Big hands and big feet...

People continue to use this expression 'big hands and big feet' to imply that there is something else that may be big in the man's body. Last weekend a girl at a party said this cliched expression and began to laugh as if she had invented it right there on the spot. I happened to be sitting right next to her and just left the room when she erupted in laughter.

'Big hands and big feet..you know what that means' has been around since the fall of 1978. Although it is now 2009, it appears as though for some people this logical deduction still brings smiles and laughter to their boring world. There has been a petition to ban using this hackneyed expression...it is still in its embryonic form.

I have asked around and wonder what men are thinking about the whole idea of big hands and big feet. Robert, an engineer, replied: "Women like to use this expression to make themselves laugh. I find the whole thing really stupid. When I hear it I usually wish I were in a better place...maybe sitting in traffic in a hundred degree weather." Heather, a seamstress, said: "Yes, I have heard it before...I find it silly. I must say that I sometimes get a chuckle. Well, I haven't had a date in three years so I guess it just adds a little spice to my sedentary lifestyle."

Ewww

The word 'ewww' is being tossed around by many women today. I often wonder if there are any restrictions at all on this lovely little reaction word. I have yet to hear a man use this word, and I am confident that 'ewww' is simply a word that women use to describe something that they find truly disgusting.

I have been around women who use the word 'ewww' at every opportunity. My friend Amanda used it the other day when she saw an old mercedes (circa 1995) turn the corner at a busy intersection. My friend Jessica said 'ewww' when a handsome man asked her out on a date to an elegant restaurant. My friend Christine exclaimed 'ewww' when she went to rent a movie one night but the store had closed ten minutes before she got there. Lastly, my friend Susan shouted 'ewww' when she saw that a transsexual was about to serve her a chocolate ice cream cone. She changed her mind and ordered strawberry.

My friend Sarah had a different experience when she saw a mouse racing across her kitchen floor. Instead of shouting the tradional 'ewww', Sarah did not shout at all. She simply said: "What a cute little critter...looks like he is eating well in that little hole."

Don't lose your phone...

I received a call the other day from my good friend Jeffrey. His voice sounded garbled, and I was wondering if he was struck with some strange illness. Jeffrey was very curt on the phone, and he was normally loquacious. He simply said: "Al, it is time that you got yourself tested...you know we made love last nite and I came down with the bug." The imposter hung up the phone quickly and I could not shake that sick feeling from my stomach.

What happened to me can happen to anyone. Your friend may lose his cell phone, and a shit head might call your contacts to report some godawful situation. Be prepared for this type of behavior in America today. It is not uncommon to find idiots lurking around the corner; they are happy to spread disastrous rumors.

I asked one gentleman on the street about this problem. He said: "My phone must have fallen out of my pocket at a restaurant...some idiot found it and called my mother to say that I had hung myself and they needed her to claim the body. What a nightmare." A woman reported a similar disturbing situation: "A teenage boy found my phone on a train and called my boyfriend. He claimed that he was a bastard child that I had been keeping a secret for three years."

Toefungus75

I recently joined a dating website for giggles. I had to come up with a nifty name to attract a lady. A lot of the websites promote long term relationships and possibly marriage. It didn't take me a long time before I created Toefungus75 for my profile name. I knew that it was original, and that my chances of attracting a female with this name were quite slim. I was more interested in learning about the person who actually struck up a conversation with me.

One woman connected with me and said: "Hi there Toefungus75...that is quite a disgusting name to put out there for the ladies." I responded: "Yes, I was afraid so but I wanted to be original." She replied: "Well, good luck with that stupid name. You will be single forever with that attitude."

I received similar responses to my profile name for the first few weeks. I decided to keep the name, and was lucky that I did. A beautiful blonde responded: "Hi toefungus....what are you doing fri nite? Candle light on the water?" Boy I was glad that I had kept that name...my date turned out to be a real knockout who had a great sense of humor and propensity to show me her disgusting toes.

My first birthday party...

This past weekend I had the opportunity to go to my first baby birthday party. The little precious one turned one. The baby boy sat in his high chair and his mom brought over a yellow cake that was in the shape of a duck. What transpired after that was quite disturbing. The baby boy poked at the cake with his fingers while the adults laughed (some snapped pictures) and stood transfixed as this boy ripped apart the duck's beak.

I asked one of the adult birthday revelers about the experience. The single bearded man commented: "It is sad how all of the adults are standing around while this birthday boy tears apart the cake with his fingers. The fact that they think that it is funny is the most disturbing part. I just see it as a popular baby reaction to food. I hope this ends pretty soon so I can get on with my life." I asked another woman to share her thoughts. She replied: "I can't believe many of the adults were clapping as this boy broke off chunks of the duck's head with his fingers. It really deserved no applause. If he made the duck come to life, then that would be a reason to celebrate. I would just say that some of these clapping adults would benefit from therapy."

Farting underwater...

I recently went swimming with an attractive female. In the deep end of the pool we took turns splashing each other in the face and slowly made our way over to the shallow end. She swam lethargically in the shallow water and then stopped. I noticed bubbles rising in the water around her waist. They grew bigger and then came at a rapid pace. She was smiling.

I confronted her about the bubbles. I first asked if she was a fish because it seemed as though she had taken on some aquatic life form. She stated: "I am not a fish...but I am letting a few go here in the water and it feels great. I hope you can't smell them." I turned around so that my back was towards her and hurried out of the water. She yelled for me, but I made no reply. I needed to save myself from the underwater farting and the contamination that might have gotten me on a sunny summer day in July.

We are going to go around this corner...

The other day I used this popular phrase on the street to see if I could get some creative responses. I asked a handful of men and a handful of women to complete the sentence. I used Boston as the city for my experiment.

