Relationships

I realized earlier today just how easy it is to become exceptionally cynical regarding relationships. I made a remark to a friend about a couple that I know, and I said something to the effect of, "they won't make it." By that I meant that their relationship would fall apart.

How easy is it to make such a prediction, and have it come true? Let us not just consider marriages, but any intimate relationship between two people. Hell, even if you only consider marriage, you still get better than 50% odds. (Try getting that in Vegas.) Throw in all the dating relationships you know, and the odds get steadily worse.

For what it is worth, I do know a few, precious few, relationships that seem to have endured the test of time. Some small percentage of those couples even still seem to be mildly content together. The rest just seem so taken with ennui and inertia that they wouldn't bother leaving one another, it'd just take too much effort and/or money. (Divorces, rumor has it, are hellishly expensive.)

Of course, most everyone out there realizes on some level what the odds are. Anyone who looks at the world around them, anyway. Is it some great hope that keeps people back in relationships, or is it some biological drive? Or maybe just willful ignorance? No matter, people keep getting together, people keep getting married.

Maybe it is like the people that are still smoking. I'm guessing some of them think, "hey, that cancer won't get me!" Some others are probably hoping that the smoking will kill them off sooner. Then there's category number three, the folks that never stopped to consider ANY of the repercussions. (That's the best way to be, of course)

So then what? What would be the point? To cohabitate? To bust out little ones? To have somebody close by to take out your inner demons on (possibly the only reason I approve of)? Are there significant reasons? Or is it all about the sex? I've known guys who have bragged about their wives, chiefly just how "hot" the woman was. To that, I say, if all you want is a piece of hot ass, rent, don't buy. Ass doesn't stay hot, eventually it sags and cools. If all you care about is that, getting into a permanent contract makes about as much sense as tattooing the name of the woman you just met's name on your forehead.

Then again, maybe it is just to find somebody that will put up with your shit. In my case, that's a lot of shit, so the search would have to go far and wide. And of course, just because you can locate somebody that can put up with your shit, does not mean you can put up with theirs. As a good friend of mine always says, "don't go out with anyone that has more issues than you." Actually, he's got a whole checklist about bad relationships:

1. You want somebody that doesn't want you.
2. You don't want somebody that wants you.
3. They have more issues than you do.
4. You want to "fix" them.

Hmmmm, I think there were more. It was an extensive list. I think at least two more items were on it. It covered pretty well a lot of the roots of shitty relationships I've seen (and a few I've been in). Oh yeah, and there is such a thing as bad sex and bad pizza, I've had a sampling of both.

I'm now wondering who all will call me tomorrow, asking, "John, when you predicted 'they won't make it,' were you talking about MY relationship?" Admit to yourself that when you read that, you were wondering, weren't you? Been fighting with your significant other? Or maybe you're both just sort of aloof toward each other, excepting some mild spats and the occasional makeup sex that follows. Or maybe shit's just too tempestuous, and the fire just can't keep burning that brightly. I once mentioned that to a girlfriend of mine, quoting Rutger Hauer's line from Blade Runner about the candle that burns twice as bright... of course, all I got from that was more derision (gotta love being derided by the "love of your life.")

I'm not talking about you. Or maybe I am. Take it however you want. Ignore me if you will, or take this opportunity to examine your relationship. Are you loving and respecting your significant other as you should? Or perhaps are you making fun of them to your friends while contemplating a tryst with the hot young copy repair person that shows up at your office on occasion? Then again, maybe your significant other has told you to go ahead and stray, that they don't care. I've actually heard of relationships like this, although I have no desire to be in one. That said, I'm not judging, as I've not walked a mile in anyone's shoes, know what I mean?

Of course, there are the precious few relationships that I look at which give me hope. When I say "precious few," I mean like, oh, two of 'em. Maybe (no, not yours, you have a boring relationship. You too). On occasion there are those couples that seem to be able to keep the animosity from growing, and continue to treat each other with respect through the days, months, and even years. When I see those people, it makes me think I might be fortunate enough to land a deal like that. Just like winning the lottery, it could happen to me.

Yeah, I'm a cynical mother fucker. I'd say I'm a "realist" when it comes to relationships, but many of you would say, "yeah, that means cynic." It may be true. I don't hold out too much hope for anyone, myself included, in the relationship department. Maybe I've just let all of the crap weigh me down, and I've given up on some of my ideals. In case you didn't know it, being an idealist takes a lot of fuckin' energy. People have made fun of me over it many times, especially with respect to the government. Oh well. So I may not have the 100% idealist thing going on anymore.

That said, I haven't called it a day just yet. I remember an acquaintance of mine mentioning how if his marriage ever hit the shitter, he'd just hire on a hooker to come sex his ass up once a week, and that'd be it. He claimed he'd never bother with a relationship ever again. As you might imagine, time gave him the opportunity to make good on his threats, but rather than take a lease out on the neighborhood whore, he went down the relationship road, yet again. I don't blame him or feel that he was being dishonest, at least not in the conventional sense. He was expounding on his feelings at the time. They were stilted, but still, perhaps true to what he was thinking back then.

