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.