Penis Girl--Part II

A few minutes ago I received a phone call from a number in the 763 Area Code that I didn't know. That indicates the number is west of Minneapolis. As a general rule, I never pick up my phone when I get a call from an unknown number. Call it paranoid if you want...well, that's exactly what it is. I just don't feel like getting surprised by a long lost ex-girlfriend that's an ex-girlfriend for a reason.

A few seconds after the call ended, my phone buzzed indicating that I had a voicemail waiting for me. Hesitantly, I dialed "1" to reach my voicemail inbox. When I heard the voice on the other side, I still had no clue who the call was from.

There was mumbling and laughing, followed by a girl-like voice saying "What do I say?" directed at someone in the background on the other end. Immediately after that, the caller hung up.

My best guess is that this is the girl from William's on Friday night, but it would've at least helped for her to, oh, I don't know, leave a legitimate message. Or, at the very least, a name. I'm not a mind reader. I remember the girl from William's having a 651 number, I think, which is based in St. Paul. I may be wrong about that, though.

5 minutes after the weird-o voicemail, I received a text-message from the same number.

"Hey dude whats up."

This is where I started doubting the Penis Girl theory. Girls, if you really wanted to hang out with a guy, would you call him "dude"? And would you freak out when you first try calling him and hang up before leaving message? Come on, every cell phone on the market today comes with Caller ID as one of the standard options.

I don't think there's any way I'm calling her back.

Penis Girl--Part III

After much deliberation by a jury of one--me-- I decided to be a man for once and do it myself. That's right, I waited until I was partially buzzing last night at the bar, and text-messaged back "Who *is* this?"

Such testerone coursing through my veins, I know.

I got no response last night, though. It wasn't until this afternoon that the person behind the number responded with "Carrie".

Great, so the William's Girl is named Carrie. We've got that set straight. I didn't remeber it being Carrie, but that means nothing. I forget even the names of cute girls--names that I want to remember, and that I'd forget a creepy girl's name, well, that's understandable. The odd thing is this--I know that she lived over in St. Paul and her cell number had a 651 or 952 area code. Why, then, would she be calling me from a 763 number? That's on the exact opposite side of the Twin Cities. It just made no sense.

After work today, I found out why. Sort of.

I had just come back downstairs after eating and noticed that I had one new text-message from a 612 number, which is for in and around Minneapolis proper. Hesitantly I checked my message, half expecting Carrie to be watching me from through little screen on the inside of my phone. I was confused by the area code switch-a-roo, but why would a crazy person ever start making sense? Luckily it was just a plain, benign text-message. Or was it?

"Just writtin' to wish *u* a happy early birthday...How's billy?"

I didn't change a word in that, and that's exactly how it was written. Funny, I intentionally shied away from telling the girl from William's anything about me. And just how she would know that my birthday is in a little over a month, and that my mom goes by the name "Billie" is beyond me.

"Just writtin' to wish *u*..."

That *u* thing struck me in a strange way. Like it was being emphasized, and I was supposed to be wishing this person that I thought I knew, but really don't know, a happy birthday, too, at some point.

OH FUCK! No-fucking-way. It can't be. There's no way...is there?

When I was 19, I dated a girl named Carrie Jo. We shared the same birthday, and my mom, Billie, was crazy about her. And Carrie Jo was a pro at kissing my mom's ass. The whole relationship ended in a screaming match after she called me a dumbass, in front of my mom of all people. She was serious, too. I haven't even wanted to say one word to her since.

Just how the 612 text-message was worded makes it glaringly apparent that she's trying to track me down again. So, this part of the mystery being solved, I'm now on a mission to find out how my crazy, stalker ex-girlfriend got the number to this cell phone. This isn't the first time she's tracked me down, and I know it won't be the last.

But wait--what about the 763 number? Who's that then? ANOTHER GIRL NAMED CARRIE?

This time I had my friend Dawn call both numbers because I'm sick of trying to be a man, and it's she confirmed that I have two crazy Carries on my hands. Not one, but two. Not three. Two.

How in the hell I am supposed to cope with shit like this? I'm surprised that I'm not drunk already.

Part IV--It just keeps getting worse

10 minutes after I had all of this written out and thought, mistakenly, that I had everything figured out, Penis Girl just called me from a 952 number.