I've said similar shit, but mostly just to be pissy. When we get down deep inside me, we can still see some hope and some idealism. It's there, and it isn't buried all that deeply. At least not yet...

I'm not 100% against getting married. (OK, maybe like in the 90th percentile, but not 100, seriously...) I only mean to say that while it is easy to become jaded and cynical, I still hold out hope.

The big problem about marriage is love. Specifically, that people get married for love, and that's the problem. It seems that when you get married, you need more than love. When you think about it, IF you think about it, it makes sense.

After all, if you get married, you aren't just announcing your deep feelings for somebody, you are inviting that person to be an intrinsic part of your life. Further, you are becoming a part of their family, and vice versa. (Think about that for a second, especially if your significant other has some "interesting" family members. Marry them and so will you!)

To expound on all of the things your spouse will be:

boy/girl friend, lover, friend, parent, child, teacher, coach, boss, employee, confidante, business partner, nurse, traveling companion, drill sargeant, therapist, patient, nutritionist, mirror, editor, cruise director, conscience, audience, critic, secretary, chauffeur, guardian, valet, co-conspirator, sidekick, fearless leader.

Shit, there's probably more. The point is that this person is the ONLY person in your life who is expected to take on so many roles. All surgery, including dentistry, and hair dressing are notably excluded from the list.

Something to think about, indeed. Means if you're gonna get married, you should probably pick somebody who has higher qualifications than just "hot ass." (Wait, did I already say that before? Shit, I'm repeating myself.)

Sooo....

When you find somebody that can do all of that, maybe you should seriously consider marrying them. Especially if they find all of those fine things in you. If you both love each other, that makes even more sense.

I've heard people say something to the effect of, "marry somebody in spite of their faults." I don't think that is a good statement. Consider instead:

Marry somebody because of their faults.

I Should Move To L.A.

I’m really feeling like I want to move to LA. I get this every so often - I’ll think about the weather out there, the women, and for about three weeks I’ll seriously think that I want to move out there. But then I realize that all that sunshine and warm weather means one thing: many, many opportunities to be shirtless in public. So no thanks. But if anyone has a place out there that I can crash at, I’d be more than happy to come eat all your food, use all your toilet paper, run up a huge phone bill, smoke all your dope, and watch you sleep.

Cocaine?

Why am I broke? Yesterday’s expenses: dry cleaning, $45. Nexium for heartburn resulting from abuse of body, esophagus, stomach: $28. Medium pizza, half pepperoni: $17

The best part is when I got back my prescription I asked Sanjay, the pharmacy clerk:

Me: “$28? Jesus - is it cocaine?”
Sanjay: [checking prescription label] “No, it’s Nexium.”

Really? Because I seriously thought it was cocaine.

Jerkoff.

Let's Be Honest

Why do women love it when you treat them wrong? No one really knows why, but studies have shown that it is true, so men have to learn to use this to our advantage. If you know this, and you approach them honestly, I think they’ll sex you up right there in the bar. Here’s what you say:

So listen, here’s the deal. I want to buy you a drink. Then I’ll buy you another and another. The whole time I will not offer much in the way of conversation, or be particularly fun to hang out with, or even be nice to your friends you introduce me to. This doesn’t matter - we’ll go home together. When we get to your place, we’ll start hooking up, and I’ll try to sleep with you three separate times. Each time, you’ll say no. I’ll leave in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye, and I won’t call you the next day. Or the next. Or the next after that. Over time as I don’t call, you will want me more. In fact, you will become obsessed with me, though all I did was get you drunk and try to fuck you.

Then, maybe a week or two later, I’ll run into you again. You’ll see me in the bar, and, having had a few, you’ll throw yourself at me. We’ll go home and sleep together. I’ll leave abruptly, though this time I may wait until you wake up, as I will be pretty hungover. I won’t call the next day, or the next, but I will call eventually, because now I know you put out. And this makes me happy.

The more I don’t call, the more you’ll want me. Eventually I’ll call, and perhaps we’ll go on a lame date, in which each of us won’t have anything particular good to offer, a fact that will be mitigated by several martinis. We’ll go home, and have sex.

Now we’ll have a relationship. The calls will become more frequent, as will the sex. But as I spend more and more time with you, I’ll learn more about you, and thus more ways I can take advantage of you. Perhaps you have a rich daddy who pays for your rent and other things. If that’s the case, I’ll ask to borrow money from you, which I have no intention of ever paying back. I may take your Miata, get drunk, and drive it into a pool, or a kindergarten class. This will be your fault.

Perhaps you had a bad daddy growing up. I’ll make sure to take special care of you and always play the “good guy” role to a tee. Meanwhile, when we’re out together with your friends and you head to the bathroom, I’ll tell your friend Beth that her breasts look amazing and ask her to show them to me. Beth will be astonished at how much of a dick I am, and, of course, show them to me. They will not be as impressive as I had hoped.

I will keep being a dick, stealing and lying, and in no time you’ll be in love with me. About this time, I will get bored of you, and decide to end it. I won’t tell you that I think we should see other people; nay, I’ll just keep fucking up until you dump me.

The problem is: you won’t dump me, because you love me. My little fuck-ups will be forgiven, and I’ll get frantic. In an effort to end the whole thing, I’ll cheat on you. And you’ll find out.

