If you haven’t already seen it, Delmon Young throwing the bat at the ump.

Class act, Delmon.  Class all the way. 

(I’d would say more, but I’ll just leave it at that, lest I spend the afternoon writing 3000 words about this.)

(Happy Friday!)

I have received this link about thirty times, both from friends and readers, since I got into work this morning. 

But there’s a problem: this is a scam.  Or at least, it’s not genuine.  You see, the proprietor of this website is repeating himself.  Let me explain.

Part of my responsibility of being an Internet Famous Person is that I get probably 200 emails a week that just deal with different links.  It is my duty to click on these links, no matter how stupid they might be or how much time they might waste, in order to give you, the reader, anything that I think might excite you.  And I mean that sexually and otherwise.   

Over a month ago, I started getting the above link about a guy who made a bet with his girlfriend that stated if he could get two million hits on his crappy website, she’d have a threesome with him.  I clicked through, thought it was a good idea, and was going to post about it, but then I didn’t need to – the guy got his two million hits.  Actually, he got his two million hits, if I’m not mistaken, in about three weeks.  The first day I saw it he was at about one million, a few days later, he was at three million.  He updated his progress with little comments at the bottom of the page, writing in to congratulate readers (and himself) at watershed numbers and thanking everyone for their support.  The site even had a message board, where women were vying to be the third party in the threesome, and men (and women) were commenting on their worthiness.

Then like I said, just this morning, I’ve already received this link over thirty times – again.  I expected, when I clicked through, to see the dude at ten million hits and working on an orgy or something involving himself, his girlfriend, a donkey, and some PVC piping. 

Instead, he’s basically started over.  He’s reset the counter to zero and is using the same gimmick again, deleting all references to the past incarnation of the site.  The picture of the girlfriend is even different (last time, she was a brunette).  And once again, he’s racing toward two million hits, which he will probably have in two days (he’s gotten about 300,000 in the three hours since I first checked today).

I can only speculate why he’s doing this, but essentially, he can keep reinventing this gimmick and get his two million hits every two weeks or so.  The internet is a big and wonderful place and has the power to parlay a catchy gimmick like this or someone with marginal talent into fame and fortune (I think I have a little bit of expertise in this area).  I imagine this guy will have a book deal in the next two months, a development deal in four, and get his first coked-up high-priced hooker blowjob in six (he’ll be getting the cheaper version any minute now).  Good for him.

[Or some copycat has set this up.  I have no idea.  I really shouldn't speak about this at all, since I know nothing about website design, internet marketing, or technology in general.]

But if you are seeing this for the first time today, or are passing it on to your friends, know that it is old news.  And most importantly, stop passing it on to me.  I have seen it, I had seen it, and I no longer want to see it.  Thank you.

And besides, you jagoffs should be passing on my site anyway.  I gots to get paid, son. 

[And what if, just hypothetically, someone ran a website that got just under twenty million hits a year?  If two million is a good for a threesome, what do you think a person could get for twenty million?  At this point, I think he'd just take a decent handjob and some spooning.  Which is not to say that he wouldn't love to have a threesome - I'm sure he'd love to have sex with as many women at one time as possible, so long as he could keep his shirt on.  His willingness to settle for the handjob/spooning is more a reflection of his general sense of resignation in all matters of the genitals than his ambition to show his bird to as many women as possible.  But I wonder...hmph.]

[By the way, the book writing is going well.  Pretty much.  Have a good weekend and continue to wish me luck.]

I am shitting myself over here as I try to meet my deadline. Of course, it will all work out in the end, but in the meantime, this is going to be a long, long week. We are easily going to break the record for "Most Conscious Hours in One Week, Non-Amphetamine Category" as I’ll be getting about three hours of sleep a night, spending my days hopped up on Diet Coke, snapping at friends and co-workers. I ordered chicken parm for dinner last night and when I took it up to my apartment, I noticed that the little Central American or Black or Whatever Man forgot to put bread in there. So I chased him down the street and threw a (plastic, 20oz) bottle of Pepsi at him. I missed by a wide margin and I don’t think he even noticed, but whatever. Fuck him. At least some tourists applauded. Point: this is not a good week to be around me.