Her name is Bev! And that's not even close to Carrie! She called to ask me out for a drink sometime, and I must admit, after all this a drink sounds pretty good. Especially with a girl that the likelihood of playing touchey-feely is high. I need some sort of stress relief, damn it!

So, the real mystery is who's the 2nd Carrie? Is it the same as the first Carrie? Is the ex trying to confuse me by throwing different numbers, friends and voices into the mix?

This is just plain nuts.

Friday night at about 9pm, I went to William's with a buddy from work to play a few games of foosball. The number of times that he trounced should've been an omen of sorts that I was in for an odd night. Actually, "odd" doesn't even begin to describe my night.

Around 10pm, my coworker left, leaving me flying solo for a few hours before Twanner came out for the night. That's fine with me, as I normally have better stories when I go out by myself. I'm not sure if it's because people aren't afraid of me when I'm alone, or maybe they're afraid of my friends. That's got to be it, right? Well, whatever it is, people feel the need to talk to me when there's nobody else with me.

I plopped myself on a barstool, ordered a liter of Miller Lite and a Nerd Board, and prepared for an exciting early evening of NTN. 10 minutes after sitting down, two girls sat down in the stools directly to my left. Immediately after sitting, they both looked at me, looked at each other, and the girl that was nearest to me switched seats with the other.

O....k.

I knew for a fact that I didn't smell, because I'd just taken a shower prior to leaving my house. Fuck, I don't understand women one bit, so their reasoning behing this action could've been damn near anything. With a swig of my beer, I concluded that I didn't even care.

That is, until the girl next to me tried initiating me in conversation.

Well, hello, what do we have here? She seemed normal enough--could carry on a conversation, had all of her limbs, wasn't a hideous she-beast. At first I just thought she was bored, as her friend was talking to the people next to her and more of her friends began showing up. The conversation started out as idle chit-chat with questions about the trivia, and what I'm doing at the bar myself on a Friday night.

Somewhere in the course of this conversation, she got my number. It wasn't even a big deal, really. I'm always in search of girls that like to drink and would rather spend time at a bar than a coffee shop, so I was all for it. She wasn't ugly, liked beer and spoke English--I'm not as picky as most people think.

As soon as she got my number, I realized things were about to go horribly awry. How did I know? She started in with personal questions; questions that I'm usually loathe to share with someone I just meet.

"What do you do for a living?"

I hate explaining what my job is, because my job is not who I am. Does it really matter what I do, as long as I'm making a decent living? I mean, I'm not dealing drugs and not shooting porn. Outside of the fact that my job pays the bills, what I do doesn't matter. But, I humored her and gave her a brief job description, to which she nodded and smiled, just like I knew she would. Nobody ever says "Wow, that sounds like fun!" or, "Sounds like a dream job, mate." Unfortunately, she didn't stop there.

"What do you do for fun?"

This is, by far, the worst of the get-to-know questions. Just hang out with me for a whille and you'll know what I like doing and what I'm all about. I know she was trying to find some common ground, but I hate when I'm forced to give information. When I feel like divulging, I'll do it.

Did she stop there? Of course not!

"Do you find me attractive?"

After this question, no, I didn't and it's about this time that I was wishing that I had the ability to change my phone number just by staring at my phone. I rarely give out compliments, and when I do, I'd like to think they mean something. I'm not going to compliment someone that's just asked for one unless I'm expecting to get laid, but then I feel slightly dirty because that's pretty damn close to lying for sex, and I should never have to do that.

So, I'm avoiding answering her queries, and saying "That's the worst question that I've ever heard". Little did I know that she had absolutely no pride, and was about to blow any and all previous questions out of the water.

I told her that I was about to leave to meet up with my buddy, and she gave me a disappointed look and offered to buy me a beer. I rebuffed those two ploys aimed at getting me to stay, and she sat in silience before coming up with the following gem spoken with an emotionless face:

"Do you have a large penis?"

Utter disbelief is the best I could describe what I felt. Disgust probably conveys it better, though. I don't quite remember, as my face went numb for a bit and I shut out everything in the bar, including her. It's one thing that she wasn't coy, or flirty about asking me if I had a big dick. The matter-of-fact manner in her question bothered me enough, but her use of the word "penis" caused me to laugh in her face. She might as well have used the word "willy". What the fuck--are we in 8th grade Sex Ed?

