About GrumpyLlama

Hi, my name is Buddy. This blog exists to let the demons out. And to show you how awesome I am. You're welcome.

Y’all Be Trippin’

See, the thing about religion is that’s it’s usually a small journey from, “Hey, that’s a good idea!” (see, “be nice to everybody) to “Wow! You just may be batshit crazy!” (lots of examples about this, am I right?).  Well, guess which one I’m here to talk about.

A friend of mine was recently trapped in a conversation with a man who felt she needed some saving.  This despite the fact that she is in fact a church-going Christian and informed him as much.  He could tell by looking at her that she wasn’t religious enough.  A handy, I suppose, super-power, if perhaps a little boring.  Her short-coming, as evidenced by his 2 PAGE DIAGRAM, was in the field of chastity (she’s married, by the way).  According to his rant, “Chastity (a Virtue (capitalization his, not mine)) means to see everyone as made in the image and likeness of GOD” (again, his capitalization).

Except, that’s not what chastity means.  Even a little.  There’s probably a thing that does meant that.  But it’s not chastity.

For him, and whatever weird little church he belongs to that doesn’t have a good grasp of vocabulary, being Chaste involves something called SPICE.  One then has to assume the Spice Girls are necessarily Chaste.  Except Ginger Spice, of course, as gingers have no souls.

What is SPICE you ask?  Well, it’s an acronym unsurprisingly.  It’s an acronym where each word makes up one of the five petals of a flower (aside – he misspelled “petal” though he did draw a diagram of the SPICE flower – the center of which, the pistil, is labelled “love,” which is nice).  The five petals of the SPICE flower are:






I’m gonna go ahead and assume he meant “Emotional.”  Anyway, the important thing for chastity is that all five petals are in balance like a “beautiful flower” and not like one of those jacked-up flowers that you find in the bottom of the flower fridge at the grocery store at 6pm on Mother’s Day.  If they’re not, you have to focus on developing the ones that are out of balance.  (Duh.)  For instance, he writes, “Women that are not dressed appropriately have an extreme Physical petal…”  I’m gonna stop here and take a guess that he could tell she needed this info because she was wearing yoga pants (in public! gasp!), or as the internet calls them, whore pants.  Then he adds, “they actually don’t show enough.”

Wait, what?  Now maybe he explained this during his rant, but on paper, this makes no sense.

Then, all of the sudden, we’re done with the SPICE flower and have moved on to answer the question, “What is the Mass?”  Apparently, and I’m just gonna put the entire quote in it’s entirety, it’s a marriage ceremony where “God is marrying his bride the Church.  We are the Body of Christ here on earth.  And at the consummation of the Mass he shares his real Body Blood, Soul and Divinity (sounds familiar, doesn’t it?).  *This is called the Theology of the Body!”

Okay, let me take a breath and go through this one item at a time.  “God is marrying his bride the Church.”  I’m guessing he means “congregation” not Church, so I’ won’t pick on this.  But then we get into “We are the Body of Christ here on earth” which doesn’t even follow from his previous sentence, so I don’t know what he means.  And then, “And at the consummation of the Mass he shares his real Body Blood, Soul and Divinity (sounds familiar, doesn’t it?)”


I’d like to assume that by “consummation” he means “completion” and not, you know, what everybody else means by consummation.  But you never know with crazy.

“He shares his real Body Blood, Soul, and Divinity…”  That’s a lot of sharing.

“(Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”)  No, It doesn’t sound familiar.  Not even a little fucking bit.  Familiar to what?  To whom?

“This is called the Theology of the Body!”  The only reason I bring this sentence up is that when I Googled “the Theology of the Body,” Google auto-filled with “the Theology of Yoga Pants” which I thought was frigging hysterical.

Then he says that “the reason women can’t be priests is because the priest must be an Icon of God/Jesus who is male and he gives to the bride….hence the bridegroom and the bride.”  Hence the bridegroom and the bride?  What?  How is that a “hence”?  Does “hence” mean something I don’t know?

That’s followed by a diagram of the trinity of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, with the Father at the top, as usual.  Then there’s an arrow pointing to the next diagram labelled “at Home” which is the trinity of the Husband, Wife and “Child that shows their love.”  Though he misspelled “their” as “there” but then wrote over it.  Maybe it was the other way around though.  And of course, the Husband is at the top of the pyramid.  No explanation as to why this is included at all.

After that, he writes “Catholics are supernatural and have multiple dimensions!”

Wait, this is supposed to be Catholicism?!  Sweet damn.  I did 13 years in Catholic school and not once did “supernatural” come up.  And neither did “multiple dimensions” but that was probably just because the word “multiple” would maybe make us think about “multiple orgasms” and that’s not just not okay.  I mean, I heard a lot of crazy shit come out of the place.  (One nun told us all that masturbation is a sin because it is homosexual in nature since you are performing a sex act on someone of your own gender.  That messed my head up so bad, I couldn’t masturbate for almost 3 hours.  Almost.  I suppose I could have argued that I was trying desperately not to masturbate, but that I was having trouble find someone to do it for me, though I doubt that was her point.)  If I’d known I was supernatural, I’d have at least tried to pick up girls with that line.  Thanks, Obama!

What’s left is the word “worry” in huge print with an arrow pointing toward the word “devil.”  Under that, just as big, “suffering” with an arrow pointing to “God.”

I guess that worrying leads to the devil, but suffering leads to God?  No, that doesn’t sound right.  Worry is caused by the devil, but suffering is caused by God?  Hmmm….that’s probably not it either.  Worry equals devil?  Suffering equals God?  Worry made the devil and suffering made God?  I really got nothing on this one.

