Like I Need More Excuses Not To Leave The House

I don't remember ever seeing as many people in Halloween costumes as I did on Saturday night. Maybe it's because Saturday night was the first time I've left the house on Halloween in I think, ever. I don't get the whole dressing up thing and I'd never go to a party where I was required to wear a costume, but if that's your thing, then god bless you. Maybe I'm a smug, cynical douchebag who thinks he's too cool for dress up, but I just think it's kinda silly. So by the time I was done rolling my eyes at the fifth Superman with the sock enhanced crotch I'd seen in as many minutes, I barely had the energy to do the same at the gay pirate who couldn't figure out how to work the Metrocard machine. But I mustered up the strength because, well, as I said above - that's just downright silly.

I saw a fair share of women in military uniforms. I wasn't aware that "push-up" bras (or as I like to call them , "Please, Please, Please Look At My Tits and Think They're Really This Big" bras) were standard issue nowadays, but you live and learn. I thought the boyfriend/girlfriend duo dressed respectively in a Mets and Yankees Jersey and cap were trying too hard to be cute, and I wanted to tell the guy I saw in drag to just go home, if he wasn't even gonna try a little.

I didn't want to actually smack anyone until I got on the packed train and was forced to listen to a loud, balding, sweaty guy dressed as John Cusack from "Say Anything." I only know who he was supposed to be because loud, bald, sweaty guy announced it to like five different people after he bragged to each of them about how drunk he was gonna get later. I just saw some schmuck in a trench coat holding a boom box. I don't even remember if I ever saw "Say Anything," but apparently it's cool to like that movie for some reason. I'm pretty sure John Cusack didn't have either a severe glandular problem, or Malaria, in that film, so I think it's understandable that I didn't get the costume given all the sweating.

At some point during the ride, loud, bald, sweaty guy became loud, bald, sweaty, bloody guy when he cut his hand on his boom box and started dripping blood on the floor. I was so annoyed by his loud, bald, sweatiness that I wanted to scream at him like I was his alcoholic father: "You see what happens when you carry stupid shit around like a boom box, you fucking imbecile?! We're packed in here like sardines and you're walking around with a radio from the eighties? What the fuck is wrong with you? If you need props and have to explain your costume, then it's stupid! Next Halloween you're staying home!" When the 1989 John Cusack impersonator couldn't find a tissue, he began to suck on the cut and soon had blood all over his mouth. For the next ten minutes, all I heard was, "Is it on my face? Seriously. Is it on my face?" I knew then I'd definitely be staying home next Halloween.

But I'm glad I went out this Halloween. On what other night of the year could I see four different "Shirtless Jdate Guy" costumes? Yes, that's a real costume - I think. These were guys just walking around in jeans and no shirts. There was no logical explanation for them not to be wearing shirts other than the fact they were in costume, and given that they had nothing else to offer besides shirtlessness, I just assumed they were dressed (or not dressed in this case) as "Shirtless Jdate Guys." The only thing missing was a cardboard cut out of a profile they could stick their faces in, in which they list their heights at least four inches taller than they actually are, and lie about how much money they make. I can only hope that these guys went to parties where they found women in "46 But List Their Ages As 34 To Come Up In Searches" costumes. I hear those are very popular.

The Manhattanite

A long while back, I IM'd some woman on Jdate. I remember our conversation not only because it was enraging, but because that IM session was one of maybe ten I'd had during my entire Jdate career. And ten is probably being generous - unless getting declined counts as having an IM session with a woman, in which case I've had many more. But what triggered my memory of the instant messaging session in question was having almost the exact same conversation with the same woman on the phone last night.

I'd gotten this woman's number from a friend who had gotten the number from her friend who had apparently found the number scribbled on a piece of toilet paper that got stuck to the bottom of her shoe while she was peeing on the seat in a Starbucks bathroom. I can think of no other logical explanation since that appears to be how much thought was put into this set-up by the parties involved.

Though the IM exchange with this woman was at least two years ago, I was almost immediately overcome by a feeling of deja Jdate.

"So where in the city did you grow up?" she asked.

"Brooklyn," I said.

"Brooklyn isn't the city," she said, and I knew right then by her condescending, "You're Bridge and Tunnel trash and I'm not" tone that I'd spoken to this shithead once before. I quickly ran to my computer and opened the email my friend sent me containing this woman's picture. I knew that Jewish nose looked familiar.

"It's a borough of New York City," I responded, wondering why I was again defending myself to this elitist schmuck - only now I was speaking the words instead of typing them angrily on my keyboard.

"Technically, I suppose. But I don't consider Brooklyn 'The City.'"

"Not technically. It's an actual borough. I know. I grew up there."

"You know what I mean. It's not Manhattan."

"That's why they call it Brooklyn. So I take it you grew up in Manhattan," I said, pretending we'd never spoken before.

"Born and bred," she said proudly.

"Uh huh. So do you only date guys who grew up in Manhattan?" I asked, hoping she'd say yes and hang up on me.

"No, but there's something to be said for native Manhattanites."

Like what? You're all obnoxious douchebags with big noses who given your ages and extremely average looks shouldn't be so fucking picky?... Oh wait, that's just you!

"I actually enjoyed growing up in Brooklyn. Some of my fondest memories are from that time in my life. Brooklyn was great," I said before I told myself to stop trying to prove to her that I'm worthy of her attention.

"Yeah, well, do you have any other pictures you can send me?" she asked, putting to rest any doubt that this was the same woman from Jdate. I remember her asking me the same thing over two years ago. "I have a certain type of look that I like. Do you have any pictures where I can see you more clearly? "

Sure. And do you have any pictures in which your face doesn't look like it has a raging hard-on? YOU have a certain look you're into? So do I, and the "before" model in a rhinoplasty ad ain't it. Why didn't your fancy Manhattan daddy take you to a fancy Manhattan plastic surgeon when you were a teenager, or why didn't he at least get you Photoshop lessons? These were all things I wish I had typed to her over two years ago and now I was wishing I had the balls to say to her on the phone.

Instead, I asked: "Are you on Jdate?"

"Yeah, are you? Do you have other pictures on there?"

"No."

"No, you're not on Jdate, or no you don't have other pictures on there?"

No, I don't want to talk to you anymore or ever again.

J-JOBS

I didn't think I'd see or hear anything sadder this week than what I witnessed at a Lenny Kravitz concert on Monday night. As twelve-hundred sweaty people pushed and shoved each other so that they could record the show on their iPhones and Blackberries and be the very first of their friends to post it on Facebook, I noticed two women practically raping one of the event staff guys. They were dressed in their best groupie uniforms - tight jeans, heels, and tit- revealing tops - and they were molesting the Irving Plaza employee in an effort to get closer to the stage, get noticed by Lenny Kravitz and I guess have him fall in love with them, or whatever it is groupies think is gonna happen after they double-team rock stars. Rubbing up against the crowd control guy might have actually gotten them closer to the stage, or maybe even backstage, if these skanks were remotely attractive...and not fifty-years-old. I watched as the guy they were trying to bribe with their pre-geriatric sexual advances backed away as if to say, "I don't wanna fuck you two! Why would Helen Willis' son want to?" The anger I felt watching the two menopausal nymphos trying to manipulate some poor guy to get what they wanted, turned to pity as I watched them strike out with yet another of the venue's employees. But my anger quickly resurfaced as my view of the stage became obstructed by two giant Israeli dudes who insisted on treating those of us stuck behind them to a fifteen-minute air guitar duet, during which they serenaded and high-fived each other. I got so caught up in the utter gayness of it all that I thought about feeling up the event staff guy to get him to throw the two douches out.

After the concert, the image of the grandmas throwing themselves at some random stranger stuck with me and I couldn't imagine a more cringe inducing display of desperation and a cry for attention until I spoke to my friend last night. He told me about a girl he's been dating whose roommate blows every guy she goes out with from Jdate. I resisted the urge to ask for her screen name, as my friend explained to me why the woman with whom his new girlfriend shares an apartment constantly has her mouth full.

"She thinks it's the only way she can get guys to call after the first date. And if they don't call, they'll at least remember the blow job," he told me.

I wondered if the Geritol groupies began their careers by sucking off men they met from personal ads in the Penny Saver or from 1-900 chat lines, or whatever the 1980s equivalent of online dating was. And if so, would the Jdate Blow Job Girl inevitably wind up being rejected by a roadie at some concert she showed up to inappropriately dressed twenty-years from now?

I think the only ones in this story who had any meaningful kind of connection were the two Israelis. I'm sure when they blew each other after the concert it was true love.

BERTA

Three people in as many weeks have told me I'm smart for not being married. If these people were unhappily wed guys in their thirties or forties with obnoxious little kids and wives with fat asses, I probably wouldn't have remembered what they said. I've heard the cries of regretful married men too many times. But these anti-marriage advocates are women over sixty-five. One is ninety-four. I didn't really have the opportunity to question the two younger Golden Girls about why they're so opposed to the sacrament of holy matrimony, but I did ask the ninety-four year old. She was my grandmother's hospital roommate until late Saturday afternoon when I came to visit.

I walked into the hospital room and saw Berta dressed in her best old lady suit and matching hat, sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed with her purse on her lap . I barely had time to kiss my grandmother hello before Berta let me know she was pissed.

"Do you believe I'm waiting two hours for the ambulance to come to take me for my rehab? Two hours!" she said in some kind of accent I couldn't quite make out.

"Yeah, well. I'm sure they're on their way," I said, trying to move past her so I could get back to my grandmother.

"This is some racket they run here. They're all in cahoots. The doctors, the nurses, the ambulance company...and they want me to write them a check for the ambulance."

The next thing I knew, I was writing a $55 check to First Response Ambulette because Berta couldn't read the name of the company off the napkin that the nurse had written it on.

"What's an ambulette?" she asked.

"I guess it's kind of like an ambulance, but smaller. Maybe with less equipment inside. I don't really know," I said.

"I'll give them an ambulette alright. They won't take me unless they have the check, but I'll just stop payment. That's all. Two hours they making me wait. They could wait to get paid too."

"Sure, you could do that," I said, feeling guilty that I'd spent the first few minutes of my visit to my grandmother dealing with a stranger's ambulette issues.

"They said I could pay by credit card, but I'm 94 years-old and I never had a credit card. That's what's wrong with today's society. People buy things without money. If I wanna buy something, I buy with money. Pssht, with credit cards they want me to pay."

"Mmm Hmmm..."

"They're all crooks. I wouldn't be surprised if Palm Gardens doesn't even know I'm coming."

And then the next thing I knew, I was calling Palm Gardens nursing home to make sure they were expecting Berta. I thought about explaining to Berta that the odds of an entire nursing staff and an ambulette company conspiring to steal fifty-five bucks from her were slim. But before I could, she said: "You're a nice boy. Are you married?"

"Nope," I said.

"You're smart," she grumbled.

"You think so? Is marriage that bad?"

"Ah, the women out there today," she said as she waved her arm at me in disgust. "Better to stay single."

I wanted to ask her if she'd been reading my blog when the ambulette driver walked in. She gave him a good five minutes of shit for being two hours late and accused him of being involved in the big scheme to steal $55 off her.

"I'm just a driver," the ambulette guy said in his defense. "Whatchoo complainin' 'bout really isn't my...I mean this isn't like my..."

He struggled to find the word and I could see him sweating a little. Berta had gotten him so flustered that he forgot how to say "responsibility," if he ever knew the word to begin with. Instead, he regrouped and said, "this isn't my, you know, my liaison."

I thought for sure Berta would tear the guy a new one for not having a basic grasp of the English language. "People can't speak English in today's society," I could hear her saying in my mind. "I wasn't even born here and my English is better than yours, you fuckin' idiot!" I felt a little bad for the guy. But after I tried to intervene to make sure the driver knew where to take her, and he told me to mind my own business, I wanted Berta to abuse the dumb illiterate bastard. Instead, she kept complaining about how crooked everyone there was, as they rolled her out of the room tied to a gurney.

I wanted to go after her and ask her why exactly she was so anti-marriage. I thought a 94 year-old woman has to have some pearls of wisdom to share. But Berta was too busy carrying on and accusing the staff of larceny.

I think Ol' Bertie was so angry at the nurses and the ambulette company that she didn't really want to educate me anyway. She probably thought that teaching someone else's grandson about life wasn't her liaison.

Ménage à true?

The closest I've ever come to being involved in a three-way was when I got a hand job from an ex-girlfriend while she was on the phone with a friend. None of my close friends have ever been with more than one chick at a time because if they were, I know I'd have heard about it many, many, many times.

So when this guy I kinda sorta know kept bragging to me this weekend about the "two hottties" he "banged last night," I was doubtful to say the least. I've been to plenty of social gatherings during which I've wound up talking to some drunk guy who feels the need to confess his sexual exploits to me, either real or imagined. "I was just with this Puerto-Rican chick," "Dude, you should have seen this piece of ass I went out with the other day," "You ever do a Saudi Arabian chick? You should!" are all things I've been forced to listen to while standing next to some guy at some party. When I don't know these so called men, I usually give them the benefit of the doubt and just assume they're telling the truth. But when a guy, who I have trouble believing has ever had sex with anyone, tells me he had a ménage with two of the best looking women I've seen in a while, I'm less inclined to extend him that same courtesy.

"What? You don't believe me?" he asked after he told me what he did with the ladies in question.

"Why shouldn't I believe you?" I said.

"I don't know. You seem kinda suspicious."

"Me, suspicious? Nah. Why? Because I can't imagine any woman, let alone two at a time, wanting to so much as talk to you?" I thought, but actually said: "No. Not at all."

"You want me to ask them to come over?"

"You're goddamn right I do! I want to hear both of these women say that they fucked you last night in an actual three-way, and that neither one of them was paid to do so," I thought, but actually said: "I believe you, man. It's cool."

He walked away angry and I wondered why he needed so desperately for me to believe him, or why the other guys in their thirties and forties at the other parties needed to prove how cool they were. Are they stuck in a state of arrested development so severe that they can't move beyond the "Dude, smell my finger" stage of their sexual development? Or am I so goddamn cool that guys just wanna impress me? Maybe they know that that hand job/phone call was the closest thing any of us have gotten to a three-way, and they want me as their leader.

WHAT I LEARNED THIS WEEKEND

1. There's a reason I don't usually talk to strangers.

I was trying to be polite when the old Jew who sat next to me in the park started babbling about the state of the world in which we live - at least I thought he was an old Jew until he blamed 9/11 on the Jews. I was offended not by his antisemitism, but by his lack of originality. I wanted to tell the Dane Cook of conspiracy theorists that blaming the Jews for 9/11 had been done to death by mental patients way more talented than him, but I just got up and left before he was able to see my horns.

2. There's a reason I've never been to Crumbs Bakery (until yesterday)

I don't have a problem paying four bucks for a cupcake so big you need a fork to eat it, if the cupcake is actually good. I have a better, more appropriate name for this place - "Stale." I'm not sure which was worse - the fact that I could only finish half the cupcake because one more bite would have put me into a diabetic coma, or the fact that I sat next to the future cast of NYC Prep while I was eating it. If I'm gonna force feed myself a dry, shitty cupcake just to get my money's worth, I don't need to listen to a group of 9th graders whose handbags cost more than my mortgage payment use the word "like" fifteen times a sentence.

3. Fareed Zakaria is "a antisemite schmuck" - according to my great aunt.

I have nothing against the guy. I'm pretty sure he knows who's responsible for 9/11 - the Mexicans.

THE EMPEROR IS EATING PINKBERRY

I know I'm in the minority, but I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Pinkberry tastes like ass! I don't get the long lines out the door, nor do I understand how people can stomach putting that vile, overpriced slop in their mouths. Maybe Pinkberry puts something in its yogurt that appeals only to those with more estrogen in their systems than testosterone since the lines out the doors are always comprised mostly of women. But to me and my balls, Pinkberry tastes like the milk they used was sour coming out of the cow, and throwing fruit on it doesn't disguise the grimace inducing hideousness of its flavor.

So when last night's date called a half hour before we were supposed to get together and suggested we meet at Pinkberry instead of at Starbucks, as previously planned, I hesitated.

"You don't like Pinkberry?" she asked.
"Not really, but that's cool. It's about the company anyway," I said.
"Hmmm. I really want Pinkberry."
"Don't worry about it. I'll sit with you while you eat."
"I don't know. It'll be weird if only I'm eating. I guess I'll have to push it off for another time."
"Yeah, well. Pinkberry isn't going anywhere."
"No. I mean our date. I really, really want Pinkberry. I was away for most of the weekend and there were no Pinkberries near me. I've been thinking about it since Friday."

I could have suggested that she get the yogurt before we met, but if she was gonna cancel a date because she was fiending for some Pinkberry, then far be it from me to get in between a girl and her curdled yogurt addiction.

"Well, enjoy it," I said, without offering to reschedule.
"Uhh, ooookay. I will," she said, as if she was annoyed that I wasn't interested in coming in second to a nine dollar cup of turd.

The friend who tried to set us up already gave me hell for not going out with her and force feeding myself the yogurt. But I'm pretty sure Ms. Pinkberry isn't for me, and I can only hope that her ass got bigger with each spoonful.

WHAT THE F&$% ARE YOU TALKIN' BOUT, WILLIS?!

I was speaking to a client the other day who was bemoaning his newly divorced status. He's glad to be rid of the ex, but he's not having any luck on Match.com and E-Harmony. I wasn't aware that they even let Jews on E-Harmony. I thought it was some Mormon run site that doesn't allow "certain people" who don't measure up to its high standards to join - kind of like what they do at restricted country clubs, and at diners in Mississippi in 1951.

I very facetiously suggested that he try Jdate, and he said: "Yeah, man. Lay Date - that's where it's at. I keep meaning to set up the profile, but I've been lazy."
"What'd you call it?" I asked.
"Lay Date. I hear it's pretty easy to get laid on there."
"It is? How come no one told me?"
"I know a bunch of guys who've gotten laid from Jdate."
"Really? Like who?"
"They say the women are horny as shit."
"Really? Like who?"
"People go on there just to hook up."
"Really? Like who?"

I know I'm a bad example of successful Internet intercourse, but since when the fuck is Jdate like an episode of Entourage? Have there been drastic changes to the site since I last subjected myself to being treated like a digital leper?

I certainly won't be back to find out, but I gotta admit that I'm kinda hoping my client doesn't get laid from Jdate, so I'm not the only one.

SPEAKING OF VAGINAS

As I was sitting on a bench in Central Park the other day, I overheard a guy in his early twenties tell a friend that he "loved vaginas" and that they're his "favorite part of a woman." What he said made me smile - not because it was particularly funny, but because I remember telling a friend the exact same thing when I was that age.

Back in my twenties, I suppose the vagina was my favorite part of a woman. It didn't really matter whose body the vagina in question was attached to. As I've grown older, slightly wiser, and more discriminating, I'm less inclined to plug any hole that's offered me. I still do very much like vaginas, but they're no longer my favorite part of a woman.

My favorite part is now the part of a woman that makes her sweet and kind and funny and cool and smart; the part that stops her from whining about every thing and everyone that she hates, and tells me to stop when I whine about the same things; the part that lets me be me without trying to mold me into someone she thinks she wants to be with; the part that's independent and doesn't need some guy to complete her; the part that picks up the check once in a while; the part that doesn't play by rules written by bitter, damaged women; the part that doesn't think it owns the truth no matter the subject; the part that doesn't need a four-carat diamond to make her happy; the part that gets my sophomoric, sarcastic humor; the part that makes me smile when I see her and disappointed when I know I won't.

So I've gone from being a 20 year old kid who really likes pussy to being a 38 year old man that sounds like one. But I don't care. That's what I want.

SKANKVILLE/YORKVILLE: WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

Maybe I need to leave the house more often, or maybe the Upper East Side has suddenly become New York's red light district, but I couldn't believe how many women I saw standing on street corners last night in tit-revealing tops, super short skirts and stripper shoes - the kinds with the ridiculously high heels and the straps everywhere. I'm generally not one to complain about scantily clad women, especially when that special brand of summer horniness kicks in (guys, you know what I'm talking about), but there was something a bit sad about these women. They all seemed like they were trying too hard - like a guy at a club wearing a muscle shirt who flexes every time he raises his beer.

Whether they had the bodies to pull it off, or whether they looked like the woman on 73rd street whose breasts were literally outside her top (it wasn't pretty, but I had to look), they all looked uncomfortable - both physically and emotionally. Give me a slim chick with a pretty face in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, and I'm good. That's exactly what I was wearing last night and no one looked at my tits with pity in their eyes.

THE YAWNER

Many months ago, I allowed a woman I vaguely know to set me up on a blind date. She's someone who happens to travel in the same circles as my mother - and by "same circles," I mean they see each other at weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs and funerals. It was at one such event in a chapel in Brooklyn where my date with The Yawner was arranged. As the mourners shed their tears over the passing of a loved one, my mother and this woman worked out the details of a setup the seeds of which could not have been planted at a more appropriate venue. I can only imagine how the conversation went down:

My Mother: Do you have anyone for my son?
The Woman: I have a friend who has a daughter. She's in her mid-30s and has a vagina. I think they'd be perfect for each other.
My Mother: Make it happen.

