How to Be a Woman's Best Friend

 Friends, Humor, Jobs, Memory Mondays, Porn, Relationships, Self-Help, Sex, Women's Interest, Work  No Responses »
Sep 242012
 

We were at a prayer meet­ing when my friend Trixie asked me, “Tell me what you know about Astroglide.”

After being friends for 24 years, this type of thing doesn’t phase me.  “You mean the per­sonal lubricant?”

“I pre­fer the term love lotion, but, yes.”

“I don’t use Astroglide, myself, so I can’t speak as a fan,” I said.  “But you just apply, put the pieces together, and hold on tight.”

“Well, it works pretty good the first time, but …”  Trixie moved closer and whis­pered, “If you decide to have sec­ond go at it, well, it’s kind of gunky.”

““I’m not famil­iar with that tech­ni­cal term.”

““Sticky would be a good syn­onym, but not sticky in a good way.”

We were plan­ning to meet for cof­fee and dessert the next after­noon, so I sug­gested that we visit one of the adult nov­elty stores and sam­ple their wares.

Undaunted, Trixie and I vis­ited Love Shack with our inno­cent friend Midge (a recov­er­ing Pen­te­costal) in tow.  As we entered the store and i saw rack upon rack of rab­bit fur-lined hand­cuffs, cat-o-nine-tails, naughty nurse out­fits, dil­dos, nudie mag­a­zines sold in a bar­gain three-pack, and porn DVDs, a sense of deja vu came over me.

Over the years,  I have accom­pa­nied many a female friend to adult nov­elty stores to pur­chase some­thing they were too embar­rassed to buy on their own.  One co-worker, Kristie, had begun dat­ing a man after her divorce the year before.   While at the copy machine, she con­fided in me.  “When Steve and I are … you know … um … I can’t seem to … you know …”

““Orgasm?” I asked.

““SHH!” She stole a quick look behind her to ensure we were alone.  “Yes.  I just can’t seem to relax.”

“Is Steve pres­sur­ing you in some way?”  I pic­tured him hunched over Kristie, scream­ing, “SAY MY NAME!  SAY MY NAME!”  I knew I would cer­tainly find that distracting.

““No, the prob­lem is The Com­mit­tee,” Kristie said.

““Who’s The Com­mit­tee?  And why are there other peo­ple around when you’re hav­ing sex?”

““No, The Com­mit­tee is in my head.  It’s the voices of all the peo­ple I’ve known my life who judge me in my mind, like my mom, my child­hood piano teacher, and the Art Direc­tor for the Victoria’s Secret cat­a­log.  They say things like, ‘That’s dirty!’ ‘When you’re bent over like that, you look fat!’ and ‘Those keys aren’t clean!’”

I con­sid­ered how to word my response as I pro­grammed the copier to sta­ple my doc­u­ments, which seemed oddly appro­pri­ate.  “Does The Com­mit­tee dis­tract you when you’re hav­ing qual­ity time with yourself?”

Kristie gave me a blank look.

““You know, like when you’re tak­ing a long, hot bath.”

Kristie blinked at me.

I sighed.  “Can you mas­tur­bate with­out interruption?”

Kristie turned red.  “I don’t know.  I’ve never tried.”

Just then the alarm went off on the copier to clear a paper jam.

““Kristie, it may help if you prac­tice a bit on your own.  Then when you’re with Steve, you will prob­a­bly feel more comfortable.”

““Can you help me?”

““Um, I don’t think I–”

Kristie grabbed me by my shirt and shook me.  “My future chil­dren are depend­ing upon you!”

At lunchtime, Kristie and I drove to Insur­rec­tion, a adult nov­elty shop near our office.  As we mar­veled at all of her options for vibra­tors, I recalled how my fam­ily received a mail order cat­a­log that had var­i­ous house­hold crap you could live with­out but made your life bet­ter, like door­knob cov­ers and such.  It also fea­tured some­thing called a mar­i­tal aid, which showed a woman, eyes closed, with her cheek pressed ador­ingly next to a vibra­tor in a taste­ful earth tone.  (Hey, it was the ‘70s.)

““What’s a mar­i­tal aid?” I asked my mom.

She stopped stir­ring the Ham­burger Helper.   “It helps women relax.”

““Can women only relax in their bras?”

““What are you talk­ing about?”