You will be very upset, and you may break up with me, but our relationship will be far from over. Odds are that we will have sex numerous times after we’ve “broken up”, which is fine with me, because getting the sex without the boyfriend responsibilities is ok with me. I may beg you to take me back, and you might, and I will know that once you’ve taken me back after I’ve cheated on you, you’ve not only given me a “get out of jail free” card, you’ve pretty much given me license to do whatever I want.

Anyway you look at it, all I can offer you is dysfunction, unhappiness, and a sense that the time you’ve spent with me has been wasted. I’ll do a great deal of damage to you so that many guys after me will struggle with it, and may even not be able to date you because of it.

That’s my offer. What do you think?

I guarantee that once you finish telling a girl that, she’ll look you right in the eye, and say, “I am going to pull you into the street and fuck you like rabbit on cocaine.”

One note, and this is important: this ONLY applies if you are good-looking. I can’t stress this enough. It works even more as you increase the amount of gel you put in your hair, the number of times you visit the tanning salon, and the number of lat pull downs you can do. Also, if you’re rich or in a band, you’re golden - she may even acquiesce and allow you to live with her in a polygamous household.

If you’re not good-looking, or not even rich or in a band, shit - I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you should start a blog and hope that some random girl emails you and says, “Jesus - stop your whining. Come on over - I’ll let you touch my boobies.”

My New Goals

After some serious consultations with my friends, we have decided that if we ever get girlfriends again, we are going to cheat on them constantly. Like, all the time. Because apparently women really like that.

And no, we're not bitter. It's just that we've all realized over the last few weeks/months that there is a definite realtionship between how badly a girl is treated and how much said girl falls in love with dickhead boyfriend.

My personal plan is to get a girlfriend and:

1) Get an STD from a hooker;
2) Give the girlfriend the STD;
3) Get in fistfight with girlfriend's dad;
4) Purposely poison girlfriend's pet(s);
5) Murder the girlfriend's brother with my car;
6) Steal all of girlfriend's pants;
7) Get major drug addiction funded secretly by girlfriend's cash that she leaves laying around or in her purse.

That's my two cents. More on this later.

What's Your Sign?

I just got back from the doctor and I was sitting there filling out the insurance form when I noticed that next to the space for “Date of Birth” it had a space for “Sign” - as in astrological sign. I went over to ask the receptionist about this and she was like, “Yeah, um, you can just ignore that.”

Sign? Fucking sign? Are you kidding me? How can I have faith in the medical knowledge of a doctor who considers my astrological sign “important patient information”? “Well, John, I was going to give you these antibiotics to take three times a day, but I see that you are an Aquarius and I know that Saturn is being ruled by the moon right now, so instead I want you to take these leeches and apply them to your forehead, armpits, and groin twice a day for an hour over the next five days. Also, you will be reunited with a long-lost love on Tuesday and your lucky numbers are 8, 26, and 943.”

I think it’s safe to say that whatever new form of cancer I have will probably be getting worse over the next couple of days.

Three Things

1) Something so terrible happened to me on Friday that I’m actually shaking as I type this. The end result of which is that I can no longer eat General Tso’s chicken.

Take a moment to let that sink in, because I think you know how much General Tso means to me.

OK, let me explain.

I decided, when I got home on Friday, to order some General Tso’s for dinner. I had already had an omelet for breakfast and a burrito for lunch, so I went for the trifecta. And even as I ate it, I mentioned to my friend Mike that it was the worst General Tso’s chicken I had ever had. Of course, this didn’t stop me from eating the whole fucking thing, because, you know, I have that whole “fat” thing going on.

[As an aside, why don’t they make General Tso’s chicken in bite sizes? The worst thing about eating it is actually seeing the chicken, which you can’t avoid because you have to cut down the giant chunks lest you choke on them. And choking on a piece of General Tso’s chicken is really not the way I want to check out. Well, on second thought, if I did die that way, it could be said at my funeral: “He died doing what he loved.”]

And I got sick. Really sick. Over the whole weekend. It wasn’t typical food poisoning, which kicks your ass big time for one day. This kicked my ass a little bit over the whole weekend.

Nevertheless, the damage is done. It will be a long time before I can dine with the General again.

This is worse than that time I killed that hobo.

2) On Saturday afternoon, I was at some pizza place with my friend Adrian our friend Buck. We were sitting there enjoying a slice (in my case, two slices and a chicken roll) and I noticed someone in line who looked very familiar to me. It took me a minute or two, but it finally came to me: it was one of the Russian guys who ran the local liquor store when we were kids. I told Adrian about it, and he said, “Holy shit, look who’s behind him in line.” It was Method Man.

I stared at that line for about five minutes checking people out, and I recognized the liquor store guy before I recognized fucking Method Man. What the fuck is wrong with me?

[Don’t answer that.]

3) On Sunday, I was walking around NYC, on my way to pick up some stuff at Ricky's (yeah, I'm part-bitch, so what). I suddenly felt uncontrollably sick. I walked (or rather stumbled) over to the curb, doubled over, and threw up right there in the street.