I warned you that posting would be light this week, but I feel like I have an obligation to you. And by "have an obligation to you" I mean "have to procrastinate like a mother fucker." So below are ten things that you can do to pass the time this week as I slowly (or rather, rapidly) slip into psychosis.
(Also, I can’t wait to have sex when this is done. Oh no, wait – I can’t have sex. That’s right. Not only am I clinically impotent and horribly lonely, but I have a tremendous rash on my genitals. Well, not so much on my genitals as around them. But I’m making myself sick by writing about this in addition to destroying any slight chance that I might have of having sex again, so I’ll just stop now. By the way, I’m hallucinating. So I don’t actually have a rash. Um, yeah.)

1) Visit Pandora. I can’t stress enough what a good site this is. It works very simply: you enter an artist that you like and it will create a "radio station" around that artist, featuring songs and other artists that sound like the band you picked. Simple, but genius. Countless "Six Songs" suggestions have come from this site and I listen to this at work at least four hours a day. Sure, some of the songs that come up are total crap (John Lennon and Yoko Ono have a song called "Sunday Bloody Sunday" that is so bad I picked up the phone in my office and started banging my head with it), but it seems that once an hour I’ll hear a song that’ll blow me out of the water and the majority of the time I’m enjoying it very much. If you are not listening to this at work already, you better ask somebody. Like, for example, me.

2) Understand and appreciate the music of Charles Ramsey. Charles (or Chuck, as I call him) and I went to high school together. We were buddies but I hadn’t spoken to him since, until I found him through MySpace a few months back. I saw that he was doing music, gave a listen to his sample songs, and within minutes was emailing him, singing his praises and saying, "Dude, I had no idea you could do this!"

I sent his MySpace link to a female friend and encouraged her to listen to his stuff, but particularly my favorite track, "I Still Exist." She dug it and added, "And it’s everything you want in a song: sadness, acoustic guitar, harmony, and more sadness." That pretty much sums it up.

I feel kind of weird critiquing the music of someone I know, even if I am praising it, but suffice it to say that Chuck has a real knack for songwriting; catchy without being kitschy, sentimental without being schmaltzy. The whole cd is excellent (my favorite song, "So Much Better Off" is not on Chuck’s MySpace page). So, if you have the time, check out his stuff. You can listen to his music on his MySpace page and if you are so inclined, order his cd on his website.

[And make no mistake: at least once a day, I get an email from a shitty band asking me to pimp their music. I always give a fair listen and usually always say no, because I am very, very particular about my music. That, and I'm growing particularly sensitive to what I pimp on here. Point: this is good stuff and in the future know that anything I claim as good shit on here is really good shit. Dig?]

3) I don’t really have anything for number three.

4) Pick out my new computer. I’m getting a new computer. A laptop. When I purchased my last laptop, I left it completely in the hands of Site Guy Brendan to design the computer. I didn’t need anything fancy, just something that was portable, had Word, and could hold a crapload of (stolen) music and (pornographic) videos. I figured Brendan was the perfect guy to ask for this, since he works in computers. I mean, his fucking name is Site Guy Brendan, after all.

What I wound up with was a $2600 (!) beast of a laptop that weighs, with AC adapter, about 20 pounds. This is not an exaggeration; I have the heaviest and largest laptop in the world. Though I have absolutely no muscle, I am still a rather large individual. After carrying around this laptop for three minutes, I usually start tearing up from the pain/its heaviness.

(And the battery is horrible, too. Usually the computer shuts down after 30 minutes of use when it’s not plugged in.)

So I’m looking for suggestions. All I need is a (PC) laptop that is portable without being too miniature, has Word, and can hold a crapload of music and porn (also should be internet and wireless ready). To give you an idea of how little else I need, I have never even put a DVD in my current laptop. I just need internet, Word, and music. That’s it. So if you have any suggestions, pass them along.

