Lie About Your Age If Your A Lesbian

"I'm really not too good at these types of things."

That's my usual response when someone asks me for advice. It's simple, and airtight. It allows me to wiggle out of having to help people with their dumb problems, and it keeps me from accidentally giving the "wrong" advice and having the person track me down to tell me I gave them "horrible advice." It also helps me evade the single toughest question known to man..."What kind of a friend are you?" Uhhh, I don't know. The kind of friend that hopes the next time you think about asking me for advice, you'll just decide to ingest dynamite instead.

But for some reason I was at a cross roads last night when my muff-diving roomate asked me if she should tell her muff-diving girlfriend her real age (20), or keep the lie (25) going longer. I promptly replied "Who gives a fuck", to which she came back with "What the hell kind of a roomate are you?"...Shit. So I decided to get my hands dirty.

I told her to just come clean. Tell her the truth. Lesbians don't care how old other lesbians really are. They can't have kids together. They probably aren't considering marriage. Maybe they wanna move in together and possibly get a cat and name it after their favorite cheese "Vul-veet-a". But all they're really doing is scanning around the room to figure out which foreign objects would feel good in their clam shacks.

[Thinks to herself] "Hmmm...That water bottle is intriguing but plastic might cause an infection. That cactus is...no that's a bad idea...That roll of masking tape kinda fascinates me but the sticky residue is less than appealing...but so are men, am I right? Ha, I crack myself up...Well looky-here, that swingline stapler is lookin' mighty dandy."

SHE IS NOT GONNA CARE if you are five years younger than you originally told her. That just means your vagina's newer. In my book that counts as a pleasant-fucking-surprise. Has anyone ever gone to pick up a blender they found on craigslist and said "Ummm, I'm sorry to be a pain here, but the ad clearly stated that the blender was 5 years old, and suffered severe wear and tear. This one you are giving me looks brand spanking new. There's no crack in the top, and the bottom edges are no where near as frayed as the pictures showed them to be. I'm sorry but the deal is OFF."

It's the same goddamn thing. People love new shit...And this includes va-jay's. SO WHAT if you lied by five years. That's just five years where instead of getting a pool net and a half a barbie doll body jammed in your hoo-hah by some other dame, you...Simply...Were...Not...Which is definitely better if you ask me...

And if she gets pissed then you'll only have on simple thing to say to her:

"What the hell kind of a dyke are you?"

No, You Can't....

"Don’t ever let somebody tell you…you can’t do something"...

Hmmm...It seems as though these days its pretty fucking "cool" of people to chase their dream and overcome adversity. I agree with this notion...It certainly is very, very cool when it all goes to plan. I just really dislike the cheese balls who say their sole motivation is "When someone tells me I can't do something...then you better fucking consider it done. If they say it can't be done, that's when I dare to dream and say: Oh yes it can...And it will."

Maybe I'm just a lazy-ass bastard or maybe I'm just a really good listener, but when someone tells me I can't do something...they're probably right, and I go to great lengths to heed their advice. The bigger the dream, the more absurd the success rate...And the less people are surprised when I don't act on it at all.

"I'm gonna be the first man ever to mate with a South American cave bat and have my warm blooded, beady-eyed spouse bear a child that sleeps upside down with his arms crossed like he's standing around a bunch of jet engine mechanics just trying to fit in." (If you ever catch yourself feeling stupid around a bunch of airplane mechanics just fold your arms, and every so often ask a question like you know what you're talkin' about: "So is that turbine one or turbine two?" Because ALL you really know is that there are two turbines...But that's gotta count for somethin'.)

"No way man, there's no way you can fuck a bat. It simply can't be done. It's impossible!"

"Yea, you're probably right...I guess I'll just sit on my ass and do nothing then and dream up other absurd ideas for people to shoot down instantly."

This is great because you KNOW that the next time two people are talking about you, it's gonna go a little something like this:

"Yea man, Matt was talking about knockin' up a bat the other day...Little cock-turnal action, ya hear?"

