Sterner & Rogier, LLC

So, no one who is possibly reading this post has not heard about this:

http://gizmodo.com/5833787/my-brief-okcupid-affair-with-a-world-champion-magic-the-gathering-player

The girl who went out with a guy off OKCupid, found out he was a world champion Magic: the Gathering® player, was ostensibly appalled and wrote a Gizmodo article about how she was stunned and it’s a huge dealbreaker and etc.

Couple things.  First, as Forbes was quick to point out, of course this is an obvious troll.  This woman, desperate to make a living in the non-lucrative world of blog writing, has just said “fuck it,” you know, I need something that gets a million hits. So I’m gonna write about how I’m a chick who was appalled to date a nerd, thus getting the two commentingist, complainingest groups on the planet to catch fire over my article.  Chicks and nerds.

And second, yes, ultimately her beef is bullshit, the fact that he’s the world champion Magic: the Gathering® player being a huge dealbreaker and etc.  I mean, millions of people play Magic: the Gathering®.  It’s not really that big a deal to be a nerd anymore; it’s just its own subculture.  It’s not quite a sexy one like punk rocker or whatever but it’s its own thing and nerds can get laid now.  So at face value her point is really bitchy, and her whole hedging about getting on OKCupid in the first place—her whole thinly-veiled I’m-too-good-for-this thing— while, again, a deliberate troll, well, yes, it’s twatty. She is a twat, and she should be called a twat.  So Sharon Bezefrnak or whateverthefuck your name is, you are a twat.

BUT people are failing to read between the lines here.  Because people are getting hung up on the Magic®-being-the-dealbreaker thing and not looking at her whole description of the date.  Which—he is a hedge fund manager.  Only two kinds of people do this— drunken date rapist frat boys, and cold, Aspergian number-crunching nerds.  Of course he is the latter.  He manages a hedge fund, but he is not the smooth guy out there hobnobbing with the nephew of the Sultan of Brunei over martinis at the titty bar, convincing him through camaraderie to sink $200 million of oil money into a Brazilian ruby mining concern with high upside potential.  There is some other guy, probably a lacrosse player of some kind, who does this, while Jon Finkel sits back in a cramped office with one buzzing florescent light and pores over 12,000 page excel spreadsheets looking for some curvilinear regression formula that will add .0002 cents 8 times out of ten to the result of an equation with 47 variables.  Or coming up with some piece of code that will robotically act on some stock price information transmitted from the Nikkei to make 4,000 fake transactions per second that it stops short of actually executing so it can artificially drive up the price of Philippine corn commodities by one one thousandth of a penny a million times per day.  You know he is this guy, because he plays Magic: the Gathering®.

So my guess is he is some kind of socially hobbled Aspergian. And therefore I speculate that he fucked up not by dropping the Magic® bomb, but in HOW he dropped the Magic® bomb. Because there is no piece of information EVER, ANYWHERE on the planet that will make a chick recoil if you deliver it confidently, like it’s no big deal.  Murder, sex offender registry, Magic®: the Gathering, whatever.   I routinely tell my dates that I have to turn in early to get up for an eight hour Dungeons and Dragons session the next day. ROUTINELY.  NO ONE ever has any real issue with this.  Because I say it like I have no fucking problem or insecurity with it, because I have no problem or insecurity with it. Lots of girls sarcastically take the bait, go for some easy dig, and I tell them to fuck right off. I’m gonna take you home and rawdog you, and then I’m gonna get up and carefully optimize my enchanter spellbook. Because Dungeons and Dragons is fucking FUN.  And I am not afraid to say so, with confidence. 

So when the issue of Magic: the Gathering® came up, you KNOW he was hemming and hawing about it, or worse, he was deliberately holding it back until he could smugly declare that he was the world champion, hoping this would impress her. Either way he was THINKING about it, thinking in advance about what to do when it came up, or how to make it come up, and the fact that he even had to think shows that he was already dead to all pussy, now and forever. 

Plus, he took her to a one man show about Jeffrey Dahmer.  And he went on a second date with her, even though she looks like you put a wig on Albert Finney:

Which makes me think maybe the dude doesn’t have a ton of options. Nothing against him— it’s hard when you have a job and time-consuming hobbies, etc.

Anyway, yes, the chick is a twat, but they’ll get like that if you don’t man up about liking wizards.  Just my two cents.

I’ll be having a sex dream, right?  Usually this starts as a regular dream, but then an attractive chick shows up and I just grab her to start fucking.  Last night the scene was that I was back in my college looking for my dorm room, but the doors were all sci-fi futuristic and I couldn’t find mine.  I went into some random room and there was a hot blonde chick in there and I pulled up her skirt and bent her over her bed. This is what happens, whenever a hot chick shows up in my dream- the narrative of the dream, whatever emotional message it was trying to tell me, goes out the window and I just grab her and rip off her clothes.