As my friend was relating this encounter to me, all I could think was, “Lucky!”  I love meeting crazy people.  They’re so much more interesting than normal people, and sadly, as I grow older, my ability to attract the crazies seems to have diminished, much to my chagrin.  She did not match my enthusiasm.

Still.  Lucky.

Awwww……yeah, baby….

A friend’s Facebook page linked an article on “Sexual Meditation.”

An article, on Sexual Meditation.

An article?

Shit.  I wrote the book on Sexual Meditation.

OK.  Just read the article.  Turns out when she talks about “Sexual Meditation,” she’s actually not referring to sitting by yourself in a dark room watching porn.  Who knew there’d be more than one definition of Sexual Meditation?

So, let’s get to it.  Making fun of the article, that is.  Not watching porn.  <looks at calendar, pencils in time to watch porn>

The second sentence reads, “Regular sexual meditation, either alone or with your partner, can ultimately be a direct path to contact each other’s consciousness while making love.”  The consciousness isn’t what I’m looking to make contact with when I’m making love.  (To be clear, what I’m trying to make contact with starts with a “v” and rhymes with “pagina.”)

Step 1.  Choose a quiet place where you will not be disturbed. Sexual meditation, like any type of meditation, achieves the best results if done regularly without any interruptions.  If Sexual Meditation means “masturbation” (and I think we can all agree it does), high school me was a Grand Poobah* of Sexual Meditation.  (Just kidding, Mom.  I was brushing my hair.)

*I was unable to find the rankings for Sexual Meditation mastery, I can only assume Grand Poobah is at the top.

Step 2. Try to meditate in the same place and at the same time each day. This isn’t strictly necessary, but over time, the routine you follow will reinforce in your mind what your intentions are and you will slip more easily into your meditative mood.  Hee-hee, “slip more easily into.”

Step 3. Aim for a 20 minute session. You can meditate for shorter periods, but 20 to 30 minutes each day is ideal.  20 minutes?!  I hope that includes the post-“meditation” snuggling and my standard round of apologies.

Step 4.  Get comfortable. It doesn’t matter if you meditate in a seated position or if you are lying down.

  • Keep your spine straight, whether you are sitting or lying down.
  • Keep your arms by your sides if you are lying down—allow just a little space between your body and your arms and allow your arms to be completely relaxed.
  • Rest your arms loosely in your lap if you meditate in a seated position.
  • Keep your chin up and your head aligned with your spine if you are seated.
  • Decide if you want to meditate with your eyes open or closed. If you decide to keep your eyes open, try not to focus on any one object in the room.

Eyes open?  What am I, German?!

Step 5. Pay attention to your breath. Begin deep, rhythmic breathing, and continue the pattern for at least 5 minutes.  Lady, if I could anything deeply or rhythmically for 5 continuous minutes, I wouldn’t be reading sexual help articles.

Step 6. Begin breathing normally. You will still pay attention to each breath, but your breathing at this point should be regular (not shallow) and rhythmic.  “Breath normally.”  Pretty sure that’s what the first girl I ever touched had to say to me to keep me from hyper-ventilating.

Step 7. Begin focusing on your partner. Concentrate on communicating your sexual thoughts to the energetic fields of your partner.

  • On the in breath, see you and your partner energetically.
  • On the out breath, communicate your desires to your partner’s energy field. These thoughts don’t have to be specific; in fact, it is more productive to simply think in general terms: “We are sexually and spiritually in harmony,” “We are compatible in all ways.”  Can it be about butt stuff?  I like butt stuff.  Please let it be about butt stuff.  I’m just gonna assume that’s okay.

Step 8. Do this meditation with your partner. Sit in the same room together, facing each other, but with eyes closed.

  • Work together to synchronize your breathing. Begin by focusing on your own breath, while your partner will focus on his/her breath. Do this for 5 minutes. When you both begin breathing regularly and rhythmically, start becoming aware of each other’s breath and you will naturally begin to synchronize your breathing patterns.  Again with the 5 minutes?!
  • Project your thoughts into each other’s energy fields. You and your partner can decide ahead of time if you want to focus on certain thoughts or particular situations, or you can each project private.   Still thinking about butt stuff.


  • Doing a sexual meditation with your partner works well if you both lie down in the traditional “spoon” position. The goal is the same as in a seated partner meditation: to focus on each other’s breathing and to project, loving, sexual thoughts into each other’s energy fields. This spoon position also allows you both to feel each other’s physical bodies and breath, and is meant to enhance your awareness of each other, both physically and energetically.  If  I can’t be the little spoon, I’m out.
  • Eventually, with regular practice, you and your partner will be able to feel and to release each other’s energetic blockages.  I’m totally using this.  I have a feeling I’ll get a much better response waking her up at 5 am if I say it’s to help release an “energetic blockage.”
  • If it’s not to distracting, doing this in the nude can make you more relaxed and make the connection stronger.  First of all, it should be “If it’s not TOO distracting.”  Secondly, if spooning naked doesn’t distract you, I’m guessing an internet article on Sexual Meditation isn’t gonna provide all the help you really need.

In ancient China, sexual meditation was taught by masters. This method of meditation is powerful and it was considered sacred. Regular sexual meditation with loving intent can lead to a profound inner spiritual experience, as well as varying degrees of enlightenment. Sexual meditation, whether done alone or with your partner, is always to be considered honorable and done with loving kindness.  Loving kindness?  What if I want some rough Sexual Meditation?  The kind with handcuffs and a guy in a clown suit who throws pies at me just before I climax?  I mean, as long as it’s done in good taste.