I wasn't given The Yawner's phone number, and the oh so clever introductory email I sent her got immediately bounced back. I took the message from the Mail Delivery System as a sign and decided not to tell the woman that she'd given me a bad email address. I hoped that the whole thing would just go away. But before I could forget the chick's name and throw out the Subway napkin on which I scribbled her incorrect email address, my phone rang.

"So did you email her?" the voice on the other line asked with bated breath.

"I tried, but the address you gave me is wrong," I said.

"Hold on. It's ******_*******@yahoo.com. Wait, maybe it's hotmail...or aol. How are you spelling her last name?"

"Exactly how you told me - *******."

"Try *********," she said. "Maybe that'll work."

"Emails are kinda like phone numbers," I explained. "They have to be exact."

"I'll call you back with her phone number," she said before hanging up, and before I could say, "Please, don't bother."

Within five minutes, the woman called back with The Yawner's number and insisted that I call right then and there. I believe the phrase she used was: "she's waiting for your call." If there's one thing I dislike more than completely random setups where the matchmaker makes no real effort to actually insure that the two people in question are a match, it's a matchmaker who's a pest. I told her I'd call as soon as possible, and I did that evening.

The date was uneventful until about an hour or so in when my companion let out a huge yawn. And by huge I mean one of those yawns that are so over the top they seem fake - like the person acting out the yawn wants to send a clear message that they're bored and wants very much to be elsewhere. I received the message loud and clear, paid the check immediately and wished her well before we went our separate ways. I found it ironic that she was the one who felt the need to yawn since I had spent forty-five minutes listening to her describe what she did for a living. I can't recall what it is she said she does, but I remember nodding a lot and saying, "cool" every so often, as she told me.

When my mother called me a few days later to see if I'd gone out with The Yawner, I told her what happened.

"Maybe she was just tired," she said in The Yawner's defense. "Yawning is a normal bodily function."

"So is farting," I said. "But there's a polite way to do it and an impolite way. I don't lift up on one cheek and ask my dates to pull my finger."

"Oh well. Forget about her then," she said.

And I did until last week when the woman who set us up approached me at a Bar-Mitzvah I couldn't get out of attending.

"So ***** is engaged," she said to me, clearly trying to make me feel like I lost out.

"Great," I said. "Good for her."

"He's a great guy. A doctor."

"I'm sure they'll be very happy together."

"Oh, she's ecstatic. Absolutely ecstatic."

"Well, I wish her the best."

"Now we have to get you married off!"

"That's okay. I'm good," I said, fake yawning.

"Whatsa matter? You're tired?" she asked.

Just of you and this conversation, I thought.

"Try not to yawn," she said. "There are some single women here. No one likes a yawner."

Oh, the irony, I thought. Luckily, someone came over and pulled her away. A few more seconds of her condescension and I would have asked her to pull my finger.

Never Judge a Book By Its Do Rag

I sat in a subway car yesterday afraid I might not make it out alive. Huddled in a corner near me was a group of street toughs discussing what I thought was a gang hit.

"He dead, son!" the apparent leader of the group told one of his soldiers.
"What?! Nah!" he responded.
"Yeah, motherfucker. He DEAD!" the leader exclaimed, as I tried my best to look away, hoping they wouldn't notice me.

I waited anxiously for the train to pull into the next station, so I could get off before they realized I was a witness to a confession of murder.

"He dead? F'real?" a third member of the group asked the leader.
"Bitch, I'm telling you. Megatron is dead! He got killed in the first movie!"

WHY I MAY BE BANNED FROM MACY'S AND OTHER UNCOMFORTABLE FACTS

Last Thursday, as my friend and I were finalizing the details of the mountain biking expedition we went on yesterday, he mentioned that I should wear boxer briefs. Being a strict boxer guy, I asked why the boxer briefs were necessary. He said that the seams on boxers would rub up against the bike seat and "rip my ass apart." "Rip" is not a word I like to hear used in reference to my ass, so I made my way over to Macy's on Friday to get the boxer briefs. I know wearing old school boxers puts me in the minority, at least among the under-eighty crowd, but the few times I've worn boxer briefs, I've felt like I should be standing on top of a bar in Chelsea, singing about how fun it is to stay at the YMCA. I've also never felt comfortable with the deceit involved in wearing boxer briefs. Someone should lobby Congress to make the underwear people put a warning label across the front that says, "Objects in these boxer briefs are nowhere nearly as big as they appear!"

I browsed through Macy's men's underwear section, looking for the perfect pair of ass protectors, while staring at the boxer brief enhanced bulges of the male models that appeared on each of the boxes of underwear. I've never bought a shirt or pair of pants that came in a box with a picture of a guy wearing the shirt or the pants, but I guess the unspoken slogan of the boxer brief industry is "Buy this and your dick will look big." While I can respect their no bullshit approach to marketing, it made my search all that more uncomfortable. I was trying to convince myself that I didn't need to buy the boxer briefs by comparing the seams on them to the alleged ass rippers on my boxers. I couldn't find an open box and I was afraid that the sixty-something year old woman with the name tag would perform an underwear lady's arrest, if she caught me trying to open one. I was forced to mentally trace the seams that surrounded the Calvin Klein model's package, while I ran my hands over my jeans, trying to feel the seams on my boxers. I pretended I was scratching an itch, and prayed there wasn't a security camera recording something that would wind up in inboxes and on Facebook pages throughout the world. I wasn't convinced that the boxer seams were any different, but given what it looked like I had just done, the next logical step was to buy the underwear and take the model and his bulge home with me.

I didn't wind up wearing the boxer briefs I bought during our bike ride. Instead, I wore a pair of my friend's "special mountain biker ass and ball protecting underwear" after I was barely able to sit on my bike wearing the Calvin Kleins. If my weekend didn't begin confusingly enough, it certainly ended that way. Not only did I wear another man's underwear, but my ass is killing me.

Polish Girls Really Do Love Sausage

Some might think I was scraping the bottom of the barrel by allowing my friend, "D," to set me up with his Polish cleaning girl's friend, but I was open-minded when the setup was suggested. And by "open-minded," I mean bored and lonely. I hemmed and hawed until "D" agreed to make it a double date, though. He'd take one for the team, he said, by acting as his five-foot-one, two-hundred pound cleaning girl's escort for the evening, as I got to know her friend whom "D" assured me was very attractive and NOT a cleaning lady. I found it odd, even amusing that he has such a close relationship with the woman who scrubs his toilets, given that I don't think I've had more than a handful of conversations with the woman who scrubs mine. We communicate via notes that she leaves on my kitchen counter in which she addresses me by my full name and tells me what cleaning products she needs me to buy. She even asked for a raise via post-it note.

"Dear Mr. Marc ****, I need Fantastik with bleach, gloves size (m) and $10 more. Thank You," she wrote a few months ago. I responded by buying the Fantastik and gloves and leaving her an additional ten dollars every time she's come since. Not a word was spoken between the two of us, and it never once occurred to me to ask her if she had any cute, single friends she'd be willing to allow my friends to try and sleep with.

I sat with "D," his cleaning lady and her friend, Ana, at a blues club for around twenty minutes in between sets, attempting to make polite conversation with a surprisingly attractive and slim Polish woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Despite "D"'s assurances to the contrary, I was expecting a stereotypical Slavic women with a babushka, at least fifty extra pounds, a mustache, and a bad attitude. Well, one out of four ain't bad.

Every question I asked Anastajza, the Ice Queen of Krakow, was responded to with an angry sneer that made me feel guilty for having the audacity to interrupt the conversation she was having in Polish with her friend. "I am chemist" was all I managed to learn about her before the band took the stage.

As the music got louder, I moved my chair closer to Madame Curie, and asked her if she'd ever been to a blues club before. She nodded no, turned to her friend and mumbled something that likely had a backwards "R" in it. When I followed up with, "I love the blues. I can feel it in my soul," I saw her eyes roll before she again turned to her friend and uttered what was almost definitely an insult directed at me. The ship was sinking fast and I had to bust out the big guns, or at least an indirect reference to big guns.

"It's probably because my grandfather was black and grew up in the South that I have the blues in my blood, ya' know," I said right before her eyes lit up like I'd just told her I was an heir to a large Kielbasa empire, the crowned jewel of which was in my pants.

"Really?" she asked, happily shocked that the pasty, white Jew she'd been ignoring until then could possibly please her in ways no pasty, white Jew ever could.

I nodded yes, and heard her say something to her friend who then gave me the once over and said something in Polish that sounded a lot like, "Get the fuck outta here! HIM??!! NO WAY!" Even if that's not what she actually said, Ana responded as if it was. The Polish Hazel had not only made her friend ignore me for the remainder of the evening, but she had successfully Kielbasa blocked me.

PLEASED TO MEET YOU, HOPE YOU GUESS MY NAME

When last night's date called me Irv for the second time, I decided not to correct her. I wasn't quite sure I heard her right the first time she called me Irv, or maybe it was Herb, so I let it go. But when she asked, "So what's your favorite quote, Irv," I completely lost interest in her, the date, and the fact that she thought I shared a name with a large percentage of the male population of Boca Raton. The fact that she didn't know my name didn't bother me, though I found it odd given that we emailed each other at least three times before the date, and she had to have seen my name written next to the word "From" in her inbox. What made me lose interest was the way she asked me questions like she was reading them off index cards during an interview for a job I didn't want.

"So what makes you laugh?" she asked, as the interview began.

"The way my grandmother says yoo-reen when she's trying to say urine," I responded.

"Uh huh," she said, barely paying attention to my answer.

"What songs are on your Ipod?"

"Don't have one."

"O-o-okay," she said condescendingly. "Where'd you spend your last vacation?"

"On my sofa."

"Mmm hmm...So what's your favorite quote, Irv," she continued, not missing a beat.

If I were a Shakespearean scholar, or gave a shit for that matter, I might have said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But the truth is, I had to look the quote up online to get it right, and she wouldn't have gotten the irony anyway since she actually thought my name was Irv - a fact she demonstrated yet again when we left the bar together ten minutes later and she said, "Nice meeting you, Irv. Take care."

Call It Divine Intervention

No one would ever accuse me of being religious. I haven't stepped foot in a synagogue since my nephew's penile scalping over nine years ago - and unless his foreskin grows back, I don't see myself returning anytime soon. I believe in a higher power, just not one that meddles in the trivialities that comprise our daily lives. However, that belief was tested last night when I logged on to...dare I say it...the site that had been the bane of my existence for so long - the dating site every single heeb loves to hate. Though it felt like an eternity since I logged on, the old knot in the stomach returned seconds after I entered my email and password and hit the log in button. I saw some familiar faces. Some women that I remembered being my age last time I saw their pictures were now miraculously at least three years younger than me. There were others I'd never seen who looked pretty good in their pictures, but whose profiles read like they were written by lazy third-graders who were forced to write compositions about themselves by their substitute teachers. The days of the tired cliches have been replaced by twitter like essays - very short, uninteresting, and grammatically challenged. With the exception of the requisite non-Jews searching for their Jewish banker/lawyer/doctor husbands, the site still remains predominantly Jewish, and I felt like I was browsing the Emunah Women of America membership catalog. Most of the women looked like they just got off the Long Island Railroad, and I could almost hear the Fran Drescher-ish whine in their voices as I imagined them reading their profiles.

Somehow I managed to come across around a dozen women that I found interesting enough to email. I hot listed them and slowly and anxiously reached into my wallet. My American Express card sat on my desk as I scrolled my mouse over the words "Subscribe and Enjoy Jdating." I took a deep breath, but was unable to relax knowing that what I was about to embark upon would be anything but enjoyable. The odds of getting even one response from those 12 women were slim to none, and I knew I was about to spend the next thirty days glued to that goddamn site - the one I'd managed to stay away from for so long. I felt like a crackhead, who'd been clean for years, about to hand a wad of crinkled, dirty bills to a dealer on a street corner in exchange for a small rock that would ultimately cause me nothing but trouble. "Fuck it!" I said, as I let myself get taken in by the remote possibility that THIS time it might work. I clicked on the link that was to take me to the subscription page and then it happened - a truly religious experience.

A message telling me I had been infected by a virus popped onto the screen and my computer began scanning itself to remove the malicious threat. I knew the message itself and the resulting scanning were themselves viruses, but I was grateful. I "x"ed out the window warning me of the attack and immediately ran every anti-virus/spyware/malware program I had. My computer is safe and now so am I - from a month of despair, hopelessness, frustration and anger.

There was probably a virus sitting dormant on my hard drive that was triggered by something on Jdate, but I like to think that something or someone has a better plan for me.

How To Lose a Guy in 10 Words

It's easy. Just update your Facebook status to: "Took a HUGGGGE shit. I love the smell of poop!"

Yes, that's an actual Facebook status from an actual woman/girl.

I've deactivated my own Facebook account because I no longer see any reason to have one, but when a friend wanted to show me a picture of some chick he'd befriended, the shitter's status update appeared on his home page. The status was followed by such comments from her friends like " u go girl" and "too funny...lmfao." Upon clicking on her profile, I was amazed to learn that she had a boyfriend, but not surprised that he didn't comment on her declaration of defecation. In her defense, she's only twenty-years old, and based on her pictures, I don't doubt that her turds are as monumental as she claims.

I wonder, however, if somewhere her boyfriend is figuring out how to dump her - pun intended.

BLAME IT ON THE DEAD GUY

Last night, I was about thirty seconds into berating my idiot brother for insisting that the "George Lopez" show is hilarious (he was disturbingly dead serious), when I heard the call waiting beep on my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID and it was a woman I was supposed to go out with tonight on a second date. I told my brother I was embarrassed to share DNA with him and I hit the "send" button to switch over to the other line. After the "Hey, how are you?" pleasantries ended, I heard the words, "Listen, about tomorrow night" uttered. I knew she was calling to cancel by her tone, but her reason for canceling is one of the best I've heard yet - and by "best," I mean most disturbing. Way more disturbing than liking the "George Lopez" show.

Let's start at the beginning.

A group of us were hanging out at some bar/lounge/restaurant downtown when my friend "D" pulled me aside to tell me that one of the chicks in the group "thinks you're cute." He suggested that sharing a ride with her uptown might be a good way to get to know her a bit better. "Thinks you're cute" generally gets translated by the male brain as "she'll probably fuck you by the fourth date," and I jumped at the chance to share a cab with her, even though doing so would take me considerably out of my way. The ride was pleasant. The conversation, though not scintillating, flowed smoothly, and she seemed cool. When we got to her building, she didn't jump out of the cab. She waited for me to ask for her number, which I did. Even after her digits were securely stored in my contacts list, she continued to linger, as if she didn't want our time together to end. It was sweet. We spoke for a few minutes more and I told her I'd call her - which I did.

When a week had gone by and I hadn't heard back from her, I assumed I was being blown off. I wondered for a moment how "she'll probably fuck you by the fourth date," could so quickly turn into "she doesn't even want to go on a first date," but I didn't let it occupy my thoughts for too long. I had almost completely forgotten about her until "D" called me and asked if I'd gone out with her yet. When I explained to him that she never called me back, he assured me he'd look into the matter. I begged him not to, but he needed to get to the bottom of this mystery. He called me the next day to tell me that she said she lost my number. I sighed.

"That's such bullshit," I told "D."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "But she thinks you're cute. Call her again."

And the next thing I knew, I was dialing her number all because my brain told my fingers to look her up in my contacts and hit "send" because doing so might get me laid by the fourth date.

Our first date was perfectly fine, but I couldn't help but feel a bit of resentment towards her during the two hours we spent together. The whole "I lost his number" thing didn't sit well with me, and the fact the she never addressed it or apologized for not calling back seemed a bit uncool to me. Despite her obvious interest on the first night we met, our date almost seemed like we were on it out of obligation to a friend who had a vested interest in hooking us up. I walked her back to her building and gave her the "it was really nice spending time with you" routine with no intention of asking her out on a second date. But again, she lingered. As the doorman held her door open, waiting for her to enter, she kept on talking - mentioning all the different things going on the city that she wanted to see and do. Once again, my male brain started to interpret what she was saying. "I really wanna see the new Russell Crowe movie" meant "I really wanna see the new Russell Crowe movie with YOU and maybe give you a handjob in the theater." And since there's no arguing with that logic, I asked her out again for tonight. Though she seemed genuinely excited when she said yes, I wasn't surprised when she called and said, ""Listen, about tomorrow night..." I just assumed she was another one of those game-playing chicks who doesn't really know what the hell she wants, and I listened quietly as she continued, "I'm gonna have to cancel."

Had she left it at that, I wouldn't have said a word other than "No problem. Take Care." But she kept talking.

"Do you know Isaac *****'s brother?" she asked.

"The one who passed away?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know his brother, but Isaac and I have some mutual friends."

"Anyway, " she continued, "Him passing away at such a young age...it's made me think."

"About what?" I inquired, not believing she was going where I knew she was.

"About stuff. And I kinda don't wanna waste time."

I put her on fake hold - not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because I had way too much to say and I didn't want her to call the cops on me after I was done saying it. I regained my composure and got back on the phone.

"You're not seriously using the death of a twenty-five year old kid as an excuse to cancel a date?" I asked. "You don't wanna go out with me again - fine. But I mean..."

"I don't wanna waste your time either," she said in her defense.

"Thanks. I appreciate that, but you coulda said, 'I don't think we're a match' and that would have been that."

All she could do was stammer and babble incoherently about how the death of someone she knew as well as I did (which is not at all) made her "think." I wanted to go into a tirade about how I wasn't interested in her anyway and that I only asked her out again because she lingered, and my penis controlled brain told me to. Instead I let her off the hook by wishing her good luck and a good night.

When I recounted the story to "D" all he could say was, "That's fuckin' classless. Too bad. You probably could've nailed her on the third date." "D"'s penis controlled brain is obviously more optimistic than mine, but clearly neither one has a clue.

My Cell Phone Would Never Get Laid

I finally gave in and added texting as a feature on my phone. I resisted becoming one of the thumb typing masses for as long as I could, but was forced to give in and join their ranks. Too many people I know will only respond to a text, and as much as that makes me want to stop knowing them, I can't quite cut them out of my life just yet. So for the foreseeable future, I'll be typing punctuation free, grammatically incorrect texts like a kid spending his third year in the first grade.

I've been careful to keep the fact that I'm now a texter from those who might abuse such knowledge. As convenient as it is to have someone I'm meeting simply text me an address rather than have to listen to them try and shout it over the sound of a train pulling into the station, it's equally annoying to have that same person text me their exact location in real time as they make their way to our meeting. I don't care that you're at 42nd Street and are transferring trains, or that the cab is now turning onto Houston. Just fuckin' get here! If you're running late, THEN you can tell me where you are. Otherwise, keep yourself occupied by playing Tetris on your phone and stop wasting my texts. I only get 150 a month - and that's coming and going.

Despite the convenience, I still stand by my credo that texting is not a substitute for real communication. I don't know if I'd feel comfortable asking a women out via text, despite the fact that my phone comes equipped with a pre-fab text that says: "Would you like to join me for a date?" Now I know my phone is an older model, and I need to upgrade to one with a QWERTY keyboard so it doesn't take me ten minutes to type "I'll be there at 8," but how old is this damn phone? "Would you like to join me for a date?" is how you asked a woman out after having the operator connect you to her in Mayberry in 1957.

I'm waiting for Verizon to come out with the new phone I want. Hopefully, it'll have more game than my current phone, and I can join the rest of the male population by texting women instead of calling.

I have nothing interesting to share, so please enjoy this joke in lieu of my usual cynicism and sarcasm:

A woman is in an elevator when a man gets in. He turns to her and asks, "Can I smell your vagina?" "No!" says the woman. The man shrugs: "Then it must be your feet."

I Could Be a Banker

I just finished reading William D. Cohan's "House of Cards: A Tale of Hubris and Wretched Excess on Wall Street," and after 450 pages of references to "asset backed securities," "repo markets," and "credit default swaps," I now know a little, but pretty much next to nothing about banking. As such, I can say without hesitation that I am now completely qualified to be the CEO of a major investment bank, according to my interpretation of Cohan's account of the demise of Bear Stearns. So where do I go to pick up my $47 gazillion bonus? And can I get that shit in cash? - preferably small bills. People always make faces when you ask them to break a million dollar bill.

Parts of the book were really intriguing, while others read like a chemistry textbook you're forced to read because taking a science is a requirement at your college. Unfortunately, there are no pictures or diagrams taking up space in this book that would make the forty-five page chapters feel more like twenty-two.

Overall, I'd give the book a thumbs up, but spend a while reading a bit at your local bookstore before shelling out the $24 Barnes and Noble got from me. If this subject matter doesn't interest you, or if you don't truly enjoy reading about the incompetence of arrogant, Wall Street douchebags, you won't make it to page ten.

Next time on Marc's Book Club: "The Mystery Method: How to Get Beautiful Women Into Bed" by Mystery and Lovedrop. I hope that one really does have pictures and diagrams.

My Delilah

Let's just jump right into this one, shall we? Below is a partial transcript, as best I can recall, from what will go down as one of the more idiotic pre-date-that's-never-gonna-happen phone conversations I've had. The sad part is that it's not even close to the most idiotic.

