The way African Americans have repurposed the N-word, and the Gays have reclaimed the F-word; I believe that Chad's will reappropriate their own moniker, change the C-word from “Cunt” to “Chad,” and only Chads themselves will be able say the filthy, four-letter word.

While the word “cunt” used to make me cringe, I now use this word on the regular. Cunt this, cunt that, cunt you very much. If you’re not a fan of this term, but would like to dabble with the usage of “cunt,” I recommend that you start out by saying, “See you next Tuesday!“ (C-U-Next-Tuesday) And, from there, move forward using baby steps. Perhaps practice on the down-low: “Cunt wait to see you this weekend!” or “I cunt believe it’s not butter.” Through these small strides, you can join me in my efforts to increase the ranking of the word cunt in one’s vocabulary. Yet, as a result of this tangent, I’ve deviated from my thesis: that Chads are destined to cock block the word they so illustrate with their very presence on this earth. The way African Americans have repurposed the N-word, and the Gays have reclaimed the F-word; I believe that Chad's will reappropriate their own moniker, change the C-word from “Cunt” to “Chad,” and only Chads themselves will be able say the filthy, four-letter word.

Thou shalt not say the N-word

I can’t say it. It just doesn’t sound right coming out of my mouth. I submit that if you’re white; or not African American, more specifically, you sound like a total dick smack when you say it — except maybe if you have a thick Asian or Middle Eastern accent… that shit would be solid. I would also laugh upon hearing the word spoken by the computerized female voice that reads my text messages to me.

I don’t want to say it. It’s not my style. In fact, when I sing Notorious BIG’s “Juicy,” I even say “… and if you don’t know, now you know, negro.“ That’s just me. Plus, I can‘t lie, I like that it rhymes.

I don’t like when you say it… except if it’s socially acceptable for you to do so (you know who you are). I will admit that I find it somewhat amusing that people have began to substitute the word, “ninja;” but I am not one such someone. In addition, it seems like a cop-out. Either have the balls to say it (if that’s your thing,) or expand your fucking vocabulary.

Thou shalt not say the F-Word

While some consider the F-word to be “fuck,” I’m personally doing my part to make this fucking word as fucking common as the fucking word “the…” mother fucker. In my humble opinion, the inappropriate F-word is (dare I say it?) “Fag.”

I must admit, the improper F-word has slipped out of my mouth on occasion. But, in my defense, when I first learned this word, I didn’t understand that it was intended to refer to a gay man; a pole smoker, if you will. I just thought it was similar to saying “asshole,” “dick,” “gomer,” or “douche bag” (my personal favorite). I think I last used the word fag to describe Fall Out Boy (which is most likely the most reasonable definition, anyway.)

Gay men, the dirty-minded little muses that they are, will throw out the F-word faster than a girl with a tramp stamp will drop to her knees and suck your dick. And, like the N-word — and, one day, the C-word — this is a term that only they can say, which is fine by me… unless Fall Out Boy is in town.

We can also credit gay men with forcefully ramming the word “bitch” all up in that mainstream terminology. They’ve snatched the “B-word,” from the remainder of society — that, along with the rainbow… those bitches.

Thou shalt not say the C-Word

Clearly the most offensive C-word is “Chad,” which typically describes a male douche bag who frequents the tanning booth; and is likely wearing a long-sleeved, button-down, striped, collared shirt at this very moment (unless he‘s feeling casual, in which case he is donning a short-sleeved polo with a popped collar). This man has a tribal arm band; and uses hair gel more often than a gold digger uses her sugar daddy. In short, “… white boy, blonde hair, tries too hard,” as my friend Jerome succinctly stated.

I’m not sure whether or not Chads know they should be offended by this term. But I figure that, soon enough, they will embrace the word as their own; take complete ownership; and forever maintain the monopoly. And, as a result, we simpletons will be left without a word to describe the Ed Hardy- and conch shell necklace-sporting fucktards. We’ll have to say, “Son of a fucker! That C-word cut me off!” And if we dare slip and say the word “Chad” out loud in a fit of passion, the music will screech to a stop, people will gasp, and women will anxiously cover their children’s ears. For shame!

Meanwhile, the overly confident Chads and their anorexic, 19-year-old sorority sister girlfriends be driving around in Audi’s with vanity plates reading “CHAD-4-69.“ Their mothers’ cars will be equipped with bumper stickers that read “Proud Mother of a Chad.” They will rock tight, fitted t-shirts announcing their “Chad Pride!” And maybe, perhaps as a salute to the rainbow or pink triangle, they’ll use the yellow square as their own personal symbol — an image which seems to echo Jerome‘s wise words: “… white boy, blonde hair, tries too hard.” I imagine some Chads will get this representation tattooed on their arm or back; while others will simply wear ball caps (with the brim to the side, of course) that proudly portray this image.

So, step as aside, cunt — there’s a new C-word in town… and it’s wearing a v-neck, argyle vest.

If you don’t have enough time to pleasure yourself, you have problems.

