Author: Miso N. Grey

Critical thinker, honest pundit, world shaper.

13 Reasons Why Death is a Scam.

So my buddy’s mother-in-law came by the house the other day. Said she was in town for a “very special occassion.” I was like, “What, someone getting divorced? Deported? Deposed?” No, something much more serious. Little did I know it was the other D word. So this woman’s first husband died a decade or so again, and worms sucked down his rotted and decaying flesh at some jacked-up private veteran’s cemetery here in town. She talked with some friends and learned she could buy her own plot, right next to her decomposed spouse, for a measly $3,500. And she decided she wanted a pretty headstone, which ran another $3,000. She bragged about writing the check, supposedly saving my buddy’s wife from having to deal with that shit upon her untimely demise.

I was stunned. Not only did that selfish twat just steal $6,500 from my buddy’s inheritance, but she clearly stated she didn’t trust them to deal with her remains. They’re REMAINS, you idiot! You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You won’t know what they did with your wrinkled-ass sack of bones, because you’re fucking DEAD. You’ve been returned to the dirt and shit from whence you came. Hopefully something more beneficial to nature will sprout from your recycled DNA. Your spirit box has returned to the angelic mansions located in the great deed-restricted lily-white suburban neighborhood in the sky. Why was it so important that she ensure she is buried in a certain spot in a certain cemetery next to some bro who will never know she is there? My own mother died suddenly and didn’t leave any indication of her intent. I had her ass burned. They asked me what I wanted to do with her remains. I was like, I don’t know, they’re ashes, right? What would I want with ashes? They insisted I had to take them, and I was forced to pay for them. I tossed the shitty box I bought out with that day’s garbage. Even that still ran me close to $1,000.

Apparently, this burial plot pre-purchase thing is a common thing among folks with sub-average IQs including most Baby-Boomers and Republicans. I’m not sure where this idiotic idea began, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with talk radio or Fox News.

I began to think about the entire funeral business. I knew this old guy, Marvin, who worked at a funeral parlor in Philly years ago. I’m sure he’s long dead. Marvin told me his boss would buy a new Cadillac cash every year. Marvin would try to gross us out at lunch with his graphic stories about the embalming process and how they drained bodily fluids so the body won’t stink. The particular funeral parlor he worked for didn’t quite follow established procedures. I’ll spare you the details. The truth is, by the time an embalmed body is buried, it’s not much more than some skin, bones, punctured organs, and a shit-ton of chemicals. There’s most likely cotton in the nose, plastic holders below the eyelids, and something to shape in the mouth, and gauze shoved down the throat to absorb purging fluids. The anus and vagina may be packed with gauze to prevent seepage. The body is refrigerated to delay decomposition. In addition to a myriad of other fees, funeral homes charge upwards of $3,000 for this nasty process.

My buddy’s mother-in-law, just like many mothers-in-law you might know, is a narcissistic piece of shit. She wants to make sure when she dies, you’re gonna remember it for the rest of your life. Her little stunt will depress people at least five times every year. On every birthday, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and any other random bullshit holiday, my buddy and his family will now have the obligation to visit a sad-ass place to stand on top of a buried pile of flesh and pretend she knows they’re there.

What’s even worse is suicide culture. There’s this bullshit series on Netflix called 13 Reasons Why. Don’t bother watching it unless you too are a needlessly depressed narcissistic upper-middle-class suburban teen. Basically, the series revolves around seventeen-year-old Clay (side note – every male named Clay I’ve ever met was gay) and his deceased female friend Hannah (always a stripper name), who has committed suicide after failing to cope with silly gossip. A box of cassette tapes that lead up to her suicide detail thirteen stupid reasons why she ended her life. The crimes here are the girl’s call for attention, and Netflix glorifying suicide to millions of depressed dummies. These idiotic teens think the only way people will appreciate them is if they lay a suicide guilt trip upon anyone who cares. Again, they fail to realize they won’t be here to appreciate the day or two of attention they’ll get post-suicide, as well as the obligatory cemetery visits that will devastate the family and friends who actually supported them.

When I die, I told my wife to put my shit in a garbage bag and leave me by the curb. Why not? Since the funeral business has friends in politics, this is not legal in most states. I compromised. I asked she donate my corpse to medical science. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if someone sawed my pecker off after I’m dead. What the hell am I gonna do with it? Supposedly, they cremate you and dispose of your ashes if you go that route. No fuss, no muss, no cash. I bit my tongue for my buddy’s sake. But you know I wanted to hit that wacky bitch with a barrage of questions that would leave her (and my buddy) feeling incompetent.

So, as advertised, here are my 13 Reasons Why Death is a Scam.

  1. You have to purchase land so you can rot in peace.
  2. You have to purchase an expensive ass coffin to put in that land so it can rot in peace too.
  3. And transportation costs to get the stiff to the funeral home and then to the cemetery. I asked if I could just throw it in the trunk. That was a no.
  4. Don’t forget the pricey headstone so your loved ones can leave…
  5. Obligatory flowers on at least four annual occasions…
  6. And give you yet another reason to think your own life sucks.
  7. The priest/rabbi/minister will expect at least a Benjamin in a plain manilla envelope for saying a few nice things about your decedent.
  8. When you’re dead, you won’t realize anyone visited your stupid gravesite.
  9. Funeral directors will charge your loved ones thousands to suck out your guts and shove gauze up your ass.
  10. Even if you’re not buried, they’ll charge you to incinerate the remains…
  11. And force you to buy a container so you can take those ashes with you. I’ve always wondered if I could verify that ashes indeed belonged to my loved one, or that old stray cat that peed on my porch.
  12. And when you take the 50 people out to lunch after the funeral, the restaurant will give it to you up the ass with a mandatory 18% gratuity.
  13. All that money paid to the funeral people and the cemetery comes out of your inheritance. Fuck that!


To Beard or Not To Beard.

A few years back, only really cool laid-back bros sported beards. Harley guys. Artists. Musicians. Creative types. You know, those in tune with the cosmic wavelength. Bearded guys were the wise men – the guys who just got it.

Today, it’s a fashion statement for assholes.

Not sure when the tide turned. But 9 of every 10 bearded bros I meet today are miserable narcissistic douchebags. I analyze the dogsnot out of everything, so I set my phasers on stun and went out to look for some answers.

First, shaving sucks. If you can’t grow a beard, be thankful. It’s a daily chore that’s time consuming, expensive, messy, and sometimes painful. I don’t need it. Take my beard, please.

Secondly, those who don’t shave are lazy. I admit, I’ve cut back to shaving 3 times a week. Chicks dig stubble, but I’m busy. Still, I get those looks from my customers when I’ve gone a little too long. Most normal folks prefer to deal with a clean-shaven person.

Thirdly, why is every grotesque beard accompanied by a sleeve of tattoos? We’ve talked about the bad judgment of tattoo people in the past. Now those same idiots are growing pubic hair on their faces. Plus, it’s a staple feature of a radical Islamic terrorist. Great company, bro.

Dude, it’s nasty. It looks like shit, and your beard stinks after a while. Everyone hates you. Shave that crap. You might get some ass for a change. You can thank me later.

The Truth About Women

This has been going on long enough. Now that my son is dating, I needed to give him a leg up with all these crazy women who will compete for his time, money, and resources. There is no way I am going to let him go through the hell I went through! I had to think through my advice, and BOOM – here comes the book.

For example – women tend to become their first names. I know, it seems odd, but more often than not it’s true! Take the name “Cheryl” for example. Tell me if you don’t think this is true:

In a word: Narcissist.

The origin of this name is unclear. Some folks swear it’s the female version of Charles, but Charlotte seems much closer to that name. Other people guess that this name was derived from Cherie. Personally, I believe some idiot pulled it out of her ass in a drunken stupor while trying to say “Milton Berle choked Meryl Streep,” and somehow, the accidental slur just stuck.

Cheryl reminds me of that ugly no-nose villain in those kid wizard movies. I had a difficult time simply typing this repugnant bitch’s name. As a matter of fact, if you looked up the word narcissistic in the dictionary, a less-than-flattering picture of this girl’s face would be permanently plastered next to the definition. This is the type of misandrist who, if she wants a cat, despite knowing you are deathly allergic to cats, will get two cats in case the first one wasn’t enough. Apparently, it’s your fault that you’re allergic to cats, so you should just deal with asphyxiation or go get shots. It’s all about her, or it doesn’t exist. If you don’t believe me, simply check her bookshelf yourself. Don’t be surprised when you find the following titles:

  • He’s Just Not That Into You, But It’s Cool To Be Into Yourself, Bitch
  • Women Are From Venus, Men are from… Who Fucking Cares. I Hate Men
  • Your 1,500th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul. This One Won’t Work Either, It’s Cold

In my travels, I have found that smokers are more apt to sexually active relationships. And every Voldemort I’ve ever met smokes something, whether she admits it or not. Tag it and bag it. It’ll get stale soon enough.

Ironically, this princess has it in her head that she is a promiscuous goddess who could make any man come by merely looking at him. But this bitch is more like a body pillow in bed; just hanging around in the missionary position hoping to have an orgasm, but not really helping. Don’t worry, she won’t be terribly disappointed if she doesn’t come. And she won’t really care if you don’t, either.

Voldemort won’t be an overachiever; she’s happy with the simple things in life. This is a perfect lackluster chick for a punching bag – be that a big fat redneck or a dorky geek with no social skills.

SEE? It’s uncanny! The new book deciphers more than 100 male and female names.

I have issued some sneak-preview videos you can watch right now. Have a look and listen, and stay tuned for this amazing book (hits the shelves this November, just in time for the holiday season).

How To Figure Out A Women from her HAIRSTYLE:

How To Figure Out A Woman From Her FIRST NAME:

The Real Reason Women Have CHILDREN:

Why Men Should ALWAYS Avoid Women With CATS:

Best and Worst Places to MEET WOMEN:

How I Became So Damn Happy.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000448_00024]

As I celebrate the surprising success of my inspirational book “Beyond Words,” which was thankfully ignored by the misandrist (man-hating) douchebags at the Huffington Post, I and my movie-making friends have decided to begin the journey of filming my next book, “Finding Happiness.” So excited! Making a film is the final box I needed to check for my Bucket List. When that’s done, I can finally check the fuck out of this God-forsaken human hatefest. Stay tuned for more scoop, and THANK YOU for your support!


Merry F-ing Christmas.

Thanks for killing 30 million trees a year. Jesus loves you.

Jesus hates pine trees.

A friend of mine sent a comical photo of Santa Claus decked out in his most evil holiday splendor, complete with the letters “Santa” slightly altered to create the name Satan. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Then, as one of our kids planted her ass on our couch and waited for someone to bring her stack of presents, I realized what a horrible, disgusting, and embarrassing display of greed and entitlement the Christian celebration of its savior’s birth has become.