Her: So Amy told me you have long hair.
Me: Yeah, well, it's not short. Depends what you consider long.
Her: I love guys with long hair.
Me: Good to know. So what do you do? I wasn't really told anything about you. I was just given your number and told to call.
Her: I'm a teacher...so like, how long is your hair?
Me: I haven't measured it. What do you teach?
Her: Third grade. Is it past your shoulders?
Me: No. I'm not in an 80s metal band.
Her (confused): What do you mean?
Me: It's not that long.
Her: Good. Because I don't like guys with hair that's TOO long.
Me (internally sighing; looking at the timer on my cell phone to see if I'd been on long enough to give her the old "it was nice talking to you routine." Unfortunately, we were only three minutes in. FUCK!): So you enjoying your Easter break?
Her: Yeah. What celebrity would you say you most look like?
Me: Probably Moe.
Her: Who's that?
Me: Moe. From the Three Stooges.
Her (confused yet again; shocking given that she's an "educator"): Which one is Moe?
Me: The main guy. The one that would smack the other two around.
Her: I never really watched it, so I don't know what he looks like.
Me: Don't worry. He had a nice full head of hair.
Her: Okay. Good. You think you can email me a picture?
Me: Of Moe? Just do a google image search.
Her (giggling): No. Of yourself, silly.
Me: Sure. What's your email.
Her: something something something @gmail.com.
(I would know the address if I had actually paid attention and written it down instead of doing the fake write down like you do when taking a fake message from a telemarketer- "He's not in, but I'll be sure to give him the message about how you can lower his Con-Ed bill, Rajnij. Thanks so much for calling.")
Me: Got it.
Her: So did you send it?
Me: I'm not near my computer.
Her: But you'll send it, right?
Me: As soon as I can.
Her: Actually, I can look you up right now. Are you on Facebook?
Me: No.
Her: That sucks.
Me (in my head): You don't know the half of it, sister.

We spoke for a little while longer and I ended the conversation, telling her it was nice talking to her and that we should touch base next week - or something to that effect. This Delilah will need to find another Samson.

Needless to say, Amy got an earful from me not long afterwards. But in the chick's defense, she's only twenty-six and clearly not well versed in the ways of pre-date phone conversation etiquette. I just wonder what would have happened had I been the superficial one in the conversation, and she was forced to be polite. It might have gone something like this:

Me: So Amy says you have really awesome tits.
Her: Yeah, well, depends what you consider "awesome."
Me: I love chicks with great tits.
Her: Good to know. So what do you do for a living?
Me: So like, are we talking Cs, double Ds maybe?
Her: Double Ds? I'm not a porn star.
Me: Good. 'Cause I don't like tits that are TOO big. You know, like the ones that look like inflated water balloons. That's just classless and skanky. Especially when they're huge and they're pointed in opposite directions.
Her: Um, yeah. That's not a problem for me.
Me: Cool. But your tits are big, though, right? Can you send me a picture? Wait. Are you on Facebook? I'll ogle you and your delicious mammary glands on there.

I tried to explain to Amy how the theoretical tit conversation was just as tactless as the hair conversation, but we'll have to agree to disagree - not just about the tit/hair thing, but about why Delilah will not be hearing from me again.

Is Facebook the new blow-off?

I sat on my sofa this past Saturday night trying to keep my dinner down as I watched a preview of something called "Real Housewives of New Jersey." I never thought the series could get more tactless and nauseating than some of its other incarnations, but the Sopranos wannabes featured in this version of the show actually made the "Real Housewives of NYC" seem likable. Less than five minutes into the show, when one of the housewives referred to her muscle headed, no-neck having gumbah of a husband as "gaw-jis," bile started to rise through my esophagus into my mouth, and I reached for the remote. Before I could turn the channel, my phone rang. It was my friend "H." "H" only calls to invite me out. He's not one for bullshitting on the phone, and I knew if I picked up, I'd have to leave my apartment. He doesn't take no for answer when he wants me to come out with him, so I hesitated before I answered. I quickly weighed my options - sit home searching for something less repugnant to watch than a group of over-privileged, under-educated, unattractive women, or leave the house and maybe meet one in person. The choice was difficult, but I hadn't left the apartment all day, so I opted to answer the phone if only to get some fresh air.

Within forty-five minutes, I found myself at some bar/lounge with "H." He knew some of the people there and introduced me to a woman with whom I wound up speaking for about an hour. She was kind of cute and kind of interesting, so when I felt like it was time to go home, I asked her for her number.

"Why don't you friend me on Facebook?" she said in response to my request.

Feeling like I'd just wasted an hour of my life chatting up this chick, I put my coat on, got up, and said, "Yeah, sure. Well, it was nice meeting you."

"Wait," she said. "You don't know my last name. How are you gonna friend me?"

"I'll get it from 'H'," I said.

"I'll give it to you now," she responded, as she jotted her name on a napkin. "Here you go," she continued, handing the napkin to me.

"You know, you could just have easily written down your number," I said.

"Yeah, I just think it's easier this way," she said.

"How so?" I inquired oh so curiously.

"I don't know. It just is," she said.

It just is, I thought to myself. Now that's logic with which I simply can't argue. I no longer wanted her number, nor did I want to be one of her 900 Facebook friends who would be informed when she became a fan of Chunky Peanut Butter. I wondered if "Facebook friending" is the new fake phone number, or the 2009 version of "I have a boyfriend." Or have we regressed so much socially that we can no longer relate to one another in person or on the phone? Do we only feel comfortable writing on each other's walls?

I threw the napkin into a trash can on the corner on my way home. Maybe one of those guys who collects cans will find it and friend her on Facebook. Perhaps he'll manage to get her number after commenting on her status and they can live happily ever after searching the city together for discarded empties.

Next time "H" calls, I'm sending him to voicemail and changing the channel.

I'M A SELFISH MONSTER

When I was in my early twenties, I got into an argument with some chick about my lack of desire to have children. I contended that there was an overpopulation problem on this planet and that adding more people to the mix wasn't going to make things better. She either called me a "selfish shit," or a "selfish fuck." I forget which. The point is she got angry. Really angry. Like I just told her that her ass looked fat in her jeans angry. I was stunned by her outrage - even a bit scared. All these years later, I can still see that little bit of spit hanging off her lower lip, as she barked at me like a pissed-off, rabid dog whose ass looked fat in its jeans.

"Don't give me that overpopulation bullshit. You just don't want the responsibility," she said.

And then she called me a "selfish shit," or "fuck," or maybe she called me a "selfish douchebag." I don't remember if people were calling each other douchebags back then. For some reason, I feel like that's a relatively recent phenomenon. Anyway, when I asked her why she was so insistent on having kids, she told me how she wanted a family with whom to share her love, and that she wanted to be taken care of when she got older. She was seconds from bitch slapping me, so I didn't bother trying to explain to her that her reasons for wanting kids were more selfish than my reasons for not. But I knew back then, even as a young twenty-something dopey kid that arguing with someone about this subject was tantamount to arguing with someone about religion or politics. The person with whom you're arguing really isn't interested in your opinion - they just want you to believe in theirs. I ultimately extricated myself from what turned into a lecture given by a woman who fifteen-years later is divorced with four kids, who's more bitter now than she was on that day a decade and a half ago, and who doesn't look any better in her jeans.

But she was right. I didn't want the financial and emotional responsibility that comes with spreading one's seed. For years, I couldn't sleep if the woman I was dating was five seconds late getting her period. As I got older and more experienced, I realized that you really need to give it a few days before you run out and spend the thirty bucks on an EPT test. And by extension, I also learned that the CVS brand test is just as good as the name-brand at a fraction of the price. Enduring the mockery of my fifth-grade classmates for bringing Waldbaum's cola from home was not for naught. My mother tried to teach me the hard way that it's not always necessary to pay for a name - except when it comes to soda because Waldbaum's cola tastes like warm piss even when it's cold.

I hadn't thought about the lecture I received all those years ago until a recent conversation I had with a friend's wife who is a mother of two. The conversation started off innocently enough with her asking me if I was seeing anyone. When I told her I wasn't, she told me I should really get moving on finding a potential mate because raising kids at my age would be difficult, and would only get more difficult the older I got.

"I'm not worried about that," I said.

"Trust me," she said, "kids are a lot of work."

"I know, but I don't want kids."

She looked at me like I told her I hated kids and that I tortured cute little puppies for fun. I probably should've just said that I'd be up to the task of raising kids at any age, or that I'd make sure to reproduce with someone much younger than me, but for some reason I felt like telling the truth.

"I didn't know that about you," she said, like I just told her I'd done time.

I half expected her to scream to her kids to run to their rooms and lock the doors before the monster who doesn't want kids could hurt them. Instead, she pressed me on why I have no desire to be a father. "It's so beautiful...having a family...people to love" was what I thought I heard her say, but she sounded like an adult in a Peanuts cartoon - all I was really hearing was the unintelligible sounds of the trombone going "woh-woh-woh." I was starting to prefer the guilt trips my mother takes me on about not contributing to her desired brood of endless grandchildren. At least I could openly roll my eyes at my mother. With my friend's wife, I had to do it mentally.

"I really think you should reconsider," she said to me before I left, like I'd said no to a time-share she was trying to sell me.

My friend called me the next day to thank me for the two hour conversation he was forced into with his wife on the subject of my reproductive future - or lack thereof. Luckily for me, his wife unloaded on him instead of me.

"She was really upset about it," he told me. "She thinks you're pretty damn selfish."

Maybe I am selfish, but at least with all the money I'm gonna save, I'll never have to drink Waldbaum's soda again.

THE SADDEST SPAM EVER & WHY WE'RE IN THE MESS WE'RE IN

From: Leoni Billingsly

To: Me

Subject: Nothing can seduce women faaster than a...

This is your penis: 8--o
This is your penis on drugs: 8=====O


Any questions?

_____________________________________________________________________

Just one. How hard is it to do a google image search for a small dick and a big dick? This is the problem with today's Guitar Hero/American Idol society. Everyone wants instant gratification or a quick buck without making any effort. The more technologically advanced we get, the shlockier we become. In 1982, on a Commodore 64, it was hilarious to see a cock and balls drawn using an "8, " a bunch of dashes, and a "0." In 2009, it's a symbol of utter laziness.

It's this type of "something for nothing" philosophy that has caused our current financial crisis. We can't simply blame the greedy hedge fund managers for the fall of our economy. The average Joe on Main Street who refinanced the house he never should have bought to begin with and cashed out because it was "free money" is just as guilty.

Bailouts and other forms of government handouts will never pull us out of the economic shit hole in which we find ourselves. Only when we're ready to roll up our collective sleeves and become actual productive members of society will this crisis end.

What this country needs is more people willing to make the effort to search for pictures of dicks! ...And I'll be more than happy to testify to that in front of Congress.

Good Thing This Ain't Iran...

Or I'd be hanging by my balls from a tree in the Tehran public square. I've never written anything against Islam in my blog, but the fact that people are winding up here after googling the phrase "occam's razor pussy," leads me to believe that the content of this blog would be frowned upon by the Iranian clerics. I wonder, though, if that's some sort of new grooming device, or if it's a philosophy that states one should not make more assumptions than the minimum needed when dealing with vaginas - a belief system from which most guys would likely benefit.

NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR F-IN KIDS ON FACEBOOK

Truer words have not been rapped:

WHEEL...OF...BAD ONLINE PROFILES

When I was in college, I used to work at a place called "The Writing Center." My work there involved helping illiterate City University students write coherent sentences. I often failed. They never really wanted to learn how to write. They just wanted me to rewrite their horribly written term papers an hour before they were due. When I'd explain to them that my job was to teach them the skills necessary to write their own papers and not to write the papers for them, they were never pleased. The job was unpaid, and I only put up with the students who would "axe" me if I could help them because my work at the Writing Center was required of me as part of an advanced writing class I was taking. I had no desire to teach the illiterate masses how to write. I was simply trying to pad my law school application with as many impressive looking extracurricular activities as possible, so that I'd get into the school of my choice - not to mention the fact that there was a cute grad student working at the center into whom I was also hoping to get. I was unsuccessful on both counts.

When I visited my buddy the other day, who had a female cousin staying with him, I felt like I was back at the old Writing Center. The cousin is in from Florida, and is staying in New York for a while to see if she wants to live here permanently. A major determining factor in that decision will be if she can meet a guy and live rent free at his apartment instead of her cousin's. Her search for free room and board has begun online, and surprisingly she's yet to meet her sugar daddy. All the guys who email her are "losers," or "weird," according to her. She, however, is a great catch. After all, what guy wouldn't cream himself over an unemployed, chubby woman in her late thirties who's looking to be taken care of?

Our discussion of her online dating exploits led to me to ask about her profile. I suggested that a profile makeover might yield more positive results. Within moments, I had a laptop placed in front of me and I was reading her Match essay. It was lame and generic, and I told her so. Her reaction was not unlike those at the Writing Center. She was insulted, frustrated, and annoyed with me, but wanted me to rewrite her profile nonetheless. When I refused, she got belligerent.

"What the hell do you know anyway?" she scoffed. "You said yourself you never had success with online dating."

"You're right. I'm the last person you need to help you," I responded, hoping that would be the end of it. But it wasn't.

"Why won't you help me?" she whined.

I sighed, looked over at my friend who rolled his eyes at me, and I said, "Fine. I'll help you, but I won't write it for you. Make a list of all the things you like to do minus hanging out with your friends and family, spending a quiet evening in or a night on the town, shopping, watching Grey's Anatomy and going to the beach."

"But those are things I like," she said.

"And that's what makes you and your profile boring," I said, almost trying to piss her off, so I could get out of this exercise in futility.

"So what should I write?" she asked.

"Do you wanna meet someone interesting, or do you wanna continue getting emails from the 'losers'?"

"Someone interesting," she said.

"Then you have to pretend to be interesting too."

"I AM interesting," she insisted.

I looked over at her cousin who again rolled his eyes at me.

"Think of it this way," I said. "Every other chick on here is writing about her friends and family and how she can't live without her DVR. You need to think of all that stuff as a given. Kinda like the way they give you R, S, T, L, N, & E on "Wheel of Fortune" during the final round because EVERYONE has guessed those exact letters for the past 35 years. Now you need to come up with original letters."

She looked at me the same way the illiterates used to look at me back in college - like her paper was due in fifteen minutes, and she was gonna be forced to submit it replete with spelling and grammatical errors.

"Whatever," she said. "My profile's fine."

And the truth is that her profile IS probably fine. Like the illiterates in college who were happy getting Cs and Ds from generous professors, she'll have to be happy with the 15 emails a day she gets from the guys she calls losers, but who have the same lame ass profiles as her's filled with Rs, Ss, Ts, Ls, Ns, and Es.

FACEBOOK MOMMIES

Facebook is supposed to be a place for dudes to look at pictures of random chicks. At least that was my understanding when I signed up. Yeah, sure, you can friend people you haven't seen or spoken to since elementary school and have them appear on your page, but you never really communicate with them directly. You just friend them to see what they look like and what they're up to after all these years, but mostly (if you're a guy) you wanna see if there are any chicks they're friends with that you can look at. I suspect single women are on Facebook for some of the same reasons as guys, but what do I know? I wonder how many women have looked at a thumbnail picture in the photo album of a complete stranger and thought, "Looks like you can see her tits in that one. Lemme click." I suppose some people even successfully use Facebook to get dates. I could barely get a phone number on sites designed specifically for dating, but for those who can pull it off on Facebook, more power to them. You wanna use Facebook to throw urine soaked snowballs at your friends, or see which Sex and the City character you're most like? - Great. While away your time at work however you choose.

But there's one group I think needs to be banned from Facebook - mothers with little kids.

If I see one more status update by a mommy whining about how she "misses her wittle Wendy and can't wait to see her when mommy and daddy get back from vacation" followed by 17 comments by other mommies offering words of support, I may punch my monitor. I understand that you miss your kid, but she's 1 and can't read, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a Facebook account, so why not just directly email the yentas to whom you wanna prove how great a mommy you are? Why must I be subjected to comments like, "Aww. Paul and I went through the same thing when we went to visit his brother in Seattle. Stay strong. You'll see her soon." I read the other 16 comments, wishing that just one person had the balls to say, "I saw the picture you posted of your kid, and if I were you, I wouldn't be in a rush to get home so fast." It's like when a friend sends an email to everyone in his or her address book, but doesn't have the sense to blind copy the recipients, and then someone you don't even know feels the need to hit "reply all" just to write back "LOL." Multiply the annoyance you feel when you get that email by 17, and that's how I feel when my news feeds are full of mommy comments.

I propose that Facebook open up a mommies only site where they can exchange pictures of their kids, lie to each other about how cute they think they are in their little outfits, and discuss Oprah and yeast infections - or whatever it is mommies talk to each other about.

In the meantime, someone just sent me a friend request. Lemme go see if he has any hot friends.

IT'S ALL STARTING TO PAY OFF

Since I started this blog in May of 2007, I've gotten all sorts of emails from all sorts of people. Some offered words of support, some wanted me to share their stories, some wanted me to promote their blogs, others have asked me for advice. I've even had women ask me out. But not until last week, did I truly feel that I'd arrived. I got an email from a company offering me my first potential sponsorship deal. And that's where you make the REAL money these days, not from Google Adsense. The letter is copied and pasted below:

Hello,

I'm the webmaster of http://www.peloop.com.
I wanted to know if by any chance you would
beinterested in doing an unbiased review
(in English language) of our site
http://www.peloop.com on your
blog http://diaryofadisillusioneddater.blogspot.com/.
If you agree you can choose between
receiving a product sample or receiving a
payment. If you choose the product sample
instead of the payment the sample is yours
to keep and you don't need to send it back.
The product sample that you can get is 
Peloop - a penis enhancer
and you can see it there:
http://www.peloop.com.

Thank you

I initially hesitated, but after reading that they didn't want the sample back, I felt more at ease knowing they wouldn't send me a second-hand sample...or second-cock sample, in this case. I haven't noticed an increase in girth or length yet, but maybe that's because I can't get the thing to fit right. Although I have the adjustable version, I feel like I'm wearing a belt that's not the right size. One hole is too tight, the next one up is too loose. As a kid, my grandfather used to make holes in my belts for me with a nail and hammer when they didn't fit. Maybe I'll bring it to him. He always complains I don't visit enough, and I can't think of a better reason to go see him than to have him adjust my pecker enhancement bracelet. At 94, it's important that he feels needed. I just hope I can make it to him somehow. Brooklyn is due south and I feel like my crotch is being pulled toward the North Pole.

BANKER'S HOURS

A few weeks ago, I stood on a street corner on the Upper East Side in the bitter cold on a Saturday afternoon, eavesdropping on a conversation between a guy and some woman. I was with a friend who ran into someone he knew, and as they spoke, I was left to listen in on the dialogue between a guy in a suit and a woman in a winter coat - both of whom stood maybe five feet away from me. I listened to the guy tell the chick that he used to work for Citi Group, or Lehman, or some damn bank, but was now either working or interviewing at JP Morgan. I heard the term "VP" thrown about, and I could see a little bit of drool ooze out of the side of the woman's mouth. Nothing this guy was saying was in the least bit interesting, and he had that "financial guy" air about him that just annoyed the shit out of me.

All I could think was why is he wearing a suit at three in the afternoon on a Saturday? Is that the official uniform of dudes who work in finance? Must they wear the suit at all times in case a stock needs to be traded after hours, or if a fund needs to be hedged at a moment's notice - or whatever the fuck it is that these overpaid numbnuts do. More importantly, though, I wondered why the woman in the winter coat was eating up this guy's rap like a fat guy devouring a bag of Slyders at White Castle. He was a decent looking guy in an Aryan Youth sort of way, but he seemed so devoid of character or humor or any semblance of personality.

I was going to chalk the experience up to just another case of some stereotypical Upper East Side chick looking to land a rich banker, but then I read an article in yesterday's NY Times entitled, "City Will Help Retrain Laid-Off Wall Streeters," and I wondered what it is about these greedy, contribute nothing of value to society frat boys in Brooks Brothers suits that gets our collective vaginas all wet? In defense of his plan to use "$45 million in government money to retrain investment bankers, traders and others who have lost jobs on Wall Street," Bloomberg says that such spending is necessary to encourage "innovation and hold onto the talented people who will make it happen.”

INNOVATION?...TALENT? I saw signs of neither coming from the dolt in the $600 suit. Then again, he did get the number of the woman in the winter coat.

Maybe I need to take a trip to Brooks Brothers, get a haircut and an MBA, and learn that greed is good, and personality is bad.

HOW JDATE COMPARES TO LOOKING FOR AN APARTMENT IN NYC

My search for a new apartment is frustrating me almost as much as Jdate did back when I subjected myself to the misery that is online dating.

How Jdate and apartment hunting are the same:

1. The pictures you see online are always misleading. The major difference is, however, that the apartments are way smaller than they appear online. The women of Jdate are usually larger.

2. Most descriptions of apartments and women are vague and generic, and all you have to go by are the pictures before you view the object of your desire in person. Then, see #1.

3. The handful of apartments and women that seem genuinely interesting and attractive online are never available when you try and get inside them.

How they're different:

1. I've never been out with a woman from Jdate that smelled like urine.

2. An apartment never cancels an appointment to see it at the last minute with some lame excuse about how its friend just went into labor.