Anyway, I had this chick bent over with her rump exposed, and she was all giggly, and I got on top of her and lined up my dick and went to push it in, you know?  Except my body pantomimed this thrusting motion in my sleep and my boner rubbed gratingly against the sheets and it woke me up.

And this happens to me EVERY FUCKING TIME.  Only ONCE have I ever had actual intercourse in a dream; this was, interestingly, in the selfsame college dorm room heretofore mentioned when my roommate’s bed was right next to mine and I couldn’t jack off for like a week.  I guess I was so horny that I just powered through it.  But anyway- every time, my boner grinds against my mattress on the first pump and wakes me up instantly.  It is the most frustrating thing in the fucking world.

Have you ever been in the middle of a conversation where someone says some shit like, “he seems rude at first, but trust me-he’s a nice guy”? Or “you just have to get to know her?” These are signals that someone is an asshole, and like all true dicks, these people are surrounded by bastions of nice people who seem to flock to assholes like moths to a flame.

Most people can definitively be categorized into “nice people” and “assholes”. Nice people have an asshole inside of them begging to come out, and assholes have a tiny nice person inside who comes out to play occasionally. After all, no person is a complete archetype. Still, what we’re talking about here is people who are mostly assholes, and how they get away with their unthinkable acts of assholery.

Nice people like things to be copacetic. They enjoy laughing with friends about nice things that don’t involve the humiliation of others, sharing, having polite conversations about important topics, and complimenting each other when the moment warrants it. 

Assholes like things to suck balls. They enjoy laughing at people, mocking things, feeling superior, being selfish, and generally acting bored of life and what it has to offer.

Nice people can come in many forms. Assholes can, too. Sometimes assholes masquerade as nice people, and vice versa. Sometimes there are asshole triggers; drinking is one, being around family is another (family usually aggravates even the kindest of folks), and extreme emotional circumstances usually turn even the best of us into cunts. For others, those same triggers turn assholes into nice people. We usually call those people neurotics.

One thing I’ve noticed about assholes is groups tend to bring out dick tendencies. Suddenly, there is a crowd to perform in front of! When you’re one on one with someone, there isn’t much point to assholery. Why be a dick to the only person you’re hanging out with and risk them kicking you, spitting on you, or leaving your ass somewhere? Now, add another person or multiple other people, and now the risk of any of these things happening decreases to almost zero, because social niceties dictate it’s not appropriate to kick fools, spit on them, or walk away abruptly. Therefore, assholes can get away much easier with their ASSHOLE behavior in groups.

I’ve known a lot of assholes in my day. Indeed, I’ve BEEN an asshole, and I know the benefits of such behavior. While being nice means you’re generally well liked and therefore leads to a better chance of you having real, dependable friends as opposed to just other assholes, internet friends, or spending long nights at places that cater to assholes (dance clubs and sports bars come to mind), being an asshat lends a vague sense of power to the holder. After all, people will pussyfoot around an asshole just to avoid arousing the asshole’s wrath! 

The Benefits of Assholery.

People will usually defer to an asshole. Oh, Asshole wants Italian instead of Chinese for dinner, even though EVERYONE ELSE wants Chinese? Better get Italian, otherwise Asshole will make the rest of the night a living hell. 

Cure: Stop being friends with that asshole.

People will usually be NICER to an asshole than a regular person. This is symptom of a cross synapse in the brain which tells us the more someone acts like a cunt, the closer they are to royalty. After all, if you’re important, you don’t NEED to be nice to ANYONE. Oh, Asshole won’t stand up to greet someone? Asshole won’t shake your hand? Asshole must be important or otherwise valuable, or else asshole wouldn’t have any friends. Don’t fall for this, people. 

Cure: Treat that asshole like what he is: an asshole. He’s not special. Trust me.

Some Examples of Assholery.

I have a friend who’s boyfriend is a complete asshole. The minute you see this guy, he’s making fun of you, which is ironic because he’s pretty much a literal sad sack himself. Because the average person is too kind to point out such a disparity, Asshole gets away with being an asshole. Next time I see this worthless sack of a human being, I’m going to have to tell him the reality of the situation. At some point, even nice guys have to be assholes.

I have another friend who is an asshole only in groups. She says this is because she’s insecure, but this explanation for various psychological afflictions (being an asshole, having an eating disorder, adopting stupid personas which aren’t your own) is obnoxious because it’s obvious-afterall, everyone is insecure in some way, shape or form. Being insecure SHOULD make you nicer-the old “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” adage. Typically, though, it makes people assholes. We’ll see what happens with this trick since I’ve told her for the last time she has to stop being an asshole. She can either start patronizing the self help section of her local bookstore or get a new awesome friend named Sterner.