And I was mortified. It was only a little bit, but everyone stopped and stared at me, and I felt really stupid and didn’t know what to do, so I yelled “Yes!” and did a fist pump. Then I calmly walked into a store near by, and got a bottle of water.

I mean, really, what do you do in that situation? I rarely ever throw up, and when I do, it’s usually a spectacle (sobbing, shaking, asking for my mom). I think I handled myself pretty well, and I felt a lot better after I got it out of my system. Still, that’s a first. Never thrown up on a busy New York street before. I’ll just be sure to check that off my “To Do” list.

Shooting A Video

I have an idea for a music video. Keep reading, and if there's any takers out there, email me, we may have a classic in the making.

It’d have a cheesy early 90’s feel and be set in a dusty Texas bar. The band would be in the bar, along with some rough looking locals. The video would start when the girl walks in the bar, looking all prim and proper and sits down at the bar. For the next few minutes of the video, there’d be splits: the band gets up to perform and starts rocking out, with cuts to guys hitting on the chick. She keeps rejecting them, but as the song continues, you can see the girl getting turned on – not by the guys, but by the song. She keeps patting the sweat from her forehead, biting her lip, maybe unbuttoning her blouse a little.

Then, out of nowhere, I come out of the bathroom. I’m wearing the same outfit that the Hamburgler wears. When our eyes meet, she pushes herself off her stool and stands up, panting and sweating. I approach her with the sexual confidence of a man who has slept with over thirty women.

Then during the solo, we have a dance off. The camera alternates between up close shots of our eyes, shots from our points of view (i.e. me watching her dance, her watching me dance), and views from the ceiling, as we try to out do each other.

All the locals are standing around in a circle cheering us on. We are both extremely sexy; she swaying her hips back and forth and rubbing all up on herself, and me, licking my lips, nodding my head "yes" seductively and squinting my eyes just a little bit, and occasionally spinning around and pulling down my pants a little, revealing some nice ass shots.

Then, just when it couldn’t get any hotter, we both pull out guns and start shooting up the bar (the band continues to play unharmed). We shoot the shit out of everyone and chaos erupts – bottles breaking, people getting shot and failing over tables, gunsmoke filling the room. She hops behind to rob the cash register while I continue shooting motherfuckers. We then run out of the bar into a waiting getaway car, driven by none other than the late Telly Savalas (digitized, of course).

The video ends with the band playing the song in the middle of desert. Telly is outside the car, rocking out and smoking a cigarette. The car is rocking to the beat of the song, as the viewer picks up that the girl and I are inside making love. As the song comes to a close, the video ends on the car stopping rocking. A used condom flies out the window. Video closes on an up close of the used condom. Fin.

Blue Balls

I was talking to a female friend today when I made some lame joke about blue balls. My female friend said, "Yeah, they don’t exist."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Blue balls, they don’t exist."

She then proceeded to tell me that it’s a scientific fact that blue balls are all psychological, a product of a man’s frustration upon not having an orgasm. There is no real physical pain, just mental frustration/anguish.

I informed her that blue balls do, in fact, exist, as I have had them several times.

She said it was all in my head.

I said it wasn’t.

This went back and forth for quite a while, and for some reason, got me more fired up than I had been in years. How can a woman, who does not (presumably) have testes, talk to me with any authority about testes?

It was eventually settled when I went on the internet and proved that blue balls, technically called vasocongestion, do exist. According to Discovery Health:

When a man becomes sexually excited, the arteries carrying blood to the genital area enlarge, while the veins carrying blood from the genital area are more constricted than in the non-aroused state. This uneven blood flow causes an increase in volume of blood trapped in the genitals and contributes to the penis becoming erect and the testicles becoming engorged with blood. During this process of vasocongestion the testicles increase in size 25-50 percent.

If the male reaches orgasm and ejaculates, the arteries and veins return to their normal size, the volume of blood in the genitals is reduced and the penis and testicles return to their usual size rather quickly.

If ejaculation does not occur there may be a lingering sensation of heaviness, aching, or discomfort in the testicles due to the continued vasocongestion. This unpleasant feeling has popularly been called blue balls, perhaps because of the bluish tint that appears when blood engorges the vessels in the testicles.

This was news to me. I always thought that blue balls were the result of semen that had left the testes in preparation for ejaculation getting stuck in the vas deferens, the tube that connects the balls to the bird, but apparently I was wrong. In fairness to my female friend, who wished to remain nameless here, Discovery Health goes on to say:

The condition usually does not last long and the level of pain associated with blue balls is usually minor and can be exaggerated. Most men have been socialized to ejaculate when they get an erection during sexual activity. Failure to ejaculate and to feel orgasm often adds frustration and disappointment to the reality of the physical sensation.

Ok, yeah, sure, maybe part of the pain is psychological. But guess what? It sucks when some drunk chick is rubbing your bird through your jeans for a half hour and then passes out, leaving you with a chaffed penis, a raging boner, and some chick you just meet at the all-night Chinese food place an hour before snoring in your bed. Also, she has a weird smell to her, kinda like formaldehyde or maybe like warm bleu cheese.

The point is that blue balls exist. They are real. They suck. And I get them all the time. Hell, I’ve had very good hugs give me blue balls, but I don’t want to get into this now.