3. I've never had a Jdate ask to see a credit report. Although, one did practically ask to see my pay stubs.

4. After a few days, or weeks at most, you won't see the same apartments online over and over again.

5. I know I'll eventually find an apartment I like.

LET'S ALL SAY UUUUUCH TOGETHER!

Grandma and Gen-X Gent Find May-December Love

Edna and Simon were married in England back in 2005. They're not so much a May-December romance as a January-December one: At 73 and 35, Edna is nearly 40 years older than Simon.
The couple met through their love of the organ (INSERT YOUR OWN JOKE HERE). Simon is dyslexic and dyspraxic, (AND DYS-FUCKING-DESPERATE). Despite these challenges, he's apparently a fabulous organ player. He had never had a girlfriend before he met and married Edna, (HARD TO BELIEVE) who has three children, all older than Simon.

WHY IS THIS CHICK EVERYWHERE I GO ON THE INTERNET?

For anyone considering clicking on the ad when it pops up, I have the "one old rule" for you right here for free: DON'T SPEND MONEY ON A WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM PROMOTED BY OPRAH! You'd have better luck trying to wean yourself off smack at the Courtney Love Rehab Center.

WHAT DO WOMEN WANT?

Apparently, nothing I ever expected. An article in these week's New York Times Magazine, chronicles the sexual research done by a psychology professor from Canada. The professor had straight and gay men and women watch various video clips of heterosexual and homosexual sex, as well as clips of apes mounting each other. According to the article, 'The men, on average, responded in 'category specific' ways." Straight dudes were into straight and lesbian porn, and gay guys were into man on man action. "Any expectation that the animal sex would speak to something primitive within the men seemed to be mistaken; neither straights nor gays were stirred by the [apes]," the article states. Pretty straightforward stuff.

The women, however, were freaky."No matter what their self-proclaimed sexual orientation, [the women] showed, on the whole, strong and swift genital arousal when the screen offered men with men, women with women and women with men....AND their blood flow rose quickly as they watched the apes."

So guys, forget trying to pick up women in bars, clubs, or online. Get yourself a monkey and the women will come knocking down your door. I'm not a pet person, but maybe I'll go hang out at the gorilla cage at the Bronx Zoo.

PUSH THE BUTTON

Every guy that's been in a relationship with a woman has felt this way at some point. It's kind of misogynistic, a little sad, but mostly it makes me laugh. And if you ain't laughing, then what's the point of it all?

A classic scene from a classic movie, written by one of the greats and performed by a comedic legend. Ladies and gentleman, I give you: "How to Murder Your Wife" - The button defense.

HOW THEY GOT HERE

Here are some more google search phrases that landed people on this blog:

-"Eat pussy diary": Are there people out there logging their frequency of cunnilingus? And if so, why would anyone else wanna read about it?

- "Frum Pussy" - Pussy frum where exactly?

- "Frum horny" - Is this how orthodox Jews get their rocks off online?

- "How do you become most popular on Jdate?": You couldn't possibly be looking for an answer to that in a worse place. I'd still love to know how you get a view on Jdate.

-"I see the same old faces on match.com": And did you think google was gonna make you feel better about it? Welcome to online dating. It sucks. Leave your house and meet someone in real life.

-"Jdate no response to emails" / "Jdate ignored": Welcome. You've come to the right place.

- "Jdate sucks for guys": And the earth is round, 2+2=4, don't eat the yellow snow...

-"She's a ass licker": Sounds like a keeper. Don't let her get away.

- "Sit on my facebook sarah": If Sarah's into threesomes, find the ass licker above and have a party.

-"Why do rab women shave their pussy?" If you meant to type "arab women," I'm shocked to learn that they do. With the head to toe covering, why would they care about mowing a lawn no one's gonna see?

-"You don't wanna become the asslicker": Agreed!

-"Fonz shvanz": My guess is that it was never that big. Why else would he overcompensate by chasing all those high school girls? Mr. Cunningham, on the other hand, looked like he may be packing some sausage. That's why Marion was always so cheerful.

And my favorite...

"My sneaker floored the gas while my cock filled her kunt": Even though you can't spell worth shit, I admire your ability to multi-task so effectively.

READER MAIL

I got an email from "P," a brother in arms who lives in NYC. He asks: "What's up with women not letting you in front of their buildings after a date, especially a good one? Why are they so afraid of their doormen seeing them with a guy? Has this ever happened to you?"

Simple question. Simple answer: They don't want their doormen to think they're skanks. I don't live in a doorman building, so I don't quite appreciate the complexities of the doorman/resident relationship. Apparently, all doormen are busybody douchebags who thrive on talking shit about everyone in the building. They are supposedly the world's worst yentas. What you're describing, "P," has happened to me so many times, I've lost count. Don't take it personally. It's not necessarily that they're ashamed of being seen with you - or maybe they are. I don't know you. But it's more likely because they don't want the doorman seeing them with a different guy every week, or day. Doormen apparently don't understand the concept of dating, and just assume that if a woman is with a guy, she MUST be fucking him, and if she's with multiple guys on multiple days, she must be getting gang banged by them all. I get it.

Unless you're officially the boyfriend, or the fiancee, they don't want the doorman to know about you. I've been on good dates where the woman has cut me off a half block away from her building, so we can make out without the doorman seeing. If you think just being seen with a dude will make the doorman think a chick is banging a guy, kissing one in front of a doorman will make the doorman think the chick is getting paid for it.

ASS LIFT

When I go skiing, I get nervous about getting off the lift without falling, and making an ass of myself. Now I have something new to worry about. Making an ass of myself has taken on a whole new meaning after what this poor bastard went through:

WHO NEEDS SHEMP WHEN YOU'VE GOT BUSH?

CITY FOLKS JUST DON'T GET IT

Maybe these people are right, and we city folks really don't get it. I doubt it, though.



I think the country boy from Arkansas is complaining that the chick he met on here is 50 pounds heavier in person than she is in her profile picture where she's leaning forward on a tractor with her tits hanging out of her overalls. And the Texas cowgirl is bitching that the guy she went out with is bald and doesn't really own his own farm like he said he did- he just shovels shit on one.

BEFORE THERE WAS JDATE...

There was the AOL Jewish Singles chat room. This recent story, on the CBS 11 o'clock news here in NY, reminded me of something that happened to me in what now seems like a lifetime ago. I was in my mid-twenties, horny and bored - a dangerous combination. There was no high-speed internet, and AOL charged by the minute. Given that I spent many minutes in the aforementioned chat room, my monthly bill was in the hundreds of dollars. I thought all that money would finally be well spent when I was IMd by an orthodox woman from Brooklyn. The conversation as best I can recall went something like:

Orthodox Woman: a/s/l? (that was dial up internet talk for "age, sex, location?")

Me: 25, m, bklyn. u? (the "m" might as well have stood for moron instead of male)

Orthodox Woman: 30, f, bklyn. are you frum? I only wanna talk to frum guys (frum = Jewy for orthodox)

Me: yeah, I'm frum. (why not, I thought?)

Orthodox Woman: do you like cunnilingus?

Me (taken aback for a second): sure. I love eating pussy. (Hey, like I told you. I was 25, horny and bored!)

Orthodox Woman: I'm impressed you know what cunnilingus is.

Me: I've been around.

Orthodox Woman: Most frum guys don't know what cunnilingus is.

Me: I'm not like most frum guys. Shall we talk on the phone?

Orthodox Woman: Sure. My number is ***-**** (you didn't need to dial the area code first back in them days, if you lived in the same area code)

Me: Okay. I'm signing off, so I can call (but you couldn't be online and on the phone at the same time - you don't know how lucky you youngsters have it with your iPods and your Facebook)

When we spoke on the phone, she mentioned that she was only interested in meeting another married person. That wasn't a problem, I told her, since I was married - and as luck would have it, my wife was in Florida visiting her grandparents. I suggested we meet asap since my frum wife, on whom I loved to perform cunnilingus, was coming back to town in two short days.

"Okay," she said. "Let's meet in an hour in front of Kosher Delight. My husband will be in shul, and I can get my oldest to watch the rest of the kids."

"How many kids do you have?" I asked.

"Five. And you?"

"None yet. We're trying, but we're having trouble conceiving," I explained.

"You should go to the rabbi and ask for a brucha," she advised.

"Oh yeah, definitely... So, uh, do you wanna do this in the car, or do you have a place we can go?" I said, frantically searching for a yarmulke to wear to our little rendezvous.

"My husband's coming," she said. "I'll call you back."

She never called me back, but we did speak via IM a few days later. I asked her what happened to her that day, and she explained that she got turned off by the fact that I kept focusing on sex. I thought that was curious given that she opened up with "do you like cunnilingus?" during our first IM session, and then proceeded to tell me, during what would be our last IM session, about how she took a shower that afternoon with a guy from her synagogue. She explained that the shower guy was less focused on the sex, and more on the romance and treating her like a lady.

In the end, orthodox woman got what was really missing from her marriage, while shower guy probably got what was missing from his - a really sore jaw.

I got what would be the first of many online blow offs.

CONTROL YOURSELVES, LADIES!

The day has finally arrived. You can get rid of your hot firemen calendars, and your Brad Pitt and George Clooney screen savers. Now you can be distracted at work and at home by hot, young, sexy, accountants, actuaries, and former hedge fund managers, posing seductively in the NICE JEWISH GUYS of 2009 CALENDAR. Try to compose yourselves, and if you feel the need to do something, well, you know - unladylike, while staring at these sexy Semites, click on the image below. This is a family blog.

PROP THIS!

Forget the protests, the petitions, the Facebook groups, and the talking heads on TV. Gay people who want to get married, and those who support them, should adopt Louis C.K. as their spokesman. I've yet to hear a better argument in favor of gay marriage, and against those who think two guys touching each other's pee pees is a mortal sin:

CONFUSED

As the dating hiatus continues, and my social life remains non-existent, I found myself sitting on my sofa this past Saturday night watching "27 Dresses" on HBO. And I didn't just watch a few minutes of it to check out Katherine Heigl and the other not so famous blond chick who's in it. I watched the whole damn thing from lame beginning to "predictable as an Orthodox Jew voting for McCain because they think Obama's bad for Israel because he's a Muslim" ending.

For an hour and a half I watched Katherine Heigl try her best to get noticed by Ed Burns - like Ed wasn't all over her shit when the cameras stopped rolling. At least they spared the audience from having to watch the cliche'd gay best friend who tries to give the lead advice on how to get the guy. Instead, they went with the sassy, skanky best friend who for some reason is always played by this chick - someone who reminds me of every chick on Jdate who looks good in her picture, but is kind of "eh" when you meet, but you'd do her anyway.

The fact that I sat home on a Saturday night, watching this movie all the way through without a gun to my head, is making me doubt whether I should be dating women anyway. Maybe the dating moratorium needs to come to an end to shake me out of my current state...or maybe there's a Project Runway marathon on soon that I can watch.

REDNECK POLITICS

If you're one of those highly enlightened individuals who refuses to vote for Obama because you think he's a Muslim, or worse - an "AY-Rab," you may be a redneck. See what some of the scholars with whom you share your political views are saying:

"My Friends"

When I was a kid and not feeling well, I used to watch the Joe Franklin show to help me sleep. In the days before cable and Tylenol PM, every other channel would play a test pattern at 1 am, and though it was a tough choice, I'd opt to watch good old Joe to cure my insomnia. The test patterns were slightly more exciting and would prevent me from relaxing enough so that I'd be able to sleep through my fever.

Now, years later, every time I hear John McCain say the phrase "My friends," he reminds me more and more of that charisma-less, Borscht-Belt syndicated talk show host of days gone by. The difference is Joe knew his place as a shlocky, third rate, poor man's Johnny Carson. He even embraced it. McCain, however, thinks he can run this country. I think he should just pull out of the race and consider doing a syndicated talk show himself . He can just take the following promo and photoshop his head onto Joe Franklin's body. No one would know the difference:

AND THEY SAY ROMANCE IS DEAD

You read stories like this, and you wonder why it didn't work out:

"Simon and Chana Taub were introduced by a fellow Orthodox Jew, a used-car salesman who, after selling Chana an aging Oldsmobile sedan, asked if she was by chance looking for a husband. She was. A divorced mother of two, she worked as a secretary at a yeshiva and stretched to make the rent for her small apartment.

Simon was divorced, too, with two daughters living a few miles away. The first time Simon called on Chana, he took her for a ride in his Cadillac and then to the finest kosher restaurant in the city, a French place in Midtown Manhattan swathed in red velvet.

A few months later, they agreed to marry. As they tell it now, their pairing was far from romantic. Both were in their mid-30s, and the match seemed workable enough. ‘‘I was looking for someone educated, and I wanted someone who made a good living,’’ Chana said. ‘‘I wasn’t looking for someone extra-special.’’ Neither, apparently, was Simon: ‘‘I thought in the beginning that she was a quiet person who wouldn’t make arguments, and when I was dating, quiet meant a lot to me. Whatever I said, she said, ‘O.K.’’’

Imagine what their "Frumster" profiles would look like, if they met online:


What I'm looking for: Someone with a Cadillac who'll pay my bills and won't make me vomit.


What I'm looking for: Someone who'll just shut the fuck up!!

Read the full story here in the NY Times. It's worth it.

Where the Founding Fathers Screwed Up

After the past eight years of Bush and the last hour and a half of listening to Governor Hockey Mom say "Nook-yoo-ler" and "Eye-Rak," it's become painfully obvious that this dude should have been listened to:

A Nation of Ignorance

I'll save the political punditry for the Huffington Post and Meet The Press, but I've spoken to too many people lately who actually think McCain is a better choice than Obama. They say McCain has more experience and that Obama will just raise taxes. McCain's a well known war hero who'll protect us from the big bad terrorists, while Obama is probably one of them, they argue. And the list of excuses to put this country through at least another 4 years of incompetent leadership continues.

But what bothers me most is that people won't simply be honest. I think we all know what their real objection is to Obama. After all, we wouldn't want his first presidential address to look like this:

How Facebook Pays Their Bills

Someone at Facebook must have read my post the other day, and decided to have the following banner ad pop up just to mess with me:

Tired Of Shaving?

Then register for free laser hair removal.

I can't tell if the hair was photoshopped in, or this chick was told not to shave before the photo shoot. Either way, I'm not going on Facebook anymore while I eat my lunch.

Ain't Nothin' Goin' On But The Rent

I've come to realize that dating was taking up a fair amount of my time. So much so that my self imposed moratorium has left me pretty damn bored. Between speaking to the people who were setting me up, then speaking to potential dates, then actually going on the dates, many of my evenings were dedicated in some form or another to the pursuit of women. Now I find myself with little to do to while away the time. You know you're bored when you get angry that the episode of "Benson" you clicked on hulu.com is "unavailable." You know you're REALLY bored when you've watched 5 episodes in a row of "Benson" before you click on that sixth "unavailable" one. And you know you need a life when you've done all that after watching an entire "A-Team," and 3 episodes of something called, "Douchebag Beach" - which is somewhat amusing, by the way.

Sure, I read. I write. I play basketball. I go to the park. I have friends with whom I hang out, but the truth is that I've always been a loner. Not the type of loner referred to by neighbors in post-murder TV interviews as "a quiet guy who always kept to himself," but the type that just really likes his space. The introvert in me has no desire to take a basket weaving class at the New School, or attend some Reiki workshop at the JCC. And yes, I know those are supposed to be great places to meet women, but that's not the point. I've come to realize that perhaps during my stint as the David Duchovny of dating, I was using dating as a way to fill a void - a way to prevent myself from being bored. But all these profound epiphanies haven't stopped me from wanting to go out and buy one of those First Alert necklaces in case I feel myself about to die of boredom - because I'm pretty damn close.

Oh, well. Maybe that "Benson" is available now. I'll go check.

Want a Date?

Facebook thinks I do...with a chick who apparently likes to sniff her underarms. Personally, I like my women sans BO, but I've seen this ad pop up more than a few times on my profile page. Does Facebook know something about me that I don't, or does Singles Net need a better ad agency to handle their web advertisements? I'm thinking choice B.

Want a Date?

Join Singles Net free, and you can meet thousands of women that want a date! (AND A CAN OF SOFT AND DRY!)

The Key to Looking Young

While many guys my age are either balding, gray, or look like they could be my father's younger brother, I get carded everywhere I go. When a friend recently asked me to buy him a pack of smokes during a trip to CVS to buy shampoo, the cashier asked to see ID. You need to be 18 years old to buy cigarettes in New York, and the fact that that I'm twice that plus one, made it that much more annoying that I had to dig out the old driver's license to prove to the middle aged cashier that I was old enough to make bad decisions about my own health - or in this case, my friend's. And of course there's always that requisite look of shock on the ID checker's face when they do the math and realize how old I actually am. And of course, I always feel obligated to make a comment like, "Hard to believe, huh?" when they hand me back my license. I suppose if I were a woman, these types of occurrences might make me giddy, but I've accepted these instances for what they are - minor nuisances brought about as a result of youthful DNA. At least that's what I thought was the cause of my boyish appearance until Ernest Borgnine set the record straight:

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

READER MAIL

I often get emails from people seeking my advice as a "professional" dater. Given that I don't get paid to date, I would hardly consider myself a pro. I'm actually the exact opposite of a professional since my dates cost me money, and most often both parties walk away unsatisfied. So until the HR lady from Manwhores-R-Us calls me, I remain an amateur who has sidelined himself for the foreseeable future.

Semantics aside, however, these people have come to me in search of answers, and I feel compelled to provide them with some. I've gotten more emails asking me for my dating advice than I myself can believe so I've decided to answer one or two at a time in what will become a semi-regular posting entitled: "Reader Mail." If I don't respond to your email personally, look for the answers here. Your anonymity will always be maintained, as I'll only use your first initial, and I'll paraphrase your questions.

For the first installment of "Reader Mail," "J" wants to know how to get women to respond to him online.

Well, J, I don't think there's a question I'm less qualified to answer as you can tell from my many posts on the subject like this one, and this one, and this one, and this...well you get the idea. I've also been out of the online dating scene for a while with no intention of returning, but I'm assuming the same rules apply now as did back when I wrote those posts. That being said, I propose that you do the exact opposite of everything I did. If nothing I did worked, then the exact opposite must work. So let's put the Costanza philosophy to the test. I'll list what I did, and what you SHOULD do.

What I did: Post accurate pictures of myself.
What you should do: Do a google image search for "male models." Right click on the picture, select "save image as," and use that picture as your profile photo. Don't use anyone famous because the chicks will know something's up. If you can find two or three photos of the same guy, use 'em. If one of them happens to be of a shirtless male model, all the better. I'll even spot you a pic. Here you go:


What I did: Wrote an interesting and clever essay about myself in my profile.
What you should do: Write about how much you like to travel because you like to work hard and play harder. Write about how important your friends and family are, and throw in an "I can't believe I'm doing this," if you like. What the hell.

What I did: Emailed or IM'd women after carefully reading their profiles, making clever references to something they'd written about themselves. Asked questions to keep the conversation going.
What you should do: Don't even bother reading their profiles, or emailing them. Just IM them and ask them if they wanna fuck.

You may run into a bit of a problem when you show up to the date and they see you look nothing like your picture, but hey, that's a risk they take when they choose to do the online thing. Hopefully, they'll find the real you attractive enough not to storm out of the restaurant. I wouldn't keep my hopes up, though. Good luck, and let us know how it works out for you.

For our second and last question of this installment of "Reader Mail," "C" wants to know why guys don't call her when they say they will.

Again, I'm one of what appears to be a dying breed of guys who calls when they say they will, so my ability to answer this question is limited at best. I'd imagine if you're meeting these guys online, they're not calling because they're waiting to see how things pan out with all the other women whose numbers they've gotten. You're unfortunately at the bottom of the totem pole for them. If they're not calling after an actual date, then either they just said they'd call because that's what many guys do during that awkward end of the date moment because they don't know what else to say, or they met someone they think is better, and want to pursue her instead.

But the best advice I can give you is to get online and look for the male model with his shirt off, wearing that surfer dude necklace made of shells. He's not having that much luck either. But act fast because his dance card will fill up quickly. And if he IMs you and asks you if you wanna fuck, don't be offended. He probably just got some bad advice from a disillusioned ex-dater.

Must Luv Allah79

The following begs two questions:

1. Do Muslims bitch about this site like Jews do about Jdate?
2. Has John Stamos' career reached such a low point that he's now forced to pose in internet banner ads for ethnic dating sites?

What I've learned So Far On My Summer Vacation

"The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings."
- Eric Hoffer

As I sit on the dating sidelines this summer, and have time to myself without the pressures of forced conversations and its evil brother - awkward silences, I've learned some valuable lessons. Firstly, I've learned that Ikea furniture is either really hard to put together, or I'm mentally challenged. (Two hours to put a coffee table together that consists of 5 pieces of wood - and I still needed Shmegs to come over and finish the job for me). Secondly, I've learned that I pay around $120 a month for cable service that provides me with roughly 600 channels of absolutely nothing to watch. And as an extension of my second lesson, I've come to realize that Bravo is the gayest fucking channel on TV.