Last but not least is one of my best friends. She’s loud, obnoxious, and competitive, which makes her a nice person who is accidentally an asshole. Whenever she acts like a fucktard, I just pull her aside and tell her. EVERY TIME this happens, she apologizes and stops acting like a dick. She’s only human, so she’s still a dick sometimes, but this is the sign of a nice person who just needs to wrangle their inner asshole. 

Being an asshole should have no benefits. Sure, there are times you need to be “tough”, or assertive, but being rude is never an appropriate option. If you’re friends with an asshole, it’s your obligation to the world to tell them the truth. Practice it in front of the mirror. Go on, say it. “Bob, you’re an asshole.” Take a breath. Now say it again, louder. “Bob, you’re an ASSHOLE!” That’s right, get it out. Next time you see that insecure fuckhole of a human being, you take them aside (being public humiliation is an asshole thing to do) and tell them they’re a cesspool of dickery and you’re not going to stand for it anymore. It might not change them, but at least you can make room in your life for someone who won’t be a fucking dick every time you see them. 

You Might Be An Asshole If…

Are you one of those people who likes to “joke around”? Does making fun of people amuse you? Do you go out of your way to poke fun at people’s weakest points, all in the name of “jest”? If so, you’re an asshole. Your inability to either care or empathize enough with other people is an inability to emotionally function correctly. Would you like it if someone pointed out YOUR flaws, especially in front of other people? Doubt it. Some people say they have “thick skins” and ENJOY a bit of a roasting themselves, but these people usually enjoy this kind of behavior and have such a “thick skin” because they themselves were the brunts of jokes growing up, or learned early on making fun of other people took the spotlight off of themselves. These people are emotional cripples and should be avoided.

Are you REALLY sarcastic? Chances are, you’re an asshole. Being sarcastic is another form of mockery, described as communication which is “sharp, bitter or cutting”. How apt. If being described as bitter is something you enjoy, by all means: keep being an asshole. However, if you’d ever like to communicate in the Real World where we discuss things openly without the veil of “cunt” in front of them, let me know. Otherwise, have a great time being sarcastic with all of your other self loathing, sarcastic friends. Let’s hope you don’t bleed to death choking on your own knifed tongue.

Do you think you know more about everything than anything else? Do you consider yourself as “cultured”, an “intellectual” or “superior” to other people? Do you openly correct people’s pronunciations of words or names in an effort to make them look stupid and you intelligent? Do you mock people’s choices in wine, decor, music, or anything else in a way which makes entire groups people look at you in abject terror or disgust? I think you know what I’m about to say: you’re an asshole.

We’re all assholes in some ways. All I ask is that we keep our inner assholes as minor FRAGMENTS of ourselves, not wholes. Because look what a world full of assholes has gotten us. Airwaves full of Nicki Minaj and an entire TV station called Fox News. 

and “there,” “their” and “they’re—” I need a chick who throws a diæresis in “coöperate,” and an “æ” in “diæresis,” but doesn’t use a diæresis in “diæresis” because you are not, without this forewarning, going to pronounce “diæresis” as though “iæ” were a monosyllabic diphthong. I need a chick who carefully searches for the correct combination of keys to make a circumflex over “rôle,” but ONLY when discussing a part played by an actor.  I need a chick who says “AN historian.”  In fact, she better really hammer the “ANNNNN” in a sly nod to anyone else out there who thinks someone who says “a historian” is an illiterate savage.  I wouldn’t date anyone who says “I would like” unless they’re talking about some counterfactual fantasy universe.  I wouldn’t like to date that person.  See, I can say it, because I’m not really ever gonna hear someone say “I would like to go out with you” outside of a counterfactual fantasy universe.  I’m never gonna hear someone use the correct “I should like to go out with you,” either, but I WOULD really fucking like to date that person.  She’d have studied classics and she’d use words like “Grecism” pronounced as though it had a cédille, but she would cringe a little every time because pronouncing a “c” like that is the fucking opposite of a Grecism.

Also, no fat chicks.

The human body is woefully adept at movements like crushing skulls and shattering bones and processing gallons of poison.

It is not quite as adept in holding others.

Bodies are filled with pockets of fleshiness; a woman’s bosom, the typical soft ring of comfort around the average person’s torso. But the majority of the human body is sharp angles and simple skin over bone. Two people make a tangle of bones attempting to waltz.

Humans were born to run and move, yet most of us hate to exercise. Humans were born to eat mostly vegetation and lay in the sun and swim in the ocean, yet most of us spend our lives in glass cages and in front of glowing screens which simulate the world we feel so distanced from. Humans were not born to cling to each other in comfort, and we know this because humans are intrinsically bad at it.

