Curry and Kerosene

Men Suck.

2009-11-30T12:14:00.000-08:00

Men suck.

All I Want Is For One Guy To Prove To Me That They’re Not All The Same
Men suck.
Guys are assholes.

Here’s a thought – maybe it’s not men who suck.
Maybe it’s your taste in men that sucks.
Maybe the problem is you keep dating men you don’t really like, so you’re constantly trying to fix them,
which turns them into an asshole
and you into a nag.

You become obsessed with changing them –
instead of waiting for a real man, you settled for a real hobby.

But then you don’t want to leave them because you have so much work invested in fixing them up –
nobody wants to find out they just put new tires on a rental car.

So you stay.
And get bitter.
And resentful.
And become convinced that all men are assholes.

And you start forwarding e-mail jokes to your friends:
Why do women always have to be on top during sex?
Because all men know how to do is fuck up.

No.
The reason you’re on top during sex
is because you always fuck men who are beneath you.

And why do you keep settling?
Maybe because you don’t know how to be alone.
Some people can only handle themselves as a plural –
Me is terrifying.
Us brings security.
Us brings shared responsibility.
Us brings shared blame.
If we is miserable, there’s someone else to blame.
If me is miserable, me has not one to blame but herself.
Me has to make herself happy.
Much easier to expect we to magically do it.

You Raging Alcoholic

2009-11-30T12:12:00.000-08:00

You don't drink too much.

Sure, you enjoy a little wine with dinner, and an evening cocktail, the occasional early mimosa or bloody mary. Maybe a beer or three with your movie. But you don't think you drink too much.

Then it comes time to carry out your recycling.

Holy Sweet Mother of Dussledorf, that's a lot of bottles.

There's a walk of shame that puts your drinking into perspective - the long trek to the curb with your recycle bin. And regardless of how gently you walk the bottles clang like a prayer-bell calling all to come offer up their sorrowful laments for your sad addiction.

After a good weekend there's too much for the orange bin (after all, it only holds about 15 gallons) so you have to line the overflow of empty bottles up on the sidewalk like a funeral procession for your liver.

The one redeeming factor is that you do entertain a lot - in our numbers we are mighty, and our guilt is dispersed among us all.

Thank god condoms aren't recyclable. The disparity between the fullness of my alcohol-bottle recycle bin and the emptiness of my condom recycle bin (like new - still has the wrapper on it!) would paint a very heartbreaking picture of my world.

Your Flip Flops Make Baby Jesus Cry

2009-11-30T11:54:00.000-08:00

Among males, flip flops should be the purview exclusively of Young Gay Men.

First, the term ‘flip flop’ is faggotty. Straight men don’t wear intransitive verbs. Sure, there are ‘hiking boots’, ‘running shoes’, ‘welding masks’, but those are all actions we do to shit, not things they do on their own. Flip flops tend to both flip and flop of their own volition, heedless of our desires. Straight men, tending to be insecure, are not comfortable with autonomous footwear. Sadly, many straight men are still adjusting to the concept of women being able to vote and drive trucks, much less sandals whack-smacking their soles. (on a sidenote, “faggotty” is not a homophobic word – it refers exclusively to those things that even a man dressed as a pink Care bear on a Pride Parade float would find to be a little over the top.)

Second, the pedicure – or lack thereof. I know metro men get pedicures, but we’re not talking about those line-blurrers here, we’re talking about traditional Budlovers who rank pedicures somewhere on the gay scale between melon ballers and karaoke-ing Stevie Nicks songs. Thus their toes look like they’ve been busy rebuilding engines or wrestling small, hairy dogs. Those are not display toes.

Third, straight men wear flip flops because they’re quick and easy to put on. Young Gay Men wear flip flops because they’re quick and easy to take off-- and they have a much better chance of needing to get undressed in a hurry. Always have their eyes on the goal posts, these boys.

Accept it, my fellow breeders – gay men can pull off casual much better than we can. Tank tops, flip flops, half-shirts, sleeveless shirts, no shirt… the reason they can make it work is because we all know that if they want to (and are willing to ignore any standards) they’re going to get laid tonight, and you can’t argue with success.