While out with my friends the other night, we somehow started to discuss the topic of self pleasure. One of my friends said that there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do this deed. Bull-fucking-shit. “Don’t fill this gay bar with your LIES!” I said, asking every man around me his thoughts on this so-called chore (and making mental notes that I ended up forgetting several vodkas later).


Personally, I feel that if you A.) sleep, or B.) shower, you have nothing but time to rub one out. Unless, of course, you don’t shower or sleep, in which case you have bigger issues to tackle… I would start out by Googling the word “hygiene.”


"Dude, I've jacked it twice since I've been here. Are you kidding me?"
-Paul Rudd, as David in The 40 Year Old Virgin


I don’t care whether you bump bones ten times a day, or ten times a year — you still need to play the skin flute, hitchhike to heaven, dive for pearls, or slam the salami. In fact, the more I get laid, the more I am eager to polish my plum, as I have lots of ammunition fresh in my mind (and nothing better to do now that I’m unemployed [that’s right, the government is currently paying me to get off multiple times per day.])


No matter who makes you cum and how often, there’s no better person for the job than you. If necessary, you know exactly what you need to do to get off in five minutes… and we all have places to be. While a mechanic is the best person to take care of your car, and a landscaper should be hired to maintain your yard; when it comes time to take care of business and strum the banjo, or measure for condoms, it’s sometimes easier to accomplish the task yourself instead of outsourcing the job at hand (pun intended).


“Don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with somebody I love.”
-Woody Allen, as Alvy Singer in Annie Hall

Another reason to butter your corn, or tickle your tulip is plain and simple stress relief. If you are ever having trouble falling asleep — or are anxious before a job interview, date, or other occasion — I recommend taking a moment to show yourself who’s boss. You will feel better instantly; and, thanks to opposable thumbs, you don’t even need a device to dig a trench or play pocket pool. While some men own a flesh light, sometimes all he needs is lotion, his dong, and an advertisement for bras, as Ben Stiller’s character illustrated in There’s Something About Mary.

On the other band, all a woman needs when muffin buffin is mental stimulation and a finger or two. However, there are countless dildos, vibrators, and other sexual devices on the market that range from $5 travel-size bullets, to $125 big daddy vibrators with more bells and whistles than a fire truck. And who can forgot the detachable shower head? Not I, for one.

You may or may not be aware that the vibrator was initially developed in the Victorian Era to treat hysteria in women. You could go to the doctor and he would perform “pelvic massage.” (If this practice was still a common occurrence, I bet more of my male friends would be doctors.) It is rumored that the vibrator was the fifth domestic appliance to be electrified in the U.S. This came after the sewing machine, fan, tea kettle, and toaster. Astonishingly, the vibrator came about a decade before the vacuum cleaner and electric iron, which indicates that women learned to cream before they learned to clean.

While we’re on the subject of domestic appliances, many women were diagnosed with having “housewife syndrome” in the 50s and 60s. Women who were struck by this “illness” — who were really just depressed about being housewives without ambitions outside of their families —  were prescribed valium (mother’s little helper). These women were likely ordered to purchase a vibrator and zip it before their husbands gave them something to really cry about. “What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?” “Nothing you haven’t told her twice.”

“[It] isn’t illegal, its frowned upon… like masturbating on an airplane.”
-Zach Galifianakis, as Alan Garner in The Hangover

For some individuals, another great part about flicking the bean, brewin baby batter, rubbin the nubbin, or holding your sausage hostage is the act of doing this somewhere they shouldn’t be and/or somewhere they could be caught. If I had to guess the most inappropriate place I’ve had my way with myself, it would be on the second day of jury duty, during a four-hour recess, in Denver County Court. Not bad, eh?

There are countless places to play clit commander, milk the banana, charm the cobra, or read Braille. In fact, this seems like a fun game for persons from 10 to 100 years of age: Think of the most bold and creative place to beat around the bush or play the organ and do so without being caught (or do get caught and earn extra points… the opportunities are endless).

Before I leave you, here are some other places to consider coming into your own:

• The light rail or bus (yes, it could get even dirtier)
• Your car (and they thought texting should be illegal)
• At work (your door has an office for a reason)
• The gym (work it out)
• The library (shhhhhh!)
• The dance floor (show off your moves)
• Your parents house (payback)
• A strangers house (get some strange)
• On a road trip (the only benefit to having not called shotgun)
• A public park (scare some children, they deserve it)

When a man says the word "yummy" in a seemingly sexy way, I find it creepy... or juvenile… or effeminate... or all of the above. On a side note, I also hate the word "pussy."

  There are some words that just give me the heebie-jeebies and which, if I may be so bold, should be eliminated from our vocabulary. There are other words that are fine in one use, but completely disconcerting in another use. One example being the word “pussy.” You can use this word to talk about a cat, or someone who needs to grow a pair, but when used in reference to a woman’s va jay jay, it’s just gross. Meanwhile, the word “yummy” coming out of a man’s mouth is about as sexy as tight pants clinging to a moose knuckle — not at all… ever.

Yummy: a way to describe cupcakes, not my coochie

Once upon a time, I was sexing with ahottie. At first he described an ostensibly hot scenario, one in which I found it easy to imagine myself. But then, after I said something back, he responded with only one word, a word which always makes me cringe: yummy.

