Sunday, July 21, 2013

Fantasy booking Daniel Bryan's road to Wrestlemania


Disclaimer: If you don't like wrestling, there is no reason to read this post.

Like all wrestling fans--or at least those over 13 years old, male, and especially those at the Online Onslaught forums--I'm ecstatic that Daniel Bryan seems to have finally won the admiration of casual fans and cracked the main event.

But of course the dastardly Vince Mcmahon doesn't like him and he needs to go through SuperCena to get the title and the vile Randy Orton is lurking in the wings, ready to cash in his Money In The Bank Contract.

Most people are hoping Bryan beats Cena and gets a lengthy championship reign. Others worry that he will lose or that he will win only to quickly lose to Orton.

I think the second option is most likely and could lead to some awesome stuff down the line. First of all, it would turn Orton heel--meaning, into a bad guy--which is what he does best. Second, it gets Bryan more sympathy and makes his eventual title win even sweeter. Third, it sets up the opportunity for Vince to step in and do everything he can to stop Bryan from winning the championship.

Here's what I'm hoping happens. Bryan wins, then loses to Orton. Then there would most likely be a triple threat match with Orton, Cena, and Bryan at the next PPV and Orton wins, possibly with help from Mcmahon.

Now Mcmahon steps in and starts trying to keep Bryan from getting back into the title picture. Also, Bryan's partner Kane is probably going to join the evil Wyatt Family so that will occupy his time for a while, until we get to the Royal Rumble, a 30-man battle royale where the winner gets a title shot at Wrestlemania.

And here's how the Rumble should go down. Vince will force Bryan to start the Rumble at #1 and then stack the deck against him, making sure that Bryan has to face one monstrous challenge after another.

(For the sake of this fantasy booking, I'm assuming that Del Rio is still World Champion and facing Christian, and Orton is still WWE champion and facing Sheamus)

So we start off with Bryan #1 and his first opponent is the 7 foot tall Great Khali. Bryan eliminates Khali before #3, who is another monster, maybe a newly heel Brodus, comes out and Bryan eliminates him too.  #4 is is one of the big Wyatt's and he gets eliminated. #5 is Big E but he can't eliminate Bryan. Then #6 is Ryback and it's Bryan against 2 monsters, just hanging on until #7. It's Kane! If he's been heel for a while (who knows what happens with him and the Wyatt's), he comes in and looks like he's about to attack Bryan, hut he turns on the other 2. Then once he takes them out, he hugs Bryan and then CHOKESLAM! He picks up Bryan's limp corpse, hugs it, goes to throw him out but Bryan wakes up and eliminates him. Kane freaks out, pulls him out under the rope and chokeslams him through the Spanish announce table. 

#8 is Mark Henry and we've got a 3-way giant showdown (Henry, Big E, Ryback).#9 is the big show...4 monsters in the ring at once.They fight and each gets a chance to powder out and hit a massive power move or 2, and they quickly dismiss the next 2 entrants (say Ryder and Riley). The 3 other guys tag up on Show and are pushing him over the rope, but he's fighting it, until suddenly Bryan grabs his arms from the outside and yanks him over the top. The YES chants are interrupted by a chokeslam through the other announce table. 

#12 is Miz and he puts up a good fight but gets eliminated.#13 is Ziggler and he goes right after Big E.  He eventually gets his ass kicked but survives. While Ziggler is down, Ryback goes for a superplex on Big E, but Henry goes for a superbacksuplex on him. Suddenly, Bryan is back in the ring and powerbombs Henry for the biggest tower of doom spot in history. And just in time because #14 is RVD! Frog splash on Big E, frog splash on Ryback, frog splash on Henry. Ziggler/Bryan pick up the pieces and eliminate Ryback/Big E, but it takes all 3 guys to pick up Henry and he recovers just in time to throw them off.

Henry runs over Bryan, flapjacks Ziggler into space, and hits the Worlds Strongest Slam on RVD. But then #15 is Jericho. He runs out, ducks a clothesline, and hits the Codebreaker. All 4 guys eliminate Henry, and stare at each other, exhausted. We cut to the back and see Vince flipping out in the gorilla position. How is Bryan still standing? He shoves #16 (Justin Gabriel) out of the way and waves for someone to take his place.

Mah Gawd! That's Brock Lesnar's music. All 4 guys freeze as The Beast makes his way to the ring. He destroys them all and eliminates RVD. Bryan is busted open. Gabriel comes in at 17 and gets tossed. Lesnar smiles and picks up Ziggler and Bryan by the hair, ready to toss them both, but #18 is CM Punk and he goes right after Lesnar. All 3 go after Lesnar but he fights them off and takes them down.

#19 is a returning Matt Morgan and he goes toe-to-toe with Brock Lesnar, trying to stare him down. Brock laughs and motions for him to bring it, but suddenly Morgan turns and kicks Bryan in the face with a big boot, then hits the Hellevator. Punk/Ziggler get involved and go at it with Morgan/Brock until #20, Cody Rhodes. He takes on Morgan and Brock by himself.  Disaster kick to Brock, Crossrhodes to Morgan. #21 is Barrett, also face by now, and Barrett eliminates Morgan. All 5 guys team up on Brock and toss him. Brock goes nuts and F5s everyone on his way out. He yanks Bryan out of the ring under the ropes and F5s him onto the barricade.

Then Cesaro and Swagger are the next two entrants and they work together to eliminate Jericho and Barrett. Meanwhile, Bryan has been getting checked out by medical and they want to stretcher him out but he's arguing.#24 is Damien Sandow and he walks up to where Bryan is being checked out and laughs at him. Bryan freaks out and clocks him. Nothing's going on in the ring so the fans can watch as Bryan gets Sandow to tap out to the Yes Lock on the outside.  Medical and referee pull him off and try to get him back on the stretcher but he clocks a couple and fights them off, then grabs a chair. They back off and Bryan rolls into the ring and nails everyone with chairshots. Swagger is eliminated. Bryan rolls out of the ring, rolls Sandow in and tosses him.
Cut to Vince in the back and he's going nuts. He throws some staffer out of the gorilla position and waves for the next entrant. It's all 3 members of the Shield. They go right after Bryan but he stays alive. Punk, Ziggler, and Rhodes join the fray but the Shield takes them down too. Triple powerbombs on Rhodes and they're about to eliminate him, but #28 is Gooooooooldust. He saves his brother and takes on the Shield by himself. Then he eats a spear and gets eliminated.Rollins and Ziggler fight on the top rope and eliminate each other in some crazy spot.

#29 is Bray Wyatt and he takes out Cody. Punk/Bryan go back to back and fight off the heels until it's time for #30...John Cena! So our final 6 is Cena/Bryan/Punk/Reigns/Ambrose/Wyatt. Cena eliminates Reigns and goes after Ambrose. Punk/Bryan work together and eliminate Wyatt.

Suddenly Cena sneak up on Bryan and tosses him over the top but Bryan hangs on! Cena tries to eliminate Bryan, but Punk spins him around and kicks him in the face! GTS and Cena staggers over to the ropes where Bryan helps him over the top.

Punk/Bryan are the final 2. They do a staredown, then look at the crowd, then back to each other, then they shake hands, like in their ROH days. They tear the roof off for 5-10 minutes and then after some quadruple reversey awesome, Bryan wins the whole thing.

Show goes off-air with Bryan leading thunderous YES chants and Vince in the back tugging his ear while HHH laughs.

Then Bryan has to defend his shot in a stacked Chamber match against Brock, Ryback, Henry, Cena, and Punk. He wins despite Mcmahon shenanigans and goes on to face Orton at Mania, where he wins. And the crowd goes nuts.