Upon hearing 'we are going to go around this corner...', some women responded:

1. You are going to give me flowers.
2. I will find the man of my dreams.
3. I will find a wallet with a winning lottery ticket.
4. There will be a party with all my friends.

Upon hearing 'we are going to go around this corner'..., some men responded:

1. I will fall into a black hole.
2. Someone will chop my head off with a machete.
3. I will be shot in the head point blank range.
4. I will be hit by speeding bus going 65 m.p.h. in a 40 m.p.h. zone.

The women responded with more optimism and seemed to think there would be a surprise waiting for them. The men appeared more pessimistic--they sensed bad things would befall them. I will try this again in a different city and then compare my data.

The ass crackle...

I find myself enjoying coffee as much as the rest of the people in this great country. Often times I will sit towards the back of the establishment to read a newspaper (something that is hardly done anymore) and drink my piping hot coffee. I find the rear of the shop is the most peaceful and tends to be away from the hustle and bustle at the counter.

I made a horrible mistake when I took my seat the other day at the back. I had been sitting down for about ten minutes until a fat woman walked towards the back and went to the bathroom. While I was sipping my cafe au lait, I heard the sonic boom of an ass that could not stop crackling. I almost retched but was able to steady myself to pretend that I was concentrating on a well-written editorial.

The fat woman exited a few minutes later, and my eyes hardened when I met hers. She looked at me and laughed: "I should have warned you...fellow. When I release my goods, it's no small thing, baby. Next time take a seat up at the front away from the toilets and you won't offend your ears."

Pet passwords...

It appears as though many people are going back to using their pet names as passwords. While in the past five years or so pet passwords have been shunned, it appears as though they are now acceptable in these rough times. People are choosing to be less creative in a poor economy. It's too much effort to create an enigmatic word.

I recently asked a gentleman about his e-mail password. He stated: "For years I created a really stupid password that was so hard to remember...one day I just said fuck it. I went with my dog's name, Spot. Let's see some shit head hack into my e-mail and go through my bank statements. Might as well..." One fat woman responded: "I understand that pet passwords are not acceptable and may be guessed at any time. Well, I just don't have the energy to make up some weird name that is retarded in the first place. I'll just stick with my cat's name, Fluffy. It's boring but it's all I got. He's such a good cat."

The hype to be creative is long gone. People are using passwords that are just too easy and they don't care. When times are tough, it's too hard to let the imagination soar. Stay dumb my friends.

No more scaredy-cat...

Adults are rarely using the word scaredy-cat anymore. It appears as though the expression fell by the wayside some twenty or thirty years ago. A scaredy-cat is generally used to describe a person who as an excessive amount of fear.

These days men and women are opting out of using this expression to describe a person who is about to shit his or her pants. One gentlemen in a business suit stated the obvious: "If one of my friends refuses to do something because he is scared, I would never call him a scaredy-cat. He is just a big fucking pussy...that's what he is." One woman dressed in a classic pants suit stated: "I have a girl friend who is afraid to across the street during rush hour. She may be your typical scaredy-cat but I believe that she is just a pussy at heart. She needs to come out of her shell in life before she is six feet under."

I would use the word scaredy-cat to describe someone who is afraid of his/her shadow...or perhaps someone who is afraid to jump in front of a speeding bus.

Blue pill commercials...

Blue pill commercials are taking over the television set. These commercials usually air during ball games accompanied by some cheesy music. The older wrinkled lovers are sitting in bathtubs on some field filled with daisies. We assume that the man has deposited the blue pill in his mouth like a pelican. When the grey-haired couple clasp each other's hands and smile, they know that they will get out of the bathtubs naked and rush one hundred yards towards some decrepit house to do it passionately.

Because these blue pill commercials appear during ball games, many children are seeing the advertisements for prolonged erections and wondering what is happening to this country. Between handfuls of popcorn, they are asking their parents for the definition of an erection and then asking if they sought immediate help for an erection lasting for more than four hours.

When I was teaching, I often had many students ask me if I sat in a field in a bathtub and took blue pills. Some students claimed that I ate them like candy for Halloween instead of the traditonal Tootsie rolls.

A health club run by fatties...

I don't think that a health club should be run by fat people. This a very poor administrative move and has forced me to question my own membership status. The prerequisite for working at a health club ought to be that the employee shows that he or she cares about his physical appearance. One does not have to be a fitness model but that does not mean that one can be big as a cow and also be gainfully employed.

I asked some members of my club to comment on this situation. One fit fellow described the situation: "I see where you are coming from. There shouldn't be fat people in charge of the facility. We are all trying to get in shape here. Having fat bastards trolling around here entices me to head for the nearest burger joint." Another fit woman commented: "I see where you are coming from. I would probably just ignore it and continue on with my workout. But you do make a lot of sense....this is no place to showcase poor eating habits and sloppy seconds."

I hope health clubs in this country make wiser decisions in their hiring procedures. Fit people are needed to promote a healthy lifestyle. There should not be any big butts about it.

Post a memory about me...

It seems that social networking sites are getting very soft. Often I have seen a status update that suggests posting a memory about a person so that they can be surprised when they see your recollection. This is truly idiotic and can open that cliched can of worms.

I had so many memories that I had to publicize them. My first target of course was Brent. I wrote: "Brent, I remember walking down the street with you in San Francisco. It was a beautiful sunny day and then you shit your pants right there on the sidewalk." Of my friend Jonathan I wrote: "I remember the day you lost your virginity to a twenty dollar hooker in Mexico. She was missing her front two teeth but you were smiling for an hour after you were finished with her." Of my my friend Ethan I wrote: "I remember the time you got the shit kicked out of you in a fight outside a bar. When they were done with you they put you head first in a dumpster and then closed the lid."

