I‘m a dick grabber

I’m not sure whether or not you read the fine print, but if I know you, and you’re a man — be you friend, acquaintance or mere passer-by — I will most likely grab your cock at some point in time. Consider this your dick disclaimer. It’s not that I’m a complete pervert (it is), or that I’m coming on to you (I am), or even that I’m just trying to make you uncomfortable (totally); it’s that we clearly had an unwritten arrangement and in this state verbal agreements are legally binding.

The Witness:

Back in a previous slut stage — I am currently wedged between stages four and five — I awoke to a stranger and later pondered how someone so drunk (moi) was able to seal the deal effectively, if not skillfully. It took an eye-witness to bring me to the realization that, when I binge drink liquid courage, I straight-up seize a handful of schlong without hesitation. Is that such a crime? Bam! Your junk done got grasped. Whatcha gonna do about it? No, seriously… any thoughts on that?

The Crime:

I guess when it comes down to it, this is downright sexual harassment, and I should probably take a moment to thank everyone for thus far not suing me: thank you. But also, is it that bad to have someone caress or clasp your package? Shit, I’m cute. Is it that invasive? Yes? Well, fuck you, have we met? This is just me: sick, wrong and fabulously so. People are quick to either love me or hate me, so if you’re still around at this point you already know I’m a psychotic, crazy, asshole and you’ve come to terms with that fact. So let’s embrace the dick-grabbage, shall we? Everybody loves a semi.

The Motives:

Sizing you up

Perhaps this bothers you because you’re concerned I’m going to out you for having a baby dong. Well, if so, get over it. There’s a reason women know that the distance from the tip of one’s outspread thumb to the tip of the pointer finger is six inches, and the distance from wrist to elbow is a foot. And that the difference between the circumference of a loop made with one’s pointer finger and thumb, compared to one’s middle finger and thumb, is the difference of about an inch in girth. Don’t make us just eyeball it, let us measure that sucker. I’m up for leaving things to the imagination, but sometimes you just gotta know what you’re working with… or maybe you’re just trying to inspire the person.

Throwing it out there

Even when sizing it up is not the motive, it couldn’t hurt to throw it out there, right? If a flirtatious embrace happens to result in some sort of physical reaction, what’s the harm in that? I once tapped a guy in the nuts three times in a row and he had to leave the bar and go home for fear of growing a garden snake. This ballsy, so to speak, approach seems to signify, hey, I’m comfortable touching your penis. So, like… maybe I should… and maybe you want me to… more… later… I think so. Or, Oh, weird, what does thing do? Let’s find out. But maybe you don’t even want to get it on; maybe you’re just drunk and attempting to amuse yourself.

For the hell of it

Sometimes I’ll drunkenly grab the man piece of one of my close male friends just to fuck with him. But at least one of them grabs my tits for his amusement, so screw it. And be wary, homosexual men, you are not safe from my charming molestation. Once I felt up a gay guy and then laughingly pointed and shouted, “That was squishy!” Fast forward to me telling that story to a friend the next morning: “… and that was the second penis I couldn’t get hard that night…” (God damn it.)

Because I’m totally shit-faced (implied in each category)

I mean, c’mon, it’s not like I’m doing this while sober (typically). If I’m snatching man-meat, or “monkey junk,” as one friend puts it, I’m clearly incoherent and without acknowledgment of any degree of ethics or morality. Give me a few drinks and I’m like a malnourished orangutan, purposefully clutching a bunch of bananas and clumsily shoving them towards my mouth.

The Verdict:

Is this behavior appropriate? No. Have I ever claimed to be appropriate? No. Will I ever be appropriate? I wouldn’t bet on it. So, if you have an affinity for poor decisions like I do, I recommend you try this method. The worst that could happen is you’ll get punched right in the face. And, hey, if not, you may even get some action.

You cannot call the person you live with your roommate if you don’t have a room in the house.

I once hung out with a cute, stylish guy who was couch surfing at his friend’s house and had no plans of leaving or contributing to the household in the immediate future. I didn’t put this together at first, as we weren’t banging. But I can tell you this much: The moment he tried to make a move on me on that couch, in my drunken stupor, I suddenly realized there were only two bedrooms in the house and three inhabitants. It didn’t add up, and I realized I was the girl who was allegedly ok with getting it on in the living room. Perhaps the only thing worse than a leech with no intention of leaving, is the slut bag not bothered by this arrangement. That was the last night I saw him, I escaped that scenario immediately.