(Do you guys like how I give you assignments? Should I be conflicted that on one hand I say that I’m getting most sensitive about what I pimp to you but twice a month I ask you to do something for me? Am I becoming a tyrant? If so, I love you. So there.)

5) Read some other blogs. Please be sure to visit not only our "Awesome Blogs" (which are awesome) and our "Famous Blogs" (which don’t need your traffic anyway) but also the list of blogs on the "Friends" list. I have recently removed any blogs that I didn’t think were up to par, so you’re sure that those listed are actually worthwhile reads. I won’t single out any as favorites, because that would be liking picking your favorite child and would only inspire jealousy and hatred. But I invite you to randomly click on one, read a post or two, and if you dig it, keep reading.

(But again, please only do so after you have read every single word of this one. Thank you.)

6) Read these two emails that made me laugh.

(Because this is so impromptu, I didn’t ask for permission to post names/locations, so here you go):

One day before my 30th birthday I had my camera stolen in Poland.
One day after that I got into a threesome with two german nurses (supposedly) called Sandra.
There is a god, it seems.
I know, I know, sounds like bullshit, but keep in mind that they were not hot (before the vodka) and that in the middle of everything one of them had a guilt or jealousy attack and left the room. And, as they were girlfriends, I had to go.
I guess this is what happens in 92% of the threesomes.
Except for the stolen camera.

**************

Hey Mulgrew, I’m fucking stranded in Dayton Ohio, they cancelled my flight to newark, and i am in hell. So, i turn to your site on the airport wireless network to possibly cheer me up, and this is what i get, copied and pasted from the page:

Text download (TEXT, 85431 bytes) was restricted by the text censor rule ‘Scan and block pornographic content’.

TextCensor Script ‘Pornography’ triggered with total weighting of 11

Expression ‘(big OR fine OR great OR nice OR good OR massive OR huge OR beautiful) FOLLOWEDBY=2 (tits OR pair of tits OR cleavage OR boobs OR pair of jugs OR hooters)’ triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression ‘(breasts OR breast) AND NOT (cancer OR anatomy OR physiology)’ triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression ‘blowjob*’ triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression ‘boner’ triggered 1 times, weighting 2
Expression ‘fetish’ triggered 1 times, weighting 1
Expression ‘fuck’ triggered 1 times, weighting 2

Contact your WebMarshal administrator if you need access to this site for business purposes.

Really, finding something to make you laugh when you are in an airport, with nowhere to go is kind of priceless. Not as priceless as a flight home.

7) Have pity on me and my lack of pooping intimacy. Twice this week I have walked into my work bathroom to poop and both times I have run into a different person I know walking out of the bathroom. Both times I then walked to the three stalls and found each empty. And both times – two days in a row – I picked poorly and sat down to poop on a warm toilet seat.

There’s not much nastier than sitting on a public toilet seat warmed by someone you kinda know from work. Ugh. Usually I have a high tolerance for gross stuff, but this offends even me. And then once you sit down, putting your bare ass on the toilet seat, you can’t get up and move to another one. Again, ugh.

I’m just chalking this up to bad luck, but if it happens again tomorrow, we’re going to have some serious problems. I’ll follow the three strikes and you’re out rule and, um, I don’t know. I’ll probably just have to find another bathroom to poop in. This may sound inconsequential to you, but it is so agita-inducing to me that I’d rather not get into it now.

8) Listen to some more music.

Six Songs (with descriptions in twelve words or less)

"Sunshine" Josh Rouse
Wanna be your baby daddy.

"Every Time She Turns Around It’s Her Birthday" Manitoba
The worst song to wake up to, just for the intro.

"Brighter Than Sunshine" Aqualung
When high, it makes me sing.

"You Were Right" Badly Drawn Boy
Pimped before; the lines from 3:01 to 4:00 make me wanna cry/vomit.

"Heartbreaker" Rolling Stones
Best cock-rock opening ever.

"1000 Times" Tahiti 80
The single most homosexual-sounding song ever recorded. I love it.