““Well, this woman pic­tured in the cat­a­log is relax­ing with her mar­i­tal aid in her bra.”

““It means that women should do their relax­ing in the pri­vacy of their bedrooms.”

““Oh.”  I turned the page.  “Do men relax, too?”

““Yes, but they don’t need mar­i­tal aids.”

““Why not?”

““Go tell your father that din­ner is ready.”

Look­ing back at that moment, it was some­what dis­con­cert­ing that the world has basi­cally been a smutty place all along, but I was too obliv­i­ous to know. Why all the secrecy?  Why not just break it down for kids and tell them mommy requires bat­ter­ies and daddy just needs his right hand.

““Which one do you think I should choose?” Kristie asked.

““I would prob­a­bly steer away from any­thing that has a pull-start or the words ‘anal intruder’ on the pack­age,” I said.  “What about this?”  I handed her some­thing that resem­bled a small nuclear mis­sile in bright purple.

““What do I do with it?”

““Turn it on and see how it feels.”

Her eyes grew wide.

““I don’t mean take it for a test ride,” I said.  “Just turn it on and … hold it against your­self some­where above the waist.”

Kristie switched it on and jumped when it buzzed.  Gin­gerly, she put it against the back of her neck.  “Ooh, that does feel nice.”  The vibra­tions from the Gal Pal made her sound like Belinda Carlisle.

““I think we have a win­ner,” I said.

Later, as we drove back to the office, Kristie said, “Thank you for going with me to buy a Gal Pal.  I never would have been able to do it with­out you.”

““Kristie, you didn’t need me to help you buy an over­priced piece of battery-operated plastic.”

““No, but you lis­tened to me and didn’t judge me and you were there for me.  That’s what makes you a good friend  I wish all men knew how to be a good friend to a woman.”

I thought about that as I stood there assist­ing Trixie sam­ple per­sonal lubri­cants.  “This one says it will achieve a sen­sa­tional tex­ture at exactly the 29th stroke,” Trixie said.  “I won­der how they test that …”

I glanced at the tube.  “That’s mas­tur­ba­tion cream–not per­sonal lubricant.”

““Trixie turned the tube over and read the label.  “Huh … I guess that’s why it read ‘Jack off respon­si­bly’ on the back.”

““Check out this lip gloss I found,” Midge chirped.

Trixie and I both turned and read the pack­age and said in uni­son, “It’s not for the lips you’re think­ing of.”

Midge turned red.

Trixie finally decided on a water-based per­sonal lubri­cant after deter­min­ing that the silicone-based lube resulted in gunk­i­ness.  As she paid for her pur­chase, I leaned against the counter and sighed.  I thought, I’m for­ever going to be known as the trusted male friend who helps women buy vibra­tors and love lotion.  Could there be any­thing sadder?

Then an odd man entered the store and approached the counter with a used vibra­tor.  The clerk eyed the Anal Intruder on the counter and bit his lip as he picked it up to exam­ine it.  I smiled.  There were worse things.

Why Men Shouldn't Read Sexy Stuff on the Train

 Books, Essays, Humor, MARTA, Memory Mondays, Sex  3 Responses »
Aug 202012
 

When peo­ple find out that I’m a writer, they often rec­om­mend that I read this book or that book and sug­gest that I write some­thing like it.  One of the recent sug­ges­tions had been for an erotic-mystery-thriller.  I wasn’t sure exactly what an erotic-mystery-thriller was, so I decided to pick it up and give it a go.

Since erotic was the first word in the descrip­tion, I had antic­i­pated that the book might read like a porn movie, which are very sim­i­lar to Rodgers and Ham­mer­stein musi­cal, except instead of hav­ing a char­ac­ter erupt into song at the drop of a hat, the actors have sex every five minutes.

I started the book at home and got about 100 pages into with­out any sexy time; how­ever, I liked the protagonist’s voice, the crime was intrigu­ing, and there seemed to be twist at the end of every chap­ter that kept me turn­ing pages.  But all the action seemed to be from the waist up.

The next morn­ing, I boarded the train for work and stum­bled into the first sex scene.  I peered over the top of the book to check to see if any­body was watch­ing me, like the other peo­ple sud­denly knew that I tip-toed into the dirty part of the book.   I returned to read­ing and after a few para­graphs I felt–how do I put this?–one of those “periscope up” moments com­ing on.