Although these memories are not warm and fuzzy, they are my own recollections. My friends had asked for a memory and I wrote what first came to mind. When I asked friends to post something about me, Brent wrote: "I remember when you first rode your bicycle without the training wheels. You rode for a hundred feet before you fell and split your head open on the pavement. The stain is still faintly there in the street."

Stool softener commercials...

The need for stool softeners in this country is great. The product aims to let people feel themselves again after they take it. I get it. Life is too short to have wait days before emptying your bowels.

I am, however, perplexed at the timing of stool softener commercials. They usually air while I am sitting down at the dinner table. I like to watch television while eating my steak and mashed potatoes, but do not enjoy seeing the advertisement for the stool softener while i dip my steak chunk into the A1 sauce. I swirl it around quicky and try to tear my eyes away from the screen. That is easy to do, but I can't block out the voice of the man who is a proponent of this stool softener. He is so eloquent and convincing that he makes you wish for a week of constipation so that you can try the lil pill.

Stool softener commercials should air at two in the morning. At that time of the night there may be a poor soul struggling in the bathroom to release his inner waste. Surely he would listen then and it would be too late to lose his lunch.

Late night chat lines for lonely souls...

Late at night advertisements for single people appear on the televison. These advertisements entice the male audience with beautiful women who are lying down in bed in their panties. The chatlines claim to be free, but we all know that that is not the case and that a minor raping will take place once you give your credit card information. I do not know any poor bastard who has called these lines to connect live with a female. I do not know any female who has called in to connect live with a vile male.

I did, however, meet a pretty woman who had been paid to advertise for the chatline. She dressed scantily for the shoot, and looked seductively into the camera to bait the lonely males in their underwear. When asked if she would actually pick up the phone to respond to these lonely men, she replied: "I would rather be dead than talk to any pathetic loser who calls the chatline looking for love. There are no girls as pretty as me waiting on the other end of the line. These losers should just be lucky that they connect live with a girl who has two arms and two legs."

One obsolete expression...

There is one expression out there that has fallen off of the face of the earth. The saying 'getting into her pants' is no longer used in daily conversation. It seems as though the last time it was tossed about was in the fall of 2003 at some small tavern in upstate New York. Women are refraining from using that saying because it is too polite and somewhat dull. I spoke to a young woman about this lackluster phrase. She stated: "I never really use it to describe a guy who is really interested in me. It is so stupid...why not just cut to the chase? I tell it like it is...he wants to fuck me so bad. It is almost 2010."

Men are not interested in using the phrase 'getting into her pants' to express their desires either. I talked to one gentleman who just turned twenty. He stated: "I think that expression is so stupid...only an idiot would use that today. If I see something I like, I say I want to bang her. What is this getting into her pants shit? Fuck dat sheet."

Social network sites call class reunions anachronistic...

It has become pretty clear that people will no longer attend their high school reunions. Some people are skipping their college reunions too. This apathy is the result of social networking sites that have surfaced all over the internet. So many people who were never friends in the first place can connect with each other...

I have asked many people about their dim desire to attend their reunions. One man in his thirties stated: "I had one shit head befriend me on a site, and I can't get rid of him. He keeps sending me messages that ask me how I am doing. I have no clue who this guy is...apparently I went to high school with him. The thought that I would actually see him in person at a reunion sickens me. I know what this fool ate for dinner last nite...he posted it on the site." One pretty woman commented: "One guy befriended me on this site...he is still obsessed with me even though some fifteen years have passed. It took me two weeks to decide whether to accept the friends request. He can now see pictures of my family and my husband. I really would not want to see him in person. Thank heavens he can just stalk me via the web. What a loser...I knew he would turn into a creep."

A mum porn star...

At my community gym there was a porn star and myself. Let's say her name was Starry Sizzler. We were the only two in the gym at around six in the evening. Starry was using the leg press and then went to work out her shoulders. The shoulder machine was adjacent to my machine, the chest press. I turned to say hello to the porn star, but she made it obvious that she didn't want to talk when she put on her sunglasses.

I now know that porn stars do not want to talk when they put on their sunglasses. This is a life lesson that I will take with me after I throw away my porn collection.

Fine dining with a bulimic...

Fine dining with a bulimic has become impossible for me. Imagine the array of exquisite dishes at your favorite five star restaurant. There may be filet mignon or roasted duck to accompany your scintillating appetizers. Now imagine that your date is bulimic. You feast on your four course meal with her and then she throws it up in the parking lot. Roasted duck chunks lie on the asphalt among other tidbits and questionable nuggets of joy.

The next time I dine with a bulimic I will make sure that I bring a miniature paper shredder. I am working on a patent right now for it. I will take out $200 in twenty dollar bills and insert them into the shredder as the waiter sets down the hot dishes. I will shred and shred and then smile at my bulimic date. She may wonder at first why I am shredding my money, and then I will offer up an explanation that makes no sense. Check please...

Grocery store free samples hit in the recession...

I seem to be at the wrong place at the wrong time at the grocery store. Samples are fun for everyone but they are just not that fun for me. Whenever I arrive to sample the fun new product, the food is almost all gone. It is all but a pile of crumbs or a few scraps clinging to the side of the bowl. My delight in getting a taste of heaven is dismissed, and I am forced to dip my my ring finger into the bowl to hope for a bit of something that just doesn't taste right.

I recently asked an older man about this problem. He said: "I think stores put out one container in the morning and it just sits there all day. You might think they would replace it when it is empty but that never happens. I've seen many upset customers who were hoping for a small taste of heaven. They just got there too late and got a crumb. Poor bastards..."

Octopus legs and a creepy old guy...