Have you ever tried to fall asleep in someone else’s arms? It will only last a matter of minutes because your arm will go numb, or their leg will be too heavy to lay on yours. You’ll naturally feel vaguely claustrophobic, the mind rebelling against the body’s need for closeness. Babies are soft and small, perfect for holding and cuddling. Adults are large and mostly hard, but we all want someone our own size to hold.

The body is good at fucking, but not necessarily at loving. Such a contradiction. 

There is an innate sense of secrecy in dressing I find interesting.

Most women like to get together and get dressed. I associate this with the strange void most humans have inside of them which is filled by group dynamics: I don’t want to look too different from everyone else-what are you wearing? Indeed, I myself always need to know what the dress code is when I attend an event and I’m prone to taking someone with me when I go to the ladies room. God forbid I’m seen walking ALONE to the bathroom; someone might think I, the bastion of imposed perfection, pee! Heavens, no.

I dislike dressing in front of others. Not because I feel uncomfortable being nude or scantily dressed; but because an outfit does not become a “look” under the prying eyes of others. It needs only the watchful eyes of its skeleton, its hanger, to become its true self. From a pile of rags to a belted gown, or whatever it is you’re attempting.

Under the eyes of others, clothing and jewels shirk and hide, averting themselves and therefore your thoughts into a strange, chaotic pool of inanity. “Oh cute, are you wearing that with a scarf?” “Where’d you get that? I want one.” “Meh, I don’t like that skirt. Will you zip me up?” Too much conversation and too few inner thoughts-it applies to the world, but also the closet.

I hate getting dressed with others. 

Somebody called me “attractive” last night.  For the first time that it was actually meaningful.  Because every other time it’s either been:

a)     in response to my saying “Jesus Christ, my face looks like it was hit with a fucking shovel.”

b)    a horny gay guy trying to get laid or

c)     an even less attractive friend saying “Jesus, you must have it so easy, you’re attractive.”  To him, I am “attractive” just like to a Somali war orphan the guy clocking fifteen grand a year at Arby’s is “rich.”

Or it was my friends, or my girlfriend, or my mom, etc.  I don’t believe any of them.  For my entire life it has been my absolute bedrock belief that I am a hideous unlovable mutant whom no woman could let her eyes linger on for even a second lest she gag.  And this is borne up by reality, because no women ever look at me, talk to me; no woman ever makes the first move to approach me, ever.  Gays do it all the time, but you know, I hit on fat chicks all the time.  Gays want to fuck me the same way a drunk guy wants to fuck his couch.

And here’s the crazy part about this- it is an ego trip basically.  Because the idea is, you know- I get laid all the fucking time.  Sure I have to work for it, scrabble hard, fail.  I endure humiliating rejection constantly; I have to go out when I’m cranky and tired if there’s the barest chance of pussy at some shitty party, constantly.  I have to troll the internet for good-bone-structure-but-slightly-overweight types, constantly.  I get pussy the way a farmer can wring a niggardly living out of a few acres of non-arable land by backbreakingly digging out rocks with his bleeding fingers, by trapping each miserly trickle of rain into his pathetic drought-choked crops, etc.  Whereas for an attractive guy it’s like living on a hundred hectares of prime, you know.  A lush, verdant paradise where the soil is made from cow shit and all you have to do is kick back and harvest the fruit that falls.

Anyway, it’s an ego trip, because I have always thought: “Jesus, I am ugly as fuck and I still get laid.  Therefore, my personality must be SO GOD DAMN MAGNETIC that women (occasionally) can’t resist me despite their gut telling them to flee from this beast.”  That’s what the frame has been for me my whole life.

But then this chick, she is talking about hiring me on to make youtube videos for her company that makes advertisements.  And she says “I think you’ll do well because, you know, just say shit like your blogs, and you’re attractive.”  And the needle fell off the record for a second.  This chick is gay, so there’s no she’s interested in me and is saying I’m attractive for wanting to date me reasons.  She said I’m attractive as part of a cold, mercenary calculation about whether my face might be used to accrue youtube subscribers that Axe Body Spray™ might pay three dollars per head per year for.  I have never before received the information that I’m attractive in such a convincing manner. 

So—wait a minute.  Am I fucking attractive?  Have girls actually been sleeping with me because of my fucking LOOKS?  And they just never approach me or make the first move because, well, women are so fucking entitled to do absolutely nothing, ever, that even an average looking woman will only lift a finger to hit on a guy who looks like 1994 Casper Van Dien? 

And what does this mean?  Am I merely a good looking dude, and women are tolerating me in SPITE of my fucking grating, maddening personality?  And they secretly wish I would just shut the fuck up and fuck them?

It’s like, when Buckminster Fuller was asked whether he believed in aliens. And he was like “maybe there are, and maybe there aren’t.  Either way, it’s mind-blowing.”

Never have a job you have to explain. Just like you should never have a Halloween costume you have to explain. Your whole life just becomes the same fucking conversation over and over.