Yummy? Seriously? Did I just offer you a slice of pie? No, I didn’t; I offered you little ol’ me on a silver platter. And, while you’re welcome to eat me and find me delicious, delectable and scrumptious, please avoid from using the word yummy — you are not a five-year-old child, and I am not a cupcake.

Let’s put it this way, if I had a big ol’ cock and, therefore, the ability to grow a massive erection, I am guaranteed the word yummy would instantly make it flaccid. (I have often also testified that the sight of khaki pants would also make me go limp if I had a schlong, but that’s a topic for another time.) People have, on occasion, asked me what word I use instead during dirty talk. Well, maybe one day you’ll find out. But, typically, I let her speak for herself.

Pussy: the most sickening word since snatch

Now I’ll be the first to admit: From time to time I actually use the word pussy — but never in reference to mine or someone else’s downtowner. I’ll call someone a pussy if he or she is being a crybaby. Oh, suck it up, you fuck’n pussy! But I’ll never say out loud, “Ooh baby, my pussy is so wet.” Gross; typing that resulted in me blushing, shaking my head from side to side, and making a sour face.

Why do I hate this term for a tulip? You may remember learning about onomatopoeia in English class. This is an approach to writing in which the words used imitate the source of the sound that it describes. For instance, “A busy bee in the breeze buzzes through the trees.” When you read this sentence, you can almost hear the little bee swerve past, as the words seem to go bzz bzz — a lovely little image.

However, when someone says "pussy" it sounds slick and slippery and slightly disturbing… see what I mean? This word creates a far from charming depiction of what it describes, be it an accurate account or not. I’d image this is the reason so many people get uncomfortable when they hear the word “moist.” The word moist is sopping wet, saturated, soaked… and all-around sordid. I could do without a man using the word “panties,” as well… maybe because the word makes them sound — dare I say — moist?

And these words take creeptastic to a whole new level when said by someone with a lisp. For example: “Ooh baby your puthsy is tho wet,” “Sthweet jethsus are you moithsth,” or “Let me thslip off your pantiethz.” These examples provide all the more reason to eliminate the usage of such expressions.

So, remember: If you find that you simply must talk, please keep in mind that yummy is for cupcakes and pussy is for cats. Let’s not ruin this with a bunch of talk.

The Trojan Magnum is the golden ticket of our generation

In Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, practically the entire world is obsessed with the idea of obtaining a golden ticket — and a pass into the most exciting and eccentric confection-creating castle. Anything that shimmers in the distance offers each ticket-hunter a glimmer of hope that they could, indeed, be one of the lucky ones to run wild like a kid in a candy shop.

Sadly, this is a fictional tale, and our simple lives are lived without the exhilaration of one day stumbling upon a golden ticket and therefore being invited into the land of the unknown. That is, until the day comes that a male or female sees a man tearing open a Trojan Magnum and feels the same excitement that swelled inside Charlie Bucket when he found that auriferous piece of paper which changed his destiny forevermore. (Big words, which, in our sense of the term “golden ticket,” basically translate to: a big dick cometh.)

They say it’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean. And, in my personal experience I’ve found that sometimes the waves alone can do the trick. However, I’ve never heard of a man or woman choosing to ride the waves on a dingy instead of an ocean cruiser. And while a Magnum-requiring man-piece is by no means an obligation, it sure is a nice surprise — like running into an old friend who you haven’t seen for a while, or getting exactly what you wished for on your birthday.

After a woman or man eyes a golden ticket (or several, if he or she is lucky), the ticket-holder is taken on a voyage of extraordinary proportions. An epic journey, if you will, that results in one being pounded into the wall with such fervor that the man wielding this sword will have to grab his mate by the shoulders and bust he or she back out from the partition —like twisting an ice tray and popping the ice cubes within from their previous position.

After this affair has occurred, one’s bedroom floor may be littered with evidence of the exploit. It’s never fun to bend over to pick up and dispose of packaging aplenty — much like a criminal in an orange jumpsuit who has been fined with roadside cleanup, only without that nifty trash-picker-upper. However, finding Trojan Magnum wrappers on your floor the next morning is kind of like winning an Oscar for best performance. I’d like to thank the academy…

One is almost tempted to put this award on his or her mantle, or at the office for peers to examine and of which to be envious. Picture it: On your desk is a framed photo of you grinning wildly with one thumb up, and the other hand brandishing a shiny, golden, torn piece of plastic. This picture would represent your proudest moment… maybe you’d even send a copy of the photo to your mother for her to paste within your baby book. Baby’s First Monster Dong.

The photo would then be showed to all your family members and, later in life; upon victoriously winning the presidency, perhaps, it would be leaked into the media for the entire world to enjoy. Sigh. One can dream, can’t she? So, in summation, while a chance at touring the chocolate factory is a fantasy beyond reality, one can still hope, wish, and prey to stumble upon a golden ticket and go on an adventure of his or her own.

Manscaping is a non-negotiable.

