After coming across an interesting service piece on Yahoo!’s homepage today, I realized that I’ve neglected my advice-giving duties, which really aren’t duties at all but more delusions of grandeur. No matter; my therapist (Puppy) says they’re interchangeable.
The article is ominously titled “Dating Tips: 9 Flirting Moves That Work (and Ones That Never, Ever Will)”. It’s scary because you may be thinking that the opposite sex hates your guts, but really you are practicing flirting moves that will never, ever work.
I was going to share it, because I want my readers to get laid as much as possible so that the next time you are having sex you will think “I can’t say Dan never gave me anything!”, but then I realized that it was beyond retarded. Like, way beyond. Like you’re taking a drive up the coast of
But hey, everyone should have the right to decide on their own if they want to flirt like a comically outgoing hooker in a 1990’s Janeane Garofalo movie (I’m looking at you, Flirting Move #4), so here you go.
On to the questions.
Recently, I was with my closest friends (one male and one female), discussing a party the male friend and I had been to last year. At said party, after male friend encouraged me to stand on top of the speakers to get a better view of the band playing, I was quickly pegged in the face with a can of cashews. It sucked. Anyway, upon recounting this story in front of the female friend, she asked why she hadn't been invited and my male friend immediately responded, "Oh, I would never bring ladies to this sort of party." Then he looked at me and made a lame excuse about me having a "tougher skin" than most girls. Later that night, I was told by a *different* male friend that, despite all of his attempts (mostly poop talk), I was impossible to gross out, unlike other girls who are squeamish and easily repulsed. My question is this: all of the squeamish, easily turned off girls have boyfriends. I do not. Is having a "tough skin"/not being disturbed by boys talking about taking dumps a bad quality to have?
I’ve dated lots of “types” of girls (and I don’t mean Asians). After starting out my romantic career wasting time with the same kinds of girls, I made a conscious effort to take myself out of my comfort zone (easy blondes) and try something different (easy brunettes). This inevitably led to my Russian Period, which was more cheerful than it sounds, but less productive because I couldn’t get behind their regional cuisine.
Anyway, during all this there was one girlfriend in particular who was absolutely ungrossoutable. It was in her dorm room in college where I learned what a queef was, and that certain girls can queef on demand, and that the vagina is the most simultaneously fascinating and terrifying organ, the Christopher Walken of genitalia.
Our relationship was one of complete openness. Comparing armpit smells, leaving the door open while peeing, and farting indiscriminately. One time she rushed into my apartment, closed the door behind her, and broke a long, loud wind with an audible sigh of relief, then said, “I held that for two blocks because I thought you’d like it.” That, in retrospect, may have been the turning point. Because while it’s true that I did like it (I laughed for hours), it may have subconsciously tipped my Fart/Attractiveness scale, leaving her on the wrong side of the smelly divide. Maybe if I was still a caveman I could have looked past it, even casting her quirkiness in a positive light (Heat! Fuel!), but soon enough I would be graduating college, going off into the real world of polo shirts and clenched butt cheeks. And in the indie movie game of “How Quirky is True Love?”, she had crossed over from
So as much as it may sting your poop loving soul, it probably wouldn’t hurt to feign disgust the next time your friend takes you to a donkey sex party. A subtle “I can’t believe that midget didn’t wash his hands before serving the sangria,” should do. Just enough to say, “I’m girly enough to buy fancy underwear but I can still take a cashew tin to the face.”
I just found out last week that I'm pregnant. This means no wine, no beer, no Jack Daniel's, and no smoky, hepatitis-ridden strip clubs. I don't know if I'm ready for a lifestyle like that. On the other hand, I'm happily married, I have a stable income, and I replaced all my wire clothes hangars with wooden ones after watching Queer Eye With The Straight Guy.
Do you have any advice for adjusting to such a different way of living?
I'm About to Get Really Fat, Aren't I?
Sometimes when Brooke and I get really, really drunk we discuss the prospects of having children. While we both know that we would be good parents (or good enough, in the we-won’t-leave-them-out-in the-hot-sun vein), the road blocks we invariably encounter are the logistics, i.e. Brooke delivering a ten-minute, profanity-laden rant when she stubs her toe vs. let's see her buck up and push a baby through her vagina (well, not all of us). Never mind the fact that you literally cannot talk to her before she has ingested caffeine in the morning. You can try, but just like you can try to talk to the toaster it will never respond.
All of which isn’t to say there’s no upside to your Quaker-like gestation period. Putting myself in your fat shoes, here’s how I would handle it.
• Embrace eating. All rules go out the window. You can (and should) eat cake for lunch. This is a positive.
• Embrace maternity leave. SIX WEEKS. Skip breast feeding (it’s so Freudian) so you can start drinking again ASAP. Suddenly maternity leave sounds like an elongated spring break (Maternity Gras) – or a condensed one where you go from drunk to knocked up to drunk with a baby in a month and a half. Also, Netflix.
• Make people do shit for you. Just ride the bus all the time and make people get up for you. Cry a lot in stores about how you forgot our wallet because YOU’RE JUST NOT READY TO BE A MOM. People will totally pay for you. And never let your husband forget that it was his penis (hopefully) that did this to you, so now he owes you things like fancy dinners and cash.
• Keep your eye on the prize. After nine months, which really isn’t that long when you think of it in terms of a prison sentence, you’ll have a baby. And someday they’ll be all grown up, and you two will go to the herpes-ridden strip clubs together. And when you look over at your child while they wipe up some stray drops of urine from the seat next to them, you’ll know it was all worth it.
Is it possible to have a lasting relationship with a man wears t-shirts with sayings on them?
Let me pass along a some advice I once received from a wizard. He said, “I’m not a real wizard, asshole. Wizards don’t exist. This is a medieval street fair. The beard isn’t even real.” The point being, you can’t judge a person by the cover of the book they’re carrying, and you can’t judge a man by the shirt he’s wearing (unless he’s wearing a shirt bearing a Chipotle logo, in which case it’s probably safe to order a chicken burrito from him). After all, it’s what’s under the clothes that counts. Like a big heart and a penis to give you Maternity Gras.
Dan (can I call you Dan?),
I've been waiting for it, but it never comes. I've been reading your blog for almost two years (stalker) and I like how you seem to have an opinion on everything, but you haven't written about the lameness of Twitter (maybe it's because you're a closet tweeter) I'm not saying that I'm strong & have resisted the Twitter-urge, but...what are your thoughts on it? Surely you agree with me that no one should want to know that a complete stranger just finished Tolstoy on the toilet.
As it stands now, I am anti-Twitter. I don’t subscribe, nor do I tweet. I think it’s for the birds (nailed it again!) But much like Benjamin Franklin must have been ridiculed for his telephone (“If I wanted to know grandpa died I would have checked the obituaries!”), so to must this new technology be given a wide berth of acceptance and the opportunity to fail on its own.
Make no mistake though: Unless you are outside my house with a gun, I do not give a shit what you’re up to RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND. Likewise, for the life of me I cannot envision a scenario in which I would want tons of people to receive and “update” from me on their office computer and mobile devices. Actually, wait a minute . . .
Acceptable Tweet #1: Being stabbed. “Currently being stabbed. Call for help.”
Acceptable Tweet #2: Being raped. “Currently being raped. Call for help.”
Acceptable Tweet #3: Just saw George Clooney apply chap stick. “He pulled it off!”
Acceptable Tweet #4: Trapped under a fallen tree. “Currently trapped under fallen tree. Call for help.”
Acceptable Tweet #5: Being beaten. “Currently being beaten. Call for help.”
That’s all I got.
(Think you’ve got what it takes to have a question? Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org)