Years ago, while our children were still young, I tried to create a Christmas celebration that was more along the lines of what I believe Jesus Christ would have wanted on his birthday. Church on Christmas morning. Prayers of gratitude for our health and happiness. Instead of gifts, I opted to share experiences. Trips. Adventures. Bonding experiences. Things that I thought might help our family become closer. My efforts failed miserably. All we got was complaining and a semblance of depression. We reverted back to the traditional Satanic experience the next year, which we sadly follow today.

Unfortunately, Christmas has become a holiday of obligation. No matter how Christian you pretend to be, if you fail to participate in the awful new anti-Christian gift giving ritual, you’ll be ostracized and labelled with a not-so-clever moniker like Grinch or Scrooge, two titles undoubtedly promoted in conjunction with greedy capitalist industry leadership.

Over the past hundred or so years, Christmas has been further bastardized into a capitalist’s dream, and has metastasized into a Christian nightmare. The word “holiday” evolved from the words “Holy Day.” To the dismay of most true religious folk, Christmas today is rarely holy. It’s not just Christmas – all holidays have gone nuts. From their origins of celebrating successful harvests or religious history, today’s holidays aren’t much more than obligatory gift-giving bonanzas driven by marketing companies. Even the word “holiday” itself would wince in shame, if it could.

How did this happen? Apparently, in the mid 1600s, The Puritans banned Christmas. Christmas, back in those days, became a holiday of gluttony and misbehavior and everything that was frowned upon by many Protestants (apparently, Christians were cool with all this). Puritans believed that Christmas had fallen prey to the traditional and unfortunate European pagan celebrations of the winter solstice, symbolized by darkness and underlying evil during the longest night of the year.

The mid-Atlantic states weren’t quite as conservative, as immigrants continued to ferry those pagan customs with them from Europe. The Christmas of Europe was celebrated outside with liquor and spirits and noise and trouble. Eventually, over time, their celebrations calmed down. Well-to-do new Americans migrated indoors with more tame celebrations limited to close family and friends. This fostered accountability which caused much less trouble, and things calmed down for a while.

It wasn’t until the mid-1800s that the Christmas blasphemy we celebrate today began to evolve. In 1822, Clement Clark-Moore wrote a poem entitled “The Night Before Christmas” based on St. Nicholas, a fourth-century bishop famous for leaving small gifts in stockings hung out to dry above fires. In other stories, there was a separate and unrelated character named “Oden,” the pagan god of yule, who legend serves flew through the air on a freakish eight-legged flying horse. Clark-Moore added some fur, changed the horse to a mere mortal four-legged flying reindeer, and introduced his newly invented character “Santa Claus” the dreadful habit of smoking using appliances. Later, in 1862, a New York illustrator named Thomas Nast took The Night Before Christmas and developed the first popularly accepted image of today’s Santa Claus. Nast embodied St. Nicholas with an impending obesity, envisioned the Naughty and Nice list, and banished Santa to a few hundred square feet in the second coldest climate on Earth with a bunch of enslaved midgets and a sweatshop.

As yet another slight of another silly religion, Vikings in Scandinavia thought that evergreen trees were the special plant of the sun god, Balder. Germany is credited with starting the Christmas tree tradition as we now know it in the 16th century when devout Christians brought decorated trees into their homes. Today, more than thirty million 8 to 10 year-old pine, fir, spruce, balsam, and Frasier trees are slaughtered and sold to families who were told they must to have a “Christmas tree” for a proper Christmas celebration. Retail stores begin to put up those Christmas trees and decorations earlier and earlier every year. One large hobby store I visited actually began decorating in the beginning of August.

Candy companies have furthered the spread of obesity to adults and children with mass-produced candy canes, gingerbread houses, and fruitcake. Toy companies ramp up production for their once-a-year festival of plastic production. Electronic manufacturers follow suit.

Old, white-haired unshaven men with large stomachs populate red chairs in shopping malls and department stores everywhere, taking small children on their knees and creating false hopes with lies and deceit.

Children everywhere are told to “Wait for Christmas”, as gluttony is placed on a temporary hiatus from sometime in late October until December 25th, the date on which the fictional Santa Claus is promised to come and bestow piles of gifts our children firmly believe they are entitled to. Parents sneak into stores late at night to purchase thousands of dollars in merchandise they can’t really afford, hoping to buy a day of happiness with material things, perhaps in an effort to apologize for not spending enough time with their children.

Christmas Eve is the one day every year that even the most lackluster “Christians” find their way to a church pew. Sadly, this is largely out of obligation – if your community peers don’t see you there, they’ll cast dispersions which could damage your reputation. Then Christmas morning arrives. Wide-eyed smiling children filled with hope tear open packages and find their annual supply of toys they’ve been awaiting for the past several months.

In many homes, where it’s already difficult to make ends meet, many children find disappointment because the expensive electronic toy everyone is talking about; the one they’ve seen advertised on television for months; the apparatus that will make or break their holiday happiness – did not appear in their pile of presents under their tree. Sad parents are forced to formulate lies to explain why the promise Santa made to them at the shopping mall remains unsatisfied. After fulfilling the promise to “be good” all year, get good grades in school, respect their family and elders, that overachieving child wonders why his neighbor and classmate, who is nowhere near as behaved or refined, managed to receive that expensive electronic toy. The irony of how “good” children feel sad, cheated, and even neglected is quite disturbing.

What have we done? Have we set ourselves up for a lifetime of depression, and the need for chemical additives to stave off such afflictions? What has happened to “the reason for the season” over the past two thousand years since the birth of Jesus Christ, the namesake for this holy day? How have we, as a society, allowed this ill to perpetrate what is supposed to be a day of joy and celebration and thanks? Perhaps the real question is, how would Jesus Christ feel about what the celebration of his birth has become? It seems we have come to a crossroads of Christianity versus Capitalism.

All men and women should work hard, and should be justly and fairly rewarded for that hard work. But in our currently entrenched system, humanity has introduced dishonesty and greed, where one man knowingly takes advantage of another man’s resources for personal gain. Large organizations have created a deceiving game of psychology based on guilt and shame, firmly endorsed by those we have rewarded most generously. Following the findings of Sigmund Freud and Edward Bernays, marketing organizations have been knowingly influencing good children and decent people to believe that this season of gluttony is completely Christian and the norm through advertisements in every medium they can commandeer. Sadly, we as parents, have endorsed this behavior through ignorance.

Have you ever thought about why you celebrate Christmas they way you do? As a society, we have behaved as lowly sheep succumbing to the whims of corporate magnitude. We have passed a new tradition from generation to generation without ever questioning history, methodology, intent, or accountability. We have allowed, endeared and nurtured a new Puritan nightmare.

What was intended to be a fun, heart-warming story in the mid 1800s has evolved into a shameful maniacal monster of excess, and I am ashamed. Here is my list of the three things I believe need to be done to remedy this silliness.

  1. The word “Christmas” shall no longer be synonymous with plastic or electronic presents, trees, candy, or other frivolousness. If marketers and large companies need a day for gluttony, let us move that celebration to August or September, and celebrate the beginning of a new and successful school year, where children may receive clothing, supplies, and other useful things.
  2. Christmas shall once again become “Christ Mass”, in the means of the holy day it was meant to celebrate. True Christians shall observe mass and celebrate the birth and teachings of the son of their god, Jesus Christ, in a place of worship on Christmas day. Christmas cartoons and movies shall be replaced with Christian teachings of generosity and kindness.
  3. Finally, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Santa Claus, Knecht Ruprecht, Oden, or any of his other names and likenesses, shall no longer be associated with the Christmas holiday, celebration, imaging, or in any other way, in any country or culture, until the true goodness of Christmas returns.

If Santa were real, I’m sure he would have resigned. As I believe Clarke and Nast would have preferred, were they still souls of this Earth, they would revoke Santa’s status of the mascot of Christmas, and the symbol of an already epidemic level of narcissism.

As a parent following the rules of society, you’ll be forced to participate in this stupidity to avoid painful social chastising. Your only hope is to teach your children the true meaning of holidays, and hope they’re strong enough to eventually buck pop culture and make wise decisions on their own.

There was one child who showed a beacon of hope – our own Christmas miracle, if you will. She is an unemployed student who always feels guilty for not being able to buy Christmas presents. We told her and her siblings they didn’t have to get us presents. I have mentioned on several occasions the irony of society systematically destroying the meaning of Christmas. Apparently, she was listening. She scrounged up a few dollars from errands, and purchased everyone a single gift. They were small and inexpensive. Her magic was her choice of the gifts – each one had a personal meaning to whomever she gave it to. Mine was a coffee cup that read “Best Dad.” Enclosed was a short handwritten letter that expressed her thankfulness for our time, advice, and generosity.

Honestly, that was the single best Christmas gift I had ever received. Faith in humanity restored – momentarily. Christmas can be a wonderful holiday with your friend and family, even with the silly new traditions we’ve created. With a little common sense and moderation, there is a compromise. And it all starts with you.

Sexual Assault at America’s Colleges


Teen Vogue seems to be America’s authority on all things, well, teen. You know, like  really important things — like what Willow Smith is up to. That some no one named Zendaya is approving certain prom dresses. And God forbid you’re not up on whatever the Kardashians are doing these days. On a slow teen news week, here’s what they reported.

One in five women will be sexually assaulted during their college tenures. And it’s estimated that 95% of sexual assaults on campus go unreported, meaning the majority of victims don’t get the help and support they need, and the perpetrators don’t get punished. It’s an epidemic, and it’s up to all of us to help stop it.

Statistics are a funny thing. Supposedly, Vice President Joe Biden mentioned this statistic in 2014. What he did not mention was that statistic was found in some 2007 government sanctioned study titled The Campus Sexual Assault Study, which was conducted for the Justice Department’s National Institute of Justice. The researchers, led by Christopher Krebs of RTI International, also surveyed men. The statistic cited by Biden only focuses on women, because apparently that’s more interesting.

Due diligence requires that we go even further back, because the actual data was compiled between 2005 and 2007. In the winter of 2006, perhaps as a last-minute hail mary, Mr. Kreb’s researchers used a Web-based survey to interview undergraduates at two large public universities, one in the Midwest and one in the South. A total of 5,446 undergraduate women, between the ages of 18-25, participated as part of a random sample. The survey was anonymous and took about 15 minutes to complete. Participants were bribed with a $10 certificate.

