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Dear Julia,

I am sorry I made everything so awkward the other night when we were watching Rock of Love Bus and you were laughing and I tried to kiss you and then pretended like it was nothing before I kinda ran outta your house crying. I am kinda kooky like that sometimes…lol…

I understand and am totally cool with the fact that you don’t want to date me. Your friendship is as valuable to me as it is to you, and I sincerely mean that. Although it will be very difficult for me to sweep aside the way I feel about you and I know you’ve had a tough time getting over the emotional scars of your ex boyfriend, I will do what makes you happy. If you ever need anything or want to talk I want you to know that I’m totally here for you and down for whatever…no awkwardness here…I just want you to be a part of my life, whatever that means!

I just wanted to know something else… for myself. If I was a total douchebag, do you think you might consider dating me? Because, you’ve always said that what I mean to you as a friend is something you’d never jeopardize by dating me. So I’m just wondering, I guess, about the criteria here. I mean, I know your last boyfriend, Todd, was a real prick and he banged your sister and showed up drunk to your grandma’s funeral, but you DEFINITELY had sex with him…. soooo… I guess what I’m asking is if I were ever to do something kind of nasty to you, do you think that there’d be like, any hope of me getting to maybe kiss you, for like a second? I’m just kinda putting that out there, and if it sounds weird, forget it, I am totally cool with driving you to the mall and watching you shop like we usually do every weekend.

Julia, you are extremely important to me and I hope that everything works out for you in life. Like remember that guy Steve you called me about, that time who drove you home when you were blackout drunk that time and shoved your head into his lap? You told me what a prick he was as if that was a bad thing, but then like, two weeks later at Dave’s house you tried to swallow his dick whole in the laundry room, and then he never called you again. I really hope he calls you back. Not that I’m jealous or anything, but like, just floating another totally hypothetical question out there.

Again, if I am crossing the line, please let me know.

Anyway, if I were a real prick to you the next time you call me on the phone to “vent” about your shitty day and the “shortage of nice,single guys,” and said something like “bitch, I’ve got your nice, single dick right here…”

Would you touch it?

I would NEVER say anything like that, but I’m just slightly confused by your criteria.  What exactly do you mean by nice?

Julia, you are very dear to me, and we’ve been through a lot together. When Doug dumped you to go out with Heather and told everyone you were a desperate slut and you lost twenty pounds and I had to drive you home from all those parties when you passed out and made a fool of yourself in front of a dozen people because of what an asshole Doug was for dumping you even though you let him put it in your butt…never mind- what I mean is- I didn’t mind cleaning you up all those times, wiping away your tears,  making you dinner, or sleeping with you(in the most literal terms possible) when you felt alone or anything, because you’re my best friend, but I was just wondering…If I were to drop the pretense, quit this whole act, and treat you like the dirty whore you are, would you let me put it in your butt? I mean really??!! What does a guy have to do to get his dick wet??!

All my Love,

Your Best Friend Tom

All guys are assholes. Wait; comment if you’ve heard this one before.

Now, if we (as men) are to assume, for the sake of argument, that all guys, are indeed assholes, is it ok if we just kinda accept that and roll with it? Like, “ok, fair enough, but only because we don’t respect women because you’re all idiots”. Would that be a fair trade off? Because I’m kinda willing to negotiate an armistice in the battle of the sexes here.

Let me be pretty clear about one thing, it’s not so much that I have the balls to say these sort of things because I’m single, but rather, I’m single because I have the balls to say this.

A couple of months ago, I profoundly expressed my excitement and unyielding anticipation at another “Fast and the Furious” movie. This was much to the dislike of my mom, female friends, female coworkers, my one friend who refuses to come out of the closet, and anything else that has a vagina or wish they had a vagina.

The basis is the sheer “stupidity” of the films, which I find pretty gaddam appealing. What do I expect in one of these movies? Badass cars, short skirts, and fist fights. Let me tell ya, the new one hit on all three. Satisfaction guaranteed.

Now what I find odd about this whole situation, is the uproar from the same group that watch “the Hills” and actually saw “Sex and The City” in the movie theaters because its “such a good show”. What the?

Ladies, a collection of moderately attractive, “independent” women, living in a city with jobs well-paying enough to support their fashion gluttony isn’t any more realistic than Vin Diesel hijacking trucks.

The difference between me and women on this issue is not that I “just don’t understand it”, but rather, I’m self aware enough to understand that the shit I’m watching is just that, SHIT.

You know what’s unrealistic? Me having biceps like Diesel and abs like Ryan Reynolds. You know what else is unrealistic? Independent, self-supporting women. Now it’s not the self-supporting part that gets me, it’s the “independent” part. Every girl I’ve ever met has been just as emotionally needy as your average puppy from Michael Vick’s Petland. If they were really so independent, why the hell do they sit around bitching about relationships?

Well, you see, its because they can’t be alone. Most women are either in a relationship, looking for a relationship, or looking for another relationship as a way out of their current relationship. I’m not denying that there aren’t a good number of women who are single for a good amount of time. These are typically the ones with “standards”. Or as I like to say, every car dealership has that Yugo they just can’t sell.

The real independent women are the ones that understand “equality”. Remember now, you gals wanted equality. Ya’ll wanted to be big girls, work, vote, nail whoever you want, and live your own lives. I certainly think you have a right to it. What I don’t get is why the hell you keep wondering why guys don’t open doors, ask you out on dates, or buy you flowers anymore.