I imme­di­ately low­ered the book to crotch level and started think­ing about base­ball, Mother Teresa, road­kill, and any­thing remotely unsexy, while I sucked in deep breaths.  The last thing I wanted to hap­pen was for another pas­sen­ger to point at me and scream, “Hey, let that Boy Scout out of that pup tent in your pants!”  In a nut­shell, I was mortified.

Obvi­ously, I just needed to put the book down until I returned home that evening; how­ever, I wanted to know what hap­pened to the char­ac­ters and who the killer was.  I couldn’t wait, though.  I had to find out what hap­pened next.  Nat­u­rally, I thought I’d just thumb past the sex scene, but when I got there, I real­ized some­thing impor­tant hap­pened because they were no longer speak­ing to each other.  I had to read the sex scene to find out what happened.

If I had been seated, it wouldn’t have been a prob­lem, but there were too many women, elderly folks, and dis­abled peo­ple on the train for me to sit down.  I tried turn­ing my back to the rest of the car, but then I looked sus­pi­cious and the MARTA police­man started watch­ing me.  Finally, I slid my back­pack off my shoul­der and held it ad an odd angle to cover myself while I fin­ished the sex scene.  Just as I fin­ished, the train pulled into my sta­tion and I disembarked.

I thought I was safe for the ride home that evening, but no–the cou­ple had such a good time that they imme­di­ately had to get it on again.  What’s up with that?  Who does that in real life?  And why did it take these char­ac­ters so long?  It’s not like that in real life.  If one per­son man­ages achieve orgasm before the other starts snor­ing, it’s con­sid­ered a suc­cess.  Again, I reached for my backpack.

I read more of the book that night at home, but the char­ac­ters seemed to still be angry with each other–or at least tak­ing cold show­ers.  The fol­low­ing morn­ing, as soon as I boarded the train, they were paw­ing at each other again.  And it was the same thing on my trip home, and the next day.  By the time I got to work, I was crav­ing a cigarette–and I don’t smoke.

So, gen­tle­men, I do not rec­om­mend read­ing read­ing any­thing sexy on pub­lic trans­porta­tion, unless you’re seated or you’re wear­ing extremely baggy pants.  And if you see me wear­ing a trench coat on the train in August, I’m going to tell you that I’m read­ing the bible.

Top Ten Tips for How NOT to Score at the London Olympics

 Humor, Men's Interest, Olympics, Parody, Pop Culture, Relationships, Self-Help, Sex, Sports, Top Ten Thursdays, Women's Interest  No Responses »
Jul 262012
 

After read­ing that the Lon­don Olympics Orga­niz­ing Com­mit­tee is giv­ing out a record 150,000 con­doms for use dur­ing the 2012 Olympics, I feel it’s my respon­si­bil­ity to give the ath­letes some advice on behav­ior to avoid, so they can actu­ally use those multi-colored rubbers.

01. Alco­hol and the Olympic torch have always been a recipe for dis­as­ter.  (Google Leroy Huck­le­berry and the Great Fire of Annis­ton, Alabama that burned down the Foxy Lady Lounge in 1988.)

02. Swim­mers who wear their gog­gles to bed.  (No one likes to feel like their being shagged by a crea­ture from the deep–not even from behind.)

03. Fencers who use their foil or sabre to carve their dig­its into the torso of a poten­tial part­ner.  (Bloody hell! … literally).

04. Never assume that just because a table ten­nis player uses a pad­dle (racket), doesn’t mean he’s into spank­ing.  (Ask some prob­ing ques­tions to feel him out, like what he thinks about cor­po­ral punishment.)

05. Just because you spike a ball on the vol­ley­ball court, doesn’t mean you should spike his balls in the bed­room. (FOUL!)

06. It’s best not to try to mount an eques­trian in the same way that you mount the pom­mel horse (espe­cially if you haven’t intro­duced yourself).

07. Don’t joke about him hav­ing a javelin in his pocket or being happy to see you.  (You might be right on both accounts, but you’ve blown your chance with a corny cliche.)

08. Just because a syn­chro­nized swim­mer stands on her head in the deep end of the pool, doesn’t mean that you need to let your imag­i­na­tion run away with you.  (She has remark­able lung capac­ity, not nec­es­sar­ily con­trol over her gag reflex.)

09. Share the pics that you took with your mobile phone of you get­ting down with the Olympic mas­cot in a hot and heavy furry action.  (And remem­ber, it’s not just on Face­book, it’s FOREVER.)