So, what do you think of my Rumble? I think the general sentiment of Vince stacking the deck and Bryan surviving one monster after another would be awesome. I'd love to see him end the match with the Punk face-off, but it's more likely to come down to him and Cena. Of course, they could do that at the Chamber match too, so maybe the Rumble could end on Punk/Bryan.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Attractive AND fat?

“I don’t want to look like a weirdo. I’ll just go with the muumuu.” –Homer Simpson

I know I’m late to the party on this, but I’m not too worried about it considering the whole “controversy” started when someone dug up quotes older than my nephew.

Do you remember a month ago when some 7-year old comments from Mike Jeffries, the Abercrombie and Fitch CEO, resurfaced?

“Candidly, we go after the cool kids,” he said, “We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.”

THAT MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH! How dare he imply some people are more attractive than others and that it’s better for a brand to be associated with the more attractive people! How cruel! How insane! How honest and completely correct—er, I mean...JERK!

What really set the arms wobbling was the fact that Abercrombie and Fitch doesn’t sell anything above size 10, which means no clothes for fat people, which means he’s saying fat people aren’t attractive. But as we all know, everyone is equally attractive. Abercrombie and Fitch looks just as good on a tight size 2 or 6 bottom as it would stretched across an IMAX-sized ass. Or buried underneath said ass as it sits in a Mcdonald’s booth..

So it was time for another Million Pound March. Which was of course done from behind the safety of keyboards because marching is hard and tiring. Plus, you can eat and type at the same time.

And so we were subjected to the usual nonsense:

“Fat is beautiful!”
“Fat is natural!”
“You’re setting unrealistic body images!”

And then came the cherry on top of the 5,000 calorie sundae. An enormous blogger names Jes Baker somehow squeezed herself into Abercrombie and Fitch clothes, paid an attractive model to be interested in her, and used the Abercrombie and Fitch font to write"Attractive and fat."

Oh snap! No, that wasn’t the sound of her jeans exploding, but the collective response of the internet. This somehow showed those anti-fat assholes. CNN says she “cut Abercrombie and Fitch down to size.”

Yeah, I’m sure this dropped like a bombshell at A&F HQ. In fact, I imagine it went a little something like this:

Johnson: Mr. Jefferies, Mr. Jefferies, horrible news. Some fat chick is taking a stand by wearing our clothes.

Jefferies: So?

Johnson: Well, all the fat people think she’s a hero. And they hate us.

Jefferies: Who gives a shit? We don’t want them buying our clothes anyway.

Johnson: But... look at these pictures.

Jefferies: Ye gads,  they’re disgusting.

Smith: Wait,  it says right here that she’s attractive. And there’s a male model with her. And if a fat person calls herself attractive, then it’s got to be true!

Jefferies: No, she still looks terrible.

Johnson: But the media is saying that she’s really taught us a lesson.

Jefferies: Whatever. As long as no one really thinks are clothes are for people like her, this won’t last any longer than one of her farts. Hey, Smith, what are you doing? Stop masturbating.

Smith: I can’t help it. It says she’s attractive so I have to masturbate. God help me, she’s hideous but I just can’t stop!

And of course it’s already been forgotten (so smooth move by me waiting to post about it). Which is good, because it’s so fucking stupid.

She’s upset that A&F is selling “unrealistic body images,” because they don’t sell clothes above size 10. Size 10! Size 10 is now “unrealistic.” Every young girl is going to develop an eating disorder trying to match those size 10 waifs.

And if she thinks fat is beautiful and attractive, why did she hire a completely shredded male model to pose with her? Why not get a fat guy if fat people are so attractive? Oh right, all this fat talk only affects women. I don’t know if men should be insulted that no one cares about our feelings or flattered that everyone realizes we’re not stupid enough to go into some shame spiral every time we see someone who looks better than us.

Oh wait, she has an excuse for this:

“I just thought we don’t see the juxtaposition of typical and atypical bodies in advertising specifically. Since I am a woman and I am fat and that’s what I have to work with, I wanted to show that contrast by finding a male model.”

See? She had a real artistic reason for doing this. She wanted to send a message to those non-fat cats at A&F. It wasn’t just an excuse to finally get a good-looking guy to take his shirt off and get close to her. And I’m sure he fell in love with her because she’s so attractive. No? Must be because the patriarchy filled his head with lies. Or he’s gay.

Doesn’t matter, because she’s comfortable in her body. She’s had to overcome years of self-loathing—brought upon by men, natch, because women never judge each other—and start living in a body-positive world. And she wants to promote fashion for fat people—fatshion. Because why should fat people be embarrassed to wear spandex pants that squish all their fat together and make their asses look like lava lamps? Why shouldn’t they wear super-short shorts that lets their fat ooze onto the seat next to them? Why shouldn’t they wear bikinis that let us imagine drawing motocross courses over their fat rolls? If we think that it’s disgusting when someone’s gut and lovehandles seem to have melted over their pants, that’s our problem because they are beautiful! We’ve just been brainwashed to think that we’re being subjected to these atrocities, instead of blessed to see such visions of beauty.

Nope. If size 10 has disappeared in the rearview mirror of your motorized scooter, then you’re not beautiful. And a little shame might be good for you, because you need to lose some goddamn weight. Not for the rest of us—although we’d appreciate it—but for yourself. I don’t care if you somehow feel good about  your looks, do you really feel good about breathing heavy after walking for a few blocks, about the pain in your ankles and knees and back, about being unable to sleep on your back because you’ll stop breathing? That’s great that you can look at yourself in the mirror and flaunt your body, but take a look into your future and see if you’ll still be flaunting your diabetes and heart problems.

Speaking from experience, it’s great if you don’t let your looks define you and aren’t depressed and ashamed by your body. But you still shouldn’t be celebrating it. You’re lying to yourself if you think you wouldn’t be happier if you lost weight. There’s a whole world out there that you can’t really experience until you get down to normal size and it’s much better than a few cupcakes. So next time someone shames you by suggesting you shouldn’t be wearing certain clothes, or can’t fit in just one airplane seat, don’t get offended and defensive. Get motivated. Don’t demand bigger clothes—and for the love of God, don’t squeeze yourself into smaller ones—just lose some weight.

And this isn’t just for fat people. We’ve become a nation of whiners and quitters. Oh, not everyone can be good enough to win at sports, so we shouldn’t keep score. Not everyone can climb the rope or run laps so we should stop making them do it. The kids that aren’t on the honor roll are embarrassed so we shouldn’t acknowledge the kids that did well. Forget trying to get people to practice, or try harder, or study more—Participation trophies for everyone  

Everyone’s got to start sucking it up. No, not like Jes Baker at the dinner table. I mean stop getting insulted, stop getting offended, stop making excuses, and try to fix the problem. Exclusion isn’t an insult, it’s a challenge.

It’s not Abercrombie and Fitche’s fault that your fat. If you want to wear their clothes, shut your mouth—figuratively and literally—and make it happen

Monday, June 10, 2013

Constant companion

You've been with me my whole life, through thick and thicker. Whatever's happened, you've been there.

And I hate you for it.

You ruin everything. You slow me down, hold me back, make me look weak and lazy. You've ruined my clothes, kept me from doing what I want, where I want, when I want, with who I want. You make me uncomfortable everywhere I go. You make me hate myself.

I've tried getting rid of you. Tried everything I can think of. But it never works. Sometimes you go away for a while, but I can't forget you. I think about you every day, at every meal, at every activity, until you come back bigger, louder, and more annoying than ever before.

But this time, I'm going to kill you. Not like the other times, where I thought I could do it fast, rip you off like a bandaid. No, this time I'm going to do it slowly, painfully. I'm going to starve you. I'm going to run you into the ground. Oh, you'll fight it, I know you will, try to talk me out of it, beg for mercy and maybe some doughnuts. But I won't give up. You'll get weaker and weaker, you'll start fading away, and then one day, you'll be gone. Finally.