Soooo… back in 2005, more than a DECADE ago, certain bribed Midwestern and Southern women (at only two colleges) reported that they may or may not have been sexually assaulted. The Washington Post reported these results clearly can be generalized to those two large four-year southern universities, but not necessarily elsewhere. Moreover, although the results were technically statistically significant, the response rate was relatively low, and there was no indication if the assaulters were actually students or non-student visitors. We should also mention that the word “assaulted” itself is a moving target, and its definition has undoubtedly changed in the past eleven years. Smells like we need to put Mr. Krebs back to work in 2016. One in five is an alarmist statistic. I would venture to say many of these 20 percenters were skanky 2005 southern party girls who were either outright lying, defined “assault” a little too loosely, or, most likely, were involved in a completely consensual act but then forgot or changed their minds at some point after their drunken escapades were over. My educated guess is that on a national level, with a much more robust survey, legitimate female assaultees would be much closer to 4-5 percent, with men’s results even lower. Still unacceptable, but not quite as alarmist.

Look, I have daughters in college, and in no way intend to defend any sort of sexual assault, whether it’s against males or females. To me, assault is adamant to rape. But 20% of all college women are complaining they’ve been assaulted or abused? Frankly, that seems a bit high. Sure, there are plenty of dickhead guys in college who are a little too aggressive. Most guys are well aware of the word NO, but unfortunately there are those men who don’t care. Sexual assault is wrong. It must be stopped, always reported, and investigated thoroughly.

Here’s how to stop sexual assault on college campuses once and for all, college administrators. You won’t like it, students won’t like it, and politicians are not allowed to like it publicly, but these methods have been proven effective — globally.

  1. Issue a firm campus dress code. Define it visually, citing photographic examples of disallowed styles. Fine or expel women who wear clothing that is too suggestive. Admit it, ladies – the only reason you dress like a slut is to get male attention. We’re not stupid.
  2. Ban all unsanctioned or unsupervised college parties. College is an institution of learning, not partying. Unbridled adolescents and alcoholic beverages is always a recipe for disaster. 
  3. Issue a firm campus-wide curfew. There’s no reason a group of scantily-clad 20-year-old males or females should be running around giggling after 1 AM.

It’s ironic that we protect prisoners, airplanes, and military installations better than we protect our children. Colleges should be gated off at least as well as airports. Students, faculty, and guests should be frisked, scanned, and identified before entering any campus. Assaulters, rapists, drug dealers, and other bad influencers have no business on college property.

There’s not much you can do about off-campus parties. That’s a parent’s responsibility. Mom and Dad, if you love your children, make sure they commute, or buck-up for on-campus housing. I lived at home during college, and it didn’t kill me. And I was never assaulted.

Sloppy Seconds.

As I sat in the sun on my hotel’s pool deck in Key West on a perfect February afternoon watching scads of scantily clad women sporting gaudy diamonds on the third finger of their left hands who obviously married for money, I began to think – what is the longest run-on sentence I could construct? Besides that, I wondered who those women were. Being the inquisitive sort, I asked several of them, informing them I was writing a book on the perfect marriage. Some were quite forthcoming when they  found I was buying drinks, and especially after invoking my gay lisp while flaunting my daughter’s fake Michael Kors manpurse. I’ve found almost any woman will open up to a gay man faster than the legs of a cheap Filipino whore. Contrary to what you might believe, you don’t have to be gay to hang out in Key West. Sure, there are a large contingent of homosexual men, but every major metropolis has the same situation. Honestly, I’ll take a gay man over a bitchy princess anytime – those guys are incredibly fun! Anyway, here’s what I learned.

Surprisingly, many of these women told different variations of the same story. Histories as former beauty queens were quite common. Most made a really big deal about high school glory days. Prom queens. Homecoming queens. Cheerleaders. Some admitted they knew men longed, swooned, fantasized, and fought for them back in the day. Others bragged about commanding only the best looking jocks. One woman, wearing a little too much makeup and an obscene amount of perfume, told me she had her choice of any man or woman in her tiny circle of immaturity as she put her hand on my leg and whispered dangerously close. Check please.

I noticed many of these women seemed to be frozen in time. Not style-wise, like that woman many of us know with the Pat Benetar haircut still wearing neon tie-dies and leg warmers, but mentally. Some never escaped their high school mindset. The beauty queen persona was set in stone, and 20, 30, even 40 years later, the woman she sees in the mirror today is that same wrinkle-free, perfect skin girl she was her senior year of high school. Honestly, the superiority complex I had witnessed seventeen times that day seemed quite disturbing the more I got into this. My sample is small and not statistically significant, but the age and geographic distribution provided enough information to develop yet another thought provoking theory.

In Key West, I only spoke with women who exhibited a certain savoir faire, knowing these women were a minority subset of those I really needed to interview. I wondered about the majority of former beauty queens who were more psychologically intact, and especially those who realized they had fallen from grace. Those who once possessed unwieldy power to scorn those not blessed with what is typically considered beauty, often to the point of driving another woman (or man) to a semester, a year, a four-year term, or sometimes a lifetime of disillusionment and even depression. I wondered if the normies realized they too were mere mortals, finding they’re not much different than any other of today’s average PTA mom. What effect would this realization have on their psyche?

A close friend of mine married one of these women when she entered free agency. She straddled the line somewhere between superiority and normalcy, slanting slightly towards the former. Her first marriage to the high school star athlete crashed and burned after five years and two offspring. She had put on a few pounds, and as blondes know, life is much more harsh to fair-haired women when it comes to wrinkles. The extra weight helped fill her crows feet a bit. But she strutted when she walked, almost always in heels, and dressed to impress. My buddy was infatuated from first sight. She was a very demanding woman, attending every function she could with other like-minded socialites in her sleepy town, always wearing the latest fashions, and eschewing her Coach handbag for Michael Kors whenever that switch became appropriate. He still thinks she’s stunning. I think he needs a new pair of glasses. To me, she looks exactly like any other middle school bimbo mother who’s trying much to hard to hang on to the last threads of a youth long gone.

Beauty is most certainly in the eye of the beholder. What floats my buddy’s boat is a much more salty brine. He’s not nearly as experienced, cerebral, or cynical as I am. Wisdom has shown me that true beauty is inside a person and can be found through a positive and supportive attitude. My girl is certainly no slouch in the looks department, but she is an undeniably beautiful person. Further, those who try a bit too hard to enhance their appearance and attract attention usually won’t display an attractive personality. Perhaps that’s what bothers me about my buddy’s girlfriend, almost to the point of being repulsive.

So gentlemen, before you pursue that chick at the pool who’s desperately trying to hang on to youth and is persuaded more by material things than by true happiness, ask yourself one question: do you really want to settle for sloppy seconds?



Profile of a 21st Century Feminist.


I have met thousands of women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and colors in my prior careers in entertainment and in corporate America. Ironically, I never had the displeasure of meeting a vocal feminist until recently, who we’ll call Violet. Like a spoiled little child who always gets her way, Violet always seems to find something to bitch about.

Legally, women have shared equal footing with men since 1920, as the passage of our 19th Constitutional Amendment guaranteed women the right to vote. Before most of us were born, the Lucretia Mott Amendment, was first drafted by the women’s rights leader Alice Paul in 1923. Several generations later in 1972, still before most of us were born, the Senate passed a modified Amendment, which proposed banning discrimination based on sex, known as the Equal Rights Amendment. The E.R.A. was sent to the states for ratification, but it fell short of the three-fourths approval needed. Why? It was imperfect. The amendment may have adversely affected laws that favor women in child-custody and alimony cases, forced women to be called upon in a military draft, among other potential unpleasantries. And – the Amendment was largely unnecessary. Women already shared the same fundamental rights as men.

Today, a small group of very vocal and perhaps sociopathic women (led by chicks like Violet) are beating the war drums once again, acting as if they’re speaking for the masses, as if a typical college educated woman cannot speak for herself. There are some loud whispers regarding equal pay and opportunity in the corporate arena, but those are quickly dissipating as companies institute diversification programs. Regardless, today’s feminist movement is frightening. It has a strange similarity to religious fundamentalism, showing signs of an inherently flawed yet absolute conviction in one’s own exactitude. Dissenters are quickly censured by a small contingent of quite hostile yet mostly anonymous social media mavens.

So what’s the prevailing feminist argument today? Fucking cat calls. Certain women are up in arms about unknown men paying them unsolicited compliments. While a large subset of American women (no statistics available) adore being adored and have no problem with men appreciating beauty in what’s usually an innocent exchange of pleasantries, there’s that tiny little bitch regiment who believes compliments should be criminalized. If you ask me, a world in which you cannot compliment or even comment on someone’s hair, flair, or clothing, whether it is warranted or not, seems like a pretty lame world. Granted, there are stupid men who cross the line of civility, and that should never be allowed. But a simple and innocent anonymous compliment should never hurt anyone.

Who are these women? It’s difficult to tell due to their anonymity. But based on Violet’s persona, here’s my best guess.

  • White women with short hair. They get it cut to avoid male attention, because they’re probably asexual. Sexual women are much nicer in general, and tend to appreciate compliments and kind words.
  • Natural blonde women over 26. God is not kind to our fair-haired friends, and women take their wrinkle-hate out on all men to spite Him.
  • Women who have spent too much time in school to foster a professional career. She’s angry that she missed her prime mating years.
  • Black women who have lost a black man to a white girl. She’ll be angry about everything for the rest of her life.
  • Women who own cats. It’s a well-known fact that only men with homosexual tendencies appreciate felines, so a cat is yet another way to repel heterosexual male attention.
  • Women with jacked-up testosterone levels. She’s highly competitive in everything she does, including sports. She’s practically a dude, but she’s angry she’s not accepted as one.
  • Morbidly obese women (with short hair and cats). She’s tired of being chastised and called fat, and feels she doesn’t have a chance with any man anyway. She’s hoping to hook up with a natural blonde woman over 26 with short hair.

Violet meets four out of five of the above qualifications. I’ve unfriended her on Facebook, blocked her on Twitter, and avoid her like Zika in real life. There’s nothing positive at all about that woman, and I don’t have time for negative people.

Thanks to our interaction, I’ve learned you never dare tell a feminist to smile or that she looks nice, whether you mean it or not, and despite any good intention, because that always results in the bitch breathing fire.

When you think about it, today’s women have more rights than men. Think alimony, child support, cheerleading, modeling, runway modeling, and the thousands of corporate positions reserved for women in an effort to prove a company is practicing “equal opportunity.”

Fortunately, the masses are beginning to push back. I hope Violet and her underlings come to their senses and begins to realize things aren’t as bad as they think. If you’re on the fence between feminism and normalcy, these links may help you realize you’re not alone.

Here are five feminist myths that will not die:

And here’s a wonderful blog from more normal women who are against these radical feminists:

Potentially Dangerous Boyfriends.

