Articles Archive for 12 May 2004
God bless this person (a female), who emailed me re: my Upper Hand post of Monday:
[FYI: The same applies with making out - once you've made out with a person, it's ok to make out with them again, and you shouldn't have to work very hard to do so. That's the rule. I didn't make it up; I just enforce it.]
I encourage the reader who wrote this to email me again with her mailing address, so I can send her a check for $40 for cheering me up, because it’s been a pretty crappy day (by the time I got down to the cafeteria to grab some lunch, the frozen yogurt machine was out of vanilla, so you can imagine the pain I’m in right now).
I still think you have the upper hand. Guys always get drunk and try to get their ex-girlfriends to sleep with them. This has happened to me and many of my friends more than a few times, so it really ISN’T a big deal. But you still have the upper hand because her calling you on the anniversary of your break-up is much weirder than you asking her to go home with you. That’s kind of crazy.Most of the emails I’ve gotten regarding this have said one of two things: “Yeah, you definitely lost the upper hand” or “You blew it, but you can blame it on the booze.” But this one is really wonderful, and hits the nail on the head of the point I was trying to make: it’s not a big deal. Not at all. Once you sleep with someone, it shouldn’t be a big deal to sleep with them again. Sure, I was drunk and I was stupid, but whatever – I stand by my drunkeness.
[FYI: The same applies with making out - once you've made out with a person, it's ok to make out with them again, and you shouldn't have to work very hard to do so. That's the rule. I didn't make it up; I just enforce it.]
I encourage the reader who wrote this to email me again with her mailing address, so I can send her a check for $40 for cheering me up, because it’s been a pretty crappy day (by the time I got down to the cafeteria to grab some lunch, the frozen yogurt machine was out of vanilla, so you can imagine the pain I’m in right now).
Ok, enough with the “You’re gay if you get a Yorkie” emails and phone calls.
I get it. It’s not the most masculine dog in the world. In my defense, my grandmother’s dog, which is a Yorkie, does not look like a Yorkie, and I am trying to see if anyone in my family has a digital picture of the dog to prove this to you all.
Until that happens (if it happens), I will not be getting a Yorkie. I promise. I will get a much more masculine dog, or even a wolf, a wolf that I will capture in the wild with my bare hands while shirtless, and I will name him Thunder, and I will tame Thunder in my small apartment, and in this process we will grow to love each other, and we will discover that we can communicate telepathically, and by day we will be your average guy who masturbates way too much and is always hanging out in the pizza place with his pet wolf, but by night we will be the greatest crime-fighting duo the Upper East Side has ever seen: Thunder and Tso, he the canine badder than Cujo and more courageous than Lassie, and I the well-intentioned but overweight and not very agile ninja, who derives his strength from the most ancient chicken recipe of General Tso, handed down from 4th century China, whose spirit I can contact and consult for guidance, but only in the shower, and only when completely nude except for a special magic t-shirt.
So you get the point: no Yorkie. But thank you for the emails.
I get it. It’s not the most masculine dog in the world. In my defense, my grandmother’s dog, which is a Yorkie, does not look like a Yorkie, and I am trying to see if anyone in my family has a digital picture of the dog to prove this to you all.
Until that happens (if it happens), I will not be getting a Yorkie. I promise. I will get a much more masculine dog, or even a wolf, a wolf that I will capture in the wild with my bare hands while shirtless, and I will name him Thunder, and I will tame Thunder in my small apartment, and in this process we will grow to love each other, and we will discover that we can communicate telepathically, and by day we will be your average guy who masturbates way too much and is always hanging out in the pizza place with his pet wolf, but by night we will be the greatest crime-fighting duo the Upper East Side has ever seen: Thunder and Tso, he the canine badder than Cujo and more courageous than Lassie, and I the well-intentioned but overweight and not very agile ninja, who derives his strength from the most ancient chicken recipe of General Tso, handed down from 4th century China, whose spirit I can contact and consult for guidance, but only in the shower, and only when completely nude except for a special magic t-shirt.
So you get the point: no Yorkie. But thank you for the emails.