Originally posted 5/26/11:

I’m gonna weigh in on this Arnold Schwarzenegger thing. Even though it’s been done to death. Because it’s actually real simple. Women’s web sites are of course saying what a pig and how could he cheat on her, etc. And reactionary sexist sites for men focus on how could he do it with someone so ugly. The latter group has to come up with these baroque explanations of why he would want to bone a woman who was not as hot as his wife.

It doesn’t fucking matter. Hot, not hot— does not matter. What matters is new pussy. Preferably new pussy that is as different from the old pussy you’ve been halfheartedly fucking with your flagging chub as possible. If I am dating an Aryan supermodel, I want to be fucking an elderly black midget.

And also, new pussy that you are forced to be around. New pussy that is just there. I have interns where I work.They are hired on the basis of their qualifications, not their physical attributes. Sometimes they show up for their first day and they’re piping hot, sometimes I’d rather stick my dick in some bioluminescent sea predator from the fucking Marianna Trench. But still— ten hours a day spent in a room with these girls— eventually, I am going to end up beating off to every single one of them on a daily basis. The hot ones, it happens on day one, but even the gnarly barnyard sows, eventually it gets to where as soon as my briefcase handle drops out of my hand at home it is replaced with my dick, and I’m taking two seconds to nut over the thought of this beast bent over her desk. Because when you are forced to be around someone, just— just the smell of them. Just… eventually they are going to bend over to pick up a box of copy paper and you are going to see the top inch and a half of their ass crack, and notice that it is unsullied by moles or hair. That it’s actually quite a nice crescent of snowy white skin between the bottom of this girls’s H & M designer knockoff professional dress shirt and the top of her jeans and…. God damn. God damn, I just want to fuck that ass. Eventually beating off to even my ugliest intern gets me off faster than porn with some modelesque chick on her eighteenth birthday.

This is because of the realism of the masturbatory scenario. Because it could happen. And that’s what was going on with Arnold and his maid. He noticed that the sunlight when she bent over to water a plant or something, the sunlight was glancing off the top of her titties, and he could see just a little sliver of brown nipple. So different than Maria’s, maybe a fat puffy nipple— I picture Maria having those weird wormy long ones for some reason— and he went back into his bedroom and popped one off, thinking about how it might happen. Maria takes the kids to soccer practice. Alone in the house; bump into the maid in the laundry room… and I bet he jacked off to this a million times before she made some kind of meaningful eye contact with him that said— shall we? He beat off to it because it was there, and plausible, and then when he had a shot to actually make it happen, well— it’s really fucking hard to turn down the reality version of something you’ve beat off to a thousand times. It’s like watching the director’s cut of a movie you’ve seen a bunch— you are entertained merely by noticing the differences.

And then he impregnated her. Of course Jezebel commenters and the like are barking at him for not using a condom— really? Listen— NOBODY FUCKING USES CONDOMS. No one. If you use condoms, you are the only fucking person on the planet and you are just torturing yourself and your partner because they’re terrible. They make it feel like your dick is made of scar tissue.

And he nutted in her. Which, this is where Arnold and I part ways, because while I always beat off to the idea of nutting in a girl and making her pregnant, usually against her will, and while I am fucking chicks, which once again is always rawdog one hundred per cent of the time, I am thinking up until the very last microsecond that I am going to nut in her and impregnate her— I ALWAYS pull out in time. I always have that last second of sex-ruining conscientiousness and pull out and sheepishly nut into my boxers. That last little bit of control which keeps me from truly enjoying any sexual experience.

I guess Arnold doesn’t have that, which— more power to him. If I had enough money to be blowing loads in maids and supporting the children secretly without even making a fucking dent in my checking account you better believe half the Earth would be covered in half Mexican dudes that look like me. If I had a wife who needed to keep her fucking mouth shut for a decade or risk losing everything, risk having to have one of those Eliot Spitzer press conferences where she sourly stands behind me— if I had a wife that had to shut the fuck up, every piece of menial laborer pussy on the west coast would be fat with my young at all times.

Just saying.

“Anonymous” writes:

I don’t have any specific questions about sex, but I suspect lots of people would appreciate advice/instructions from both of you on how to…do stuff well.

Personally I want blow job advice and general advice like sounds and stuff.

Help us internet loners out.

All right.  How to give a blowjob.

1)    Eat the fucking cum.

