace of whatever you hold holy that there was no such thing as Facebook or Twitter around for him to dig his hole any deeper.

And let's face it: someone is always out to get you -- your business or political rivals, your insurance company, anyone who wants to sell you something, your bank. No one has any reasonable expectation of privacy anymore, for the simple fact that everything is recorded, somewhere, and also because these new media often encourage people to volunteer in destroying their own personal privacy by allowing them to share the innermost secrets of their lives with others.

And somehow, these people -- your Ruling Class --  don't know this. Or worse, they know it, and just don't give a shit.

You would think that someone who's claim to rule over us peasants was based upon the presumptions of superior intelligence and integrity would be extremely circumspect about what he/she does on the Internet. But I guess not.

If this turns out to be true, and Rep. Weiner's Facebook account hasn't been hacked, then you have to wonder about his ability and worthiness to continue in office. In the grand scheme of things, sending a picture of your dong -- suitably covered -- to someone is probably not a hanging offense, but you have to know: given the ability of the Internet to keep people anonymous and diffuse that which one wishes to remain confidential, what would have happened if the recipient of this picture happened to be, say, a 14-yr old girl pretending to be someone she wasn't?

What if she did happen to be a 14 year old girl, and Weiner knew it? Sheesh! That's a whole 'nuther can o' worms, my friends! Doesn't anyone watch To Catch a Predator, anymore?

Unfortunately, I believe that Congressman Weiner will survive this little dustup, if only because New York City democrats (small 'd' intentional) have the mental capacity of dryer lint, and because politics in this city isn't based upon questions of Right and Wrong, or "What's good for the Country?" but upon "how much money can you steal for me, today?" and if Weiner has been even halfway decent in this regard with his constituents (i.e. partners in crime) then his minions will defend him with their very lives. Because he's a clueless and insufferable asshole, he'll just pretend as if nothing has happened and become twice the annoying and destructive dickhead that he was before.

As terrible as this sounds, I certainly DO hope this ended up in some 14-year old's mailbox, so that we could have a crime with which to charge this douchebag.

Then he can show his pecker to a whole new bunch of friends.

Professor Hanson on Wrapping That Rascal...

Safe Sex and Taxes Are For the Little People.

I always go to The Perfesser for my Sexually-Deviant-and-Morally-Reprehensible posting needs. But he has a point, or three, here.

He usually does. He might be the smartest Man in America.

Good Lord, Make it Stop!

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"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 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?

At Least SOMETHING Gets Plowed Around Here....

Post The Great-Snowstorm-Clusterfuck of 2010, wherein New York City's public unions covered themselves in glory for their (non-) work ethic, and petty political grandstanding that paralyzed a city for four days, and perhaps even killed people, we learn what some city employees are actually doing when no one seems to be watching:

First, we have the sordid tale of a $100k-a-year sewer inspector (yeah, you'd have to pay me that much to do that job, too), who uses his official vehicle while propositioning prostitutes, and then tries to flee the police when caught.

It is perhaps appropriate that this man (maybe) earns his livelihood in a sewer. But that's Bush League compared to our next outstanding public servant;

Teacher fired for lesbian sex romp in classroom uses the diabetes defense.

Let's face it, people do stupid things all the time, and by highlighting these two winners I don't intend to imply that ALL public union workers in this city frequent prostitutes, or get drunk during the school day and engage in naked-time revelry. But you have to wonder just what it is that makes people dumb enough to do these things while they're on the job, and in working in their official capacity?

I mean, is the Call to make the Beast With Two Backs that irresistible that it can't wait for after school? That it would cause you to engage in explicitly illegal activity while driving in your conspicuous, official vehicle? It's as if you're not even making an attempt to hide your abhorrent behavior.

You People Are Sick, Part III...

Someone out there on the frontiers of the Internet (specifically, it looks like the Northwest Frontier of a specific Southwest Asian Country, if you get my drift) has a serious issue. One so dreadfully acute that I fear it may be beyond the capabilities of modern medical science to correct it. This person might be forced, so as to spare future generations the pain and suffering that this sort of affliction will most certainly bring them, to commit suicide.

