Sex and sports metaphor.

When I was an adolescent I was fascinated with the baseball metaphor for sexual conquest. Do you remember it? Each base (1st, 2nd, 3rd, or Home Run) corresponded to a degree of sexual activity, beginning with a kiss (1st) and concluding (hopefully, and often with the help of liquor) with intercourse, the Home Run. Fondling breasts was a double. Finger-banging was a triple. The logic of this distinction escapes me. If you're touching body parts, you should be at the same base no matter the part. In fact, the baseball metaphor is plagued with ambiguity. This leads me to my point.

Having committed the baseball metaphor to memory, I find it lacking in nuance and detail. How can one communicate all the variables of courtship using only four bases, a strike-out (no sexual activity and a waste of a $40 dinner at Red Lobster!) and a foul ball (to depict non-tongue kisses)? For example, let's say you hit a home run. The rest of the guys in the locker room understand that you had intercourse with the girl. But what kind? Was it a zipper-to-zipper exchange under the highschool bleachers? Did you barely pop the tip in before she went into a DEFCON 5 Catholic guilt trip and tell you to stop before either of you gets chance to enjoy it? And what of the position? Doggy-style, missionary, bottom/top? "Home run" leaves one's friends woefully uninformed. And what the hell is the point of having sex if you can't tell your buddies about it in vivid detail the next day? Christ! You might as well wait for a woman whom you respect and admire, marry her and then copulate! Don't be a square.

Competitive sports make a fine analogy for sexual conquests. One symbolizes the other. But why use baseball when another sport offers a much deeper lexicon for sexual activity? Of course that sport is hockey.

Hockey is rich in sexual metaphor. It gives the storyteller a wealth of code to communicate sexual activity, should he endeavor to master its dialect. Below are some examples of how one can use hockey to depict sexual conquests to his gawking friends the next day. As you read, note the superiority of hockey to baseball.

One last note about baseball. It's obsolete. Three-forths of the baseball lexicon depicts sexual activity concluding before intercourse. Nonsense. This isn't the 1950s. Today it's a given kids are going to go all the way – either that, or give/get a "Monica." Hockey sheds the obsolete language of hugs, kisses and fondles, and devotes chapters of material to the nuance and detail of hard-core sex. After all, we are the MTV Generation.

The term "score" means having intercourse. A goal in hockey is, as one might suspect, the object of the game just as sexual intercourse is the object of a date.

Another familiar hockey term, "high-sticking" means copulating with a woman well above you in stature, comeliness and class, yet performing on her the most vile, deviant sexual acts just to bring her down a notch.

"Slap-shot" denotes the ricochet sound one's ballsack makes with her buttocks.

"Penalty shot" is any circumstance under which your date loses consciousness (usually through alcohol or other intoxicant) and you get to take a free shot at her.

In hockey, "hooking" is the illegal use of one's stick. In sexual courtship, "hooking" means using your penis in a crude, bizarre manner and where she takes offense at the gesture, such as concealing one's penis in a bucket of popcorn at the movies. The "popcorn surprise" is a classic example of hooking.

Another hockey term, the "lie" is the angle made by the shaft of the hockey stick and the blade. In courtship, the "lie" a verbal device for eliciting sexual favor, usually by deceiving your date into believeing you're a licensed professional, exceptionally rich, a secret agent or a kick-boxing poet.

The "dead puck" is not just a hockey puck that has exited the confines of the rink. It's also a date who's clarified over dinner that tonight will not end in sexual activity.

"Checking" is the practice of clandestine touches about her breasts and buttocks to asses her sexual responsiveness. Often one guises this gesture as "accidental" or as incidental contact when helping her with her coat.

"Power-plays" are the multitude of devices one uses to elicit sex via guilt, such as saying "I can't know the deepest levels of intimacy with a woman until I experience her physically, and that's the level I want to attain with you, should you feel the same way about me."

The "crease" is the area of the pelvis normally covered by thong panties. To be "in the crease" is to have one's fingers, hands or penis touching those areas.

"Icing" is ejaculating on her in any place other than the vagina. Especially on the first date or for repeat offenses, icing may land you in the "penalty box," a place where you're forced to gratify her orally before you get to play again.

"Butt-ending" and "Zamboni" are both self-explanatory.

A prolific bout of lovemaking that lasts all night and induces multiple orgasms might have the moniker "a Gordie Howe."