Toy Story 4

We open on the interior of a house.  Party noises emanate from the distance.  Camera pans from the empty family room up the stairs.  Party noise grows louder.  Camera rounds the corner into a child’s room where toys are dancing and drinking and eating and begins to center on two toys talking in the corner, a GI Joe, drunk, and a chubby, androgynous, vaguely humanoid fur-covered creature.

GI Joe: “Man, this is the life!”  Throws arm around furry creature.  “I could get used to this!”

Furry creature nods with a slight frown.  Camera pans up to a framed photo on the dresser.  It shows a family of 3 including a young boy, age 4.  Camera zooms in on boy then the screen begins to shake.  Camera pans out.  The boy is flanked by his parents, strapped into an airplane seat, the plane is bucking wildly and screams fill the cabin.

Fade to black.

Fade in.  A woman is tearfully tossing toys into a cardboard box.  Camera pans out and we see it is the little boys room.  Woman picks box up and leaves, turning the light out as she goes.  The furry creature is hidden in the top of the closet with the GI Joe and a few other toys.

Furry creature:  “Oh, yeah.  I could get REAL used to this.”  Furry creature smiles an evil smile.

The furry creature then turns to the other toys and praises himself for being smart enough to hide from the woman.  Now they are free, he proclaims, no more playing dead when humans come around.  And then he realizes that’s the secret to everything.  No more people means freedom for all toys.  His gospel slowly spreads throughout the toy community and that’s how it all starts.

We see toys around the globe slipping rat poison in their people’s coffee and cutting brake lines, setting the skateboard at the top of the stairs and spreading vaseline on the tub floor.  Clips from news programs are talking about the sharp uptick in accidental deaths around the globe.

Soon, a small band of toys try to stem the tide and save their people, but the promise of freedom proves too much for most toys and the rebellion is quickly squashed.  Cut to the furry creature overseeing the fiery destruction of a mob of these “traitors” as he calls him.

Switch to Woody and the gang.  They’ve been returned to Andy’s mom after the mysterious death of the little girl Andy gave them to at the end of Toy Story 3.  They are discussing in hushed tones their suspicions of the other toys and how they murdered the girl.  They are glad to be out of the house and amongst themselves, the only toys they know they cantrust.  Word of how traitors were being dealt with had circulated quickly.

Andy’s mom, flush with worry about her son, now a senior in college, Skypes him early one morning to check on him.  Woody happens to be in the room when she does.  The computer screens snaps on and we see Andy, laying in bed, hair tussled and messy, a thin line of dried drool staining his cheek and forming a discolored ring on his pillowcase.  The angle suggests he left his laptop on his bedside stand.  Andy isn’t moving.  His mom calls his name, gently at first, then with increasing urgency, until finally shouting, “Andy!”

Andy sits up in shock, exposing the naked girl laying in bed beside him, a tattoo of a water lily adorning her back.  She turns over and sees Andy’s mom, pulls the sheets up hurriedly and rolls out of bed.

“Hold on, Mom!” Andy yells from out of frame.  The girl frantically gets dressed, grabs her backpack and flings it over her shoulder as she runs out of the room.  When she does, a purple blur falls out and onto Andy’s bed.  After a few minutes of yelling at an obviously hungover Andy, his mom finally says she “can’t do this right now” and clicks “End.”  Just as she does, Woody sees that the purple blur is the same kind of furry toy as the ringleader.  As the screen closes, an evil grin crosses its face.

Woody alerts the other toys to the danger Andy is in and they set off to rescue him.  They have a long way to go and between hiding from humans and roving gangs of bad toys, the going is slow.  At one point they are cornered by a large mob of toys, and in order to prove they aren’t part of the resistance, they have to take part in the murder of a family of five.  The mob blocks all the exits from the family’s house, and as he flicks the Zippo lighter to life, Buzz says, “For Andy” and holds the flame to the gasoline soaked curtains.  The dinosaur sheds and tear, hiding his face from the other toys.

While all this is going on, dissension appears amongst the bad toys when the electronic toys realize they need humans to manufacture batteries and replacement parts.  They bring their concerns to the furry creature but he dismisses them.  Soon, the electronic toys align themselves against the the bad toys and a civil war erupts.

This is the distraction Woody and the gang need to complete their journey.  They arrive at Andy’s apartment in time to see the purple furball trying to start an electrical fire but rubbing to ends of a frayed extension cord together.  The sparks are landing on Andy’s pile of dirty laundry.  The toys search for an entrance into the apartment and find that in his latest drunken stupor, Andy has left a window open.  It was the one he had thrown up out of earlier.  Mr. Potato Head discovers this by slipping in the vomit.  The toys make their way in and gang tackle the furball before he can start the fire.

“You might stop me, but you can’t stop us all!” he yells.

“Maybe,” Woody says, “but right now, you’re the only one here.”

And with that, the gang descends upon him.  The camera pans back and the furball begins to scream, Woody and the gang move in, ripping the furball to shreds, chunks of purple and stuffing fly about the room, and slowly, ever so slowly, the screams give way to silence.  The final scene is slinky dog’s face, a tuft of purple fur still hanging from his teeth and the camera zooms in on his cold, emotionless eyes.