Obama prize...

2009-10-09T08:24:00.000-07:00

I'm sure I'm not the first, nor will I be the last:

“YO OBAMA, I’MA LET YOU FINISH, BUT I JUST WANNA SAY THAT JIMMY CARTER WAS THE BEST NOBEL PRIZE WINNER OF ALL TIME.”

Drunk Monkeys!!!

2009-08-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

Besides being an adorable video of moneys stealing drinks, it's also a fascinating examination of the genetic links to alcoholism. The same percentage of moneys and humans are alcoholics, casual drinkers and teetotalers.

We are something like 98% genetically identical, after all.

Why women don't hump nice guys...

2009-07-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

In response to my earlier blog about men who fear commitment/women who are addicted to commitment, several women pointed out that it's often the man who wants commitment when all the woman is looking for is a good time – or at least a sane time. This brings us to “The Nice Guy."

The Nice Guy just wants to find a woman who isn't afraid of opening her heart, a woman who is willing to give him a chance, a woman who will love like she's never been hurt. Sure, she's been hurt before, but that's because she's always dating Assholes. He'll be different. He's a Nice Guy. But she won't give him a chance, because women don't like Nice Guys.

Bullshit.

You're nice, but you're also a needy, clingy, spineless sycophant. "Nice" isn't the reason they won't sleep with you, "nice" is the excuse they give for not sleeping with you. The truth is, you're a boring, bland dud… who is ALSO a nice guy. It's not the "nice" part of that equation that's keeping you lonely. You’re quiet and unassuming, but only because you have nothing to say – you’re like a walking parenthetical with nothing between the parentheses.

And the main reason you are so nice is because it's the only way you can get people to hang out with you. Because you're boring. Stop offering to drive people to the airport and start reading books so you have something to talk about. Stop being a shoulder to cry on, and start being hands that cook and feet that dance and legs that bike and eyes that hunger and a heart that seeks.

Just because you lack negatives, that doesn’t make you a positive. It just makes you a zero. You gotta earn it.

Fadish tattoos, and the insecure lot who get them

2009-07-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: If you are insecure about your body art, this post will offend you. Not in the way that Kid Rock's existence offends the entire cosmos, nor in the way that Olive Garden offends the entire nation of Italy. More like the way that getting his ass slapped by a teammate offends the football player who then gets an unwanted erection. If you're secure, this won't bug you. And for the record, I was totally thinking about a chick when i got that erection. A female chick.

Tattoos:

I just don’t get it.

And I used to hesitate saying anything about tattoos because people take offense and see it as a personal attack. But then I realized that if they give a shit what I think, then they got their tattoos for the wrong reason. If you love your tattoos, more power to you!!! Revel in them, love them, and don’t give a fuck what anybody else has to say.

I don’t like tattoos. I know it’s a generational thing – when I was young (ssssoooo long ago) the only people who had tattoos were marines and bikers. And thank God(dess) for that, because I came of age during the late 80s. If tattoos had been popular then I shudder to think what images would be speaking their inky heresy from my flesh – a Duran Duran album cover (hello Nagel )? A scrap of Spandau Ballet lyrics? The phoenix from a Trans Am hood? The moon wearing a pair of Ray Bans (“Dude, you don’t get it? Sunglasses at Night! That song ROCKS!”)

There’s a certain arrogance to the act of getting a tattoo, because not only are you saying that this is a great idea, you’re saying that you believe you’ll always think it’s a great idea. A tattoo doesn’t just say “this is what my taste is”, it says that you’re confident that this is what your taste will always be. It’s an assumption that your tastes will never change, develop, evolve, or mature. “Grenades on my biceps – now and forever!” It’s like decorating your college dorm room and then sticking with that exact same look for the rest of your life.

Some people’s bodies become like scrapbooks for fads – a permanent record of things meant to be temporary.
Ooooo barbed wire! I remember 1998!
Cherries?! Oh, 2001, what a magical year you were.
Chinese characters?! 2003, that takes me back.