On recent visits to the local coffee shop in my area, I was shocked to see the artwork parading around the walls. The choice showed poor judgment by the owners of this establishment. Detailed magnified sketches of octopus legs made me retch as I sipped from my iced mocha. I could not avoid seeing the little hairs and pink suction cups. They beckoned to me, telling me that they would wrap their long tentacles around me while I enjoyed a beverage.

An old creepy man with a beard sat at a table beside the octopus legs. He often looked into his coffee and stroked his white beard afterwards. The old creepy guy is now popping up at your local coffee joints. Although the old creepy guy still visits bars, he will not stop there. He will be sitting at your local java house too, and he will creep you out.

I approached the old creepy guy the other day at the coffee house. I asked him if he was doing okay and tried to avoid looking at the artwork behind him. He looked up from his drink and said: "Does it look like I am okay? I am old and creepy and have no particular place to go. I might as well be dead." At least it was a sunny day...I muttered.

Suicide notes a thing of the past...

It appears as though many people are deciding to go without putting down a string of words or a sentence. This trend started way back in 2002. Because of the recession gripping the country, many people are feeling the same way about the suicide note: "Is there really a point to it at all?" With suicide letters a thing of the past, it seems that many people may turn to assembling collages to portray their final thoughts. The collages will then be destroyed or recycled for school projects that an angry eighth grader may use to impress his shitty teacher.

I met some morose people who commented on this anachronism--the suicide note. One man quipped: "I've always been an environmentalist....so it goes without saying that I wouldn't want to waste a piece of paper." A sad lady who had just been laid off two times in the past month said: "I'm not sure suicide letters are cool anymore...I don't think anyone is taking the time to write one. We're all so busy these days...if you're going to do it, just fucking do it already. No one cares about your sad thoughts...the world will go on without you."

Audio trouble

It is happening all over television. It doesn't matter if it is a major sporting event or your local news. When reporters are handing over the story to another reporter live at the scene, the audio dies. The reporter with the microphone is talking but the viewing audience can't hear a thing. This type of situation is happening so frequently these days that it has forced me to turn off the television. We can send people to the moon but the live feed on the street to report a stomping herd of people about to riot is no longer available.

It's high time that reporters be honest with the audience. They should just come out and say it: "We are going to go live to the scene...but don't be surprised if you don't hear a thing. Just watch the lips move and maybe try to read them."

The unemployed sugardaddy

The unemployed sugardaddy takes a girl out to nice restaurants and picks up the tab all the time. The unemployed sugardaddy pays for drinks and also buys clothing so that his sweetie looks nice. The unemployed sugardaddy pays for everything so that his girl doesn't have to reach into her purse. It doesn't matter--she has no money regardless of the situation.

I have found myself in this unattractive role recently, and am wondering how I am going to make ends meet without an income. She doesn't care and continues to spend, as if she has found the richest sugardaddy on earth. I tell her that I am unemployed, and she rushes to make reservations at the most elegant restaurants.

I am wondering if there are any other unemployed sugardaddies out there. Perhaps we could start an awareness group to talk about supporting our sweeties without anything at all.

What's in a name?

A lot of night clubs these days have names to attract young people. Many night club names are used to portray comfort (i.e. silk, crystal, water, cleanse, purify.) These names suggest tranquility and a soothing atmosphere.

I have never wanted to open a night club. If I were, however, to open a night spot, I would use other names that would be less attractive. I would consider the following names for my establishment: puke, vomit, pus, guts, stench, or possibly roadkill. While these names do not connote a happy place, they are truly unique and may attract a different type of crowd to dance the night away. It's high time for change; it's time to be different in a complex world.

Play hard and don't work...

The old expression 'work hard and play hard' is now obsolete and a wee bit retarded. People just don't have time anymore for the both of them or refuse to admit that they follow that philosophy. The people who have said that they work hard and play hard have now joined a 'work hard, play hard group' that meets on Friday evenings at 9 p.m. to discuss the concepts involved in this grand idea. Popcorn is served with small glasses of warm fruit punch.

A property manager, David Oaks, told me: "I didn't ever adhere to that philosophy...I must say that I play harder than I work and do often find time to sleep on the job. One unemployed soul said: "I play all the time and working is not a part of me in this economy. Even when I had a job, I didn't put a lot of effort into it. I knew my time was coming soon." I spoke to a woman about this philosophy when she walked out of her office. Michelle Colin, an accountant, stated: "I work hard and play hard. Yes, that is what I do. That is what life is about. That is how I experience the best of it. Now get out of my way, mother f%^#er."

All rumors considered true...

In the recession it appears as though rumors are now considered true. There is little room for doubt anymore. Once a rumor comes to the surface it is quickly deemed true. This acceptance has reached all circles of life, including hospitals, office buildings, and school districts. It appears as though the last person to question a rumor was a woman by the name of Monica Remy in 2001. She said that she heard a rumor about her boss (that he wore a wig when he went to bed and was hiding funds in an offshore bank). Monica, an office worker, said: "I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. He was such straight arrow."

Rumors are running rampant throughout all school districts too. I spoke with a teacher the other day who had over twenty years of experience teaching science. When Mrs. Higley found out that her assistant principal was actually a worm, she stated: "I thought I would drop dead doing a water experiment first before learning the truth about one of my administrators." The same type of rumors are all deemed true in hospitals. One nurse commented: "I don't think people have the energy anymore to dispel rumors. It's just so hard in this economy. I found out the other day that one of the lead doctors actually is a hermaphrodite. It makes a lot of sense now."

Text and e-mail message gloom...