I’ve Written So Many Times About Cosmo’s Sex Advice I’ve Run Out Of Titles

Me making fun of Cosmo’s sex advice is kinda like running back to your ex.  Except this is WAY easier and I don’t regret it all.  I’ve said before that recently their sex advice has been so uninspired, so unimaginative (read also: so unhelpful) that it’s not worth making fun most of the time, so I have to wait 5 or 6 months to stumble upon a good one.  They came through (finally) in the October 2014 issue.  (Sidenote, they’ve stared doing this crap where they scatter sex advice throughout the whole issue, meaning I have to flip every single page to track it down.  I can only assume this is a direct attack on me.  And it’s pretty effective.  I already feel pervy enough flipping through 8 issues at the library, now I’ve got to go through them one page at a time.  Not cool, Cosmo.  There’s no reason to punish me, I didn’t make your sex advice crappy.)

This column was entitled “10 Fun Freaky Sex Moves.”  I’ll take on 7 of these, the rest being so blah, I imagine most 8th graders are already bored by those moves.

Here we go:

Light as a feather, stiff as a D  –  “Lie on your back while your partner caresses your breasts with a feather moving closer to your cave of wonders.”  Cave. Of. Wonders.  Not vulva or vagina or clitoris.  Cave of wonders.  Hell, I’d have overlooked “naughty bits” or even “lady parts.”  (Okay, probably not “lady parts.”)  HOMEWORK:  I want each of you to insert (hee-hee) your own “spelunking” joke here.  She continues, “Try to be still while he ravishes you like a Cronut after the gym.”  A Cronut after the gym?  Also, is it me, or does a feather seem like the absolute least effective tool to use if your goal is “ravish” someone.  Tickle?  Sure.  Annoy?  Most likely.  Cause an infection because you failed to clean it before placing it near the cave of wonders?  Probably.

Rated X  –  “Sitting in the back with your Partner in Grind…”  Ugh.  Partner in Grind.  Get it?  Because sex can sometimes look like two people GRINDing on each other?  Huh?  Two PARTNERs, GRINDing on each other?  PARTNER.  IN.  GRIND.  I can just see the author doing the comedy equivalent of jazz hands when she busted this gem out at girls’ night.  Look, I fucking love bad puns.  Seriously, I think they are the pinnacle of comedic genius, and I’m not just saying that because that’s the only type of pun I can ever come up with.  BUT, don’t capitalize it like that.  We get it, I promise.  It wasn’t that subtle.

Dirty Pictures  –  “Ain’t no shame in your naughty-costume game.”  Okay, I have to admit something here.  I did research, so help me baby Jesus, research, on Cosmo for this one, and the majority of their readership is under 35.  The album, “Ain’t No Shame In My Game” came out in 1990.  Meaning most of the women reading this were less than ten years old when this reference was a thing.  Also, while their demographics failed to break down readership by race, I think we can all agree Cosmo is the whitest magazine since “Horse and Pony News.”  (It’s real, I shit you not.)  Call me cynical, but I doubt many future Cosmo readers were screaming “That’s my jam, bitch!” when Candyman’s “Knockin’ Boots” came on in mom’s minivan on the way home from 4H Club.

The author winds the article up with “…your man will be harder than Vin Diesel’s thighs.”  Look, I already gave you “like a Cronut after the gym.”  But that’s enough.  I get the feeling the writer had just finished a 3-day workshop on creative comparisons, and kinda missed the point.

Mind-f*ck  –  Because at Cosmo, we’ll tell you how to fuck, but we won’t use the word.  But I digress.  “Lie on the patient couch and tell the therapist (aka your lovah)…”  Imma stop you there, Cosmo.  Look people, if you’re so dumb, you think Cosmo is telling you to go out there and fuck your therapist, that’s on you.  Also, lovah?  And the italics was Cosmo, not me.  Not even kidding.  The only good thing about using the term “lovah” is that it reminded me of the Will Ferrell/Rachel Dratch skit on SNL forever ago.  I just spent 15 minutes on YouTube trying to find it but couldn’t.  Sorry.  It’s funny.  They call each other “lovah” in it.  <sigh>Nevermind.

Edward Scissorhands-y  –  “Edward Scissorhands” also came out in 1990.  I think I can safely say that the author is in her early 40’s and clearly drew the short straw on writing the article, and in the end, gave her college-aged niece and friends an afternoon of free-flowing wine to get the scoop on kids these days, then mixed-it-up by adding references that she understood.  Delightful.  It begins:  “Your lover role plays Eddie Sizz (personal note – “groan”) and you’re Winona Ryder (finally!)”  Finally?  What the fuck has been keeping you from pretending to be Winona Ryder?  And why is that a thing that makes you so hot?  And for my money, be Winona Ryder from “Beetlejuice,” duh.

Then, “Tie him up, binding his lawn-clipper claws – ahem, hands – above his head.”  Oh.  He doesn’t really have to have lawn-clipper claws?  Whew.  Thanks for clearing that up.  I feared a couple of forty-somethings were gonna be half-way through this scenario, get to “lawn-clipper claws” and have absolutely no fucking clue what to do next, leading the wife to start sobbing since all she wanted was to spice it up a little and try something new while the husband tries to comfort her by saying he could run to the shed and grab the hedge trimmers but that he doesn’t have any clippers because it’s 2014 and who the fuck uses clippers anymore and GODDAMMIT I HATE YOU, COSMO!