And do you ever get the feeling that one day in 2007, 10 million women simultaneously said “You know what, I’m going to get a star tattoo. No one has star tattoos!” And then the next morning they all looked at each other and said “Oh, well son of a bitch. Wait, what time did you get yours done? 10:45? Ha! Got mine done at 10:30… I was so far ahead of you.”

The problem is you have no control over who else gets the same tattoo as you-- remember when you first saw a guy with a tribal tattoo on his arm and you thought “Ya, that looks kinda cool"-- now you see a guy with a tribal tattoo on his arm you're like "douchebag! DOUCHE BAG!!!" Congratulations, you are now part of a tribe you never wanted to belong to – “We are the Tribe of Poor Decision Makers. We have a Tribal Tattoo, a rowing machine in the closet, the DVD box set of Friends, several pairs of Crocs, and a “W. 04” bumper sticker. So many mistakes…so many, many mistakes”

There are the more original ‘statement’ tattoos, which I never understood either. “This tattoo says a lot about who I am.” Oh. I thought who you are was supposed to say a lot about who you are – I didn’t realize you could just put a label on yourself:
“I’m sexy! You can tell, because right here it says “Sexxy!”
Oh, ya. Right above where it says “classy”. Nice.

My favorite statement tattoo – someone had the phrase “This too shall pass” tattooed on her wrist. A laudable sentiment, but is there no small irony in the idea of having a philosophy of impermanence recorded in permanent inks? “This too shall pass” seems a sentiment more appropriate for a transitory medium, like an Etch-A-Sketch or a GM warranty.

Seriously, just think about it first. If your first thought is “I want a tattoo” and then your second thought is ‘Now, what should I get…” then you probably shouldn’t get a tattoo. Talk to someone who has a lot of tattoos, and ask how many of them are covering up older, even shittier tattoos. Notice the trend: if someone at 25 has to cover up the mistakes of 20, chances are they’re going to be back there at 30 wondering what the hell they were thinking at 25.

Regret should live in your heart, not on your flesh.

Giving Them the Benefit of the Doubt

2009-05-10T19:28:00.001-07:00

When I see someone wearing pleated jeans – I live in the Midwest, so it happens – I resist the temptation to view them as an out-of-touch fashion loser. I like to imagine they have a higher purpose - I like to think they’re making a doomed, noble stand against the tyranny of time.

“No,” they say, “I have gone this far and shall go no further! You may have forced the rest of the world to march on, cracked the whip of ‘change’ over their heads – wide leg, skinny leg, acid wash, stone wash, whisker wash, low waist, high waist – no more, say I! No more shall I suffer the oppressor’s scourge, loving then hating each new style, proclaiming each as the true messiah then next season stabbing it in the back as a false prophet! I defy you, fickle time, and I wait… I wait.

“My day will come… like bell bottoms and hip huggers before me, time will return to the pleated jean. And on that glorious day - as the huddled masses, sickened by the sight of their once glorious flat fronts, scramble over one another, questing from mall to mall in search of those little stitched folds - on that day I shall smile. On that day I shall stride past them, pleats flairing and majestic. On that day time will return to me, and beg its forgiveness. And on that day I shall have won.”

“So I’m not a loser… I’m just playing a longer game than you.”

I say leave them their illusions…

Why men fear commitment

2008-07-29T11:11:00.001-07:00

Why are so many men AFRAID of commitment? Um... because so many women are ADDICTED to commitment? For every man who irrationally runs away from even the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection there’s a woman who grabs the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection and loves it and hugs it and squeezes it and chains it to an engine block in her basement and feeds it scraps through a hole in the floor.

"Why won't you give me just a little commitment!?" Well, for the same reason I wouldn't give an alcoholic "just a little taste" of my beer. Feed a table scrap to a puppy, it wags its tail. Feed a table scrap to a lion, it eats your arm.

I set my standards high, because I’ve learned that the alternative risks me falling into emotional slavery - in my 20s I was all about "ooooo, how can I get into her pants" but now I realize that it's usually a lot easier to get into someone's pants than to get back out. You have to have an exit strategy...