A brilliant sexual maneuver that elicits orgasm and/or sexual devotion shall be known as a Wayne Gretzky. Ex: I Wayne Gretzkied her ass and now she won't stop calling me.

Regardless of the sport metaphor, "Kobe Bryant" still means "scratching at the door to escape." "Jose Conseco" still translates to "asshole."


Weekend rubbish

  • I don't understand the SnackMaster grill. Gosh. This peanut butter and baloney sandwich tastes lousy. If only I had a skillet that would quarter it, compress it to the width of a potato chip and sear the Wonder Bread. Then I'd be eatin'.
  • I don't understand the juicer, either. Target has 17 different models of juicers. Two aisles over, you can buy any kind of juice you want already extracted into convenient, half-gallon jugs. Have you seen how much vegetable matter you have to feed into a juicer? Eight ounces of carrot juice requires about 29 carrots! If you wanted to serve fresh juice to a family of 8 at breakfast, you'd have to outsource your juicer and 28 crates of vegetables to Indonesian sweat shop. And you know those ingrate Indonesian children would drink some of it without asking!
  • Here's a one-line review of my vacation to Boston: "Look at all the small, red bricks; ignore the drunken Irish pricks."
  • I can't decide whether self-confidence is faith in one's own abilities or not giving a shit what others think or how things turn out.
  • Many restaurants give police free food. So why choose a donut shop? If I were a policeman I'd hit a Denny's. After a night of night-sticking the civil rights out of some hippie's mind, I'm going to be hungry for a Grand Slam Breakfast.
  • Why do people against Intelligent Design talk about Darwin like he's the Messiah?
  • Highway "rest areas" are misnamed. You won't get any rest there. Too many freaks and weirdos passing by. Have you seen these people up close? They make carnies look like an assembly of Nobel Prize laureates. Once I had to ask a rest area patron to stop his German Shepard from humping my read fender. "Jus let'em finish. Let'em finish, buddy. His head won't be right less'n he does his bus'ness. He won't be long. Hoooooooooweeeeeee. He loves hisself a good Ford Taurus."
  • Rest area urinals don't use water. That unnerves me. I think all toilets should use water. Otherwise, why don't we all take a leak on the ground? And I think they should have a restroom attendant. They can afford to pay a guy with all the money they're saving on water. Instead of cologne and hot towels, he can pass out Skol and spitoons.
  • Nowadays you have to ask the pharmacist for certain over-the-counter cold medicines because kids figured a way to derive crank from cold pills (and educators tell us our kids are falling behind foreigners in science!). I don't know why those kids go to all the trouble. Some OTC's do just fine by themselves! Have you ever taken NyQuil? If not, try some without delay. Make sure you have about 14 hours to recover. Take two shots of NyQuil with a glass of box wine. You'll be high as a kite. It's better than french-kissing Courtney Love. NyQuil makes meth look like candy cigarettes. I double-popped some NyQuil the last time I had a head cold and had a 5-hour conversation with God and Timothy Leary.
  • I'll bet the person who invented the phrase "making love" was a guy. He probably wasn't getting very far with "wanna fuck?"
  • Blacks may forgive whites for slavery, but they'll never stop hating us for introducing Eminem and Vanilla Ice. These two "rappers" ramped up racial tensions back to pre-Reconstructionist levels. I watched a Vanilla Ice video on "Remember the 90's" and afterward I wanted to join the Black Panthers. I was calling friends and family members "crackahs" for two days.
  • Why do birds defecate in mid-flight? After all, humans don't take a crap while they're walking. Most members of the animal kingdom have enough sense to remain motionless while taking a squeege. Birds need to get on-board.
  • Do you think when Mary and Joseph saw the frankincense and myrrh, they asked the Wise Men if they had the receipt? "The Gold is lovely, just lovely. But we just stocked up on frankincense and myrrh. We'd hate to see it go to waste. This way, we could exchange them for some swaddling clothes for Him."
  • Our modern, pampered lifestyles deny us the biological need to be scared shitless. In prehistoric times, this happened every day. But nowadays one can live his entire life seeing nothing more frightening than Nick Nolte's mug-shot. To soothe the urge, we must recreate horrifying moments. This is why people tie themselves to a gigantic rubber-band and jump off a bridge, climb Mt. Everest or skydive. I wonder why we go to such elaborate means to elicit fright. You don't have to bungee jump in South Africa or jet to the Himalayan Mountains. If you want to frighten yourself just to feel alive, have unprotected sex. There's a nail-biter. Run around the house with scissors. Drive drunk through a mountain pass. Go ahead and stand on the top rung of the ladder that the sticker clearly warns you not to use.
  • The only time I want to beat somebody with a stick is when they use the phrase "you can't beat that with a stick!" Don't be so sure.
  • Did you know that you can't buy alcohol on Election Day? This makes no sense to me. Not only should you be able to buy it on Election Day, I think alcohol should be complimentary! You need a drink or two. That's the day you have to hold your nose and enter the ballot box. In 2004, we had to choose between W and John Kerry. I think Sophie had an easier choice to make. I wanted to vote for that guy, Chad, I heard so much about in 2000. But he wasn't on the ballot – just W and JFK. Man, I could have used a drink. Voting for Bush or Kerry is like taking that uncomely girl home from the bar at 2 AM. You need a few drinks first.
  • You know the ultimate, single best thing you can do to improve your sex life? Get a partner.
  • Every night there's some annoying, high-energy douche bag with gel in his hair trying to sell me a system in which I purchase real estate with no money down. It's always "no money down." I want to call the guy and ask him why, if it's such a foolproof idea, he's wasting his time hocking 50-dollar cassette tapes instead of buying real estate. Then I want to pitch MY wealth-enhancing system to him. First, I purchase his tapes "no money down" by using a fraudulent credit card. Then I duplicate his audio cassettes on my computer 15,000 times and get rich selling them to suckers for a 10-dollar discount. How's that for a get-rich-quick scheme, you gel-haired, ADD-having douche bag?