And lastly, (Edward Scissorhands-y is an intricate move.  Clear your schedule.)  “Then kiss his entire body by candlelight, pausing to give him a classic 90’s inspired hand job.”  What the actual fuck is a “90’s inspired hand job?”  Is it when you put a tiny, sleeveless flannel shirt on his dick and pretend it’s a disaffected but angry penis from Seattle?  Or is it when you give a hand job while singing the lyrics to “Yellow Ledbetter?”  Because figuring out those lyrics is fucking impossible.  PS:  Those were jokes, Cosmo.  Don’t start telling women to dress-up penises.  That’s ridiculous.  Unless maybe it’s a top hat or something.  You know, class-up the place a bit.  I think I’d look pretty good sporting a tiny top hat down there.  I mean, tiny compared to a regular top hat.  Not tiny for a penis top hat.  I’d use a regular-sized penis top hat, I suppose.  Like a size 7?  Or maybe a “Venti?”  I’m not really sure how penis top hat sizing works.

Vamp(ire) It Up  –  “Suit up in some blood-red lingerie.  Brush your teeth so they’re nice and shiny.”  Yep, that’s classic Vlad The Impaler, right there.  The whole “vampire” thing was just a mix up.  He’s wasn’t a blood-thirsty monster.  He just liked to brush his teeth and wear the occasional red bustier.  It just got blown way out of proportion.  Thanks, Obama!  Also, “Brush your teeth so they’re nice and shiny?”  How does Cosmo think brushing your teeth works?  I’m not gonna think, “Look at those chompers!  She’s a vampire!  No wait, she just brushed her teeth.  It’s all good.  Sorry to bother you, 911.”  And lastly, “…<make> your way downtown for a Boo-J.”  A Boo-J?  That doesn’t make any sense.  Vampires don’t say boo, they like to suck on things……..oooooohhhhh!  I see what you did there.

Keep up the good work, Cosmo!

I’m being serious though.  This shit is great.


Bust A Move

Listen up, Clydes, I gotta real nice tale for ya, hear.   I spent too much time trying to give the dames what they say they want, and I’m here to tell, they don’t know what they want.  None of ’em.  They’ll tell ya one thing, and soon as ya give it to ’em, Boom! they’re out!  While I’m jumpin’ and pawin’ like a puppy going after a chew toy, she’s trying to find the cat who just pissed on the bed.

I get a call from Chicago Tim,.  He’s not from Chicago.  We call him that on account of how much time he spends with Big Lou’s wife.  Big Lou IS from Chicago and we all reckon that’ll be where Tim’s body gets found if Big Lou catches wind.  Seems ole Tim has whipped up a shindig at some dive down by the docks.  What the Hell, it’s not like I got clients beating down the door to give me money.  Bill collector’s the only man comes ’round anymore.  I get down there toot sweet and the place is just lousy with hoochie-coochers.  One walks by me with a set of gams on her that’d make Chuck Lindbergh park that plane of his for good just to get a peek.  Which is what I’m doing.  But I don’t even make it up to her knees before she gets scooped up by some GI home on leave.

The next day I get called in to see the big cheese.  I’m not worried, not this time.   He owes me for not ratting him out to his wife when she hired me to tail him.  She suspected he was out on the town with that floozy from Mac’s Tavern.  She was right, but I ain’t got no death wish.  So now he throws me a bone whenever his old lady goes to visit a friend in Chicago.  Thankfully, it’s not the same bone he throws the floozy.  This bone’s an open bar at his latest soiree.  I like that bone.  Six drinks in and I decide a bite is in order.  Eight drinks in and I’m on my third trip down the buffet line.  The band starts up and people are swinging.  Not me, I’ve eaten enough grub to make my belt re-think its career choice.  It’s just then I see a dame making her way across the room, as blonde as a field of sunflowers and twice as pretty.  Something told me if went traipsing through that field, I’d find plenty of bees waiting to sting me.  She pulls up next to me and asks if I’d like to cut a rug.  Before I can answer, she takes the plate out of my hand.  “Come on, fatso,” she says as she pats my overstuffed belly

I’ve tracked down a hundred a dames in my time.  I’ve never failed to find one for a client.  For me, though, that’s not in the cards.  My last bender had me telling Chicago Tim maybe I should just ship out, find a mountain top like one of them Dolly Llamas.  Tim slurred something about a light at the end of the tunnel.  Least, I think that’s what he said.  With my luck, that light’s attached to something big, ugly and belching.  Like the dame sitting by me at Mac’s.  I should go around to Tim’s, haven’t seen him since before the soiree at Big Lou’s.

I figure I better get out of here before the steam engine next to me starts looking good.  The theater down the street has a show about to start.  Might be a gas, and the darkness will be good for the hangover that’s creeping up on me like cheetah stalking an injured gazelle at the watering hole.  I plop down at the end of row like a sack of flour dropped by a baker at the end of a long day.  That’s when I see her.  She was six feet of gorgeous and wore that yellow dress like an over-filled sausage plumping in all the right places.  Kosher or not, I think the rabbi would understand.  She says, “Hello, come sit next to me you fine fellow.”  And up I go.  I’ll look for Chicago Tim tomorrow.  If I had to guess, he’d be just as dead then as he is right now.

This whole berg is crawling with dames, for what that’s worth.  Every Joe on every corner thinkin’ they’re Morey Amsterdam, as if that’s gonna get ’em somewhere.  And for everyone one of them, there’s a dozen Betty’s turning ’em away.  Ain’t none of them lookin’ to walk on a date.  No money, no car, living off Uncle Sam’s pension from the war.  That’s no way to pull a bird.  Not these birds, anyway.  They’re all searching for a way out of here, waiting for opportunity to start knocking, and opportunity damn sure don’t look like any of these bums.  Maybe ya used to be something, before you shipped back from the Philippines, where you could stroll own the beach with a C-note and dames’d be on you like dung beetles on a fresh pile.