Penis. Honestly now.

If she really wanted to know, she should've just nonchalantly cupped my crotch. And I'm a little surprised that she didn't try fellating me right there at the bar. But no, she used the word penis in a sentence. While trying to be sexy. Whoops, objective failed and miserably at that.

You wouldn't think this could get any less sexy, do you? You'd be wrong.

As I got up, I laughed at her again and started putting on my coat, when she took it upon herself to determine my penile proportions...by affixing her gaze directly to my groin. I snapped my fingers in front of her face once, and she didn't stop staring. I don't wear tight pants, so I'm not quite sure how she thought it possible to see my penis through a layer of denim, but that sure didn't stop her from trying.

Looking back, it probably wasn't in my best interest to tell her that I shot porn for a living.

Good Friday for Craig, indeed.

(Just between you and I, he's probably a little better suited for a smaller box, if y'know what I'm sayin'.)

Local man model for abusive relationship

Minneapolis, MN (AP)-Uptown glutton-for-punishment, [name omitted], has been the whipping boy to his girlfriend's erratic mood swings for the better part of a few years.

"I don't know where to turn anymore." said the 29 year-old cube jockey. "I've put up with the her shit for so long that I've almost come to expect it. I get uncomfortable when she's not hitting me, yelling at me, or even just making me miserable by being her bipolar self. You'd think that I almost get off on the treatment. Oh man, I'm so depressed."

He admits that it isn't always like this, though.

"Sure, we have our good times. Just a month or so ago she was in a wonderful mood. Boy, did we have fun that day. It was sunny and we laughed, and we thoroughly enjoyed eachother's company. I'd pay good money to have more days like that with her.

But, like in many abusive relationships, the happiness can only last so long. It fades away as the jealous partner's mood rapidly changes, and what was once a sunny disposition becomes a bitter, gray, inclement shell only mildly resembling the person from just 24 hours before.

"I don't understand why she changes so fast. One minute we're laughing, having a beer, and we go to bed that night smiling. The next morning is another story. It's like she's a completely different person--a person that I don't even recognize. I get out of bed, and the warm, cheery person from yesterday backhands me with a cold, listless gaze, and not one word. Not a one! I totally didn't deserve it this time. I swear!"

Not even his best friends, especially those from out-of-state, understand how he's put up with her for as long as he has.

"What a complete bitch!" said southern Californian cohort, Henry Jones. "He's always complaining about how she treats him like shit, and that just one more punch to the jaw is all it will take and he's gone. 'This time I mean it. Seriously.' he says. Well, I've counted 29 such punches so far, and he hasn't even so much as packed an overnight bag. Look, I've been there, and I know it's not pretty. But, I also know that in order for Chad to be happy, he needs to move far, far away from her."

"I love her. I really do" explains Chad. "And I know she loves me, too. You just don't know her like I know you. You don't see the good times we have together. Sure, there are times that she's not always warm and receptive to me, but I know she has it in her. And that's why I stick around. Half of the year she's a wonderful person, but other half--the half where all I want to do is get drunk with my friends in a warm establishment-- she's waiting outside of the bar for me to come home. I don't know how much more of that I can take."

His girlfriend, Minny, wasn't returning phone calls at the time this article went to press, but we did get ahold of someone possesing an abusive partner's mindset--Ike Turner. "Oh man, Tina could take a punch." Ike relayed in a recent phone interview. "I miss that bitch."

I didn't touch booze until I turned 23. Sure, there were times that my dad let me take a pull from his can of Stroh's, but the true tests of liver fortitude didn't commence until well after my 21st birthday. Considering that now I can't keep my hands off of the stuff, I'd like to think that's surprising.

I didn't drink until my last two years of college because, for one, I had a girlfriend at the time that didn't drink. I was getting constant sex, so I had no need to fill off hours with copious amounts of booze. It wasn't until a year later that I'd realize that booze and sex are practically inseperable.

Secondly, I found drunks to be utterly retarded. The one thing that bothered me the most was drunk-talk. The "Dude, I am so drunk right now" stuff that every drunk in the history of time has repeated. It's the drunk mantra.

Dude, I am so drunk right now.

