Dick Licker of the Year

Competition was fierce this year, but edging out Newt Gingrich, Boy Scouts of America, Octomom, Carnival Cruise Line, and Justice Anthony Scalia for the Dick Licker of the Year award was the Iowa Supreme Court.

Congratulations, gentlemen. By unanimously agreeing with a man who fired his dental assistant because her attractiveness threatened his marriage, well, that's what I call real dickmanship. Seven dicks for seven brothers. Les dickerables.

What happened to holding people personally accountable for their thoughts and feelings? If we set a precedent to blame others--how can we possibly be expected to control ourselves?!--for decisions we're even thinking about making, what hope is there for the future generations of women?

Yeah, I thought it, too, probably the same time you did: designer burkas.

Don't think your name didn't come up during voting, Dr. James Knight. You felt, one day, you were bound to stick your penis in your dental assistant. Your wife thought so too and demanded she be fired.

That makes you a dick-licking motherfucker too.

I could dole out insults all day but I guess I should grow up and get to the heart of the matter.

Hey, dumb shits. You know who's a threat to your marriage? You and your wife!

Talk about a lack of trust, respect, and self-esteem. You didn't need to go to court, Dr. Knight. You needed to go to marriage counseling.

And you, Iowa Supreme Court, should never allow the internal insecurities of a marriage to dictate the outcome of a woman's employment. I hope the Dick Licker of the Year award looks as nice as I think it will sitting next to your Smug Fucker participation ribbon. 

c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s.

All right. I've heard enough. There are too many men in too many movies claiming the key to performing fellatio on women is spelling out letters with their tongues. Most recently, I watched a woman tell her boyfriend he's really good at it and he says it's because he wrote a short story. With his tongue.

What a fantastical way to admit he has no fucking idea what he's doing.

And she's lying.

I can imagine how it feels, having a tongue spell out letters in my cookie jar: erratic, unorganized, hit and miss. One second it feels great, right on the spot, and the very next the tongue is off on some unplanned adventure, nowhere near my pleasure cruise. 

I hate to be the barer of bad news, but women aren't typewriters. Our vulvas aren't looking for the next Hemingway to write the next great American story in our business. 

Then again, treating women's sexual needs with this kind of bullshit is the great America story, isn't it?  

I'm not saying this is true across the board. There are plenty of men out there who take pleasuring their women seriously. I like to think alphabet cunnilingus is nothing more than Hollywood urban legend, comparable to lesbians in movies sleeping with men. It's for a laugh. But something tells me, having heard stories from women who don't orgasm until their thirties, it's not a joke. 

Listen up, gods of pleasure. Tongue fatigue sets in quickly when you listen to men who live with their parents or drive BMWs. Cunnilingus doesn't have to be so complicated. Generally speaking, her clitoris prefers pressure on one side or the other, the top, going back and forth, or up and down. And if you feel the need to try this bullshit at the vaginal opening, stick with the letter O. Just stay present and her body will guide you, unlike Hollywood screenwriters.

Here We Go Again

Every time it hurts me. Every time I feel like throwing a monstrous fit. Every time I wish for change.

Checking the "single" box on my medical records is fucking ridiculous. When offered, checking "other" and writing "domestic partnership" on the line provided sounds like my wife and I made an agreement to grow tails, stay off the couch, and pee outside. But my integrity won't let me check the "married" box because, well, it's not true.

I recently conducted a medical review over the phone. Perfectly Pleasant Pam asked me my name. Date of birth. Single or married.

Oh, boy. Here we go. I sighed. "I guess I have to say single, unfortunately."

"Well that's all right," Pam said. I imagined her shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"It's not legal for me to get married," I said. I wanted Pam to know that being denied the right to marry was not "all right" with me.

"Well I've been with my guy for nine, ten years," Pam said. She briefly elaborated, suggesting it was hilarious that being with her guy for so long provided her no pleasure in checking the married box.

Congratulations, Pam. Your relationship is a riot. You and your guy are a couple regular Everybody Loves Raymond types that American's adore. Aren't you fucking special.