10. For­mer Olympic ath­letes who thrash around on the dance floor of the dis­cotheque and bruise their neigh­bors with the gold, sil­ver, and/or bronze medals they’re wear­ing around their necks.  (Hello, color me desperate!)

First Gay President Stars in M/M Fiction Bestseller

 Books, Celebrities, Humor, Parody, Politics, Pop Culture, Sex, Tall Tale Tuesdays, Women's Interest, Writing  No Responses »
May 152012
 

Pres­i­dent Obama made his­tory twice over the past week:  First, for declar­ing his sup­port for gay mar­riage, and, sec­ond, for being the sub­ject of a best­selling slash fic­tion novel enti­tled Barack Hard, a steamy romance between an African-American Pres­i­dent of the United States, Barack O. Bama, and an Asian-American Secret Ser­vice Agent, Chuck E. Chan.

M/M fic­tion, a genre of fan fic­tion that tells sto­ries about roman­tic and/or sex­ual rela­tion­ships between male media char­ac­ters.  The major­ity of the read­ers, and the authors, are het­ero­sex­ual women.  Jill Favors, the author of Barack Hard, said she was first intro­duced to M/M fic­tion when she ran across a Cana­dian Star Trek novella enti­tled Beam Me Up the Bum, Scotty.  “It was hor­ri­bly writ­ten and edited, but the scenes between Kirk and Spock were so ten­der, yet so hot, that I couldn’t get them out of my mind.  I started read­ing all the M/M fic­tion I could find, and even­tu­ally began writ­ing my own.”

Accord­ing to Favors, Her Pres­i­dent Barak O. Bama is just a reg­u­lar bira­cial guy who hap­pened to grad­u­ate from Har­vard Law School who wants world peace, the occa­sional pick-up game, and some­one to watch HGTV with, after a long day in the Oval Office.  Chuck E. Chan, is a Secret Ser­vice agent who likes to restore clas­sic cars, cook French cui­sine, and knows the words to every Barry Manilow song, who is assigned to pro­tect the Pres­i­dent on a trip to pay his respects to the Prince of Trik­istan, who just came out as gay to his father, and accom­pany him to a Madonna con­cert in Dubai.  At first, the Pres­i­dent and Agent Chan hate each other, but things begin to heat up by the time they land in Dubai.  How­ever, before Madonna can return to the stage for an encore of “Hol­i­day,” ter­ror­ists kid­nap the Pres­i­dent.  It’s up to Chan to kick ter­ror­ist butt, save the Pres­i­dent, and enter into a pick-up game for life with the man he loves.

“The rea­son that I chose to make my pro­tag­o­nist slightly dif­fer­ent than Pres­i­dent Obama is because I like the First Lady,” said Favors.  “I mean, I couldn’t kill her off.  I also didn’t want to send her off to visit her mother or go shop­ping in Italy, so I set my story in an alter­nate universe.”

Barack Hard had already been writ­ten, sold to Tes­terone Squared Pub­lish­ing, and was being edited when Pres­i­dent Obama voiced his sup­port for gay mar­riage.  The pub­lisher rushed to make the title avail­able as an e-book the next day and sales went through the roof.  Up next for the Gay Pres­i­dent is Barak­back Moun­tain, which is due out before the end of the month.

How I Learned About the Power of Playing Dumb Against Sexism in the Seventh Grade

 80s, Essays, Humor, Kids, Memory Mondays, School, Sex  No Responses »
May 142012
 

When I was in the sev­enth grade, my fam­ily moved from Waco, Texas to Burleson, Texas, a small town just south of Forth Worth.  I shared a two-person desk with a boy in Life Sci­ence class.  He was an affa­ble red­neck with hard drugs in his future, and he enjoyed shar­ing the details of his sex­ual adven­tures with me before class began.  Being new to school and nei­ther hav­ing many friends nor know­ing the proper pro­to­col for respond­ing to the lurid details of a young boy’s dig­i­tal enhance­ment of a young girl’s plea­sure, I smiled, nod­ded, and inter­jected a few “uh-huh’s” and “tell me more’s,” while won­der­ing why God hated me.