Death Awesomeness

Have you ever thought about how you'll die? My friend Brian and I had this conversation the other night. He said he wanted to die in his sleep, painlessly. I thought about it, and realized that only pussies die in their sleep. I mean really, wouldn't you want your death to make national headlines? Wouldn't you want to leave your legacy in a hail of gunfire, or on I-95 somewhere outside of DC? I think if there was a scale to measure the awesomeness of one's death, I'd prefer to be in the upper echelon. If I had it my way, when I die the Coroner’s Report will look like this:

SUBJECT: Johnny Trashbag
DATE OF DEATH: March 17, 2009
LOCATION: Four Seasons Hotel, Room 412, Los Angeles, CA
CAUSE OF DEATH: cocaine- and hoagie-induced heart attack, possible guacamole asphyxiation
NOTABLES: Subject had one testicle in Cambodian prostitute and one testicle in Nigerian prostitute. Subject’s penis was in a pastrami sandwich. Written on walls of hotel room in ketchup or other tomato-based condiment was “MEAT FUCK!” sixteen times. Thirty-three pounds of food (mostly meat and dairy, though also a picture frame, a bicycle tire, a showerhead and $68,000) found in subject’s impacted bowels. Shaved into subject’s chest hair were words “I’m awesome”.

AWESOMENESS OF DEATH: 9.4 out of 10

Wish me luck!

I Didn't Want To Kill You: A Craigslist Post

This is my first time posting one of these things. First of all, please let me start by saying that I'm a really normal guy. I've never been, like, a stalker or anything, and I'm a pacifist by nature. I've actually only gotten in one fight ever, and that was in the 9th grade with a guy named Dave over a girl. But that's not the point. The reason I'm writing is because, believe it or not, I had no intention of killing you last night. Oh, I have to do the description thing first, right? Let's get that out of the way.

You: Very attractive hipster girl. Shoulder length red hair that you were wearing up. You were also wearing a green sweater, and a skirt. Oh, and you had on pretty hot boots. I feel weird typing that, because I'm not a shoe person by any means, and I'm definitely not a foot person. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there's anything wrong with being a foot person. In fact, I wish I was into feet. I mean, how exciting would that be? I have feet. If I were into feet, all I would have to do is look down at my feet and pretend that they were somebody else's, and that would probably do it for me. But unfortunately, it does not. I've been trying to get into feet, but it's not working. If I'm on the subway or something, I'll stare at a girl's feet, but the whole time I feel like I'm watching a Clay Aiken video or something. I'm just thinking, "I don't get it. What's the appeal here? Who could possibly like this?" But in the end, I'm going to try to masturbate to it. Like the Clay Aiken video. Sorry, I'm getting sidetracked. You were wearing boots.

Me: White sweater, curly hair. I was tired, and emotionally drained from the barbeque that I was heading home from. And unfortunately, I was also sober. Had I not been sober, perhaps I would've tried to make drunken small talk. Actually, I wouldn't have. I've never talked to a girl on the subway before because I don't want to be creepy. Which leads me to the title of the post...

Okay, so we both got on the D train at Bleecker at around 12:30. You caught me catching a couple of quick glances your way, which I hope you interpreted as "flattering" rather than "terrifying." When the train stopped at Atlantic Ave in Brooklyn, we both got off. You kind of walked up next to me, so I began thinking about saying something. You know, like "Man, the R train never comes at night" or something amazingly clever and humorous like that. But I didn't. When the R pulled up and we both boarded, I made it a point to sit on the opposite side of the train, just to make sure you wouldn't think I was creepy. But then, coincidentally, we both got off the same stop AGAIN.

Walking towards the exit, I'm sure it didn't help matters that we were the only people in the subway station and I was a few feet behind you. When you turned around to see who was behind you, I'd like to think that you were checking me out, but I know in reality it was because you were scared for your life. I'm pretty sure you even grabbed something in your purse, probably mase. Since I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, I picked up my pace and walked past you. Of couse, when we got to the turnstiles my gentleman's instinct took over, and I allowed you to go first. That was probably scary. I thought about saying something like, "Don't worry, I'm a normal guy, I'm not going to kill you," but I decided that that is even creepier than not saying anything at all.

Leaving the station, I ran ahead of you up the stairs and immediately crossed the street, with nary a look back. So see, I had no intention of killing you. I'm a good guy. I've only killed once before, but he was a hobo so it doesn't count. C'mon, we all remember that little rhyme we learned as kids: "Killing a Hobo isn't a No-no." Remember?

But anyway, I hope I didn't accidentally make you uncomfortable last night, and I also hope that you didn't think that I was socially inept and scared of girls. Or gay. I was just scared of making you scared, because I'm a nice guy, that's all. So we should get a drink sometime, and I promise that I won't kill you.

Meat Recap

At 12:19am on April 1, my month-long flirtation with vegetarianism came to an end. And it was not a moment too soon.

I wish that I could say something positive about not eating meat (fish and other seafoods were allowed), but I’ve got nothing. It didn’t make me feel any better physically. It’s not like that by cleansing my body of meat products I became a better athlete, worker, lover, or person. This is probably because I replaced protein and vitamin-rich meat not with fish and vegetables, but pasta and pizza. LOTS of pasta and pizza.