Here's a joke that wrote itself

News excerpt: (1/25/06) HASBROUCK HEIGHTS, N.J. (AP) - A male high school student can wear a skirt to school after the American Civil Liberties Union reached an agreement with school officials...

...in an unrelated story, a group of high school bullies have filed a motion with the ACLU for the right to kick the crap out of somebody on a regular basis.



I've been perusing my blog and I was shocked to notice how immature and vulgar my writing has been lately: name-calling, gay sex, enemas with alcoholic beverages, bathroom humor, human genitalia. When did I become so vulgar? I owe my readers more than that. I have more class. Surely I can dream up something more sophisticated than Brokeback Mountain innuendo and boob philosophy. So this year I resolve to clean up my act. Hold me to it.

Everybody who goes to the zoo gets an eyeful at the monkey cage. Those tree-bound fellas sure do like to masturbate. And they have no qualms about doing it in the presence of onlookers – even on a Sunday. Why is that? Is the zookeeper playing Black-Eyed Peas videos back there? I don't know what it is about monkey cages that makes them forever like after school in junior high. God gives monkeys opposable thumbs and THIS is all they can come up with?

Frankly, I don't know how monkeys pull it off (rim-shot!) with everybody watching. Don't they get stage fright? Maybe they don't realize they have an audience. But they do. And what do we do? We point and laugh. Then we cajole and vex. We harass them. It's a big damn joke. Remember those field trips to the zoo in junior high school? You and 3 or 4 of your buddies would catch a chimp pulling his crank and you'd laugh like gangbusters. Dudes! Check out that ape, man. He's totally whackin' off. Ha ha! He's doing an impression of you, Zack.

Yes, it's a big joke to us, isn't it? We all giggle at the monkey cage. But have you ever considered that the joke is on us? What if the monkeys enjoy being watched? What if they get off on it? Suddenly it's not so funny anymore. Now we're willing participants in some perverted monkey's masturbatory fantasy. What kind of sick, twisted game are we playing here? For all we know the monkeys go back into the cave and laugh their asses off at us. They're really smart, you know. Maybe they contrived the entire scene and made us the pawns of their perverted games. If so, then we've been used. We've been had. We've even been filmed. Think of how many camcorders you see at the zoo. Jeez! I hope I don't show up on the Internet.

Don't be a victim. Avoid the masturbating monkeys at the zoo. And join the fight. I've been advocating for a Primate Sex Registry at my local zoo. We all should have the right to be informed about primate sexual offenders living in our zoos. Contact your local zoologist and insist on it.