Just fucking eat it.  I was getting blown just recently, actually, and as soon as I started actually popping off the girl pulled her head back, aghast, and left me to nut unstimulated into my own navel.  This woman was thirty two years old.  An actress/ waitress.  Unless she is some weird prudish aberration, she has sucked a lot of dicks.  She has had a lot of cum shot in her mouth.  But she pulled her head back—which means she was the kind of girl who, in college, would look you in the eye as she was about to go down and suck your dick and say “tell me if you’re about to cum, OK?”  OK.  They’re never saying that so they can suddenly enhance the experience by giving you an even better blowjob just as you are about to bust that sublime nut— it’s always so they can squeamishly pull away at the last second.  So they can switch from a delightful blowjob to a halfhearted and insulting handjob, because they have a girlish revulsion from “gross” things like the fluid they are trying to suck out of your dick.

Just eat the fucking cum.  I don’t know why I even care about this— when I’m watching porn and jacking off, for instance, the instant the first drop of jizz leaves my dick I am instantaneously disgusted by the hideous lube-shiny nuts waving in the camera flopping around outside some starlet’s bleached, distended asshole.  But for some reason a blowjob is the only time you care what happens after you ejaculate.  Even if you take it in your mouth and then get that distressed look and hurry out to spit it in the sink- no.  That is half-assing it.  Maybe it’s not so much part of the sexual experience.  Maybe I’m just disappointed in you.

But don’t show it to me—don’t like burble it around on your tongue and look in my eyes and smile, either.  This is like the sniveling office worker who’s always piping up for credit to his boss with every mundane accomplishment.  Just eat it, silently, without fanfare, like it’s something you’re expected to do and you accept and while you might not be happy about it, it’s like paying the bills. Just eat the fucking cum.

2)    Stay away from my urethra.

This kind of falls under the larger heading of “stay away from fancy shit.”  Don’t do that tongue butterfly thing, and especially don’t do it around my dickhole.  Don’t do anything around my dickhole, ever.  Don’t touch my dickhole, don’t think about my dickhole, don’t make eye contact with my dickhole—a lot of girls will want to showily flick their tongue around because they’ve seen it in porn.  On the rest of your dick, this feels like nothing, and then ninety nine percent of the time the tip of their tongue will slightly part the little slit at the tip of your helmet and suddenly feel like you’re getting catheterized.  Don’t lick around my dick except at the very beginning, where you are saucily communicating that “I am about to give you a blowjob.”  Just keep my dick in your mouth and suck it.  Which brings us to:

3)    Just keep my dick in your mouth and suck it. 

Girls love to get their hands involved in the blowjob.  They love doing that twisty handjob thing with your dick all wet from spit, and yes, this actually feels pretty good as long as a good part of your dick is also in their mouth. But they also love taking frequent breaks from actually sucking the dick and looking up at you and smiling while still doing that stupid twisty handjob—and they think this is a substitute for continuously sucking the dick.  It is not.  It is transparent laziness, like an employee who takes a coffee break every fifteen minutes.  Ultimately I don’t give a shit what you are doing or not doing with your hands- you have no idea how to handle a dick manually and you never will.  I cannot get my dick in my own mouth, and that is what I need you for.

4)    Stay away from my balls.

I was reading some dude’s memoir about a gay experience in his youth.  Two fourteen year old dudes rolling around playing Atari or something and the one guy reached into the writer’s pants, and he said something like “he touched my balls with a tenderness that only a man would have.  Because only a man understands how sensitive your balls are.” Which, yes. You cannot understand.

I mean, go ahead and do that tongue flicking thing that feels like nothing on my balls. But don’t put them in your mouth. Don’t you dare come anywhere near them with your hands.  You have no fucking idea what pain balls are capable of, with even the slightest misstep.  I don’t care if you’ve given birth, had third degree burns over ninety per cent of your body, had a compound fracture with your thighbone sticking out and then a hyena came and chewed on it and his tongue was made of fire ants—you have no fucking idea.  Playing with my balls is like playing with nitro glycerine, and will turn shit from hot to trauma at the flick of a switch. Playing with balls, you have the tiger by the tail. You are flying too close to the sun.  Etc.  Don’t do it.

So what should you do?  I don’t fucking know.  Open your mouth real wide so your teeth don’t drag, suck the dick as firmly as you can, and move your head in a rhythmic motion up and down.  If you can’t sustain this for a long period of time, jump on top of the guy and fuck him.  Nothing else really has any effect— none of this tongue shit, this hand shit— when you are sucking a dick, you should be sucking a fucking dick.  If you can’t do that, you better learn a musical instrument.

You know how it is.  Lotta fatties on the OKC.  Your first harbinger of this— I mean, besides everybody knowing that the internet is full of fat chicks, this fact having suffused our popular culture, etc.—your first harbinger of this is the weight class list it makes you pick from, which has like two words for skinny and fifteen different kinds of fat. 

Because of course we all know “average” means fat. These eighteen to thirty-five year old L.A. girls are generously assorting  themselves according to the national average across all age groups. Not the average for eighteen to thirty-five year olds in Los Angeles, California, as a reasonable layman would expect “average” to mean when looking for that age group in this city.  These girls are following the letter of the law and not the spirit, like Hasids who string yarn along the telephone wires on their block so they’re technically in an enclosed space and can walk around on the Sabbath. So “average” means fat.