Well, once again ladies, equality. Ya’ll wanted it, ya’ll got it. Now we treat most of you just as good as our dipshit buddies. Ain’t it grand? Just remember, you fought for it, not us.

What’s that? You want romance? Chivalry? Flowers? Surprise dates? You want to be taken out for dinner? No problem sweetheart. Just remember, back then, we paid for dinner all the time, but half the time we ordered for you. You want to venture back to the good old romantic days? Fine, no sweat off my ball sack, but I get home at five, so a blowjob by 5:15 and dinner by 6:00 sweet tits.

The reality is that a large percentage of you have cornered yourself into an un-fulfilling situation.  You want all the benefits of equality but you really don’t want all the work.  Very few of you actually want to go to war or deal with any of the hardship.  As far as I know, women aren’t allowed to fight on the front lines (although right now anyone there might as well be on the front line).  Women still don’t register for the selective service system and it appears the only group that’s ever challenged the constitutionality of that was a group of men.  Sure as hell wasn’t any “I am woman hear me roar” in that courtroom huh?

It’s no secret why I’m single. As ya’ll so consistently point out, like all men, I’m an asshole. Unfortunately for ya’ll, I tend to be an asshole who’s able to win arguments with you. Yep, I’m that guy. The one who defies that “it’s ok for a women to be angry without explanation” philosophy. Half the time I’d be willing to bet that a good percentage of you start arguments just to see if there’s any spine in us. Hell, I’m sure it’s nice to see a little bit of passion once in awhile.

You see, the irony of the situation is that while I’ve pissed off an untold number of women, a good percentage of these women I’ve still managed to get in the sack, or, to be perfectly fair, they’ve managed to get me in the sack. Despite the overwhelming anger in the room, we’ve managed to have some mind blowing sex. Hell, the angry and crazy girls are the best. Especially the one that broke the lights in my ceiling that one time. Call me an idiot, call me an asshole, but ya’ll keep coming back to us.

Photo by doug88888

As I write this on the computer in my parent’s basement, still drunk from last night’s wedding, I have to wonder, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? The events of the last twenty four hours are not quite clear. It’s a little hazy. It started with me strolling into work, hungover.

You see, I recently moved. To avoid further shenanigans that have occurred over the last five years, I moved into a rather large apartment that was specifically not, “a party house”. We all agreed. Turns out, our definition of “a non party house” simply means not inviting thirty people from the bar. Instead, we rather quietly all drink together. It’s been less than a week and we have ten milk crates of empties we’re saving to recycle and buy toilet paper. Two roommates killed six thirty racks of PBR in six days. At this rate, we’ll pay the rent instead.

In my hungover state, I strolled to work with a fucked up back and knowing that I had a wedding to go to that night. I promised myself I’d only have one or two and take it easy. I left work and was double fisting by nine. When the song “Amazed” came on, I quietly mumbled, “fuck”. It’s that song that everyone hears at every wedding. The one that half of us have an ex it reminds us of. However, for the first time in five years, drunk as hell, I quietly listen to the entire song instead of pretending to go to the bathroom and think not of my ex, but some new girl I met. Realizing that to a drunk like me, this is scarier than approaching a Puerto Rican with a knife outside a bar at two am, I proceed to load up and get way drunker.

The bride, who, despite my alcoholism, has an apparently high opinion of me, attempts to introduce me to a bridesmaid, the one that looks like a model. I get so drunk I can’t even fake my dance, “the white boy” right. All I can think of is said new girl. This is not a good combination. I’ve got some gorgeous girl I’ve seen pictures of in a bikini in front of me and I’m thinking of some girl an hour away. Not good.

I pretend I’m drunker than I am to walk away for a second. Realizing I blew it with the hottest bridesmaid, I return to my table with two older women who have sat with me the whole night and have fallen in love with me in a kid brother kinda way. They promptly ask me what happened and I inform them of said fuck up. They agree to help me rebound and hook me up with a girl. I believe at least one of them wanted to hit me when they asked what kind of girl I like and I respond with “train wreck”.

At this point in my life, hell, I’ve dated nice girls and lasted all of two weeks. Some people are dreamers who want a picket fence. I’m a hurricane who wants another hurricane for the perfect storm. All things considered, I feel I deserve it, seeing as I have to be one of the most selfless and kind alcoholics I know. Within an hour last night I chased down two separate girls who were mad at their boyfriends and convinced them to reconcile. Somewhere along the line I woke up on a hotel room floor with no one in the bed and two bud light limes in my pocket. Not sure why I didn’t sleep in the bed or had bud light limes in my pocket, I don’t even drink that Mexican goat piss.

I woke up to some Spanish maid knocking on the door. Some people would be moderately embarrassed still being in the suit from last night and not having a change of clothes, but for some reason, black and Spanish women love me. As the hazy details of last night start coming into my brain, I quickly realize my car is two parking lots away and I’m about to do the second worst walk of shame ever (the first being my infamous two hour stroll through southie).

I realize I have two options. One, I throw my coat on, duck down, and avoid all eye contact with a rapid hustle to my car. Two, just say fuck it, throw the coat over the shoulder, and strut out, Travolta style. Thinking that my plans for the day include a going away party topped off with meeting up with two lesbians who promised me moonshine, I realize,” hey, would two attractive lesbians give a douchebag moonshine?”