You dipped your chocolate in my peanut butter

Do you remember the old commercials for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? The commercial re-enacted the legendary discovery of chocolate and peanut butter, mixed together. It showed two big, burly, macho construction workers snacking at the work site. One guy would be eating peanut butter (because that's what construction workers eat on the job, apparently). The other guy was eating a chocolate bar. Fate had the two latent homos bump into each other (we could only assume it was accidental), and their snacks (chocolate and peanut butter) collided, forming that delicious concoction of chocolate-covered peanut butter.

The two guys would stand off with one another and grunt the following dialogue:

Latent homo #1: “Hey, you got your chocolate in my peanut butter!”

Latent homo #2: “You got your peanut butter in my chocolate!”

Then they'd taste the serendipitous concoction and discover that it was even more delicious than either snack alone. Either the sugar buzz or their forbidden lust for one another accounted for the gleam in their eyes.

That's where the commercial ends, but where the romance begins. You know that sticking a chocolate bar into a jar of peanut butter is a transparent metaphor for gay sex. And how about the two characters in those commercials? These guys could have been understudies for the Village People. (Insert Brokeback Mountain innuendo here).

Don't take my word for it. Ask a gay fella. Reese's commercials? Huge gay overtones. In fact, in gay circles, Reese’s are known as “the fabulous candy.” Gays eat that stuff up. And don't ask me how I know that. I just do.


Shithouse graffiti

One reads a lot of interesting things etched into the alloy walls of a public shitter stall.

Few know that some of the best American poets publish exclusively for the restroom stall at Jack-in-the-Box at Broadway and 45th. This comes as no surprise; inspiration often strikes during defecation. I defy the reader to offer a more elevated theme than the defecator and his muse, the Turd. Play on, dear poet. Play on.

Other more practical features appear in public shitter stalls, too. They're a regular Craig's List for those in too desperate a condition to hold it until the drive home. The Directory section features phone numbers of single professionals looking for their soul mates. Most stalls feature an up-to-date urban slang glossary edited by local street thugs and gang-bangers. This is an excellent reference for bloggers and other writers, publishers and rappers. Also, junior high kids often keep a current roster of which students are suspected of being "gay." These publications transform far-from-home diarrhea from a dreaded ailment into a delight.

I enjoy all the written works. My favorite, however, is the shithouse sketch. I love the raw, urban emotion imparted into the minimalist sketches of human genitalia. These anonymous youths can capture incredible detail, form and composition with their Exact-o knives and Sharpie markers. Bravisimo to the potti-Picassos! Viva the toilet-Toulouse Latrecks!

One finds the best works in run-down ghettos. But it's worth the trip. The aforementioned Jack-in-the-Box stall boasts the finest Impressionist collection of human genitalia in America. I highly recommend it if you have the time – and the runs. One tip for travelers: bring nunchucks or similar self-defense device.

I've often wondered why the finest sketches reside in shitter stalls across the continent. What be the artists' inspiration? After careful consideration, I submit it's because inspiration lies literally in the artists' hands. They're holding their dongs even as they sketch! Where a palette of grey metal, a small carving tool and the artist's own junk collide, magic ensues. These young men yearn to immortalize their genitals (and perhaps those of their girlfriend) on a backdrop of dirty limericks and tramps' phone numbers. One must admire their artistic daring; where Renaissance artists merely refused to hide human genitalia, today's shithouse artists make it the focus of the work. Indeed, many sketches are merely genitalia or a small segment of torso and thigh with the genitalia featured prominently at the focal point. Artistic boldness like this is worthy of public funding. Tragically, public officials discourage "defacing" public property and enforce laws prohibiting it. The most recent victim of shithouse artistic oppression, pop singer George Michael, was briefly facing felony charges. The great artists have always faced persecution.

Personally, I've never wanted to sketch my own junk after holding it. But I've fondled a few boobs that I would have photographed if the owner would have let me. I even promised not to put them on the Internet. Persecution abounds. One day I hope to find computer terminals in public stalls so that I might write from my place of inspiration in my favorite medium, the weblog.



The guys at U-Haul have a jacked-up business model and an attitude problem. Shouldn't it be "They-Haul?" or "We-Haul?" They've got one huge pair of grapes treating their customers like that. "Hey. Here's a truck. You haul it, 'cause we're not fuckin' doing it for you. And make sure you top off the gas tank when you're done."