Personally, I would prefer that he would. I'll pay for the bullet, because this is an individual that might be too sick to continue living.

Of whom do I speak? Why, I'm talking about the sick bastard who keeps typing the words "nephew and my wife and we have to make fake sex picture" into his search engine. How do I know he's typing those words into his sex...errr...search engine? Because typing those words into Google or whoever somehow leads him to this website.

I get a report on it every day, and this person has done it every day for the last week.

Now, here's what's so incredibly fucked up about this situation (besides the obvious);

1. I'm pretty sure I've never blogged anything about nephew/wife sex.

2. I'm pretty certain I've never blogged anything about fake sex pictures.

3. I'm absolutely positive I have never written about anyone having to make a fake sex picture involving his wife and nephew under duress.

A quick Google Search of my own indicates that the reference, if any, to this site is fairly obscure (it ain't on the first 10 pages of responses to the search term), and even at that, I had to scrub with a Brillo Pad to scrape the imagined filth off my hands afterwards. I feel cheap for even havng investigated this.

I swear, the Internet is really strange and disgusting place, and there's some really disturbed individuals out there who need to be identified before they do great harm to society. Here's an idea:

Did you ever notice that when your newspaper or nightly newscast runs a picture of the latest Mad Dog Postal Worker, the most recent Pubescent Loser on a school shooting spree, or this week's serial elevator rapist, the photo they have never seems to be in focus? You get one with the guy in eyeglasses that are simply two full-moons of reflected light, or the photo is old and grainy and so you can't really make out the dude's features. Or the best, is when you get that combination of old, grainy, smudged features, but the red eyes stand out.

So, here's what I would suggest; I would take a photograph of every human being on Planet Earth. Thanks to Facebook, Google Earth and the Central London and New York City CCTV systems, this won't be as difficult as it sounds. We take all the photos in which no clear image was produced, and hunt down and kill the people associated with them...before they kill us, breed, or get the opportunity to type "nephew and my wife and we have to make fake sex picture" into a fucking search engine.

The Haircut...

A Note to All The Ladies Who Visit the Asylum; as a public service, I am about to offer you a FREE piece of advice about the inner-workings of that most disagreeable of creatures: The Man.

This advice will not help you rekindle the romance. It will not give you any greater insight as to what absolute pigs men are (believe me, we are). It will not even help you to better understand us, except in some superficial way. It is an observation, one that I hadn't really made about myself before, but that now having discovered this intriguing bit of unrealized stupidity, I simply must write about it.

In case no one ever told you...

...Men are creatures of habit, and the Older we get, the more set we are in those habits. The more we persist in that sort of stupidity, the more dull and boring life becomes. I would wager that at least a third of divorces arise because some dude won't give up his comfortable, but annoying, habits.

You would think that with all the time I've spent in therapy, I would have noticed this about myself before, and perhaps even taken steps to correct this potentially-dangerous-on-par-with-OCD behavior earlier, but for some reason while I have been able to recognize the really big -and-obvious destructive baggage that I carry, I had never quite noticed this little personality quirk until today.

And it took a Gay Man to bring about this Epiphany.

See, I've needed a haircut for quite some time. In fact, I'm one of those men who finds a trip to the barber shop to be a massive inconvenience, like passing a kidney stone, or having to eventually do the laundry because you've run out of socks and underpants to turn inside-out. My last haircut, before today, was approximately seven months ago. Most people go to a doctor once a year for a physical, I go to the barber but once a year and usually because it's difficult to see, or birds are beginning to nest in my hair. I shave (almost) every day. I often shower twice a day. I'm manic-bordering-on-anal-retentive about creased trousers, perfectly-ironed shirts, and shined shoes, but when it comes to getting a haircut, I'd probably prefer a Clorox enema.