Picture it: It’s a hot, boring afternoon and you’re invited to a friend’s house for a pool party. You put on your suit, pack up your things, and head out the door — eager for a day of fun. But then, upon arriving, you see that the entire backyard has been grown over with three-foot tall weeds, some of which quite prickly. The large, deep, refreshing pool is in the epicenter of this clusterfuck — much like a palace hidden within a treacherous moat.

This is how it feels when a woman is en route to a freak fest and finds herself face-to-face with an unkempt package. Now I know that men have found themselves in this predicament as well, but, for the most part, we women do our best to keep our cookies clearly accessible (although, I admit, I can’t speak for hippies).


Pardon me, your dong is dwarfed by pubes. While there are countless reasons this is a faux pas, the main reason a man should be discouraged from letting this mane go untamed is the fact that this wiry black hair is hiding the beast within. Does he HAVE a penis under that pubehawk? Most of the time, we don’t have the effort to find out. So, if the goal is to get some, please trim it up — if nothing else than to make it appear larger. (Don’t lie and pretend you haven’t tried this, smaller-dick-having guys.)

I own dental floss, thank you very much. This chaotic state of affairs is also detrimental to a man’s blow-jay getting attempts. If I wanted to put Alf’s nose in my mouth, I’d fly to planet Melmac (… and at least I’m 100% positive he eats pussy). When I see a hairy mass such as this but inches from my face, I think to myself (and once even said aloud) I’m not putting my mouth NEAR that hot mess! And why would I? There are seven orifices on my head and not one of them is welcoming to foreign hairs. And I’m not going to spend the following two hours pulling that shit outta my teeth. Listerine, maybe. But as far as gingivitis control, I have floss in my medicine cabinet and a dentist down the street.

Have you even considered the stank-factor? Another reason it’s important to maintain the terrain is pure and simple hygiene. You can’t just hang a pine-tree air freshener around your shaft. And balls are gross enough already. If you want me to even consider tea-bagging that shit, you better shave, pluck or wax it up — whichever you find less painful… or more, as the case may be.

Wine me, dine me, sixty-nine me. Obviously reciprocation is the name of the game, so if we women are going to always uphold a landing strip, triangle, or Brazilian; you can make sure your legs, shaft and balls are free from debris.

So, gentleman and douchebags alike, next time you’re planning to get laid, or have a go at face fucking someone, remember: it’s only fair, that everyone — man, woman, hermaphrodites, whatever — tidy up before the maid comes to clean house.

At some point in history, all of the men and boys must have been gathered in one room and been informed, “Hey, you don’t have to court women and take them on dates in order to get laid. They wanna hump just as badly as we do.”

  A Receipt for Courtship Two or three dears, and two or three sweets
Two or three balls, and two or three treats
Two or three serenades, given as a lure
Two or three oaths how much they endure
Two or three messages sent in a day
Two or three times led out from the play
Two or three soft speeches made by the way
Two or three tickets for two or three times
Two or three love letters writ all in rhymes
Two or three months keeping strict to these rules
Can never fail making a couple of fools.  

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a being called a “gentleman” tried to get to know a woman before attempting to put his penis inside of her. In fact, frequently a man and a woman would go months before even kissing — and their bodies didn’t even touch, as an actual embrace came after an even longer period of time.

Yes it’s true: Back in the day, men underwent months of big, angry, throbbing blue balls just to earn a peck on the cheek and something to store in his spank bank. Men had to meet a woman’s parents, talk to her on the phone for hours, write letters, and bring offerings such as candy, produce and probably even goats in some cultures. Yet as the years progressed, men realized that, while candy is just dandy, liquor is much quicker.

Fast forward. The year? 2010. The place? The Real World — and, no, not the reality show where twenty-something Americans get hammered and rub up on each other for the entire world to see. When we were little girls, the phrase "happy ending" meant someday my prince will come. As adult women, we now know that the term "happy ending" means someday my prince will cum. Nowadays people meet through mutual friends, at various events, and on social networking and dating sites. Yet it still seems that the concept of “dating” has become outdated.

Let’s review the many ways men and women come to get it on today:

“Dating.” Oft times when I meet a man, the goal is to get me liquored up and take me either A.) back to my place, or B.) back to his place. Another attempt is to ask me to “come over and watch a movie.” While this may seem innocent enough, when a man asks me to come over and watch a movie — and, after years of such invitations — I basically hear, “Wanna come over, put on a movie, and dry hump while I try to slip it in there, and you try not to let me?”

To this request, my answer is typically, “Yes, but not until you buy me dinner first.” I mean, I’m a respectable lady, after all. And while I don’t sell myself for money; it aint free, either. It’s not that I expect a man to buy things for me before I put out, but I can’t help but wonder… what happened to getting to know one another (or at least pretending you care to do so)? A little effort would be nice.

Booty calls. Ah the booty call — the most passive of attempts to bump uglies. These calls, or more often, text messages, typically come between the hours of one and four in the morning — you know, after the guy (or girl) hasn’t found someone at the bar with which to knock boots. Once it has become clear to a man that no one in the room is going to blow him, a little voice in his heads says, “Maybe so-and-so would…” and out goes a text (or mass text, for those who are more determined) that says those three little words every woman wants to hear: “You still up?”