Pam seemed relieved to move on to questions concerning my medical history.

I thought Pam and I were done; we'd had our moment and it had passed. We were compadres, working on the same team. Then she asked me for my emergency contact, which I provided with no hesitation. Her name is...Her phone number is...

"Is this your friend?" Pam said.

The phone's for you, Pam. It's 1995 and it wants its "roommate" back.

"She's my WIFE," I responded.

Pam didn't know what to do. Stuck between wanting to seem cool and having a hard time hiding her true self, she stammered and may have accidently shot a staple into her leg.

Fail, Pam. Epic fail.

I'm begging, imploring that people like Pam are soon put out of their misery. She can call me carpet licker, diesel dyke, homo, fag, or anything else her and her guy can come up with behind my back, just as long as there's a word for what I am on my medical records: Married.

Something to Write About

I'm not a fan of bumper stickers. I don't feel the need to let other drivers know things about me. I don't need to plead with strangers to "<Not> blame me because I voted for the American." What difference does it make if strangers know I'm an uninformed, ignorant racist? Unless I'm rolling through Detroit, none.

While it's great to want the Dalia Lama's safe return home and monks to stop being persecuted for their beliefs, announcing I want a "Free Tibet" says I'm political without being political. Who doesn't want a free Tibet? Some Chinese, maybe, but come on. Americans love to rally against bullies who don't allow freedom of reli--what's that now? Our President must say "God bless America" after he gives a speech? Well, you know what I mean. "Free Tibet" is doing nothing more than accentuating the orange-ish hues on my 1984 Volkswagen Jetta's rusty bumper.

Who gives a shit about seeing my family displayed in stick-figure formation? Nothing says I'm thinking about the environment I'm leaving for my six kids, two dogs, and one cat than driving through the Starbucks' drive-thru in my Range Rover. Who cares if our ecological footprint is so big my family, singlehandedly, can one day be blamed for dependence on foreign oil?

Fuck it. I'm important, and I can do what I want.

You got that right. Do what you want all day long. It gives me something to write about.

What Was That?

Something unexpected happened over the weekend. Something I assumed would be quite innocent turned out to be an evening-shattering event. At one point my wife and I looked at each other, each wiping streaming tears from our faces, and wondered aloud what was happening to us. One of us had to keep swallowing, her throat burning, to keep from balls-out bawling. 

It started when Walter chicken-pecked the first few notes—"It's. Time. To..."—on Kermit the Frog's dusty piano.

There was no coming back from it.

If you haven't seen The Muppets, let me tell you, that movie wasn't messing around. It lifted my wife and me over its head, cracked our backs over its knee, and left us to crawl to a payphone to call for help. The Muppets’ studio in ruins?! The Muppets no longer friends?! No longer relevant?! It took everything we valued and loved in our childhoods and set them on fire right in front of our faces. 

And then Kermit and Miss Piggy had to go and sing Rainbow Connection as a duet. You might as well have beaten a basket of puppies before our eyes the way we carried on.

When my wife asked me, “What’s wrong with us?” I tried to say something about our reactions maybe being linked to our youth being over, how we’d never feel that joyfully light again, that we’d never feel so over-the-top connected to anything like the Muppets again, but couldn't without breaking down. 

So I took a minute. 

With tears still rolling down my face, I settled on, "I'm so glad we didn't see that in the theater.”

And that's how we left it: laughing about being the two adult women in the audience who couldn't manage to detach themselves from the fuzzy friends who meant more to them than just entertaining puppets.

Slapping Bitches

It has been awhile since I've had an overwhelming urge to open-hand slap someone across the face. Plenty have been considered--Kim Kardashian after she took the "sanctity of marriage" and poured expensive champagne all over it; Newt Gingrich because, well, he's Newt Gingrich; Donald Trump as he struggles to remain relevant--but it wasn't until last week, when Mitt Romney insulted me by saying I'm looking for gifts from Obama, that I started taking practice swings at pillows.

So you're the candidate who wouldn't make it rain and that's what sunk you.

Sounds like something a little bitch would say.