"Yea man, he's always got something up his sleeve, but he'll never fucking act on any of his crazy plans."

"You gotta hand it to him though, the kid can dream."

I'm gonna start using my big dream/no action plan on valentine's day.

"Honey, I want this year to be special. I'm gonna get the president to change the U.S. flag's stars to hearts instead. Fifty stars? Nope. Fifty big beautiful hearts for my little pookie-wookie."

"But baby, you know you can't do that. It just can't be done. But I love you for thinking it up."

Then her and her friends are sitting around talking about their V-days:

"Did he do anything special for you Jill."

"He took me to El Torito for the 5 Cheese Please buffet. But plan A was to take me to the white house to propose his business model of a new American Flag with hearts on it..."

"AWWWW. Oh my God Jill, he's so dreamy..."

EXACTLY.

Dried Fruit could make God an Atheist

Dried fruit is arguably the most disgusting snack on planet earth. Last time I checked, sucking the life outta something usually didn't end up making it appetizing. A bag of this fucking orchard abortion looks like 100 super-glued vagina's that all toppled onto each other after a failed cheerleader pyramid. The apples look like shriveled diaphragm's, and the cranberries look like the rotting teeth on a dentally challenged inbred cornhusker. I don't get the appeal at all.

The guy who gets hired to sit out in the sun and watch this stuff coil up within an inch of rotten-ness must be fucking confused as hell.

"Now Tommy (by the way, fuck someone starting off instructions they are giving you with "now" followed by your name) We're payin' you good money to sit out here and make sure this fruit dries up beyond recognition. That's your only job. Just make sure the fruit looks like it's going bad, but doesn't really go bad. Just make sure the apricots look like they were trampled by geese, and thrown into a public pool on a warm day with a heavy piss volume."

He's probably sitting out there like "What the fuck am I doing with myself? I'm pretty sure when my life-coach told me to get out there and ENJOY THE FRUITS!, he wasn't talking about this rubbish. Ah fuck, the tops of my feet are burned. How long have I even been out here for? How long does it take for this shit to shrivel, because it's become a battle of wits. One of us has gotta outlast the other. Either my body is gonna prune up and shut down, or this fruit is gonna do the same. I'm changing my favorite fucking Beatles song, because Strawberry Feilds Forever hits too close to home now. Great, I'm outta moisturizer, and that apple is still as plump and juicy as it was 6 hours ago. I know! I'll sit on the blueberries like chicken eggs and the extra warmth will speed up the process. Bingo!"

Talk about a God awful way to lose your job.

"What did Tommy get canned for?"

"We caught him "keeping the berries warm"...If you know what I mean."

Then someone will have to be a tool and say "Oooo, graphic..." like some kind of asshole.

I just don't understand how people can eat something that looks like it should have dentures in it. The apricots remind me of replacement knee-cap cartilage. I could definitely see a doctor getting the real thing mixed up with the fruit during the operation. Then grandpa can't even put his new joints to use because everytime he sits down 36 neighborhood dogs come jostling for space in his lap.

"What the fuck Margie. I told you that doctor was a goddamn joke. I knew I shouldn't have used the same one who did your stupid augmentation. All I wanted to do was run the mile one last time before I die. That's the only reason I had the operation in the first place. And now I'm the goddamn dog whisperer. I'm running a fucking Kennel over here."

"You think that's bad Ted, I got all these fruit flies landing on my new tits."

Hang It Up

There's alot of things that we, as guys, can't and shouldn't, for that matter, get away with. We can't ride tandem bicycles, share umbrellas, wear an apron whilst baking, bake anything at all, talk about what your gonna bake and bring to a party, tell everyone at the party how much easier it was to bake after you realized that "half-ing" the recipe made for less mess. (By the way half-ing the recipe is fucking hardest thing ever. It's hard enough to have to measure in cups, ounces, and tablespoons. How the hell am I supposed to confidently divide up amounts of these units of measurements properly.