9) Bemoan the sorry state of Philly sports. The Sixers season ended abysmally. The Flyers lost a heartbreaker on Saturday night in double OT to Buffalo, after Robert Esche made a whopping 55 saves. Last night, they got murdered 8-2 (!). The Phillies have won two in a row to raise their record to 8-10 (including a 4-8 record at home), but have a staff ERA of over 5. And for the first time since, well, last year, the Eagles might be the third best team in their division.

Fuck it all to hell. Feel it with me.

10) Send me good, funny karma. I want you to close your eyes right now and say the following (in your head):

"Dude, Jason, don’t fuck this up. You can do it. Sure, you haven’t been funny on here for about a year, but deep down, very deep down, you still got it. So stop checking MySpace, quit looking at fantasy sports, and stop trimming the chest hair. Sit down at the fucking computer and write. You don’t even have that much left to go, so stop being a pussy and just GET IT DONE. In a week, it’ll all be over and you can go back to being a complete fuck up. But pull it together for the next six days and take care of business."

And pray. Pray like a mother fucker. Or something.

(See you Monday)

I am a big sweaty man who takes his deodorant very seriously. 

I hate gel deodorant and don’t understand how anyone likes it.  I already sweat enough under my armpits; I don’t need to apply some cold, wet goo under there.  I mean, fuck. 

Sprays and roll-ons do nothing for me.  I might as well spray Pam under my pits for the protection that most spray deodorants offer, and roll-ons are for girls.

I don’t even mess around with "deodorant" proper.  Though slick, scented nicely, and colorful, it doesn’t work for me.

No, I wear anti-perspirant, the chalky white stuff.  I have to cake that shit under there, in order to clog up those sweat glands.  The negative is that 15 minutes into my day there is a nice paste of deodorant, sweat, and armpit hair accumulating like a snowball under my arms.  But that’s ok, because this is better than any of my other options and at least I don’t have body odor.

I’m particular about brand of deodorant, too.  For years, I wore old school Right Guard.  I’m talking ten or so years here.  It never failed me, properly clogging my sweaty pores and allowing me to choose from many different scents, from everything from Musk to Spice.

Then one day, it was gone.  Or rather, changed.  Right Guard remade the deodorant, made it hipper looking, and changed the formula.  And I sweat right through it.  Soon I was getting live; by 3pm, my office would have a faint pit smell emanating from under its closed door.  Not good.

For the next two weeks, I went through deodorant after deodorant, trying to find something that would work.  I must have spent $50 on deodorant in those two weeks, using a particular stick for a day or two before throwing it out once it failed me.

Finally I found my next deodorant, Adidas.  With names like Sports Fever and Urban Spice, I was not only smelling fresh, but sweating minimally.  Things were good.

But now this: Adidas, like my old Right Guard, has remade its deodorant.  Now it claims to have "24 hour protection" and is no longer "Anti-Perspirant", but "Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex Gly Anti-Perspirant" (I shit you not, this is what it says on the label).

I have no idea why companies use big chemical-sounding names to sell products.  For example, Trimspa, in various subway ads, claims to be "#1 in Hoodia gordonii."  What the fuck is "Hoodia gordonii?"  Am I supposed to read that subway ad and say to myself, "Holy shit – I didn’t know Trimspa was #1 in Hoodia gordonii.  I’d better get some of that shit, and fast." 

"Hoodia gordonii" means nothing to me.  It’s totally fucking gibberish.  Trimspa might as well be "#1 in Rentrix Et Somaliani" for all I know.  Pure fucking gibberish.  Just like "Aluminum Zirconium Tetrachlorohydrex Gly Anti-Perspirant." 

You know what does mean something to me?  Not having fucking body odor.  So keep your Aluminum, your Zirconium, and your Tetrachlorohydrex Gly and give me back my old deodorant.  Because now I have to spend the next two weeks stinking like a 230 pound ham left out to be eaten by scavenging birds of prey on a summer day.  Thanks, Adidas.  Fucking assholes. 