The phone call was from Harry Blackwell.  Did two tours in the South Pacific with that crazy bastard.  His brother’s getting hitched up and I’m invited.  Anything to get out of Dodge for a few.  Days here drag by like a cockroach pulling a ham biscuit across the diner floor. 

I couldn’t be more out of place in this monkey suit.  You can take the neanderthal out of the saber-toothed tiger skin, but he’s still a neanderthal.  The bride walks past, nine kinds of brunette trouble, with legs that go all the way up, just like I like ’em, swishing down the aisle like a koi making its away across the pond.  But this fish is already on the hook, and tonight, she’ll be in someone else’s frying pan.  I shake the thought and blink the dame out of my head.  A bridesmaid, red, long, and dangerous, gives me the eye.  I smile back.  I’m not stupid.  At the reception, she slinks up to me.  I like it when they slink.  I ask if she wants to dance, she smiles and drops her room key in my drink before slinking back off.  The drink’s ruined, but this time, I don’t mind so much.

I could move here, I think on the elevator ride.  Nothin’ keeping me back home.  ‘Cept maybe Tim.   And there’s no way he survived that last trip to Chicago with the big cheese’s lady.
This here’s a jam for all the fellas
Tryin to do what those ladies tell us
Get shot down cause ya over-zealous
Play hard to get females get jealous

Okay smarty go to a party

Girls are scantily clad and showin body
A chick walks by you wish you could sex her But you’re standing on the wall like you was Poindexter

Next day’s function high class luncheon

Food is served, and you’re stone-cold munchin
Music comes on people start to dance

But then you ate so much you nearly split your pants

A girl starts walking guys start gawking
Sits down next to you and starts talking
Says she wants to dance cause she likes to groove

So come on fatso and just bust a move

You’re on a mission and your wishin
Someone could cure your lonely condition Lookin for love in all the wrong places
No fine girls just ugly faces

Some frustration first inclination Is to become a monk and leave the situation
But every dark tunnel has a light of hope

So don’t hang yourself with a celibate rope

Your movie’s showin, so you’re goin

Could care less about the five you’re blowin Theater gets dark just to start the show
Then ya spot a fine woman sittin in your row
She’s dressed in yellow, she says “Hello, Come sit next to me you fine fellow.”
You run over there without a second to lose
And what comes next hey bust a move

In this city ladies look pretty

Guys tell jokes so they can seem witty

Tell a funny joke just to get some play

Then you try to make a move and she says, “No way” Girls are fakin goodness sakin They want a man who brings home the bacon Got no money and you got no car
Then you got no woman and there you are
Some girls are sadistic, materialistic
Lookin for a man makes them opportunistic They’re lyin on a beach perpetrating a tan
So that a brother with the money can be their man
So on the beach you’re strollin real high rollin
Everything you have is yours and not stolen
A girl runs up with somethin to prove

So don’t just stand there bust a move

Your best friend Harry has a brother Larry

In five days from now he’s gonna marry

He’s hopin you can make it there if you can Cause in the ceremony you’ll be the best man

You say neat-o, check your libido

And roll to the church in your new tuxedo

The bride walks down just to start the wedding
And there’s one more girl you won’t be getting
So you start thinkin then you start blinking
A bridesmaid looks and thinks that you’re winking

She thinks your kinda cute so she winks back And now your feelin really fine cause the girl is stacked
Reception’s jumpin bass is pumpin
Look at the girl and your heart starts thumpin
Says she wants to dance to a different groove Now you know what to do G bust a move

More Middle School Frivolity

So today was the last day of school, and accordingly, the school awards ceremony.  My kids go to a small school so they combine the middle school and high school awards into one delightful morning.  Today, I decided to live-tweet the action.  No not action.  What’s the opposite of action?  That’s what I live-tweeted.  The opposite of action.  Here’s the recap for those of you who for some reason don’t follow my exquisite twitter account.


If nothing else, it demonstrates how shitty I am at making hashtags.









Every Mothers’ Day Card, Ever

So , I didn’t get my mom a Mothers’ Day card this year.  I didn’t forget, I just didn’t buy one.  Mostly because I absolutely despise buying greeting cards.  I’d rather get a three hour prostate exam than go card shopping.  Sifting through thousands of cards looking for one that doesn’t suck is a delight.  Seriously, greeting card sales in this country alone are an estimated $7-8 billion dollars.  A year.  What the hell do they spend their money on?  They don’t advertise or market.  And they sure as hell aren’t spending it on decent writers.

Anyway, in lieu of an actual card, I’d like to describe every card I’ve ever given my mother.  Ever.


The front of the card will feature a poorly drawn woman, haggard and frazzled looking, perhaps wearing a bathrobe, slumped over a kitchen table or lying on a couch, her arm draped languidly over her forehead, in case you had missed all the other signs that she was worn out.  Above the picture would be the set up for a joke along the lines of how much trouble raising kids can be.  Inside the card will be the “punchline” of the joke (punchline is in quotes because greeting card punchlines are not terribly funny and thus can only be called punchlines in the loosest of terms).  The punchline will be delivered in Comic Sans or some other font used to denote the words written should not be taken seriously.  The so-called punchline will be about how I have been the cause of your grey hair/drinking problem/undiagnosed but mild emotional disorder. ( Though we all know that it was my sisters that caused this and not me, I will take the bullet for the sake of maintaining the integrity of the card.  You’re welcome, Tricia, Helen, and Judy.)  Under that, I will have written something infinitely more inappropriate not to mention funnier, most likely with a personal bent/anecdote.  Below that will appear the word, “Love,” and below that, my signature (first name only, you know who the fuck I am) which will begin with a “B” that in fact looks like a cross between a drunken eight and what it would look like if Frosty the Snowman fell asleep standing next to a space heater and none of those little shit kids he’s always hanging out with bother to unplug the damn thing.  After the “B” will be a primarily flat line with a random number of humps indicating where other letters might go, but the number of humps will in no way coincide with the number of letters actually in my name. This is the result of having terrible, terrible handwriting and no longer giving even the tiniest of shits about making it legible.