That’s what women's underwear have in common with Middle Eastern wars – you have to have an exit strategy. Otherwise you find yourself 5 years later going "What the hell am I still doing here?!?! I thought this was going to be a weekend thing, get in-get out. I did not sign up for all this… this shit is costing me a fortune. I so should have pulled-out before I surged – now I’m committed."

I realize this phenomenon is not gender specific, there are plenty of lost men out there who have a HOWLING emptiness that they think can only be filled by feeling needed - they want to be your saviour, without noticing you don't need a fucking saviour. The kind of man whose idea of a great second date is type-matching his organs so he can offer you a kidney if you ever need one. The “too-much, too-soon” creepy guys. “Hey, it’s Dave, just wanted to say hi and tell you I really enjoyed our first date. Not sure when you’ll get this voice mail so I’ll also text you. And e-mail. And send you a message on MySpace and Facebook. And leave a note on your car. And in the bottom of your favorite cereal bowl. Oh, and I’ll tell your mom you said hi.”

The worst is when the needy, neurotic man starts to date an equally needy, neurotic woman. That’s the kind of relationship where the “I love you more – no, I love you more” argument ends in a fist-fight and a knifing. “If you really loved me you would not be bleeding on me right now!”

MySpace interpreted

2008-05-28T10:18:00.000-07:00

“I hate drama!” = I am a self-centered, inconsiderate person with a habit of screwing over my friends. When they choose to confront me about this, I choose to call that “drama”. The reason I’m so sick and tired of drama is because I create so damn much of it.

“Life is not measured by the breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away.” = Not only am I wholly unoriginal, but chances are I’ll make you read my bad poetry.

“love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one is watching” = Not only am I wholly unoriginal (again) but by the third date I’m usually occupying one of his dresser drawers and two of his bathroom shelves.

“Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll – I was born to party!” = Proud Parent

“Love me or hate me, either way you’re going to be thinking about me!” = You will hate me. Most people do.

“I like all kinds of music”= I like all kinds of shitty, derivative music.

A Marilyn Monroe quote= I’ve never actually seen a Marilyn Monroe movie

A Paris Hilton quote = I’m just like Paris Hilton, but unfortunately I have yet to realize that being a proudly ignorant whorebag is only a workable lifestyle when you have your family’s billions to fall back on.

“I ain’t lookin for no playaz!!” = I have always been tricked by players. I will always be tricked by players.

“Some people don’t get my sarcasm” = I don’t realize there’s a difference between being sarcastic, and being a bitch.

“I’m the coolest mom on the block!” = “Why doesn’t Jenny’s mommy sleep fully clothed in a puddle of her own urine like you do three nights a week mommy?”

“I want to meet one man who can prove that all men aren’t the same” = The reason I think all men are assholes is because I keep dating assholes. Men don’t suck – my taste in men sucks.

Guess what...they did die for nothing...

2008-04-28T07:50:00.001-07:00

THEY DIDN'T DIE FOR NOTHING!!! – it's an emotional hammer they beat us with if we dare question the value of this war– "Are you going to tell those soldier's families that their loved ones died for nothing!?"

No, I won't have to , because they'll figure it out for themselves.

Guess what? EVERYONE dies for nothing – killed in war, killed by a drunk driver, killed by cancer – all death is ugly and petty and shabby. Death is not noble, it's not heroic, it doesn't serve a greater purpose. We all die for nothing – the question is what do we live for. Laying down your life for a cause is not the ultimate sacrifice… dedicating your life to a cause is the ultimate sacrifice.

If you glorify the death then it cheapens the life, and lessens the realization of the tragedy.

A woman isn't smart enough to be president

2008-04-07T07:02:00.001-07:00

It’s an opinion he shares with anyone who’ll listen, although that indicates no special status since he shares all his opinions with anyone who’ll listen. It’s a simple belief, stated in simple terms:

“Women aren’t smart enough to be president.”

He’s half right, because what he’s really saying is that the women he’s met aren’t smart enough to be president.

“All the women who’ve dated me are stupid!” Well…you got me there.

You have to realize that in this man’s world there are only two kinds of women: idiots, and women who won’t talk to him. You wear acid wash jeans, reek of Marlboro Reds and spend your leisure time shooting rats at the city dump, you’re not going to be meeting a lot of self-actualized women. Not a lot of poly-sci chicks standing in line behind you at the Ratt concert.