But perhaps the most valuable lesson I've learned thus far is the necessity to feel gratitude. Three people I know in as many days have inferred to me that they're actually looking forward to death. These were all guys with a bunch of kids who got married really young. Their wives drive them nuts, their kids make them crazy, the bills are piling up, and they want out. They joke that if it would be quick and painless, and their kids would be provided for afterwards, they'd press that imaginary button that could make all the bad go away. They joke that if they had to do it all differently, they would. They tell me I'm lucky. And I am. But their jokes aren't funny. They're just kind of sad - not so much because they'd actually down a bottle of sleeping pills, but because they'll probably continue living the same shitty existences until death really does coming knocking at their doors. And by then, they'll have wasted their entire lives not appreciating what they have.

So I'm thankful for what I have - a $79 Swedish coffee table that looked better online than it does in my living room, 600 channels of nothing to watch except a show about a flaming, bitchy real estate agent who flips houses and plays it up for the camera like he's that "I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Demille" broad, and a life I don't want to escape from.

Fiddler on The Roof Joins the Digital Age

Jewish dating sites may have reached a new low with this one.



If I were a rich man...I'd yadel didel daidel didel buy this site, and put up a fetish porn site in its place. Maybe "Rebbetzin Rim-Jobs.com." I actually find that less offensive than what they have up there now.

From The Sad But True Files

Stuff like this makes me wanna convert:

The Texting Party

This weekend I attended a texting party. What's a texting party, you ask? - It's a gathering of people at a local bar or lounge where instead of people talking to each other, they're texting people who are not there. The party wasn't officially labeled a "texting party," rather guests were invited under the guise that they'd be attending one of those birthday parties women are so fond of throwing themselves. I sat there, one of the few who wasn't texting, looking around wondering why any of these iPhone and Blackberry brandishing people even bothered showing up. And more importantly, I wondered why this behavior is now socially acceptable? Clearly, these people would rather be talking to people that weren't there.

I'd have rather been home watching TV. Would it have been okay if I put a portable TV on the table, took my pants off, and started flipping through the channels? How about if I stopped on Skin-emax? Could I have asked the waitress for a box of Kleenex, and REALLY made myself at home? It would have been just as inappropriate as what the texters were doing. To me, nothing says "I don't wanna be here" more than someone incessantly texting at 11:30 on a Saturday night. And when I say "incessant," I mean they were clicking away on those micro keyboards like a bunch of Lois Lanes struggling to get that hot story in before the paper went to press at midnight.

The irony of it all is that had the texters actually been in the same room as the people they were texting, they'd be texting other people entirely.

You think she's cute, right?

If one more of my friends asks me that about their new girlfriends, I may actually have to tell them the truth. I've had three friends ask me to tell them how attractive their girlfriends are in the last 10 days, not to mention the countless times it's happened over the years. They've shown me their pictures on their iPhones, blackberries, or some other device I don't own because they didn't give it away for free when I signed up for the service. I know I should just smile, lie, and enthusiastically say, "Yeah, dude, she's cu-u-u-ute! Good going," and then smack them on the back as the final seal of approval. Instead I look at the picture and say something like, "Yeah, um...she's cute," and then I try and change the subject with something like, "Did she go to school with us? She looks familiar." The bright ones get that I'm uncomfortable with the subject matter and drop it, but the more insecure friends need the validation. "But you think she's cute, right?," they'll persist, not recognizing when a person is trying desperately to spare their fragile egos.

Maybe they're just showing me bad pictures, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to lie when a friend thinks he's dating Alyssa Milano when the only thing Milano-esque about her is the fact that she's clearly been eating too many Pepperidge Farm cookies.

Women don't seem to need that type of validation. If they're into a guy, they're usually into him regardless of what their friends may think. The validation they seek is of their own value to the guys they're currently dating. The female equivalent of "You think she's cute, right?" is "Does my ass look fat in these jeans?" And I'm way more comfortable lying about the ass of a girl I'm dating than I am about the face of a friend's girlfriend.

Grandma's Got The Clap

No, not mine. But someone's does.

The Huffington Post reports that STDs are on the rise for the older generation, and from the picture they posted (see below), this grandma is none too pleased about it. The guy she apparently got it from doesn't seem too upset, though. Kinda looks like he's just chilling, watching the Met game - unfazed by the prospect of painful urination and unsightly discharges from places where discharges should not be unsightly. And this guy looks like he's already got enough unsightliness going on under those JC Penney boxer shorts without the gonorrhea.



I'm guessing from the looks of things that these two may not work this out, so if you're out there on Elderdate.com, or SeniorMatch, or GeritolConnection, steer clear of this diseased duo unless you see a test result, or an empty bottle of antibiotics in their medicine cabinets.

The Little Voice

I haven't had a date, spoken to a potential date on the phone, or spoken to someone who is trying to set me up in over a week - and the detox is proceeding beautifully. I don't miss the awkward silences on the phone or in person, and the thought of not having to deal with the social ineptitude that pervades our society like the plague in 14th century Europe makes my nipples hard.

My only concern, however, is that this dating hiatus means there's no potential whatsoever of engaging in any form of sexual activity that doesn't involve my computer. It's not that I can't go a couple of months without it. I could do two months of no sex standing on my head. What's got me concerned is the thought that the last time I did it may indeed be the LAST time. I tell myself that I've done it enough times before, and that I can always again convince a woman to take her clothes off for me, but there's still that little voice in my head - the voice of George Costanza telling Jerry that he just doesn't see how it could ever happen again.

I think most guys hear that voice. Some overcompensate by banging anything and everything to drown out the voice. Others stay in unhappy relationships or marriages to rob the voice of its relevance. But I think, like me, most others just find little ways to lower the volume on its insidious message of doubt. All you need is a simple smile from a cute chick on the street, or a memory of having sex with a woman you never thought you could get, and you feel like you still got game.

Then the hot Puerto Rican chick at the bank is obnoxious to you just because you have the audacity to ask her not to hold a check even though every other teller does it for you, and Costanza's back in your head.

My Best Date All Year

It took place in a small room that smelled like old people, stewed vegetables, and Ben-Gay. We sat for about an hour drinking vanilla milkshakes together, and although her roommate sat within a few feet of us the whole time, it was probably the most productive interaction I've had with a woman in a while. There was a genuine and intelligent exchange of ideas, and there's no doubt that I love this woman. Truth be told, it wasn't a date per se. It was more like me visiting my grandmother in the hospital, and the milkshakes were a couple of cans of "Ensure" - which are delicious, by the way, and an excellent source of Omega 3 something or other, according to the label.

My grandmother had developed a case of bronchitis, and was diagnosed with emphysema - a result of 60 plus years of a 2 pack a day habit. Luckily, the dingleberry from the post below hasn't been appointed to any positions of governmental authority, so my grandma wound up at Maimonedes Hospital in Brooklyn, and not in a holding facility upstate.

As I walked in and saw her, her eyes lit up. I don't visit her nearly as often as I should, but when I do, it gives her a special thrill. When you're the oldest grandchild, there's just something special about you to them. The announcement of your impending birth, and the way they felt knowing they'd be grandparents for the first time is something they'll always hold dear to their hearts - that and the memory of your penile scalping performed under the guise of religious ceremony. So it was totally appropriate that the 85 year old woman with whom my grandmother was sharing a room said "Congratulations" to her when she introduced me as her grandson. Yes, I thought. That makes total sense. My grandma should be congratulated on the birth of her 37 year old grandson.

After a while of discussion about the family and her condition, the topic of conversation turned to me.

"So how are you? How's work?," she asked.

"Good. Good. Everything's good," I said, fully aware that she knew I'd never tell her things weren't good.

"You're seeing somebody?"

"No."

"Your father tells me you go on a lot of dates. Nobody interests you?"

In the past, I would've told her there were some prospects just to make an old lady happy, but I felt guilty feeding her the usual bullshit that she knew was bullshit anyway.

"Nah, no one lately," I told her.

"So why go on all the dates, if you're not meeting someone? Maybe it's enough with the dates for a while, no?"

It was a line I'd heard from plenty of people before, only this time it was delivered with an Eastern European accent, and a smoker's cough that for some reason made it make perfect sense. She could've toed the stereotypical Jewish grandmother party line and tried to convince me to "stop being so picky, and settle down already," but my grandmother didn't go there. She's cool like that. Our "date" ended with a hug and a kiss, and me saying goodbye to her roommate. It was perfect timing because had I stayed five minutes longer, I'd have had the pleasure of seeing the roommate sitting on one of those toilet on wheels - something my brother did have the honor of experiencing when he showed up shortly after I left. I think he's still hiding under his bed, hitting himself in the head, screaming, "Make it go away! I don't wanna see it anymore!"

I thought long and hard about my grandmother's advice on the train ride home, and by the time I stepped out of the subway a few blocks from my apartment, I'd made my decision. I wasn't going to date for a while. But then as this really cute chick walked by me on Lexington, I had a change of heart. My heart changed yet again, as I turned on to my street and saw a couple arguing. Maybe they were married, maybe they were boyfriend and girlfriend, or maybe it was a really bad first date. I wasn't entirely convinced to impose a moratorium on dating, though, until I walked past them, and heard the woman screaming in tears from behind me, "I fuckin' hate you!," followed by the guy's response of "Feeling's mutual!" Though my dates never got quite that ugly (even though some were close), I realized I was bringing that type of energy to my dating life, and it had to stop.

I started to think that maybe I'd gone on all those dates for all the wrong reasons: boredom, blog material, the voice of my mother in my head telling me she doesn't want me to wind up alone and miserable like her Uncle Barry who never got married or had kids - though he did always have a smile on his face, and the occasional broad on his arm that he'd he met at Bingo, or at a Meals On Wheels Mixer, or wherever people in their eighties go to hook up. Either way, I decided my grandma's words were to become my new mantra: "It's enough with the dates for a while."

I thank all of you who've left comments and sent emails of praise and encouragement throughout the last year. Your kindness is most appreciated. To that guy in that forum who called me an "unfunny douchebag," (thanks, Shmegs for sending me that link), and to the chick who posted a link to this blog on another blog, encouraging people to read about how pathetic I am, you can both stop reading now. I know it's been torturous for you, but you can tell the guy who's been holding a gun to your head forcing you to read my blog to put his weapon down. There will be no more bad dates to read about - only the occasional post about various subjects for those who remain interested.

The disillusionment and the dating must come to an end...for now.

My Balls

I met a woman last night who told me her ex-boyfriend was really into yoga, and she thought he wasn't manly, as a result. Apparently that's why they broke up, she explained in detail.

Great, I thought. Ex-boyfriend talk less than twenty minutes into the date. That usually takes at least 25. And from someone seemingly so enlightened. This would be fun.

"He also shaved his balls, and wore cologne," she continued. "Isn't that gay?"

I was right. This WAS gonna be fun.

"You're talking to the wrong person," I said. "I do two out of those three things."

She began to look me over to see which one of the things on her list of gayness she could eliminate.

"You're thin so I could believe you do Yoga," she said, sniffing. "And I'm not smelling any cologne....Do you shave your balls?, " she asked, trying not to laugh.

"Not regularly. But if I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I jump in the shower, and I'm looking a little rabbinical down there, I'll bust out the mini-buzzer and do some landscaping." - Ask a completely inappropriate question on a first date, get a completely inappropriate answer.

"Dude, why are you on a date with me? You should be out with a guy," she said, sort of jokingly, but in a way that made me feel I was living a lie. "You want my ex's number?"

"We know we have at least two things in common."

"Yeah, and you could do them together," she responded, unable to control her laughter any longer.

Now she'd stepped over the line. What she was implying was completely unacceptable. I don't mind shaving another guy's balls, but doing Yoga with him is out of the question. That's just beyond gay.

I believe somewhere beneath the baggage she's drowning under because of her ex, there's actually a cool, sarcastic, funny chick. But I won't be around to find out because her ex just called me back, and we're spending the weekend at Fire Island shopping for Mach3s.

The Bikini Pic

I've always felt that bikini pictures on dating sites are the female equivalent of pictures of guys without shirts. They're cheesy, sort of classless, and they reek of desperation. Though not latently homosexual like their male counterparts, women who post only bikini pictures are essentially saying, "Hey, click on me, and look at my tits because I have nothing else to offer." Of course, I've always clicked because I'm not one of those no shirt guys, but during my now defunct career as an online dater, I never emailed one of those women. Desperation isn't a quality I look for in a mate, and besides, I figured these chicks were probably being seduced by hundreds of emails from guys writing, "I'd love to stick my face in between your funbags and blow" in the subject line. That's not a group I need to be a member of, so I'd get my cheap thrill by looking at the picture, and move on to the next profile.

So when the woman whose number I was given by a friend told me to check out her Facebook page to see a picture, and all she had posted were pictures of herself in bikinis, I started to lose interest. I'll admit that if the pictures were flattering, I'd have probably been into it. This wasn't happening on a dating site, and I didn't have to compete with the parade of funbag blowers. But all 5 pictures of her in her album were of her lying on her back in a bikini, wearing sunglasses and a hat. All I could really make out from the neck up was her red hair. Obviously, she was trying to hide her face, and I'm not all that sure this chick should be wearing a bikini altogether. As I examined the picture closely I realized why she was lying on her back in every picture - because almost everyone has a flat stomach when they're lying on their back.

In the past, I'd have just told her how great her pics were, and gone out on the date. But nowadays, I'm being a bit more discriminating - not that you could tell from some of the women I've gone out with recently. I decided to be bold and ask to see another pic. After all, the one of me that my friend was required to send to her before I was allowed the honor of receiving her number was a clear head shot, without sunglasses, a hat, or me lying on my back in a bikini. I thought it only fair.

"That's all I got," was her response to my request. "Take it or leave it!"

I so wanted to leave it. Oh god, did I want to leave it, but I'm not quite that ballsy yet. Instead, I went the usual passive aggressive route, and gave her the old "Let's touch base next week sometime to schedule a time to get together" routine. I've been doing that a lot lately, but to go on a date just for the sake of going on one no longer appeals to me - not that it ever really did. I know you need to get out there, but I've been out there for a while, and I'd rather sit home than go out with someone who'll only show me a picture of herself in disguise.

I hope for her sake, someone tells her that her pictures aren't doing her justice, if in fact there's any justice to be done. Until then, she'll have to ward off the poets on Jdate emailing her wanting to know if her carpet matches her drapes.

Sometimes Lying Is A Good Thing

I've had dates cancel on me many times. Most often the excuses are generic and lame. "My aunt's coming in from out of town," "a friend is giving birth," "it's icky out" are all excuses given to me at the last minute to get out of dates. They've made for some good blog fodder, but I accept them for what they are - little lies told by insecure women who for some reason didn't want to go out on a date with me. Maybe their interest waned, or never existed. Maybe they met someone else they liked. Maybe they got nervous, and couldn't go through with it. And in such circumstances, I understand that you have to lie. You can't tell someone, "The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to go out with you. I was forced into this blind date by my pain in the ass mother, and I'm simply not interested."

Actually, you CAN tell someone that, but that would demonstrate a level of maturity and self confidence that most don't possess - myself included. So we live in a society where we tell each other little white lies to get out of doing shit we don't wanna do. I've done it plenty so I shouldn't be shocked when it gets done to me. In fact, I've grown so accustomed to these lies that are supposed to pass for excuses that I actually prefer them to the truth. That fact became even clearer to me yesterday evening after my conversation with a woman who called to cancel our date for tonight.

"My period is kicking my ass," she explained. "I'm just not gonna be able to do tomorrow night."

"Sorry to hear that, " I said, a bit taken aback by this incredible overshare. "Gimme a call when you're feeling better. I'm free Friday, if you're up to it. Just lemme know."

"We're talking seriously heavy flow here. I ruined the pants I wore to work today. I don't know what my deal is gonna be on Friday."

And I thought the mere mention of her menses was too much of an overshare. Couldn't she just have said her aunt was in from out of town? - which technically wouldn't have even been a lie, if you like menstrual metaphors.

"Okay," I said flustered. "Then just call me whenever. Hope you feel better."

I though that would be enough to end our little discussion of her uterine discharges, but she wanted to continue the conversation.

"God. You ever just have one of those days? It's really a mess."

"No, actually, that's not something I'm familiar with, but I can imagine."

"Oh yeah, right. I forgot who I was talking to for a second. You guys are so lucky."

Not this guy, I thought.

I then ended the conversation rather abruptly by telling her I had another call I had to take, and that we'd be in touch. I figured her openness and candor was so above and beyond that I had to lie twice to restore equilibrium to the universe, so that we can all go on cancelling dates with our little, insecure lies.

THE POLYGY-DO

I support the court's ruling to return the polygamist offspring to their mothers on one condition - the poor hairstyle choices of the mothers should not be forced upon the daughters. The court should make it obligatory for all of these women to take their daughters to a Supercuts, or a Lemon Tree. I can deal with the homemade smocks, but the "Children of the Corn" hairdos must go:



See what happens when someone makes fun of my haircut? I get all judgmental about other people's dos.

CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY

As if it wasn't obnoxious enough that today's specimen answered her cell phone in the middle of our date last night to talk to her friend, she began to insult me too. She didn't know I knew she was insulting me - until I let her in on my little secret.

I'll elaborate:

We sat in a Cafe on the Upper West Side, and had fairly polite, utterly chemistry free conversation for maybe twenty five minutes before her phone rang. She looked at the phone and said, "Oh, it's my friend. I have to get this." There was no explanation as to why she had to get it. No fake excuse about a grandmother in the hospital, no mention of an urgent work related incident -- nothing. She just had to talk to her friend - like they had so much catching up to do, and it needed to be done in the middle of our date. Her lack of proper dating etiquette aside, I welcomed the distraction. I needed a break from the anemic dialogue.

It was a relatively quick conversation -the topics of which, as I could determine from the side of it that I heard, were (in the following order):

1. The Sex and the City Movie - apparently the friend didn't like it, and was telling my date not to bother seeing it.

2. Some sort of party over the weekend. They were arranging a time to meet for dinner before they headed to the party, and my date asked her friend if she was okay with the fact that "Ronnie" was gonna be there.

And then...

3. Me. -- She told her friend that I wasn't for her, and she was hoping to be done with the date soon. The main reasons for her dissatisfaction with me: I'm not dark enough, and I need a haircut.

Now she's entitled to her tastes. This wasn't the first time I was told I was pale, and the truth is, I do need a haircut. But why would she say this in front of me?, you may be wondering. Well, that's where she fucked up. When she got off the phone, she said, "Sorry. I had to take it."

"Yeah, you mentioned that," I responded.

"My friend is going through a tough time."

"No kidding. Because of Ronnie?"

"How do you know about Ronnie?," she wondered.

"I heard a guy's name mentioned. I just assumed."

"Oh."

"No. I speak Hebrew," I said smugly.

"That's nice," she retorted. She must have thought I meant I knew how to say "Shalom," or something, because her reaction wasn't that of someone who just got busted talking about someone else in another language, not knowing that person understood every word.

"Actually, I'm fluent, you miserable bitch! I understood every mother fucking word you said! It's bad enough you interrupt a date to talk about Sex and the fucking City, and some douchebag named Ronnie, but you insult me too?," I said -- minus everything after the word "fluent."

Maybe she doesn't know what "fluent" means, or maybe she was so embarrassed she didn't know what else to say, but she didn't apologize or so much as stutter. She just stared at me like the bitch in headlights that she was. I actually felt a little bad for her. This was about as awkward a moment she might have ever experienced. But just when you start to feel a little sympathy for someone, they give you a reason to dislike them again.

"Why didn't you tell me you spoke Hebrew? It's kind of rude to let someone go on like that without letting them know you understand," she said.

Now it was my turn to stare. There were so many things I could've said to this asswipe like, "When was I supposed to tell you I understood you? Before or after you insulted me?" Instead, I decided to follow the principle of Occam's razor, and opted for the simplest of solutions to the problem.

I got up, dropped some money on the table, said, "Shalom!" with a big smile, and walked away. As I left the cafe, I caught one last glimpse of her. She was back on the phone - no doubt telling her friend that the pasty faced, messy haired asshole had just walked out on her, but that she was happy the date was over because he was a loser anyway.

This wasn't the first time I had an incident with an obnoxious Israeli chick, but it will likely be my last.

My vow for the future: No more obnoxious Israelis, and to get a haircut.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GUYS WHO SCREW MY SHIT UP

After numerous discussions with single women, it's obvious that my cause is not being helped by a lot of the single guys out there. Their idiotic, childish, self involved behavior has heaped so much baggage upon so many available, desirable women that a dude like me doesn't stand a chance. As such, I feel compelled to address these unintentional cock blockers.

So:

To the guys out there who think "Wanna come over and fuck?" is a great opening line in an IM session, it's not. If it were that easy, nothing in the world would ever get accomplished. The entire infrastructure of our society would collapse. People would be screwing in the streets, instead of doing their jobs. There would be utter chaos, and we'd all wind up living in caves without electricity or plumbing.

To the guys who post pictures of themselves in their profiles without shirts, I've yet to meet a woman who thinks that's a turn on. No one gives a shit how much you can bench press, so put down the steroids and the barbells, walk away from the mirror you flex in front of all day, and pick up a book. Reading is fundamental, and you're probably gay anyway.