In an effort to offer complete disclosure and context to my feelings on this issue, I should clarify that I did — once — sleep with someone on a couch in a living room after a long night of partying. A skanky mosaic of a sex scene, this interaction occurred in awkward snippets, as his so-called “roommates” walked to the kitchen and the bathroom throughout the wee hours of the morning. When the sun began to rise, its rays shone through the hippie tapestry being used as curtains. At this point, I noticed his battered backpack on the floor and I realized that I had just fucked a “technically homeless” man on a stranger’s couch.

Mates, each with a room

I couldn’t blame the pseudo-hobo completely for my serious lack of suspicion. So, like the majority of my slutscapades, I blame my actions on naivety and complete denial… that paired with the use of drugs and/or alcohol. I was obviously hammered enough to not question when we were going to advance to a unkempt bedroom, dirty boy-bathroom or even a fucking closet at some point. However, upon hearing one mention his or her “roommates,” you sort of assume the person speaking pays rent and has an actual room in a house (and, apparently, that they’re so turned on by you they simply cannot force themselves to pause ten seconds and move to another room, as was clearly the case.)

It comes down to this: I honestly don’t care if you’re a couch surfer. Whether you’re traveling, or need to save money, or have some other reason for doing so, that’s your prerogative. And who‘s to say I won‘t be in the same a position at some point? The ways things are going, I‘m likely lingering toward life on a loveseat. However, you can’t call someone your roommate if you don’t have a room in the house. The word roommate says it all: mates, each with a room. If this is not the arrangement, they are the host and you are their guest.

It seems to me that the relationship between a host and a couch surfer somewhat parallels the relationship between a host cell and the virus or parasite that drains it of energy and resources, such as nourishment and shelter. At this point I will put on my nerd glasses and observe the relationship from a biologist’s point of view. *Note: If you are or have ever been a couch surfer, I am not calling you a parasite/virus; I am simply comparing and contrasting two types of hosts. Don’t blame me, this is science talking.

The Hostess with the mostess

Primary/definitive host. If the parasite is lucky, it has a primary, or definitive host. This cell, or in our case, person, allows the virus to reach maturity (in some cases a contradiction in terms) and, if applicable, reproduce sexually (most likely on their “roommates” couch.) This means the person serving as the host is willing to provide shelter until it’s guest has gotten his or her shit together (an admirable characteristic of a true friend). This person is also comfortable with the fact that it's visitor will most likely attempt to nest and at some point ejaculate on its sofa — assuming, of course, it finds someone who is attracted to parasites and, therefore, getting nailed on a rust-colored, crumb- and pet hair-covered couch while scenes from Family Guy flicker romantically on the plasma screen.

Secondary/intermediate host. In terms of the host, it’s a wise idea to serve as only a secondary or intermediate host. This person harbors its visitor only for a brief, transitional period — perhaps allowing its guest to crash for a week or two while the person finds either a job, or girlfriend, or other sponsor to exhaust of its assets and mental wellbeing. I’d imagine this host doesn’t require rent or help with utilities, but simply offers it’s guest a safe place to get one’s affairs in order — an ideal situation for both parties.

Dead-end host. Then there’s a dead-end host, most likely a bigger parasite than the one seeking assistance, albeit one with a lease. This kind of host prevents its guest from completing its development, and will likely encourage toxic behavior. “Don’t have a bed? Fuck it; you can sleep on my forest green papasan chair if you slang this coke for me.” A dead-end host may be more dangerous than living on the streets, as such an environment does not allow for growth and progress.

In the end

So, is a couch surfer a deal breaker? Not necessarily. You cannot judge a person’s character based simply upon their dwellings. Everyone needs a little help sometimes and, as friends, it’s our job to provide assistance to those who would do the same for us. Plus, I’ll take a couch over a cardboard box any day; beggars can’t be choosers.

If you have a shirtless photo taken in a mirror with a camera phone, and you're not gay, then... wait, you're totally gay, huh?

Chances are pretty good that half of your male gay friends between the ages of 18 and 30 have one (or 136) photo(s) of themselves flexing, without a shirt, taken in a mirror (oft-times in a bathroom or closet) with their camera phone. The shameless shirtless self photo shoot is as gay as glitter and, if you live in Denver, as gay as Thursday night.