“Curvy” means fat.  Not a chick with big boobs and a big ass but otherwise reasonably fit proportions, as a reasonable layman would expect it to mean.  “Curvy” means “I am fat but I have big tits. And I don’t want to be lumped in with these inferior small titted fatties, and besides when guys look at me they don’t see ‘fat,’ they see ‘tits,’ so the defining feature of my physical being is tits and I’m gonna put ‘curvy.’”  “Curvy” also has the advantage of seeming more erotic, like “voluptuous.”  “Curvy“ is a fat girl who will give you doe eyes in a bar and suck your dick on the first date. There’s a sub class of “curvy” who purport to be the reasonable layman’s definition of “curvy,” and they always have a big paragraph about how “CURVY DOES NOT MEAN ‘FAT’ IT MEANS I HAVE BIG BOOBS AND A BIG BUTT AND I AM NOT LIKE ALL THE OTHER FAT ‘CURVY’ GIRLS ON HERE,” which, I bet if you showed up to a date with these girls, they would be fat.  There are also fat girls with small tits who say “curvy,” which— get the fuck out of here.  By the way, fat girls with small tits—God.  You must have torched a village in a past life.

And let’s not even get into what a cruel joke the word “few” in “a few extra pounds” is.  And “athletic,” and “fit,” which through sad experimentation I have learned  both mean a fat chick with muscle under her fat, not the lean vegan Pilates instructor build you’d think “fit” meant for an eighteen to thirty five year old woman in Los Angeles.  So, unless it says “thin,” the girl is going to be fat.

And even “thin—“ I bet the dishonesty creep that  internet dating causes, you know, everybody exaggerating just a little bit and then everybody else has to exaggerate just a little bit more to compete— so that by the time my son is dating on the holographic cybernetic implant internet, all women will be “thin” and all men will be nine feet tall and earning six billion dollars a year— I bet this means that a lot of girls who describe themselves as “thin” are in fact fat.  Because they are again comparing themselves to the national average which is heavily weighted down by fifty-five year old women with eight grandkids who work at the Hormel factory and get to bring home factory-irregular packages of spam and chili which they then gnaw on while watching Ron Popeil roaster infomercials late into the night.  They are slightly below this national average so therefore they must be “thin.”  Or they were thin once.  They were thin once and gained weight but “thin” is still their concept of themselves, which, the evidence is right there— just look at all my photos from 2005; I am “thin.”  I bet a lot of the time when you message a thin girl and she shows up for the first date she’s fat.  Although I don’t know for sure since a thin girl has never messaged me back.

So there’s a lot of fat chicks.

And look man, I don’t need to tell you that when you’re trying to get a date, being fat is a pretty big fucking deal.  Obviously I’m focusing on women here but for the guys, too—I know there’s this idea that you’re constantly seeing fat bald schlubs walking around with chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel, and that for men appearance isn’t that important and etc. etc. But this is bullshit.  I only ever see chicks who look like Zooey Deschanel walking around with guys with button noses and lantern jaws, and less than ten per cent body fat.  Guys who look like Casper Van Dien and are built like champion kick boxers and had a seven episode arc on some CW show. Those are the guys who are pulling that waitress who when she briefly placed her hot palm on your shoulder when presenting the check you felt like— you felt a tickly feeling like the first time you ever jacked off and thought you were some secret genius who had invented it.

So being fat matters; it is a big deal, and you know, dating is a big deal.  I have a career type job, many friends, a delightful pet cat, and rewarding hobbies, but still— all I ever think about is: how am I gonna meet women?  Dating is a big deal.  So why do you allow yourself to hold on to this massive disadvantage in this most important area of life?  There’s some things you can’t change, obviously—I for one have a face that looks like it was severely damaged with a piece of farm equipment, and there’s nothing I can do about that.  But you better god damn believe I have meaty pectorals with what appears to be a zipper zigzagging down between them, and visible obliques, and a fingery lattice of muscle crisscrossing over my ribs when I lift my arms above my head, and different muscle groups kind of elbowing each other out of the way when I flex my ass in the mirror, which I often do.  And biceps with a peak on them, and etc. etc.  All of this covered with a solid but not Jersey-Shore-ostentatious fake tan to highlight the contrast between these various chiseled muscles.

And I have bought these things with great pain because dating is fucking important.  Finding a mate to spend the rest of your motherfucking life with is important.  And sad as  it may be, people are fucking shallow. 