Depending on how talented that man has proved to be in the sack, and whether someone else is currently in the woman’s bed, the woman either responds with an invitation, or ignores the call. She may even call him out on this the next day, as I often enjoy doing (although I’ll admit now that I usually sleep through the call and end up kicking myself the next morning). On those occasions when I wake the next morning and decide to call a guy out, I usually wait until he’s slept it off a bit and has forgotten he sent a text reading, “I’ve got to give you some soon.” Then, at about 3 pm, I forward his text back to him so he can see the words and be ever-so-slightly embarrassed that, while he was drunk, his dick must have texted me at 5 am.

Meeting in reverse. Sometimes… well, ofttimes, singletons go to bars, get inebriated and immediately implement the “you’ll do” factor in an effort to get off. In fact, some of us meet a man or woman in reverse — meaning you wake up next to someone you faintly remember banging it out with, and ask, “What’s your name again?”

The Walk of Shame, once being known as looking haggard while walking home in last night’s ensemble, is now akin to waking up, seeing an individual you don’t know in your bed, turning the shutter sound off your phone, taking a photo, and seeing whether you remember meeting this person at all.

What comes next (the wake-him-up/throw-him-out) is always the best part. Once, after having woken up next to the Geico Caveman — and upon seeing his pleather jacket and generic cross-trainers laying on my floor — I told the mouth-breather that I had to leave for work and he had to leave immediately, if not sooner. I then gave him a number dangerously close to my own and slammed the door. A perfectly applied wake-him-up/throw-him-out… that is, until I saw him downtown nearly a year later and could tell he recognized me. Of course I saw the hairy Neanderthal and his huge wooden club right away, and ran for the hills.

So there you have it, courtship 2010 at its finest. Just think: One day, if men have their way, they may fuck women before even introducing themselves. If the “Virgin” Mary can get knocked up via miraculous conception, why can’t I?

Sometimes, the only way for a woman to cheer herself up is to visit the “casual encounters” section on craigslist and laugh, laugh, laugh.

We’ve all been there: It’s Monday morning, you're late for your job, but have to stop for gas; you can’t wake up, but also can’t afford a $5 cup of coffee; and you get a speeding ticket on the way to work — just fuck’n lovely. On such a case of the Mondays, it’s often near impossible to work, let alone successfully transition from meh to mahvelous. Enter: Craigslist casual encounters.

Craiglist.org is a Web site that allows its users to post ads and photos for pretty much anything they want — from concert tickets, to puppies, to free firewood, to requests for a woman with nice feet who wants to give a man a “dope foot job”. In fact, one very special section of this site allows people who are probing for one night stands and/or trolling for a fuck buddy to post ads for “casual encounters.” Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what this is.

I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that, when asked, men will quite often just pull out their Don Johnson and show it to you — further proof that we humans derived from monkeys. In an effort to see what they’d do, I’ve twice in my life (albeit years ago) asked a man to pull it out while at the bar. And both times the man did… an action which both times resulted in me pointing and laughing. It’s wasn’t necessarily the size that warranted the guffaw, it was the fact that they did so after a complete stranger suggested it, and that they had acted so casually about this overwhelmingly bold action. Also amusing was the fact that neither of these men took the time to at least get the sucker half-mast first.

*Please note: no one wants to see a flaccid penis… no one. Smack some sense into that thing before such an exhibition.

When I’m in need of a good laugh and find myself checking out this section of Craigslist, I am often blushing, laughing, and saying aloud “eeewwww!” or “oh my god!” (and not in a good way.) But it’s like realizing your TV all of the sudden gets the porno channel for free — you become overcome with curiosity and cannot bring yourself to look away. I mean, it’s free for fuck’s sake! So there I sit, clicking only the ads with images, and chuckling at the various shapes, sizes and colors of dongs — not to mention the techniques men use to show off their dick and lure women into a no strings attached relationship.

Although these photos are mostly taken with camera phones, the men posting these ads often use creative angles, or reflect it in a mirror; they even make the photo sepia tone for that artistic flare that just may catch a woman’s eye. Hunting for ammo just now, I saw a image of a man with his boner concealed in zebra-print Snuggie — you just can’t make this shit up, folks — and a man with his junk resting on a can of Edge shaving cream… so you can, you know, size it up. Men can be rather innovative when they put their minds to something… well, when that something is sex.

The act of a man posting a phallic photo in hopes to bang it out with an also horny stranger reminds me of this footage of a bird of paradise from the Planet Earth series: 

 


And what can be learned from this video and from the countless dick pics on Craigslist?


Males will do anything to get laid: hop on one foot, dance, sing, do a trick, wear bright colors — all actions that seem to scream “Look at me! Look at me!” or “Nice shoes, wanna fuck?” for the less motivated of animals.

P.S. You thought I was kidding, didn't you?

When coins fall out of a man’s pants pockets and you find them on your bedroom floor the next morning, it’s kind of like being paid asshole tax.

We’ve all been there: Happy hour becomes drinks at dusk, which becomes drinks after dark, which becomes going to bed at three am and shortly thereafter waking up late for work with a serious headache and a stranger in your bed — you’re okay with it; I’m okay with it. What I could do without is the lousy two dimes, three nickels and one penny that are left behind after the man has collected his belongings and left my studio apartment.