I would argue that the gays have stolen this and made this their own, along with the rainbow, and Uptown. What I can do without, however, is straight men attempting this technique. It’s funny how this look only offends me when the person taking the photo is someone I could possibly consider having sex with (whether I’d have to be drunk off my ass or not).

Another time this look fails is when straight women share practically nude photos of themselves and gather them in albums labeled “Modeling.” Just because some creep talked you into dressing scandalously and greasing up for his photographic and pornographic pleasure, doesn’t mean you should post 45 nearly identical photos of yourself wearing lingerie, and licking a lollipop with a come hither stare. If these photos are in a magazine or advertisement, you’re a model. If your photos are in some guy’s spank bank, you’re just undressing for a pervert with a camera. There’s a thin line between self-promotion and self-exploitation.

If you’re wondering whether you should be sharing photos of you topless and in the mirror, I’ve made a simple little equation for you:

Gay = OK; Not Gay = No Way

I can’t describe what it is exactly that makes this photo procedure so wrong on a straight man. Featuring a straight man, these pictures seem silly, vain, hilarious; while when depicting a gay man, the photos are sexy, confident, flirtatious. Why is it that gay men can get away with this when straight men cannot? It could be because, in my eyes, the gays can do no wrong — they can pull off a mesh neon tank top, and they can pull off the rightfully-confident-look-at-my-sexy-body pic.

I’m unabashedly obsessed with gay men. My fantasy is to one day marry a homosexual male (insert dream sequence fuzz). We would have an impeccably decorated house, host amazing cocktail parties, spend our days shopping, have our own separate sex lives, and share all of the dirty details over martinis and Scrabble. I can see it now: My homo-husband and I are laying beside the fire in matching “OMG” monogrammed silk pajamas (his pink, mine blue), watching Mean Girls, playing the popular word game, and gossiping about our latest mistakes. I’d would play the word “fellatio” on a triple word score. “48 points, biotch!” “Whore!“ he’d respond. Then, spilling my drink, I fumble for the remote, “Girl, it was this big!” to which my husband would reply, “Aw, heeeeyyy!” and we’d cheers, leaving practically no drinks left in our glasses, and calling the dog over to lick the booze off our $1,500 dollar rug.

I can’t get enough of the half-nekkid photos that gay men promote themselves with. I find them horribly amusing, and seeing as I’m a total pervert, a free show. As I walk through life, I basically check out everyone: men, women, grandfathers, baby daddies, grocery store checkers, your mom, security guards, department store santas, preschool teachers, sluts, and so on. I’m like a construction worker, except I don’t wear hunter orange, have less of a gut, and do not have a penchant for the arrogant ability to shout out things that could make even a sexual predator cringe (instead I say these things under my breathe to anyone who is within ear-shot of a whisper.)

Will fuck for food

I haven’t been on a fucking date since ’nam. This is not entirely surprising, considering that men long ago realized that they do not have to buy women dinner and/or roofie their drinks in order to get laid. All a man has to do is walk up to a woman at a bar at just the right time — and not be completely repulsive — or invite himself to “hang out” — and not be completely repulsive. At this point, I feel like the only way I’m going to be taken out is if I stand on the corner alongside the transient who holds a sign that reads “savin for a hooker thankx,” with a sign that says “will fuck for food.”

Will I really fuck for food? Fuck yeah, why not? I’ve fucked for worse: validation; boredom; revenge; a beer. We all have motives for doing what we do, be it subconscious or obvious. I may as well be honest with myself… and you may as well be honest with yourself, as well. I deserve, you deserve, no we deserve some fucking red meat and engaging, intelligent conversation.

If you want me to put out, pay up. Stimulate my brain, and fill my belly, and then you can stimulate me elsewhere. Plus, shit, if you buy me a steak, you just may, and I stress may, get a blow job. I feel like $20 for a blow jay from a hot girl is more than reasonable. Either that or pay a disease ridden crack whore $50... or find a girl without standards… or be lucky enough to run into me when I’m drunk and with withering values.

Now, I don’t want you to feel like you could get in trouble with the law as a result of this arrangement. I’m not a hooker who accepts wine and food as payment (although I see the benefits of such a system). I’m just a woman who knows what she wants, and what she doesn’t want.