*********************

I lot of responses, both criticisms and kudos, about yesterday’s post about threesomes.  Most of the criticisms I easily shrugged off, because, you know, I’m always right.  But there’s one thing that I admit I neglected to mention, as I was consumed by my own ego.  

The man must never let on that he is the focus of the threesome.  The threesome must exist first and foremost to pleasure the most reluctant member, then the second most reluctant member, then the man.  At least, this is the approach that the man, as the driving force, must take.  It’s important for the girl(s) to feel sexy and wanted.  If you admit that you’re doing this just to tell your buddies about it, it’s going to be hard to find two willing female participants. 

I apologize for not emphasizing this more in the post, but the truth of the matter is that I got so aroused writing the post that I couldn’t even think straight.  So there.

*********************

WARNING: Next week will be light with the posting.  I am loath to talk about this, but my book is due to the publisher on 5/1.  Have you ever written a 250 page paper?  It’s hard.  Especially writing a 250 page paper that the rest of your life depends on, that will determine if you’re working 9-to-5 until your death at 29 or will launch you into a career of sleeping in, getting drunk on Tuesday afternoons, traveling whenever and wherever you want, and make you a superstar.

So please, cut me some slack for a week.  It’s crunch time, so I don’t know how frequently the posts will come.  And I know I’ve been slacking lately (well, not so much this week, although this post is a real stinker), but now you know why. 

(But seriously, if Brendan and I don’t get the monthly email out by next week, I’m going to shoot myself.  We are the least motivated people on earth.  Horrible, horrible work ethics.) 

*********************

Last weekend, I got a ukulele.  I love it and am already using it to compose all sorts of songs about the rash I currently have on my scrotum and inner thighs (god I wish I was kidding, both about the rash and the songs about the rash).  It’s a concert ukulele (there are a few different types) and – and I saw this with a nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality - it is adorable, especially when placed next to my full-size acoustic guitar.  It has been pretty much attached to me since I got it and I am making it my goal, once I retire from this blog, to become a touring ukulele player.  If anyone would like to be one of my backing musicians, please apply within. 

*********************

Six Songs

"Cruisin’"  D’Angelo
I am a white boy, but I really want to have some serious sex to this song.  The major problem, aside from my pasty ass, is that the song is nearly seven minutes long.  This is entirely out of my love-making range.  Usually I can give two solid minutes of jackhammering before giving out, or until her involuntary muscle spasms of rigor mortis set in, whichever comes first.  Either way, I might have to wear one of those desensitizing condoms.  But we don’t need to go down this road… 

"I Don’t Want To Know"  Fleetwood Mac
I’m on a major Fleetwood Mac kick right now.  Maybe because I want to have a band with a girl or two in it and have sex with them after we perform.  There’s nothing like making love while high on adrenaline (which is why I so thoroughly enjoy masturbating while reading over old posts).  But I never had sex with anyone in the 1.5 bands I was in in college.  Probably because both were all-male bands.  Although once the drummer from my first band and I slept in a car and when he was asleep I poked his boner.  And then in my second half-band, the drummer and I got into a fight and he fishhooked me (when you stick your finger in someone’s mouth and pull on the inside of their cheek).  It was at once disgusting and arousing.  So I guess I have a thing for drummers.  At any rate, good song. 

"In Hiding"  Pearl Jam
My favorite Pearl Jam song not on Ten, Vs. or Vitalogy.  And it’s not even really close. 

(Listen for the piano.  Subtle, but it really adds to the song.)

"Tell Her This"  Del Amitri
This week’s sappy love song, which makes me want to hug.  I feel kind of weird recommending a song by fucking Del Amitri, but hey – I like this one.

"Only Love Can Break Your Heart"  Neil Young
I have a love/hate relationship with Neil Young.  When he makes things complicated and writes songs about politics or social issues, I can’t turn him off fast enough.  But when he keeps it simple and writes about love, there are few people better.  This song makes me want to rent a cabin in Colorado, lock myself in there for a week with only 600 beers and a gross of Lunchables and just work through a break up. 