Let me lay it out for you, Mitt. The only gift I'll receive for not voting for you is not having you referred to as President of the United States for the next four years. Even if you'd offered the gift of extending the Bush tax cuts and I was a millionaire, it still wouldn't be a bigger gift than that. To suggest otherwise is egotistically irresponsible.

It takes a true little bitch to not admit playing a part in his own loss. But a true little bitch tries everything he can to keep his starting quarterback position on a team that wants to make the rules.

Little bitches, man. You just can't get close enough to give them a gift of your own.

Love in One Act

ACT I
SUNDAY MORNING, FALL 2012

The McHeberly kitchen. Standing in the thimble-sized kitchen is Whack-A-Muse, the oldest member of the household. She is finishing up the dishes, when her wife walks down the hallway and stops at the end of the kitchen counter. She has a white and pink electric razor in her hand.

Wife   You want me to shave your mustache?

Whack-A-Muse  (looking at the razor) You didn't just use that on your--

Wife   No!

WAM   Were you embarrassed to be seen with me at the play last night?

Wife   Not at all.

WAM   It's okay if you were. Maybe the way I was standing under the light caught--

Wife   (laughs) No. I just had these out and figured, you know.

WAM  (without hesitation) Sure! But should we get out of the kitchen?

Wife   Yes. Let's go in the living room, in the light.

WAM follows Wife into the living room. Wife turns, takes WAM by the shoulders and positions her just so in a block of sunshine. Wife turns on the electric lady razor and raises it to WAM's upper lip. WAM stretches her mouth to make it easier on Wife, and to ensure the tiny black hairs are erased.

Wife   (satisfied, Wife turns off the razor) There.

WAM   How's my eyebrows look? The ones that grow into my hair?

Wife turns the razor back on and starts shaving the side of WAM's forehead.

Once Wife is finished, WAM uses her pointer finger and rubs between her eyebrows. Without a word, Wife turns the razor back on.

WAM  I don't know if I trust you shaving between my eyebrows.

Wife   I know, but trust me. It'll be okay.

WAM   You can't shave straight down. You gotta angle it. I don't want you to shave off half my eyebrows like you--

Wife   (firmly) I know. It'll be fine.

Wife, again, raises the razor and delicately shaves between WAM's eyebrows.

WAM   Better?

Wife   Yes.

They kiss.

Big Fucking Deal

On the eve of the election, I'm feeling all kinds of, well, feelings. My belief system aligns more with President Obama’s, but truthfully, nothing in my daily life changes, regardless of who is steering the ship. But, this year, things feel different. For the first time in our nation's history, the sitting President, Barack Obama, thinks I have the right to get married. And that feels like a Big Fucking Deal.

When I excitedly asked a family member if she'd heard the President’s announcement, all she had to say was, "Well yeah! He wants those votes!"

Right. Votes. Forget that it took 223 years for the President of the United States to “want” a gay's vote. Forget that no president before Obama has ever supported gay marriage. Forget that the family member’s daughter is one of those.

My own mother reducing Obama's support of gay marriage as an attempt to garner more votes blatantly shows how easily the love I have for my wife can be dismissed.

And I'm fucking over it.

Legalizing gay marriage makes our love recognizable, something people can understand and wrap their heads around. Yes, it is just like The Bachelorette but the Bachelorette chooses a woman instead of a man. That’s a Big Fucking Deal.

So thank you, Mr. President, for telling our nation that, yes, love is love. Thank you for being the voice of profound change in my life. And thank you for being the only man I want (in the White House).

Because, like it or not, my life is a Big Fucking Deal.

A Casual Rapency

I'll admit I sometimes picture myself aiming a fleshy wand at the toilet. I can’t help wonder what it would feel like to have my genitalia on the outside...until I see a man vomit, roll around on the ground, and turn an unnatural shade of red after getting kicked in the dick. Then I don't wonder so much.

I wonder if Richard Mourdock ever pictures himself needing to sit down to pee, calmly tinkling the need to aim away. I wonder if he ever thinks about how it feels to walk down a street, alone, always on high alert. I wonder if he ever thinks about all his might being overpowered. About having a knife held to his throat. Foreign saliva dripping on his face. Having his body forcibly split, opened. I wonder if he ever thinks about being so scared he wishes for death to come.