I'll be all alone. Reborn. Ready to start fresh, to build a new life without you.

I'll be skinny. I'll finally have gotten rid of  you, the millstone around my waist. I'll be free. And thin. And happy.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

The talk

"If I was a tower of strength, I'd walk away. I'd look in your eyes and here's what I'd say-"  Gene McDaniels

Hold on, I need to say something. I love you,. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But, I also think about divorcing you. A lot. Like all the time. No, stop, let me finish. It's not because I don't love you. I do. I really do. But you make me miserable. Our sex life sucks and I don't know why.

No, don't make me the bad guy. I'm not the bad guy. I just want to have sex. With my wife. And you treat me like shit for it. You act like I'm some kind of asshole for suggesting that we get naked.

Oh come on, stop acting so put upon. I'm the one getting rejected. I'm the one who can't sleep because I'm so frustrated and pissed off. Do you know how it feels to get turned down night after night? Without even knowing why. No, of course not, because I would never do that. Not that you'd ever ask anyway.

Imagine how you'd feel if I kept turning you down. If I acted like I wasn't interested in you. You still complain about feeling fat and disgusting even though I'm trying to get you into bed every night, even though I'm obviously attracted to you. So imagine how I feel when you show no interest. When you make it clear you could go weeks without sex. You make me hate myself and then I hate you for doing it.

I've told you this. I tell you all the time and you don't listen. I tell you and I tell you and I tell you and just ignore me. Nothing changes. It's like you think I'm joking.

I told you just the other night what you were doing. I came right out and said that it makes me miserable when we don't have sex and you ignored me. You were tired. You wanted to watch the Knicks game that we were fucking taping. You basically said " I don't give a shit if you're miserable. Go fuck yourself." And once you passed out, I did.

But I still couldn't sleep. Because I was miserable. And when I did finally sleep, I dreamt of having sex with you. And I was happy. Then I woke up, remembered that you'd fallen asleep on the couch again, that we hadn't had sex. Not last night, not for days, weeks actually. And I was miserable. Again. But it was better than the nights where you actually reject me in my dreams. Sometimes it's so bad that I just dream of masturbating. And of course, even though you said we'd have sex in the morning, you just slept all day. Woke up at noon, ate lunch, and went right back to sleep. Cause you were tired.

No, of course I love you. Stop fucking saying that. You always whine that I don't love you, but I'm the one making all the effort. I'm the one trying to fix this. And you don't help. You must see there's something wrong and you don't make any effort.

I'm the one doing all the work around here, making all the sacrifices, trying to figure out how to make you happy. I try to find stuff to do together, plan for the shows and the games and the massages and the vacations. I do as much as I can so you don't have to. So you can relax. So you can stop worrying. And what do I get? Fucking nothing. You can't be bothered. You can't even sacrifice twenty fucking minutes on the fucking chore of sex.

So I blame myself. I try to get better. I bust my ass trying to lose weight. But you just fucking let yourself go. You eat whatever the fuck you want, you never weigh yourself, you never exercise, and then you whine about being fat. Well, you are fucking fat. But I still want you.

No, I don't hate you. I love you. And I want you. You're fucking fat and I still want you. You reject me every fucking night and I still want you. You keep telling me I hate you, and you keep trying to make me hate you, keep trying to make me miserable and I still love you.

I want to be with you. I want to have kids with you, even though then we probably really will never have sex again.

I want to fix this. But I can't do it alone. Unless I'm the problem. Just tell me if I am. I'll keep trying to get better. Because I love you.

But I wonder if you still love me. You say you do, but you don't show it. Can't you just do it to make me happy? Can't you just spend 20 minutes getting me off so I don't have to be miserable? Or do you just take me for granted? Do you take everything for granted?

Like I'll always be here. Or I'll always be healthy. Or I'll keep turning down the girls at work. What if I'm not? What if I don't? What if they catch me on the wrong day, after I dream of getting rejected again, after I haven't had sex for weeks? What if I'm weak? What will you do then? Will you blame me? Will you hate me? Or will you hate yourself? For wasting all our time together. For taking me for granted. For driving me away. 

I don't know. I don't want to know. I just want you. I want to fix this. So what do we do?

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Why Kate, Why?

(Sorry this post is late Loyal Reader. Took a while to get it right sinze it's a touchy subject. Probably still not perfect)

“Maria, my mighty heart is breaking.” –Rainier Wolfcastle

Today is a sad day. Kate Upton, my future trophy wife—and her trophy boobs—have turned on me. There I was, minding my own business and fast forwarding through the ads during Monday Night Raw, when I spotted her in a commercial and threw it in reverse. Because not only can girls with huge tits not lie, like I said before, but every thing they say is super important. And smart.

Of course, this is only true if the boobs are in proportion to the body, so don’t get any ideas about trying to grow your boobs by getting really fat. And remember, there is a limit to how big boobs should be. Once you can squash beer cans with them, they’re not  turn-ons, they’re weapons.

But I digress. What awesome wisdom was about to spill forth from Kate’s heavenly hooters—great band name—and, more importantly, what product did I need to buy to make them happy?

Imagine my shock and horror when that suave douche entered the scene and said “Kate doesn’t mind a man with a little hair on his chest,” and then Kate cruelly raised her eyebrow and said “but definitely not on his back,” then made a “Sorry back-haired guys, you won’t be touching these” face.

Talk about a boner killer. It was if the gates to heaven—ie, Kate’s vagina—had slammed shut. Because, of course, I have tons of hair on my back, way more than I have on my chest. Or on my head. I guess I could buy the shaver they were selling, but how am I supposed to shave my back when I can barely even wash it? My back is so broad, I can’t even reach parts of it without a (manly) loofa. And I don’t know what I’d do if someone hadn’t invented backscratchers.

With my dreams crushed, I could barely enjoy watching two oiled-up musclemen grappling in nothing but their manties. Instead, I was transported back in time, back to when Becky was still in law school.

I was visiting for the weekend and we were down in the student lounge to shoot some pool. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, a bunch of allegedly intelligent women were watching Sex in the City.

This episode centered around the prudish one. Well, the prudish one compared to the other ones on the show. Why they would choose to make the only young and attractive woman play the prude while the older women were constantly getting naked is beyond me, but that’s just one of the many reasons I didn’t watch this show. The main reason being, of course, Sarah Jessica Parker’s face.

I’ll never understand how Sarah Jessica Parker has a career playing anything besides wicked witches. I’ll also never understand how women can constantly whine about how the media creates impossible standards of beauty and unrelenting pressure to be skinny, yet still love Sarah Jessica Parker. She’s a stick. Actually, she’s like one of those stickhorses kids used to ride. It’s like she knew that if she ever got even slightly chubby she’d be called Sarah Jessica Porker—sister of SpiderHam—and decided to stop eating for the rest of her life. If there’s pressure on women to be ridiculously skinny, it’s coming from Sarah Jessica Parker, not from us guys. Contrary to popular opinion, most of us don’t like super-skinny waifs. I never met a guy who was attracted to Kate Moss in the 90’s and I’ve never met a guy who liked Sarah Jessica Parker ever. But Kate Upton and Scarlett Johanson...yeah we like them. And before you parrot the media’s BS about this being some new thing where “all of a sudden” men are starting to like curvy women again, go back and watch Dusk Til Dawn. Salma Hayek was all curves in that movie and there was no one hotter. Hell, go back and look at Kelly Bundy. Then look at these pictures and see if you’ll ever find a man who thinks they’re attractive.