I didn’t feel morally better. As I’ve said, I firmly believe that God put animals on this earth for us to dominate, eat, and perhaps train to perform simple household chores. So I could care less if I saved a few chickens or cows. They’re born to be eaten, so if I felt anything, it was guilt about not taking advantage of the plentiful bounty that God has provided us (especially when so many of His children can’t).

I didn’t feel sexier. A lot of women readers wrote in and said that I should try to use my vegetarianism to impress women. The women who suggested this obviously don’t know me very well. Any sex appeal (and I use that word in the loosest possible sense) I have is based on being a man, a real man, an alpha male. I have lots of body hair; I’m fat and have fat boy strength; I like drinking beer and yelling; I get jealous if other guys talk to you and will beat up any co-worker who hits on you (never mind that I listen to Sade in the shower and have a good cry). Vegetarianism is the antithesis of my "man" persona and is essentially emasculating. So in between taking shots of whiskey and yelling about titties and "god damn Mexicans", dropping "I’m a vegetarian" didn’t work out very well.

I did, however, feel a little superior. I found myself looking down on the meat-eating peasants, feeling much more sophisticated than the assholes lining up in Burger King for a meat fix. But that was quickly replaced by jealousy, because, well, I wanted some Burger King, too.

On Friday night, March 31, I had dinner with two friends. We went to this new Thai restaurant. Long story short, my last vegetarian meal was delicious: fish cakes, tuna tartar, and chilean sea bass. And a lot of wine.

After leaving the dinner, I joined my friend Michael and some friends for drinks. But I was itching. I knew at midnight I could have meat, and god damn it, that’s what I was going to do.

So just before midnight, I pulled what my friend Michael calls an "Irish exit" - I left the bar without telling anyone. I said I was going to make a call and just kept on walking. I was going to get a gyro.

Why I decided that my first meat-meal in over 30 days would come from a middle-aged Arab man slicing processed meat of questionable origin off a spit, I do not know. But when I started digging into that gyro at 12:19am, it was all good.

…Until I was done, when my stomach staged a small revolt. Perhaps even a revolution. Over the next day and a half, I was hurting. I am no stranger to gastrointestinal pain, but this was something new. And not good.

But I soldiered on: bacon, egg, and cheese bagel for breakfast, chicken salad sandwich for lunch, chicken parm dinner. This was only the beginning.

I’ve been eating meat a breakneck pace and my body seems to have righted myself. Just in time too, because I’m going to Philly tonight, and you can bet your ass that when I pick up my friend Dave, he and I are going to Jim’s and I’m getting TWO steaks, extra whiz, without. I have a boner just thinking about this.

So it’s over, dead and done. Thank god. It was a stupid and miserable experience, but I have a (small) measure of happiness having proved to myself that I could do it. So to my friends who doubted me, HA HA! Take that, bitches.

(To which they have been replying, "Yeah, but you were miserable for a month, so you kinda lose." Irrelevant. Totally irrelevant.)

Boobies

I was planning on taking time today to discuss the end of my vegetarianism, but there is a much more pressing matter at hand: boobies.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I like breasts. I wish I could explain why I am so enamored with breasts instead of only saying things like, "They’re awesome and look nice" and "They are fun to touch" and "I like it when they bounce," but I can’t. I don’t want to get all Freudian, because that’s just nasty. I am damn sure that that’s not the root of it.

Alternatively, my first serious girlfriend, my first serious everything, was very, um, gifted in the boobs department; the kind of girl that sprouted breasts when I was still eating paste and pissing myself in class. Perhaps that has something to do with it; I am forever in search of boobies to match the first I ever became acquainted with. My lust for large mammories is a manifestation of nostalgia, not specifically for the girl, but generally for my past. But that seems almost too easy.

And even before that, as soon as I knew they existed and that girls were pretty, nice breasts have been important to me. I'd like ample boobies in a potential lady friend. This doesn’t necessarily mean DD’s, but they have to be at least bigger than mine (and let me tell you something, mine are nothing to sneeze at).

[I ask you to allow me to be a pig for a minute and clarify what I mean by "nice" boobies. If you have D-sized boobs but are 250 pounds, those are not nice boobies. What we’re aiming for is slight disproportion. Meaning, you don’t have to stop traffic with your 34D-22-32 measurements, but I want a little extra sumpin’ up top, just enough for it to be noticeable. Slight disproportion is ideal.]

Over the past few weeks and months, I have become increasingly obsessed with boobies. Again, I don’t know why, but it’s happening. Maybe it’s a function of getting older; as I grow older and more lonely I’m becoming just that more perverted and have less and less a problem with staring down a girl for a solid three minutes, often causing her to walk away from me quickly, all because the top two buttons of her blouse are open. The worst part is that this is a development that will surely not be helped by the arrival of spring, when cleavage makes its grand return (also known as the greatest time of the year). This may push me over the edge and you may soon be reading a headline saying, "Blogger Johnny Trashbag arrested in Central Park for allegedly recruiting actresses for sex fetish tape with promises of cocaine, enemas."