"Okkervil River Song"  Okkervil River
This song was recommended to me about a year ago by the lovely Lisa in St. Louis and then again a few months ago by the lovely Lisa in Philly.  And now I present it to you.  A sad little song, coming from an album with an sad big title: "Don’t Fall in Love With Everyone You See."  This command/request would be a major, major problem with me.   

*********************

I am heading down the Jersey shore tonight (North Wildwood) for a long weekend of solitude and writing (read: drinking by myself and smoking cigarettes on my aunt’s patio).  Have a good, safe weekend and wish me luck. 

It’s been a while since I’ve answered any emails on here, mostly because I’ve been terrible at keeping up with them.  Because I now have to work 50 hours a week, write a book, and write a TV show, I had to free up some time somewhere.  Therefore, spending an hour or two a night responding to emails was sacrificed.  I’m sorry about this, and it doesn’t mean that I love you any less, but I’m this close to become a complete cokehead in order to make it through the day.  And with my heart in shambles, that’s not a very good idea.  So I stink at emails now. 

But here’s one from Tim in Philly that I thought required a thoughtful, articulate, lusty, misguided, and completely unhelpful response. 

Jason,

A while ago I broke up with my girlfriend, and neither one of us had really moved on.  We stayed pretty good friends and would make out a little when we saw each other and neither of had dated anyone since.  I always kinda thought we would get back together.  Then about three weeks ago I found out she had a date and it was with a girl.   I was put off a little but not too upset.  You know, I was thinking to myself.  How serious can it be?  She’s probably just lonely and experimenting.  Man this could be pretty hot and maybe I could get my self involved etc…   Then this week I found out that she has been seeing this person about 3 times a week and basically they were officially dating.  Well i nearly threw up.

Wondering if you know how I can get this to work out well for me.  By that I mean, either get invited into 3-ways on a consistent basis, or get them to break up.  I figure she is dating a girl so there is a better than average chance she is crazy and things won’t work out, but any advice you have to speed this up would be great.

Thanks,
Tim

OK.  Let’s get the part of the answer where I talk about me out of the way first.

I feel like I am uniquely qualified to answer this question, not because something like this happened to me, but because I WANT TO HAVE A THREESOME MORE THAN ANY MAN ALIVE.  I know that I employ hyperbole often on this site, but trust me, this is not exaggeration.  Everything that I do – every time I put in an extra hour at work to increase my bonus, every time I sit down at my computer to try to be funny, every time I masturbate and flex my puboccocceygeus muscle to increase my sexual stamina - it is all ad majorem threesome gloriam.  Countless female friends have countered that my dream of a threesome would ultimately be disappointing or that I’d have no idea of what to do, but I reply that “threesome” and “overrated” don’t go together and that I don’t know what I’m doing with one woman; with a threesome at least I’d be able to see two naked chicks at the same time.

I have spent many, many (many, many) hours thinking about threesome scenarios.  And I am ready to impart my wisdom to you, Tim.

[Nevermind that I've never actually had one.  I'm close.  At least that's what I keep telling myself.]

First, the facts.  Tim was dating his girlfriend.  They broke up but remained friends, sometimes made out, and Tim thought they’d get back together.  Then the Girlfriend went out with a girl.  The Girlfriend liked that and continued to date the Girl.  Tim felt sick.  Now Tim wants a) in on the action; or b) to end Girlfriend/Girl’s relationship.

[For the record, I don't understand why people break up and then continue to talk to/spend time with their ex's.  This causes infinitely more problems than it is worth (as evinced by Tim's situation) and is an invitation to emotional retardation (as it inhibits subsequent relationships) and further heartbreak (do you really want to watch someone you were once in love with eat Thai food from across the table and not be able to reach out and touch them?  You really think that's a good idea?).  Rare is the relationship that ends because one of those involved no longer has any feelings for the other.  Lingering feelings are inherent in break ups.  To keep the ex in your life is to foster these lingering feelings at your own demise.  When you remove the ex from your life, you remove this and other problems.  Break ups are just that, a "break."  A break up is not a demotion, whereby one goes from "love of my life" to "friend."  That's just not how it works.  And if you act like it does, you are entering a world of pain.]