To the guys who tell chicks they "can get lost just staring into their eyes" on first dates, that'll only work if the chick is really into you. But if you're the type of guy who uses lines like that ten minutes after meeting someone, I can't imagine there are any chicks out there that would actually be into you anyway. Just tell her she has really pretty eyes. It's a compliment without being creepy, and you need to learn how not to be creepy.

To the guys who invite women to an event and tell them: "Your ticket is $65. You can pay me when I see you," that's something you tell your guy friend, not someone you hope to see naked. Unless, of course, you wanna see your guy friend naked, in which case, get in touch with the guy who poses shirtless on Jdate.

To the guys who insist on ordering for their dates in restaurants, stop taking your dating cues from movies from the 1930s. "The lady will have the lemon pepper shrimp " is not something you should be saying unless the lady has told you that's what she wants, and has given you the okay to order for her. Otherwise, let them order their own damn food. They're your dates, not your three year old daughters.

To the guys who say they're gonna call after a first date, but only intend on calling if nothing better comes along, stop being selfish douchebags. If you're not motivated enough to call her based on her own merits, just say, "It was nice meeting you," and go home. Odds are she wasn't interested in you anyway, so why not just go your separate ways like mature adults?

To the guys who practically show their dates their pay stubs, and brag about the apartments they just bought, just tell your dates you're insecure little shits with small dicks instead. At least they'll appreciate your honesty.

To the guys who ask women out via barely comprehensible text messages, grow up. You wanna text message people things like "LOL," or "ROFLMAO"? - go hang out in the mall with the other 14 year old girls and their Sidekicks, or pick up a goddamn phone, and ask a woman out like a man.

To the guys who lie in their profiles about their height, weight, or amount of hair on their heads, and then get pissed off when women do the same, the lying women are the ones you should be with. Why?- because you're both fucking liars! Let the herd of truth distorters be thinned so the rest of us who are honest can meet each other.

And finally to the self-proclaimed "players" who secretly video tape their conquests, and show the footage to their friends, as cool and as uber-hetero as you think that is, you too may wanna email the shirtless Jdate guy. You clearly don't respect women, and wanting other dudes to see your hairy balls and ass clearly indicates that your overcompensating by trying to bang as many women as possible.

It is to all these men, and to the others like them that I haven't mentioned in the interest of brevity, that I say:

You are the stinking turds nestled safely at the bottom of the dating pool. When you're discovered, women go running out and never want to jump back in. Remedy your ways, or don't go swimming anymore!

Sincerely,

Marc F.
5/23/08

The Post It Note

You wouldn't know it from reading this blog, but from time to time I actually do fornicate with members of the opposite sex. I choose not to write about it because I'm a gentleman, and because this isn't Penthouse Forum. Being the responsible fornicator that I am, though, I get tested regularly to insure that no one gave me anything that will require a trip to the pharmacy. So a few weeks ago, I paid a visit to my doctor, dealt with his bitchy receptionist, and submitted my fluids for review.

The blood work came back okay within a couple of days, but they told me the results of the urine test had not yet been received. I was told to call back in a few days. I did, and still no results. "What's the holdup?," I asked the woman who answered the phone.

"The lab must be backed up," she told me, attempting to rush me off the phone. "Try back in a day or two."

When I called back two days later, and they still didn't have results for me, I asked to speak to the doctor.

"He's with patients now, but I'll leave a message for him to call," the woman said.

I gave him until the following morning not to return my call - then I called the office again. This time I dealt with a slightly less bitchy receptionist who admitted that my test results should have come in a while ago. "No shit," I thought to myself. "So can you call the lab, and find out what the deal is please?," I asked very politely - my pleasant tone masking my desire to want to scream at her, and every incompetent shithead that worked there.

"Let me get back to you," she responded. "Your number is ***-***-****, right?"

"No. It's ***-***-****," I said. "That number you have for me hasn't been good for like two years. I asked the other receptionist to change it when I came in for the tests."

"Okay. Got it," she said, and I hung up, knowing she didn't get it. If she was in fact going to call, she would call the old number - which she did, causing me to call back the next day. This time I got yet another Mensa candidate on the phone who informed me that someone tried calling me to tell me that the lab lost my urine, but they couldn't get a hold of me. I wonder why. In the meantime, somewhere at the lab, there was a cup of missing piss, and it had taken them almost two weeks to let me know about it.

"Come in again," she said. "We'll take another sample. You don't need an appointment. Just come when you can, and we'll see you right away." Wow. Now I was a VIP. "If we lose your urine, you can come in without an appointment." That's a great slogan for their business cards.

When I came in that very day, and announced to the receptionist who I was, she immediately had Holly the nurse take me to a room near the bathroom. I didn't have to say a word. She knew exactly why I was there, and handed me a cup with a bit of a smirk. It was as if I was the talk of the office - the annoying pain in the ass who keeps calling about his piss. I wasn't at all appreciating the vibe I was getting from Holly, and then when I turned around on my way to the bathroom, cup in hand, I noticed a "post it" note hanging on a bare wall in plain view for everyone to see.

The note read:

Marc (my last name) and the word "Gonorrhea" written under it.

This "post it" wasn't hanging on a bulletin board in a private room amongst other "post its" with names of patients and their ailments. It was being showcased in a part of the office where every doctor, nurse, receptionist, drug company rep, patient, and plumber could see it. I was surprised there wasn't a spotlight flashing on it. I bit my tongue, and simply said to Holly, "That's great. Now everyone thinks I have gonorrhea."

She laughed - not with me, but at me, and said, "Don't worry. Nobody comes back here. I just put it up there to remind me what to test for when you came in."

Nobody comes back here?!, I thought. I'M fuckin' back here, aren't I? This "post it" is hanging inches away from the bathroom so everyone who has to give you a urine sample, or take a dump comes back here!

I walked into the bathroom, came out, gave Holly a nice warm sample, and went on my way. This time the lab managed to do what they were supposed to, and eventually billed me $88 for it, which as a side note, I ain't paying. "Lose my piss and make me anxious for weeks, wondering what STD I may have, and you don't get paid." - That's the slogan on MY business card.

Anyway, the results were good, and I'm free to go about and fornicate as usual - responsibly, of course.

However, I can not let Holly get away with publicly embarrassing me like that. How many people out there now think I have gonorrhea? What if a potential date goes to that doctor, and right before we're about to get intimate, she says in a disgusted tone, "Wait a second. Do you go to Dr. Seidman? I thought your name sounded familiar. You're the gonorrhea guy. I'm not fucking you!"

So, Holly, here's where I exact my revenge. Maybe more people saw your "post it" than will see mine, but you never know what can happen on these crazy internets. This shit could go viral...pun intended:

MOTHERS AGAINST DRUNK DATING

Thanks to Saul, a loyal reader of the blog, I'm one step closer to achieving my goal of helping those who date drunk. Our logo has been created, and barring any legal action from Mothers Against Drunk Driving, the process of healing bitter, bitchy, alcoholic daters can begin.




All donations are tax deductible, so please help make the dating world a safer place for all of us.

The Drunk Chick

I'm very uncomfortable being around drunk people. One fear of mine is that when a person gets piss drunk, they're gonna tell me how they really feel about me. My main concern, though, is being vomited on. I always try and maintain a vomit free buffer zone between myself and the drunk in question. I'd say six feet at the absolute minimum. If I can smell or taste the booze on them, they're too close.

So when I showed up on Saturday night for my date with this chick I met through work, and she was fall down, speech slurring, shit faced drunk, I tried to maintain my distance. We sat across the table from each other, as this 12 step program candidate explained to me how she'd met her friends earlier that evening for A drink - "A," as in one. Either someone dropped a roofie and some PCP into that one drink, or this chick had more than A drink. I'm leaning towards the latter.

Maybe two minutes into our conversation, she verped - and I smelled and tasted it. We were way too close to each other, and in clear violation of my six foot buffer zone requirement. I needed to escape before the salami sandwich that was clearly somewhere inside of her wound up on me.

"EXCUSE ME!," she said, chuckling.

At least she's a polite drunk, I thought - that is until I tried to end the date.

"I'm gonna go. Can I get you a cab?," I asked her, as I got up.

"What's the rush? Sit down," she slurred.

"I'd rather go. Let me get you a cab."

What followed was the realization of my first fear of being around drunk people. The words "pussy," and "loser" were used a few times, as she turned into everyone's favorite type of alcoholic - the angry drunk. I wasn't about to stand there and be insulted, while waiting for the second fear to come to fruition. The angrier she got, the more she looked like she was gonna blow - and not in a good way. Sure, some guys might have taken advantage of the situation to satisfy their libidinous desires, but I'm both a gentleman, and someone who REALLY does not like to be thrown up on.

I left Lindsay Lohan's older, less attractive sister at the table, and informed the waiter that he might want to get the cleaning staff on alert before this chick ruined their table clothes.

Being the philanthropist that I am, however, the date left me undaunted, and with an idea for a charitable organization: MOTHERS AGAINST DRUNK DATING. I already stole the logo from Mothers Against Drunk Driving:



I just need to replace the key in the image with a picture of a slobbering, vomit covered, 32 year old chick who's likely to be single for some time to come. Too bad I don't know how to use Photoshop.

Going Halfsies

As I've written in the past, I always pay on the first date. In fact, I always pay during the courting process - you know, the part where I'm trying to impress the woman enough so she'll want to see me naked. So when I went on date #3 with today's blog specimen, I had every intention of paying. I asked her out, I picked the place, and I actually liked her...so I was paying. But then the check came, and she grabbed it before I could.

"I insist," she said.

"Please. It's my pleasure," I responded.

"You paid the first two dates. Let me get this one."

I took the check holder from her. "I asked you out, I picked the place, (and I want you to want to see me naked)," I said and thought.

"Come on. Let me," she persisted, trying to pull the check holder like we were playing tug of war.

I grabbed her hand, smiled devilishly, and said, "Next time. I promise."

"No!," she said, as she forcefully yanked the check over to her side.

No to next time, or no to me paying?, I thought. Was she fighting so hard because she wanted to make it clear she wasn't interested, or did she want to pay because she actually wanted to treat me? The back and forth started to make me uncomfortable, and the couple sitting next to us had heard enough of our conversation. I had to give up.

"Okay. Thank you. But I'm definitely treating next time....How do you feel about Gray's Papaya," I said, trying to get at least a smirk, and a fourth date.

But she zoned me out. She was completely focused on the check. In fact, she looked shocked. I knew it wasn't gonna be cheap, but her's was the look of an angry old lady being charged twenty cents too much for something at the corner grocery store. As she studiously examined every item on the bill, I was expecting her to blurt out: "$1.49 a pound for apples?! For $1.49 I don't need them. Some nerve these Koreans have!"

Instead, she looked up at me, and said, "Why don't we split it?"

I put an end to the insanity right then and there. I placed my American Express card in the check holder, and handed it to the waiter. But not before I caught a glimpse of the total. It was $68.42.

I wondered what her limit was when it came to picking up the check, and how much she thought dinner for two at a Manhattan restaurant costs? There were no arches in the front, or a "Try Our Popcorn Chicken" sign on the building. Was she only willing to pay, if the bill was like $8? I gladly signed the credit card receipt when it was handed to me because like I said - I asked her out, I picked the place...only now I didn't know how much I liked her. Now lest you think she couldn't afford it, keep in mind that this chick owns her own apartment in the city, and has been working at the prestigious law firm of Jew, Jew, Token Wasp, and Jew for at least seven years. She graduated from NYU law school, a school from which I was rejected, and started making six figures right after graduation. I'm not a lawyer, but I have friends who live that fancy law firm life, and I know what they make. $68.42 is what they bill for farting in the direction of a client...and that's only if it doesn't smell. Now this chick wanted to go halfsies with me?

Maybe she's in debt, and lives way beyond her means, but if that's the case, what's another $68.42 to add to the heap, especially after she was so insistent on paying? Her Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Fendi, or whatever the hell it was handbag alone cost 20 times that amount. Was she just selfish, or was I not worth $68.42 in her eyes? The question troubled me as I walked her back to her luxury building. I got my answer when I asked her out again, and she began to hem and haw.

I'll now have a charge on next month's Amex statement for $68.42 (plus tip), and a reminder that there's yet another woman out there who doesn't want to see me naked.

WITNESS TO A DISASTER

I used to wonder what was more excruciating? - Being on a bad date or witnessing one. I got my answer late Sunday afternoon, as I sat on a bench in Central Park trying to read a book. There were maybe five other available benches, but the couple in question decided to sit on mine. The woman parked her oversized ass less than a foot from me, and her date sat to her left. I was initially annoyed to have my space invaded like that, but when I started to realize they were on a first date, I took the opportunity to observe. Never before had I been this close to someone else's dating disaster. It was like getting floor seats to a Knick game - but better. I was sitting on the damn bench - literally. You'd think someone who's been on so many bad dates would be indifferent. But there's something special about watching it happen in front of you like a movie that's so bad it's good. I actually wanted to throw popcorn at these two.

It all started with the guy awkwardly suggesting that they sit. She said "sure" with the enthusiasm of someone who was asked if they'd like to get a free rectal exam. Then there was a good two minutes of complete silence. It was long and uncomfortable. I imagined what I might say to get a conversation going with this chick, if I were on the date with her. Maybe I'd comment on the nice flowers nearby, at which numerous amateur photographers were snapping their digital cameras.

"Beautiful flowers, huh,?" is what I might have said.

"Yes. Those flowers are quite beautiful. They're Epidendrum Orchids," she might respond.

"No kidding? Are you some sort of horticulturist?," I'd ask.

Smiling, she'd respond modestly, "Well, I dabble a bit. Do you like flowers?"

"Sure," I'd say enthusiastically. And a conversation might have been sparked.

Or perhaps I'd offer to buy her a $9 bottle of water from one of the park vendors.

"Can I get you something to drink?," I'd ask, pointing to the guy selling food and beverages from a cart at a 7,000% markup.

"Water would be great," she might respond.

"One water coming up," I'd say.

"That's so sweet. Thank you," she'd reply. And maybe she'd warm up to me when I came back with her drink.

But while I was having my gay imaginary conversations with this woman, she and her date were staring blankly ahead into the field in front of us. No one was saying a word. They were two monks awkwardly maintaining their vows of silence. Then suddenly, he spoke.

"It's so nice out today."

Weather talk?, I thought. It's probably the lowest form of date communication, but at least it's something.

"Yeah, it was kind of cloudy this morning, but it got nice when the sun came out," she responded.

Not exactly dialogue David Mamet would write, but they were talking. Now it was his turn again to speak. But he choked. I could tell he wanted to say something, but didn't know what to say. I wanted to help him. I began mentally sending him things to say. I was his telepathic Cyrano de Bergerac.

"Tell her it's supposed to be really nice the rest of the week, and you're planning on taking a day off to go hiking, or something," I sent him through our extrasensory connection. "Maybe she likes to hike, and you can talk about that....Or tell her how much you can't wait for summer to start so you can go to your home in the Hamptons on the weekends. Who cares if you're lying at this point? You're dying, dude. Say SOMETHING!"

But he couldn't hear me. The Vulcan mind meld thing wasn't happening. And I sat there pretending to read my book, as these two said nothing for an additional six minutes. I timed it on my cell phone.

Finally, the poor bastard said, "You wanna grab something to eat?," and I thought there may be hope.

"Nah. That's okay," she replied, and then continued in a whiny, nasally tone: "I'm gonna go home and make some pasta and Matzah Meal."

I felt so bad for the guy. To be blown off for pasta and matzah meal by Fran Drescher's big assed sister. And by someone who should probably take it easy on the pasta and matzah meal to begin with.

"Well, nice meeting you. I'm parked that way," he said, pointing.

"Take care," she responded.

And we all went our separate ways. Her to her food, him to his car, and me to Subway - where they sell neither pasta nor matzah meal.

Nee How...

That's all I know how to say in Chinese, and I want to learn more. When I shared this desire with last night's date - a pretty, yet flighty resident of the Upper West Side - she seemed puzzled.

"Of all the languages you could learn, why waste your time on Chinese? Why not learn something useful like Spanish, or French, or something?"

"Because China is on its way to becoming the world's largest economy. If you wanna take advantage of that, you need to speak the language."

Her eyes lit up for a moment - like she hit the jackpot.

"So like, you're into finance and stuff?," she asked in such an excited tone that if she were a guy, she would have had a boner.

"Not really," I said. "I just wanna be able to have an actual conversation with the Chinese guy I buy my bootleg DVDs from. Right now our exchanges involve me asking him if it's a good copy, and him nodding, and saying, 'Beddy good. Beddy good copy.'...I've been buying movies from him for over a year, and I'd like our relationship to move on to the next level. And somehow I don't think he's gonna learn English."

Maybe I'm a really good actor, or maybe I don't convey sarcasm well, but for some reason, she didn't get it. I'm guessing it's because she's a moron.

"So, what? You're into Chinese men?," she asked in a disgusted tone - her "she-boner" now subsiding.

"No. I just think it would be really cool to be able to speak Chinese."

"I see," she responded, disappointed that I wasn't the rich international man of finance she was hoping to land.

"I'm sure you do, " I responded, disappointed that she turned out to be a potential candidate for the Real Housewives of NYC's second season.

The date wasn't a total loss, though. Because of her, I learned how to write "bitch" in Chinese when I got home:



What can't you find with google?

Bad Boys

For all you chicks out there who dig the "bad boy" type, this kid certainly fits the bill....literally. He's a bad BOY. At a mere 7 years of age, you'll have to wait a while, though, until you can exchange letters, eventually fall in love, and marry him while he's doing a stretch at Leavenworth.


Grand Theft Auto 7 Year Old - Watch more free videos

CHICKS DON'T FART...

That's what every guy would like to believe, but the folks at Beano are actively seeking to dispel that myth, per below.



It seems from their site that they're marketing this almost exclusively to women. Yes, I realize, of course, that women are human just like men, but why market such a product so aggressively to women? Guys fart too. Is there something about women I don't know? Are they producing proportionally more gas than men? Hard to believe with the guys I know.

Have I finally discovered the mystery of why women go to the bathroom in groups? To play a quick round of "pull my finger?"

CITIZEN KUNT

Last night, I had a very insightful conversation with a young lady taking a film class. I was introduced to this student of the cinema at a get together at a friend's place. She was cute in a "I have nothing better going on in my life right now" kind of way, so we spoke for a bit. When she mentioned she was taking some sort of film class, I politely asked how she was enjoying it.

"It's amazing," she said. "The instructor won a BAFTA."

"Cool," I responded.

"You know what a BAFTA is right?," she asked condescendingly.

"A British Oscar."

"Yeah," she responded, having trouble understanding how a mere peasant l like me could possibly know what BAFTA was. "Anyway, I just find the use of visual imagery in film so expressive. I especially like film makers who are able to tap into the zeitgeists of their eras," she continued.

Zeitgeist? Who the fuck uses the word "zeitgeist" in conversation?, I wondered. I felt like Woody Allen in "Annie Hall." I wanted to step aside, look directly into the camera and ask the audience, "Do you believe how pretentious this chick is?...'ZEITGEIST?'... What are you fucking kidding me?" Instead I just nodded, as I listened to her babble on about Kurosawa and Bergman, as if I was supposed to be impressed by the fact that she memorized the names of a couple of famous film makers.

"They were such innovators," she continued.

Her self-indulgent babbling was hitting about a 9 on the 1 to 10 scale of pomposity, so I tried changing the subject when there was a brief lull in the conversation.

"You know what I hate? When you get a bagel with cream cheese and they don't cut the bagel all the way through so that just the top is cut, and you have to rip the bottom part of the bagel with your hands. That happened to me this morning."

She gave me a "what the hell are you talking about, you moron?" look, and continued onto the question and answer portion of the program.

"What's your favorite film?," she asked.

"I can't really narrow it down to one, but Porky's is a definite contender."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," I responded with a straight face.

"Oh. Yeah, funny," she said facetiously. "For me it has to be Citizen Kane. The use of visual imagery is just astounding."

Christ! Again with the fuckin visual imagery? Didn't the BAFTA winner teach her any other catch phrases to use at parties?, I thought. At least she didn't say "zeitgeist" this time.

"Have you ever seen it?," she asked in a tone that implied I was too stupid to even have heard of Citizen Kane, let alone have seen it.

"Yes, I have, " I said politely, as I realized she was no longer cute in a "I have nothing better going on in my life right now" kind of way. Now she was just sort of there in a "I have no one else to talk to, and it's too early to leave right now" kind of way.

"And what'd you think?"

"Of Citizen Kane? Wasn't that enamored with it."

"How could you say that? It's a classic," she protested.

"Why is it a classic? Because a bunch of film critics said so?"

"It just is."

"But why specifically? The visual imagery? That's not enough for me. The story has to be interesting too. I had to sit through two hours to find out Rosebud was his sled. Who cares?"

"You completely missed the symbolism."

"That he yearned for the innocence of his childhood? I got it. My five year old niece could have gotten it. It's not that groundbreaking."

Then she looked at me like I insulted HER film...or I told her she was fat, or something. She then rolled her eyes, and walked away.

Almost immediately, my friend came over to me to ask what I could have said to her to piss her off so much.