Oh, of course, I can find justifications for this weird behavior: at my advanced age (nearing 44) most of the men I know are losing their hair, while my own magnificent mane continues to flourish, growing like an endless field of wind-blown amber grain. I'm only now starting to go gray, and it's but a few strands here and there, while everyone else my age is already starting to show a little snow on the roof. My hair is probably, on some Freudian level, my visible symbol of continued virility. In a way, I think I'm engaging in what might be called, under different circumstances, female behavior: it's almost as if I'm telling all the other 40-something men "Eat your heart out, sucka!".

Anyways, eventually, even I break down and have to admit that it's time to bring in the harvest. My hair was curling over my collar in the back -- a look that hasn't been popular since the days when David Cassidy could set teenybopper vaginas aflame. My head appeared to have grown to twice it's normal size. I could take the hair hanging down in the front of my head and nearly touch the tip of my nose with it. A few days ago, I was out in the cold, and two hours after my morning shower, my hair was still wet (blow dryers are for pussies!)...and it froze to my scalp. I could actually pick ice crystals out of it.

So, it was time. And herein lie the discovery of my inner Creature of Habit.

I was, unfortunately, very busy this afternoon. Mom is getting more mobile, but is still not fully independent, so this afternoon I was needed to escort her and help her out while she did her errands. One of these errands was a trip to the laundromat. Now, my mother doesn't do what normal people do, and use the laundromat four blocks away, because that would be too easy and would deprive her of the opportunity to annoy the living shit out of me. No, she must use the "better" laundromat (how one makes these distinctions is beyond me) ten blocks away. This conflicts with my desire to, finally, chop the hair off my head in my regular barber's chair. While she sits around waiting for the laundry that I will have to carry back home, I'm looking for the nearest haircutters, just to get the damned thing over with.

And so it was that I walked into one of the newer salons that has just recently opened in the neighborhood. It was nearby. it was convenient. It was full of really cute Korean Girls. That's good enough for me, so I walked in.

I was greeted by a really adorable little thing with funky pigtails, like you usually only see on a Pokemon or in a Japanese anime feature. Immediately, it becomes apparent that there is going to be a little problem with language, my Korean (learned from Korean ex-girlfriends) being limited to about three phrases -- and they shouldn't be repeated in polite company, but I'm going to because you've come to expect that sort of coarseness from me -- are, roughly translated into Engrish...errr...English:

1. Oh My God, that was awesome!
2. Easy! That hurts a little (I like 'em petite, and I am Italian, after all...wink, wink)
3. Not now, you stupid bastard!

So, Funky Pigtails asks me:

You wan' hay-cut?

Yes, I want a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?

You wan' hay-cut?

Yes (pointing at my head) I would like a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?

And then I heard it as clear as day. That sound that reminds one of steam escaping, or of a slow leak in a steel-belted radial.

Yessssss, we cut Men's hair.

Turning, I caught sight of something so funny that I'm amazed that I managed to stifle my laughter. If there's anything funnier than a Gay Hairdresser, it's a Gay Korean Hairdresser. This is a long way away from my usual haircut routine, where I walk into the same place I've gone to for the last five or so years, and they know what to do without asking. In fact, no words are exchanged at all; they just start cutting. I'm caught now. Cornered. I'm used to having women cut my hair (admission: it's vanity. Women rave about my hair), not some skinny dude in skinny jeans with cowboy boots and a bandanna around his neck. There's nothing for it.

I'm about to get some Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

And I'm about to discover that "Yesssss, we cut Men's hair" is about all the English this guy knows.

I try to explain what I want, in a combination of pidgin and hand gestures, and he just stares. When I'm finished, he shakes his head, indicating that this will not do. He tries to explain what he thinks should be done, and I'm not really getting it. I don't speak Hair, nor do I speak Korean Queer. Eventually, for some unknown reason, I simply make a gesture which could be interpreted as "whatever you think is best". Surrender: It's easier that way.


The guy was a scissor demon. I don't think I have ever had someone spend that much time with a pair of scissors on my head, and it wasn't just the considerable amount of hair he took off, either; the guy was working like a sculptor -- a fine cut here, a little adjustment of an angle there, ooops! Missed that little bit over there.