But the real reason I’m compelled to discuss this matter today is because of two women, Jenny Lewis and Tabitha Tindale, singers of the bands Rilo Kiley and Joy Zipper, respectively.

I was introduced to the music of Rilo Kiley a few months back but almost immediately dismissed them as chick rock. I like chick rock a little, but at that point in my life I was not interested in it. Eventually, I gave them a second chance and started to like some of their stuff, particularly the song "Does He Love You?". I continued to listen to them but wasn’t blown away. It seemed that I was destined to be a casual Rilo Kiley fan.

And then I saw a picture of Jenny Lewis. She's got some serious fucking cans.

But that was only just the beginning. I dug and little deeper and learned over time, by scouring through pictures on the web and downloading some Rilo Kiley music videos, that Jenny Lewis is, indeed, certifiably boobilicous.

Suddenly, I became a huge Rilo Kiley fan. I listened to everything of theirs I could get my hands on, starting telling all my friends about them, and considered picking up the guitar to increase my chances of joining her band (I said "considered" because we all know I'm too lazy to actually go through with it). I was hooked.

I fell into near obsession because I was captivated by boobies, trapped under their spell. But then it got worse.

Meet Tabitha Tindale, singer/keyboard player in the boy-girl duo Joy Zipper.

Goodness gracious.

I did not like Joy Zipper prior to seeing any pictures of them. I didn’t dislike them, but my general feeling was "Eh."

Now, after seeing pictures of her online, I am mounting a campaign to run for the presidency of the Joy Zipper fan club. Every time I hear the song "Baby You Should Know", the only song I kinda liked before learning that Tabitha was arguably the most boobilicous fox in the world, I pee a little.

For a few days, I fell so deeply into boobmania that I lost track of myself and what’s important to me. I found myself effusively praising and obsessively listening to Joy Zipper, absorbing news about the band, looking at all the pictures, convincing myself that they were the next coming of Elvis, and wanting to be a part of it.

I take my music very seriously. For years, I tried to keep my love of music separate from my love of boobies. But now the two were combining. And I had a moment.

Am I really that easy? Is a pair of breasts really all it takes for me to lose control of all judgment? Is that how it works: I forsake my sense, my taste, my objectivity when I see a nice pair of tits? Really?

The answer is yes. It has always been yes. But today, it ends.

I, am a booby addict.

This is something that I have come to accept in the past few days. And I know that acceptance is the first step.

I, am a booby addict.

I don’t know where this road will lead me, but I realize it is time. I have to rid myself of this specter that has haunted me for the past eighteen-plus years. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m terrified. We’ll start slowly, as I try to wean (no pun intended) myself off my obsession. Maybe I’ll tell myself over and over again that boobs are just fat(Wonderful, glorious fat). And that though a girl might have large, round, sweet, delicious orbs right now, they will eventually only sag, which will cause her any number of back problems (Though I will probably be long dead before my girlfriend’s/wife’s/lover’s breasts get to this point). And maybe, when searching for porn to download, I will not use words and phrases like "big tits" and "large naturals" and "huge boobs" but rather "flat chicks" and "tiny titties" and "boy chest". But I’m getting off track here…

The point is that I promise you that I committed to affecting a positive change in my life. I plan to rid myself of this curse that has controlled me for too long. Both for my sake and for yours.

Because I, am addicted to masturbating.

I mean, I’m a booby addict. I, am a booby addict.

(One addiction at a time, please.)

She Blinded Me With Science

I heard a song on my way to work this morning that made me absolutely giddy (like a little schoolgirl).

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for Great Moments in John's Sexual History, Volume II, brought to you today by Thomas Dolby.

I lived in Oxford, England for a few months in 1999. I lost over 30 pounds because I ran out of money and had to give up eating. I was a Sex God.

On a trip to Brighton, I met a girl. A ton of my friends and I were at a club, she was at a club with her friends, we were both very drunk, we danced a little bit, we kissed at the club, we exchanged numbers. I know - I a) danced b) at a club and c) kissed a girl. You might need someone to help you off the floor.

But this was back in the old days and in Europe. Once upon a time, many moons ago, Uncle John was not a eunuch, but rather a Sexual Force, a Monsoon of Lust, a True Sensual Being. Many moons ago. Many. It was, probably, the best time of my life.

I returned to Oxford and called the girl, an American studying abroad in Brighton, a train ride away. We talked and made plans for me to come visit her the following weekend. Brighton is a train ride, not a subway ride away. If I recall correctly, it takes a little over an hour to get there. So if I was coming there, I had to stay over. Sweet.

The problem was that we didn’t really know each other aside from a make out session and a few phone calls. However, this wouldn’t be too much of a problem, since I was getting into Brighton early evening and we’d go from the station to her place just so I could drop off my bag and then we’d immediately head out. Once we started drinking, everything would be fine.

The problem was that she wasn’t ready, so when we got back to her place, I had to wait for her. And wait. And wait some more. This angered me, but it more or less made things very awkward. Here I am, sitting in this girl’s dorm room who I don’t really know, waiting for her to get ready, saying things like, "So…um…how about America, huh? I mean, it’s cool that we’re both American." and "So do you like college or do you not like it?"