(And this is after she's been airbrushed to look her veiny, horsey best)

Case in point, when men talk about Modern Family, they talk about Sofia Vergara, not Julie Boney—er, Bowen. Almost all of us prefer Kat Denning to her moppish co-star. We like curves and always have. We like boobs, not bones. We want some flesh, something we can grab onto, not just hang clothes on. Ok, sure, we do love some skinny girls like Megan Fox and Nina Agdal—mmmmm, Nina Agdal—and that’s a pretty high bar, but we’re not the ones who made the unhealthy anorexic the “standard of beauty.” That’s all on the gay fashion designers and Sarah Jessica Parker. And women went along with it. For some reason, women held this bag of bones up as a fashion icon when they should have chased her out of town with pitchforks and torches, and maybe tossed her into the river to see if she can swim. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure she can.

Anyway, this episode of SITC centered around the prude who had just dumped someone or been dumped or some other damn thing that no sensible person would give a shit about, maybe she broke a nail. So she was feeling depressed and unattractive, even though she surrounded herself with three hags, when suddenly she found herself being seduced by a stranger. At first she was disgusted because he was bald (ugh!) and pudgy (gross!) and short (vomit!), but somehow he charmed her back to his apartment.

At this point, I felt like I was watching a horror movie in a Harlem theater. All the girls were shrieking “No girl, don’t go in the house!” “Run Charlotte, run.” “Nooooooo.”

But Charlotte must not have heard them because she still decided to get naked. And that’s when things took a turn for the macabre as Charlotte made a terrifying discovery. Not only was he short and bald and pudgy, but he had...BACK HAIR!!!!! AAAAAAAAARGH!

And now I was intrigued. Could this horribly deformed man overcome his disgusting handicaps, thwart God’s will, and score the only attractive woman on SITC? Yes, somehow Charlotte managed to swallow her revulsion and presumably something else as she soldiered on and fucked him. What a trooper. But as I silently gave a fist pump of solidarity with my blobby, balding, back-haired brother who had beaten all the odds, the girls watching were pressed back in their seats, covering their faces. I can still hear the screams.

“Ew girl, nooooo!”
“Oh, this is sooooo gross!”
“I think I’m going to hurl.”
“Ugh, I can’t watch. Is it over yet?”

And suddenly, I understood why serial killers do what they do.

Flash forward 10 years to when I was watching some quality television—wrestling—and I was once again assaulted by the same vicious hate. Was I seriously expected to be tall, skinny, with hair only on my head and not on my back? How could I possibly meet this impossible standard I ask you, how?

Now if I was a woman and I killed myself in some horrible back-shaving accident, everyone would be furious. The media would never stop blaming itself for daring to tell me that I wasn’t perfect, thus giving me no choice but to take insane risks and torture myself trying to achieve the unachievable. Those monsters!

And yet, no one’s going to complain about this ad, unless there’s a woman somewhere who’s got her panties in a wad because it objectifies women—even though they’re the ones describing how men need to look—not to mention the fact that they mostly remain silent and look pretty while a man does the talking for them.

But imagine what would happen if this commercial was flipped around. Imagine if an ad starred Channing Tatum, Justin Bieber, and Ryan Gosling hanging out in a bar until some good looking woman walked by and said “Sorry ladies, Ryan Gosling doesn’t do fat chicks.” I bet you’re already cowering beneath your bed. A thundering herd would descend on Washington, angrily waggling their fists and crying out for justice. “How dare you suggest men don’t like fat women!” they’d wail, “We’re all equally beautiful, like delicate but enormous snowflakes.”

No, you’re not. Sorry, you’re just not. You’re not Heidi Klum or Padma Lakshmi, just like I’m not Colin Farrell. So what? It doesn’t mean you’re not attractive or beautiful, just not as beautiful as they are. You’ll have to work a little harder to succeed or get out of traffic tickets or find a lover, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. It doesn’t make it impossible. Hell, even Roseanne’s been married 4 times. And she’s rich. So however you look, and however bad you feel about how you look, you can find success and you can find love. And all without lying to yourself or complaining about some impossible standard or pretending that fat is beautiful. That’s not productive and it’s not healthy.

Because we’ve got this other problem; Our kids are giant fat fucks. They all look like Augustus Gloop or Violet Beauregarde after she chews the experimental gum. (Hey, these jokes are current again. Finally, something good about Johnny Depp’s Chocolate Factory remake.) And how are we supposed to do anything about childhood obesity if we’re too busy lying to little girls and telling them that fat is beautiful? Years ago, even before they named Gwyneth Paltrow their “most beautiful person in the world,” People magazine revealed their list was a sham by putting Gabourey Sidibe in it. And everyone was so happy. “Oh, what a victory for fat people, how progressive, what a triumph”. Are you kidding? Gabourey Sidibe looks like a chocolate munchkin. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, she probably just polished off a peanut butter waffle pizza and got that much closer to her destiny of replacing Wilford Brimley in those diabetes ads. That’s who you want to hold up as a role model? Do you really want to point at her and tell your daughters not to worry about their weight because Gabourey is beautiful?

But we still need to do something to keep girls from feeling bad about their looks and starving themselves to live up to “Hollywood’s” impossible standard, right? But even if we changed Hollywood, and made Melissa Mccarthy and Gabourey the lead of every romantic movie, there would still be a problem because good-looking women exist in real life. And men don’t need the media to tell us that we like them better. Maybe we should throw all the good-looking girls out of school and force the boys to only date the homely ones? Anything to keep girls from feeling bad about their looks. Because being beautiful is impossible. Unattainable.

Except it’s not. There’s literally a thousand of those impossibly beautiful women in Hollywood, in the music industry, in professional sports, and in the pages of the Sears underwear catalogue. And for every one of those, there’s another thousand still waitressing or stripping. There were gorgeous girls in my high school and college and now there’s even more at my office and, more importantly, at the gym. At any given moment, you can walk into a spin class or a yoga class at any gym in any major city and see a dozen fantastic looking women. But how? How are they achieving this impossible goal?

Well, for one thing, they all look different. There is no “standard of beauty.” Much as people like to pretend that men and Hollywood just love big-breasted blondes like Pamela Anderson and Kaley Cuoco—Kaley is fucking awesome by the way—there’s still Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell, Halle Berry, Beyonce, Shakira, and that fucking gorgeous Indian girl from college. Some people even think Khloe Kardashian is attractive. All different shapes, sizes, and colors but all equally awesome—except Khloe. And they never decided that they didn’t have a chance of being beautiful because they didn’t look like Barbi. They believed in themselves and they worked hard to be beautiful.

And that’s the other key. Hard. Fucking. Work. Yeah, some women have the genes, but the rest have to work at it. That’s why they’re in those spin and yoga classes. I see these women in the gym, doing work, kicking their own asses, and I want to applaud—which  I never do because complimenting a woman is creepy and should be outlawed—and not just for the skinny ones. They all deserve it, because they’re not quitting. They’re in there every day earning their beauty.

Sure, some of them are just doing it to get a man—or woman—which is apparently a terrible thing to do. But most of them are just doing it for themselves, to feel healthy, to feel the pride of a job well done.  

So maybe the problem isn’t that there’s a high standard, but that we spend so much time telling girls that it’s impossible. You might be saying “Don’t worry about being as skinny as her because it’s impossible,” but they’re hearing that they’ll never be beautiful. So they either quit or they go insane trying to prove you wrong. And the sad part is that it’s totally possible. Yeah, they’ll probably never be as skinny as Mila Kunis or Keira Knightley, but they don’t have to be. They just have to not be as fat as Gabourey—and really getting that big is the thing that should be considered impossible. It just takes some hard work and willpower, and they’ll be able to be a healthy size that they can be proud of. 