Then he whipped out (pardon the pun) the electric shears. I was now about to go into apoplexy, imagining one of those ridiculous close-cropped monstrosities that passes for fashion these days. All the best Guidos on Staten Island have haircuts that resemble what you get on your first day on Parris Island, only with designs or messages carved into it. The man goes to town with comb and shears, shaving here, slicing there, trimming everywhere. Every so often he stops, and I can't quite tell if he's trying to get some loose shavings out of his way, of if he's trying to turn me on by blowing in my ear, but at this point, I don't give a crap; I'm in the chair for nearly 45 minutes, already. If I had gone to my regular place, I'd have left 20 minutes ago.

Apparently, something wasn't quite up to snuff, so the scissors come out again. I'm not exactly sure what he's trimming and cutting, but he's determined. Every so often, he stops to ask me something I cannot understand, and somehow I find myself reflexively saying "yes, that's fine". Eventually, the job is done; there is an inch-thick pile of hair at the base of the chair. That oversized bib-thingy I'm wearing looks like Magnum, P.I.'s chest. You could construct an entire grizzly bear from what came off my head, I reckon.

And Super-Gay Korean Dude holds up the little mirror, and gives me the rear view (hah! I said "gay" and "rear view"! Oh, I slay me!), the side view and the view from above. I finally look into the big mirror across from the chair, and not only has this dude done an incredible job on my haircut -- it's shorter than I've ever worn it, and I suddenly look thinner and about ten years younger (I already look very young for my age, but this was simply incredible). I'd like to think I'm not a (terribly) vain man, and I will admit that I know jack about fashion and the finer points of personal grooming beyond the occasional snipping of nostril hangers -- I mean, I don't even trim my mustache; when it gets to the point where I'm actually eating it along with my dinner, I simply shave it off and start again -- but this was a revelation.

Creature of Habit. I'd been getting the same haircut, more or less, since high-school, with little variation. Had I ever given much thought to the possibilities of something different, who knows what might have been? I have to say, I felt exceedingly happy about a simple haircut, and in one hour three habits seem to have gone by the wayside:

1. I have decided that I shall get more frequent haircuts.
2. I may have found a new barber.
3. I will resolve from this day forward to occasionally, consciously, break with my usual habits. I will try a new coffee shop. I will order a different sandwich at the deli instead of my usual chicken cutlet/fresh mozzarella/roasted red pepper, fresh garlic and olive oil on Semolina. I will do something different at least once a week from here on in.

It gets better.

On my return to the laundromat that attractive strawberry blond who wouldn't give me a second look when I first walked in? She struck up a conversation. Oh, and I have clean underpants again.

And here is your second piece of free advice, Ladies:

Get your man to break some of his stupid habits (by no means all of them!), and you just might get yourself a New Man in the process.

This is Your Brain On Drugs...And Your Ass on Mice...

It's also another reason why I moved back north.

Somehow, I'm certain the mouse was just an innocent bystander.

There's something about South Carolina that makes the men there sexual deviants. Maybe it's something in the water, the brain damage that comes from a daily six-pack and NASCAR, or all that inbreeding, but stories like this are fairly common in that part of the country. When I lived in Charlotte, the Observer (suitable for wrapping fish) or the local newscast was sure to carry at least one item involving a South Carolinian and a four-legged sexual partner (that and the church announcements were half the paper, usually)..

I've also worked with two men who were South Carolinians (not at the same company, or at the same time), and I can hardly remember a day where one of them wasn't speaking fondly of memories of afternoons spent porking watermelons warmed in the summer sun, a beloved sow who meekly submitted, a mule trained to back into your boner while you sat on the fencepost, a cousin arrested for doing nasty things to chickens, a good dog who did more than hunt, and so forth.

You think I'm kidding? Guess again; I've heard the stories so many times I can practically recite them word-for-word. Not only were those guys not embarrassed by the revelation of their sex lives on the farm, they seemed to think it was funny. I'll bet if you put two of these morons in the same room, they'd very quickly begin to try and "one-up" each other with tales of their barnyard conquests.

I'm surprised the Taliban hasn't been there to recruit some of these guys.