Sigmund Freud uncovered that each and every man borders on the fringe of psychotic behavior. Human history and current coordinated efforts labeled as terrorist acts bear witness to this today. Fortunately, most of us get along as we play by the rules of civilization. However, there are those on the fringe of evil. And it’s critically important that you, as someone in search of a relationship, can recognize the signs of those on the fringe. There are certain characteristics a woman needs to flush out before making a commitment to a potentially abusive or dangerous relationship. Yes, some women fall into these categories too, but their involvement typically isn’t quite as severe or affecting.

The Fighting Man

An older gentleman, in an attempt to make smalltalk, asked me what my hobbies were. I replied that my hobbies were diverse and unique. He aptly considered me “complicated.” In turn, I posed the same question. The man replied that he’s into boxing and UFC – Ultimate Fighting for those of you who aren’t familiar with that sport. I had to look it up too. In my best southern drawl, I asked him if he garnered pleasure from the act of two people beating the piss out of each other. He replied that he enjoyed a good fight, having been an active boxer in a previous life. A man who takes pleasure in harming another man is more of a warrior than a civilized human being. He has stepped over the bounds of repressing his desire to harm in the guise of a terrible error in judgment which ultimately led to socially acceptable behavior. Despite his clever disguise as nothing more than a big teddy bear, be aware that his inner warrior lurks and could be aroused with little or no warning.

The Hunting Man

As little as 100 years ago, before butchers, general stores, supermarkets, Walmart, and food stamps, it was more necessary for man to hunt to feed himself and his family. Today, hunting exists as sport only. As I ponder this “sport,” I wonder what the real challenge and acquisition is. There is no battle, as we use an increasing amount of power and technology to overcome an otherwise helpless and usually innocent animal, be that fish, fowl, deer, or bear. If you’ve ever tried venison, you’ll agree that it’s a forced taste – particularly chewy with a strange bitter flavor. Regardless of their excuse, a hunter means to show his masculinity by killing an animal and bragging to his friends. Remember, these man have a cadre of deadly weapons at their immediate disposal. The worst offenders are those who employ the services of a taxidermist.

The Sports Fan

Sports are a wonderful way to exercise and release tension, especially in a participatory or coaching role. However, a man who is broadly into two or more sports as a spectator is on the other side of this spectrum. Subjectively, I have found that a man’s mood and attitude can be directly affected by the performance of a collegiate or professional sports team. Frankly, that level of influence is disturbing. This indicates a narcissistic tendency which is projected through his financial investment in branded merchandise or memorabilia. Your relationship, family, and feelings will, at times, be relegated to the cheap seats.

The Overly Religious Man

In the absence of complete brainwashing as a child, which is evident in radical religious sects worldwide, adults turn to religion when something they value is missing in their lives. Love, money, health, status, or several other characteristics can drive a person to become a religious zealot. Once a person eschews the reality of the world you live in and decides things might be better on the other side, his behavior can become quite questionable. If quotations from his favorite book are a predominant part of his everyday conversation, you may want to have a discussion before you get seriously involved.

The Gangsta

Finally, any man who idolizes criminal activity, through music, movies, or in real life, has an innate desire to emulate his heroes. Sooner or later, he will act on that desire, and his naive and amateur actions could prove devastating to his life, career, and relationships. It is critically important to be firmly grounded in reality for any relationship to be successful.

“The path to a man’s heart can be found through his heroes.”
– Country music artist Jake McGrew

The Mail Order Bride.


Photo by Đàm Tướng Quân from Pexels

Fred (name changed) is a retired Air Force guy who ranked pretty highly before he retired nearly 20 years ago. Apparently, when you retire from the military, you get a large chunk of your final salary as a perpetual pension payment for the rest of your life. It’s a pretty sweet deal — it’s no wonder America is so broke. Fred’s wife divorced him several years back, which I understand is unfortunately common for military wives, considering all the travel and PTSD. It’s not an easy life. Fred says he’s not at all bothered by his divorce, as he utters a few choice words about his ex that I’m afraid to repeat. He says it was a good thing, and sums it up to having a “rusty old ball and chain” removed from his leg so he can “soar like a bird” during his golden years.


Fred was lonely. After striking out in the paltry local scene — the suburbs of a large military base with literally thousands of similar aged men in his situation — Fred set out to find some companionship. He had a sizable bank account, as he resided in a tiny home he paid off many years ago, drove a 20 year-old Crown Victoria, and rarely spent anything. The world was filled with options. And what kept resonating in his mind were the whores who serviced him years ago while stationed in the Philippine Islands.

“They seemed so young, happy, beautiful, and…” I cringed as I waited for it… “Submissive.” There it was — the typical long-held American stereotype for any Asian woman. Obviously, a Filipina whore is going to act submissive because you’re paying her to be submissive. It’s all about marketing. If she fulfills your fucked up fantasies, you’ll be back for more. Fred told me about several friends who brought their new Filipina friends home and married them. Twenty some years later, only one couple was still together. And that guy is never home, still doing “consulting” work for the military in the Philippines. She stays home to take care of the house. Fred remarked that Filipina women become accustomed to American culture, and that somehow ruins them and “turns them into bitches.” Regardless of these experiences, Fred still held strong to his fantasy, and firmly believed there was a perfect non-Filipina Asian woman waiting for him. Somewhere. And Fred was going to find her.

So what’s an aspiring 70 year-old guy to do? Go online and find him a wife! Fred signed up for a certain Asian dating website, and was careful to avoid Filipina women. After a brief “free trial,” bought credits that enabled him to immediately begin to correspond with a gorgeous 26 year-old Chinese woman. Several eight dollar emails later, Fred asked me to help him ship his new online love a brand new laptop computer, since she was supposedly corresponding from an internet cafe. Since there’s such a vast time difference, Fred didn’t feel she was safe at the cafe, so Fred also sent her money to get an internet connection in her home, where she lived with her elderly parents. My practicality softly attempted to caution him against this sort of behavior, but there was no stopping Fred and his quest. I began to mildly panic as alarms and sirens were going off inside my head. But who am I to stand between a man and his perceived happiness? He wrote her a check for $500 and slipped it into the laptop box with a Post-it note that said “I love you.” I told him he’d need to fill out customs forms and take his package to the post office, hoping that pain in the ass fiasco might slow him down. No such luck.

A couple weeks passed, and Fred stopped in to visit. He seemed cheery, but that was an act. After digging a bit, he admitted that his Chinese girlfriend “mysteriously disappeared” and was no longer on the dating website. But that did not deter Fred. He found a service through a friend that takes men to several Asian countries and sets up real dates with real Asian women who are looking to emigrate to America. I couldn’t believe there was such a service, but sure enough, these exist. And not just for American men searching for Asian brides. Domestic companies have set up shop with tours to Brazil, Columbia, Mexico, Russia, Ukraine, and even the Dominican Republic that operate under a tourist guise. They’ll typically set up a meeting in a hotel among usually older fee-paying American men and a healthy group of much younger local women who are looking for love that only an older American man can provide — or more likely, an American meal ticket. If couples agree they’ve found something they like, payments and visas are set up, and the man returns in several weeks to bring his bride back home. Fred went to China.

Fred got back and was elated. This time, she was real. He had several pictures of the two of them in a hotel room, some in lingerie. Honestly, she was pretty hot – way above his pay grade. I asked how old this one was, and Fred told me she was 31. “A little more mature,” he remarked. And this time, she was Chinese — “no more of that Filipina problem” of which Fred seemed to be an expert. Fred began to call Filipinas “damaged Asians.” About eight weeks or so later, Fred returned to China to pick up his bride and return her on an engagement visa. They were supposed to get married here. I was looking forward to performing the ceremony, as I am a an ordained minister and a notary.

I haven’t seen Fred since his return trip. I’ve asked around to see if any of his co-workers had heard from him, but no one had spoken with Fred. The mailman did have a clue – said there was a forwarding address somewhere in California. I suppose Fred found the love of his life, and one of them decided Fred wanted to live in Cali.

After Fred’s experience, I began to notice my area had an abundance of American-Asian couples, mostly older men with younger brides. My naivete previously led me to believe these were adopted daughters. I began to evaluate the disconnect that causes a man to travel across the world to find love; and also the one that causes a woman to permanently leave her home and family behind. There are several psychological and monetary flaws at work here that can’t possibly lead to true happiness.

Or can they?

For more on the reality side of things, visit these sites:

The Five Men Women Should Avoid.

My daughters are active in the dating world. I attempted to steer them towards becoming lesbians by ensuring them I am a tolerant hipster, but that didn’t work out. I figured lesbian daughters might stave off my becoming a grandfather prematurely. But I am more concerned about broken hearts, and more so, broken dreams. I have seen one too many failed relationships that have taken a brutal toll on formerly happy people, permanently inserting a fork in their road of life that headed in the wrong direction. Any responsible dad should attempt to protect his children from such a fate.

From my years of experience in dating, being dated, and observing others, here are the five men you and your daughters would be better off avoiding. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. But those exceptions are quite rare. Don’t fall into that endless chasm of hope that blinds your reality.


I’m not talking about the ex-paratrooper who proudly displays his unit on a now faded obscure tattoo on his upper arm. I’m talking the brother with the complete sleeve tattoos, on both arms, and now the front and back of his neck. If you’re not in that underworld, a pro tat studio charges upwards of $500 for one single two to three inch single-color segment on an arm. Count up all the five-spots, and these fools have spent upwards of $5,000 permanently defacing their bodies. Crazy tattoo people are ant-establishment, i.e., anti-civilization. They have given up trying to fit in to society, knowing damn well that a business suit will fail to hide their “art.” Obviously, this will permanently limit their earning ability, which leads to housing in less-desirable areas, which leads to less-desirable schools for your future children, and I’m sure you can imagine how that typically ends up. Be especially aware of face tattoos, which indicate a certain type of mental situation. And learn to recognize gang and prison tattoos for a whole other bunch of warning signs.


It’s common knowledge that smoking (anything) is most likely bad for your health. A good indication of common sense might be that someone avoids smoking altogether until a final consensus is reached. Also, now that a pack of cigarettes is about five or six bucks, that’s a pricey habit for a fairly mediocre and temporary nicotine high. Vapes are even worse. Most people begin smoking because they think it looks cool, and that should be the first sign of trouble – an insecurity complex. Insecure people do strange and unpredictable things, like harder drugs and having sex with risky people.

Oh – and if he used the “medicinal purposes” excuse, you might want to see this note from the United States Attorney General:


The easiest indication of an apparent narcissist, these fools shave their beards or moustaches into strangely alien configurations. It takes a lot of time to groom yourself, which is usually a good thing. But the fact that a man feels the need to shave his beard into a perfectly shaped pattern indicates he’s looking to attract attention, and usually from the opposite sex. He thinks he’s daring and masculine with his wannabe model looks. While a normal guy lets his beard grow naturally, or a man lets his facial hair grow a couple days into a natural scruff, this brother is on a mission. And it’s usually not a good mission for you or your daughter.


