Irritable Male Syndrome

Friday, September 30, 2005

The coffee is kicking in, my stomach is empty, so please forgive this in advance.

Why do brunettes dye their hair blonde and still, possibly, by any stretch of the imagination, think it looks good? Your eyebrows don't match, damn it.

I haven't had a decent drink since Sunday, so I'm a little standoffish. I'm ready to rip shit up.

I suppose I've been sitting on this long enough, so I give you...drumroll please...

Ahem, somebody give me a fucking drumroll, ok?

Listen to me.

Thank you.

Without further ado, I have to let you in on a little secret that's taken me 30 years to realize. It depresses me now that I've finally learned, but I suppose it had to happen sometime. Prepare to have your mind blown. Ready? Good.

Porn isn't real

Holy shit, huh? Before you think that I'm just pulling your well-greased tit, I'll give you a thorough explanation.

If the real world was anything like porn, I'd be having sex with a girl, a buddy would walk in, and instead of everyone getting freaked out, the girl would say, "Hey, the more[holes plugged] the merrier[my digestive tract becomes], and the DP would start in. No lube, no easin' it in, just Vvvoooop, right in. "Vvvoooop" is the sound that DP makes, I guess.

But luckily, porn isn't real life. Not even close. That's never happened to me. I have a "one dick per room" rule, and if I'm in the room(which tends to happen wherever I go), that dick is going to be mine. I don't think I have to mention my "one dick per woman I'm dating" rule. No other naked dudes, regardless of who they're doing. There's enough pressure on me as is with women critiquing me, I don't need hear criticism from a guy's perspective, too.

Dude, that's as deep as it'll go unless I decide to jump in head first.

If real girls were anything like porn starlets, every girl I've ever dated would ask me to spray her in the face with my man-goo, all the while with a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon. Oh yeah, and she's running a hand down her taut stomach towards her exquisite vagina and slapping her perfect ass at the same time. That smile only growing larger when my rope shoots her right in the eye, no recoil or anthing. A trooper.

Oddly enough, this has never happened to me. I've never had a girl request that I shoot her anywhere let alone somewhere important, like an eye. And anytime I try this nifty move on the sly, the girl specifically states "NOT IN MY EYE!". What gives? Where are these women that put on a happy face while I do my best to destroy depth perception?

Fine then, the ear it is.

If porn was real life, the pizza delivery men/janitors/plumbers of the world would get laid much more than they do. Granted, I can't speak for everyone involved, but women, when was the last time you had a pizza delivered and thought "Ooo, it makes me so hot when a man gets paid per mile! Do me, cheese boy!"

Never, right? That's what I thought.

On the converse, to all my plumbing/pizza delivery readership: how many times have you been laid directly because of your job? At all? Probably not. That would be like me getting laid due to my job. Not happening.

Contrary to what modern porn would like us to believe, it's not easy to coerce a girl back to the apartment to have sex with you. And to that I say "Phooey!".

Whether she's hitchiking, sitting at the bus stop, or studying for her Rocket Science test in the school library--by herself, always by herself(well, sometimes she's there with an apprehensive boyfriend, but whatever)--girls just don't get in the Chester Chester, Child-molester van, even if you shake a hundred dollar bill in front of her face.

Most girls aren't slutty, broke college students that will do anything to pay tuition. Crazy, I know! My whole belief system is crumbling.

Some of my friends, that just happen to be girls, destroyed another porn myth, that I long thought true; size does matter, just not Bongo Bat sized.

I assumed, illogically, that most women wanted a huge tool rammed--the bigger the better--in and out of them at high rates of speed. Stupid me, how was I to know that some of those "ouches" I heard in downloaded porn were actually cries of pain?

Apparently, real girls don't need the penile equivalent of being fisted to have the experience be a pleasurable one. Who knew? And all this time I'd been attaching a shampoo bottle to the end of my wang, and wrapping the bottle/wang combo in 35 condoms to increase girth and length, and not one girl said a word about it! Not one!

And just one little quick about location, sex on the beach--literally makin' hump on the beach, not the drink--just doesn't work. And it isn't sexy. Unless you consider that terrible saltwater taste in your mouth and sand compacted deep in every orifice sexy, well, more power to you.

Nothing about porn is real. The sets, the people involved, even the sex itself. It's all a facade. A farce. All men don't have the quivalent of a 32oz Nalgene bottle hanging between their well-sculpted legs. And all girls in the world aren't 18 years old, nubile and shaved.

If they were, I could never be a high school teacher.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Tuesday night, I plopped my ass down on a William's barstool, waiting for Rachel to show up so we could start out what has become somewhat of a routine over the last few weeks. I ordered a Limon and water with a lemon wedge. Oh yeah, and a NerdBoard.

While waiting and keeping to myself, a girl in a black hooded sweatshirt approached the bar on my left. Her hair was unwashed, uncombed and looked as if it had only one more bleach job to go before it lost all hope and detached itself from her head. I could hear it's tortured cry of "No more peroxide. Please". I couldn't look directly at it for fear that I'd go blind. You get the point.