Hell no. I must have some swagger. So I do it.

Toss the coat over my shoulder, crack open the door, skip past Rosalita’s cleaning cart, and strut out of that hotel, Stayin’ Alive playing in my head the whole time. Rather than avoid eye contact, I make a point of looking and smiling at everyone I pass by, as if my hangover shit smelled like kittens and roses. Old women look away. Young women laugh. Families move to the other side of the hall.

Five minutes and two parking lots later, I’m in my car realizing I could fail a breathalyzer just by driving past a cop and head to get coffee and a bagel. Finish said coffee, and crack another. It’s 2pm and I’m on to the party. I’m hungover, probably still drunk, and have lesbians and moonshine to look forward to.

Looks like I don’t need Jesus after all, because God definitely loves me.

In honor of my successful avoidance of the dating scene, it’s time to reminisce upon some of my classic fuck ups over the years.  Once again, the events here actually occurred, but the name of the girls will be left out to spare her any embarrassment so that she can safely deny ever dating me.

From time to time, someone I’ll come across will ask that always-intriguing question, “Why are you single?”  Well, besides being an asshole and lacking any fashion sense, I have less game than a Jamaican bobsled team.

One particular girl I dated for awhile, I took to the movies.  Now I figure if you’re going to do something, just cowboy the fuck up and do it.  No one deserves to make progress if they don’t have the nuts to step up and try.  On this particular occasion, I’m referring to the arm around the shoulder.  I don’t go for the fake stretch, the yawn, or slow stealth-like creep move where suddenly it’s just there.  No, I just go ahead and do it.  Usually it’s no problem.

Unfortunately this time, we had both been tired and went to a late night movie.  I was really into the movie and had started to zone a bit.  I didn’t know that she had actually fallen asleep and her head was leaning toward my shoulder.  So, totally watching the movie and not looking, I go to put my arm around her.

Next thing I know, she’s awake.  Why is she awake now?  Because I straight up elbowed her in the fucking head.  Sweet.  I’ve got mad skills.  It was definitely unintentional but I didn’t want her to feel like she was on a date with Ike Turner, so I made sure to apologize and cheer her up after that.  For the record, like shifting lanes on the highway, I now throw a glance to the side before I decide to make that move.

As you can probably guess, there wasn’t a second date.  That particular girl was smart enough to get out quickly and avoid the awkwardness of the next gal.

I had the day off and was just lounging around.  She came over when she got out of work and asked if I wanted to watch a DVD or something.  I forget what it was, but I was like, “ya, sure, it’s just on top of the TV”.

Unfortunately, it actually was not on top of the TV, although a porno was.  She turned around and said, “um….,this definitely isn’t it”.  True dat.  It most definitely was not the DVD I had anticipated being there.  This might not have been that embarrassing if we were together for awhile, but at this point I think we had dated for like a month.

Anyway, you would think that I would quit while I was ahead.  You know, learn from my mistake, and get my ass on over there and find it myself.  Nope.  I just said, “Oh, it must be in the DVD player then.”  Funny thing.  It was not in the DVD player.  But you know what was?  Another porno.  Idiot.  I’ve got like two pornos and somehow managed to leave them directly where some chick would find them. Once again, I suck at life.

On a side note, I remember that the one in the DVD player was called something along the lines of Anal Whores.  Somehow I find that to just sound even more embarrassing.  Looking back now, I really have to wonder what she found more strange, me leaving porn like that, or my whole “well that’s embarrassing, oh well, what did you wanna watch again?” attitude.

On an end note, I think I’m gonna have to go back and quote a good friend on this one:

If humility is a virtue, then I am on the path to righteousness.

Have you ever shared an infinitesimal moment with a stranger that you’ve still managed to hold on to with the greatest tenacity, despite its brevity? Did even a fleeting glimpse across a café leave you feeling tender in the cockles? Do you lie awake at night, wondering where you would be if only you had asked him/her out to lunch or even mustered up a “Hello”? I’ve had a few of these lost connections in the past, but rather than letting them disappear forever, I would like to use this opportunity to try to rekindle such timeless bonds.

While it’s true that Craigslist features its very own Missed Connections personals section that allows users to try to stoke romantic fires that never were, I have opted against using the site after the lack of serious responses to my “Woman to sit in my bathtub full of noodles, wearing a bathing suit” request (The offer still stands if anybody’s interested, though I’m now substituting the $1 offer for a copy of Ben Affleck’s Reindeer Games on VHS).

With that, I leave you with my missed connections, in hopes that you’ll be able to shed some light on the ones that got away. If you know who any of these people might be (or if you ARE one of these people!) please contact me immediately. Help me find my soul mate.

Buzz Cuts Guy
I was in my beat up Plymouth Acclaim with “PROLIFE” Wisconsin vanity plate, listening to music at a modest volume. From fifty yards away, I could hear the unmistakable chorus of Eve 6’s “Inside Out” (that late-nineties hit about frappéing organs) blasting from your car in the lane over.  As I approached your car at a stoplight, I was momentarily blinded by the jewel case you were waving outside the driver’s window. Once I got closer, I realized that the CD case you were holding was none other than Buzz Cuts, the alternative rock compilation seen on TV! Just blasting such an awful, dated song is brazen enough, but you truly outdid yourself by letting your freak flag fly, showing the world that you actually bought Buzz Cuts while rocking out to one of its tracks. Buzz Cuts Guy, please come back into my life. I am hanging by a moment here with you.