There’s a difference between fitness and narcissism. Think a bicycle rider versus a weight lifter. The bike rider is getting cardiovascular exercise, seeing some sights in fresh air, and actually going somewhere. The weightlifter is working on that six-pack and Popeye arms for another reason – vanity. He’s attempting to look buff for a reason – to attract compliments from his weight-lifting homies, or to pick up narrow-minded women with a low IQ. Sure, women are wired to search for a man who they think will protect them and their offspring. And no doubt these guys are nice to look at. The problem is the situation is usually temporary. And you get a little older and begin to look your age, he’s off to his next conquest, and that means you (and your children) will be left alone. And eventually, that pretty body mass turns to fat.


More like flat and spurious. Or, slow and just kinda angry. These are the idiots who spend more on their car accessories than their rent because they’re trying to emulate a fictional franchise of terrible movies. Ironically, a 1990 Honda Civic will run you about $3,000. The lowering kit, drilling a hole in the muffler (to get that real lawn mower sound), and those hideous tin-looking wheels might cost upwards of $6,000. Fuzzy dice?
Priceless. These boys are horribly insecure, using their jacked-up automobiles to compensate for lack of personality (or penis girth). Ironically, the dimwits who drive these cars probably have copious tattoos, a beard shaved into something that looks like a shovel, smoke like fiends, and probably have a membership to the local budget gym. See where this is going?

It’s all about bad judgment. Most youthful bad judgment stems from insecurity. Insecurity breeds poor choices and instability. I don’t want that for my daughters, and you shouldn’t want that for yourselves either.

Why White Women Date Black Men

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Why do you see a growing number of white women with black men, but not much of the opposite? There is something strange going on. In my non-scientific observations, it appears there is at least a 30-1 ratio. But why is this situation so lopsided? Even popular television shows like Parenthood and Satisfaction have created story lines where white teenage girls fall for African-American boys. Ironically, it never seems to work out, even on television. But why the sudden Jungle Fever fascination?

If you haven’t experienced this phenomenon for yourself, your first thought may be the penis size myth. Sorry, my African-American brethren, but most of you have more short-dick European DNA than you think. African descendent men have largely cross-bred with Caucasian races since the first slave ship reached Jamestown in 1619, so the average size of black men is pretty close to that of the white population. As a matter of fact, global studies have shown pure Africans tend to be closer to average also. This idea perpetuates stereotypes of black men that started when Europeans first set foot in Africa in the sixteenth century. Europeans believed that Africans were a people without God and therefore sexually uncontrollable. Their purported anatomy and inclinations supposedly enticed white women, and is still propagated by black men even today. White men used that awful N word to put their brothers down, and black men retaliated with this rumor, which is much more effective.


Statistically speaking, according to the United States Census, roughly 13% of the American populace is “black alone” – meaning they consider themselves purely African-American. Going with that stat, and the common assumption that males to females is pretty much 1:1 between the ages of 15-64 across all races, you’d assume there’s someone for everyone across most races. Except if you’re of Middle Eastern or Indian descent, where it’s practically a sin to birth a female. So let’s dig into this. My questions were – why are all these brothers going vanilla instead of chocolate, and what are the disproportionate amount of black women doing?

First, for those of you who refuse to read beyond headlines or pictures, you probably didn’t get this far anyway. But just in case there is a shit storm, please let your sisters know that I personally don’t have a problem with interracial relationships. Many of my closest friends — black, yellow, and peach — have dabbled in various colors. I have too. My light-skinned honey Tonya was the woman I should have married, but I was too naive to realize that in my 20s. As a matter of fact, a yellow world would solve a whole lot of human problems, especially here in Murica.

As a popular nightclub DJ in Philadelphia and New Jersey during the 1990s, I witnessed what I considered the beginning of this movement. Let’s take a look at the observations I’ve made over the past two decades about Caucasian ladies who prefer a dark-skinned man. I used to think it was strictly a New Jersey thing, because Jersey is so completely f-ed up irreparably in a number of ways, but that is certainly not the case. Jersey is more normal than I could have ever guessed. Anyway, here’s what I’ve noticed.


No offense intended, Jennifer, Mary, and Susan, but with few exceptions, white women who hook up with darker-skinned black men aren’t typically the best looking white women. Again, there are exceptions, but most interracial daters are slightly overweight women who don’t spend much time on makeup or hair. It is absolutely true that brothers do love much back – for the uninitiated white suburban SAH, that means a large and curvaceous ass. Why? Beats me. That’s a psychological curiosity for another day. Many interracial daters prefer to pull their hair back into an obscenely tight bun or corn rows of some sort, ostensibly because it resembles the look of a typical African-American woman. Not sure why this is a thing, because DeDandre obviously doesn’t like black women’s hair, or we wouldn’t be talking about this. But whatever. These Caucasian women were most likely discarded at some point by not-so-nice Caucasian men due to various personality defects (on either side).

In some cases, a reason for interracial dating may involve a parental defect. The Caucasian girl abhors her parents, and what better way to piss off Bill and Barbara than by bringing a black man home for a holiday dinner. Their typical redneck Caucasian friends and neighbors now have the ammunition to sling mud for decades. She wins the battle easily — her parents will have to move for sure.

Or, perhaps the local area availability of suitable Caucasian options may be thin, especially if parents don’t live in a socioeconomically advantageous area, or if you have attended a “diverse” school. Peer pressure drives the acceptance of cross-race dating, regardless of parental influence.

Of course we’re simply skimming the surface of the sea of reasons why white women visit the dark side. Mom and Dad, honestly, it’s really no big deal.


But what about the brother’s perspective? Why would an African-American man eschew his own culture and date a white girl?

My observations show brothers who date white women, with obvious exceptions, tend to be suburban, gainfully employed, and upwardly mobile. In other words, they’re just like anyone else in the burbs, other than the color of their skin. You may find it surprising that in many situations, a Jamal may be a much better catch than a Jerry for any woman. Black men also have quite a few personality advantages that seem quite attractive to women, including an aversion to typical Euro-douchebaggery including hockey, hunting, and NASCAR.

Thanks to America’s evil European land-granted ancestors and their still wealthy descendants, typical African-American men have been playing societal catch up for hundreds of years. It’s understandable that they want to feel at least equal if not superior to their Caucasian counterparts. This is one of the reasons that many people, black and white, crave designer labels and luxury cars. And dating the white prize helps certain African-American men feel privileged, as if they’ve finally been accepted into the Euro-Caucasian dominated culture.

I still haven’t figured out why certain youngsters, both white and black, wear their pants below their asscheeks, but we’ll save that too for another discussion.


Here’s where I always run into trouble. I truly feel for Tasheka and all the other discarded African-American women. They gotta be mad as hell that all these fine-looking brothers are hooking up with some nappy-looking white women.

But, from what I’ve heard firsthand from my own black friends, there is a very good chance that African-American men had one or more bad experiences with a black woman. I’ve known several black women who seemed to have a seriously bad attitude towards, well, everything. I can vouch that black women are quite opinionated, argumentative, and, at times, ridiculously demanding — qualities not unseen in typical asexual feminists. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but most men tend to appreciate the path of least resistance. A typical average-looking white woman with a few extra pounds seems to be much more laid back than almost any black woman.

Finally, there are many African-American men and women who migrated to the suburbs or more segregated areas in a metropolis, and grew up with more of the typical American white influence. These are the kids who grew up with music played on instruments rather than drum machines, and who appreciate the artistry and legitimate musicianship of people like Lenny Kravitz, Prince, and Darius Rucker rather than drum loops and senseless narcissistic lyrics spewed by the likes of Tupac and Jay Z. African-American men and women who have assimilated into typical Caucasian-dominated mainstream suburban culture are more apt to cross racial lines in friendships and relationships.

On the flip side, yo, there are quite a few black women who prefer dating white men. Unfortunately, this situation doesn’t seem to come close to representing the numbers of the converse situation just yet. That would certainly help the overall acceptance of colorblind relationships. Anyway, here’s what I’ve noticed about black women who prefer white guys.

A black woman who dates a white guy tends to be much more agreeable and accepting than her sisters. She’s a heartbeat away from being a Valley Girl herself, but it seems to be an act. A black woman who has a higher education is more likely to date a white man. Why? I honestly have no idea, but I guess it’s most likely a socioeconomic thing.

Her hair may be straightened, and she’ll dress like a prep.  Most likely, she’ll have a more common white name like Cheryl or Natalie rather than Tamika or Tonisha. As I sat at a bar in Las Vegas recently, talking with two mixed couples ironically on either side of me at the bar, I also realized black women who date white men tend to be extremely extroverted and open-minded. Both were loud and involved in everyone’s conversations. They exchanged phone numbers. To the older more conservative looking white man’s dismay, his date befriended a gay male couple sitting across from her. He looked extremely perturbed and completely ignored them. His date exchanged hugs and phone numbers with them as her date steamed. I didn’t particularly care for that douchebag.

Now, here’s the unfortunate part. I have noticed a disproportionate subset of the white men who prefer black women are typically nerdy dorks. Think video gamers, introverted engineers, Anime collectors, or devoted Star Wars fans. Caucasian men who date African-American women may have given up on white women. They’ve typically been stuck in a small social group and failed miserably. These white men typically bring those failed aspirations to their mixed relationship, ostensibly hopeful that these black women have lesser standards, which is certainly not the case.

And then there are the groups of privileged dweebs who feel guilt for their slave-owning ancestors. These are the Starbucks guys, hipsters who, with little effort, and hell-bent on changing the world for all the wrong reasons. I’m sure you can guess why these guys may not be the best investment for a long-term relationship.

Interracial dating is a big thing today. It’s not a bad thing, but it’s not for everyone. If you’re not really into it, don’t try it just to try it – playing with people’s hearts isn’t a nice thing to do.

What have you noticed that you have found interesting? For more of my thrilling insights into men, women, dating, and parenting, pick up my one of my books here.

Half plus 8.

Half plus 8? More like just half.

Half plus 8? More like just half.

Half plus 8? What’s that? A mathematical algorithm that will cure cancer and foster world peace? The equation to safe nuclear fission? A clue to free and unlimited power? Nah. This is even better.