He once shared with me a per­sonal solo sex tech­nique that he and another boy from school per­fected one after­noon.  I sup­pose I should have been appre­cia­tive of the infor­ma­tion; instead, I made a men­tal note to never shake the hand of either boy in a for­mal set­ting, for exam­ple, we met at a tea the next time the Queen of Eng­land came to town.

This was the boy who wrote in my year book, “Hope you get some @#%&* this sum­mer.”  Sur­pris­ingly, I laughed when I read it.  Sure, it was crude, but he had such a like­able per­son­al­ity that it seemed more absurd than dirty.  Besides, I sort of admired his bravado; if you’re going to be crass, do it boldly.

My mother and father, how­ever, were livid.  “You’re the ones who moved me to this god­for­saken place,” I reminded them.  “I was per­fectly happy in Waco, thank you very much.”

One of the cheer­lead­ers sat at the desk behind us.  She was a bub­bly girl who always seemed to be chew­ing on a cud of bub­blegum with the inten­tion of anni­hi­la­tion.  My desk­mate con­stantly tried to embar­rass her by say­ing provoca­tive things to her.  One day he asked, “Are you a virgin?”

With­out bat­ting an eye, and per­fectly timed between chomps of gum, she replied, “No, I’m a Leo.”

The boy beside me busted out laugh­ing, and I laughed, too, yet for a dif­fer­ent rea­son.  While he thought she was just a dumb blonde, I saw a glim­mer in her eye when she responded that hinted that she was in on the joke.  She had bril­liantly side-stepped his ques­tion with­out a con­fronta­tion, while simul­ta­ne­ously prov­ing she was smarter than him than he was with­out him know­ing it.

I thought, This girl has a future in politics.

Top Ten Types of North American Ladies of the Night

 Creativitiy, Humor, Jobs, Parody, Pop Culture, Sex, Top Ten Thursdays, Word Up Wednesdays, Work  2 Responses »
Feb 232012
 

If you’ve ever seen the musi­cal Gypsy, you’ll recall that when Gypsy Rose Lee decides to enter the bur­lesque indus­try, her fel­low strip­pers advised her that she had to have a gim­mick.  For some rea­son, my friend Joan and I were dis­cussing how the word “ho” seemed friend­lier than pros­ti­tute and was much more fun to say, which led to the dis­cus­sion of what type of gim­micks were avail­able in one were to become a sex worker.  Here are some exam­ples that we came up, with no dis­re­spect to the ladies (and some­times men) of the night:

01. Glo-Ho — A radioac­tive floozy.  Jill chas­tised her­self for not mov­ing far­ther away from the nuclear power plant, how­ever, she enjoyed danc­ing at the gay club, where the boys would use her as a human glow stick.

02. Sew Ho — A bimbo who makes her own clothes.  Faye was thrilled when she real­ized that she could charge twice as much if she could take up an inseam on a pair of slacks while she lay there.

03.  Dough Ho — A pros­ti­tute who also bakes.  Tina and her pip­ing bag were famous in the tri-state area–and she could knead like nobody’s business.

04. Row Ho — A tramp who likes to work in a canoes.  Marge said her clients liked to end their ses­sion with a good paddling.

05. Flow Ho — A sex worker who is also a hemo­phil­iac.  Candy was very pop­u­lar with the men with a tourni­quet fetish.

06. Blo-Ho — A whore who also works with aquatic mam­mals.  Pam’s clients gave her high marks for her tech­nique and friendly per­son­al­ity, but it unset­tled them to look up and find the whale watch­ing them.

07. Ho-Ho — Sex work­ers who are also Siamese twins.  Kerry and Terry were savvy busi­ness­women:  They dou­bled their fee and adver­tised a two-for-one special.

08. Mow-Ho — A pros­ti­tute who also land­scapes.  Ann’s clients thought she was God’s gift to men; she did them and their lawns.

09. Tof-Ho — A vegan hooker.  Gretchen’s clients appre­ci­ated that she didn’t reek of meat, but instead exuded a fra­grance of jas­mine rice and soy milk.

10. No-Ho — A sex worker who refuses a client ser­vice.  Once Roz real­ized that there were men who were only attracted to women who said no, her job no longer felt like work at all.

11. Po-Ho — A whore who is also a police offi­cer.  Suzanne’s clients loved the way she ser­viced them, then busted her­self for her crime.