When we finally got to the club where her friends were, there was a HUGE line. Huge. Not only that, but the club was right off the beach. I didn’t wear a jacket, fearing that I’d lose it at this strange club in a strange city. I nearly froze as the February wind blew off the beach.

Now we were in full awkward mode. She could see the displeasure on my face (and perhaps the hypothermia) and kept apologizing. I thought it was sweet of her to be so concerned, but I was more concerned with the whole freezing to death and being stone cold sober things I had going on. The longer we waited, the more I shut down. It was going very badly.

FINALLY, we got into the club. But just as things seemed to be turning around, she couldn’t find her friends. They had all left because they thought she wasn’t coming. They were at another club and wanted us to come.

So now, here we were, two strangers who made out only once before, completely sober, and alone in this weird club. My thoughts at this time ranged from "What the fuck?" to "You’ve got to be fucking kidding me."

While thinking about what to do, she said, "Well, at least let me buy you a drink." I protested but she insisted. I found a little table to stand at off to the side, and she came back with two tequila shots and two Rolling Rocks. At this point, everything changed.

Apparently, the club was having a special: 99p tequila shots and Rolling Rocks (not positive it was Rolling Rocks, but I’m 90% sure). 99p was the equivalent of about $1.60. Incredibly cheap.

So this girl (we’ll call her Emma, after my favorite Spice Girl) and I stood at this little table for the next 90 minutes pounding tequila shots and Rolling Rocks. It was impressive to say the least: both of us desperately trying to drown our awkwardness in cheap booze, just so we could do something stupid. A beautiful moment, really.

By shot three, the awkwardness was gone. By shot five, we were touchy-feely. By shot seven, we were bombed and dancing, two strangers alone in a random club.

I don’t remember how the dancing started, but I remember that Emma danced so well and so hotly that I stood there (or rather, danced there), thinking to myself, "This woman is going to be my wife. I don’t care what I have to do to make this happen. We are going to get married and she is going to dance up on me like this every day for the rest of my life. And it will be good." I also remember wondering how she knew how to do this stuff, because she was kind of a hippie. Looking at her, you’d never think, "I bet that girl could dance like a stripper." But boy oh boy, could she ever. To this day, it was one of the craziest/sensualist/most drunken glorious moments of my life.

Now, friends or people who know me are probably reading this in horror right now. I am a big, fat, hairy white guy. Meaning: I am not a club guy. I am not a dancing guy. But here I was, in this club, dancing and making out with this girl in front of everyone. Had I been even the least bit sober, I might have stopped, because I’m pretty sure we were the couple at the club that people scream "Get a room!" about. But with all that tequila and Rolling Rock in my belly, the only thing that could have stopped me from dancing with that girl was a rhino charge. And I’m not even sure about that.

We eventually went back to her place and yada yada yada. We parted ways the next morning and it was normal. We talked over the next few days and she came to visit me in Oxford.

This time, there was nothing. No spark. No chemistry. No nothing. She was cool and sweet and fun, but both of us were off, maybe. And no insane-o drunken-dance-make out sessions.

A week or two later I went back to visit her and again, nothing. We weren’t desperate enough to try to recreate that drunken night of boozing, but we still went out, drank, had fun. But neither of us were feeling it.

After that, the phone calls came less frequently and we never made plans to see each other again. Over and done, quietly, mutually, with dignity.

What does "She Blinded Me With Science" have to do with this? On the night of the drunken dance party, while we were still at the table, working our way to un-awkwardness, this song came on at the club. I started doing impression of the old guy who speaks over the song and says things like, "She blinded me - with science!" and "Good heavens, Ms. Sakamoto - you’re beautiful!"

Seeing her laughing, and getting drunk and full of gusto, I went off, freestyling lines in a fake heavy erudite British accent, like, "Can you imagine? Me! I’m a scientist! And she blinded me!" This degenerated into, "I can’t see anything! Because of all this science! I can’t believe it!" Then she started joining in, "I previously had perfect vision, now I have trouble recognizing basic shapes! It’s nearly unfathomable!" I countered with, "Ms. Sakamoto - I always knew that your had a nice heinie, but good heavens! Your bust! It’s beautiful!"

Soon after, we were practically having sex on the dance floor. And not only that, this joke has lived on for years, and my old roommate Rob and I used it all the time, randomly screaming at bars, "SCIENCE!" A few years ago, a friend told me that Horatio Sanz did a skit on SNL in which he used a joke similar to this. I haven’t seen it and I hope I don’t. Because I will sue the fuck out of Horatio Sanz, even though I like him.

So long story not very short, whenever I hear this song, it give me a double whammy of happiness. Not only do I get to remember a very special (read: drunken, lusty) night, but I also smile because of the awesome "SCIENCE!" joke. And, oh yeah, it’s a good song.

[Note: I realize that this is a level of personal detail that I don’t normally get into. But I do so here because I have not had any contact with this girl in over seven years (nor do I want to). I don’t have any connection to her, either (mutual friends, same school, etc). I highly doubt she remembers me at all, and if she does, I’m sure it’s as some random guy she made out with a couple of times. I’m very limited about what I can write on here involving other people, but this one is ok. Just trust me on this.]