I wonder if Richard ever thinks about how looking down at a swollen belly is a trigger. How a body splitting apart, again, pushing out God’s Good Will Baby, is a constant reminder of violence and fear.

I wonder if he thinks the way he talks about rape seems callously casual.

I wonder if he thinks at all.

Urban Legend: The Scissoring Lesbians

Everyone knows that lesbian intimacy revolves around fluffy pillows, Laura Ashley wallpaper, white cotton panties, vanilla scented candles, and rubbing our smooth private Barbie parts together, also known as scissoring. That's why sewing rooms--the lesbian equivalent to gay men's bath houses--are so popular in the Pacific Northwest.

The act of scissoring can be traced back to the late 1700s in Ireland. Fiona McDonnell couldn't fit on the bed on account of her family's kindness. After neighboring family, the O'Learys, lost their home in an unexpected fire, the McDonnells opened their home to the family of five. But bedtime posed a challenge. There were eight children but room for only seven on the bed. It was the eldest O'Leary son, Eoin, who suggested Fiona and his sister Shannon open their legs, just so, in order to fit in such a way that two bodies take up only one space. He said they could save even more space by taking off their nightgowns but failed to make a strong case to back his logic.

You couldn't blame him for trying. 

When the fiery redheaded Shannon suggested Eoin do the same with Thomas McDonnell, Eoin shook his head. He claimed it would look "too faggy." So it came to pass that Fiona and Shannon scissored night after night so neither had to sleep on the floor. 

Scissoring didn't become a lesbian sex act until the 1970s, after straight men decided it was a hot way for straight women to make "lesbian" porn together.

When my wife and get a hankering to scissor, we remember that scissoring is a straight person's idea of what lesbian sex is and stop before our legs go to sleep under the weight of the other person, an ankle gets rolled, or our hammies start cramping. Instead, we reach for our pillows and hit each other until one of them explodes and then we roll around in the feathers until we orgasm. To think we actually scissor each other is ridiculous.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do not use this for any legitimate purpose as it is historically inaccurate. 

It is true that scissoring is a straight man's fantasy but, in all fairness, there might be lesbians who actually do scissor each other, though I don't know of any. 

Open Letter: Boy Scouts of America

Dear Boy Scouts of America:

Bravo, gents. Bravo. You sure showed that self-assured eighteen-year-old a thing or two. Who does he think he is, anyway? Flaunting his highlights when it's understood only natural roots are rewarded. He knew the risks. He knew there was no tolerance for the Gay and yet he chose to pursue his Eagle Scout award in spite of your caveman mentality. The nerve of some people.

But you, BSOA, you've got the nerve of an 80's movie Russian terrorist! I pity the fool who refuses to acknowledge you are one tough nut. You never sweat, never break rank, never give in, and, most impressively, you bitch-slap motherfuckers back down to size when they least deserve expect it.

Pardon my French. I'm sure it's against the sash to use such colorful language. I'm excitable; I can't help it. You just don't know how much it thrills me to watch a group of adults nana nana boo boo the fuck out of a teenager. Fred Phelps couldn't do it better. Actually, he could. He could make signs, "reason" gay Eagle Scouts are why American soldiers are dying in Afghanistan.

Come to think of it, you might want to step it up a bit.

I'm sure the world rests easy knowing there's a group of adults out there who never shy away from putting a teenager in his gay place.

From one adult to another, go stick your head in doo doo.

Gaily yours,

Whack-A-Muse

How to Family Plan Under Romney Rule

I haven't lost all hope, but given President Obama's abysmal performance in last week's debate I've started making what little internal peace I can by picturing Mitt Romney in the White House. Mitt sitting in the Oval Office, signing bills into law; Mitt repeatedly pointing out that his cup of coffee starts being a cup of coffee at the grinding of beans but refusing to drink it until it's been brewed in the coffee machine. If President Romney comes to pass, family planning could look a lot different. So, I'm here to offer solutions.