How I Lost That Loving Feeling and Got It Back

 70s, Essays, Friends, Holidays, Humor, Kids, Memory Mondays, Men's Interest, Pop Culture, Relationships, Self-Help, Sex, Women's Interest  No Responses »
Feb 132012
 

I don’t con­sider myself much of a roman­tic, but I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Valentine’s Day. When I was younger, I enjoyed dec­o­rat­ing a white paper bag with pink and red hearts, cut metic­u­lously from con­struc­tion paper, for the sole pur­pose of receiv­ing valen­tines from my class­mates. Later, I would care­fully peruse the hol­i­day aisle at K-Mart, weigh­ing my options between Peanuts, Looney Toons, and Dis­ney before finally choos­ing a pack­age of valen­tines that expressed the essence of my love for all the kids in my class. I would thought­fully match the valen­tine accord­ing to my rap­port with that stu­dent. There­fore, my best friend, Kelly, received the cov­eted Don­ald Duck in the astro­naut suit, while Sharon and her wrap-around retainer received a valen­tine with a B-List Dis­ney char­ac­ter. Some­times, if I felt so inspired, I might per­son­al­ize the valen­tine with a mes­sage such as, “Stay cool.”

On Feb­ru­ary 14th, I would drop a valen­tine into each classmate’s dec­o­rated bag before gorg­ing myself on cup­cakes, cook­ies, and punch with­out a sec­ond thought for chil­dren starv­ing in third world coun­tries. After­wards, fly­ing high on a killer sugar buzz, we would empty our sacks on our desks and open our valen­tines. It all went so well until the 5th grade, when in the midst of an envelope-ripping frenzy, I real­ized that I had for­got­ten Randy Fer­gu­son. Even though I had worked straight from my home room list, some­how, Randy had been passed over and I lost that lov­ing feel­ing. I still think of Randy from time to time and won­der what he’s doing now. I won­der if he’s hap­pily mar­ried with a fam­ily of his own, or whether, instead, he is sleep­ing on a park bench some­where, sip­ping out of a brown paper bag.  I ques­tion if, per­haps, I could have saved a life if I had only given another ten-year-old boy a piece of card with a por­trait of Goofy ask­ing him to be mine.  Alas, I’ll never know.

His­tor­i­cally, Valentine’s Day is a cel­e­bra­tion of a Catholic mar­tyr who was beaten to death and beheaded because he secretly mar­ried cou­ples dur­ing the reign of Claudius the Cruel. It seems Claudius had can­celled all mar­riages and engage­ments because he believed them to be the rea­son he had trou­ble find­ing sol­diers for his army. No roses, candy, flow­ers, cup­cakes, punch, or paper bags dec­o­rated with hearts were involved. Strangely enough, it’s sort of like cel­e­brat­ing Vegan Day by eat­ing a sir­loin steak or world peace with a box­ing match.

Gen­er­ally, men tend to receive the short end of the stick when it comes to choos­ing the per­fect present to give on Feb­ru­ary 14th. Any­thing a woman says from Jan­u­ary 1st until V-Day is a pos­si­ble clue. Some men learn the hard way that when a woman says she really doesn’t expect any­thing or want him to go to a lot of trou­ble for Valentine’s Day, it’s basi­cally a lie. Of course she wants him to do some­thing to prove that he thinks she is a god­dess on a moun­tain­top burn­ing like a sil­ver flame! The chal­lenge is to decide whether to give lin­gerie, flow­ers, or a dia­mond, but I say you can never go wrong with choco­late. Even if she’s on a diet or a fit­ness fanatic, she’ll love chocolate–and if she’s bulimic, she’ll enjoy it twice as much! For men, on the other hand, there is only one obvi­ous choice: sex. Beer can do in a pinch, but, ladies, wouldn’t you pre­fer to give him some­thing where his atten­tion is on you and not the con­tents of a bot­tle or can?

For some, valen­tine anx­i­ety is not a symp­tom of the lack of the right gift, but rather Mr. or Miss Right. In their minds, to be sin­gle on Feb­ru­ary 14th is akin to walk­ing around with the word LOSER stamped on their fore­heads. They claim to be unhappy because they don’t have any­one in their life. I say to these peo­ple, “Adopt a home­less per­son!” How­ever, they argue that they want some­one spe­cial. “Adopt a mentally-challenged per­son!” I reply, but it seems, instead, that they want some­body to com­plete them. So they imme­di­ately look around for a des­per­ate date for V.D.; any­one with a pulse is eli­gi­ble. The date is typ­i­cally a recipe for dis­as­ter and results in tears and some­one hurl­ing flam­ing shish kebob skew­ers while the other runs for his life–or at least that’s been my experience.