"These brownies are so doughy. Who made these this doughy? All I taste is pure dough. Can you believe this. Some party, huh? Doughy brownies. What a day I'm having. First my wife leaves me 'cuz I'm a dipshit complainer, and now I got a mouthful of doughy fucking bake sale treats."

Well that's 'cuz I don't know what half of 2/3 of a quarter of a cup of a half teaspoon of fucking flour is, you goddamn anal bead.

Of all these things that we can't do, there is one that sticks out in my mind as an automatic man-status killer.

CLOSET SPACE....

We should NOT discuss current closet space, inquire about future closet space, or imply through a complaint that the closet space we used to have was our main reason for moving to another house. ('Cuz everyone has a "main" reason for moving. "Well we hated the kitchen, and the bathrooms were too small, but honestly Sherryl, our main reason for moving was the neighbors building a hovercraft in their backyard. They'd be out there until 5AM just hammering, and bulletproofing, and talking about how much fun they would have once they were able to hydroplane in the water at breakneck speeds and then cruise up onto the beach without even skipping a beat." You're main reason should NEVER be closet space.

Even if you're thinking about it, keep it to yourself. We all know that most closets are too fucking small for all our superfluous shit, but you can NEVER verbalize this complaint. Imagine the damage it could do. Sitting aroung with your buddies.

"Jimmy, man you seem a little distant today. You've haven't touched your beer, and you're white as a ghost. Are you alright dude?"

"No guys, I'm fine."

"Seriously pal, what's eatin' ya?"

"You really wanna know"

"Sure do."

(sniffles, and tears up) "My closet is the size of a middle school locker! There isn't even enough room for my winter garments. I didn't realize how important closet space was to me until just now. I desperately need your guys' support here. Do you think I could keep some of my patterned flannels over at your place Bobby?"

Sad, just sad. Keep the closet convos to yourself, and you'll be just fine in this world.

AND I SWEARRR...

I've always been a huge Three Muskateers fan. Their master swordplay and unprecedented solidarity are pretty fucking inspiring. I'd feel pretty goddamn safe having these crazy bastards on my side in a fight. "Oh you bullies think you're pretty fucking cool today, huh? Real bunch of tough guys. Well, before you go shovin' me in a locker, how 'bout you take a look inside first, and make sure there's plenty of room. Go ahead, take a peek. Don't be shy".

I couldn't think of a cooler situation than a school yard bully opening a locker and getting sliced to bits by three wielding daggers. Followed by a whisper from the inside "and one for all...ya cunt".

I just don't understand why they have to wear so many fucking clothes. They literally have 86 layers on. Cloaks, hats, galoshes, heavy belt buckles, etc. Must be an absolute bitch to get ready in the morning. If you had a duel at 7am, you'd have to lay out your outfit the night before and wake up at 4:30 just to get dressed and give yourself a chance to be on time.

"Listen man, I'm gonna have to push that duel back to 8:30am."

"What do you mean, we've had this bloodbath on the books for weeks now. By the way, you're my sworn enemy, how the hell did you get this number."

"That's not important. What is important is that I can't find my 9th layer chemise that I usually wear under my 10th layer cloak. I've been getting ready for 6 hours now. Gimme a break, and cut me some slack, will ya."

"Death waits for no man."

"Ya, ya, ya. That was pretty cool, the way you said that, and everything. But I gotta air out my knee high leather boots, they absolutely stink after I wore them with no socks two weeks ago."

Just wayyyy to many clothes on their backs. They look like 4 year old's who somehow got into their mother's closet, and PUT EVERYTHING on at once. They stumble into the living room and any adult in there sprints for their camera. Then that's the picture you show them at their intervention, when they are 16 year old, smack addicted freaks, and you wanna remind them of how much of a "joy" they were when they were younger. Just a game of dress-up gone wrong.

Who the hell could sword fight with a blanket on. I can't even SLEEP with a blanket on when it's hot, nevermind wave a 3 foot blade around skillfully while the sun beats down on my creepy French mustache. It kind of makes me wonder just how selfless they really fucking were.