At first I thought she was just going to order something from the bar. That is, until she turned towards me. Great, just what I needed. I don't ask for this shit to happen, so why does it always happen to me?

"You playin' the game?" she mumbled while pointing up to the tv. She was drunk and her teeth looked as if they hadn't seen the right side of a toothbrush since the day before Reagan died.

"Yeah, and I'm sucking at it" I replied.

She fidgeted and looked around the bar for almost a full minute before replying. "Yeah, I sucked at it, too".

It took her that long to come up with that? She obviously wasn't very bright, but I thought that I'd be nice and not bring that up. The last thing I wanted was to create a scene in an empty bar, even moreso considering that I was sober.

"You mind I have a drink of that?" she said while pointing to my almost-full drink.

"No, that's ok"

As she started to grab my drink and put the straw up to her lips, I realized my error in response. I didn't want her to have any of my booze. In fact, I just wanted her and her yuckmouth to go away. That booze was mine. I paid for it, and was put there to fuel my drunk, not some random, unshowered skeeze. I caught the glass right before it hit her lips.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...WHOA. That's not what I meant. Yes, I mind if you take a drink from my glass. No, you cannot have any. What the hell would possess you?" I said while still trying to be somewhat of a decent human being.

"I'm already drunk, so it can't hurt to ask..."she said as she trailed off into a mumble. And then she followed it up with "...well, that fucking games sucks." as then she drunkenly stomped away.

Who does that? Who asks for a sip from someone's drink that they don't even know? And then, when I deny them, try to offend me by taking a jab at something that doesn't even matter?

"Can I have a drink of that?"
"Well...your forehead is too...foreheady!!"

Crazy people, that's who. Crazy drunk people. Yes, I know the game sucks. And you still can't have a drink.

It's one thing if I'm with a friend and they say "Hey, can I try that?" because they've never had tasted that particular conconction before. Because my friends do tend to have even the basic hygiene routine down. And they can form complete sentences and enunciate. I try not to keep company with people that have both Mush and Yuckmouth, thank you very much. I do have some standards, damn it.

Later in the evening the same girl tried to come up to the bar to buy a drink, and when the bartender carded her, the girl just walked away in the bathroom. The men's bathroom. Whoopsie!

Who knows, maybe she felt the need to finally brush her teeth, but I doubt it.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Summer is officially over. Excuse me, I think I have a piece of dust in my eye.

Ok, now that I've stopped crying, where were we? Oh yeah, the end of summer. To celebrate this once a year occasion, I'm going on a drunken hiatus. Not a drinking hiatus, because we both know that, even though I could probably do without the boozing, I'm not really sure why anyone would want to. Not that I am going to stop drinking, but I need like a two week break from waking up the next day feeling like a pile of ass. I was in extreme self-inflicted pain on Monday morning, and that's a pain that I just don't feel the need to relive in the short term.

So yeah, two weeks, no drunk text-messages from me. Deal? Deal.

The rest of this post is going to be a rambling mess, so I apologize in advance.

I am so fucking sick of people popping back into my life on a cloud, and then leaving just as quickly. It's getting old, really it is. It's happened on more than one occasion in the past few months, with more than one person, and each time it always ends with me left asking "why did you even come back in the first place, damn it?"

People, honestly. I know I'm not perfect and fuck up more than seems normal. That's just part of being human. But, I don't understand how an apology can help when the only reason you're apologizing is to make yourself feel better. Because the apology certainly wasn't for my sake, that's for sure. Or maybe it was that you just wanted to be able sleep easier at night. Who knows.

I also don't understand how sleeping with me is going to make you forget that you're still in love with your ex-boyfriend. Ok, maybe I understand the urge to feel wanted and needed by someone, anyone other than friends. Even though they're always great, it just doesn't fill that void. Yes, I understand that I am a sex God, and my dick is so big that it has it's own zip code and gravitational pull, so it's almost impossible to avoid my bed. I get that part.

But, I cannot fathom the choices that people make without thinking of the direct implications, even though these are the same people that are above and beyond what would normally pass as being super-skilled in the art of overthinking. Masters, they are. I think about the future, but I just don't care about that part of the future. Why put so much stock in the what-does-it-all-means, and the where-is-this-all-goings when we all could be gone tomorrow? None of that matters, and I definitely don't enjoy missing people that don't deserve my misspent emotions, even behind the guise of a empty apology or a well-timed I'm lonely fuck.

If I hadn't lost all my pubes in 'Nam, I'd be ripping them out in clumps right now. Is there anything bigger than a clump?

What else?

Oh yeah, psssst. Hey. Dude in the pink shirt with the popped collar; you look like a walking Miami vagina, circa 1984. You need to douche, you vag, you. Or maybe it's that you're a douche in serious need of a vagina. Whatever it is, you don't look cool.

I was at the State Fair this weekend and saw a kid wearing a bright pink t-shirt that said "Tough guys wear pink". All 5'6", 125lbs of him. It took all my strength to hold back that punch to his balls because I wanted to see him cry. I figured he wasn't worth going to jail for.

So, let's recap, shall we?

The color pink=not cool