What I want is to be taken out. Get to know me; let’s figure out whether you find my presence too abrasive to stand before I throw you a bang. If history is any indication, chances are 50/50 you will either love me or hate me. What I don’t want is for you pursue me passively, or mack on me using social media sites. If you send me a message on Facebook with some corny/horny line, it isn’t going to get you shit from me. If I had a nickel for every man who sent me a suggestive e-mail or IM, I’d have about 45 nickels. And if I had acted on any of these solicitations, I’d likely have a few stalkers… and a handful of STDs.

My advice for those of you attempting this approach on women: How about a little creativity? You all sound the same: creepy, desperate, unimpressive. I’m not completely conceited, but I do think I’m generally a badass individual and I am worthy of more than a “let’s get blackout drunk” over IM, or a private message asking me for a photo of my feet (although I must admit that one made me laugh).

Face it, to freak isn’t free; we all pay for sex in one way or another: power; respect; health; reputation; euros, etc. You don’t have to be affluent to be a gentleman. Less fortunate, or a penny pincher? Plan a picnic, something thoughtful, something creative. I’m not that high maintenance… or maybe I am. But either way, this bitch is worth it.

Try as I might, I am not a whiskey girl

I’ve always wanted to be one of those girls who drinks whiskey straight out of the bottle and isn’t fazed. When I say “whiskey girl,“ I am picturing a beautiful woman who chugs the brown booze like it’s water, and can drink a man under the table with much aplomb. Am I one of such girls? No, no I am not. I can drink vodka until I turn into a potato, but one shot of whiskey and I have the tolerance of a Mormon school teacher.

Despite my efforts to become accustomed to this alcoholic beverage, I always become a stumbling, bumbling hot mess of a wastoid — black tears streaming down my face; red lipstick smeared around my mouth; making out with a gay man, or a woman, for that matter; starting a fight with a random man who walks by; and strutting about like Elaine Benes dances.

Mistakes that I can attribute to being whiskey-drunk:
Making out with my friend’s ex boyfriend
Puking under the bar
Illegible text messages
Calling guys who I don’t even like
Driving drunk

While I enjoy a whiskey ginger on occasion, shots are a definite no. If ever I take a whiskey shot I puke — either immediately, later on that night, or the next morning (something that I never did until whiskey entered my life.)

I should have known the moment my friend and I bought I bottle of Jamo that I was going to be in trouble. Although we only had one double before we left, we continued to drink whiskey at the drag show at X Bar, and again at Chi Chi and Cain’s wedding reception. Throughout the course of the evening, I saw my partner in crime dash into the alley to puke, I burned myself on the chin and the thumb with my own cigarette, and at one point I fell completely down on the ground outside of Club M. My friend also walked back to my house without telling me, as if she was going to somehow be able to break into the building or climb into my window.

Upon realizing she didn’t have a key, and that the dog wouldn’t let her in, she walked back to the club. We then ventured to 7-11 and drunkenly purchased two hot dogs, two pizzas, and two ice cream bars. Home girl passed out while the pizza was cooking, but then the smoke alarm starting going off, so that woke her up. We spent about 10 minutes trying to fan the air with towels and pillows and an actual fan before I finally was able to smack that fucker off the ceiling. Then she and I both passed out.

When my alarm went off this morning, I looked at my phone like you’d look at a man whose gut is hanging out of their shirt: disgusted. One thought crossed my mind: WATER! Desperate to quench my thirst, I grabbed the closest cup to me. In my still-drunken haze, I had accidentally grabbed last night’s whiskey ginger. Luckily the smell hit my nose before the liquid hit my mouth. Shivers coursed down my spine and my gag reflex awakened. I got myself water and then looked around. My apartment looked like a tornado had blown through it — a 5 foot 6, teal-haired, big-assed tornado. The thought of going to work was about as appealing as the thought of chewing on glass, eating out an asshole, or seeing another teen mom on the cover of US Weekly. I begrudgingly walked my dog (picking up dog shit while hung over [or still drunk] is especially revolting), and drove to work, somehow evading an early morning DUI (thank god drunk driving is perfectly legal during the day.)

Now I sit here at work, counting down the 6 hours, 22 minutes and 45 seconds until I get to lock the door, unfreeze the forced smile, and stop being convincingly sincere. All I can think about is greasy pizza and weed delivery and doing absolutely nothing tonight… and maybe taking a nap in my car… and being really mortified about falling down like an asshole.

“Do you do couples?”