I’m not saying it’s easy. I’ve been a fat guy all my life and probably always will be. I’ve been working on it for 20 years—done every diet, every exercise, crossed the world on treadmills and bikes and ellipticals and rowing machines—but I’m still fat. So I know how it feels to try and to fail, to be the one that doesn’t fit in. Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I don’t understand. Do you think I enjoyed watching shows that only portrayed fat boys as evil bullies or pathetic jokes? Do you think I enjoyed standing in the corner at every dance, every event, never even kissing a girl until college? Do you think I ever noticed that all the girls who said they just wanted someone funny wound up with someone handsome, that I didn’t know every girl who said she wished she could meet a guy just like me meant a guy like me who also skinny? Do you think I never noticed that I don’t look like anybody on the Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues or the underwear ad or pretty much any superhero besides The Blob? If you want to talk impossible physiques, then pick up a comic book. Oh wait, you already have and for some reason only complained about the impossible looks of the women—who, by the way, typically have huge hips.

Why? Because only girls have feelings? Because only women ever think of dying alone? Men think about that stuff too. We just don’t let it control us. Either we get over it or we focus on fixing it instead of whining about it. Do women even realize how weak they make themselves look by always complaining and blaming everyone else for their problems? It’s almost as bad as admitting that you can’t figure out whether the toilet seat is up or down.

So stop worrying about it and stop pointing fingers at everyone. It’s not Kate Upton’s fault she was blessed with tremendous ta-tas, and it’s not the media’s fault that men dream about them. And it doesn’t mean that you need them to be happy. Just deal with it.   

Yeah, it hurt to hear that Kate Upton won’t have sex with me. But I’ll get over it. I won’t cry and chug a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, I won’t decide that I hate myself and never eat again. I won’t start worrying that Becky’s going to leave me for some smooth-backed stud. I’ll just keep working at losing weight and being ok with myself.

Besides, it’s not like I really ever had a chance at sex with Kate Upton. But if I did, you can bet I’d be willing to swim a mile in a lake of Nair for it.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Size does matter

You can tell a lot about someone’s wife by the size of the shower in their house. A regular bathtub shower combo was probably there when they moved in, but still means she might be adventurous. A tiny standup shower means she’s a prude. A spacious shower with a detachable showerhead or, even better, multiple showerheads means she’s a freak.

Because the bigger the shower, the better the possibility—and possibilities—for sex in the shower. There’s room to do it standing, sitting, lying down, bent over. It’s a kama sutra shower. Nothing’s holding you back besides a lack of adhesive ducks.

But tiny showers are worthless. You can’t do anything. Well, one thing, but it’s difficult and uncomfortable. If that shower gets put in, she’s saying the shower is for showering and the only sex is happening in the bedroom.

And you know the tiny shower stall was chosen by the wife because no man would ever choose it. Not that we love shower sex—ok, we totally do—but we want to keep the option open. The more possible places for sex, the better.

It’s the first thing we think of when we look at house or buy furniture. We’re checking out the size of the shower, the height of the kitchen counters and arms of the couch, the slipperiness of the floors, the softness of a carpet, the placement of the heating vents, the sightlines from the windows. We want it to be possible to have sex anywhere, any time, any way. Because then as soon as you even think of sex, we’re ready. We’re not wasting time getting to the bedroom. Too risky. Who knows what might happen on the way there. So we’re ready to do it on the floor, the stairs, the pooltable, the treadmill, against a wall, in a closet. And if we can get you to be adventurous in the house, maybe we can extend it to the outside world. Which is even better, because if we get you horny in a restaurant, we can’t risk losing that on the way home. That’s partly why we don’t like to talk in the car. What if we say something stupid and blow the whole deal?

So we always fight against redesigning. Fancy counters make the kitchen off limits. Hardwood floors are too slippery. And designing a fancy just-for-show living room is like announcing a death in the family. Because if the kids can’t play in there, neither can daddy. Next thing you know, we’re only having sex in the bedroom. And we’re always worried we’re not going to make it there.

So next time your husband is arguing about that new kitchen, don’t be mad. Be happy. Because it means he wants to fuck you. All the time. Anywhere and any way he can. Isn’t that better than granite counters?

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Hey, wait a second

Am I the only one concerned that this commercial seems to endorse abduction and gang rape?

Monday, May 13, 2013

The Best Day Ever

To imagine how a Crusader would feel upon discovering the holy grail, one must only look to a seventeen year old virgin feasting his eyes on his first pair of perfect, naked breasts. Could there be a more religious experience?  Firm, rounded flesh covered in smooth, pale skin like the marble of an altar, stained only by two dark red circles, like the dried blood of countless sacrifices to goddesses with breasts not half as beautiful as these.  It’s enough to make one drop to one’s knees and thank whichever deity was wise enough to craft these magnificent mammaries, and beg that this moment last for an eternity, for surely it could not possibly be surpassed in seven hundred and fifty nine lifetimes, let alone the paltry seventy or so years likely remaining. Unless, of course, if it wasn’t asking too much or upsetting some divine plan, maybe one could perhaps, possibly, pretty please, actually touch the breasts?

It is in just such a situation that we serendipitously stumble over Kyle Pozair, a rather tall epitome of a seventeen year old virgin.  Kyle had grown rather tall rather quickly at a rather young age, the sort of rather young age at which his rather young friends were rather in a lather regarding his rather remarkable resemblance to a chap named Frankenstein (we rather like saying “rather”). Yes, many a child had perched behind the pituitarily-powered Kyle in class attempting to affix a pair of bolts to the expanse of his neck or planted a bucket over the doors to douse him in green paint.  Kyle had often lamented his long lanky limbs and harangued his humiliatingly high head for making him the target of these cruel cruel hilarious children, but now he blessed his Brobdingnagian body, for though he had lost all feeling in his extremities and dropped to his knees an instant after the baring of the bounteous bosom, his height left him in a splendid situation, eye to areola as it were.  Kyle immediately understood the mythic tales of the Gorgon, for now, as he stared at those red unblinking eyes, peeking out from behind serpentine curls of long luxurious black hair falling from a head he could no longer remember, he realized that at least one part of him had quickly, quite understandably and almost painfully turned to stone, possibly explaining the aforementioned loss of feeling and cognitive ability. 

Kyle could not believe his luck as the leather bodice, which seconds ago had secured those succulent scarlet-tipped casaba melons, was slowly peeled back even further, revealing more flawless alabaster skin tautly stretched over a magnificent midsection marred—if you could call it marred—only by the most beautiful button of a bellybutton, which practically winked at Kyle as if to say “yes, this is really happening.”  His eyes tore themselves away from those titanic tits and sprinted down the belly to see—no, it couldn’t be but...but it was—a perfectly trimmed triangle of lush, silken black hair pointing at the holy of holies, a treasure trove of decadent delights that Kyle had only dreamed about when not watching them reenacted by marathon men and women as flexible as the plastic that made them. And yet, though this was no dream and surely no video, Kyle was sure he would not be allowed to finally experience this carnal cornucopia  if he couldn’t stop making that unfortunate fish face.  For what felt like forever, he’d been begging his eyes to cease their infernal goggling, struggling to wrest back control of his lips  to end their unseemly puckering, but his efforts were for naught.  He knew he could only have a moment or two before he was recognized for what he was.  Not the manly, macho, randy savage he appeared to be, a chained and leather stud who couldn’t properly turn his back on society because he was too busy lying on it while women fought for the right to ride his orgasmic obelisk.  Oh no, Kyle was a scared little boy playing a man’s game and now that he’d been handed his finest fantasies on a naked platter, he was—like a handless man with toilet paper—stumped.  He didn’t know what to do but he was sure that if he didn’t pounce on those plump pontoons soon, they would be put away and he’d be kicked to the curb, laughter ringing in his ears and an erection wilting in his pants, the perfect ending to this night that had started so poorly before taking a strange awesome turn.