Crazy Old Man
It was at Alpine Bagel in the University of North Carolina Student Union in spring, 2007. I had that life-changing encounter with you, Crazy Old Man. Since you were quite frail, I took it upon myself to hold the door open for you. You were grateful, joking, “You’re a very nice young man! You’re clearly not a republican,” followed by a throaty, weak laugh that can only come from a lifetime of Chesterfields. I enjoyed this nice little bit of humor, though it was your following non sequitur that cemented you a spot in my memory forever: “If your parents ask you how you’re doing, tell ‘em, ‘I had the best fuck of my life last night!’”. With that, you walked off into the sunset and out of my life. If you’re still alive and somehow computer literate, I can only pray that you’ll accidentally come across this site when you’re searching for “njkdsfjsdndshsaffffffffffffff”. Please, Crazy Old Man, I need to have a beer with you. In fact, we could probably get you writing on the site in no time.

Overzealous Sports Fan
The Big 12 region is home to a good deal of overly fervent football fanatics and yet, during my recent trip to Austin, Texas, the memory of one particular fan has remained with me ever since. Some might say that passion for a sports team is best shown with face paint or foam hands, but I don’t think anybody is as passionate about their team as you, Overzealous Sports Fan, despite your lack of such flair. Instead, you opted for a simple, classy burnt orange shirt to show off your pride for the University of Texas as you perused the mall on that summer day. Your shirt read, “You can’t spell cocksucker without OU!” (With the OU representing those pillow biters up at Oklahoma University, naturally). Though a homophobic football t-shirt in Texas is hardly worth thinking twice about, it was the fact that you were pushing around your young child in a stroller all the while that made me enthralled by you, Overzealous Sports Fan. By wearing such a shirt, you’ve proven that you’re willing to sacrifice your role as a respectable parent in favor of showing off your Longhorns pride. Such devotion to your team is unparalleled; you have pride and commitment that I could only dream of. That is, why, oh Overzealous Sports Fan, I hope we can reconnect, so you can teach me the ways of such undaunted devotion.

Oh, I should probably include my son in this list as well. Sorry about leaving you at Dairy Queen, little guy!

It’s such a shame there are so many homeless populating the streets of NYC- well, for them. I look at it as free entertainment while I wait for my late-night train home. While the masturbating Chinese she-he with pigtails and red scrunchies entertains the N line and the toothless, pole-dancing, old black man entertains the W, my heart belongs to another. It was a warm summer night and I was exhausted and patiently waiting for the train.

Too sleepy to read and too drunk to stand, I found the bench and got as comfortable as a smelly, wooden seat allows. The station was empty except for one- and because I have a staring problem that I am not willing to overcome, I blatantly gawked at the dirty, dirty old man heading my way. Expecting a simple walk-by, I was enthralled when the gentleman’s saunter promptly accelerated to a sprint. Thinking this was the apex of tonight’s show, (it is amusing enough to see a homeless man run his fastest across the platform), my eyes widened in awe as Man left the ground and gracefully flew through the air. Half gazelle, half karate kid, Homeless (his new name) reached an unbelievable height and with a screech, (“HIIIIIIIII-YA!!”), his protruding foot collided with the hanging ‘Exit” sign suspended from the ceiling. I think he even winked at me in the air while we held eye contact.

Don’t get me wrong- particularly trained in classical dance and fully equipped with a high-kick that could knock Godzilla off his rocker, I am not threatened by the dangers of the night. But, I immediately looked away- we were getting too intimate too soon. “YOU KNOWS WHOS YOU LOOK LIKE, GURL?” I didn’t look up in response, I couldn’t. “HEY! GURL! YOU KNOWS WHOS YOU LOOK LIKE?” He suddenly was directly in front of me. My eyes slowly lifted to reach his gaze and my heart quickened. “Please tell me,” I squeaked out. “MARY POPPINS! YOUS EVA HEARD THAT?! YOUS LOOK LIKE MARY PAUUUUUUPPINS!” I had never heard that, possibly because I look absolutely nothing like Mary Poppins. I shook my head ‘no.’ “WELL. DAS GOOD TO LOOK LIKE MUAARY, BECAUSE SHES KNOWN. YOU KNOW?! SHES KNOWN!” (I did not know, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about).

Before I could speak again, Homeless was gracefully lowering himself to one knee. Positioned for a marriage proposal, his eyes softened and he reached both arms over his head and into the backpack he was wearing. Like a knight with his sword, Homeless slowly and elegantly lifted an item out of the bag and over himself. With a bowed head and a gentleness only a real man could possess, he appropriately placed a closed umbrella into my open hands. “This is for you, Mary,” he sensually whispered. As quickly as he had arrived, he was gone. I held my gift delicately, unsure of what to do next. An Indian man who had apparently joined me on the backside of the bench while I was busy with Homeless offered his advice, “I would put that down.” I did not put it down. As the train arrived and the roar of the engine filled the station, I opened my new umbrella. Despite the fact that the top piece flung off and smacked me in the face, consequently flinging my glasses across the concrete- I smiled with content. He had me at ‘HI-YA.’