Why do I have to haul it? If I'm moving, I want somebody helping me. And when I say "helping," I mean doing all the heavy lifting for me. I want to lie in a lounge chair sipping lemonade while four "undocumented" laborers work themselves to an early grave moving my high-priced plasma TV and other cool shit. I want to pay them minimum wage and tip them with Budweiser. I'll drive the truck. That's the fun part!

And I wouldn't be a nice guy like I am when I'm blogging. I'd get high-handed with those laborers. Between sips of lemonade, I'd shout at them through a bullhorn:
"Get your no-green card having ass back to work. You're laborers. You should be laboring. This is what you get for getting fired from Wal-Mart. Hey, careful with that, ese. That's mahogany!"
What gives with U-Haul's attitude? I hope other companies don't pick up on this. Can you imagine going out to eat at a U-Cook-It? "Alright, Slick. The eggs are in the cooler, and over there is the toaster. Now go cook yourself some breakfast. And don't use too much Spam. You know you hate that shit."

Or an auto mechanic. U-Fix-It. "Tool shed's out back. There's the jack. Good luck fixing your brakes. Remember, power tools and whiskey don't mix."

You know what I say to U-Haul? Fuck-U.


Red wine vignettes

SUVs and pick-up trucks should have a message etched into the side-view mirrors: "Warning, driving this vehicle will not increase the length nor girth of your penis."

Have you ever migrated to the extremes of the radio dial? Try it. Usually at about 107 megahertz or so you'll find either classical music, or serial killer programming. I have an SKP channel in my town. The line-up is out of sight. At 10 PM, they have Body Disposal. Next is the Decapitation Hour. From midnight until 2 AM is my personal favorite: Knot-Tying and Homemade Poisons. Next week Robert Blake guest-hosts.

Boner pills. I don't want to see commercials where a man and woman are raking leaves together. I want to see bodies humping. I want to hear beds squeaking and balls slapping. Sell these pills already. Remind the old fellas what they've been missing. Just digitally blur the franks, beans and tacos so it'll squeak by the FCC.

Boobs will turn ordinary men into great philosophers. Fake versus real. Big versus small. What shape is most attractive? Which nipples are most aesthetic? The ramifications of Wonder Bras. Such are the great questions of our Age. True story: one of my friends opined that fake boobs aren't really fake at all because they actually exist; you can touch them. Move over Aristotle.

What happened to cabooses? You don't see them on the back of trains anymore. If I were the guy who worked in the caboose, I'd be pretty upset about that. I hope those guys have a good union. What do you suppose they call those guys, anyway? The guy who drives the engine is called the engineer. Was the guy who rode the caboose a caboosier?

Attempting to escape, a housefly repeatedly dive-bombed my kitchen window. What a foolish little fella, I thought. Doesn't he get it? As I watched him, I repeatedly burned my mouth with a microwave Mexican dinner, but it was so delicious I couldn't stop. I continued scalding my tongue with chicken taquitos and cussing like a drunken sailor. At that moment, I realized I'm not so different from a fly.

During the 2004 elections, the news showed a film clip of an election official supervisor observing the polls. The strange thing was, he was wearing an eye patch. I swear this is true. How can I ask this delicately and without offending the visually impaired? Why did we put a cyclops in charge of spotting voter fraud? Anyone who wanted to commit election-day hijinks simply had to move to the official's left. Why don't we put Charlie Manson in charge of the anti-Cult Task Force? How about a deaf-mute judging American Idol (based on the results, that may already be the case)?

Beer Bongs: if you're power-injecting an alcoholic beverage down your gullet, you have a problem with alcohol. I'm just saying. Of course the Mule-Piss Light or whatever beer college kids drink necessitates bypassing the taste buds somehow. A beer bong serves that purpose. But these college kids need show some conviction. If you want to make a spectacle of your drinking, tap a pressurized keg with an enema tip and jam that thing up your ass. Then have a guys pump the crank and shoot about 6 liters of beer up your colon. It packs a great buzz and you'll be the talk of the frat party. And when your buddies poke you in the butt, they'll get a contact buzz. Brokeback Mountain meets Milwaukee's Best.