I have been getting a lot of text messages lately that promise 'a surprise' will be in my future if I forward the sappy saying to eight more loved ones or else risk something bad... I often ignore the messages and then hit the delete button. The same is happening with emails. I have received e-mails along the lines of 'love is in my heart'. A picture of roses swaying in the breeze or a rainbow accompanies the note. The email tells me to forward the note to twenty loved ones if I want them to survive for many more years or suggests that I might want their imminent death.

I am frustrated with these text messages and e-mails. It is strange that people have nothing better to do than to than to threaten bad things upon their friends if they do not forward cheesy notes. I spoke to my friend the other day, and he said the same thing. He never forwards anything. Unfortunately, he fell off a cliff on the way to work the other day. He got up quickly and shook it off before he caught the train to the city.

Fashionably late not hip anymore...

Showing up fashionably late to a party or cocktail affair is no longer considered hip. Arriving an hour after the scheduled beginning of the event will get you some sour faces and your traditional eyebrow raising. It appears as though arriving on time or getting to the venue a little early is now considered trendy.

I asked many socialites about this new trend that is gripping the social elite. One woman quipped: "I used to arrive an hour after things got going...the reality was that I was stalling and really had no excuse for not being there on time. I would sit and watch a TV episode or just lie down until it was late enough. I don't do that anymore." A man commented: "I'm not sure what's happening. I've been showing up early when there are just one or two people milling about like retards with full drinks in their hands. From what I hear it's all the rage. I usually ignore the idiots and sit at the bar by myself until something better comes along."

Rise and shine...

The expression 'rise and shine' has become another casualty in our daily existences. The last person to utter that phrase was a man by the name of Joshua Wilkins. He had said it back in 1985 in a small Oregon town when he knocked on his son's door to wake him up. The boy awoke immediately and had a fantastic day--in fact he got an A+ on each of his exams and then made out with his high school sweetheart, who happened to be the captain of the cheerleading team.

Many people have wondered what phrases have taken its place. The expression 'rise and shine' was so simple and offered such encouragement and hope. I asked a young man the other day about the expression, and he replied: "It seemed like a good one back then, but now...people just say get the f$%k out the bed you lazy piece of shit." Another woman quipped: "Our world is not that kind of place anymore...there's no room for a shining star. Those people are laughed out of the building and sometimes get a good ass-kicking." It is perhaps sad news to hear that 'rise and shine' was used in another era--in a time where it was okay to excel and happiness was accepted everywhere.

Nice to meet you?

It seems as though 'nice to meet you' has not been holding its weight lately. Just recently I met someone at a restaurant and found myself saying: "Nice to meet you." The reality was that I did not care at all and could have been happy going about my life without never having met that person in the first place. I am sensing that a lot of people are using this expression so freely that they are truly unaware of how apathetic they were at the time of the meeting. They are simply speaking without thinking.

I talked to one woman on the street and she said to me: "I told this guy...nice to meet you...but that really means I could care less and hope he has a nice life." It is very clear that 'nice to meet you' signifies 'take care of yourself and let's not bump into one another again.' Many people are now saving words when meeting people for the first time. Instead of the usual 'nice to meet you' platitude, people are resorting to small grunts. Another lady asked: "Why even say it at all?...I just grunt at the person and take my leave. I have better shit to do than to pretend I'm really interested in meeting someone when I would rather be taking out the garbage."

The interview (a work of fiction)

In the interview room there was a giant black clock on the wall and three oak tables. On one of the tables there was a bowl of pears. On the second table there was a white t-shirt and on the third table there were two apples. The interviewer wore a red shirt and a blue tie. His eyes were shifty behind his horn-rimmed glasses and his moustache bristled. At first he talked loudly and enthusiastically and then grew solemn.

I noticed his left shoe was untied and he knew it too.

“Do you think you will be a good candidate for the position?”

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. He then touched his fat nose.

“I think I can do an excellent job,” I said, tense with expectant waiting.

“I have many concerns,” he said with a despairing gaze.

“How many concerns do you have?”

The man closed his eyes and then went into the drawer for a carton of cigarettes. When he fished one out of the box, he rolled it on the desk. He rolled it back and forth before putting it into his mouth. When he struck the match, he smiled. He was thinking about his supper, broiled snapper and roasted potatoes. He couldn’t wait to get home to his wife.

“Let’s begin with your demeanor. You are not upbeat.”

“I am sad a lot as of late, but I can do a good job.”

“I’m sure you can. Why are you sad?”

“Because of my girl friend…she was raped a few days ago and I haven’t gotten over it.”

“How badly was she raped?”

“Brutally,” I said.

The interviewer inhaled deeply on his cigarette and went to the table to pick up an apple. He noticed my distressed look and the revulsion in my eyes.

“Do you see this bruise?,” he asked.

I didn’t answer but just studied the dented apple.

“Yes…you are like this apple, young man,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

When I looked at him, I noticed that his bulbous nose turned bright red.

“I could start next week.”

“Well then,” he said, before stabbing out the cigarette in an ash tray.

“Do I have the job?” I asked with a gentle smile.

“If you are able to stuff this apple into your rectum, you may surely have it...starting at eight dollars an hour,” he said, laughing cruelly.

His eyes glinted with mean amusement and his mouth quirked in a half-humorous, half-bitter line. The man wanted to hoot with laughter but controlled himself.

I ran out of the room and went into the rain. All I remember is that the street boasted many street lamps that were already lit in the afternoon darkness.

I could not accept eight dollars an hour; I had a college degree.

3 day rule now becomes 3 minute rule...

Many of my friends are telling me that they no longer wait three days to call a girl. This so called 'three day' rule ended in 2000. Many guys are telling me the same thing: "When I get a girl's number, it is too hard to wait three days to call her. I know it is important not to seem to eager, but I am just a horny toad. I can't help myself." This type of sentiment is all too common, and many guys can hardly remember following the 'three day' rule at all.