Great. Really proud of you there, Skippy. It takes great skill to pour overpriced liquids in your mouth, huh? Yeah, didn't think so. That's akin to a woman proudly telling everyone in her immediate vicinity that she's pregnant, like it's some great feat and nobody in the history of time has ever been pregnant before. Any woman can spread her legs and allow a man go to town.

I digress.

Last night, the Drunk Mantra was all mine, and I honestly have no idea how I go there. Dude, I was so drunk.

Now, I've not been drinking as long as many of you out there. I was a definite late bloomer in almost every respect--I was 5'1" until 10th grade, I didn't even start puberty until about the same time, and the first time I ever got drunk was off of Old English Special Reserve (Raspberry!) malt liquor late in my junior year of college. You'd think, though, that after 7 years of continuous booze-fueled weekends, that I'd have some sort of guage on my tolerance level.

Nope, there are times like last night when the full out palsy drunk sneaks up on you. Even this morning, I still don't understand how I got so annihilated that, when I checked my phone to see what time it was(it was 11:00am, by the way), there was a text-message from a friend that said "Are you ok?". You know I'm in bad form when people are concerned about how drunk I am. Rarely will anyone question it, because I'm usually a subdued drunk, and people have a hard time figuring out just how far along the beer soaked Yellow Brick Road I am. For the record, I'm usually farther along it than most people think.

I even limited myself to beer last night, which is the easiest way to keep myself out of trouble. I didn't do a single shot, nor did I drink any hard alcohol. How, then, did I get so drunk that I stumbled out of the bar early, perhaps tried to kiss a friend on the nose--which, looking back, I think she mistook for an attempted make out session--and don't remember the 2 block walk home, getting into my apartment, getting naked or setting my alarm? Hell, I barely remember my drive to work at noon today. I should've been here at 9.

I love you, Beer, I really do. But, all I'm asking for is a little consistency. Once you've determined that it'll take 15 of your friends to get me shit-faced, let's keep it at 15--not 35 one night, and 5 the next. Considering your decision to keep your legs closed and be a frigid bitch, I think it's the least you could do for me.

In a recent Men's Health Magazine, there was an article titled "The 30 hottest things you can say to a naked woman".

On the surface, the following advice looks normal enough, and I'm sure that there are even a few women will eat this shit up with a spoon without reading too much into it. The problem is, as the male form, we know what we want to say, but not always the best way to say it so our intended meaning is conveyed properly. Also, many women overanalyze everything and read too much into what the man is saying. In other words, they're crazy.

Hey, I never said that we were all that bright in the first place.

Saying anything like the following is a sure-fire way to be the only guy in bed with a naked girl that's guaranteed to not get laid.

(Bold=Men's Health advice. The two lines underneath each are my additions.)

"Is it okay with you if I take this slow?"
What I mean: "I don't always have to pound-pound-pound away. I like to make love sometimes, too".
What she thinks:"If we don't take it slow, you're going to come again in less than 5 seconds. Why can't you fuck me like I want to be fucked?"

"Want to join me in the shower?"
What I mean:"Sex in the shower the dirtiest way to get clean, and it's fucking ho-o-o-t."
What she thinks "You're telling me that I smell like rotting halibut and need a good scrubbing. Let's see if you ever get head again."

"I want to kiss/lick/touch every inch of you."
What I mean: You have an incredible body that I can't get enough of"
What she thinks: Even my ass? Fucking pig!"

"I love how you taste."
What I mean: "You taste good. Simple enough."
What she thinks:" What--is there a time when I don't taste good? I bet there is, otherwise you'd mention that I taste good all the time."

"Do you feel this, too?" ("This" being an incredible emotional euphoria.)
What I mean: "Do you feel the passion/spark/connection?"
What she thinks: "I wish you'd just stop asking for penis validation already. It's getting old."

"Hungry? Stay right here. I'll go make you a burrito."
What I mean: "I'll do anything that makes you more comfortable."
What she thinks: "Are you trying to make me fat? You're trying to make me fat!"

"I'll get the light."
What I mean: "You're comfortable and you're naked--let me get out this warm bed to turn the light on/off so that you don't have to"
What she thinks:"Holy shit, you're disgusted by the sight of my body and can't even make love to me with the light on! I'm such a whale. While you're up, you might as well grab that can of Pringles, a pound of butter and the maple syrup, because it could be a while until I'm craving something other than Pringles pancakes."