When your local Planned Parenthood is defunded and closes, cutting you off to affordable contraception, make sure there is plenty of aspirin in the bedside table drawer. Falling asleep with an aspirin between your knees is easy, but come morning, when that rascally aspirin is lost in the sheets and your boyfriend or husband wants to stick his penis in you, you tell him you have a headache and take two aspirin. You'll find plenty in the bedside table.

If that doesn't work, tell him, "Sex is for procreation only." That's what republicans tell gays and lesbians when we say we want to get married. (Republicans can pretend we haven't figured out their sophisticated coding system all they want, but it doesn't take a lefty socialist to figure out when they say marriage they mean sex.) The rule applies here. Wear a goddamn Snuggy--America's version of a burqa--and your oversized, stretched-out period panties 24/7 if you have to.

Go gay. Only until you're reproductively ready, that is. It's a choice so it shouldn't be too hard. Two sockets bumping into each other cannot a child make.

But if you and your man-candy find yourselves in a moment of uncontrollable passion, and I can't stress this enough, make sure you always have illegitimate sex. (I don't need to spell this out, do I?)

Or you could simply vote for the other guy.

Tales from the Treadmill

It's that time of year again. The time of year that when the alarm clock sounds it is can't-see-shit dark outside. My wife and I fumble in pitch black when making the bed, misjudge and kiss chins and earlobes, trip over babies on the way to the light switch. The overhead bedroom light is too hostile that early in the morning, so we turn on the stairwell light. Once there's a light source, we go our separate ways. One of us heads upstairs with the babies, the other stays put to run on the treadmill. I go upstairs, turn off the light behind me.

I'm upstairs, in the loft. The babies are settling as I'm rounding out my first set of weights. I can hear the belt of the treadmill whirling, my wife's feet pad, pad, padding along. Suddenly, the belt is whirling alone. I'm not all that concerned. She steps off sometimes to do whatever it is she does. So I continue to focus on the weights in my hand, lifting them up and down, working my biceps.

Metal, falling to the ground. A dull thud followed by several other dull thuds. Unaccounted for sounds scream up to me from downstairs.

"Honey?" She doesn't answer. Oh god. My feet stutter down the steep loft steps as fast as they will go, dodge tail wagging babies through the living room, and take the more leveled set of steps down into the basement more quickly.

I'm in the bedroom. The treadmill belt is still whirling. My wife, however, is gone. As I make my way around the bed, I see the top of her head, then her body. She starts to stand. Her running tights, on one side, expose half her butt. The other side of her running tights are covered in dog hair.

"Are you all right?! What happened?" I say.

She's running in the dark. Decides it's too dark. (No shit.) Steps off the treadmill to turn on the bathroom light. Going from darkness to light, she's blinded. She means to step onto the side of the treadmill and instead steps onto the belt...which is moving 6.2 miles per hour.

It's mayhem from there.

As her foot sweeps out from under her, she has just enough time to grab onto the treadmill's side handle. So, she's lying there, on the treadmill, right? The belt is slowly pulling down her pants, taking some skin with it, as she takes her time deciding the best course of action. Don't call out to your wife to come turn the treadmill off. That's ridiculous. Instead, decide the best option is to let go, fly off the end, and let the belt's propulsion throw your body into the bed. Yeah, do that. And that's what she does; hence, one side of her running tights being covered in dog hair.

Running is dangerous business. Treadmills are no joke. But, I swear to Christ, I'm still laughing.

Three Minute Matters

A fifteen minute walk outside my front door leads to a trailhead. The trailhead dumps out on to a wide dirt road where other trails offshoot. I like walking the road. I like the crunch, crunch, crunch under my feet. I like to watch the babies go off roading and return to me with their adventures dripping off their panting tongues, sticking in their fur, dirtying their paws. The babies and I have been walking this way for eight years.

It took me eight years to lose the basset.

The basset headed left, down a ravine; I headed right, towards the water. I wasn't worried. I knew she'd catch up. She always does.