Publisher's note: I realize the last line in the last vignette was a cheap shot. Brokeback Mountain enjoys overwhelming critical acclaim. It has great cinematic merit for its production values and its groundbreaking subject matter, and it promises to leave a high-water mark (at least I hope that's water!) in American cinema. Nevertheless, over the next few months this blog will feature a lot of cheap, tasteless, adolescent derision on the fine film, Tent Pole Mountain.


Dipshit commentator of the year

Lately, this guy(?) has been harassing me with dipshit commentary. I've gracefully ignored him. But the little fella won't go away. Far be it from me to ignore cries for attention. So if my readers would kindly indulge me, I'd like to offer a very special post entitled "Dipshit Commentator of the Year."

His profile reads, "Ummm...I've been described as spazzy and neurotic. Yep, that just about says it all, eh?"

No. That doesn't say it all. You've overlooked something. You're an incorrigibly boring an uncreative writer. Your blog must be made from the same stuff as Tylenol PM. (Do you really expect readers to give a damn about pictures of a pier or some smarmy sentiment about an old town?) I'd dissect your work for further criticism but I'd risk losing consciousness and choking on my own vomit. That dog you're molesting in the picture has left more entertaining posts piled on your front lawn. Why don't you let him write your blog? He seems a decent fellow.

I have 20 times your readership and there's a reason for it: I have something entertaining to share. Likewise, the people who read and comment here have interesting things to write -- and lively, entertaining posts at their blogs. They have class and style and personality. Click on a hotlink (right margin) at random and discover one of the greats. Clearly you don't belong in their company.

I welcome dissent and criticism. But I abhor hostility. Here's a little taste of your own medicine. Keep your envy in check and your comments civil. Practice that open-mindedness and tolerance you preach on your steaming pile of blog. Discover your sense of humor. You must have one; look at your hairdo. And if afterward my writing still offends your sensibilities, DON'T READ IT. I promise to return the favor. In fact, not reading your blog is an easy task. That's why so many of us do it so well.

Did you get the attention you're looking for? Now go dream up another trite yawner and post it, you condescending, sanctimonious douchebag.


Why is name-calling taboo? Is it really so awful? Personally, I think the practice has merit. I take exception to society's edict of no name-calling. I don't think we've given name-calling the consideration it deserves. Have you ever watched a political debate where one candidate says "how unfortunate my opponent has sunk to the level of name-calling...?" That's when I yell at the TV. "Up yours, you sanctimonious blowhard." We need more name-calling in politics especially. Have you seen the jerk-offs we're sending to Washington? I've been watching the Senate hearings on our latest Supreme Court nominee and I long for an insult-thesaurus! I'm fresh out of names to call these people!

Everybody reminds me that name-calling is an "inappropriate" way to express my dissatisfaction with another because it's "disrespectful" or some bullshit. The other day the HR Assistant Director at my work explained how she wants to stop seeing me in her office for calling my coworkers "pinheads" and "dipshits." Evidently these terms qualify as "derogatory." No kidding, lady. That's the effect I was going for. Do you want me to compliment Carl for taking half a day to answer the phone? Anyway, then she throws a pamphlet in my face about how our organization values respect for coworkers. Do you see the irony here? She would show me far more respect calling me a jerk than by reading me a pamphlet full of propaganda and newspeak. I understand the word "jerk." I can deal with it. I don't understand pamphlets full of psychobabble and PCBS (politically correct bullshit). Hey HR lady, why don't you lift the frank and kiss the beans?

Name-calling is quick and efficient (like good lovemaking). The practice of name-calling is like a filing system. It keeps all the players organized in one's head. Would you keep all your documents in a big pile and read each one as you needed to identify it? No. You draft a system of files. Then you put each different kind of document in the appropriate file. That way you don't have to read every document 17 times. People are the same way. Why should I have to listen to what somebody has to say just to rediscover he's a dipshit? I'm a fair guy. Everybody gets a chance to establish a reputation with me. But once I know what kind of person I'm dealing with, I'm stamping a label on him/her and filing them in my mental cabinet. If some unfortunate soul earns the label of "dipshit," I'll immediately know to discount everything he says without considering its credence. Name-calling (even if one does it in the privacy of one's mind) is a time-saver.