But maybe, for the fattie, getting into the best possible shape isn’t a matter of merely going to the gym and just sucking up the hours of agony and tedium. Maybe for a fat chick the parallel is, like— for me, I hate my job where I spend ten hours per day; I am generally self-loathing, I have never traveled, and I have accomplished nothing of worth, ever.  And maybe my asking them “why are you so fat” isn’t like asking “why don’t you just go to the gym?” Maybe it’s like asking me: “why are you so broke?  Why are you so mean? Why are you so miserable? Why don’t you just get your fucking life together and use your talents to do something you love, and maybe you wouldn’t hate yourself.”  Maybe changing their body in this way is a complex, difficult, life-changing process involving deep and painful self examination.  Maybe it’s a shattering of one’s world so huge that you look at the distance between here and there and don’t even know where to begin.

Or maybe they just think someone will be able to look past their looks and see inside to the beautiful person they truly are. Which— fucking come on, man.

I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF’RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike.  Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth.  It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was— he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups.  But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass.  And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick.  Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired “tops” of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood.  Probably.

I had a buddy who was allergic to nuts.  Before it was cool.  I didn’t even know about it until a dish featuring almonds was served and he politely declined.  He just tactfully, simply stated: “I can’t, I’m allergic to nuts.”

No one does that now.  Anyone who is allergic to nuts, or especially people whose children are allergic to “peanuts and tree nuts,” which like “autism spectrum disorder” is now something that happens to approximately seventy per cent of all rich kids—everyone who is allergic to nuts makes it into this big movie-of-the-week where they’re going to swell up and die just from looking at a god damn peanut.

In the future, there will be two Americas.  The only difference between them will be whether they have peanuts.  Two exactly parallel mirror societies, except one freely eats peanuts and the other does not permit even the thought of the dust of a peanut; in the latter it will be punishable by death to have dreamed about being in a room where a peanut was once present in 1976.  Two Americas, one where children with peanut allergies are taken seriously and spoken of in hushed tones as though peanuts were the holocaust, where people without a little boy like mine could not possibly understand the hell of going through life knowing that at any moment he might be exposed to a peanut and die, and another society where everyone just laughs at these people while freely eating peanuts.

Imagine being the ghost of George Washington Carver at this moment.  From humble beginnings, you grew up in poverty, bootstrapped your way into an education, and got a gig in the South where the cash crop was peanuts.  And you took it upon yourself to invent ways that nearly every fucking thing on Earth could be manufactured from peanuts.  Record player needles.  Plastic-like materials decades ahead of their time.  Medicines. Cars made from peanuts, probably.   Not only did you elevate the fucking peanut to a life- and labor-saving panacea, you became the pre-eminent African-American scientist in the history of the fucking WORLD by doing so.  You became the only black scientist anyone can name who is not that Neil Eric Dyson guy on TV.  During black history month, people have to talk about you constantly because in the mind of the nation, you are the only black scientist ever.  Fuck the guy who invented open heart surgery.  He should have been named George Washington something; something easy to remember.  Abraham Lincoln Jones.  John F. Kennedy Openheartsurgeryinventor.

Anyway, imagine being the ghost of George Washington Carver—for half a century you are in heaven hearing about how you are the greatest black scientist of all time and every device conceivable can be made cheaper and better out of peanuts and then suddenly BOOM— peanuts become the fucking DEVIL.  Peanuts kill babies; we cannot permit even one atom of peanut to be within five thousand miles of any child.  Peanuts and THINGS THAT HAVE TOUCHED PEANUTS are now not allowed  in schools.

What is the fucking deal with this?  And why is it suddenly “peanut and tree nut allergies.”  Every time peanuts were even MENTIONED in my youth some authority figure always took great pains to clarify that despite being named “nut” they were in fact a legume.  More closely related to peas and beans; a peanut is not a nut.  Peanuts have nothing to do with nuts.  And yet every single person who is deathly allergic to peanuts is also allergic to regular nuts.

This is how you know it’s bullshit.  People are allergic to both things because they are both named “nut.”  Just like people are allergic to “both fish and shellfish” when one of them is an H.P. Lovecraft-y primitive alien invertebrate whose biology is so foreign to regular fish that it might as well have come from another fucking planet.  Clams might as well be from fucking Jupiter.  They’re called “shellfish” because people used to call everything in the water a fish.  Whales were called fish. 

You can go to an “allergist” and get your allergy to “both fish and shellfish” cured by having light beamed on to you through a series of colored filters, seriously.  It’s all in your fucking head.  On some level, you are just subconsciously creeped out by sea creatures.  Me too, I get it.  Slimy things with slimy legs.  Creepy, squirmy, cold-blooded blank-eyed fiends of the deep. Weird worms growing on vaults of magma at three hundred atmospheric pressures, ten reverse-Everests under the black, crushing soul-void of the sea.  Hideous parasites on Neptune’s ball sac. I don’t like the fucking things either.  But sushi is delicious.