My lady friend asked me if I thought it was “absurd” to want to be monogamous with someone and I immediately told her that I did not think it was absurd. It’s absurd to want to be monogamous with a rhinoceros or a pineapple. Especially pineapples, because they are the sluttiest fruit. But I do think that wanting or expecting monogamy is unnatural. Keep reading »
Men lie because the shortest distance between what they want and getting it is a rickety rope bridge swaying back and forth over a bottomless chasm that creaks when you put your foot on it. It is possible to inch across that bridge and get to the other side. But it’s more likely that the ropes will snap, and the creeping sneak will fall and, wait, did I mention that it’s not a bottomless chasm that the bridge dangles above? Actually, it’s a river full of alligators and piranha who have formed an unholy and unnatural alliance. Pretty gruesome. Keep reading »
A recent study has concluded that it doesn’t pay to be a “nice” guy. Scientists have found that men who are “agreeable” in the workplace don’t earn as much money as men who are more cutthroat. This groundbreaking finding serves to prove that tired old saying that “nice guys finish last.” When did you become so starved for attention, science? I know that modern society is allergic to reason and that facts and the boring pursuit of truth aren’t sexy. But why bother drumming up controversy by using social research to confirm a statement that only reinforces gender cliches? Do you need a ratings boost?
When women hear that “nice guys finish last,” they wail and shake their fists and wonder aloud, very loudly, if they’ll ever, ever, ever find a guy who isn’t a jackass. Then there are the men who are actually jackasses who tell themselves they’re “nice guys,” because even jackasses need to sleep. But then they read, for the 1000th time, that “nice guys finish last,” and resign themselves to being jackasses. Because why bother being a nice guy if you’re doomed to failure? Both men and women respond emotionally to the phrase “nice guys finish last.” I don’t care how scientifically sound the study happens to be because I’ll bet all my credit card debt that it was inspired by a desire to steal some spotlight instead of illuminating the human condition. Keep reading »
Romance is project management. All successful romantic gestures are the result of one person observing, plotting and executing a plan. Sometimes the plan is big and bold like a prison break. Sometimes it’s quick like a commando raid. I had a girlfriend once who forgave me my comic book addiction and remembered that I was a fan of the character “Wolverine.” She randomly saw a “Wolverine” action figure on sale one day and bought it. Before I came over that night, she told me she was hanging out with a friend she wanted me to meet. They had ordered my favorite pizza and to hurry up. Wolverine was waiting for me on the couch. Keep reading »
It’s amazing what a man will do when he is both horny and bored. I firmly believe all of man’s great contributions to civilization were a direct result of boredom and sexual frustration. Alexander the Great conquered the ancient world because he was bored and horny. Galileo turned his telescope to the stars because he was bored and horny. The entire Internet, the greatest communication device ever invented, was basically created by legions of bored and horny men. So that’s my excuse. The reason I almost, almost, purchased a male sex toy online is because I was bored and horny. Keep reading »
I have recently been accused of being “bitter.” This accusation has been at the heart of various criticisms of recent blog posts I have written. Those blog posts include a recent rant about first dates, and the hilariously absurd insecurities that ritual inspires. I also wrote an obnoxious review of the new “Harry Potter” movie, which I haven’t seen, and won’t see, because I know man-witch will use pig Latin to defeat Dark Casper. It is not like Harry Potter is some obscure cultural underdog. If I offended you by roasting your favorite fictional childhood hero/billion dollar empire, then, you know, don’t be such a dainty teacake.
I also won’t apologize for mocking first dates and, to be fair, my own anxieties. I also won’t apologize for making fun of tapas. If I was sitting on the Iron Throne of New York City Dating, I would decree that all first dates occur at my new restaurant “Tongs,” where all portions are family-sized and the only utensils are tongs. Now, that is a first date where two people will really find out about one another. Tapas would then be banned. Keep reading »
I think “tapas” is actually Spanish for “Hey, these people will spend a lot of money to eat small portions of food off of tiny plates.” The whole idea of “tapas” was probably invented in the ’70s as a way to fleece English-speaking tourists who found appetizers sold as entrees charming and rustic. I hate going to tapas places on first dates. Because a dinner date is still dinner. I’m hungry. I have to order five or six tapas to make a meal and then the plates crowd the table and I look like a pig because those there are only two of those ridiculously tiny sausages and I ate them. But it’s not like I don’t raise my eyebrows and nod at the tiny sausages, which is the universal sign for “have a tiny sausage.” I am generous. I offer food from my plate to those with whom I am breaking proverbial bread. There is nothing stopping a certain dinner companion from also ordering five or six tapas, including the tiny sausage tapas, instead of just having what looks like a sprig of the Jolly Green Giant’s pubic hair.
Damn tapas. Damn tiny sausages. Damn social awkwardness. First dates are the worst. But who am I kidding? I’m not going on any first dates. Keep reading »
Haven’t I written about why men cheat before? Can’t I write about anal sex? Again? For the third or fourth time in my career as a hack? If it weren’t for the perpetually hot topic of “why men cheat,” the entire gender-industrial complex would collapse.
Men cheat because people are jerks. Selfishness is the default setting of the human race. You know how there are people out there who say that they believe, deep down, everyone is good? I am not one of those folks. Keep reading »
Unless you own a private plane with a bed in the cabin, having sex in an airplane has got to be the lamest sexual fantasy ever. Not to mention corny. And tacky. If you want to do it in public, do it in a park or an alley like decent people. I find its apparent popularity confounding. There are websites dedicated to tales of airborne debauchery, which all read like the ridiculous letters sections of soft-core porn magazines, where some unemployed former Blockbuster manager just can’t believe he had a threesome with two 19-year-old Icelandic snowboarders hitchhiking through Alabama. This is to say, I have never believed any story anyone has ever told me about putting the “cruise” in “cruising altitude.” At least, I’ve never believed any story that makes it sound hot, or desirable, or like anything that doesn’t make me want to pour myself a Lysol bath. Keep reading »
Men send pictures of their penises because we want the world, or the person we love, or the person we love that week, to know that we have penises. We tell ourselves it’s to make women hot and bothered, but the truth is, those pictures just make us swell … with pride. If it wasn’t aberrant behavior, we’d hang pics of our red hot on the refrigerator door like a blue ribbon from the school science fair.
I have sent one picture of my wang to one woman. We were flirting over text, and she dared me, and so I took the picture. Considering I didn’t have time to properly light my apartment, I think the photo of el generalissimo was pretty good. I framed the shot well. I mean, it was no Mapplethorpe, but it wasn’t your average Craigslist wang portrait, where all penises look like they’re attached to an aspiring sexual predator. I sent the pic as a joke, because the request was a joke. She thought the picture was funny. She thought the entire exchange between us was very funny. Too funny. It wasn’t that funny, lady. I sent a picture of my jangly-gangly as a joke, but a little awe wouldn’t have hurt. After all, while it wasn’t a serious text, I still unleashed the kraken. Keep reading »