The virtue of name-calling resides in making conflicts personal. After all, it's not so much the annoying behavior I despise. It's the guy doing it. Absent him, the annoying behavior would never have a chance to happen. So calling the actor a name makes sense. It's quick and efficient. For example, I work with this guy, Carl. Fuckin' Carl! I could approach Carl "respectfully"and say something like
"Hey Carl. I'd like to dialogue with you for a moment about a problem I see developing. Although I respect you as a person and a colleague, I take exception to you chewing the ass-end of your pen all day while I do all the work. To wit, the most productive thing you've done today was to take a dump between the hours of nine and ten. I need some more help around the office. I know you'd like to contribute more than feces and gnarly pens to our organization. So let's work toward a win-win scenario."

I'm sorry I had to drag the reader through that rhetorical crap. Look at all those wasted words in the above exchange between Carl and me. I belabored that issue to death. Yet the crux of my reproach remains unclear; I've diluted it with feel-good verbiage. Watch how I could have handled Carl instead:

"Carl? You're a weapons-grade dipshit." Or, I could have called Carl a douchebag. This is what Shakespeare meant when he wrote the immortal passage "a rose by any other name is just as sweet." A Carl by any other name is just as big a dipshit.

Do you see how much more effective the latter example was? Unencumbered with the duty of respect for my coworkers, I was able to express my idea succinctly. And with the time I saved I could pick up Carl's slack – which is what my thankless boss expects from me, anyway. Hey, maybe I could appeal to HR for a "dipshit premium" whereby I make two bucks per hour more when I work with Carl. I think I'll propose that the next time HR summons me.

I hope you'll consider shedding the societal edict of "no name-calling" as I have. Don't bow to peer-pressure and convention. Think independently just like the bumper sticker tells you. Name-calling isn't so bad. In fact, it's a virtue. It will enrich your life. It will reduce stress at the workplace. It will improve marital relations. It may even get you out of a traffic ticket. And it will most definitely help you watch TV, especially the evening news.


LBB's New Year's Maxims

I know they’re late-coming, but here are 20 maxims for you to consider, ridicule, violently oppose and then accept as self-evident this New Year:

  • Happiness is part-time work.
  • Where talent errs, mediocrity criticizes.
  • Anybody who has more money than you is either lucky or greedy. Anybody who has less money than you is either dumb or lazy. And however much you have, the government has a damn good reason why you should be giving more of it to them.
  • Organized mediocrity often goes further than scattered genius.
  • Luckily many of the things we want are things somebody else is looking to get rid of.
  • Managing your finances does more for your net worth than managing your career.
  • The stronger one's political convictions, the more desperate one's desire to appear smarter and more enlightened.
  • Dentistry and auto repair are fine examples of legalized theft.
  • Psychotherapy is an effective means to understand why you can't change your mental problems.
  • With enough hustle on the graduate's part, his college education will increase his earning power enough to pay back his student loans over the course of his working life.
  • Tile is superior to carpeting. Blinds are superior to drapes. Shower doors are superior to curtains.
  • Your vehicle's/appliance's/home's particular problem will fall under the “normal wear and tear” clause of its warranty.
  • Humor is to one's mind as the liver is to one's body.
  • Nice eyes, a great smile and a sense of humor on a man is like long legs, big boobs and a short skirt on a girl.
  • If you were to study bloggers as a demographic, you'd find the most creative, entertaining, dynamic and brightest group of people on the planet.
  • The best remedy for a cold is heat. The best remedy for the flu is ice water.
  • People who insist they don't care what others think care the most what others think.
  • Every woman has one man from her past who will always be welcome in her present, and if you're not he, then your relationship with her will be in chronic jeopardy.
  • Guilt is the lever arm of politics. Political correctness is the fulcrum.
  • Automobiles enslave us to consumerism more than any other commodity.


Ten-speed bike

My inability to make decisions started in my childhood when I got a 10-speed bike. I never knew which speed to select. None of them felt right. And once I found the correct speed, the terrain would change. A hill, traffic, some dirt, a puddle, a deflating tire -- all required a different speed.

The 10-speed bicycle added much anxiety to a bike ride. The gears had too many subtle increments. So instead of enjoying my ride, I grappled with the two shifting levers on the handlebars in search of that elusive, perfect speed. Remember how difficult it was to change gears? You had to tweak those levers just right or the gear assembly would go into a conniption fit. I always had a shifting problem while riding past other people. “Oh, look Harold. The retarded kid is learning how to ride a bike.” Up yours, Grandma. The Princeton Math Department couldn’t figure out this contraption.