I understand that you’re too lazy to bend over for the 36 cents that fell out of your jeans when you vigorously and hornily tossed them aside, but I’m lazy as well. And, I will likely stare down at those coins for at least a week until I finally bend my fat ass over and move them somewhere else so that the change — which seems to shimmer against my dirty wood floor and whisper in my direction, “wham-bam thank you, ma’am” — won’t serve as a constant reminder of my whoreish behavior.

I mean, if you’re going to leave the money on the dresser, in a manner of speaking, at least leave me a few quarters so I can wash the sheets you helped sully. And, shit, aren’t I worth more than 36 cents? I’m no hooker, but if I’m going to be left a tip for my efforts, I think dolla dolla bills are the lowest form of currency I’m going to accept. After all, I’m not the asshole, you are.

Okay, maybe you’re not an asshole, that’s a generalization. For not every guy I wake up next to — or who leaves in the wee hours of the morning — is a total dick. There’s gradient levels of dickdom in every man. However, I’m sure there was some level of disrespect during our exchange — a finger here, an unauthorized pearl necklace there — that leaves me feeling the need for some sort of compensation. And, sadly, the only reparation I’m going to get is that 36 cents that was cast aside as quickly as a used condom.

If I had a nickel for every time I was left a nickel… well I do, actually; and, tragically, I’m still stuck in a cycle of financial strife. If I had been left quarters or even a few Sacajawea coins throughout my many years of skankin it up and bangin it out, I’d probably have a better apartment by now… and maybe even a new car. Pimp My Bee. I wonder if Xzibit is ready for a spin-off of such epic magnitude. Until then, I’m going to label one side of a pickle jar “asshole tax” and the other side “tips” and keep it beside my bed. Let’s see just how much money in spare change a girl can make in a year. I have a feeling I’m going to Disneyworld!

I love that moment when you and a man meet glances and he has a gleam in his eyes that says, "I’d suck dick for some crack right now."

 
Seeing as I live but footsteps from Colfax — the longest commercial street in the U.S., as well as the dirtiest and most hobo-ridden — I get to see Denver’s crème de la crème on a daily basis. In fact, while walking my dog just the other day, a skinny old man with a grey Grizzly Adam’s beard (and a wooden stick — a resource oft times utilized by dumpster divers) popped his head out of the trash receptacle behind my apartment building and whistled in my direction. You heard it here first, folks: men want this.

While some homeless people in town are friendly and harmless — much like everyone’s favorite domestically disabled fellow with the “SAVIN FOR A ‘HOOKER,’ THANKX” sign — more than a few bums throughout town pick, scratch, twitch and tweak their way down the street while stumbling in your direction and trying to fuck your dog (I really wish that wasn’t a literal example).

This can be an especially creepy moment for some people but, personally, I find nothing more special than that moment when you and a man meet glances and he has a gleam in his eyes that can only mean, "I’d suck dick for some crack right now." Sadly, I have neither crack, nor dick, so our ever-so-special of exchanges ends there and on he stumbles toward Colfax — the melting pot of questionable morals.

Perhaps next time such an incident occurs, I’ll walk my new friend to the alley behind the McDonalds on Colfax and Penn and introduce him to Prison Shank, the neighborhood drug dealer. Ok, I must admit that I have no idea what this meth/crack/crank/ice slinger’s name really is. However, I do know that once, when returning home after using the Red Box (always a slightly frightening affair, seeing as this McDonalds is the home base for hobos), I saw this gangsta-esque fellow exchanging money for a lil baggie of something illegal and I almost walked over to see what he had to offer.

I mean, having a dealer in the neighborhood can have its advantages, but luckily I decided I didn’t want to get stabbed and/or raped, and therefore curiosity did not kill the pussy cat. Plus, I’ve seen those Faces of Meth ads and I can’t be ruining this mug of mine. I guess in the mean time, we’ll just have to swap glances and go on with our lives — me working, partying, sleeping; and he giving rim jobs in rest rooms in exchange for drugs.

I think it would be awesome to tattoo “let’s bone” on my knuckles.

 
While the knuckle tattoo is a bold move — second only to the neck and/or face tattoo; which, as a friend of mine once said, “pretty much indicates this is as far as a person intends to go in life” — it also implements insta-street cred. You’re obviously balls to the wall if you’ve picked an eight-letter phrase that will be read with every handshake for the rest of your life. From that point forward, when you meet someone, they’ll consider that to be your motto — precisely why I think “let’s bone” would be a perfect fit for me. 

I can see it now: I’m introduced to someone and, as I reach forward my right hand to shake theirs, they read “let’s” — most likely in old English font. This person, I’m envisioning a man, would cock his head to the right and strain his vision to ensure that “let’s” is what he is seeing. At that point this man would likely try to peek at my left hand to see just what I want us to do together. I would imagine that, upon seeing the word “bone” beside my tattoo reading “let’s,” this would warrant a sincere guffaw — and perhaps also a firm smack on the ass.