Some­how, it seems that we miss the whole point, no pun intended, of Valentine’s Day. Instead of think­ing of roman­tic love, which gen­er­ally focuses on our own desires and yearn­ings, we should expand our inter­pre­ta­tion to include agape, a self-less and spir­i­tual love that we can share with the whole world. Instead of buy­ing your kids more candy they don’t need, sug­gest they give it to me, or make a dona­tion to an orga­ni­za­tion that works toward elim­i­nat­ing world hunger. If you know a cou­ple with chil­dren that never seem to have time for them­selves, sur­prise them by offer­ing for you and your sig­nif­i­cant other to baby-sit while they go out and trip the lights fan­tas­tic.  Then after the kids go to sleep, mess around in the couple’s bed.  If you find your­self with­out a date, take a home­less per­son to Dave & Busters; you’ll have some­one to play air hockey with. But why stop there? Why not extend Valentine’s Day to 365 days a year by giv­ing your time and energy to one of the many orga­ni­za­tions that need vol­un­teers? Help do main­te­nance at a local church, vol­un­teer to mow an elderly neighbor’s lawn, or ask the four-star chef who lives on the cor­ner if he needs any­one to sam­ple his food to make sure it’s not poi­soned?  One can never be too sure these days …

I always wanted to read to chil­dren, so I vol­un­teered to read to the sec­ond grade class of a local ele­men­tary school. How­ever, it seems that my choice of mate­r­ial was not appro­pri­ate. Since chil­dren were men­tioned in the title, I assumed, nat­u­rally that Jackie Collins’ Hol­ly­wood Kids would be a good choice, but it seems that unhook­ing a bra is not some­thing that is cov­ered in a sec­ond grade boy’s cur­ricu­lum. Sadly, he will have to learn that later in the streets. Next, I thought I would draw atten­tion to per­sonal safety with Car­olyn Har­ris Johnson’s Come With Daddy: Child Murder-Suicide After Fam­ily Break­down, but this choice was nixed for rea­sons never fully explained to me. Finally, I asked the teacher for a rec­om­men­da­tion, and she sug­gested a nature story with ani­mals, one that presents a bold mes­sage which chil­dren can remem­ber for the rest of their lives. I smiled smugly, know­ing just the book for the job. As a result of our con­ver­sa­tion, this week, I will be read­ing from Peter Benchley’s Jaws. Sigh … It feels good to give a gift that will keep on giv­ing. This one’s for you, Randy!

Calvin Klein and Kentucky Fried Chicken Collaborate on New Fragrance

 Animals, fashion, Food, Humor, News of the Weird, Parody, Pop Culture, Sex, Tall Tale Tuesdays  2 Responses »
Feb 072012
 

Fash­ion designer Calvin Klein and fast food restau­ran­teur Ken­tucky Fried Chicken will launch a new fra­grance on Valentine’s Day–KFC1.

The fra­grance is rumored to con­tain pheromones that active parts of the brain that cor­re­spond to sex and com­fort food.

Test sub­jects responded favor­ably after using the product.

““A few spritzes behind my ears and on my wrists, and I sud­denly felt like I could con­quer the cor­po­rate world and attend a Sun­day pic­nic at the same time,” Ran­dal Wal­lace, 32, an invest­ment banker.

““I was hang­ing out at a bar with my girl­friends, and slipped into the ladies’ room to put some KFC1 on,” said Corky Dawes, 38, an art gallery owner.  “After I came out, men kept com­ing up to me and say­ing things like, ‘I want to make love to you next to a moun­tain of mashed pota­toes with brown gravy.’  It was oddly titillating.”

““I walked down the street and men, women, and ani­mals would stare at me with their mouths water­ing,” said Tomeka Davis, 27, a busi­ness ana­lyst for a major pub­lic trans­porta­tion com­pany.  “I just thought to myself, Mm-hmm, that’s right, I’m fin­ger lickin’ good!”

The prod­uct has already attracted con­tro­versy after Calvin Klein & Ken­tucky Fried Chicken unveiled their adver­tis­ing for KFC1 in Times Square, which includes black-and-white images of ema­ci­ated chick­ens in dis­tressed denim that resem­ble run­away heroin addicts than a two-piece meal.