I glanced behind me, waiting to see the tip of her white tail, listening for the jingle of her tags. Nothing. The mutt and I headed down the ravine, the last place I saw her. She wasn't there.

Weirdly, my wife texted me to see if I was okay. I told her I couldn't find the basset.

According to text time, I held my shit together for three minutes. In three minutes I transformed from a rational human being into Something Wasn't Right. Did she fall into a hole so dark and deep I'd never find her? Was her harness caught on a branch? Was she hurt? Bleeding? Was she snatched by a mountain lion? Did someone take her? Where did this someone come from?

My wife told me to go back to the place I lost her. I started walking back up the ravine when I heard barking. Frantic, nervous barking. As my head crested over the top of the ravine, there the basset sat, barking at me like I disappeared on her.

My wife knew all along the basset wasn't lost. I, on the other hand, lost everything in three minutes.

What's in a Name?

I told myself I would write a post every Monday. A fine idea until Monday rolls around and I need to find something interesting to say. What if I don't feel like being interesting? If my name was Paris Kardashian, my namesake would automatically make me interesting. I could be as dull as a butterknife yet Gawker would print my name thirty-seven times in one week. Snoop Dog would invite me to his barbecues.

And I'd go.

Not that securing invites to celebrity barbecues has ever been my aim. Although watching Jay Z throw Justin Bieber in the pool would be hilarious. And using the bathroom after Mariah Carey to find she doesn't wash her hands might be worth ten thousand dollars to TMZ.

Not that selling dirt on celebrities is my aim, either. Although ten thousand dollars grants a lot of my wishes. And once wishes are granted, doesn't it make it easier to kick open the immoral door to secretly take photos of Jennifer Aniston wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms--I imagine Snoop Dog's barbecues get intensely wild--for millions?

You bet it does.

If only I had a more interesting name.

Possibilities

We've discussed it many times, in crisp morning fog and under the sweltering afternoon sun; sitting in restaurants with white tablecloths and lounging on our battered leather sofa. I tell my wife to never discuss it with anyone but me: no one knows her like I do, they'll not understand. Does she want to be the woman in the room people whisper about? But she doesn't see it that way. When I claim it is scientifically impossible, she shrugs and says it is possible, her only proof originating from fictional books, popular television shows, and her dreams.

My wife mentions her elaborate escape plans, how we need to arm ourselves, how when it happens I'm to follow her blindly, at least once a week. Giving full decision making control to my wife makes me uneasy, but it will never happen so I agree. Sometimes it's easier to just let her get it out, uninterrupted, so we can move on to other things, like if we have enough money to get a new sofa, or how lesbians in movies seem to sleep with a lot of men.

I think about searching for a support group, a place where I can stand up and say, "Hi. My name is ____, and the love of my life, the heart inside my heart, thinks the zombie apocalypse is possible. I cannot convince her otherwise. What do I do?" Sympathetic faces will look back at me. Some will look at the floor, knowing all to well how if feels to try to reason with the unreasonable, finding it hard share another person's struggles when they have so many of their own. But some will look at me and nod, and in that instant I'll feel better, less like a melting iceberg housing a climate change naysayer.

Science better damn well prove me right because the thought of a bunch of brain-eating, blood-soaked, raggedy undead outside my door, groaning, clawing to get in, makes me want to piss my pants and swallow my tongue. Let's hope my wife has a plan for that. Just in case.

Make It So

You might have recently heard about a study linking long, painful bladder infections in women to the chicken they are eating. The infections are resistant to antibiotics, therefore, difficult to get rid of. Scientists think it has something to do with the antibiotics chickens are fed - the chickens and infected women share the same bacterial DNA - to keep them healthy while living in horrid conditions.

I'm not delving into studio apartment chicken living, I swear.

The chicken industry says it has nothing to do with chickens. Whew. That was a close call. Revelations out of the mouths of invested parties always sets my mind at ease. What do epidemiologists know about infections and their causes anyway? Jack shit, that's what. I'm relieved to know my women friends who eat chicken have been given a pass by the chicken industry to keep on clucking.