Many girls at first seem shy about recognizing the fact that guys have broken this rule. One pretty girl quipped: "I gave my number to a guy the other night, and he had called me just as I walked out the door. It had been about three minutes. I just couldn't answer it...I called him back thirty seconds later." It appears that many men just don't give a shit about anything anymore, and their aggressive behavior has become acceptable and par for the dating course. One ugly girl said: "I gave my number the other day at the market, and the guy called me right in front of my face. We were no more than a foot away from each other and we carried on a telephone conversation right there in front of the tomatoes. I was just so happy that he called at all--I am ugly as sin," she said, laughing.

Call for a good time..

In public bathroom stalls across America, there is change. The days when 'call for a good time' messages were written onto the walls are long gone. Sickos stopped writing these notes some fifteen years ago. New posts are more in tune with the times. A new breed of sociopaths are handling them quite well: "Call this number and get off...so and so gives great h%#d...".

The last 'call for a good time' message was etched into a bathroom stall wall in the fall of 1994. The man who wrote it is now a lawyer in a Chicago suburb. He recalls writing the message about an ex-girlfriend. While Edgar Allen is contrite about his actions, he said that he would write it again if he was scorned the way that his ex-girlfriend, Jessica Watson, had scorned him. It sure is a shame that Edgar Allen is married now with kids because he told reporters that he had doing a lot of thinking lately about victimizing a bathroom stall in a movie theater. He had even bought himself a handsome set of markers that were half-price.

Sports reporting gone wild...

I found myself growing sad when I learned that an obscure college athlete from an unknown college had a leg strain and was vacationing in Mexico. Sports reporting has become ridiculous--there are too many stories out there that don't concern the general public. It would be nice if major sports networks reported significant news stories and stuck to them. I do not need to learn that a fifteen-year-old tennis player in Tibet is practicing in Florida and has won five consecutive sets. The other day I learned of a baseball player who was taken in the eighteenth round of the draft; his favorite movie is E.T. and he loves small animals.

Mini-bar woes

A couple of weekends ago I spent some time in a nice hotel. I enjoyed the company of some good friends and laughed and laughed until we ran out of liquor. No one was in any position to drive to the store; one of my friends suggested the unimaginable: "Why not use the mini-bar?" We had no other choice at the time, and I knew that hotel management would be laughing once they saw the empty cabinet.

At the time of check-out, a woman handed me the bill. She laughed: "I can't believe you actually resorted to that...look at your bill now, you dumb shit." A lumped formed in my throat when I saw that a tiny bottle of vodka had set me back $30. The woman then chuckled and said: "That little bag of potato chips....i hope they were the best fifteen dollar potato chips you ever had..." I was lucky that the tiny bag of peanuts was only ten dollars. It made sense cause they were stale.

Traipsing around with a model...

I was blessed to spend a lot of time with a young model in the past few weeks. While it may be nice to beautiful, it is also perhaps the most extreme hardship one can imagine. Of course every man wants 'her' so she becomes confused and does not ever know a true reality. When every man wants 'you', how can you possibly form real relationships? How can you possibly see what is real and what is illusion? You can't.

Let's call my model friend 'Samantha'. Wherever Samantha and I went that weekend, men followed her with their eyes and women grew jealous. I often heard this comment from women: 'You're making the rest of us look bad.' Simply, Samantha's looks trumped the rest of the ladies' appearances. Men approached Samantha and threw hundred dollar bills at her and she took them. Men did this a lot---they saw beauty, wanted it, but could not have it. They knew what they wanted. When I left to go to the bathroom at a restaurant, men approached Samantha and she could not stave off the wave.

I heard comments from men all weekend such as: "You're the man," "How did you score that?", "Wow." It was if I had won the lottery and made a deposit of 10 million. Samantha taught me a lesson--our society is based on image and appearance alone. When I am out with a woman who is average at best, no man every tells me that 'I am the man.' I am ignored. Looks are everything and more powerful than any winning ticket in 2009. Don't let anyone tell you differently. If they do, just ignore them unless of course they are beautiful.

Two things that are surprisingly now cool...

Waking up on the wrong side of the bed has now become the cool thing to do. While in the 1980s it was considered a sure way to have a grumpy day, today waking up on the wrong side is considered totally cool. I overheard a well-dressed guy ask his buddy: "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, shit head?" His friend responded: "Sure did...feels great. Who is the fucking asshole now?" The well-dressed guy replied: "You're the man. I wish I could wake up on the wrong side every day. That would be ideal. I would feel a lot better about myself."

While waking up on the wrong side has gained favor in 2009, it appears that having a little snot in your nose is now acceptable and cool too. Just the other night I was at a popular night spot not far from my house. While the partygoers were looking good in nice slacks and pretty dresses, many patrons had just enough snot in their noses to make themselves stand out from the crowd. This is the new way to peacock. Flashy clothes were something that men and women may have used in 2002 to stand apart from the bunch, but this behavior is long gone. Leaving a little bit of snot in your nostrils after putting on your favorite perfume or cologne seems to be all the rage.

I overheard a conversation between a couple of women. The blonde woman asked the brunette: "Did you see her snot? She really knows how to work it. I'm so jealous." The brunette replied: "Yes, I don't get it. I work out and try to look good but now I need to see my doctor so I can generate more snot. We all know that is the only thing guys are really looking at." They both went into the ladies room and blew their noses but nothing came out. They didn't have a chance that night--it was as if they were invisible...

Is tipping good karma?