In 1991, getting porn was mission impossible. I remember the concept of a naked woman first being introduced to me at elementary school. A broken home kid would bring in a porno magazine to share with other children who would give him more attention than his alcoholic father would when he wasn’t “tucking” him in at night. We all gathered around this kid as a gang of horny hooligans eager to catch a glimpse of a titty or two. I remember running home to see if my family had a collection of porn I could rummage through. Unfortunately, my parents kept their stash well hidden like Columbian dealers straight out the fields of Bogotá.

If your parents didn’t have a lock n key library, you were left to find whether your friend’s parents were into that kink shit with whatever reading material they left hidden in their closets. If not, you had to venture out in the world to seek out a perverted shopkeeper who didn’t mind selling to minors. You could tell how the situation was going to go down by simply observing the merchant. He had to have one of those faces greasier than the before picture for Proactiv. If the three foot radius around him had a peculiar scent similar to salt water, you were in good business. If he used deodorant that meant your journey was only beginning.

It was always good to play out your personal Cuban Missile Crisis by waiting to see how other underage patrons would fare. The rookie mistake, as some of us have experienced, has been blowing your milk money on the porn three pack only to get stiffed with a black and white porn magazine. Another indication of a loose morale porn merchant would be the grave yard of broken masturbatory dreams in the form of black and white porn magazines rotting in a nearby parking lot or abandoned field.

Fast forward five years when Al Gore perfected the internet and we were cyber sexing balding men on America Online during the day while downloading porn clips at night. Believe or not, this was the golden age of porn. You had to put in a little elbow grease to find porn but it was worth it. Porn videos in the later 90s were circulating the internet like Tupac post-death tapes in southern California. These were the days was when I would sleep over a friend’s house, play video games till dawn, and conclude my slumber party by shorts of Submissive Sluts 4 at 7am. Till this day, I never found out how the patient was cured of his raging hard on but dear Evan Stone, I can imagine.

Everyone else’s porn downloading days varied by client but they all ended the same, gratified by a two minute clip that involved having to sit through a story line leading up genitalia screen time. This is where it all ended.

Porn today is lightning fast. Nowadays, you can skip the subtleties of a camera zooming in on a can of Crisco grease with a woman saying, “You know what its good for,” and rubbing it in her ass and go right to the facial. In addition, nothing is shocking. How sad is our current state that Two Girls One Cup was shocking at first but has opened the door to shit fetish videos? Horse porn has become old hat. These days you need a transvestite midget with dildos as a bikini jerking off a tiny tea cup poodle for you to look to the left and go, “oh hey porn.”

We have to go back to simpler times where sex didn’t involve interspecies or vegetable relations. We need to be keeping our animals in zoos and our cucumbers in crispers. They should be left out of the bedroom. I’m not one for a conservative sexual lifestyle but isn’t it enough when the only thing that is going to get you off is a middle aged Asian woman with a mastectomy and a peg leg. Sex between people, regardless of gender, is looking a lot better than banging Mr. Ed (plus – he already had his fifteen minutes).

Let’s go back to foreplay by showing an ankle as opposed to going ass to mouth. The extremes have gotten out of hand to the point where a burka is something I’d welcome as opposed to a sloppy bukaki organized by bored Japanese businessmen. If this kind of dark exploration continues, the future of man will eventually become sterile as it will take more than three fingers to milk a man.

The finger tips alone are filled with thousands of nerve endings. Instead of numbly clicking on goat dick pictures, make an excuse to (appropriately) touch someone you’re attracted to and recall on the immense pleasure you received. After all, humanity depends on you.

Strange is best defined as random ass. This applies to women and men. If you’re considering getting back with your ex, grab your breasts (or balls) and hold tight because you’re going to find out why Strange is so much better.

Worn Out
Ever buy a pack of socks? How great does it feel to put on a fresh pair? Your feet feel incredible with each step. After you throw them in the wash, they never have that new sock feel they used to have. Some celebrities throw out their undershirts after the first use. You don’t have to live that same kind of lifestyle with your undergarments but you can with your ex. If you’ve been there, and hit that, you don’t need to go back for something familiar. The most exciting part about Strange is that it also new. It is like unwrapping a pair of pants on someone else for some ass you’ve never seen before.

New Car Smell
There are thousands different colognes and perfumes in this world. Why should you choose one? It’s puzzling how people stay on the same scent for years on end. Scent is the strongest tie to memory, so shouldn’t you sniff all you can? The scent of a man (or woman) can be intoxicating. Between diet, deodorant choices, and cologne, people can smell so incredible and different at the same time. Build your memory and smell the possibilities of Strange!

Got Investments?
Do you have a child with you ex? Were you married and sharing a business? If not, then you have no investment towards your ex. You don’t owe him (or her) anything. The only obligation you have is finding yourself some Strange to forget all those stupid fights. Those nights you spent on the cell phone arguing over nothing call all be forgiven with some Strange. Strange is that opposite sex friend with a massive piece (or tits) that will listen to every complaint and then bang you for good measure. Strange don’t judge baby, Strange don’t judge!