"We were talking about Citizen Kane. I said I didn't like it, and she acted like Orson Welles is her goddamn grandfather."

"Yeah, she can be a little annoying with that stuff," he said. "Too bad. I thought she might be interested in you. That's why I introduced you."

"If extreme condescension is her way of showing interest, then we should be engaged by next week."

"Yeah, well, doesn't matter. She thinks you're stupid now."

"She called me stupid?"

"Yep."

"Like a 6 year old calls someone a stupid doodie head for disagreeing with them, or stupid as in unintelligent?"

"Choice B."

"Why do you invite me to these things? More importantly, why do I come?"

"Because you have nothing better going on in your life right now."

"Oh yeah."

The Ass Licker

I don't really like dogs. Actually, let me rephrase that - I REALLY don't like dogs. If you're a dog person, please don't be offended. I don't like cats, or birds, or hamsters, or any other animal that people feel the need to keep in their homes either. I understand the desire for the unconditional love dog people claim to receive from their pets. I know how when you've had a rough day, there's nothing like coming home to Duke, or Buddy, or Bobo - he or she won't yell at you like your boss, or act like an asshole on a date, or be obnoxious to you at Duane Reade when all you wanna know is where the goddamn shampoo is. I get all that. But to me, dogs are just dirty. I've given the canines their fair chance by dating women with dogs, all of whom used my living room as their own personal toilets...the dogs, that is. Not the women. So when a friend called during last night's San Antonio/Phoenix game, offering to set me up with a dog owner, I hesitated.

"She's really pretty, and smart, and funny. So what if she has a dog?," she asked.

"If it works out, at some point she's gonna wanna bring the dog to my apartment, and I don't want it here. Is she cool with that?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Who cares? Why are you refusing to meet someone because they have a dog. This woman is perfect for you."

"If she were perfect for me, she wouldn't have a dog."

"Get over it. What's the big deal to have a dog in your apartment?"

"When I come over to your place, you make me take my shoes off, right?"

"Yeah."

"Because my shoes have been walking around the filthy, urine soaked streets of the city, right?"

"So?"

"Dogs don't have shoes to take off. All the shit they walk on winds up all over the house."

"You're sick."

"I never claimed to be otherwise."

"Just call her. She's really cool. I'll bet she'd even be okay with the fact that you're not a dog lover. Just don't discuss that on the first date."

I was about to give in before I asked, "Does she kiss the dog?"

"Huh?"

"Have you ever seen her kiss her dog?"

"I think so. I told you. She's a dog lover. That's what they do."

"Not all dog lovers kiss their dogs. Forget it."

"Oh my god. You need help."

"I can't kiss a chick whose mouth touched a dog's mouth after the dog stuck it's face up another dog's unwiped ass."

"You know what?," she said, "forget this girl. I'm getting you the number of a good therapist."

"Forget the girl or the therapist. Just get me a dog whose ass I can lick. It'll be the same as me kissing the girl. We can just avoid the middleman."

"Uch!," she said. "Go back to your basketball game. Hope you don't get too lonely sitting on that sofa by yourself for the rest of your life."

Her departing words stung a bit. I really don't want to sit on the sofa by myself for the rest of my life. But I also don't want to lick a dog's ass by association.

End result: San Antonio: 102 Phoenix: 96...My breath: minty fresh, and smells nothing like an unwiped dog's ass.

THE GORGEOUS LADIES OF POLYGY-DATE

After an overwhelming response from potential investors, and obtaining the necessary capital, the Polygy-date website is officially under construction, and we hope to be up and running before the next compound is raided. Just to whet the appetites of those interested in meeting a bride, or two...or ten, here are some early member submissions:

I can already tell this sexy group is headed straight to the "Most Popular List." The one 3rd from the left in the top pic...I would totally tap that.

The Matzah Nazi

Just as I was finishing the remains of a bag of garlic flavored pita chips on Sunday afternoon, I got a call from this chick with whom I was set up by an acquaintance. I've specifically used the word "acquaintance" because this matchmaker is no friend...not because I have anything against her, I just barely know her. She's the friend of the daughter of a friend's business partner. I met her once for about 10 seconds somewhere at some point in time. It might have been at a wedding, at a funeral, or at one of those self thrown birthday parties people are so fond of having. Shit, it might have been her party. I just remember meeting her, and she was kind enough to think of me when it came to setting up her friend. Truth is, it was probably more like my friend pathetically asking her on my behalf, "Don't you have anyone for him?," and her responding, "Well, I do have a single friend with an available vagina." And the number was given to me. And I called. And I left a voicemail.

It was as I was chewing the last few bites of the chips that the phone rang, and her number popped up on the Caller ID. I didn't want to answer with a full mouth, but I had no choice. I had nowhere to spit out what I was eating, and I didn't want to miss the call, and do the phone tag thing for another week. I picked up, said hello, let her say hi, and apologized for answering with a mouth full of pita chips.

"Oh, you're eating pita chips?," she asked in what sounded like a disappointed tone.

"Yeah," I said, as I swallowed the last few bites, "I just got turned on to them a few weeks ago. Now I'm addicted."

"So you don't keep Passover?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'keep.' I do the seder thing with the family, but..."

"You eat bread," she said, finishing my sentence.

"Yeah. You don't, I'm guessing."

"Absolutely not. If I do it, I do it all the way. It's nice that you have the seder with your family, but what's the point, if you eat bread?"

A religious debate less than a minute into the conversation. I was already deleting her number from my cell phone.

"I didn't eat bread at the seder," I responded.

"But you do the rest of the week. I don't like when people do things half assed, ya' know? It's like you either keep the holiday, or you don't," she said in an accusatory tone.

"Uh huh," I said, as I debated if I should say what, in the end, I just couldn't resist saying: "Isn't today a part of the holiday when you're not supposed to be talking on the phone?"

"Yes, but I'm not Orthodox."

"No. Just half assed....Are you seeing the irony here?"

I didn't actually have the balls to say that last line, but I also didn't need to be preached to by the Commissioner of the fucking Passover Police - especially one that commits the exact crime she professes to despise. I thought about telling her I had another call that I had to take, but she beat me to the punch with an equally unbelievable, "I totally forgot. I have to go meet a friend. Can we talk later?"

"S-u-u-u-u-re," I said with the mock enthusiasm her lame excuse deserved. "Go have fun with your friends."

We hung up. I then brushed my teeth to get rid of the garlic breath, and the taste left in my mouth by the conversation with the Matzah Nazi.

Polygy-date

All this talk of raids on polygamist ranches has given me an idea for a business. Surely there must be men out there who want this type of lifestyle, but don't know how to go about getting it. For these men, I've come up with "Polygy-date." It works just like Jdate or Match.com, only instead of viewing one woman at at time, each profile has at least 3 women in it. A sample profile might look like:

MEMBER NAME: MustLuvJesus92








AGES: 14, 17, 25
LOCATION: Eldorado, Texas
LOOKING FOR: Marriage, children, years of mental and physical abuse, forced sex in the name of god.
DESIRED AGE RANGE: 55-99
LOGGED IN: 1 hour and 46 minutes ago

ABOUT US: We love to work hard and play hard, and are as comfortable in jeans as we are in homemade smocks. Our sister wives and families are very important to us. We'd be happy with a night out on the compound, or just cuddling on the couch watching Grey's Anatomy. We're not paying members so contact us at our member name plus the third word in John 3:16 at the place with the little yellow running man. Met fans, and those who don't accept Christ as their savior need not apply.

There could even be a "Success Stories" section:
Dear Polygy-date,
I signed up for a premium membership after a friend suggested I try your site. I'm so glad I did. Me and my five underaged wives are so happy together. Thanks Polygy-date.

Jebediah, Martha, Mary, Elizabeth, Abigail, Margaret
Idaho Falls, Idaho


At $39.99 a month per customer, and some banner ads paid for by the Church of Latter Day Saints, this could be a real money maker. Interested investors may contact me.

The Party Chick

I don't like the nightlife, nor do I like to boogie. And this is a problem for the woman I spoke with last night.

"How could you not love the nightlife here?," she asked, as if I'd insulted her personally with my attack on the New York bar/club/lounge scene.

"I don't need to get drunk in public, and I don't dance, or do Ecstasy so...," I replied.

"But there are so many cool places in the city."

"Absolutely. But to me, the bars and clubs are all the same."

"So what do you usually do on a Saturday night? Stay home?," she said mockingly.

"If there's nothing I feel like doing, then yes, I stay home on Saturday night. In fact, I enjoy staying home....does that make me uncool?," I asked.

"It doesn't make you cool," she responded coldly.

"I guess I'm not cool then," I said.

"What did you do last Saturday night?," she was dying to know.

"I don't recall exactly, but it involved weed and an episode of the Flintstones."

"So you'd rather sit home, get high, and watch the Flintstones?"

"If it's between that and waiting in the cold to get into some club, then abso-fuckin-lutely."

"Why are you so anti-social?," she inquired. "When you go out, you get to meet people."

"Did you meet anyone at the club you went to last Saturday night?"

"Not really. I went with my friends...but..."

"I didn't meet anyone either," I said, not letting her finish. "But at least I got to watch the Flintstones."

"When was the last Saturday night you went out? Not like on some shitty Jdate, or whatever. But 'out' out."

"Once I leave my building, I'm 'out' out. But I know what you're getting at. It was a few weeks ago. I went to some lounge."

"And how was it?"

"Not nearly as good as the Flintstones."

She faintly chuckled. It was hard to tell if she was laughing at, or with me.

"Doesn't really sound like we're a match," she said, sighing.

"Nope. But the next time a friend drags me to a bar or lounge, maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe...well, good night," she said.

We hung up, and I started to think maybe I should make plans for Saturday night. This chick had a point. There's more to life than the Flintstones.

I immediately got up, and took action. I walked over to the TV and made sure I still had those 6 unwatched Chachi shows on the DVR. My Saturday night is now booked.

The One That Got Away

There's an old lady in my building, and I remind her of her dear husband, Harvey. Harvey's been plant food for a good fifteen years now, but she likes to tell me how much I look like him. "You could be brothers," she's fond of saying. She's shown me pictures, but I don't see the resemblance. Then again, the pictures she shows me are those old time photographs that make you think that the world was in black and white before the early 60s, and that men always wore hats and ties wherever they went. I can almost see the photographer sticking his head under a black blanket before he pushed the flash button, releasing a puff of smoke. Maybe Harvey and I share some DNA. Who knows?

Anyway, due to my resemblance to her dearly departed, actual or imagined, I have taken over some of ol' Harvey's former duties on and off for the past few years. Now if you're a sick, immature bastard like I am, you're thinking, "He's banging the old lady?" No. I am not banging Vivian Eisenberg, age 77....but on Sunday afternoon I came about as close to it as I'd like to ever come. I usually just change a light bulb or two, get something for her off a shelf she can't reach, or sometimes I run to the post office for her to get stamps for her "correspondence." The fact that she refers to letter writing as "correspondence" amuses me enough that I go get her the stamps when she asks.

When Viv called me on Sunday afternoon to come over and help her out with something, I internally sighed, and said, "No problem. Be right over." I threw on my sneakers, and went down to her floor, thinking I'd probably have to move her coffee table while she mopped up, or something. I knocked on her door, and she answered with her arm in a sling, wearing only a slip and a bra. I immediately looked away, embarrassed, but entered, trying not to make eye contact. I asked her what happened to her arm. She had taken a fall, and broken it, and she needed me to close her "brassiere" for her. Now, it wouldn't have been so bad if I just had to hook the thing together from behind. I'd zipped her dresses up for her in the past, and I survived that. This was just a bit creepier, but I figured I'd do it, get back to my apartment, and pretend this never happened. There was only one thing preventing me from doing that, though... And it wasn't a little thing either. In her haste to get the bra on, Vivian forgot to put her left breast in the cup. There I stood utterly skeeved out, and there her left tit hung all the way down to her waste. I kept looking away, as she retold the story of her fall and her broken arm.

DO YOU NOT SEE THAT YOUR TRIPLE Z-CUP, 77 YEAR OLD LEFT TIT IS ON THE LOOSE?, I wanted to scream. My mind raced.

Should I say something? Why isn't SHE saying something? Did I enter another dimension in which I was the lead in a twisted version of "The Graduate," and Mrs. Eisenberg was trying to seduce me with her gargantuan, droopy left breast?

She was an attractive woman back in her day. I could always tell from the pictures she showed me that Harvey was a lucky guy, but I never knew how lucky. I'm sure before gravity took over, Harvey probably had some good times with Viv's fun bags, but those days were long gone, and I knew it was time for me to be gone as well.

"I'm not really good with these things," I nervously told her. "Let me see if I can get someone else to help you," I continued, as I ran out.

"It's just a hook," she said, as I walked out, leaving her and her mammoth mammary hanging, both literally and figuratively.

I knocked on her neighbor's door, explained the situation to the woman who answered, and she graciously agreed to help.

I made the mistake of telling Shmegs the story. He's now emailed me at least a dozen pictures since Sunday, each with the subject: "Does this make you horny?--Vivian."

The least objectionable one is below:












This woman has absolutely nothing on Viv. The fact that I know that makes me wanna shower.

The Height of Stupidity

"Write down her screen name," my friend told me.

"Screen name?" I asked. "Just give me her number."

"She's been out with a lot of losers lately. She prefers if you IM her," he explained.

"So what am I supposed to sit online, and wait for her to pop onto my buddy list? That's fuckin' ridiculous. What is this 9th grade?," I protested.

"She said she's usually online from 9 to 10. IM her tonight."

"So this is some prearranged IM session? That's creepier than a prearranged marriage. At least after the marriage ceremony, you get laid at some point. What am I gonna get out of this? A bunch of long pauses between IMs and a few 'LOL's?," I complained.

"Just fuckin' IM her, " he said.... And I did. These are the highlights:

Her: how tall r u?

ME: 5'8.

HER: really

There was no question mark, exclamation point, or any other way I could figure out whether she was questioning my height, was disappointed by it, or indifferent to it.

ME: really.

What then followed was one of those two minute IM pauses, during which you don't know if you've been blown off, or if the other person got up to pee, had a stroke at their computer, is talking to other people, lost their internet connection, or has left you sitting there like an ass waiting for a response for any number of other reasons. I thought two minutes was a long enough waiting period, and I typed: "Seems like you're busy. Let's chat some other time." Before I could hit "send," she chimed back in with:

HER: i've gone out with a lot of guys who claim to be taller then they are. i went out with a guy last week who said he was 5'8 but was really 5'4

ME: If you want, you can measure me when we meet. All 68 inches of me.

Then came another pause. Did I offend her with my measuring my inches joke,? I wondered. Ah screw her, I thought. She practically accused me of lying about my height. But this pause only lasted about 30 seconds or so before she came back with:

HER: lol

She had to be talking to other people, I thought. It couldn't have taken her 30 seconds to come up with "lol." But then I read what she had to say next:

HER: wait a sec. 68 inches isnt 5 feet 8.

ME: Sure it is. 12 in. in a foot, x 5 ft= 60. Plus 8 in. 60+ 8 = 68.

HER: no. i just googled it. It's 5"4.

Are you mother fucking kidding me?, I thought, sitting there, laughing and seething at the same time. She googled it?!...She fuckin' googled it?!

ME: I don't know what to tell you. I'm 5'8, no matter what google says.

HER: to many guys have lied to me about their height.

ME: If I were gonna lie about my height, I'd lie taller than 5'8. Why not make myself 6'1, if I'm lying already?

I waited another thirty seconds for her to hit me back with...guess what?:

HER: LOLOL

I got an extra "OL" on that one, and in all caps. I wasn't even trying to be funny. I was just making a point, and looking for a polite way to extricate myself from this moronic IM session.

ME: Anyway, it's getting late. It was nice chatting with you. Gotta wake up for work tomorrow, and I'm sure you do to...

(for your job as a teacher where you'll corrupt the minds of our youth with your unfathomable stupidity)....

HER: 1 sec. brb

Shit, I thought. Now I have to wait for her to type something else before I can sign off. Family Guy was about to start, and I was stuck staring at this IM window waiting for someone with whom I had no desire to speak to come back, and type "LOL" again.

I left the IM window open, the volume on high, and I walked over to the sofa to enjoy my show. She never came back. Maybe she spent the rest of the night googling how many inches I'd be, if I were 6'1. Maybe she got caught up in the fantasy of having all those long, throbbing inches to herself, and forgot I was waiting for her.

MISSING OUT

This recent piece in The New York Times magazine reminded me of the time a friend tried to set me up with a particular woman.

"She's 32, really cute, smart, cool, (along with a whole bunch of other adjectives)," she told me. She sung this chick's praises for a good five minutes before she said, "There's just one thing."

"She's schizophrenic?," I asked.

"No," she responded.

"Member of a Satanic cult?"

"No."

"Uh...an anti-semite?"

"No. She's just a virgin," she said nonchalantly.

"JUST a virgin? I'd rather she be a schizophrenic, Satan worshiping, Jew hater," I remember telling her.

"Why?," she wanted to know.

"Because at least then I'd have a chance of getting laid."

"Who says you won't have that chance with her?"

"Because she's 32 and hasn't had sex yet," I insisted. "I don't think she's taking the chastity belt off for me."

"You never know," she replied.

"Sounds like she's waiting for the 'one,' which is fine," I said, "But I'm not gonna date her and wait to see if I win the lottery. Set her up with some other poor bastard...or another virgin so they can hold hands, and wear each other's friendship rings. This chick is not for me."

"You're missing out," she said, failing to see the irony of her statement. "Are you just looking for sex?"

I remember sighing, and saying, "Yes, I'm a sex maniac. What are you wearing?"

Two months later she set the "virgin" up with a mutual friend. He boned her on the second date... and got an STD.

Guess I did miss out after all...on painful urination and a week of antibiotics.

The Drive By

I stood on the corner of 81st and 2nd - our agreed upon meeting place. I told her I'd meet her inside the Starbucks, but she insisted that I wait on the corner. She was driving in from Jersey, and we discussed the possibility of going somewhere further downtown. She didn't want to deal with looking for parking twice so she wanted me to wait for her on the corner like some meat packing district trannie whore at precisely 7:30 pm. I knew it was gonna be pretty damn cold out on Saturday night, and it was, so I told her to just call me when she got to our designated meeting place, and I'd jump right out and meet her. "I'd really rather you waited outside," she said when we spoke that afternoon. I had neither the patience, nor the desire to argue with her, so I gave in like the spineless shithead who's been on too many dates, that I am.

I sat in the Starbucks until 7:28, when I stepped outside to meet this demanding New Jersey resident. I waited, and shivered until around 7:34, when a white Toyota, covered in bird shit, with Jersey plates slowed down at the corner. The female driver looked in my general direction, and took off. The driver seemed a little older than the woman in the picture I was sent by the person who set us up, but she was gone so quickly it was really hard to tell if it was her. I stood there like an ass until 7:41, when the same Toyota pulled up to the corner, and came to a complete stop. The driver rolled down her window and said, "Marc?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Hey. Get in," she said.

"Sarah?," I said cautiously.

"Yeah, yeah, get in. It's cold," she responded as she rolled her window back up.

It must be real cold inside that heated car, I thought. I'm the one that's been freezing my nuts off for the past thirteen minutes waiting for you, you asshole, my internal voice continued. I wanted to lay into her so badly, but instead I just got into the car to get some warmth.

"Was that you who drove by around 5,10 minutes ago, and then drove off?," I asked, as I sat in the passenger seat of her filthy Camry, wondering whether or not they had car washes in Jersey.

"Yeah," she said.

"Why didn't you stop?," I inquired.

"I was checking you out. One of the advantages of not living in the city and having a car. You can drive off if you don't like what you see," she said giggling.

"So how come you didn't stop the first time?," I asked, as my body temperature shot immediately back up to its normal level due to my blood boiling.

"I couldn't really get a good look the first time, and I didn't want you to see me."

"Well, I saw you."

"But I stopped the second time," she said, as if I was supposed to feel honored.

"I think you're gonna have to stop a third time," I responded.

"Why?"

"To let me out," I said.

"Really?, she asked, surprised.

"Really!," I responded angrily.

"FINE!, she said, equally as angrily, as she jerked the car over to the curb. She barely came to a complete stop, and I somehow managed to jump out without having to tuck and roll like I was Chuck Norris in some cheesy 80's action movie.

The last thing I heard her bark was, "Can you close the door?!... It's freezing!"

No shit, bitch, I thought to myself, as I ignored her, and walked the ten blocks home in the cold.

The Door Blocker

The date was a formality. It was disinterest at first sight... on both our parts. One of those dates during which you both say to yourselves, "Okay. An hour, and I'm done. I'll be polite, but this chick/guy is not for me."

She had the physique of R2D2, and the personality of Chewbacca....kind of angry at the world. I think I even heard her growl a few times. I'm sure she had nothing particularly nice to say about me either. You'd have to check her blog for that . I'm guessing the address is something like:

www.34-bitter-bitchy-and-not-nearly-as attractive-as-I think-I-am.blogspot.com.