Out of boredom the other day, I decided to bury my pride six feet under and join a typical, clichéd, and slightly frightening dating site. Considering that I recently saw the documentary Catfish, I’m not sure why I would practically solicit a prospective stalker. I guess if I had to name a reason for joining said site, I would say: A., I like to flirt; B., my ego could use the occasional validation; and, perhaps most importantly, C., it’s like shopping for sex (albeit most likely in the irregulars section.)

Dating sites are kind of like eBay, only for fucking and/or finding a relationship of any magnitude. You can check out an item (man/dong) and see if it looks damaged or weathered from use; make assumptions based on photos; and negotiate a fair price (date/casual sex/etc.) — all the while competing with other individuals for the grand prize.

In the mere three days I have had this account; I have been approached in a variety of ways. One man messaged me, “hey, you’re online, I’m online. Fuck this, let’s fuck. Dub palace is on 1390 and I have a boner,” an especially amusing offer since DJ Segue is a good friend of mine. Another guy messaged me, “Are you in love with me?” to which I sarcastically replied “head over heels.” And yet another attractive man messaged me, “Do you do couples?”

Hmm… do I do couples? I’m not completely opposed to the idea of a threesome. In fact, I may or may not have already had a threesome… and it may or may not have been with two men. Maybe yes, maybe no. But, as a woman who can be somewhat jealous at times, could I share a man, neigh, a penis with another woman? A woman who gets him full time, no less?

And, I can’t help but wonder: Could I hook up with the woman and to what extent would I be expected to do so? I’ve made out with a woman before, and I’d switch teams for Ginger Perry in a New York minute, but I’m pretty confident that tongue and tittie action is as far as I could go (although I bet a woman is better at going down on a woman than a man). Besides, I get dressed for other women, not undressed.

Then again if one was to “do” a couple, two strangers would certainly be the ideal. You could fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em and go on with your life. Whereas if I were to enter Smashville with a couple who are also my friends, I would have to think about them naked every time I’d see them from that point forward. “Oh, there’s curves to the left, and little miss three nipples,” or “Remember that guy I told you about who shouted out ‘Tammy Faye Baker!’ during sex?” And I don’t even want to know what they’d say about me.

And yet another issue, perhaps the most important one yet, is the fact that I’m an only child. As a result of this, I’m not necessarily accustomed to sharing. I don’t share my toys — be they legos or vibrators — and I don’t share my power tools either. Picture it: The other women grabs her boyfriend’s cock and I grab it away from her, “Hey, that’s mine! It’s my turn! I’m telling my mom!”

While getting down with a couple could be a complete blast, and make one hell of a story, I don’t think I could do it. With all these little hiccups and hang-ups in mind, I think that, for me, a ménage et trois with a male/female couple is a ménage et nah (but if you know two hot tattooed men who are interested, let me know.)

"Fuck me like you mean it!"

With my ear pressed firmly against the wall, I could hear a woman calling out “Fuck yeah, harder!” “Yeah baby, just like that!” The expression on my squished face could best be described as an amalgamation of amused, disturbed and voyeuristic. I considered rubbing one out real quick (I mean, c‘mon, it‘s free porn), but I didn’t like how I could only hear the woman’s voice and, to be honest, my neighbor seemed like kind of a choch bag.

I had just met my new neighbor Jake two days previous, and smoked a bowl with him one day previous… which had seemed promising. It had taken the maintenance team more than a month to completely renovate the crack head hoarder’s apartment, and I was relieved to find that my new neighbor seemed normal. However, during our smoke session he had waved a few red flags: 1. He said he had sold Buffalo Exchange a bunch of Ed Hardy t-shirts; 2. He kept bringing up this older woman who was trying to tie him down; 3. He didn’t have a fucking bed.

I listened to Jake fucking this woman — or this woman being fucked be Jake — for about five minutes. Then the woman who Jake had the day previous described as “35-year-old,” “blonde,” “wants me to move in with her“) shouted out an encouraging “Fuck me like you mean it!” and I busted out laughing — a guffaw I could not suppress.

While I’m sure this was said amid a moment of passion, and/or a seemingly convincing yet over-played fake orgasm, it isn’t necessarily a testimonial to someone’s dick giving abilities. When I heard her shout this out, what I really heard was, “No, seriously though, fuck me like you mean it. Please? Would you mind? Is it even in there yet? Can you try to fuck me like you mean it? I mean, I came all the way over here to fuck you on this mat on your dirty floor that was once lived in by a crack head hoarder. The least you can do is fuck me like you mean it.”