"I'll cancel my plans if you'll stay here with me for the rest of the weekend."
What I mean: "I'm comfortable here with you, and getting out of bed is the last thing I want to do."
What she thinks: "Fuck, I'm an independent woman and you, a shmuck that I barely know, already wants to hoard all my time. It's my time. My time. I'm not letting some limp-dicked, three second boy turn me codependent. Where's my phone? The next time you walk your his hairy-assed self to the bathroom, I'm calling my girlfriend to tell them about this shit you're trying to pull. Men are such assholes!"

"No one's ever done that before."
What I mean: "Wow, that was amazing. Please do that again, and then repeat as necessary."
What she thinks: "You didn't like it, otherwise you would've complimented me on my skill. I better not do that anymore."

"Can we do that again?"
What I mean: "Can we, as in both of us, simultaneously, do that again."
What she thinks: "I can't believe you're so selfish to think that I'd be the one doing all the work again!"

Nothing. Total, deliberate silence. You can stare at her, grab her, touch her, but don't make a sound. If she tries to talk, place a finger on her lips.
What I mean: "I like you a lot, and I'm trying to build the sexual tension by staring deeply into your eyes that resemble azure pools."
What she thinks:"I wish he'd stop staring at me, because this is becoming really uncomfortable. What, do I have a booger?"

While looking out the window at people not currently in bed with her: "Suckers."
What I mean: "I'm the luckiest guy alive right now because I'm in bed with a hot-ass girl, and all of those people outside are jealous."
What she thinks:"Oh shit, you're using reverse psychology on me. By mentioning those people on the street, you're really saying that you want to be out there with them. I better go."

While looking at moonlight reflecting on the ceiling: "What do you see?"
What I mean: "What are you thinking about? I'm trying to figure out how your brain works."
What she thinks: "What do I see? What the fuck do you mean, what do I see? I see the moonlight. Are you calling me dumb because I don't see what you see?"

"I'll go make coffee."
What I mean: "Once again, just like with the light, I'll get out of bed to do something for you, and you can stay comfortable."
What she thinks: "You have a sheisse fetish."

"Let's play hooky today."
What I mean: Let's both call in sick to work, order pizza, drink a few beers and have floor joist breaking sex in every damn room in the house."
What she thinks: " I can't believe you're trying to get me fired in order to make me a live-at-home girlfriend!!"

"Squeeze my hand when it feels really amazing."
What I mean: "Just let me know when you're coming, because I have no clue since you're not a squirter."
What she thinks: "I can believe you don'tt know when I'm coming! What a selfish ass! Looks like I'm faking it. Again."

Words that end in "uck." Yes, even "duck," when appropriate.
What I mean: "Fuck. FUCK! Holy fuck. Jesus fuck, that's good!
What she thinks: "I better not do that anymore, because you might think that I've slept around to get this good. Even though that's exactly how I've acquired this skill, it's better that you not know that."

"I'm ready to go again."
What I mean:"I'll do my best the second go-round, but I'm not promising an orgasm on your end".
What she thinks: "You better last more than a minute this time. Also, can you get that thing any harder, Softie?"

"Damn, I've missed you."
What I mean: "I've missed you."
What she thinks: "Codependent much?"

"How about a massage?"
What I mean: "How about a massage?"
What she thinks: "I'm on to you--first you start with my shoulders, and then you slowly work your way down my back. After my back, you'll work your way up from my feet, ending with my inner thighs. Though you won't directly touch my already tingling nether region, you'll lightly brush around it enough times in order to get me hot. The next thing I know, you're balls deep screaming your mother's name, and I don't know if I'm ready for that again."

Eh, that one is spot on. If I offer up a massage, I'm also trying to get laid.

Playful laughter.
What I mean: I'm having fun, hence the laugh.
What she thinks: I hate your laugh. Stop.

"Don't ever leave me."
What I mean: "I love you, and don't know what I'd do without you."
What she thinks: "If I ever leave you, you're going to hunt me down covered in war paint--a bowie knife in your right hand and every picture we've ever taken together in your left, screaming out "How could you do this to me? I LOVE YOU!" Is there such a thing as a preemptive restraining order?"