After about 45 minutes of forced conversation at the French Roast across the street from her place, I walked her back across the street, and stood at her building's entrance. It was that awkward moment at the end of a first date that you both know will not result in a second. I wanted to simply say, "Okay. Nice meeting you. Take Care," and leave. But despite the mutual disinterest, I still felt the need to engage her in polite conversation. She complained during the date about some exam she needed to take for work. I asked her about the specifics of the exam, and she stood there with her arms stretched - covering the entrance to her front door like a security guard preventing groupies from entering the band's dressing room after the concert.

My mouth moved, asking her the inane question about her work, but my mind was only able to focus on this chick protecting that door with her life. As far as she was concerned, there was no way I was getting into her building, or into her precious goodies. I couldn't believe she thought I was being anything but polite. Did she actually think I wanted some of what she got? 'Cuz she ain't got shit! Maybe I SHOULD try and get in, I thought for a second. This way I can hang a mirror somewhere in her apartment so she could see for herself how incredibly wrong she was about my interest in her.

Instead, I waited for her terse response to my question, and then said, "Okay. Nice meeting you. Take Care." She said the same, and ran into her building like it was 1976 and the Son of Sam was on the loose.

The Oracle of Costco

A friend invited me over to check out his new house in the burbs. I'd have been more than happy to see pictures of the house rather than have to trek out to the land of endless strip malls and Applebees, but there was a Costco nearby, and they had something I needed. I decided to be a nice guy and get my brother one of those foam mattress toppers for his birthday. He'd been complaining about his inability to sleep well on his current mattress, and I figured a repeat of last year's gifts of a bag of weed, and a Family Guy boxed set, weren't gonna help his sleeping issues. So my buddy Shmegs picked me up in his pickup truck, and like Fred and Lamont Sanford, off we went into suburbia.

I got to the register at Costco, and without incident, the guy rang up the two "giant roll" 36 packs of toilet paper I had in the cart. Feeling confident that my ass would now not go unwiped for many, many months, I just waited for him to scan the mattress so I could pay and be on my way. When he saw that the topper was a king size, he put down his scanner, got really serious, and gave me the look a father gives his son when the son gets into trouble at school...or has to be bailed out of jail at 3 AM.

"Are you married!?," he demanded to know. "Why you buying a king size!? "

"It's for my brother. It's a gift," I said in my defense, scared he might take his belt off and whack me one.

"Good," he said, relieved. "Don't ever fuckin' get married! You'll be miserable."

As I waited for the guy at the exit to pretend to studiously check my receipt before allowing me to leave with my purchases, I thought - "Is Costco guy right? Should I not even bother dating anymore?" He was pretty damn adamant about how he felt. Spit flew out of his mouth. Then as Shmegs helped me put the mattress in the back of the pickup, I thought a 45 year old guy, working as a cashier at Costco probably isn't the best choice for a life coach.

Right now I've got the queen size topper, which is perfect for one, but if I ever need to upgrade to a king, I'll make sure to get it at a different Costco. If the wise man at this branch catches me buying another king, he'll never believe it's not for me, and he may just take his belt off and try and teach me a lesson.

I Got "Eh'd"

A couple of weeks back I had one of those uneventful dates that wasn't blog worthy. She was so so looking, not all that interesting, and I forgot about her pretty much after the post date debriefing with the friend who set us up. I gave him my standard "She's nice, but not for me" line. That was it. He accepted it without trying to urge me to go out with her one more time, like so many others have done in the past.

I hadn't spoken to my friend since that conversation until he called last night to say hello. We spoke a bit about the usual stuff, and spent a few minutes discussing how our new blind governor has managed to get so much action. Do chicks dig blind dudes?, we pondered together. How does he see what he's doing?, we wondered. Even amongst fully sighted people with the lights on, things wind up in the wrong places occasionally. This guy probably isn't even getting close to his targets, so how's he getting all that ass?, we wanted to know. To make ourselves feel better, we agreed that the women he was getting were just into the whole power thing. A logical explanation, but the guy seems pretty cool and laid back, and probably has some game too.

Once we got off of the topic of the governor, my friend mentioned that he spoke to the chick he set me up with a couple of weeks ago.

"Really?," I said, trying to act cool.

"Yeah," he said, as if trying to goad me into asking more. But I didn't.

"We spoke about your date," he continued.

"Yeah? What'd she say?," I asked, pretending not to care.

"Eh," he said.

"What do you mean, 'Eh?'," I inquired.

"I asked her how the date was, and she said "Eh!," he told me.

"No 'He's a nice guy, but not for me?'," I asked.

"Nope. Just 'Eh.'"

"This chick is the ultimate 'Eh,' but I at least was nice when I told you I wasn't interested," I said. "I know she's your friend, and I didn't want to insult her...or you."

"I know, and I respect that," he replied. "Nevertheless, she said your date was 'Eh'."

"Why do I sense that you're getting pleasure out of this?," I asked him.

"'Hey listen, you pretty much said the same thing about her. You just had more couth," he said.

"Yeah well, to be 'Eh'd' by someone who is the poster child for 'Eh,' kind of irritates me," I responded.

"You'll get over it," he said. "Let's get a couple of seeing eye dogs and try to pick up chicks in the park this weekend. It'll make you feel better. What do you say?"

"Eh," is what I said.

The Non-Introducer

Today's blog specimen is one of those people who seems to know everybody. On our first date, she saw two people at the cafe we were at that she knew. She excused herself to go over to each of their tables to say hi. She was gone what seemed like a minute or so, so it was no big deal. I had the menu to keep me occupied, and by the time I looked up, she was back. As I walked her to her building, she ran into another person she knows. This time the exchange was longer than a minute or so. SEVEN minutes to be exact. I know because I kept fidgeting with my cell phone so I'd have something to do while the two of them discussed the details of a mutual friend's divorce.

It was 9:47 when their conversation started, and 9:54 when it ended. From a geological perspective, 7 minutes is less than nothing, but when you're the guy who has nothing to contribute to the conversation, other than a smile and a few head bobs, seven minutes is an eternity. I listened to the two of them utter phrases like, "That's horrible," "He's such an ass," and "I warned her," for 420 excruciating seconds. What troubled me the most was not that I had nothing to say (the gabbing of two yentas about some stranger's divorce doesn't interest me), or even that it lasted as long as it did, as I stood there in the cold night, shivering and bored. What bothered me most was the fact that she didn't introduce me. If I'm with a friend or a date, or anyone for that matter, I'll always introduce them to someone I've just engaged in conversation...whether it's another friend, an acquaintance, my doorman, or the guy whose job it is to power wash the bird shit off my building's communal terrace. It's just polite....especially if I'm gonna have a 7 minute long conversation with that other person. I'd never let the person I'm with stand there with his or her thumb up his or her ass for that long with nothing to do or say.

I was willing to overlook the non-introducing incident by asking her out again since the rest of the date was fine. Not great, but fine. She was agreeable, so we met for our second date last night, where she did it again. This time, it was in the lobby of her building. I waited patiently for her to come down. When she exited the elevator, she was already deeply engrossed in a conversation with two of her neighbors. She lifted her finger at me when she noticed me, as if motioning for me to hold on a second, and stay where I was. That second turned into fifteen minutes, as I sat on the sofa in her lobby watching her talk to these people across the room. Not only did I not get introduced this time, but I was forbidden from standing near her while she was talking to these people. She ended her conversation, came over to me, and said hi, as if nothing was wrong. She clearly sensed my displeasure with her behavior, and said, "I'm sorry about that. They're neighbors, and I don't like them knowing my personal business."

"I understand," I responded, even though I didn't. All I could think was, "You made me sit there like a total shithead for 15 fucking minutes, you ...."

"They're my neighbors. What am I supposed to do?," she continued, interrupting my train of thought before I could mentally insult her.

"Tell them you have plans, and you gotta go. How about that?," I said.

"What's with the attitude?," she asked in an accusatory tone.

"No attitude. You asked what you were supposed to do. I answered."

"I'm not liking this conversation at all," she scoffed.

"Really? You seem to love conversations. Like the one on our first date with your friend."

"What are you talking about?," she asked confused.

"You know, the one you spoke to for a while about someone's divorce."

"I hadn't seen her in forever, and I was just catching up. What's the big deal?"

"I have no problem with that, but you didn't introduce me, and it was a bit awkward for me. That's all," I explained.

"Why did you need to be introduced to her? What are you interested in her or something? You want her number?"

"No. I don't want her number," I said, knowing we probably weren't going to get out of her lobby. "It's just polite."

"So now I'm not polite?," she inquired.

I hesitated, not sure what to say. It didn't matter because she knew exactly what she wanted to tell me:

"Have a lovely evening....Is that polite enough for you?" Then she turned away, and headed back to the elevators.

The concierge in her building saw the whole thing. He nodded to me as I was leaving, as if to acknowledge that he knew I was in the right. It's unfortunate. The concierge and I could've been friends, but the bitch never introduced us.

Spitzer Should've Just Joined Jdate

My first reaction to the pictures of Spitzer's "lady friend" was, "Holy shit. Those pics could totally be in a Jdate profile." Think about it. She looks kind of sexy in that first pic so you click on her profile to see a second self taken webcam picture that looks nothing like the first pic. You start to wonder. Is this the same person? Then you look more closely, and you realize she has the same nose, eyes, and lips, so yeah, it's the same person, but what does she look like now? Then, of course, there's the requisite sunglasses pic because everyone thinks they look good in sunglasses. But that pic looks nothing at all like the first two. Now you're even more confused. However, she's attractive, and you think about emailing her anyway... until you read her profile, which contains gems like "If I never went through the hard times, I would not be able to appreciate the good ones," (taken from her myspace page, and from every episode of Oprah). You roll your eyes, and move on to the next profile. But then you go back, and email her anyway, thinking, "What do I have to lose? It's only an email."...But she never responds because every other guy on Jdate thought the same damn thing. In fact, most other guys never even read her profile and her homage to Maya Angelou. They just saw the slightest hint of cleavage in that third pic, and that was enough to hit the "email" button.

Spitzer could've saved himself $4,960.01 by signing up for the $39.99 Jdate fee...and that's for a month, not an hour. There's no guarantee she'd respond to him if he emailed this chick, but listing "Governor of NY" as his occupation might have helped his cause. And if he got busted trying to pick up chicks on Jdate, he'd get a whole lot of shit from his wife, but it beats getting caught going to whores, and being globally humiliated.

The bottom line is you know you got screwed when Jdate turns out to be a bargain.

PAYING FOR IT (MY OP-ED PIECE ON THE SPITZER SCANDAL)

I don't judge. Who a man screws is his own business as long as the screwee is a consenting adult.

How much he pays for it is another story.

The only way I'd pay $5,000 to get laid is if I had a coupon for $4,999...or a mail in rebate... something. Maybe if I got to do it in a pile of 4,999 dollar bills, and got to keep the bills after a thorough cleaning, I'd consider it. I guess it could be a pile of 249 or so twenties too, or 49 hundreds, 4 twenties, a ten, and nine singles...either way I ain't paying more than a buck...and even then, I'd want change.

I don't believe in paying money to get laid. The misery of dating women who cancel at the last minute, or want me to fix their computers so they can contact a guy on Jdate is payment enough for me. Whenever I am lucky enough to meet someone who's ready, willing, and able, I know I've paid my dues to get it. I appreciate that it's easier for a married man who's looking for some no strings side action to call a hooker. That's his business. I also understand that a man in a position of power in the public eye, for whom money is not a concern, isn't picking up three toothed crack whores in the Bronx.

But what in the hell could a chick possibly do for you for five grand an hour? There's no woman hot enough, or good enough in bed to warrant that kind of spending. How great of a lay can one woman be? How mind boggling a blow job can she give? Even if you like to get REEEEAAALY freaky, what level of debauchery is worth that kind of money? Were there farm animals involved? Because there's no way it could cost more than a few hundred bucks to rent a couple of sheep for an hour. The math just doesn't work.

Apparently he wasn't paying for discretion because these broads rolled on him in exchange for immunity like the heroin addict they catch 10 minutes into Law and Order rolls on the guy that masterminded the murder. At the very least, these chicks owe Spitzer a refund...or like 1500 hand jobs.

RAINY DAY WOMAN

Friday night was another date night...or at least it was supposed to be until I got a cancellation email 15 minutes before the scheduled date time. We were to meet at a cafe five minutes from my apartment so I had plenty of time to screw around online before heading out to the date. As I read in my Facebook "Newsfeeds" that my 38 year old friend is most like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street, and that another "updated her mood to 'sad,'" I heard the little Outlook beep alerting me that I had mail. It was a welcome distraction. Five more minutes on that site, and I might have signed up to attend the "Queen Esther Purim Masquerade Ball" that Facebook had to tell me a friend was going to. A Jewish singles costume party...I'd rather re-up on Jdate. At least on Jdate, I can be humiliated from the privacy of my own home.

When I saw the email was from the chick I was to meet, I was pretty certain it was a cancellation. I got that cancellation vibe from her when we spoke on the phone. She was nice enough, but she's one of those flaky people with whom you're never really sure you're connecting. I'd say something, she'd laugh, but I never knew if she even got the joke. I realized my instincts were on the money, as I read the email:

"Hi. Really icky out. Don't feel like getting all wet. I'll email you over the weekend."

My beef is not with the cancellation - I kinda knew that was coming - nor is it with her terse, yet un-fucking-believably tactless email (an "I'm Sorry" would've been nice). My problem is the cancellation 15 minutes before we were supposed to meet...VIA EMAIL. What if I wasn't home to check? I don't have a Blackberry or an iphone. Shit, I don't even have text messages enabled on my cell phone. What if my internet had been down? What if I wasn't at the computer? I'm not one of those guys that sits at Starbucks all day with a laptop and a Latte, pretending to do something important. I do that shit at home and at work...but she didn't know where I was. At the 15 minute mark, you pick up a phone. It's obnoxious enough to cancel that late because it's "icky out," but at least have the audacity to say it, and not email it.

I emailed her back a simple, "Don't worry about it," meaning for her not to worry about emailing me back. Given her flakiness and the vagueness of my email, I thought she'd think I meant for her not to worry about canceling on me, and that I was still interested.

Apparently, she didn't worry about it at all because I never heard from her again.

The Recycler

Had lunch with a woman over the weekend at one of those places where you're responsible for clearing your own tray. Not exactly Le cirque, I know, but it was a first date... and a ho-hum one at that. Nothing I'd ordinarily even write about. She's an okay looking accountant who doesn't seem to have many interests other than bad reality TV and hanging out with her friends. Or so I thought. I didn't learn of her intense passion for protecting the environment until it was time to clear the trays off the table.

Once I heard the words "That show, 'My Dad Is Better Than Your Dad' is so cool," I knew the conversation had run its course, and it was time to clear those trays. As a gentleman, I grabbed her tray too, and threw out the remains of her goat cheese, tofu salad (or whatever it was), as well as what was left of my bagel. This place is very greedy with the shmear, and I can't eat the bagel if there's no cream cheese left on it. Anyway, I cleared both of our trays, and she said, "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?," I asked, confused.

"You just threw two bottles of water in the regular garbage. That belongs in the recycling can," she barked.

"Oh shit," I said. "I wasn't even paying attention. My bad."

"Put them into the recycling can," she ordered. What before appeared to be the faintest hint of facial hair on her upper lip, now looked like a Hitler moustache.

"I'm not sticking my hands in the garbage to fish out two plastic bottles," I explained, as more people began to throw the remains of their meals, and their other wretched refuse atop the bottles in question.

"That's so fuckin' irresponsible," she scoffed.

I tried to reason with her."The store has to separate the garbage anyway so...."

"They're not gonna separate the damn garbage. If you don't do it, nobody will!"

"Well, I guess nobody will because there is no way I'm muddling through all that filth to get those bottles. If it's that important to you, why don't you stick your hands in that bacteria trap and pull them out yourself?"

"I'm not the one who threw them in there," she protested.

"I'm not the one who wants them out," I protested back.

"What an asshole!," she said.

"Bye," I said, and I walked out.

The Caveman Code

Got a call from my friend last night asking me for help. He wanted me to do a rewrite on his profile.

"Nah," I said, being the good friend that I am. "Leave me alone. I'm watching the Hilary/Obama debate. I'm trying to educate myself, and you're wasting my time with profiles."

"Come on, man," he pleaded. "My profile sucks. I need your help."

"Yes, your profile does suck, but I told you that 2 years ago. What's the rush all of a sudden?"

"There's this chick I met. I wanna show her my profile, but she's into really sarcastic guys," he explained. "I want her to see that I can be sarcastic."

"I don't understand," I asked, puzzled. "If you met her already, what does she need to see your profile for? Hasn't meeting you in person turned her off enough?"

"Seriously, man. I want her to see that I can be sarcastic," he continued to whine.

"So why weren't you sarcastic when you spoke in person? This whole thing makes no sense to me," I exclaimed.

"It was a quick conversation. I was nervous. I have her screen name so I wanna IM her. She'll read my profile, she'll see how sarcastic I am, and voila," he said.

"Did you just say 'voila?,' I asked, annoyed. I was actually gonna help you out, but now..."

"Please! This chick is so hot!," he begged one last time before I reluctantly acquiesced, giving in to the unwritten code of cavemen: "If one caveman think girl is hot, fellow caveman must help him club hot girl over head, and drag her back to his cave."

I doubt it will make it past the profile censors, but if you're a chick searching for guys online, and you happen to come across this profile, you'll know it was written by a sarcastic caveman for a pathetic caveman:

"I'm actually 65, but list my age as 32 to come up in searches. The picture is accurate, though. I just look damn good for my age thanks to extensive plastic surgery and prune juice. You'd be surprised how much staying regular contributes to a youthful appearance. I work hard and play hard... but only after I've taken a Cialis or two. My family is extremely important to me...not so much because I actually care about their well being, but because I plan on inheriting a lot of money from them some day soon. I guess I'm just looking for my partner in crime...mainly so I can have someone to rat out in exchange for immunity, if we ever got caught. If you wanna be the Bonnie to my Clyde, say hey."

The Windshield Remark

"Don't you hate those assholes who clean just enough snow off their windshields to see, and leave the rest of the car covered in snow? They drive around with like 2 feet of snow on their roofs. It's always irritated the shit out of me," I said to last night's date as the topic of conversation turned to the impending storm.

"I do that," she responded, rather stoically. "If you're in a rush, who has time to clean the whole car?"

"Fair enough," I said.

She had a point, and I pretty much called her an irritating asshole for no reason. My bad.

I awkwardly kind of tried to apologize, and she begrudgingly kind of accepted. What followed was a series of uncomfortable silences, and her staring at her watch a lot.

I'm better off, though, I think. After all, I could never be with one of those assholes who cleans just enough snow off their windshields to see...that irritates the shit out of me.

The Obama Hater

I almost never discuss politics or religion on dates, but last night, I did both. When the TV hanging above the bar started to flash something about the presidential election, my date felt the need to start our own little, 2 person McLaughlin Group.

"So who do you think is gonna win?" she asked.

"When it comes down to it, I think most Americans will feel most comfortable with the old, white guy. Just like they always do. So McCain will probably be the next president."

"As long as it's not Obama," she remarked, seeming almost relieved by my prediction.

"Not an Obama fan?," I inquired.

"Well, I mean, he hates the Jews, doesn't he?"

"I hadn't heard anything about that. I'm sure his campaign would be long over (just like I wish this date was), if that were public knowledge," I said and thought.

"But he's a black Muslim," she proclaimed.

"His father was, but he belongs to some Christian Church. Besides, not all black Muslims are Farrakhan disciples," I said.

"What's a Farrakhan disciple?," she asked.

Luckily, her cell phone rang before I had to give her a lecture about the Nation of Islam. She shut it off, and apologized, but by then I was busy paying the bill. Even luckier, was the fact that I had exact change with the tip. Our exit and eventual parting of ways was quick and painless.

Oh yeah, did I mention she's a teacher?

The Homeless Chick

"So where do you live?," I asked of the woman whose number was given to me by my friend, "Shmegs" - an unfortunate nickname bestowed upon him well before I met him in college.

Shmegs is the type of guy who can set you up with a whacko or someone really cool, which makes sense given that Shmegs himself is both a whacko and really cool at the same time. Regardless of the mental stability levels of the women he's hooked me up with, they've all had one thing in common: they were all knockouts. I don't know how a guy who gets introduced at social gatherings as "Shmegs Bernstein" has access to these women, but he does. And when he offers me a number, I take it...superficial bastard that I am.

"I don't really LIVE anywhere," she responded.

"What do you mean?," I asked.

"I kind of stay with people. Like now I'm staying with a friend on the Lower East Side," she said matter of factly.

"I see."

"I guess you could say I'm homeless," she said, giggling.

"Really? You have your own shopping cart, and everything?," I said, knowing that this one wasn't gonna happen.

"No. I'm really just in between places right now," she responded. "It's been impossible to find a place that's reasonably priced."

"How long have you been looking?," I asked.

"Three years."

The conversation ended with me telling her I'd "be in touch" - not with her necessarily, but I had to say something.

I'm not that demanding when it comes to what I'm looking for in women I'd like to date, but possessing permanent shelter is a must.

I told Shmegs the story, and he emailed me her picture so I could see what I was missing. She was hot. But I kept envisioning her with dirty, scraggly hair, and those fingerless gloves that are all the rage amongst the homeless set sleeping on my sofa for the next 6-8 months.