At that point, I decided to be a complete creep and tap slowly and purposefully on the wall, so they would know I was listening. It was around this time I heard him smack her ass through the wall (and/or one hell of a ball smack,) and it echoed outside the door of my apartment. I tip-toed to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, undid the chain, and slowly cracked open the door, peeking out as if I was scared to see them fucking right there with the door open (it was that loud). It sounded like they were filming a porno in the hallway and broadcasting it in stereo. I could hear every move they made and the images in my mind were quite graphic: an ass slap here, a deep throat there, and more commands from the cougar.

The funniest part, to me, was that I knew this guy didn’t own a bed yet and had been sleeping on a camping mat for the past week (he did own a ginormous “$200” mirror and a barber chair, I should note). I could just imagine this woman on all fours and screaming directly toward my wall. I mean, I know a bed isn’t required for sex, but in my opinion, if the person you are fucking cannot afford a bed, you shouldn’t be fucking said person. It’s a fucking bed. That should be right in there with the basic necessities of food, water, shelter and oxygen. No bed is a deal breaker, you must at least have the option (and please note: a case of “mattress on the floor” comes in as a close second.)



Next time I hear the cougar in action, which I really hope is never, I intend to blast the most annoying, dick-limpening music possible with my speakers turned toward Jake’s wall. If that doesn’t muffle the shouts, I guess I’ll have to call someone over to try and out fuck them. I’ll post a sign up sheet outside my building.

The more sensitive a man is, the smaller his penis

  “I’ve always wanted to ask a tall guy, ‘Is your dick in proportion to your hands and your height?’ I seriously wonder about that,” said a friend the other day. Obviously we’ve all heard speculation that tall men have long penises, men with big feet have large rods, men who drive huge diesel trucks and tiny sports cars lack a stack, and men with blonde hair have no merchandise whatsoever. Personal experience, however, invalidates this gossip. Yet there is one rumor that I would like to spread: that sensitive men are strapped with small shafts.

Big dick = big dick

If you’re a woman, gay man, straight man or voyeur, you may have noticed that the larger a man’s penis, the larger his head and, in turn, his “I’m the shit” attitude. If a man is “cocky,” he’s most likely cocky; if a man has a huge dick, he’s probably a huge dick; the more smug and vain, the more throbbing veins (and so on).

Now, obviously these are not hard-and-fast rules, so allow me to clarify that not all men are assholes — specifically not all black men (since we‘re all aware of their assets.) And, on a side note: not all black men have ginormous schlongs. I’m sure there are a few poets, clothing designers, artists, and nurses out there who prove to be an exception to the rule. Roses are red, violets are blue, your penis is a joke, so fuck you! And I’m sure there are also serious douche bags with itty bitty members (little prick = little prick.)

It seems to me that whenever my friends are “dating” a man with King Kong’s Dong that he’s a conceited jerk who gets away with murder because of his hose. While I have encountered one man who seemed sensitive everywhere but his shaft, he was just, ugh, too nice… plus I’m sure deep down he was a jerk and I just hadn’t realized it yet. Then there’s the other extreme: the sensitive sally. As one friend stated, “the most emotional guy I’ve ever dated, also the biggest guy physically I’ve ever dated, and the smallest wang of anyone I’ve ever dated.” (Men take note: Out of consideration, a woman will lie about the size of your penis to her friends… until you piss her off.)

Big hands, big feet? Big deal.

While I’ve yet to witness a man with small hands and a stick of salami between his thighs; I’ve definitely seen men with monstrous feet, or catcher’s mitts for hands, but without an equally large fifth appendage. In fact, my very first interection (sic.) with a dipstick disproved the big hands big feet theory.

Hanging from the 6’5” football player with size 11 shoes was the smallest, saddest excuse for a toddler dong I have seen to this day. In an effort to illustrate my point, I will now as you to peer down at your thumb (with your palm facing you). This penis was the size of the cushy tissue that runs from the heel of your hand to the point where the thumb finally extends from the hand. It was like a little gherkin dwarfed by two kiwis.

Was this guy sensitive? Well he cheated on his girlfriend (unbeknownst to me [I‘m not a complete whore]) and then cried about it, so you tell me. He also had a “thing” for Scooby-Doo and I may go so far as to suggest that he wore Scooby-Doo pajama pants too. So. Very. Sexy. Although this man refutes the big feet/big cock theory, others confirm the hypothesis, however, I won’t name names.