Sometimes I wish my life was a plot in a choose Choose Your Own Adventure book, so that my readers could go back and take another path in the event of a setback.

I remember reading this series of books in grade school, and in not a single one did I make it through all the way to the end without the main character dying a magnificent death, like getting chomped in half by a carnivorous plant the size of a double-wide trailer, or becoming the slave to a master race of genius Border Collies. Nothing was ever too far fetched for my little 5th grade imagination.

The beauty behind these books--well, the whole premise behind them, actually--was that if the character ever died, the easiest thing to do was back-up to your last fork in the road and begin again down the road less traveled. Bingo, you're immediately not dead! And nobody but you knows any different.

I've never been a position where I've had to deal with something as serious as my own death, but I still look back and think about which page number I chose that has the possibility to lead me down a less than desirable path, and what might've happened had I chose the alternative.

In high school, my favorite class was French. A lot of it had to do with having a great teacher that I may or may not have had a crush on, but that's not the point. Suffice it to say, though, learning a new language came very easy to me, and decided to choose French as my first of many majors in my freshman year of college. Of the two professors that taught where I went to school, one of them looked identical to Tim Curry, and the other was a crotchety old bag named--I shit you not--Madame White. The only thing missing in the department was a phonetics teacher named Professor Plum, a dead body and a motive and we'd have ourselves one hell-of-a good board game.

Unfortunately, I found myself disliking the material as a result of my distaste for the people teaching it, and gave it up early in my second year. But, I still look back at that point and question what might've happened had I chose the other page.

For one, I would've spent at least a few months studying in Paris as part of a required study abroad course. In that storyline, I'd fall in love with a cute Parisian girl named Sophie that waxed off all of her body hair save for that on her melon, and would make enough money for both of us by moonlighting as a dancer in La Cage Aux Folles. I'd sit at home all day, drinking wine, writing, and questioning why she had so many highly effiminate male friends. But, I'm not the jealous so I'd dismiss the notion that she was cheating on me, and label her a fag-hag.

Ultimately, the whole relationship comes to a firey demise due to my inability to deliver on her constant demands for anal sex and only anal sex. But hey, it's better to have loved and lost, than not loved at all, right? Right.

There so many of these little tendrils and offshoots that my life could've followed, and if their call had been heeded, I'd be an entirely different person. I'm not so sure I would be better person, per se, but I know that I wouldn't be the guy sitting in a cube daydreaming about a French minx with an adam's apple and an abormally large clitoris.

That much I know.

I was standing upstairs at First-Ave, Interpol on the main stage boring me just enough to forget about spending limits, when I thought I'd have a little fun with the prevous night's booty-caller. Out come the text-messages.

Me:"So, can I expect another 2:30 am message tonight?"

I didn't care if she really was planning on texting me while drunk again, nor was I all that interested in having her come over. I was bored while watching a band that I wasn't into. A few minutes later, I got my answer.

"On."

Things just got a bit more interesting. She's telling me "game on", so that means I can expect someone occupying my bed other than myself. Sweet.

I decided to get cute.

"I have no idea what that means.", I replied.

Of course I knew what "on" meant. I'm not stupid. "On" meant that she was planning on stopping by after she was sloppy drunk to have relations that she sure in the hell wouldn't remember. Hey, we've all been there, right? Of course we have, more than likely together.

The next response I got was entirely unexpected.

"I'm staying in, so on, I won't be texting you."

Unless you're a moron, you can see the problem here. I even underlined it for knuckle-dragging droolers reading this. She can't spell "no". I know for a fact she couldn't say "no" but not being able to spell it is a new one to me.

Being the quick-witted, off-the-cuff guy that I am, I waited 10 minutes to send back the perfect response. Even now, 24 hours later, I can't get over how perfect of a text-message it was.

"On is not the same thing as NO. Where did you learn how to proof-read? Dyslexia University?"

Sometimes even I find myself funny.

Ok, so it wasn't that great. But, wouldn't you think something as important as shooting a guy down requires a little more in the way of a glance-over before sending? I sure do.

I am in a billion times better mood today. Why?

I got to hang out with my year-old neice for a bit yesterday, and she's finally starting to look less and less alien and more like a miniature human. And that makes me happy. No, she's not disfigured at all, it's just that babies are weird looking.