"All for one, and one for all!" Yea they really must have had a strong brotherhood.

"Athos, you know I love you like my next akin. I would give you the shirt off my back."

"That's 'cuz you have 7 more on underneath it. You're not fooling anyone man. You're tryin' to make room in your closet. I don't want anymore of your hand-me-downs. I saw you in Niketown the other day looking a sweatsuits. You really think you're gonna get away with quitting Muskateer-ing, and pursuing track and field. We've all seen you throw a javelin...YAWN."

Then all of a sudden an R&B group comes along and decides to name themselves "All 4 One". What a croc of shit that was. They basically fell off the face of the planet, most likely due to a breakup. Some brotherhood, huh. What the fuck are a bunch of flimsy R&B singers doing naming their group after an old Muskateer adage anyways. Especially if they aren't even gonna live up to the title.

"Hey Donny, you like the 3 Muskateers?

"Playa, please. I like the candy bar if that's what you mean."

"No, man, the dudes...You know from da book? They say that All for One rigamarole."

"That's it yo...Dat right dair should be the name of our group. All 4 One! I fuckin' love it. Now let's go make one hit song and then break-up 'cuz one of us is hogging the limelight, and the other just can't take living in the shadows anymore."

You Really Wanna Know?

DEETS? DEETS? DEETS? DETAIIILSS PLEASE?

Fucking people wanna know everything, right? If you're not a nosy person, then you seriously must be doing an excellent job at supressing the urges to become one. Everyone is a junior detective and must GET TO THE BOTTOM of everything. Everytime you get back from a date, bang a girl, try a new restaurant, return from a trip: People need to know.

And you think its just girls that sit around and chit chat. "Ok Jill, so spill it. What was he like? Did he pick you up? What kinda car? Did he smell nice? Could you see his bulge through his slacks? Did it look like a handful of playground pebbles? Did you figure out if that roadkill on his dome is a rug, or his real hair that he coiffed to look like a flattened water possum?

But then you get alone with your buddies the morning after you've concealed your weapon in a random vagina you met at a bar and they NEED TO KNOW it all. But it's not simple nice questions like the girls ask. You're not getting "So Donna, was he a real gentleman like we all thought he would be?" No, No, No. What you're getting bombarded with is some of the dirtiest, filthiest, most outrageous questions known to man.

You return home, and walk into the room. SILENCE. You act as if. You sit down to a bowl of fruity pebbles, golden grahams, and cinnamon Life, and chew. Then outta nowhere.

"Alright dude! Enough is enough. Fucking out with it!"

"Did you bang her doggie? Did you wrap your tool? Did her floppy sweater kittens hit you in the eye while you were motor boating because your left peeper is definitely irritated. Did you guys use any toys? Weapons? Hats? Wiring? Natural Resources? Did you dial 911 and then shove the telephone in her cooch? (The most quiet place on earth, serene really. So much so that the operator would obviously assume something is definitely wrong due to the suspiciously quiet other line). Did you find anything useful in her ass? A pocket knife? Stamps? Spare keys? 3 Feet of rope? A soapdish filled with Public Storage passcodes? Did she treat your dick like a fighter pilot in flight simulation and pull up hard right as you were about to crash?

And what does every guy fucking do when these questions are being hucked at him left and right? HE CLAMS UP. Completely puts his shy boy face on and seals his lips with superglue. "Come on guys, gimme a break. We hooked up, what else do you need to know?"

This is the worst idea ever because you will take shit for eternity. "Well look who is all high and mighty now. Kid gets a small piece of pussy and suddenly he's in touch with his feelings. He can't tell his good buddies. Buddies he's been friends with for YEARS now, if he came in her ears, and then sang a Trisha Yearwood verse, hoping the jizz would block the sound".