So consider yourself warned, girls and gays, the next time you find that sensitive man you’ve been searching for, you may be unpleasantly surprised. Be careful for what you wish.

It’s my job to live my life uncensored and say “fuck, shit, balls!” in front of your children; its your job to teach them that those are bad words.

My mother has always said that her daughter had “a mouth that could make a sailor blush,” an adage I have always cherished, embodied and flaunted. Ever since I could talk I‘ve been cursing up a storm. At the age of one, my first words were “cupcake, bitch;” at three I learned how to flip the bird; and in kindergarten I was sent home with a pink slip because I had given my best friend a black eye. Why? “Because the bitch said she had more Barbie’s than me.” (And the bitch lied.)

While I kid (except for the Barbie thing, that actually happened), I know that’s how some of you envisioned me as a young whippersnapper. The truth is, I got popped one for saying a “bad word” as a child and I learned my lesson… that is, until I grew up and no longer gave a fuck about such shit.

“You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

One day, the eight-year-old daughter of my friend Robyn heard me say “fuck,” or “shit,” or some other popular expletive frequented by charmers such as myself. Just as annoying as me at that age, the girl and I had the same name, some junk in the trunk, and an identical hair cut (the cursed little copy cat). She was basically my mini-me — only clad from head to toe in purple, like Violet Beauregard (“Violet, you‘re turning violet, Violet!”).

“Oooohhhh, you said a bad word!” the chubby cheeked cherub lisped through missing teeth. “Yeah… and?” I replied. “You’re not supposed to say bad words,” she proudly informed me, quite the know-it-all. “No…” I pointed at her, “You’re not allowed to say bad words.” I then pointed at myself, “I can say whatever the fuck I want because I‘m an adult. You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

“Uh!“ gape-mouthed and offended, she stared at me for a second — the expression your parents wear while giving an, “I’m disappointed by your behavior” speech. She immediately called to her mother to tell on me, the little narc, and I watched with a grin on my face. Her mother Robyn gave me a face reading “You’re an asshole,” but said nothing. Aggravated that I had not been punished for my crime, the dwarfish purple people eater’s immediate response was to test the boundaries and say “Shit!” It was at this point she was punished.

You are so grounded!

While I may be presenting an obstacle with my dirty little mouth, isn’t the joy of being a parent teaching your child right and wrong, and making sure you don’t create a monster? C’mon, you know you love a good challenge. And, when it comes down to it: It’s your choice to raise children; it’s my choice to raise hell.

If a little smack is not your style to keep your kids from saying "fucktard," "douchebag," or "dick smack," lock the little ankle biters in the closet or something; I don’t know… is that legal? Either way, it depends on your discipline style,I suppose. Perhaps you can get tips from The Dog Whisperer. Cesar is brilliant with animals of all sizes. If all else fails, just pretend I have Tourette’s Syndrome and tell your kids I’m a sick, sick person. You won’t necessarily be lying.

Now, on a side note: Anyone need a babysitter?

My next door neighbor should be the spokesperson for the Faces of Meth campaign.

*Note: This was written before this neighbor's eviction, he was finally locked out two weeks ago and today three men are attempting to clean out his disgusting apartment.


Picture it: I’m a hot, dirty mess and I’m bringing in the last load of my belongings into my apartment just over one year ago. I’m precariously juggling A.) the last box of my shit, which is sharply jutting into one hip; B.) my eager, pulling dog; and C.) a heavy door above me, at the top of the stairs; which, of fucking course, pulls toward you. I finally get through the door, (although the box is starting to slip) and am beginning to shuffle the final steps to my apartment. Within feet of my final destination, I hear “Need any help?” I think to myself, where was this asshole the past five hours? Then I look up and see what must be a pirate. Thank fucking god this is the last of my shit.


He was more than 6-feet tall with long, scraggly, dingy brown hair and baggy clothing. His face was red, sunken and weathered, and looked to be the texture of paper. He had skin speckled with scabs, deep set eyes, and protruding cheek bones. He was wearing a bandana on his head… and a mother fucking eye patch. An eye patch! My neighbor > an eye patch.


I then picked up the lower half of my jaw off the floor, jammed it back in place, and said as politely as I could muster, “No thank you, this is the last of my things.” I shimmied my ass through the door as the box dropped to the floor, and I mentally listed the many cruel acts I have performed to have earned such karma.