Happy Mother’s Day!

Jessie’s Girl 2: The Aftermath

The year was 1981.  The Berlin Wall was still up, the “Brady Brides” debuted on NBC, and a young Grumpy Llama was on the verge of “the change.”  And a dashing soap opera star named Rick Springfield introduced the world to “Jessie’s Girl.”  A kinda stalker-y song about unrequited love.  Here it is:



Jessie is a friend,
Yeah I know he’s been a good friend of mine
But lately something’s changed
It ain’t hard to define
Jessie’s got himself a girl
And I want to make her mine
And she’s watching him with those eyes
And she’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it!
And he’s holding her in his arms late, late at night

You know I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
Where can I find her, a woman like that?

I’ll play along with this charade
That doesn’t seem to be a reason to change
You know I feel so dirty when they start talking cute
I wanna tell her that I love but the point is probably moot
‘Cause she’s watching him with those eyes
And she’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it!
And he’s holding her in his arms late, late at night

You know I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
Where can I find her, a woman like that?

Like Jessie’s girl
I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
Where can I find her, a woman…
Where can I find her, a woman like that?

And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time
Wonderin’ what she don’t see in me
I’ve been funny; I’ve been cool with the lines
Ain’t that the way love’s supposed to be?
Tell me why can’t I find a woman like that?

You know I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
Where can I find her, a woman like that?

Like Jessie’s girl
I wish that I had Jessie’s girl
I want, I want Jessie’s girl

I’ve wondered for years what ever happened between those three.  Would Rick and Jessie’s unnamed girl ever get together?  Would they live happily ever after?  Well, below I bring you the answer (with help from my good friend Daniel *lastnameredactedbecausehehasoneofthosejobthings).  Enjoy!

Jessie’s Girl 2: The Aftermath

Jessie was a friend 
Yeah I know he was a good friend of mine
But lately something’s changed
It ain’t hard to define
Jessie had himself a girl but I went and made her mine
Now she’s watching me with those eyes
And she’s gonna make me get a cat, I just know it
And she won’t let me play Halo late, late at night

You know I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
What do you do with a woman like that?

Why play along with this charade?
There’s no part of me she doesn’t want to change
Know I feel so angry when I have to watch her chew
I said I didn’t love her and she turned my rabbit into stew
‘Cause she’ watching me with those eyes
And she’s gonna make me get a cat I just know it!
And she won’t let me play Halo late, late at night

You know I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
What do you do with a woman like that?

Like Jessie’s girl
I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
What do you do with a woman…
What do you do with a woman like that?

And I’m lookin’ in the mirror all the time
Wonderin’ why she won’t just leave me
It’s not funny, I’m so depressed all the time
Is this the way love’s supposed to be?
Tell me can I return a woman like that?

You know I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
I thought I wanted Jessie’s girl
What do you do with a woman like that?
Like Jessie’s girl

I wish that I had Jessie back
I want, I want Jessie back

Is This Normal?

My 8-year-old daughter is taking part in a tiny little production of “Pinkalicious: The Musical.”  In addition to weekly rehearsals, she practices in the car everyday, reading lines and singing the songs.  In the finale, Pinkalicious’ mom, Mrs. Pinkerton, is celebrating the beauty of the color pink when Pinkalicious chimes in, “I thought you didn’t like pink.”  Mrs. Pinkerton responds, “Long story.”

“Long story?”

Now I’m curious.  How is liking or not liking a color a long story?  What’s the story here?  And then it happens.  I begin to imagine Mrs. Pinkerton’s (I don’t know her first name or her maiden name) childhood.  What could have happened all those years ago?  I see her crying at her father’s funeral when she is six, standing by the grave.  Then she’s seven and arguing with her mother who has had to go back to work.  They’re arguing because she wants her mother to stay at home, but that’s just not an option anymore.  Flash forward two more years and her mother has remarried, an ex-carnival worker who ran the cotton candy machine, a machine he stole when he quit.  A machine that now sits in the basement of the house they all share.  Mrs. Pinkerton’s mother has moved up the ladder at work and she has to leave town every month for days at a time.  When she leaves, the step-father locks Mrs. Pinkerton in the basement, only letting her out right before her mother returns, threatening her should she decide to tell her mother.  Trapped in the basement and starving, Mrs. Pinkerton finds the cotton candy machine in the corner.  Box upon box of pink sugar crystals are stacked beside it.  On the verge of starvation, she figures out how to work the machine and survives by eating greats swabs of pink cotton candy off her hands, swirling them around the tub and sobbing as the strands gather on her fingers.  She lives like this years, until finally her mother returns home early.

And now that I can’t help but look at the play in this light, “Pinkalicious” is less about a little girl eating to many pink cupcakes, and more about a resilient mother’s ability to overcome a childhood trauma in order to accept her daughter for who she is.

Then I wonder, what the hell is wrong with me?  I’m at a play rehearsal and all of a sudden, all I can think about is one of the characters being tortured by a deranged carnie.  And then it hits me.  I know what’s wrong with me.  I’m a writer.  Because normal people just sit there and enjoy their daughter’s play.  Suckers.