I am happy over all, but I've come down with a cold that, even though it makes my voice uncharacteristically sexy, it makes me more annoyed at little things that really don't matter.

But, you get to hear about them.

Mini Martini drinkers:
Fuck these people. I can understand drinking a martini so big that it costs your first born and requires a $100 glass deposit, because that's a lot of booze. I'm all about a lot of booze. But, when you're sipping a one ounce drink out of a little, teensy glass that you can't squeeze too hard for fear that it might crumble, it doesn't make you look cool, it makes you look like an asshole. Stop being a pussy and drink it out of a shot glass or a lowball.

Shitty tattoos:
Now, I'm sure that people look at my tattoos and want to say "Holy shit, dude, those tattoos are shitty!", and you know, sometimes I'd probably agree with them. There are, though, some things that people shouldn't get permanently jammed into their skin with a needle.

For one, a barbed-wire arm band tattoo. Or any arm-band tattoo for that matter. The only exception to that is if the arm band is huge, but I suppose that would technically make it a partial sleeve, and those are just cool. Any time I see a girl with an arm-band tattoo, I can guarantee that it will be paired with big boobs, a halter top and a teased mop of Aqua-Net drenched white hair. It never fails.

Any time I see this combination, I want to run up to them and scream "Hey, look everybody, it's not Pamela Anderson!" Not even Pamela Anderson wants to be Pamela Anderson most of the time, and I can't imagine why anyone else would want to be.

Another tattoo I hate is on the lower back of women, mostly because they place it there under the misconception that the skin doesn't stretch. True, it won't stretch if you get pregnant like it would if, say, it was on your belly, but it still requires that you don't get enormously fat. Ever see a fat person with a skinny back? No, because that area will get bigger and stretch just as much as any other spot on the body, and when a flowery tattoo spans out into the love handles, it's going to stretch.

And you know what else I don't like? Tattoos of eyes. They creep me out. STOP LOOKING AT ME!

Stupid hat wearing girls:
There are only two types of hats that girls should ever wear: beanies and straight baseball caps. There is nothing worse than an attractive women ruining their look by adding a goddamn Von Dutch cap(turned sideways for coolness!) or a pink, fuzzy J.Lo hat. The only similarities between you and J Lo is that your face looks like her ass(both fat), and anything Von Dutch screams out "Hey, look at me! I'm stupid enough to pay $40 for a hat that makes me look stupid!"

Wait, there is one more hat that women can wear. A hat like this, but I think I might be biased because the girl in the picture is fucking gorgeous.

Welcome to the inaugural post of Irritable Male Syndrome. I think the title speaks for itself. If you're easily offended, this is probably not the site for you, but you if you like random babble, stick around. We both may just learn something.

Without further Apu, I give you the today's post.

Today is my mom's [>50]st/nd/rd/th birthday, and in about less than an hour, I'm headed out to Buffalo for dinner at my brother's house. It isn't a heavily planned party, but I should probably stop off at Target to pick up a greeting card.

I hate greeting cards. Nothing says trite and unimaginative like a $3 piece of carboard laser printed with Anne Geddes babies, pretty flowers and flowing words. Here you go, mom. None of the sentiments contained therein are original, or even mine for that matter, but hey, I broke a fiver for you! Who loves ya, baby?

But, my mom dig's cheesy shit like that. She feigns like she doesn't, but my brother, dad and I know different. I've been less than a great son, and I think I know how to totally redeem myself-- I'm going to stop off at Target to buy the perfect birthday card, but I'm not going to give it to her. Oh no, I'm going to write down whatever it says on college-ruled paper, hawking the lovely passages off as my own. I might even try to draw a rose. I'm not sure yet, but I feel like doing something just that dangerous.

My mom will love it. She might even cry. Nothing makes my mom misty-eyed quite like greeting card plagiarism. Woohoo!

Think about it, though--don't words and feelings mean more when they come from the heart? Yeah, yeah, so I'm lying to her. So what? Will she ever find out? Of course not!

Does it make me any worse of a person? Of course it does. That's the beauty of it!

Great, now I'm starting to realize how many weird situations that I could've gotten out if only I'd thought of this earlier.

Dear Amy,

Sorry you caught me fellating your dog.[turn page]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Love, Chad.

I looked, but I couldn't find the Canine Oral Pleasure/Birthday section at Target.