These scientists should be ashamed: unleashing confounded conspiracy theories, trying to make names for themselves. I, for one, will not stand for it a moment longer! Join me, please, in telling these bullies to leave the chicken industry alone! (Shout-out to Chris Crocker, ya'll.) The chicken industry isn't doing anything but trying to raise hundreds of thousands of chickens without losing a single one. Now, I'm no scientist, but I'll bet the farm this E. coli superbug is linked to premarital sex. 

Some of the eight million at-risk women are married? 

Oh, then, um, it's probably linked to...pigs? Right. That's already been done. Birds? Shut your face, chickens aren't birds. Are they? But that's been done before, too. Hmm...Well, I'm going to have to go with vegetables. Yeah, I know about the spinach and the lettuce and the tomatoes, but it's got to be something other than an industry that churns out 23 million chickens a day for consumption.

I've got it: walking barefoot! Good for the chicken industry and the shoe industry. And now that I've said it, like all the other nonscientific blow-hards with the ability to speak, I have made it so.

Unsolved Mysteries

Remember when it was considered rude and inconsiderate for men to discuss politics and money in front of women folk because our tiny lady brains couldn’t possibly comprehend checkbooks and voting? It wasn’t that long ago, really. So is it any wonder that a group of swinging dicks want to, once again, tell women what they can and cannot do, especially with their bodies?

All I can say is, Thank you, oh, thank you, cerebral masters. You have no idea how I've toiled: tampons or pads? May your guidance soon lead to this very issue. 

Our tiny lady brains don’t know dick about bodies, am I right, ladies? Especially our own! Why, just the other day, I had to ask a man to help me figure out why I was spotting between periods. He said it had something to do with not eating enough red meat.

Sound. Logical. Manly.  

And I dig that shit. 

So you can imagine my delight to find that men are starting, once again, to make decisions for me and my lady friends. Hard decisions about women’s access to contraception and a woman’s right to choose. Ovaries are so complicated! How have we ladies managed to handle our sexual lives, all on our own, up to this point? How have our tiny lady brains not exploded out our pretty lady faces?

Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

All I know is I sleep soundly now, knowing there’s a strong force of men out there looking out for my tiny lady brain. Now I can focus on the things that really matter. I’m just waiting for the men to tell my tiny lady brain what those things are.  

Tips and Tricks (for Modern Day Racists)

As someone who grew up in a racist household, I feel I'm in a unique position to help ease the Hunger Games' racist fans' suffering. I can only imagine how disappointing, how deceiving it must have felt to watch a movie made from the beloved book series and find--gasp!--all the "good roles" occupied by black people! Huddle up and take a knee. Since you can't whitewash your movies like you can your books, I have some tips and tricks so this doesn't happen again. Let's start with the obvious:

1. You don't have to be a racist.

Yep. It's true. You really don't. Perhaps if you correlate your feelings of superiority to shitting in your own mouth it will help? I realize visualization doesn't work for everyone, so if you fall into that category, think about it this way: When you announce what you're about to say is racist and say it anyway, you're a fucking asshole. Which brings me to my second tip:

2. You don't have to be a fucking asshole.

Seriously. The world already has Rick Santorum and he owns that MO. But seeing how you despise a number of the world's population, being a fucking asshole may not bother you. And that's okay. So let's try this: If you let the sun darken your lily white skin you can't hold prejudices towards people with dark skin.

3. Don't be a hypocrite.

You don't know what that word means? Never mind. Let's move to my fourth tip: 

4. Read more books. 

I don't mean the Bible. Get a library card, clear a Saturday, and, I know this will be hard, check out books that sound lame. Maybe start with To Kill A Mockingbird. You're thinking it sounds kind of cool? Wait, wait, wait. It's not about hunting. Which brings me to my fifth and final tip:

5. Always understand what you're getting into.

Unless you can be absolutely certain the world you're stepping into is a white one, don't leave the house.

I care about you. I really do. And I'm sorry to throw in a spoiler alert, but there are going to be people of color in the sequels. You might want to start thinking about implementing one or two of these tips and tricks so the subsequent movies won't be so difficult to watch. But if you can't get past the blackness, stick with tip number five. There's no shame in staying at home and watching Two and a Half Men.