Numbers don’t lie!
There are fifteen people born every five seconds. If half of them are men, then you have chance of meeting someone out of the 47,304,000 born every year! If that isn’t a reason to get some Strange, what else are you waiting for? Whether you believe in a soul mate or not doesn’t count, shacking up with two (first one being your ex) out of forty-seven million can’t be that hard.

Listen to the Music
If you haven’t listened to anything resembling a song in the past year, you might need to invest in a radio. Most love related songs talk about some bad experience involving an ex. Kanye West has released multiple hit songs about a girl cheating on him, her regretting it, and him sipping on Goose. It isn’t the top shelf vodka that is causing the demand for his music, it’s the hurt. As Fallout Boy once said

And I want these words to make things right, but it’s the wrongs that make the words come to life.

Quoting a mediocre band isn’t how this article should end, so get some Strange and make it right (or bitch about it in the comment section)

We’ve all gotten sex advice, some good, some bad, and lots of it is easy to ignore on the basis that “it will never happen to me.” I can say that the heat of passion has led me down the path of ignorance on more than one occasion, and quite frankly I’m still breathing.  Because you are likely as hardheaded and incompetent as me when it comes to ignoring the immediate gravitational pull of your penis, I will offer firsthand advice that I trust will prove invaluable to anyone on the where, when, and why of fornication. Should you ever find yourself in these situations, don’t do what I did:

Don’t Fornicate On a Public Beach
Because one night a lady friend and I had one of those “why not?” moments after one too many vodka drinks we decided to venture down to the local beach and see where it went. It went to dirty sex. Since, I’m a gentleman and no gentleman allows a woman to get a vagina full of sand, I suggested an aquatic experience. This had two benefits; first, the weightlessness the water affords allows for a variety of positions that would be physically impossible for those of us who were not born into the Circe Du Soleil; second, because I was shit housed, and needed a refreshing dip in order to remember how to properly use my penis.  Correct on both counts, things were going well until I instinctively looked behind me and saw two dark strangers approaching in the moonlight.  When I realized that they were local police officers with flashlights and my clothes were twenty five yards up the beach, I decided the best strategy was to pretend I had just escaped Alcatraz.  I filled my partner in on the plan and we immediately began a two minute plan of evasion that made the shoreline officers believe they were playing a game of flashlight whack-a-mole.  While my partner decided her best strategy was to attempt and swim around a nearby rock pile, I decided I would wait it out until the officers hopelessly relented to my superior powers of seclusion. I realize now that this was moronic considering they were standing on my jeans.  The officers realized rather quickly that we were not porpoises looking for a meal.

Cop: Hey, get outta there!
Me: Uhh
Cop: Stop diving, we see you!
Me: Thinking: (Just us dolphins in heat)
Cop: Get outta the water.
Me: Sir, I can’t because I’m naked and you’re standing on my jeans. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

The officers did me the dignity of walking to the top of the staircase that led to the beach and allowing me and my partner, who had nearly evaded capture, to clothe ourselves before sentencing.   The look on their faces suggested they did not share my enthusiasm for marine sexual physics. We approached the staircase as if we were French revolutionaries approaching the guillotine.

Cop: What the fuck were you doing!?
Me: Uhhh, we figured no one was down here so we just figured…uhhh.
Cop: Don’t do that in there. People swim in there.

And here I was tempted to say “and fish shit in it.” I wanted to say “I can see the shimmering motor oil of the boats in the moonlight…I think that sterilizes it.” Instead it came out:

Me: I’m sorry, yessir, you’re right….have sex in my bed yessir sorry sir…sorry…uhhh…sorry?
Cop: Go home and do that.

If you want to avoid a DWI after ingesting a dozen drinks, my advice to you would be drive to the beach immediately and get busy in the water. The cops are funny about breathalyzing someone they just saw bare ass naked. If you want to explore aquatic sex without the likelihood of a public indecency hearing, DON’T FORNICATE ON A PUBLIC BEACH.

Don’t Fornicate Six Feet above Your Mother
When I was a college guy living at home on my summer vacations, I’d typically wait until my parents were out of the house to invite my girlfriend of the moment over for sex.  On one particular evening, my parents were running late and girlfriend of the moment arrived ahead of time.  While my mother patiently waited for my father’s turn in the shower and prepared me a tasty meal, girlfriend of the moment and I headed upstairs. Because we had an entirely sexual relationship and very little to talk about, we couldn’t contain ourselves and decided to get down to business.

This was problematic on so many levels.  First, the bed I slept in until about three years ago was a converted bunk bed that had become rickety with age.  It was designed for a 60 pound 12 year old to jump on, and made no guarantees about supporting the weight of a 200 pound man and the 110 pound girl spread eagle below him. Further complicating matters was that it lay on a portion of the floor where the carpet met the hardwood; any and all motion caused it to slide between the two rather audibly.  Lastly, it was strategically positioned six feet above the kitchen where my mom had installed some kind of cabinets that magnified the sound to an inconvenient degree.  As we progressed beyond foreplay and I did my best to pummel this poor girl through the mattress (as young men are wont to do) the aforementioned variables coalesced in a perfect storm of embarrassment.  My mother, who was in the kitchen lovingly preparing my meal had no doubt gotten an earful through her cabinet grapevine and approached the staircase as if it were Monday morning and I was late getting up for high school. Shit.