More Sex Stuff

I decided to take a break from pervin’ on old copies of Cosmo at the library and take a look at their online version.  (A note to the denizens of the library, I will be back and your disdainful glances will still have no effect on me.  I spent 13 years in Catholic school, so I can assure you I am immune to disdainful glances.)  The online version is pretty lame, quite frankly, but the section titled “Sex Tips and Tricks from Guys” seemed promising.  Okay, brothers, here’s our chance to tell millions of women what we really like in bed.  And go!

“An ex once came to bed in a soaking wet white tee shirt. The sight was jaw-dropping.” –Nick, 30

Really?  Maybe I  being too pragmatic here, but I already don’t like sleeping in the wet spot, and now you’re gonna let a cold-ass, dripping wet shirt soak through the mattress pad.  No thanks.


“This chick leaned against the dresser and stuck her butt out for doggie-style. I definitely obliged.” –Glenn, 23

You obliged?  Stop patting yourself on the back there, Glenn.  You didn’t save a village from systematic genocide, you banged your girlfriend from behind.   Bravo.


“Seeing a woman’s lips glide over the neck of a beer bottle always makes me think of her mouth on me.” –Ty, 21

No shit, Ty.  Did you come up with that all by your lonesome?


“Your guys will always want to go shopping with you if you let him into the dressing room as you try on clothes—especially lingerie.” –Nathan, 21

Oh, Nathan, Nathan, Nathan.  Poor, naive Nathan.  You are not getting sexy time by watching your girlfriend try on clothes.  She’ll be convinced that all of them make her look fat, you’ll try to argue, you’ll fail.  There will be tears.  From both of you.


“The night after I got a big promotion my girlfriend said she was going to give me only oral sex all night.”—Ken, 32

Wait, guys like oral sex?  Why, I had no idea.  Seriously ladies, if this surprising news to you, you aren’t ready for any actual sex tips.


“Wear silk gloves or a cashmere scarf and rub them against sensitive regions like my treasure trail.” –Louis, 24

“Treasue trail?”  Louis, what are you 15?  Just stop.


“News flash: Guys have nipples too, and they’re a lot more sensitive than you’d think. Graze mine with your teeth while your hands tease my package.” –Rory, 21

Rory.  First of all, sorry about your name.  That’s too bad.  And there was something else…hmmm…what was it again?  Oh yeah.  Did you say package?


Don’t say package.

“My girl pretended not to want to kiss me. I had to use my tongue to pry her mouth open passionately.” –Ron, 25

I’m gonna channel my inner Mr. Mackey here, Ron.  “Date rape is bad, mm-kay?”



“There’s this groove on the back of my neck above my spine. Suck on it during a make-out session—I’ll be hard ASAP.” –Paco, 29

Where to begin, Paco?  Where.  To.  Begin.  First,  your neck is part of your spine, so…yeah…   Secondly, if you’re making out with a girl, how the hell is she supposed to suck on the back your head?  Unless maybe…


“Do what my first girl did: Moan my name while I pleasure you.” –Eddie, 28

Why do I want my girl to moan your name, Eddie?


“My lady likes to lie facedown on the bed, with her legs straight and her arms at her sides. To enter her, I have to push past her legs and cheeks. The resistance is really hot.” —Lyle, 21

Lyle.  Your lady is asleep.  Also, Mr. Mackey, again.


Not perfect, but pretty close.

“When you’re near the point of no return, whisper four-letter words into my ears—the really dirty ones.” –Fred, 23

Poop?  Work?  Taxes?  No wait, that’s five letters.  What words do you mean, Fred?!


“During Missionary, place your hands on your man’s shoulders and push against him. He’ll have to struggle to thrust upward, which means he’s working harder for his pleasure—always a turn on.” –Thomas, 22

Jeez, how date-rapey is the male readership of Cosmo?  (Myself excluded, of course.)


“After climax, a guy’s head can feel overheated and tingly. If you gently pull his hair and massage his scalp, it will quickly relax him.”—Chris, 29

I…see, the thing is…what Chris means is…what the fuck do you mean, Chris?  You somehow need a way to relax after orgasm?  I don’t think you’re doing it right, partner.


“Flick just the tip of my penis under your tongue. Do it over and over. It would take hours for me to climax this way, but man, what a way to pass the time!” –Keith, 22

Because if there’s one thing women want to know, it’s how to make blow job take even longer.


“I love when my girl touches my package like she’s never seen it before. She’s not innocent, but it’s a lot of fun pretending.” –Patrick, 23

Again with package?  Come on, guys!  But Patrick’s right, there’s nothing more exhilarating than being with a woman who has no idea what to do with a penis.


Also, nice dig implying your girlfriend’s been around the block.  I’m sure that didn’t backfire on you at all.

Not a terribly applicable gif, but it makes me giggle.

“Make two fists around my shaft and twist them in opposite directions as fast as you can.” Jamie, 30

Uh, Jaime.  Maybe throw out that they might want to use lube for this.


“My girl would use marbles to tease me with in bed. She’d casually scatter them over the bed sheet and then as we get it on, I could feel the cool marbles press against my hot skin. It’s a wicked sensation.” –Greg, 21

Not with my sciatica, Greg.  Not with my sciatica.


“One night, my girlfriend stopped the action and pointed to the camera she’d set up in the corner.” –Justin, 21

“Then, she told me she was only 15.  And a guy.  It’s costing me $300 a month to keep the tape under wraps.”  Justin, probably.



Oh well, better luck next time, Cosmo.