He doesn’t tend to think of women as “smart”, “successful”, “accomplished”… he tends to think of women more in terms of “hot”, “sexy”, “babe”… basically his descriptive vocabulary is limited to adjectives that these women have embroidered on the ass of their sweat pants.

In larger terms, he lumps women into two general categories: drunk or sober. Or more accurately – drunk or pre-drunk. This of course corresponds directly with the categories “worth talking to” and “bartender, I’d like to buy the lady a shot.”

He doesn’t have any interest in women who engage in reading, education, self-discovery, or other lesbian activities.

It’s not that he feels threatened by intelligent women – that would take a level of self-awareness that a man with a mullet clearly does not posses. It’s just that intelligent women are so alien to his experience that they seem mythical, like electing a unicorn. Ironically this should appeal to him, as unicorns are his fourth favorite subject of black-light posters and shelf-statues (after wizards, dragons, and some chick with a sword)

And since when does this guy even care about intelligence? When in his blindered, narrow existence has intelligence ever been valued? He makes his career choices out of necessity, his mating choices out of desperation, and his spiritual choices out of superstition. Politically he’s a bumper sticker, artistically he’s a tattoo, and emotionally he’s a port-a-john that overflows in bad weather.

Yes, I just questioned the artistic integrity of a tattoos. Walk it off, you pussy.

Yes, I just used the term “pussy” as a gender-insensitive insult. Walk it off, you pussy pussy.

The Gays. The Irish.

2008-03-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

I love that every year in NYCity (home to the world's largest St. Patricks parade) there's a big stink because the Irish catholics in charge of the parade don't want Irish homosexuals marching in the parade -- ya, wouldn't want something to hurt the high moral standing of a St Pats celebration-

"Excuse me, officer, I was minding my own business - puking on a cat and trying to date rape a passed out college chick -when these two guys walked by holding hands! I was so offended I dropped my beer - fortunately I had another one in the other hand. And another one built into my hat."

One of the organziers, definding the exclusion of homosexuals, explained it this way: "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?"

Which makes sense - the Nazis killed 6 million Jews, the KKK lynched thousands of African-Americans, and the gay men compete with Irish priests for the intimate affection of young boys. Damn you, gays!!!! (the preceding was an inexcusable stereotype. Gay men do not go after children. And Irish priests do not... um... nevermind)

Now, that said, the idea of a gay leprachaun really sorta freaks me out a little. I realize i do have a certain amount of prejudice - gay men who are extraordinarily small creep my shit out. Which really makes no sense, because if I had to have sex with a gay man (like, to save the life of a hostage or something) I would want him to be as small as possible.

And by the way- Boondocks Saints is the gayest movie EVER. Oh, quit your whining, you know it's true.

Sex Scandal

2008-03-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

Regarding the late governor of New York, why is it legal for two consenting adults to climb into a ring and attempt to batter each other into permanent brain damage for money, but illegal for two consenting adults to climb into a bed and have sex for money? What if I just have a naked cage match with a hooker, and when she dives onto me from the turnbuckle to power-drive my skull into the canvas (her signature move) my penis happens to enter her? Godless immorality or daring display of athletic prowess?

His client evaluation said that he was very polite and tipped well – am I the only person who thinks that makes it all OK? I have more respect for a good tipper who uses a hooker than for a shitty tipper who doesn’t. I don’t care if a governor likes to dry-hump cheerleaders while sitting on top of the lottery machine and letting numbered ping-pong balls shoot in his ass, as long as he rounds up on his bill and isn’t rude to the maid.

Beyond the particulars of this case (he did break the law, a law he was over-enthusiastic in enforcing on others) I think the larger problem is the fact that this fake-Puritanical culture is still so damn hung up over the issue of sex.