But actually it wasn’t just tonight that had gotten off on the wrong foot, it was Kyle’s entire life.  Seventeen years ago, the womb had opened up beneath Kyle and started him on a downward slide that seemed to continue to this day.  After being forcibly evicted from his cozy home of nine months, he blinked the muck out of his eyes and found himself in a hospital in the suburbs of Lawn Guyland and immediately exploded with an impressive wail that could have catered to the finest waul in the country.  Fortunately, Kyle’s father knew just what to do for he was, after all, the city’s foremost gynecologist.  In fact, it was he who moments ago had grabbed Kyle by the ankle and yanked him from the uterus.  Grasping that same ankle, he had flipped Kyle upside down and administered a quick rap to the rump, the last spanking Kyle would ever receive, and handed him to his mother, a plastic surgeon who clearly would never do unto others without first having done unto herself.  And so, it began.

Kyle’s parents were unfailingly cheerful, all smiles all the time, even moreso since the wondrous advent of botox.  As far as they were concerned, everything was super duper, simply spectacular, just really great, thank you.  Life was a big bowlful of Thai food at a silent auction, all country club and cordon bleu, gin, tonic and Harry Conick.  God they were so lame!  They thought Kyle was happy with his DVD’s, HDTV, PS1, 2, 3 and P, I-everything and no less than three family dinners a week with them and their precious pigtailed little Suzie, but alas,  that was not the case.  Though the uninitiated and unintelligent may think it’s wonderful to have rich doctor parents, in reality the peculiar double whammy of a plastic surgeon mother and gynecologist father sucked more ass than Mrs. Pozair’s Liposucker 3000.

Let us begin with his mother, the plastic surgeon who was her own best customer.  As a young boy, Kyle always feared the pool parties where his mom would act as a living catalogue, displaying her wares in an eensy weensy, teenie weenie yellow polka dot string bikini and all the men’s pants would give her an exuberant thumbs up.  It only got worse as he grew up and he had to listen to his classmates graphically ponder what they would do to her gargantuan gonzagas or be forced at wedgie-point to graphically recall what it had been like to suckle on her bodacious balloons (slightly salty actually).

But even that paled in comparison to the problems caused by his father.  A gynecologist’s son can only get by for so long saying that “boys have penises and girls have vaginas” before his life is permeated by the pungent stench of his father’s work.  It all started to go wrong when Kyle was 7 and “Take Your Son to Work Day” landed him in detention for playing a most explicit game of doctor.  As he grew older, he came to the horrible realization that, between the two of them, his parents had already poked, prodded, probed, penetrated and pried open every piece of female genitalia within fifty miles.  If you took the ten greatest minds in history and locked them in a room for a hundred years, they would be unable to conceive a more frustrating situation than being a young man surrounded by all manner of pretty girls, cheerleaders, MILFs and dirty, perverted teachers evil enough to fulfill a high schooler’s wildest wish, and knowing that your father has already been wrist deep in their vaginas.  And, of course, they are all justifiably concerned that cold hands might run in the family.

Yes, poor Kyle Pozair’s life was replete with a multitude of miseries, each exacerbated by his cacophonously cheery parents and their unbending optimism.  Kyle didn’t belong with those smiling simpletons and, as a matter of fact, he didn’t belong anywhere. He was doomed to wander the world, alone with his misery. But one dreary, drenching day, he had an elating epiphany.  Misery loves company and there before him, sitting on the curb in front of Kmart, with rain running over their pleather jackets and mascara running into their eyes, with their heads bowed in despondence and an attempt to keep their cigarettes lit by shielding them with their overgrown bangs, were the most miserable people Kyle had ever seen:  The Goths.  They understood that life was like a box of shit where you always knew what you were going to get. They didn’t care that nobody cared they didn’t care nobody cared about them.  As an added bonus, their scorn of superficial beauty and their fatalistic attitude meant that they had surely never visited his parents.  In fact, Kyle imagined, the Goth girls would likely forgo tampons and menstruate down their legs just to rage against their machine.  While their lack of vaginal hygiene was truly disgusting, Kyle felt they more than made up for it with their possession of vaginas which, like pizza, are good when they’re good but even better when they’re greasy.  Kyle was so eager to join this cult of countless sorrows, he rushed home to empty his walk-in closets, grabbed his parents’ credit cards and bought every piece of black clothing he could find at the Gap and Banana Republic.

Going Goth was the greatest thing Kyle had ever done.  He’d never been happier than when he was sulking outside of Sears, snickering and spitting at the mindless middle-class, middle-management minions mincing about mired in a pool of suck.  But there was one problem, one miscalculation.  Kyle hadn’t realized that, unlike normal women, the FemiGoths tongue piercings and lower back tattoos were carefully chosen to conform to the accepted norms of rebellion, not to indicate their propensity for promiscuous cocksucking and anal love.  And so, Kyle, like all Goths, remained a desperate virgin.

But Kyle had resolved to resolve that problem tonight.  For on this glorious night, he was going to see every Goth’s dream team: the Suicide Girls:  A traveling troupe of traveling trollops, naughty nymphs and pierced prostitutes who desperately gyrated naked on strangers’ laps, praying that one of them would turn out to be Daddy finally paying attention.  Kyle hoped that they would come for his dollar bills and stay for his unparalleled tale of woe.  Decked out in the blackest of his black clothes, he headed out with high hopes, a wad of cash and four pairs of boxers.

But sadly, it was not to be.  The beagle nosed bouncer easily sniffed out Kyle’s fake ID and—more biceps and triceps than man—easily and literally bounced Kyle out of the club and onto the street where, suddenly, sitting on the curb and crying had lost its luster.  But then, between sobs, Kyle noticed a pair of wickedly pointed leather boots which seemed to go on and up, somehow disappearing underneath a leather minidress so tight it seemed to be painted onto the most beautiful women Kyle had ever seen.  One look up into her night-black eyes told Kyle there was more sexual pleasure in her right nipple than in an entire squadron of Suicide Girls.  And somehow, his pitiful weeping had been mistaken for the dark, sullen brooding of a manly Goth with a mountainous member and he was dragged to a seedy motel where he would surely be ravished and ravaged like never before.

And so, we’re back where we started, watching Kyle and the arousing Aphrodite, looking back and forth between the two, like tennis fans wondering when the match will start.  Kyle was frozen stiff—in more ways than one—by  a true case of his eyes being bigger than his penis.  Should he start with the left breast or the right?  Should he dive right in, face first,  or play it cool and order her to turn around so he could see the sweet can that put the “ass” in “fantastic?”   

As his mind ached with possibilities, his concentration was broken by a throaty chuckle which performed the amazing task of wrenching his eyes back above the neckline and back to those black eyes, which now twinkled in amusement.  Rapt, he watched as her hands rose to her neck, then slowly traversed the gentle slopes of her breasts until they were cupping the copious comely flesh.  After a quick squeeze, her fingers began circling her nipples until they grew even more erect,  an astounding feat matched only by the Herculean efforts of Kyle’s penis. Leaving the right hand alone with its happy task, the left slid over her belly and came to rest between her legs where her index finger vanished in an eye-popping display of prestidigitatory  prowess.  Kyle’s Adam’s apple jiggled frantically as her middle finger followed the index into the void.