One fine Saturday afternoon, I was slumming in the Melbourne Square Mall with my unusually beautiful daughter. Think Kate Upton, only two, maybe three levels hotter. Honestly, that mall scares the bejesus out of me these days. Call me paranoid, call me a wussy, call me what you will, but just don’t call me late for dinner. She had to use the, um, facilities, and couldn’t wait until I scouted out a much safer location. I waited outside the frightening hallway until she did her business. A bearded, disheveled 50-something bearded man was standing outside the ladies’ room across from me, hopefully waiting for his better half. I was packing, and I am trained, but I hope to never need to actually use it. He was snickering about something as he watched my daughter enter the ladies’ room. That made me even more uneasy.

“You did it right, my friend,” he said, in a disturbing cackle. “I’m sorry,” I replied nervously. “Can I help you?” I said. He laughed some more, pointing at me and coming into my safe space. Honestly, I was pooping my pants at this point, beginning to slowly reach my right hand around to my holster. “That girl, you got to get ’em young!” he exclaimed. “Half plus 8, right?” Now that I realized this homeless-looking guy actually had some kind of point he wanted to discuss, I was mildly eased. “Half plus 8?” I said, obviously confused, hoping to keep him laughing to avoid escalating any possible situation. “Half plus 8! How old are you?” he asked. “Forty. Five,” I said, wondering why I was sharing anything personal with this guy. “Yeah, yeah. So she’s what? Twenty something?” I realized he was referring to my daughter. “About that, yeah,” I replied, now curious, and wondering where this was going. I moved my right hand back towards my side.

“Bro, what are you talking about?” I said, as friendly as I could. “My girl, she was exactly half plus 8. I was 52, and she was 34 when I married her. Half my age, plus 8 years. It’s the perfect age for a woman – half plus 8!” Oh, sweet Jesus, I thought to myself. I did some calculations in my head, which in retrospect was pretty grotesque. I figured, according to the crazy guy’s logic, my perfect woman would then be roughly 31. Obviously, this guy needed some new glasses. I worked backwards a bit to see if his theory made any sense, or if it could actually get you in trouble. If you were, say, 18, would his theory hold without getting someone busted for statutory? Well, 9 plus 8 is 17, which technically is safe. How about a 12 year-old? Six plus 8 is an older woman. That kind of made sense too. What if you were 100? Technically, fifty-eight didn’t seem all that far out of whack either.

I thought some more, and realized, “You know, it doesn’t stay that way, right?” He looked at me funny. “What do you mean?” I was afraid to burst his bubble, but I was feeling cocky and empowered with my superior mathematics skills and eighth grade education. “It’s a moving target. Say, you’re 50, and you got a half-plus-8 woman of 33. What happens when you’re 60? Your magic number then becomes 38. The 50 year-old’s woman would then be 43. What do you do then?”

A thirty-something Asian woman, probably Filipino, she had that look, walked out of the bathroom and took his arm. He looked at her a little funny. I hoped I hadn’t unknowingly talked him into an endless sequence of upgrades. My daughter followed a few moments later. Fortunately, the crazy guy was gone by then. I snickered to myself, and told my daughter she should look for double, plus 8. I reminded her why you shouldn’t really talk to strangers.

Catcalling and the new feminist revolution.

Most modern democracies celebrate the very important freedoms of speech and expression. One look at Iraq, Egypt, or even India will help you realize how valuable that freedom is. American women cherish their freedom to choose a mate, a religion, and not to wear a burka. And somehow, that’s not enough for some women. Quite a few women believe they have a democratic right to selectively not hear things they don’t want to hear — but that rule should apply only to certain people. That’s an impossible balance. I can’t figure out how all that could possibly jive in a free society.

So let’s talk about this stupid video. Some production company was hired by some activist to make a video following a woman through the streets of New York City. Both are quite selfishly interested in editing ten uninteresting hours of video into something that’s much toothier in an effort to create something that might go viral. And it did. During their 15 minutes of fame, they’ve succeeded in opening yet another unimportant wound in racism and sexism.

Author Steve Santagati and some wannabe comedian/uber-feminist named Amanda Seales duked it out on CNN. Santagati and his calm demeanor attempted to reason with a belligerent Seales in a no-win situation. Perhaps Santagati was not aware that any conversation with a feminist is typically not a conversation. Seales was undoubtedly capitalizing on this unwinnable argument to elevate her career.

You tell me: which one of these humans looks like Satan’s spawn?

To illustrate the problem with this situation, let’s play a little game. Seales is walking carefree down West 47th Street with her pumpkin-orange hair proudly popping in the breeze. A standard New York brotha takes notice and issues a non-offensive compliment. Seales indicates she’d have a problem with that, calling it sexist. She turns the corner to Broadway and runs into Denzel Washington, who ironically issues the same exact compliment. How do you think Seales would react this time?

You feel me, dawgs?

Feminists are always angry about something. And black women are always angry. About everything. Therefore, logically, the single most dangerous creature in the free world is an angry black feminist. It sure seems to me that Seales fits that bill. Although my friends will not admit nor deny it, it is certainly not difficult to understand the growing trend of black men dating white women. Not that all white women are sugar and daisies — but most are much more pleasant than your standard ginger-haired black woman. There’s a blog post about that here somewheres.

Why I became a bad boy.

Mr. Grey will see you now.

Mr. Grey will see you now.

I was once a nice guy who used to run a retail computer repair store. Turns out that nice guys are a terrible businessmen, as I found out in a particularly rude manner. For almost nine years, we had a policy of free diagnoses for customer computers. We’d let people bring their computers in and we’d run several tests, utilizing pricey tools and a tremendous amount of time in an effort to figure out what was ailing their computers. Most folks had us perform at least a minor paid repair. Late one afternoon, a gentleman wandered into my store with a broken computer. After several hours of hard work, we determined there was a problem with the memory on the video card on his computer. When we offered to sell him a fairly priced replacement, he said, “Nah, I’ll pick one up myself.” I asked him why he would take his business somewhere else, considering the favor we had already done for him. He replied with words that will forever be etched in my mind:

Well, you’re stupid for doing something for free. Who does that?

As he left smiling smugly, I entertained the thought of purchasing a contraband rocket launcher and firing it directly into the back of his shiny new Mercedes. The more I thought about it, I discovered every man I know who drives a Mercedes is pretty much a dick. But this dick was absolutely right. Any non-deity who amounts to anything does anything for free. After that epiphany, I wouldn’t pick up a screwdriver without an upfront diagnostic fee.

I learned that trading in a used vehicle is the stupidest financial mistake you can make, so I decided to help my wife sell her used Honda. We did some research on market values, and decided on a bottom line price. Some nerdy engineer offered the magic number, we accepted it. At work the next day, he later tells my wife that I am a poor negotiator, since he would have paid more. I waited in the parking lot the next week to confront that prick. I asked him why he didn’t just pay more instead of being a backstabbing douchebag? He denied everything as he cowered in fear as his morbidly obese wife rushed him into the car to drive him home.

It was that day when I realized most guys are dicks. But why do women pursue dicks rather than nice guys? Why do we constantly end up alone or with sloppy seconds — women well past their prime, emotionally damaged, and laden with someone else’s baggage? And why does it always seem it’s my responsibility to fix the fucking world? Just ask anyone you know, and I’m sure you’ll find this ridiculous behavior is all around you too.

My friend’s now ex-husband, who happened to drive a Mercedes, was a successful salesman. He traveled well over half the year, attending various meetings and conferences all over the world. His wife stayed home and tended to their children. She admits that she enjoyed her perks, including a membership to a swanky tennis club, unlimited spa treatments, and a nanny. She considered herself a “stay at home mom,” but now realizes she was nothing more than a well-compensated whore (her words). Upon questioning her marriage and getting involved in a heated argument about certain expenses that showed up on his credit card statement, he spit in her face and called her ungrateful. She filed for divorce. She now lives on an exuberant child support check. She lost her Mercedes and settled for a high-level Hyundai, and has begin to date well-to-do non-spitting men who, to me, seem to resemble her ex-husband.

But the worst thing I’ve ever seen happened in a bar. He was an all-American blonde-haired blue-eyed bad boy bartender in a shitty Philadelphia suburb. He had his choice of hundreds of women, but kept a very pretty girl at home at his apartment. He used to brag that he forbade her from coming to the bar, telling her it was too dirty or dangerous for a girl like her. And everyone at the bar knew he was playing his concubine. Apparently, this proved to be a bit too tempting for one certain female patron. She was going to sleep with this bartender no matter what it took. Somehow, he jokingly brokered a deal with her, promising he’d do her in her car if she paid him five hundred dollars. She left the bar and came back with the cash a short time later. Sure enough, shortly after 2 AM, with a few hundred people surrounding the car during the event, he fulfilled the contract. She came back the next week telling him she was pregnant. The manager banned the psycho. She stalked him for a while, confronted the girlfriend, and it turned into a disastrous situation for the psycho and the concubine. He let them both go and moved on to his next victim.

Why are women attracted to mean-spirited men?

If you believe that genetics has at least something to do with your overall personality and disposition, think about how humans have selectively bred mean people. For millenia, your ancestors stoned, mechanically separated, and burned those who questioned stupidity and preached progress. We’ve effectively eliminated a large chunk of pacifists and smart folks, leaving us with a disproportionate number of warriors, sheep, and idiots. Others surmise that women learn relationship norms from the behavior of their parents. An abusive father may unwittingly program his daughter’s mind to believe she too desires an abusive man. But that cannot possibly explain why the bad boy syndrome is so prevalent in today’s society.

Clinical psychologist Vinita Mehta thinks women may be drawn to “bad boys” who demonstrate confidence, stubbornness, and risk-taking tendencies. Dr. Mehta cites a study led by Gregory Louis Carter of the University of Durham revealing that more men than women possess the Dark Triad personality traits of narcissism, psychopathy, and Machiavellism. The hallmarks of narcissism include dominance, a sense of entitlement, and a grandiose self-view. It is believed that narcissism may advance short-term mating in men, as it involves “a willingness and ability to compete with one’s own sex, and to repel mates shortly after intercourse.” In line with these capabilities, the authors note, narcissists are adept at beginning new relationships, and identifying multiple mating opportunities. Mehta postulates that sexual conflict may be at play. Women may be responding to a man’s ability to ‘sell himself’; a useful tactic in which men convince women to pursue his preferred sexual strategy. Like a “used-car dealer,” men may be effective charmers and manipulators, furthering their success at short-term mating. There’s a sucker born every minute.

Caroline Kent writes about relationships and dating for The Telegraph, and seems to be an authority on dating bad boys. Kent says she is most comfortable in chaotic emotional relationships, and bad boys are “some sort of screwed-up safety blanket.” Kent writes, “Perhaps I am so used to being independent that I’ve become scared to let someone really be there for me, so I select emotionally unavailable people.” The attraction seems to stem from the belief that bad boys are exciting and spontaneous, perhaps supplanting an inherent need for entertainment. Kent follows with what may be the ultimate lame excuse: “It’s because many of us feel we don’t deserve better.”