““I was dis­gusted by it,” said Taz Mor­ri­son, 41, an ani­mal activist.  “It made me vomit onto a a guy dressed as a hot dog who was pass­ing out flyers.”

““It actu­ally made me aware of just how sexy food can be,” said Jes­sica Coul­ter, 21, an art stu­dent.  “I’d never seen a chicken with tat­toos and body pierc­ings before.  It made me won­der, if I ran into a rooster in a club or bar, would I go with him?  I’ve also started hav­ing these hen fantasies.”

The fra­grance, mar­keted to both men and women, will be avail­able in two vari­eties:  Orig­i­nal Recipe and Extra Crispy.

Would you wear KFC1 if it actu­ally made you irre­sistible to men and/or women?

Word Up Wednesday: Infoxicated

 70s, Dictionary, Humor, Parody, Pop Culture, Sex, Vocabulary  No Responses »
Oct 122011
 

Infox­i­cated (adjec­tive) \in-fok-si-key-tid\ – When a teenage boy in the 1970s was inca­pac­i­tated by an attrac­tive teenage girl (a fox)  and unable to speak, move, or oper­ate heavy machinery.

Exam­ple:  Myrna thought her son was drunk, until she saw the foxy cheer­leader with feath­ered hair in a tight sweater and a short skirt and real­ized that Billy was infoxicated.

Can you use this word in a sentence?

Why Satanists Are Embracing the Gays

 Humor, Money, News of the Weird, Parody, Pop Culture, Religion, Sex, Tall Tale Tuesdays  No Responses »
Aug 162011
 

As more Chris­t­ian fun­da­men­tal­ist churches are clos­ing their doors to homo­sex­u­als, Gay/Bisexual/Lesbian/Transsexual (GBLT) peo­ple are find­ing room at an unlikely table–devil wor­shipers.  In an effort to increase mem­ber­ship and gain access to dou­ble income with no kids, Satanists are reach­ing out and wel­com­ing gays to their churches with their “Meet Your Neigh­bors Before You Burn in Hell for All Eter­nity” campaign.

“We fig­ured we’re going to burn in Hell, and they’re going to be in Hell, so why not get together and become friends?” said Betty Jo Simp­son, Pres­i­dent of the Happy Val­ley Church of Satan and Cup­cake of the Month Club.  “After all, they like goa­tees on hunky, bare-chested men, and we like goa­tees on a hunky, bare-chested men.  They like horny men, and we like “horny” men.  They like orgies, and we like orgies.  In fact, there really are very few dif­fer­ences between a Black Mass and the White Party, just a a disco ball and an infant sacrifice.”

Many gays agree that Satanism offers some­thing for all GBLT peo­ple to enjoy.  “My part­ner Kris and I both enjoy being naked at home,” said Gary Palmer, 37, a phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal sales­per­son.  “With Satanism, we can expand our beyond the pri­vacy fence sur­round­ing our pool into the rest of the world.”

Palmer’s part­ner, Kris Hughes, 29, a flight atten­dant, agrees.  “My expe­ri­ence has shown Satanist women to be very gen­er­ous.  They don’t get uptight about shar­ing their hus­bands with us.  Instead of being on the down-low, every­thing is up-and-up.”

“And I love, love, love the drama,” Palmer adds.  “The the­atri­cal­ity of the Witch’s Sab­bath is more excit­ing than that old chan­de­lier falling to the stage in Phan­tom of the Opera.”  He feigns a yawn.  “Been there, done that!”

“Still, noth­ing tops when they con­jured Kylie Minogue from a bunch of flames in the mid­dle of the pen­ta­gram and she sang ‘Bet­ter the Devil You Know’ live,” Hughes said.  “I wet my hot pants!”

It seems that a beau­ti­ful rela­tion­ship des­tined for Hell was made in Heaven.

“I think we have a lot to learn from the gays about com­ing out,” said Simp­son.  “Most Amer­i­cans would be sur­prised to find out how many celebri­ties are in fact Satanists:  Lady Gaga, Flo from the Pro­gres­sive Insur­ance TV com­mer­cials, Garfield, Flip­per, and Charo.”

The Happy Val­ley Church of Satan and Cup­cake of the Month Club’s fla­vor of the month is Sin­na­mon Crunch.

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