Finally, Kyle could take no more and he leapt into action, pouncing toward her, ready to squeeze whatever he could grab and suck whatever would fit in his mouth.  With lighting speed, her fingers reappeared  and her left hand flew up, grabbed Kyle by the scalp and firmly held him at arms length.  Arms flailing, desperately trying to at least brush against those tantalizing ta-tas, Kyle nearly burst into tears, sure that this was the moment the football team would burst from the closet and reveal this to be an elaborate practical joke, ending in an atomic swirlie.  But all his fears, in fact all rational thought, was wiped away as she yanked his head back and kissed him hard, mashing his lips against his teeth.  He barely noticed the metallic taste of his own blood as her tongue invaded his mouth and used his uvula like a speed bag.  All the air seemed to be sucked out of him and he would have collapsed if she hadn’t ripped off his shirt and flung him onto the bed.

Dazed, Kyle watched as she smiled, wiped his blood from her mouth with her disappearing fingers and then slowly, leisurely licked them clean, before crawling onto the bed and reaching for his pants.  Joyously realizing her intentions, Kyle patted himself on the back for having the foresight to masturbate ten times before he left the house that day, almost reaching to record he had set on the day he had discovered his mother’s supply of implants.  As she peeled off his pants and boxers, Kyle’s penis, finally sensing salvation after years of loneliness and abuse, sprang forth like a humpback whale breaching the surface, poised to unleash its most massive eruption. As her hair cascaded over his groin and her blood red lips approached his trembling penis, her soft, pink tongue darted out and ran over her teeth, which seemed a lot sharper than Kyle remembered.  Actually, he couldn’t even remember that she had teeth. Then her lips closed over Kyle’s shaft and his mind went blank faster than Michael J. Fox’s etch-a-sketch. 

From behind the bathroom door, I listened to the loud slobbering and sucking noises coming from the bedroom, as disgusted as I was aroused. And though nothing could stop me from entering the room—and my woman—I felt Kyle deserved these last few moments alone for, after all, they were his last.

When I entered the room, Lucretia was sitting on the bed, wiping the last of Kyle’s fluids from her chin. I was tempted to lick the few stray drops that had sprayed her bosom, but my appetite was soured by the sight of Kyle’s deflated—now detachable—penis lying in the corner staring at me with it’s unblinking eye, as if to ask “what the hell just happened.”.

“Did you enjoy the show, my love?” she asked, arching her back, raising her eyebrows, knowing full well that the show continued..

“Of course, but I’ll never understand why you can’t just bite them in the neck.”

“I could” she ran her tongue across her red-stained lips and teeth, “but I like having all the blood in one place. Didn’t you ever shotgun a beer when you were mortal?”

“That’s a delightful image. But why do you even go through this charade? Why not just hypnotize your meals like the rest of us?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she smirked, crossing and uncrossing her legs, watching my eyes react. “Any Vampire can control a mortal with their mind, but controlling them with your body”—she wiped a drop of blood from her breast and licked it from her finger—“now that’s special.”

I smiled and reached for her. “You know you could control anyone with a body like yours.”

She grabbed my hand and brought it to her mouth. “Yes, but after a thousand years of controlling the same thrall, it’s nice to see I still have the touch.”

“I’m hardly your thrall.”

“No?” she laughed, licking my finger “How many other Vampires watch their lovers with other men?”

“Please, they’re hardly men. Besides, I enjoy watching you debase yourself.”

“I’m not debasing myself. I’m debasing them. I’m in complete control.”

“You have a cock in your mouth.”

“And when I do, their life is in my hands. I can give them immeasurable pleasure, or unbelievable pain. I can make them do anything I want.”

“Yes but, I repeat, you have a cock in your mouth.”

She laughed and stood from the bed, pushing me away from her, before stretching herself like a jungle cat on the rack.

“You’re right as always my darling, I am debasing myself” she leaned forward, putting her hand on my chest and looking straight into my eyes, her eyes twinkling like a burgeoning galaxy, “I guess I’ll just have to never put another cock in my mouth—or anywhere else—ever again.”

She turned for the bathroom, then looked back over her shoulder, laughing at the look on my face.

“But maybe I’ll change my mind if you clean up this mess. Darling.”

I could still hear her laughing through the door, even as I bent to pick up Kyle’s discarded ding-dong. Poor little fella, at least he died doing what he loved. I flipped it onto Kyle’s still smiling corpse, then wrapped the body in the sheets and flung the whole bundle over my shoulder, like a demented Santa Clause preparing to bring a shocking present to an extremely naughty little girl. As I walked into the night air, I once again wondered if I’d been blessed or cursed to fall under the spell of this evil-woman child.

Ah, the things we do for lust.    


This story was partly inspired by a college debate when we were discussing the sexual dynamics of Basic Instinct. Yeah, that was a college class. I had to take Basic Instinct out of the library and watch a naked Sharon Stone on the library TVs, fast-forwarding and rewinding and using slow-motion to capture every nuance of the movie. Totally worth thirty grand a year.

We were discussing the first sex scene between Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone. Someone suggested that the scene was a fight for control, with each character trying to get on top and be in the dominant position. I pointed out that Michael Douglas must have won because he got Sharon Stone to go down on him and it doesn’t get much more dominant than that.

A heavily tattooed girl with lip and tongue piercings argued that Stone was actually in control, because she had all the power. She could give Douglas a lot of pleasure or she could stop and make him beg for more or she could just bite his dick off. My response was simple: “But you have a dick in your mouth.”

Victory! (Did I mention college was thirty grand a year?)

Of course, I have to admit that she’s not totally wrong because I’ll do almost anything for a blowjob. I’ll go the mall, watch an all-day Dallas marathon, or spend the day with my mother-in-law (obviously the blowjob doesn’t come from her). And of course, a good blowjob will make me forgive and forget almost anything. Erased all my wrestling from the DVR? Forgiven. Broke my PS3? Don’t worry about it. Kicked me in the balls? Just kiss it and make it better. There’s almost nothing that can’t be fixed by a blowjob...except maybe giving one to someone else.

So yes, I will admit that blowjobs give women a lot of power and control. But still, you’ve got a dick in your  mouth.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

The Billboard

The billboard

“Reality is very disappointing.” –Jonathan Switcher

I think I'm in love. With a billboard. Seriously.

It started a few months ago. I was trying to think of ways I could make better use of my time and realized I was completely wasting 40 minutes of every day walking from the Port Authority to my office and back.

For years, I've just plugged in my headphones, tuned out the world, and taken the same route to and from work, only changing it if I miss the lights. I'm in arguably the greatest city in the world—New York—and I'm just walking the same streets over and over again, barely noticing my surroundings unless I have to avoid a pile of horse plop or I get hit with a blast of warm, fetid air, like the city just farted on me.

So I unplugged and started trying to vary my route every day. Sure it's only a square mile, but I'm getting to see and experience more every day. When you walk the same path every day, just looking straight ahead, it's like you're walking through tunnels of grey buildings, chain restaurants, stores, and gaudy signs. But if you look around, and more importantly up, you discover the beauty all around you: Great architecture, beautiful fountains and sculptures, all kinds of hidden gems. I even found an MMA studio.

And then one day, I found her. The new love of my life. The Aeries girl. Oh my god.

I was walking through Times Square when I saw her in all her 2-story glory. It was just like all the cliches. I stopped in my tracks. My jaw dropped. For a few minutes, I was just another slackjawed tourist blocking the sidewalk like an idiot and staring up at something no one else seemed to notice. Her breasts, supported and plumped so nicely by a sparkly black bra, were amazing but it was really her face and personality that got me. There she was in nothing but a bra, smiling and staring you right in the eye, as if she was just the girl next door and there was nobody but you and her, and you'd known each other for years and what's the big deal if she's not wearing any clothes, I mean, you've seen all of her before, hundreds of times, because you're high school sweethearts, and you've never had eyes for anyone else and why would you when you're coming home to this every night?