Women eventually figure out that bad guys are a bad investment. All the excitement and drama she thrived on has turned into painful memories. She has learned that she deserves a man who will love her unconditionally and treat her with respect. Ironically, by the time she realizes this, her youth is well past her, her safe child-bearing years have eclipsed her, and the only available men are the same pool of assholes she’s trying to avoid.

For a brief moment, in between my first and second marriages, I became one of those bad boys. Somehow, I could easily and clearly identify women who appreciated narcissists, and I morphed into that person for my own gratification. I was scary effective, too. I’m not gonna lie — my experience was fucking fabulous. I got tail I know for a fact was way above my pay grade — tail I never dreamed a guy like me could tag. At the same time, it was frightening to know my daughter might someday fall into the same trap. I affixed my bad boy switch to the off position permanently, and turned my attention to identifying the potential threats to myself and my children.

For those who care, and for those who care about someone else who may be affected by the bad boy syndrome, here are some of the incredibly effective attributes I used when I was a bad boy:

  • I was smooth as Ex-Lax on a warm summer day. I held the door open for her, I pulled her chair out, I paid for her drinks. And I complimented her on everything – hair, eyes, nails, even shoes. Women eat that shit up, even if they know you’re full of shit.
  • I molded myself to look a little too perfect. I asked leading questions, and I filled in her blanks. I made myself everything she wanted and more, whether I could deliver or not. I created a persona that she couldn’t resist. By the time she found out I was bluffing, it was too late. I was already gone.
  • I was very busy — all the time. Told her I’d be out of town for the next few weeks on business. That made me even more desirable.
  • I came on very strong and fast. I didn’t hesitate to ask for exactly what I wanted, and I made it sound like it was now or never. And I always got it.


#$%&@#!! Menopause.

TIme for a beverage.

Time for a beverage.

It’s nine AM on Sunday morning. In twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be wasting my time and talent at my dead-end job hating life wishing the weekend was here again. It’s in my best interest, for my health and sanity, for Sunday to be a good day. I have trained myself to consciously keep this in mind as I tiptoe through the minefield of reality in my domestic existence, usually biting my tongue until it bleeds.

My experience in life has shown me there is a light at the end of the tunnel with regard to women and hormonal imbalances. By the time a woman reaches about 29, mortality sets in. She sees 30 quickly approaching on her horizon and decides to forego all the games and silliness of her relationship pandering days. And she will be wonderfully adjusted, light-hearted, thankful, forgiving, and agreeable for the next fifteen years.

Then something horrific happens. At about 45, things begin to change. It’s not quite a reversion to her pre-thirties behavior, but this change often does have its similarities. A period of utter confusion overcomes many women as their hormones invoke the shutdown of her reproductive facilities. Chemical imbalances run rampant. Body temperatures as well as temperaments spike and fall almost randomly. One little bump in the road becomes an inescapable sinkhole. I can’t fathom how it feels for her personally, but as I attempt to empathize, I curse whomever or whatever created this diversion loudly and without abandon as it ruins my Sundays.

My parents both died young. I hope that I have somewhere between 500-700 Sundays left before I end up in a cardboard box to be returned to the dirt from which I came. My Sundays are more important with each one that passes. I’m not sure how long this journey through “the change” will last, though I have heard horrible stories from others who have voyaged down this treacherous river. Fortunately, most survived and have docked at a second even more stable plateau somewhere in the 50s.

The only advice I can offer is to be there. There is nothing you can say to affect anything. Sit there, quietly, and offer whatever affectionate gestures you can. Don’t be discouraged if you are put off. She doesn’t mean it. She can’t help it. It’s like an alien worm has bored into her cerebrum and stolen her personality from within. I can attest that she is still in there. And hopefully she will come back, better than ever.

In the meantime, I suppose I will have to temporarily suspend my Sunday philosophy. It’s now 1 PM, and things have settled down. The power of a well-timed hug is inexplicable. Don’t give up. I wish you the best of luck.

Women’s Obsession With Tall Men: The Problem With 6’2″

Abdul Jabber: the tallest man Dubai. Image courtesy of Darrin Jenkins.

Back in high school and college, it was commonplace to see tall men surrounded by the opposite sex. It seems people clamor to be around tall people as if it helps them elevate their own social standing. I stand at just about six feet tall – not super tall, but a smidge over average. Ironically, I’ve always been the shortest in my group – my homies average 6’3″. This article refers to the truly tall — those who are at least 6’2″.

Over the years, various surveys have recorded women’s preferences in certain traits found in men. Studies routinely find that a high income, a deep voice, and great shoes are important to certain women when choosing a mate. But the biological jackpot is purely physical. It seems some women love very tall men over anything else. Why? The Journal of Family Issues finds a woman thinks a taller man makes her feel safe, and/or more femine.

Here’s the thing. Today’s average American male is about 5’10” tall while the average female is 5’4″. The average heel is roughly 3″ high, meaning that even the average guy still stands two inches taller than her in heels, even without his shoes. Nearly half of all women surveyed indicated women prefer a man who is taller than she. Fortunately, the other half doesn’t seem to have the same preference, or would not admit that they do. Ironically, regardless of her height and the difference between her height and a prospective suitor’s height, a man of average height or less may not seem to be attractive enough for many women.

Apparently, the perfect height has been cited in various studies and fictional accounts at about 6’2″. This presents a fundamental problem of supply and demand. Although half of the population of adult men are taller than the average height, the remainder are shorter. And with each inch of additional height above average, the slice of the statistical pie of taller suiters becomes logarithmically smaller. Since taller men are in such high demand, the share of the population of taller men who are available for courting is disproportionately small.

Basically, if the “perfect height” is what you’re after, then unless you look like a pre-pregnant Scarlett Johanssen, you might have better luck getting struck by lightning.

There are several advantages for a woman who manages to capture the heart of a taller man. Throughout history, height has been proven to show a high correlation with success in business. There is some truth to a taller man providing some additional level of security from a deterrence standpoint. Subjectively, a taller man may also provide a social edge for an insecure or narcissistic woman.

Let’s also look at the downsides of courting a taller man. Firstly, since taller men are in such high demand, competition will be fierce for his attention, in the unlikely event that he is still available. If you didn’t catch him in school, you may have come to the party a bit too late. Secondly, since he is probably well aware of his varied options, he may not have the incentive to work as hard in a relationship, knowing he has a waiting list if you falter. Thirdly, there are the physical aspects of dating someone who is disproportionately taller. Besides the neck strains, bending over for a peck on the cheek, and several potentially awkward if not impossible Kama Sutra positions, taller men have been shown to have a shorter life span than their vertically challenged brethren. And some extremely tall men suffer hormonal imbalances which may make certain facial or bodily features appear abnormal.

Considering thousands of years of human evolution, a larger male would be desirable in order to protect his flock from animals or invaders. However, in a civilized society, an over-average sized mate is no longer relevant. Perhaps some of these tall-hungry women may require a minor mental recalibration.

Snow Jobs.

To give or not to give...

To give or not to give… that is the hangup.

There’s something about waking up in the most special of ways. You know, where your woman (or man) inconspicuously works his or her way down to your most private areas, and begins a slow and loving physical stimulation that seems to set the day off in a glorious way. Unfortunately, this rarely happens. Bad breath, personal hygiene, rushed schedules, stress, insecurity, perceived ineptitude, caring for children, or general malaise typically interferes with waking up in the most special of ways. And that’s too bad.

This should be no big deal. The new girlfriend has no problem with that sort of activity! All you’ll have to do is ask. As a matter of fact, you won’t even have to ask in most cases. Thankfully, Dr. Samantha Rodman admits when women are in a new relationship their sex drive dramatically increases, hormonally. When her sex drive is up and/or she is very aroused, she is more inclined to be less inhibited. So that’s when you get all the oral sex. Then, as the relationship stabilizes, her sex drive tanks. And guess what? You’ll be lucky if you get the special wake up call on your birthday, if ever again.

So what’s the deal with women? Are they scamming men, or is this some sort of bizarre hormonal incompatibility? I believe it’s a little of both. If you’ve been around the block a few times, as I have, you’ll begin to recognize the pattern. If you’re a person with certain insatiable needs, one way to avoid the snow job is lay it on the line early. Perhaps monogamy may not be for you. And that’s fine — you have to be a confident individual to admit that. Many potential partners of both sexes will agree. 

You don’t want to force anyone to do anything they don’t want to do. There’s nothing worse than fellatio given by someone who hates doing it. It won’t be satisfying for either of you. I do have a certain friend who has figured out a creative incentive. He tells potential partners that his seed contains mystical properties, including stem cells, which have been proven to be re-generational and may be the secret to reversing the effects of age. Of course, this isn’t true, but you have to admit it’s a brilliant angle that’s difficult to logically dispute. I tried it myself, but my partner is a bit too intelligent. That in itself is a turn on. Back to the drawing board.

The Need for Sexual Deviance.

You want me to put what where? Perhaps that's what a certain Hall and Oates song was about...

You want me to put what where? Perhaps that’s what a certain Hall and Oates song was about…

The Fifty Shades of Grey movie is arriving in theaters this Valentines Day. It’s not that countless women haven’t already read the book, but a major motion picture has the odd effect of validating any idea into mass acceptance. Perhaps reading is a closet activity, and movies are a way of coming out. Regardless, what’s considered to be normal American sexuality is about to get an upending.

Sexual deviance has been around as long as humans have been twerking. Deviance may be defined as any atypical sexual relations. Binding, pain, and abnormal procedures are frequently involved. But why is it necessary? I hypothesize various reasons for such behavior.

1. Control.

Some folks genuinely embrace the role of a becoming a dominatrix or a slave. For a myriad of reasons I personally cannot comprehend yet psychologists attempt to explain, certain men and women enjoy being tied up, bound, whipped, and ultimately controlled; while others thrive in controlling a situation. With few exceptions, I’ve found many of these people aren’t necessarily the beautiful and powerful people you’ll see in that movie. They’re typically the antisocial outliers — society’s outcasts. Fortunately, they’ve found each other over the internet, avoiding many potentially uncomfortable or illegal situations. This situation has to be mutually agreeable.

2. Boredom.

After several years in a monogamous relationship, the missionary position becomes mundane. There are only so many Kama Sutra positions you can explore comfortably, especially as you age. Deviance offers an escape from the ordinary. Done tastefully and with trust, a little deviance can offer an interesting alternative to intercourse in a monogamous relationship.

3. Curiosity.

Books, movies, radio programs, gossip all add to the curiosity factor. After all, how can you know if you would not enjoy something if you have not explored it? Trust is very important while exploring deviance. 