Sex is the one area of our lives where we get to have free reign – food makes us fat, alcohol makes us annoying, marijuana makes us boring, and love makes us needy. Only sex, with minor precautions, allows as to explore as deeply as we please, and to only scratch its surface is to nibble at a buffet. He cheated on his wife, but that’s a matter between them – the act itself is neither corrupting nor corrupt.
If I ever become famous and they uncover my private sex life, I HOPE it’s scandalous. I hope it’s twisted and shocking and depraved enough to make R. Kelly blush (shut up! Black people blush, it’s just harder to tell)
Last thing I want is some woman on the stand:
“Can you describe sex with Mark.”
“Oh…well…um…he was very polite…tidy…certainly didn’t take up much of my time…”
NO! I want her trembling with after-shocks, chain-smoking cigarettes, still not able to form sentences or hold a pencil. I want her knees shaking, her voice quivering, and her
innocence shattered. I want tales of high priced hookers, barnyard animals, and 220 volt sex toys.

If anyone ever describes sex with me as moral or respectable I will exile myself to a glory hole in a Filipino bar until the last scraps of my decency lie writhing on the indescribably repulsive floor.

Be proud of your sexual peculiarities – it’s you at your most essential, the ultimate manifestation of your most basic psychological needs. Twisted tales of sexual debauchery should not be hidden in the closest as a scandal; they should be listed on your resume as a reference.

Love your hate...

2008-03-04T11:42:00.001-08:00

Think of someone you hate. No, not someone you dislike, or someone you don't care for... think of someone you hate.

Feel the hatred grind into your soul.

Feel it turn your glowing heart dark and cold.

Feel the hatred howling inside you, feel it hurl itself against the walls of tolrance and compassion, straining to be free.

Let it free. Hate.

Simple, all consuming, oblivion promising hate.

Now go vote the opposite of what that person will vote. Revel in the glorious knowledge that you have just canceled out their vote. Think of them, all smug with their little "I voted!" sticker, secure in the knowledge that they voted just how Baby Jesus wanted them to vote. Cackle to yourself knowing that you have denieed them their pathetic little voice in the world.

yyyeesssss... now go online and steal some movies, preferably some with full frontal nudity. You've earned it.

Hey, if you wanted to vote for yourself you already would have. this is just for those who need a darker motivation.

new video

2008-02-20T15:49:00.000-08:00

Do men fear commitment?

2008-02-20T14:43:00.000-08:00

Why do some men fear commitment? Because some women are ADDICTED to commitment. For every man who irrationally runs away from even the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection there's a woman who grabs the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection and loves it and hugs it and squeezes it and chains it to an engine block in her basement and feeds it scraps through a hole in the floor.

"Why won't you give me just a little commitment!?" Well, for the same reason I wouldn't give an alcoholic "just a little taste" of my beer. Feed a table scrap to a puppy, it wags its tail. Feed a table scrap to a lion, it eats your arm.

I set my standards high, because I've learned that the alternative risks me falling into emotional slavery - in my 20s I was all about "ooooo, how can I get into her pants" but now I realize that it's usually a lot easier to get into someone's pants than to get back out. You have to have an exit strategy...

That's what women's underwear have in common with Middle Eastern wars – you have to have an exit strategy. Otherwise you find yourself 5 years later going "What the hell am I still doing here?!?! I thought this was going to be a weekend thing, get in-get out. I did not sign up for all this… this shit is costing me a fortune. I so should have pulled-out before I surged – now I'm committed."

I realize this phenomenon is not gender specific, there are plenty of lost men out there who have a HOWLING emptiness that they think can only be filled by feeling needed - they want to be your saviour, without noticing you don't need a fucking saviour. The kind of man whose idea of a great second date is type-matching his organs so he can offer you a kidney if you ever need one. The "too-much, too-soon" creepy guys. "Hey, it's Dave, just wanted to say hi and tell you I really enjoyed our first date. Not sure when you'll get this voice mail so I'll also text you. And e-mail. And send you a message on MySpace and Facebook. And leave a note on your car. And in the bottom of your favorite cereal bowl. Oh, and I'll tell your mom you said hi."

The worst is when the needy, neurotic man starts to date an equally needy, neurotic woman. That's the kind of relationship where the "I love you more – no, I love you more" argument ends in a fist-fight and a knifing. "If you really loved me you would not be bleeding on me right now!"