Mom: RRRROOOBBBBBIIIIEEEE!!!!!
Me: WHAAAAAAT???!!
Mom: Your dinners ready, come down, what are you doing up there??!!!
Me: Nothing!!! I’ll be down in a minute JUST LEAVE IT!!!
Mom: RRROOOOOBBBBBIIIIEEEE!!!!!
Me: WehaveamicrowaveIwillheatitup!!!!! WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING??!!! LEAAAAAAAVE!!!!
Mom: RROOOBBBBIIIEEEE!!!!!
Me: WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?!!!
Mom: THIS ISN’T A DORM ROOM!

At that point I fully expected my mother to march up the stairs and wash my mouth out with soap. The only way I would have gone flaccid faster was if I realized my partner had morphed from nubile teenager to Barbra Streisand.  There is nothing more mortifying than getting caught having sex by your mother and being told so in no uncertain terms…while you’re balls deep. Besides having to stop and say “OKAYYYY” and go downstairs sweaty and flushed to consume your lovingly prepared meal with blue balls. That was worse. I immediately realized that this is why people who live at home after a certain point move to the basement and I realize now why I began throwing hundreds of dollars a month down the black hole called “rent” every month as soon as I had an extra dollar to spare. Now my floor slamming is my landlord’s problem. DON’T FORNICATE SIX FEET ABOVE YOUR MOTHER’S HEAD.

Don’t Fornicate When Your Friend is Passed Out Across the Room…He Isn’t.
I used an opportunity to visit a friend at college as an opportunity to reconquer the dreamland I had left behind two years earlier, where women and men behave in a fashion that is considered reprehensible elsewhere in any other theater of society.  I met a lovely young English major who shared my enthusiasm for the classics of Western literature and orgasms, but unfortunately lived in a dorm room that required ten forms of identification to enter, one being a student ID.  With this option off the table, we were forced to relocate to the best available couch, located approximately twenty feet from where my roommate was allegedly passed out in a La-Z-Boy and dreaming of supermodels.

Because the floor was hardwood and the couch was about three feet long it was generally impossible for a gentleman of my six foot stature to navigate.  She climbed on top of me and removed her clothes.  Because I have the attention span of a 34^th street crack head we eventually explored all of our limited position options.  Because I’m tall, many of these positions involved me standing in all kinds of creative ways and it must have looked like a porno about a figure skating duo.  When all was said and done we pulled the cushions off the couch and fell asleep in sweet embrace on the floor. I walked her to the door and she told me to call her or don’t.  There is something about that the confidence and whorishness of that phrase that makes a man fall in love.  On the car ride home I recounted my conquest to my friends and they recounted their own.  As I puffed my chest like Scipio standing over the ruins of Carthage, my buddy exclaimed “man, I got a look at that girl when she was riding you…she had some nice tits!”

There is nothing that takes the wind out of your sails like realizing your friend was across the room watching you do your worst, eyes wide open…hands under the blankets.  Whether he was or he wasn’t…he was.

All men talk about their desire to be a porn star.  Clearly this is based on the desire to have sex with many, many impossibly gorgeous women.  No one ever says “I’d like to be a porn star so lonely men can beat off to watching me.” DON’T FORNICATE WHEN YOUR FRIEND IS PASSED OUT ACROSS THE ROOM… HE ISN’T.

Don’t Fornicate With The Officer’s Daughter
Because I looked like I was 12 until I was about 15, I didn’t meet my first girlfriend until I was about 16.  Because I had spent the first two years of high school humping my mattress and making love to the glossy girls that graced Playboy Magazine’s monthly midsection I was eager to play catch up.  A late night phone call after about a month or so (ok, maybe I wasn’t THAT eager) lead to my first innocent nude encounter and a little hands on contact.  I was surprised to learn that I was packing heat and overjoyed that the relationship was moving in a sexual direction.  Girl and I recounted our experience on the phone that evening, careful to make sure we didn’t hear any clicks as her nosy Italian mother had a habit of listening in.

What I did not know was that her nosy Italian mother didn’t need to pick up the phone in order to listen in.  This was because her father was a police officer and possessed one of those high-end listening devices from “There’s Something About Mary.”

Girl: I never did that before.
Me: I can’t wait to do it again.
Girl: It was weird to hold it like that.
Me: It was kinda cool.

I was not a wordsmith at the time.  Had I known mom was listening in I would have expounded on the virtues of chastity and obedience and her profound imitation of the blessed Mary ever virgin. Instead, I continued on my merry, awkward teenage way, asking if it was a good size and plotting my next move in the ongoing quest to corrupt her virgin daughter.  The next day at the breakfast table said girlfriend reached for a banana and her mother began laughing uncontrollably. She broke the news to me, and my first reaction was simply to be both glad and confused that my penis reminded her mother of a banana. I fully expected the SWAT team to break into my house in the middle of the night from a windowless van they had parked around the corner; I had visions of her father beating me with his nightstick and dumping me somewhere outside of LaGuardia airfield. I got off easy. Dad was aloof; Mom was not so kind with me. “Robert, we need to talk.” While she didn’t throw the book at me, I received a detailed speech about how teenagers can get pregnant by simply being naked and looking at each other.  How sperm had a way of traveling.  How babies are a big freaking deal, and how her father kept the shotgun in the front hall closet.  Most of all Big Mother was ALWAYS listening.  Should I ever have a daughter, I will repeat that speech verbatim to her boyfriend. DON’T FORNICATE WITH A POLICE MAN’S DAUGHTER.