I try to support my independent coffee shops and sandwich eateries that offer fresh veggies. I make an effort to look for that big glass tip jar that reads 'Tipping is good karma.' Usually there is a big smiley face on the jar and I almost always drop in a dollar or my coins after I make my purchase. If it is good karma, I better keep doing it. I got promoted, found a wallet in the street, and won a large sum of money on a scratch ticket. This all happened while I was tipping consistently. Who doesn't need good karma these days? It's not so much the phrase that gets me to drop me in a lil something into the tip jar, but the awkward smiley face scribbled above the suggestion. It draws me in, saying put in a dollar you stupid mother fucker or something bad is going to happen to you later after you finish your cafe mocha.

I learned my lesson the hard way a few days ago. After I had ordered a large iced coffee I ignored the tip jar and just took my coffee and went off to continue with my life. I should have known because the smiley face's voice echoed in my head. As I crossed the street to get to the other side (like a chicken), I tripped over my shoes. I noticed that my shoelace was untied when I fell. That was not bad enough. When I looked up, there was a big bearded man with an Uzi. He told me that he didn't want to kick people when they were down, but decided it best to shoot them. He shot me in the side of the head with the Uzi and luckily for me I only needed a few stitches.

The moral is simple. Tip or suffer the consequences. My hearing will come back a few months.

Living in your parents' basement now cool...

Many years ago (circa 1995) a person living in his or her parents' basement was considered the worst possible thing imaginable. It was worse than death, especially for a male or female that had attended a university and had not moved forward after completing his or her studies. 2009 is different in the sense that it is now cool to live in your parents' basement. A boy who dropped out of high school after freshman year quipped: "I am happy where I am. I never finished high school and obviously never went to college but I love living in the basement. Now that it is cool...I feel like I was a trailblazer after starting this a few years ago. The best part of it is that I didn't go to college and waste any money." Many boys are saying the same thing, and say they are feeling a strong sense of acceptance wherever they go. When asked if they plan on moving out of the basement, many state: "I hope it doesn't come to that. It would be a very sad day. I would feel like a loser." One college graduate responded: "I'm glad that I studied history for four years. It really has afforded me the lifestyle I have dreamed about. Who knew how cool it would be?"

Many department stores are now focusing on shifting their decor options to include basement furnishings to accomodate the large amount of losers who want to beautify the space they inhabit in their dank spot of their parents' home. It seems as though internet dating sites have also caught on to this phenomenon and have created a couple of websites that cater to these degenerates. Downunder.com is devoted solely to people who never leave their basement and has little to do with Australia. The website basementdwellers.com is also geared to helping those people find love who are stuck at the bottom.

With so many people living in their parents' basement, some colleges are seeing a decline in enrollment. One admissions representative stated: "I just don't get it. Don't these people want to do something with their lives anymore? In 1995 it was the total opposite of what it is now. Young people just don't give a fuck. And now that mentality is the cool thing. Excuse me. I am so sorry. Was that uncool?"

Glory holes popping up...

Glory holes are now popping up like gopher holes in our bathrooms across this country. Glory holes used to be confined to colleges and universities. But now it seems in a troubled economy glory holes are everywhere. And it's not just that prostitutes are out there to profit from these holes and make ends meet in troubled times. There have been recent reports that glory holes have been discovered in sandwich shops, bike rental shops, and fine-dining spots. People are just going apeshit in a recession that has clamped its jaws on all of us. Essentially bank robberies are things of the past; glory hole blasting seems to be a strange panacea for the economic woes, but it's working.

Many people today are proud of the glory holes. One fellow quipped: "If I now know that I can get a turkey sub with a side of blowjob, I think this country is heading in the right direction. Potato chips are a thing of the past. Where's my wife?" Another man said: "Hey, I didn't know I could get air in my tires and my pipes cleaned too. This is great." A woman, who had just eaten at an elegant restaurant, did not feel the same way: "My husband has been in the bathroom for over thirty minutes...what the hell can he be doing in there?" It was evident that the woman had not heard the news. Perhaps it was best to be in the dark some times.

Janitors are working overtime to try to plug these holes but it is to no avail. As soon as one hole is plugged, another person is drilling a hole...probably at your local pancake house.

Picked noses...

At intersections I can't help but look to my right or left when the light turns red. Yesterday I found myself at a few intersections. In the morning there was an older gentlemen in a luxury sedan and when I turned my head I saw that he was picking his nose. He had used two fingers to pick both nostrils.

In the afternoon I found myself at another intersection. When I turned my head to the left there was another gentleman (perhaps older than the first gentleman) and he too was picking his nose. The only difference was that his car was even more luxurious that the morning gentleman's car. This second gentleman also ate the contents of his nostril, and then sped away when the light turned green.

I had another unfortunate experience at another intersection at dusk. I turned to my right and there was a man wearing a backwards baseball cap. I looked at him and he gave me the f%$*k me eyes immediately. When he turned to get something out of the passenger seat, I saw that he had a tramp stamp. Apparently guys are getting them too to celebrate their inner slut.

f&%*k me eyes...

My dachshund Tramp Stamp gave the f&%*k me eyes the other night at the dog park. The poodle apparently understood the look and acquiesced. When I took Tramp Stamp to the veterinarian the other day, I told the doctor that Tramp Stamp had been throwing around the f&%*k me eyes to many dogs, and she has become an embarrassment to our household. The doctor later proscribed some medication for Tramp Stamp and recommended removing the word N-A-S-T-Y from her behind. I'm afraid that the medication has made Tramp Stamp look a bit catatonic, and now cats and dogs avoid her at all cost. My girlfriend and I are just happy that Tramp Stamp is not giving the f&%*k me eyes to everything that has four legs.