Part One


Not too long after, I saw the pirate without an eye patch, but wasn’t sure which I found more disconcerting — my initial belief that this man is without one eye, or the realization that this was a person who got himself into situations in which he sometimes required an eye patch. I was soon to find the latter was the more frightening conundrum.


This pirate, sans patch, is a hoarder of sorts; and, much to the other tenant’s dismay, he insists on keeping his door wide open. His apartment is a catalogue of crap, enveloped by a tapestry of crazy, and smothered in bad news. The fact that his life is just a thin wall away from mine sends shivers down my spine.


As if the contents of his studio were not disturbing enough, he leaves random piles of crap outside his door for days at a time and has been keeping his food outside his window on his air conditioner, spoiling in the sun and spilling on the sidewalk. It’s like a trailer park garage sale within mere feet of my door. If I wasn’t too frightened to touch the sketchy stacks of waste, I’d throw the shit away myself. But clearly, he’d just find his precious treasures in the dumpster once more and bring them back to store in his dossier of rubbish. Speaking of waste, did I mention he has a woman friend?


Part Two


I eventually learned my neighbors name as a result of countless crack heads, meth dealers and crazies calling “Tim!” in haggard, raspy, desperate voices outside his window (which, I might remind you, is mere feet from my window). Tim then lets him or her in, or even better, puts a brick in the back door so creeps, scumbags and rapists can enter at their leisure. My least favorite person shouting “Tim!” in the most tiny and shrill voice imaginable, is the constantly re-appearing crack whore he let live with him during her pregnancy. That’s right: Pregnant crack whore > my neighbor. I’ve heard her screaming to be let in more times than I can count, and I have shot her evil glances more times than Ron Jeremy has shot his load on a woman’s face.


I’ve never heard the crack whore’s name; I’ve always just referred to her as “the crack whore.” She is a tiny, mousey woman, so white she’s see-through, with faded hair dyed blood red with black roots. Her face looks like she chews glass for a hobby and her eyes are black and cold. Between the two of them, these people should front the Faces of Meth campaign.


Shady, yet verbose and seemingly considerate, Tim is not the crack whore’s boyfriend, nor the baby’s father, but just someone putting a roof over her head. Once I realized she was pregnant, I almost began to pity her… almost. Me and the normal neighbor across the hall discussed whether or not we should intervene, but child protective services can’t step in until the day the child is born… which was the night before my trip to New York. I was packing and heard her screaming bloody murder on and off for hours in the next apartment. My neighbor across the hall was timing her contractions through the walls. Finally we heard an ambulance and saw nearly ten paramedics and police officers bust in and ask her about her pregnancy and possible drug use, then dramatically carry her out on a stretcher as she made a scene. She still comes around, but clearly the baby was given to a good home — not one towered with trash, and with constant creepsters doing drugs, and random early morning fist fights… or had I gotten to that?


Part Three


This morning at nine I was lying in beg, willing myself to fall back asleep. As I began to drift off, a man attempted to start his huge Ford truck with no luck. He opened the hood, frustrated, and tried once more. The diesel engine started to growl, barely running and sounding loud and wounded. I thought to myself, I cannot think of one sound that could possibly be more annoying then that right now.


“You don’t live here, you can’t park there, shut that fucking thing off,” I heard Tim yelling over the truck‘s moans as he walked aggressively over. I noticed that he had a huge band-aid taped over the entirety of his nose, like Michael Jackson wore after his nose took a tumble. He then tried to push the truck’s owner, a man wearing a Cleveland Indians cap. The Indians fan then slugged him in the face and they were at it, fists awkwardly fumbling, Tim’s long and likely lice-ridden hair flying as the man pushed him into the garage behind him. While I knew my neighbor to be a slimy, troubling man, he’s never seemed violent or provoking.


I called the police and watched from my window; it was like being invisible at a live taping of Jerry Springer. The truck owner’s friend, a short man who was missing a few teeth, attempted to stop the fighting. For a second the pushing ceased and they began yelling back and forth. Tim then kicked the truck and threw the man’s keys across the lot. After gathering his keys, the man in the Indians cap took off his glasses and ran low and like a bull, slamming directly into my neighbors torso, knocking him down. At this point, the men gave up the fight, the police arrived, and I lost interest — although I’d like to think the brawl resulted in yet another eye patch for Tim, and a new face on the meth prevention billboards.