There was another billboard above her, broken into 8 smaller frames, showing her in the same bra but making all kinds of goofy faces, to show she was a quirky fun gal—like Zoe Deschanel but actually sexy—but it was that first image that held me, lost in what could have been. Then the board changed to an American Eagle ad and I staggered away in a daze. I didn't get much work done that day.

That might have been the end of it if I hadn't walked by again a few days later and realized that there was more, oh so much more. This wasn't just 2 stacked billboards. They went to the corner of the building and connected to 2 more giant billboards, plus a long skinny one on top. And after randomly cycling through some other fashion ads, they all came back to the Aeries Dreamgirl. And not just still images, but glorious video.

Sometimes the screens combine into one huge shot. Sometimes they each have her from a different angle, in different clothes. In one screen, she's just wearing a men's shirt. In another she's lying down in a red bra and panties. In another she's jumping. Then she's taking off the shirt, rolling around in just her grey underwear. Some shots are focused on her breasts, or her flat stomach as she laughs, or her golden hair. But in all of them, she's in bed. And smiling. And looking at you.

And it's not even a “come hither, let's get it on” look. It's a “good morning on another great day together” look. An “it's great to be alive, what are we going to do today” kind of look. A “sure we could have sex right now, but maybe we'll have breakfast first, maybe we'll go walk the dogs—two labradors—around the lake and up the hills before we come back and have sex” look. Or a “should we just stay in bed all day, reading books or watching TV” kind of look.

And I love her. Or maybe, it's more the idea of her, of the life I imagine with her, the life I hope she actually has and the life I wish I had.

Now it's bittersweet when I see her. I still feel the love, the warmth, the joy of her beauty. But then there's the disappointment, the longing. That's not my wife. That's not my life.

My wife is fat and dull. Like my life. Two hours on a bus every day with a bunch of strangers silently dreading the day ahead. An hour every day walking across the city with millions of faceless worker ants. At least 8 hours in a little grey box that's just one of many little grey boxes inside one bigger box surrounded by other boxes, pushing papers, trying to be “creative.” Maybe an hour at the gym, lifting things for no reason or running in place. By the time I get home, it's usually dark and I've got maybe 3 hours before I need to go to sleep so I can wake up bright and early and do it again. And what have I got to do in those 3 hours? Eat dinner which probably isn't ready even though my wife got home before me, so I have to spend time cooking, do the dishes if I'm ambitious, put together our lunches, that takes an hour or more.

Two hours left, but for what? Not sex with my wife, of course. She's gone through a similar day (except she didn't cook or do the dishes) and maybe still has more work to do. And by now she probably has a headache. Or she's stressed out from yelling at her mom. Or she's just too exhausted. Or can't stop thinking about work. Or it's too cold. Or she doesn't feel sexy because she's "so fat and disgusting," even though I still think she's beautiful and I still want her. Want her so bad it hurts. But asking her is just asking for rejection since it's not the weekend (which is still no sure thing).

But I try anyway. Because I want her. So bad. But no, rejected again. Soundly. Usually yelled at for having the temerity to try to make love to my wife, to give her another thing to worry about. Don't I know she's too busy/tired/cold/stressed for this? I think that's why she spends so many nights going "oh, I've got such a headache" or "I'm so tired." Preemptive rejection. Hoping I’ll just take the hint and not bother asking. Nights like that I just head to the upstairs bathroom with my phone for an "epic dump" and wonder if she knows what I’m really doing. Sometimes I get lucky and she gives in, but only after sighing "fiiiiine," as if it's just another chore she has to do, as if she wants to make sure I know she’s only doing this for me and couldn’t be less interested. But I ignore that and we actually enjoy ourselves.

So another 15-45 minutes gone, maybe an hour and a half left. Should do something productive, maybe write something, but I've spent all day doing that. And I've spent all day talking too, so I don't want to do that, not that I'm a sparkling conversationlist anyway. And what would we have to talk about anyway? Work? What exciting things could have happened in the 10 hours since we saw each other last? Not much. That’s why married men can’t keep their friends’ secrets from our wives, because we’re so desperate for something to talk about.

So it's TV. Another night on the couch, sometimes on opposite sides, sometimes with her resting on my shoulder or on my lap, watching something brainless, bored but content.

But there's still the weekend. Two full days of freedom and excitement right? Nope, two more days of sexual frustration. Because now it's the weekend when we should finally be able to have sex. Plenty of time, nothing else to worry about, no responsibilities. Should be a slam dunk, right? But she's so exhausted from the whole week. Friday night, she passes out after dinner. I'd pass out too but I've got to stay up in case she wakes up and we can have sex. Sometimes I get lucky, but usually I realize she's done for the night—even though she said she'd wake up—and I go to bed.

Now Saturday, the Sabbath. She either wakes up before me, eats breakfast and goes back to sleep, or she just sleeps straight through until noon or later. Then, instead of finally having sex, she has lunch and goes back to sleep. For hours. And again, I'm trapped in the house, waiting for sex. Somehow, she manages to sleep the whole day. Or she wakes up hungry, with bad breath, and then just wants to read a book or take nap #3 if there's time. Then once the Sabbath is over, we—I—have to do the grocery shopping and make dinner. And then I have a choice, stay home and do nothing hoping to get laid before bed, or go do something which—with or without her—means getting home late enough that it's time for bed again. And then I start getting pissed. We had a whole fucking day of doing nothing when it should have been a whole day of fucking, why the fuck didn't we fuck? Then either she's pissed or I get "Fine," clearly the sexiest word in the English language. Let's get this over with, even though she's cold and somehow still tired. So even crossing the finish line carries emotional baggage.

Same thing Sunday. Sometimes she has to work all day, sometimes she manages to sleep even more, sometimes we go do something together. But still, getting her to pull it out is like pulling teeth.

What's wrong with her? What's wrong with me? She seems to enjoy it, I don't think she'd bother faking it. She says it's not me, usually. Sometimes it is “my fault” because I said something stupid a few days ago that she's still thinking about even though she doesn't really remember it. But otherwise, it’s not about me. She says she's enjoying herself during sex, that I'm attractive, that she likes it. It's not me, it's her. But what does that even mean? And why won't she tell me what to do to fix it? Instead, I have to spend almost every day feeling frustrated, pent-up, rejected, depressed. It's easier to just take my phone and go upstairs.

This wouldn't happen with the Aries girl. Clearly the cold doesn’t bother her, she spends all her time in her underpants. She's in a bed but having fun, not sleeping. Not stressed, not mad at her mother. She looks ready for anything, sex or otherwise. She looks perfect.

I'm sure she's not, and life with her would have some bumps, but it's got to be better than this.

Imagine my surprise and glee when I received the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and saw my dreamgirl in a body-paint leopard print bikini. Turns out the girl is Nina Agdal, and I love her even more now that I’ve almost seen her nipples through an inner tube and a few wet gauzy t-shirts. Finally, the Swimsuit Edition had something worth masturbating to.

Also, turns out there’s a new video for every season so now I’ve seen her dancing around the house in her underwear, wearing workout clothes that may as well be underwear, frolicking on the beach, and swimming in the ocean. She really gives new meaning to the term “breast stroke.”

I’ve got to say this is horribly irresponsible. How can they put Nina Agdal on two-story video billboards in the middle of Times Square? Who can drive with her dancing around up there? They’re lucky she isn’t causing 10 accidents a day. I just hope word never gets out about the billboards because men will probably start flocking to Times Square, like people making the pilgrimage to the see the Virgin Mary in a slice of French toast. And if they ever stopped rotating in those other boring ads, men would just stand there staring upwards with their mouths open and drown in the rain like turkeys. If that board was just Nina Agdal 24/7, I’m pretty sure the streets would run white with jizz.