As I write this, the floating concrete mall known as Manhattan is experiencing a “wintery mix,” which is what happens when Old Man Winter has food poisoning. Walking to work this morning I got snow up my nose, elbowed in the fat wings by a grumpy Hobbit wrapped in scarves waiting for the subway, and went ankle deep in an enchanted ice puddle. It had to be enchanted, because I’m sure it laughed at me as I cursed. As a little kid, I was certain that snow was just God shaking a giant powdered donut over my house, but now that I am older, I know that snow is just Death’s dandruff. The winter is only enjoyed by Vikings, Tauntauns and people in relationships. Keep reading »
So long as love rides shotgun in your life, nothing can ever truly be that bad. It is the singular prize that trumps all others, the reward that sweetens every success. Truly, it is the hot fudge on the ice cream scoops of personal achievement. Now, excuse me while I puke a little in my mouth. Actually, I’m going to shotgun a cheap beer and play some Grand Theft Auto 4 to make amends for such an unforgivably cheeseball observation. More on love and rewards and, ZOMG, trust, after the jump…. Plus, a fable!
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Douchebags were a conspiracy of the patriarchy, a medieval-looking invention that simultaneously suggested that female sex organs were filthy, stinky and repulsive to men, and promised to cure this imaginary affliction. But it doesn’t cure anything. Douchebags can, in fact, upset the natural bacterial culture of the vagina that protects the organ from infection.
There’s also the small matter that unwashed men and women can rid themselves of odorous funks by showering regularly, or even semi-regularly. Vaginas smell like sex and sex smells good. Nibble your lower lip and roll your eyes into the back of the skull good. It is one of those scents that inspire immediate physical reactions. The smell of warm bread makes you drool. The smell of a roaring fires makes you cuddly. The smell of sex makes your skin glow like the digital warriors in “Tron Legacy.” Keep reading »
This column originally appeared on The Frisky on December 24, 2008.
Trojan condoms report their highest sales of the year take place in the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Researchers attribute this spike to holiday downtime, New Year’s resolutions to get knocked up, and booze-fueled Yuletide revelry. It seems counter-intuitive, and almost profane, that a holiday most associated with innocence and children would also be a holiday of steamy boot-knocking. But I suspect it has something to do with my favorite Christmas movie. And my favorite Christmas movie isn’t even a Christmas movie. Keep reading »
The New Year always makes me melancholy. If New York had moors, I’d spend the New Year sulking around the fog in a billowy shirt with a raven on my shoulder. While everyone else says “hello” to the next 12 months, I usually spend this time of year reflecting on the past 12 months. I can’t predict what tomorrow will bring, but I know what yesterday wrought. New Year’s is a time of accounting for one’s actions instead of making odds and betting on what might be. While everyone is gorging on the cake of future opportunity, I’m picking over the leftovers of my decisions. Because, like history, stupidity repeats itself. My funky mood is practical, too. Fate is a sniper, and those people who whoop and holler at the strike of midnight make easy targets. I keep my head down. Keep reading »