 This introduces a conundrum, however. What if the ass-smacker at hand is a total creepster? What if people see this tattoo and think I’ll bang it out with anyone who happens to read the writing on the wall, so to speak. Just because a person has “let’s bone” tattooed on his or her knuckles, doesn’t mean said person is a slut or will just spread ‘em for every Tom, Dick and Harry — or hairy dick, as the case may be.

In fact, I’ve oftentimes found that, because of the things I say, men assume I’m just going to put out faster than you can say “Panties? I don’t even wear panties.” But what they fail to recognize is that, while I’m dirty-minded, I’m mostly a wordsmith. I make the written language my bitch in an effort to amuse others and, mainly, myself. My goal is not to give you a boner… although, if I do, I’m happy to have helped your current situation somewhat.

To be honest, I wouldn’t even get this tattoo in an effort to get laid, I’d get this tattoo in an effort to amuse myself for life… or at least until I regret the tattoo in, say, ten, twenty years. You know, once everyone and their boss’s mistress has the same tattoo and it’s lost its cachet as a result.

Considering that this would be a decision that would give my mother a heart attack, let’s weigh out the pros and cons, shall we?

Pro: Street cred (Obviously a person with this tattoo doesn’t fuck around… well, maybe in the literal sense.)
Con: Reverse street cred for family and professional-types Pro: Guys would know I’m DTF (although with mitigating circumstances).

Con: Guys would assume I’m DTF them, specifically.

Pro: The words “let’s bone” might encourage a firm smack on the ass.

Con: The words “let’s bone” might encourage a firm smack on the ass from a total creepster.

Pro: I’d most likely get fired from my job.

Con: I’d most likely get fired from my job.

Hmmm, a straight wash. It seems that, while the negative aspects to such a tattoo are mounting, the benefits are also accumulating. While I may in a few years get tired of looking down and seeing the words “let’s bone” tattooed across my hands — especially in times when I’m experiencing a sexual drought — I could always have those eight-letters covered with the words “old whore.”

I’m pretty sure second–hand crazy is an actual occurrence.

My boss popped a small green valium and handed me one as well. I used my fingernail to cut it in half and saved the other half, as she’s often stingy with her pills. We were in the Atlanta airport after a four-day business trip and my lower back was killing me. I had slipped and fallen the night before because some asshole spilled their Budweiser in front of the elevator, but luckily my boss is prescribed a plethora of pharmaceuticals, which she carries with her at all times. Well, I’m not so sure “luckily” would be the correct word to describe her situation, but we’ll get to that later.

As my headphones blared, my boss (let’s from this point on call her Prozac Nation) pointed out that we were sitting next to one another on the flight and I couldn’t think of anything I would like more than to switch flights altogether… perhaps kill myself. While having a boss who doles out meds may seem like a pretty chill situation, one who cannot walk a straight line without stumbling and finish a sentence without mumbling is really hard to work with — especially when said person is your direct supervisor.

We boarded the plane and — although I simply cannot sleep on airplanes — I decide to wrap my head in my scarf and try, if nothing else than to discourage my boss to blabbing to me about her cats. I sat quietly with my boss to my left (and my head wrapped like a fashionable mummy) and didn’t peek out until I heard the flight attendant lock the drink cart next to me. I asked for just water so I could go back into hiding and Prozac Nation ordered a coke and a $5 bag of peanut M&Ms. I flipped through my magazine while I finished my water, eager to once more hide in my scarf and avoid imminent annoyance. Meanwhile I noticed Prozac Nation had started to nod off — a pretty amusing debacle, until, that is, she finally passed out.

I was stoked to have gotten rid of her so early in the flight and thought that if only her pills would keep her knocked out, I could make it out of that plane alive. After having spent the past four days with her and all of her eccentricities, I was a ticking time bomb — I also had to constantly remind myself that I had made up fake plans directly after our flight so I didn’t have to drive her home. I smiled smugly at the thought of my white lie and turned to my boss only to see her drooling on herself. I must at this point remind you that she had been drinking Coke-a-Cola and eating peanut M&Ms at the time her pills made her pass out, so a slimy, disturbingly brown substance had began to drip off her lip and created in a puddle on her pale pink v-neck sweater.

It was all I could do not to throw up at that point and I seriously questioned what I had done wrong in my life to, not only work for this person, but to have to sit beside this person whilst she soiled herself. I wanted to wrap my head back up — tout suite — but it was like a car crash: I couldn’t bring myself to look away. While I looked on in repugnance with an Elvis Presley snarl on my face, Prozac Nation, in her drugged sleep, wiped her mouth and realized she had been drooling. I quickly looked back to my magazine as she noticed the puddle of mud that had accrued on the space between her shoulder and her tits. She tried to wipe off the sickening substance — a sad expedition. Finally, I glanced over and caught her eye as she scrubbed at her sweater. Silent, she looked at me like, “what the fuck?” and pointed up as if the drool had magically dripped from part of the plane. I looked back at her as if to say "you wish," pointed to my mouth and nodded my head no.

 “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked.