Just Wash Your Balls, Dammit!

You'll be happy to know that $800,000 in U.S. Taxpayer Stimulus Money was spent to teach African men how to properly wash their Wedding Tackle.

The expenditure was considered necessary in order to prevent the spread of AIDS and other STD's.

Some observations:

1. My mother taught me at a very young age to wash my tallywhacker regularly. While this was never presented to me as a way of avoiding chlamydia -- or worse -- it would seem to me to be something so fundamentally obvious to everyone on Planet Earth, that I'm absolutely shocked that it must be taught to anyone via government program.

2. You now know why Africa will always be impoverished and disease-ridden; African men know how to fuck, but apparently not how to wash properly. Countries in which basic hygiene is an obscure and arcane art are countries where progress is next-to-impossible. Without progress, there can be no civilization, let alone it's adjuncts of prosperity and democracy.

3. I'd like to know which Congresscritter got this bit of stupidity into the Porkulus Bill, and then have him or her flogged on national television. The purpose of the Stimulus Bill was to stimulate economic growth in this country and put Americans to work, not to bring the wonder of soap to the...ummm...great unwashed masses. That near-million bucks could have been better used here.

4. I'm personally inclined to let anyone who won't wrap that rascal, or take any of the most basic of preventative actions to protect their personal health, die.

5. I guess bringing the benefits of washing your One-eyed-Moisture-Seeking-Missile frequently is the modern equivalent of the White Man's Burden.

6. Now you know why the country is broke: it is somehow in the vital national interest to spend scads of Taxpayer money in foreign countries to teach a bunch of horny dingbats to keep their Meat Whistle clean. Our political class is a convocation of morons.

7. I will now avoid African women (that's Africa-African) like the plague; I now know what they've been doing, and worse, what they've been doing it with.

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.

T'was Only a Matter of Time....

...before the porn-star Baby Mamas started coming out of the woodwork. Warning: some of this might not be safe for work. As if the man didn't have enough problems in his life, the Daily News goes and publishes 92 selected photos of his boot-knockin' partners in sexy poses.

If I were Tiger Woods, I'd be running back to the Fortress of Solitude that is rehab.

And if that wasn't bad enough, it only begins to get infinitely worse: there's more than one porn "actress" involved. and allegations are flying that some of these...ahem...choice conquests ...were given hush money, probably to keep quiet about the fact that -- off the golf course at least -- Tiger might swing both ways. Allegedly.

Now, I have no sympathy for Tiger Woods because his pain is mostly self-inflicted, and his oh-so-carefully-selected menagerie of paramours makes it crystal clear that he has (or had) a serious drug problem (people who aren't under the influence or insane do not make these sorts of choices, or attract this particular class of women). At some point, though, this could all end if the man would just disappear-- he has the money to do so -- but he just won't go away. The cost of that kind of ego is that his peccadilloes will be made public -- drip-drip-drip -- like a Chinese water torture.

You would expect that at some point common sense (and a sense of shame!) would kick in and Tiger would fade away, because the longer he stays in the spotlight -- or struggles to get back into it -- the more we'll be seeing this endless parade of pathetic gold-digging sluts, many with a reputation for deviant sexual practices involving unnatural violations perpetrated by multiple partners, which brings us all one step closer to the Apocalypse.

I'm a guy and even my "fuck-anything-that-moves-male-sexual-reflex" is repulsed by just the thought of some of the...festivities...these women have done to in order to "earn a living" in the porn "Industry"(yeah, like none of you has ever seen a porn video, right?)

You wonder who will win this race; will Tiger's perseverance, stubbornness and sense of entitlement, his steadfast belief that his "image" (and therefore, his fame and fortune) can be rehabilitated eventually be overtaken by the flood of embarrassing activities -- and personages -- that got him into this mess in the first place? Or are we watching the slow death-spiral of The Man Who Had it All But Threw It Away?

Who gives a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? I have my own problems to deal with, thank you.
This is still funny as hell, though.

UPDATE: Link to Tiger's Rogues Gallery of Tawdry Encounters fixed.