The question I have is: Do people really always wanna know? Because, if you tell them something they really don't wanna know, then it's - "AWWW, come on man, I'm eating here. Did you really have to tell me that? Why would you tell me that."

From now on I'm only giving people bad details about everything I do. No more good details. No more details where my pals will say "Oh mannn that's awesome bro. That's so fucking awesome. That's like fucking insanely awesome. Tell us more, tell us more!"
Nope just the shitttttty ass deeeets that will bring the goddamn story to a screeching halt right then and there. And I suggest everyone follows suit.

"So Dude how was you're date. She give you a goodnight "present"?

"Yea she did give me a present actually. But it sure as shit wasn't a blowjob. She handed me a hand grenade coated in maximum strength epoxy. It gelled to my palm. She said she would only give me the liquid removal solution if I helped her behead and scalp her mother and fork over the the skull to an "important person" that she owed a skull to. So what happened, you ask? Well I still have my hand, don't I?

"Jesus dude, I wish I never asked".

Exactly.

Guh-Guh-Guh-Guh

Popeye is fucked. He puts spinach in a pipe, smokes it, and apparently it makes him strong to the finish. The last time I put "spinach" in a pipe and smoked it I wasn't even strong enough to get off the couch. I just lied there weak and confused, while I gave biblical names to each of my fingers and drooled on my sleeves.

He seems to be pretty delighted after a good spinach smoke and ususally throws out a hearty "Guh, guh, guh, guh" - son of a bitch cackle. The only thing I could muster was looking over to the other person in the room and screaming at them - "Is that you who keeps spinning this place? STOP IT...Make it stop, please make it stop. What right do you have?...I wanna get off. (Whisper) What's your name? You look like a Dandy. Is your name Dandy? Huh? Is it? Dandy. It's okay if it isn't. It's okay. Have I told you lately...that it's okay." (Isn't that what people do when they get high? Jumble Rod Stewart songs and hope their peers find it endearing. No one wants to hear the shitty lyrics you substitute for the actual ones in random songs.You can't start singing Soul II Soul - "Back to Life...Back to my strategy". It's reality, not you're strategy.)

Popeye is a wreck. He's a shitfaced sailor with anchor tats and one good eye. Spinach isn't gonna help this motherfucker in the slightest. He needs to dock the boats, hang up the sails, and get his tired ass to an infirmary because it looks like he's been sailing the seven C's: Coke, coffee, crank, crack, crystal meth, oxy Contin's and creatine.

Would anyone ever wanna be on a boat with this mess. He's rummaging through your things at five AM looking for leafy greens to ingest so that he can impress some onshore cutie pies with his beefy arms and garden hose veins.

"Guh-guh,guh, where's the spinach mate".

"Popeye get your filthy paws outta my carry on bag. I'm on fucking vacation I didn't pack any spinach. What do I look like Wolfgang Puck? Now go back to sleep before I call the coast guard. You wouldn't want them to board this rickety vessel and "accidentally take a peek" in your medicine cabinet, now would you?"

"Well, Blow...Me...Down. I stands what I can stands and I can't stands no more".

"Okay buddy, that all sounds good. (What the fuck is this hack talking about?). Get some sleep, huh? We got a big day tomorrow. I'm gonna feed you some baby spinach and we're gonna go down to the car dealership that sold me a lemon so you can smash holes in hoods...how's that for zesty?"

He's gettin' up there too, and if there's one thing I know it's that people get fucking picky in their old age when it comes to food. If anyone thinks for one second that he's still stuffing plain spinach in his gullet then they got another thing comin'.

"Popeye, Popeye, the bad guys are after us! Help!"

"Sorry kid, no strength today. Not until I go food shopping."

"What do you mean just eat some spinach, you have plenty in your cabinets."

"Listen kid, you ever heard of something called a fucking salad? You want me to save your life? Then get your ass to the grocer and pick me up some dried cranberries, candied walnuts, and a light, tangy vinaigrette. You expect me to eat these green leaves dry? Guh-Guh-Guh-Get the fuck outta my face."