And God help you if you attempted to change gears while climbing a hill. You’d better kiss your beanbag goodbye because you were heading for a testicular mishap. First, the chain derails while you’re in the down-stroke of your pedal. Then the chain lodges between two rear sprockets. The cranks freeze. You lose your footing and your body flings forward. The pedals zip around and gouge you in the shin. And then, the coup-de-grace -- your beanbag collides with the goose neck. (That was a close call. I almost fell. Thankfully I broke my fall with my gonads and a solid piece of metal!) Think about it, guys. Over the course of your life lots of things strike your gonads. But nothing smarts as much as a bicycle component. I know why Lance Armstrong developed testicular cancer: chronic blunt trauma!

Ten speeds? Who needs 10 speeds? A tractor-trailer has only 6 forward gears and it can pull a boxful of Marlon Brandos. A bike needs to propel a skinny adolescent through the wind. A few speeds will do: slow for up-hills, medium for casual touring and fast for when that douche bag Sean Haas is chasing you. It’s not my fault they held you back in 6th grade twice because you’re so dumb, Sean. Take it up with God or the manufacturer of the glue you mother sniffed while she was conceiving you.

The 10-speed’s range of pedal-to-wheel ratios was absurd. Remember what 1st gear was like? You had to get those legs whirling like an egg beater just to keep enough speed to balance the bike. I once rode to my friend’s house in 1st gear and caused a rash in my crotch that would have flummoxed Pamela and Tommy Lee. Tenth gear was no more useful. By the time you pedaled a full revolution you were in the next zip code. And it was so hard to pedal you’d give yourself a hemorrhoid. Who the hell did they create 10th gear for -- The Hulk?

Anyway, I’ve never been able to make decisions after getting my 10-speed. Learned Helplessness, I figure.


Today is the first day of the rest of my life!

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life."

I believe this is sublime counsel. I’m glad to know today is merely the first day of the rest of my life. Why? Because first days are easy. Think about it. All you do is fuck off and pretend to give a damn about the company mission statement, it’s goals, objectives and problems and such. You shake a few hands, plaster a smile on your face and immediately forget the names of people you meet but already know you don’t like that much. You settle into your cubical and arrange your family photos. You cache a bottle of hooch in your file cabinet. Maybe some reefer in your desk drawer. And of course, a pistol. My Second Amendment rights don’t stop at the time clock, and they certainly apply to the first day of the rest of my life!

Relax. It’s only your first day! Nobody expects anything from you on account of you don’t know shit yet. Hell, your first day is a success if you find your way to the bathroom and the cafeteria without accidentally triggering the fire alarm. Don’t beat yourself up on the first day. Look at me. I already know where my bathroom is and the kitchen, too, so I’m way ahead. I must be some kind of freggin’ genius. I’m a natural at this “life” stuff. That’s for sure. Keep an eye on me because I’m going to “wow” you. Just look at the way I handle those everyday tasks like showering, dressing and preparing breakfast -- and all on my first day. Those Pop Tarts didn’t cook themselves. The New Guy made them.

I’m an ambitious man. It may be my first day, but I’m not going to let that stop me from seeking out challenging tasks. Maybe I’ll take in an episode of Oprah while balancing my checkbook. Multitasking is my forte. Later I’ll throw a load of laundry in the dryer and make a sandwich. Don’t worry. I’ve got the time. I already called in sick for work. I’m on my second martini and things are looking good. I’ve got the day off of work and my employer doesn’t have an intoxicated employee running about. That’s what my boss calls a “win-win” scenario. See? I told you my first day was going well. First days are easy money!

It’s the afternoon now and I have a blog entry ready to post. I won’t bother proofreading it because it’s my first day after all and you can’t reasonably expect that much of me. I’m not going to edit it for content, either. Hey, lighten up, reader. I’m new here. This is my first day. It’s the first day of the rest of my life. If you’re looking for quality work you’ll have to check in with me in a few days. By then I’ll have some experience. I’ll have learned the ropes. Jeez. Chill out. I haven’t even gone to orientation yet. Don't be a douche bag and go correcting my grammar and criticizing my writing. I might have to file a complaint at HR for harassment.

Good luck on your first day -- the first day of the rest of your life. If you need me, I’ll be propped up in the men’s bathroom stall smoking’ reefer.