Tranny blues in Argentina (a work of fiction)

In the dusky bar an older man, maybe in his fifties, possibly in his sixties, drank his beer and then slammed it on the counter. Foam slid down the side of the glass. A slender woman, wearing too much make-up, just finished adding another coat of lipstick and walked away into the night. She left the older man alone. From his barstool he watched the transsexual sing a silly song, her vocal chords straining with each octave. The tranny, once finished with her song, announced to the small crowd that she just had the operation that made her a woman once and for all. The old man asked the tall bartender for another beer and while he waited for it he stared at the empty barstool where the slender woman once sat. Edward Stess still had a full head of hair and nice white teeth. He grew sad when he thought he would never have a chance to speak to the young woman again that had got up and left. She was gone and he was alone with a transsexual.

The bartender put the beer in front of Edward and he studied the bubbles that floated towards the top of the glass. In back of him a man and woman clinked glasses.
Waiting for a lull in their conversation, Edward finally turned to the couple behind him.
“You know, two of them left me today.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said.
“Well, I know I’ll get over it. They all leave you and sooner or later they come back.”
The man nodded to Edward and then returned to his date.

Edward looked at the transsexual, her purple spangled dress now flowing, and wondered when he decided to chop off his penis. Was it when he was fifteen, when he played with a skein of yarn and tied it around his genitals? Or was it later in his life? Perhaps it was when he was twenty-five when he got lost in a bathroom at some rave?

When the transsexual finished her next song, her voice blared raspy on the microphone. She wanted someone in the audience to give her a song request. She flipped her puffy red hair and licked her lips.

Edward got off his barstool and then yelled something that rippled through the audience; waves of laughter abounded.
“Hey…when was it when you decided to cut off your penis? That’s what I want to know,” Edward asked.
“Oh how brave, this old man is very brave,” the transsexual responded into the microphone.
She then lifted up her purple dress and showed the world her scar. It was not fully healed.
“This is my pretty vagina, ya’ll and I can’t wait to show the world…now you old man, you look like you need a good fuck,” she said, touching the big mole on her right cheek.

Edward chuckled and then realized that it was time to for him to go too. Knowing had availed him nothing; he walked home to the tiny apartment in Buenos Aires and peeled an apple in silence and then threw the skin over the balcony. He thought he saw the tranny's penis in the garbage below, but it was just that he had not gotten enough sleep in the last few days.

screen savers...

People are choosing the same theme for their screen savers these days. Don't be surprised if you learn that you are not so different when you select an image of a sun setting over the ocean for your screen saver. Chances are that millions of other people use the same screen saver to give their computer the feel of serenity. The 'setting sun' image is not the only screen saver; there are a myriad of others that appear to suggest tranquility. Try the field of lillies or the view of a mountain top or perhaps three perfect roses in some garden five thousand miles away from where you are.

The reality is the same for everyone. We use these screen savers to try to think of a reality that is so different from our own. In my cubicle several months ago, I had used a screen saver of a rippling lake in the rain. I often looked at that image to try to remind myself that my colleague, a fat woman with a half-eaten cheeseburger and chocolate bar, was not sitting in the adjacent cubicle and having a snack. The rippling lake forced me to use my imagination. But no matter how hard I tried, the fat lady was there--in fact she let one go and said 'oops' and turned around and smiled at me.

Tramp stamp puppy...

My girlfriend and I had picked up a little black dachsund puppy a couple of weeks ago. The dachsund is the cutest little puppy that you ever did see. We had considered many names (Fido, Spot, Buddy, and Ranger), but we did not think any of them fit the little puppy. It wasn't until we took the dachsund to the dog park that we had found the perfect name for her. What happened there stayed there. A German shepherd puppy began humping our dachsund; we had to break them apart. The dachsund had surprised us and we turned to each other and smiled. We had found our perfect name--Tramp Stamp.

A lot of people look at Tramp Stamp and try to find a mark on her but there is none to be found. It wasn't until last week that my girlfriend used a bottle of White Out to paint the letters N-A-S-T-Y on Tramp Stamp's rump. On Tramp Stamp's belly we have glued on a tiny blue sparkle.

Jogging at night in the city...

Sometimes jogging at night is a fun thing to do, but remember there are a lot of perverts out there and they lurk in the dark. I put on my headphones the other night, and laced up my running shoes. When I had started out down the street in the dark, I knew it was not the safest thing to do. Running in any major city at night could bring on something horrible---like death.

I had been ten minutes into my run when strange thoughts raced through my head. What if a car stopped along the side of the road and some big crazy man pulled me inside and then victimized me? What if two men pulled me inside and put a gun to my head and commanded that I perform fellatio? These thoughts surfaced and I tried to dismiss them, but five minutes later a car pulled over to the side of the road and I grew scared. This was it. I thought I would be raped with a sledge hammer.

It turns out the car pulled to the side of the road because a fire engine was behind him and I could not hear the sirens because of my headphones. This is a lesson for all night joggers. Just because a car stops to the side of the road next to you does not automatically mean that you will be kidnapped or taken on an adventure to commit a robbery. It simply means that there might be a house burning down, and you better hope the fire truck gets there in time to save it.

I was relieved...I could carry on with my stupid little night run. But then I saw a row of bushes and wondered if my killer was hiding in them.

It's a lil scary when it's hairy...

Ladies and gentlemen, the verdict is and it is not good for men who don't wax their backs. Many women have quipped the now famous saying: "It's a lil scary when it's hairy." I first heard the saying when I was shopping at the mall, and a couple of teenagers were talking about some guy who had a hairy back. Ewww. There have beeen several other reports popping up about the beastly side of a man's back. My friend Brent heard it the other night at a popular San Francisco restaurant. Women in the next booth said: "It's just...you know...it's a lil scary when it's hairy."

While I don't disagree with the women who have started this phenomenon, I feel bad for the men out there who have a back side that looks like an ape. They must seek help because it seems no woman out there will entertain the idea of going to bed with an orangutan.