 “Sorry, but I didn’t realize you were soiling yourself,” I responded, as I counted down the minutes until I could escape this crazy woman (and likely my own demise, as secondhand crazy seems to be on the horizon). Then, I began once more to wrap up my head in my scarf , as she, with no concept of how long she had been asleep (20 minutes tops), popped yet another valium.

I was once so drunk I took home a man wearing crocs and soon after learned he had whiskey dick… and that is no coincidence.

When I first moved to town, I pretty much went to the same bar every Thursday night. That is, until I had on three separate nights shamelessly made out with random men at said bar, at which point I cut myself off (three strikes, you’re out). The last of my mortifying make out sessions was indeed the worst. For there I was, in public, making out with someone who was wearing Crocs. No, I’m not kidding. Crocs. In public.

Now I try not to be a hateful person —although I can be quite judgmental and cynical — but almost nothing on this earth disgusts me more than Crocs. I'm sure you’ve seen these squeaky, smelly, vibrantly colored, plastic clogs worn by flocks of families and other people too lazy to accessorize or lace an actual fucking shoe. Everywhere I go: airports, the grocery store, the book store, the most snooty of malls, everyone and their Mom's uncle's mistress's neighbor wears these fucking things. I bet in history books in France people in the U.S. are illustrated with holey orange, green and pink feet. It's just sad… at best.

I, dear friends, am the archetype for the anti-Croc. Take a good look people, I never have and never will own a pair of plastic clogs. I may even go so far as to say if YOU own a pair of Croc's, this is where our friendship ends. They are cheap, tacky, and retarded. They should be outlawed, illegalized, burned in a large, polluting pile in the front lawn of the state capital.

However, give me three Jager shots, two PBRs, and one cute guy and watch these values fly out the window.

My friends claim they pointed out the Crocs before we left the bar, and I must admit I don’t doubt these assertions. However, once you’re drunk enough to make out in public amid friends and strangers, clearly you aren’t too concerned with your reputation at that distinct moment in time. Plus, dick trumps fashion disaster in the walk of shame game.

Without getting into the ever-so-graphic descriptions of my failed attempts to create something out of his dysfunctional erector set, I’ll just say that in the battle of Whiskey vs. The Croc-Clad Stranger, Whiskey won and both the Stranger and yours truly lost.

Indeed, all of my efforts were in vain and when he ran to the bathroom — most likely to try and slap it around a bit — I ran downstairs to tell the girls what was happening upstairs, a statement that he heard and no doubt hindered his dick hardening efforts. He came back in the room, called me out for having called him out, and said he thought he ought to leave.

While I agreed, I was so frustrated that, as he walked out of my house at 4am, I followed him, holding both thumbs down and shouting “Booooooooooo!” down the street (as if the encounter hasn’t been embarrassing enough for him). To be honest, I blamed myself: I had prioritized a hook up before my beliefs and I got exactly what I deserved. But on that night I learned a lesson: While Whiskey Dick is a sad occurrence, Croc Cock is much worse.

I think I should hook up a PayPal link to my cell phone so I can actually get paid for all this sexting.

The last time I called a phone sex hotline was in fifth grade (yeah, I said it). I used to pedal my neon pink and black Murray Outrage to the payphone near the laundry room at my apartment building, dial 1-800-PHONE-SEX and listen to the intro before giggling and hanging up. I can still hear the raspy-voiced vixen on the other line (likely a beast of a woman wearing torn, cheetos-fingerprint stained sweatpants) asking me to put $3.99 into the pay phone so we could begin our wild and naughty adventure. Luckily for me, I didn’t have 16 quarters in my fanny pack.

It’s now 15 years later and, as someone who works 40-hours per week at less than $30,000 salary, I think $3.99 per minute sounds like a perfect pay scale. In fact, if I were to work as a phone sex operator for 40-hours per week, I would be making approximately $240/hour, $1,900/day, $9,500/week, and $494,000/year — minus whatever cut Hot Sluts 4 U would take out annually.


While this seems like a tiring affair, quite a few men currently turn to me for their sexting needs — a task which I am often able to do while working, driving, eating, socializing and so on. So why not get paid for my talents? Isn’t that everyone’s goal in life?
I have decided that the next time I receive a text reading, “Hey I have a hankering to lick some place naughty. What are the chances of that happening tonight?” (Yes, a direct quote.) I will respond: “You have contacted Ridin Dirty Diana’s Sexting Service, please click the following PayPal link to start the slip n’ slide.”

 This way, I can make it rain, so to speak, while I tantalize the countless ex fuck buddies, cock teases, prospective future mistakes, and people’s boyfriends who I talk to each week. And, since we’re using text messages instead of actually talking on the phone, I won’t be grossed out by all those funny noises men make whilst beatin’ their banana. Plus, I won’t have to brush up on my acting skills, or smoke a pack of Marlboro’s each day to maintain my sexy and coquettish voice. Honestly, I can think of no reason to not immediately implement this program. And I suspect that I already have a following.

 So, dirty birds who text me frequently, when next you aim to commence a session of dirty talk, please have your Visa or MasterCard ready, because this shit aint free anymore. I’m going to take over the world, one “I’m so wet” at a time.