I have to admit that I have delved into deviance, but only slightly and very briefly. Personally, the notion and procedures made me slightly uncomfortable. But looking back, I now realize I did not completely trust my partner, and that’s a huge factor.

Perhaps its time to open that chapter once again. Honey? Can we talk?

Why men go to strip clubs.

This is what he needs.

This is what he needs.

Hey ladies, don’t be pissed at me — I didn’t write the rules. Hate the game, not the playa, know what I’m sayin? Word to all you muthas, as we used to say back in the days of parachute pants and big hair. Don’t lie — you probably said it too.

Deep in the bowels of this blog, probably hidden succinctly in the last post or two, we’ve discussed how certain cat-owning athletic woman suffer from an absent libido soon after they’ve completed their reproductive tasks. It’s a chemical thing, and it is what it is. The problem is our disconnected libido levels. Daddy wants to keep getting his groove on, because that’s just how he’s built. His puny cerebrum his telling him to spread his seed, and his father told him to go forth and procreate. Daddy did what he was told. He found a good woman who was fabulously interested in him. No doubt she had a wonderfully active sexual drive at one time. There was no way for Daddy to know her libido had a mysterious off switch that would be Krazy Glued in the off position.

Mom doesn’t understand what’s going on with her body. Dad’s thinking it’s him. He wonders if she’s found someone else. Eventually, Mom will get a cat and begin jogging to shed that 30-something expanded midriff that suddenly showed up out of nowhere. Dad will sulk for a while and contemplate divorce, until he finds out many of his buddies are in the same boat. Wait — what? It’s not just me? Suddenly, things are looking up.

So what’s a group of forlorn dads to do? Why, head on out to Rachel’s Steakhouse, baby! There’s nothing better than cheap beer, Prime Rib, a couple dozen bare boobs, and a fat stack of crisp one dollar bills to make a lonely man feel worthy again. Dancers/strippers/exotic dancers are experts at making a man feel sexy and wanted. Some of the girls are married, some are moms, and some are even funding their college experience. It’s not unusual for a dancer to make a six-figure income. Shit, I’d do it if I could. There are always a few nasty crack hos to round up the mix, but they’re everywhere. Of course, it’s all show business — he’s not even allowed to touch the women, even during those $40 lap dances in the “Champagne Room.” Both parties are well aware of the rules. But a man can dream, can’t he?

And regardless of what he tells you, almost every male-only business trip involves an excursion to a place like this. Well, they did in the 1990s and early 2000s when I was still under the corporate ball and chain. Even today, some of the moms I know will fund the trip. She knows that if she can help fill his spank-bank, she won’t have to suffer through needless messy intercourse. Think about it… she has to deal with all the man-goo on her panties and inevitably on the sheets. Ten to one he ain’t doing the laundry. Plus, there’s always the outside chance that yet another parasitic human could be born, and who wants to start that crap all over again? No thank you, she thinks. Go to the titty bar, fine husband. Just make sure you come home without any foreign fluids on your Magic Johnson.

So that’s the deal, ladies. It’s not that he hates you. He probably still finds you quite attractive and very bangable. But you have, consciously or not, prominently hung a sign on the door on your privates that reads EXIT ONLY. He’s just following the rules.

A guy walks into a bar…

I’ve been boomswaggled before. Quite a few times, embarrassingly enough. After a while, you begin to recognize that if something smells like shit, it’s probably shit. But this shit smelled like pretty shit. Kind of like that type of shit that doesn’t stink, know where I’m getting? I know, I know… your olfactory begins to parfum-coat those things that you want to objectively believe. Before you know it, shit doesn’t smell like shit, and that vicious cycle begins all over again. As a matter of fact, Jake McGrew, my favorite country artist, just wrote a song about that called “Over and Over.” Anyway, she was a tall blonde, fairly weathered yet still acceptable looking, probably about in her mid-40s. I’ve always wondered why God is so harsh to fair-skinned folks in their forties. Perhaps that’s a karma slap (written and performed by Jake’s illegitimate brother) for all the fun that blondes have in their younger days. Wow — that family has songs for everything! Back on point. Her business suit, rimless glasses, oversized cubic zirconia ring, and Infiniti key dongle meant she was successful in some way — although today, I tend to question the legitimacy of success. Unfortunately, hard work no longer guarantees success in our society. You’ve got to have a slant, and it’s usually not a good one. I am a man of meager resources, and I surely didn’t want to support whatever her habits may be for naught.

She nuzzled up a little too closely when I sat down. I prominently clinked the tungsten band surrounding the third finger of my left hand on the top of my Grey Goose and tonic. Three olives, please. We got to talking, because that’s what bored people do during flight delays. After listening to thirty minutes or so of her bragging about her celebrity conquests, I mentioned that I had recently finished Diary of an Angry Father. Her eyes widened with what appeared to be a legitimate interest. Suddenly, she vocalized her grandiose thoughts of turning my book into a movie. But how could someone possibly recreate all the little situations I’ve lived through? The timeline wouldn’t make sense. She further explained it would be along the lines of Confessions of a Shopaholic, Eat Pray Love, or even Marley and Me. I mentioned an even better book called Mulligan by Olivia Black, but she had never heard of it. They’d write a story around the gist of my experiences, hopefully retaining most of my non-misogynistic sarcasm. She mentioned I would probably retain creative control over the screenplay, but I know that ain’t how it works.

Sure, I saw stars. And dollar signs. And any writer will have to admit it feels kinda cool when someone takes interest in your work. We’ve exchanged a few e-mails since then, but no concrete offers just yet. It could work out, and that might be kind of cool. The pessimist in me is still waiting for the call that will ask me to send someone a five thousand dollar writers fee or retainer to begin the process. I suppose her Infiniti payments are still on time, for now. In the meantime, life goes on. My rusted out car is still running, and they haven’t repossessed my trailer yet. I’ll keep posting additional ditties and thoughts here, on this blog, until there are enough for a book. Enjoy.

Running, Cats, and the Asexual Woman.

Had a kid, so what's the point?

Had a kid, so what’s the point?

In previous posts on a sister blog, and in my book, Diary of an Angry Father, we’ve chatted about many things that could be considered misogynistic. First of all, I am not anti-woman, anti-black, anti-Mexican, anti-Christian, antipasta, or anti-anything for that matter. I could be considered an equal opportunity hater — ostensibly, I despise everyone and everything equally. So get off your high-horse and listen closely. I haven’t judged you — yet.

I used to be a ladies’ man. As a matter of fact, country superstar Jake McGrew wrote a song about me titled Stud Muffin. It’s true. As a matter of fact, I’m half black — from the waist down. Being a stud was definitely not my choosing — I blame that on Mom and Dad. Their genetic concoction created a being who was irresistible to the opposite sex. Shoot, even the buff salesguys at Hollister still glance my way when they think I’m not paying attention. Fortunately, I’m rather humble. Being a ladies’ man is not all sugar and spice, my friends. It’s a lot of responsibility. Juggling hearts is not for the meek. In my situation, it has led to countless broken hearts and four wives. Although my looks are hanging in there, fortunately, for you women, I have become milder in my older age, and thanks to my lovely fourth wife, I have retired from the meet market. I suppose you’ll have to find someone else to satisfy your needs.

A thousand or so relationships easily creates one helluva a relevant and statistically-significant database in which I have made considerable inferences about women and relationships. One of those inferences may be the single most important of my career — that of women who keep cats. Please reserve your judgment of those finicky felines for now. Never you mind that they’re too independent to provide unconditional love like a dog. And forget for a moment that they’ll run off for days or even weeks at a time, completely forgetting your feelings and breaking your heart. One of my neighbors walks her cat on a leash (snicker). And please completely disregard the fact that I am allergic to those evil, breath-stealing, catnip-snorting, fish-breath balls of hate fur. The fact I’ve uncovered is women who keep cats tend to be asexual. They have zero interest in any sort of hetero- or homosexual relations whatsoever.

What is it about that combination of felinity and lack of femininity? Honestly — it’s not a lack of femininity at all. Cat keepers can be very feminine, attractive, warm, and sensitive people. Many of them work in the non-profit sector, with their sole goal in providing some sort of assistance for those in need. But there is definitely some sort of subconscious connection between the decision to get a cat, and the aversion of clitoral stimulation. As a matter of fact, cats have a clitoris too. But I digress. I have found this is more of a metaphysical connection. The cat supplants a man. And since the cat has no needs other than food and a place to shit, it’s not as needy as a man. Perhaps it’s that neediness that’s the turnoff. These cat women, like their cats, have an agenda. They’ve got things to do, and sex just gums everything up physically and emotionally. If your woman brought a cat into your relationship, she’s just told you you’re too clingy.

But the game goes on. Cat women will still prowl for men — not for love and physical intimacy, but for safety and financial security. They play a good game, making you think you’re important, until you’re bagged and tagged. I’ll be damned if I’m going to put my life on the line for some bitch who’s essentially using me. Wife #3 proved that hypothesis true. Cats are sneaky, and thus cat women are too. As the honorable George W. Bush once said, “Fool me once, fool you once…” You get the drift.

As an aside, I also noticed an interesting correlation among women who have cats, and who run. Cat keeping women who run regularly are exponentially more asexual than those who don’t. Not only does she deflect affection and attention by the distraction of the cat, she’s running from it too.

Fellas, if you’re asexual, harboring a hidden STD, or have an unusually tiny ween, a running cat woman is definitely what you want to chase. Otherwise, add those strikes to your checklist.

The “I Give Up” Hairstyle.

karen haircut

From a Reddit user

Women throughout history have prided themselves on long, flowing, stylish hair. Except for those horrid 1960s beehives, sadly mistaken 1980s hairstyles, and today’s misadvised undercuts, the mane has always been a symbol of beauty.

When that mane has been removed, I suspect there may be an accompanying warning.

An involuntary loss of hair is completely understandable, as is the case with women who suffer from various medical conditions. Many women choose to cover the hair loss with a stylish wig, while others are proud to display her courage in her battle for health.

However, those who shave, undercut, and otherwise shorten their hair voluntarily are sending a troubling message. Once reserved for older women who were obviously done with the mating process, the short haircut has migrated to a fashion statement with many of today’s younger women. That statement may indicate one or more of the following:

  1. I’m too busy with my career or motherhood to deal with doing my hair.
  2. I am comfortable in my relationship, and since we’re established, there is no need to attract attention to myself.
  3. I am a full-fledged lesbian and do not want to deal with men hitting on me.
  4. My hormones have turned on me after having children and I now hate sex.
  5. I have completely given up on men.

Does a short hair really mean she’s given up? If I am wrong, please set me straight. And what’s the equivalent conscious choice for a man?