Don’t Fornicate Remotely Close to Her Period.
On one occasion I learned the hard way why it’s a big deal to avoid sex during a girl’s period. When I was a young buck on a winter break from college, a certain paramour of mine accompanied me for a night out on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.  After dinner and dancing, drinking and more drinking, we retired to her friend’s apartment and had ourselves a celebratory romp.  Because booze sometimes blurs the line between horny teenager and jackrabbit for me, I woke up an hour or so later and decided it was time for romp number two.  My strategy was soft persuasive kisses up the thighs trending upward and inward and my strategy paid off.  Even though I was too drunk to talk I am the kind of guy who takes pride in his work and I was surprised when my lady friend grabbed my head and pulled me on top of her rather assertively.  I thought nothing of it, got down to business, and passed back out.

When I awoke I headed to the bathroom in search of water and aspirin.  I took a look in the mirror hoping to see my typical hair askew, Nick Nolte mug shot morning face in the morning and instead saw a gentleman who looked as if he had gone five rounds with Mike Tyson.   A beard of dried blood stretched from my nose to my chin.  I quickly backtracked and remembered that I had not picked a fight; my nose was not bleeding, and I had not feasted on live animal flesh as I had been known to do in my sleepwalking on vodka days. I then recalled the moment where my hair was nearly ripped out of my head as I was face deep in lady friend.  The clinical term for this is “Red Wings.”   I awaited the vomit reflex.

Admittedly it never came.

It was not that bad.  I think it was the immaculate vagina or the overwhelming taste of alcohol in my mouth.  I couldn’t imagine having the same luck again; what appeared to be a pint of blood staining my face without me happening to notice.  I laughed off my resemblance to a Depression era hobo and washed it off to spare her the embarrassment-because I’m a gentleman like that. While I was lucky, I realize that periods are disgusting and are probably the cause of the Black Plague.  I’m lying.  I realize I know nothing about periods because the thought is enough to make me cringe.  I am only glad that I met the beast head on and somehow escaped alive, and it’s a chance I’ll never take again. DON’T FORNICATE REMOTELY CLOSE TO HER PERIOD.

So I hope this was informative, and I hope you didn’t vomit. I hope you had a laugh at my expense; most importantly, I hope you learned not to fornicate like I fornicate.

So, I’ve pretty much been rocking out with food poisoning for the last day and a half, and it’s been moderately awful. Needless to say, I needed a break at work today.

Mondays are typically awful, but Monday after two consecutive nights of drinking past 3am is a little more like a volunteer proctology job at a sex offender facility. Suddenly my weekend dietary schedule of consuming nothing but beer, vodka, and whiskey until a Sunday afternoon filled with buffalo chicken and eggs didn’t seem like such a great idea. So I went to my safe haven.

See sometimes you just get too stressed and need a break. I don’t smoke, so I can’t weasel my way into those extra sleaze breaks. So I go to the bathroom. Even if I don’t take a shit, I’ve learned that if you sit your ass on the seat the right way and squeeze it just a bit to the right or left, making the seat scrape the bowl, you can make a sound that sounds a little bit like squeezing one out.

There’s a man, be he myth or legend, that is my hero. You see, one day I found the fourth floor bathroom out of necessity. I sprinted up there like Shitbrake in American Pie. Once releasing the demons, I looked to my right and saw papers stuffed above the roll o’ TP. They were printed sports pages from the Boston Herald website. Some mythical legend realized he could get this for free and read it. We’ve never met, but he’s pretty much my hero. So today, I soldier on in, stomach feeling as if I’m about to die.  Some dickbag has my stall.

My safe haven.

So I take the one next to it. I try, but it just doesn’t feel right. I don’t get any reading material or the comfort of that seat I’ve gotten to know so well. Then I decide maybe he’s almost done and I can put one of those sanitary things over it and grab my seat. Then it hits me. After about two minutes, I realize this guy’s not shitting. I don’t even hear games being played on a phone. He’s fucking shit-shy. He thinks he’s going to wait me out to continue shitting in peace. WELL I SAY FUCK THAT. I have taken a lot of crap in this world. I will deal with laughs when I say the Packers can make the playoffs. I will deal with the Athletics building hope then nose-diving in mediocrity. I will deal with every woman I ever date reminding me how much I suck. I will deal with my mom thinking I’m completely incapable of doing anything. I will deal with Fenway being taken over by tools and douchebags. I will deal with no one giving a shit about the Bruins. I will deal with paying into social security that I’ll never get to use. I will deal with paying higher excise tax than my stepfather whose car is worth about ten grand more than mine. But I will not give up my safe haven.

I drew my line in the fucking sand.

I out waited him. My stomach made noises I never heard before and I felt it wanted to shit through my mouth and throw up out my ass. I sweated. I wanted to cry. I stared at this one beat up tile on the ground and entered a Zen Buddhist like state. But I would not give in.

Sweat poured off my forehead and I wanted to cry. We must have sat there for half an hour. BUT Ol’ SHITSHY FINALLY CRACKED. He exploded like a volcano. And I heard it all.

Today I stood my ground. I kept the one thing worth fighting for in life. My upstairs bathroom with the sports pages. My safe haven. And no one’s taking that away from me.