A recent issue of GLAMOPOLITAN magazine instructed its female readers to surprise their boyfriends by showing up at the dude’s apartment wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath. Don’t do this. And I’m not telling you not to do it because a silly girly magazine said so. I kind of enjoy those trash-diculous publications: they’re like Maxim with mood swings. Where else am I going to learn to love my curvy body? (But seriously, diet anyway. Did you know there are no calories in a hangnail?) Keep reading »
Women don’t clamor for guys with ripped six packs. Am I wrong? We’re talking about those toned, well-defined abdominal muscles that grace the covers of magazines for hairless men who drink liquid protein. Clean pants, yes. Dandruff-free hair, definitely. I know for certain ladies appreciate a healthy dude, or at least, a dude who doesn’t have stubby, greasy egg roll fingers and a beer baby bump. But abs you can shave wood with? No. At least, I don’t think so. Ugh. I’m slowly coming to the realization that this might be a lie I’ve told myself. Proof that I might be self-deceiving is in every episode of MTV’s epic anthropological documentary series “Jersey Shore,” where primped pretty people strut and rut in the wild. I watch it purely for research purposes. Keep reading »
”Open relationships” are like snowboarding. There are people who can do it very well. And then there are people like me, who will end up breaking something. I was in an open relationship once. It lasted for a couple hours and abruptly ended with me storming out into the cold, crestfallen that she had actually taken our agreement literally. I had started the evening’s revels a sophisticated libertine and finished the night a blubbering spaz. Not to mention a hypocrite. Keep reading »
Last night, Amelia introduced me to a television show where fashion-forward harridans-in-training reject a stream of desperate men, shucking and jiving for their approval. These men were delivered to these reclining prima donnas via conveyor belt — a literal conveyor belt.
As if they were stepping off an assembly line from the Freshly Scrubbed Emo Dude Factory.
ABC has aptly named this reality show/dating game “Conveyer Belt of Love.” Judging by her IMs, Amelia OMG LUVS this show and I imagine many millions of women do too. They tuned in and got off as vapid divas objectified equally bird-brained bimbros. Wielding signs that read “Interested” or “Not Interested,” these ladies licked their lips, wrinkled their noses, and rolled their eyes as dude after dude begged to be loved. Keep reading »
When it comes to New Year’s resolutions, I suggest aiming low. Reach for your shoelaces, not the stars. For instance, this year, I resolve to eat more donuts. Crullers, coconut, apple and spice. I can handle this and am fairly confident that come next year, I will be able to look at my fat face in the mirror and wheeze to myself, “Good job!” When I aim low, I am never disappointed. Sometimes, I aim even lower, like resolving to wear pants or use electricity. All of these achievements are possible. You know what’s probably not possible? Running a marathon, learning to speak Chinese, and becoming an astronaut all in the next 12 months.
There’s a fine line between resolutions and prayer. In both instances, you hope someone is listening. Be it Morgan Freeman, Zeus, or That Thinner, Healthier, More Successful You who’s been curled up dormant in your guts your whole life, waiting for a chance to burst out of you like a spring-loaded alien. Better yet, resolve not to resolve anything. Be Zen. Let life happen to you. A surfer can’t make her own waves; she has to wait for them. Then it’s up to her to know what to do with them when they show up. Keep reading »
I did something I’ve never done this holiday season: I bought The Girl I’m Currently Dating a necklace for Magic Space Baby Day (i.e., Christmas). A silver, heart-shaped locket to be exact. I did this because she has a beautiful, graceful neck and I wanted her to be able to show it off. And I think this necklace does that — it’s subtle. It merely accents something that was gorgeous to begin with. I’m proud of the gift. But I’ve never purchased jewelry before. I was under the impression it was a lame, cliché choice. Keep reading »
So, Tiger Woods cheated on his wife. For those of you who don’t know, Tiger Woods is a professional golfer worth a billion dollars. He is involved in a sex scandal, much like your average politician, rock star, or preacher. I have no opinion on the topic. Except that Tiger Woods has the fashion sense of a middle-aged suburban father who screams into his clenched fist every time he surveys the smoldering ruins of dreams that dot the empty horizon of his soul. Which might be the standard plight of golfers, as the sport is just an expensive version of lawn darts for plumpers with platinum cards.
Wait. That’s an opinion. I hate golf. I blame golf for giving us Tiger Woods in the first place. Keep reading »
A buddy of mine recently told me that he and his girlfriend have an arrangement. The deal is this: They both have a list of five celebrities they are allowed to sleep with in the highly unlikely event that such an opportunity presents itself. Oh, but I’m wise to the she-brain. I had to nobly inform my friend that this was not a binding agreement. That it’s just a way that women humor men.
You women think you’re so-o-o-o clever. But are you really? Or is it that men are just real knuckleheads when it comes to believing what we want to be true? It’s not receding! She loves graphic novels. I can bang another woman and she’ll be fine with it. We want to trust you, especially when you give us tacit approval to stick it in another woman, even if she is out of our league. Out of our dimension, really. “It’s best not to fall for this trap,” I told him. “I’ve been there! Dudes 4 eva!” This conclusion ticked my brodawg off a little: It was a real agreement, and for that matter, he had the upper hand. In the right circumstance, he was fairly confident he could rail Megan Fox. That poor deluded bastard. Keep reading »
Men fight because it feels good. It’s thrilling. Testosterone explodes and adrenaline surges. The hormonal musk kicked up by a MMA fight is potent enough to grow hair on a grapefruit. We have love of the battle in our blood. There are biological and evolutionary reasons for this. Like many male mammals, men compete for territory, food, and, most importantly, females. After all, it’s our genetic compulsion to spread our seed. Violence is part of our nature. It comes in handy when a giant, shambling mound of protein with tusks needs to be taken down. It’s a negative when … well… read the news. If I were a cynic, I’d say that war was invented to keep the surplus of men down. Keep reading »
Ladies, let your pubic hair grow. Allow it to run riot like a wild, verdant jungle. Shave not your delicate triangle of womanly power. Not all dudes demand a shorn ‘gina. I know that many do, and I apologize on behalf of those creeps. And it is creepy – I can’t help but think a lot of dudes drool over the bare look because it’s infantilizing. This might not be a conscious kink, but it’s true. I’m not so into the pre-pubescent look. In fact, I’m all about ’70s porno bush.
Then again, when it comes to sex, I don’t demand much. That she shows up, likes me, and takes her clothes off are my biggest concerns — and that she gets my name right. Keep reading »