Making Faces

Last night my wife leaned over me, her lips on the verge of kissing me goodnight, when her head suddenly changed direction and landed on my shoulder. As I considered being offended, her body started shaking from...crying? No, she was giggling. Uncontrollably. When she looked at me again--red faced and teary eyed--I made a face. She laughed even harder. She kept looking away and I kept making faces. (Such a simple thing, making faces.) It was the funniest thing we'd done all day.

We might need to get out more.

Oftentimes the simple things get me thinking. When my wife walked around the bed to turn out the lights, and the happiness of our life together surged in my chest, I couldn't help thinking how one day we're going to end. Not because one of us stops loving the other, but because one of us, if not both, will die.

I know how this sounds. Doomsday much? But seriously, sometimes I can't help picturing our wrinkled bodies spooning on our Craftmatic adjustable bed. I can't help seeing us moving towards each other--so much slower than in our youthful years!--but moving towards each other nonetheless. And I can't help feeling our wrinkled hands desperately holding on to each other as one of us is on the edge of expiring.

Whoa. I thought this was supposed to be some funny, sarcastic shit, not a reminder we're all going to die! I should have kept it to myself, huh? It's so goddamn depressing, right? Yeah, I know. Only I'm under no illusion that my moments of extreme happiness will spare me from experiencing extreme devastation.

With all that in mind, I still can't help smiling, for my life is full of love and random acts of silliness.

Such a simple thing, making faces.

Lazy Bastard

For the past fifteen days my butt has basically left the comfortable confines of my sofa for two reasons:

1. Peeing
2. Pooping

I drink a lot of water so I've gotten off the sofa more than one might think. Still, when I'm standing my butt feels weird, like it's lacking major support. When I'm standing, the sofa looks like something is missing. Something invaluable, irreplaceable. Something only I can offer.

I've allowed my butt and sofa to develop a deep, meaningful relationship.

Some might even call it love.

I like to pretend it happened separately from me, without my involvement or knowledge, but I cannot deceive myself so easily. I know I joyfully brought them together. Not once did I turn away when my butt gratefully sank into the comforting arms of the sofa. Never did I blush, scramble to find something else to do, when the sofa, ever so gently, lovingly, caressed my butt. No. I heralded their joining of forces. I encouraged it.

Tomorrow, I'll be a contemptible bastard. Butt and sofa will blame me for letting them spend so much time together only to tear them apart. I'll return to work; they'll return to being weekend lovers. I like to pretend it won't bother me, ripping two lovers apart so suddenly, but I know myself. It will hurt me, too. All I can give them is one unforgettable last day. A day I'll keep my liquid intake low.

Hail Mary

The clock strikes the two minute warning. Cameras pan to the Denver Broncos' sidelines. There, in his Jesus crouch, is Tim Tebow; eyes earnestly closed in prayer, lips moving.

In all fairness, I have no idea what Tebow is saying. He could be pleading for the return of our troops in Afghanistan, or for the violence in Syria to stop. But seeing how Denver is down by four points with two minutes to go, I'll bet my kingdom in Heaven he's not asking for anything outside himself. Praying for strength, or guts and glory so your football team can go to the playoffs makes you look like a douche, Tim. I don't care how much money you make; you're goals aren't that important. Jesus has a lot on his plate. There's no way your playoff hopes are even warming in His oven. 

Lean in, Tim. Let me tell you something. If you put half the effort into studying pictures of defenses, talking with the offensive coordinator, rallying receivers, patting the offensive line on the back than you do praying, maybe you'd have scored more than three points. Besides, where is the praying getting you? A soon to be nice spot on your season-ending sofa is where. Jesus doesn't belong to a fantasy league, Tim. He could care about your little game's outcome. But Satan? I hear he runs a fantasy league worth billions.

With all your look-at-me-sincerely-praying-even-though-I'm-not-stuck-on-a-roof-after-a-hurricane-or-in-a-burning-building, I like the idea that the Devil is fucking with you.