[That was me being horribly, horribly judgmental.  Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.]

[But, I mean, am I wrong?]

The sensitive man in me (yes, he is in there, locked deep a cage near my colon where he is fed only Starburst and powdered milk) would recommend that Tim first figure out what he really wants: to have the threesome or to break the relationship up.  Though both are rooted in Tim’s desire to have the affection of the Girlfriend, the two paths are wildly divergent.  It sounds like Tim still has feelings for the Girlfriend.  If he truly wants her back, he should go with the latter.  But if he wants to just have fun and do something nasty that most men only see in VHS, DVD, or mpeg formats, then he should go with the threesome. 

There is a KEY piece of information missing: when, exactly, did Tim and Girlfriend stop making out?  This is vital.  If Tim continued to make out with the Girlfriend after she started seeing the Girl, Tim’s chance of having a threesome might be much stronger.  However, if the Girlfriend stopping making out with Tim when she started seeing the Girl, the threesome might be more difficult.  Might.

However, I don’t have this information.  Still, I will try my best to answer the question.

First, Tim, I like where your head is at.  Yes, the Girlfriend is most likely going through a crazy phase (albeit an awesome crazy phase) if she’s banging around with another chick.  That is almost a given.  While it is possible that the Girlfriend is finally giving forth to years of built up lesbianism, it’s more likely that she first found post-break up emotional comfort in this Girl and the sex they are having is secondary to this.  It is Tim’s job, as a person with a penis and therefore much more common sense, to properly manipulate this craziness so that his bird winds up in two girls’ mouths at the same time.

There are two elements necessary for this threesome to occur and Tim must at all times operate under a single guiding principle.  The elements are booze and insouciance.  The principle is that women love the Irreplaceable Penis.

The required presence of copious amounts of booze or other narcotics is easily understood.  Christ, I can’t even get a girl to make out with me unless she’s had so many Kamikaze shots that her eyes are rolling into the back of her head and she’s speaking in tongues, so I’m assuming it’s going to take a lot of alcohol to get things going on with a threesome.  

Insouciance is just as important as booze.  Really, I’ve found that there’s no better guiding principle in relationship than using indifference to get what you want.  I know I’ve written it before, having stolen it from a movie that I won’t name out of embarrassment, but we really do pursue that which retreats from us.  There is no greater turn on than being seemingly turned off.  Lovers like the challenge.  It’s all very primitive, really. 

And you must remember at all times that your bird is your biggest asset (well, maybe not biggest, but best).  I don’t want to sound like Tom Cruise in ”Magnolia” and start chanting “Respect the cock!”, but girls like birds just as much as we like their you-know-what’s.  There is no substitute for The Bird, the Great Irreplaceable Penis.  Nor is there any substitute for easy, repeat sex.  These are two heavy things that Tim has in his corner.

Now we just have to combine the three.

This probably isn’t going to happen overnight.  You are going to have to reach a certain comfort level with the Girlfriend and more importantly the Girl before the threesome goes down.  Conversely, if it doesn’t happen shortly after you start on your plan, it’s not going to happen at all.  If you fall into “the friend zone”, it’s over.

So here’s how you do it.

First, Tim has to meet the Girl.  He must arrange it so that all three of them are together in a drinking situation.  But this is important: he can’t let on at this point that he wants a threesome.  Remember, indifference is key.  Tim should be casual, friendly, and non-competitive, but each action must have a faint whiff of nonchalance.  This will (hopefully) accomplish two things.  First, the Girl will let her guard down and not be threatened by Tim.  Maybe he really is over the Girlfriend, which will make the Girl happy.  Second, the Girlfriend will also think that he is over her, but this will have the opposite effect on her.  No one – and I mean no one – wants to be gotten over.  When faced with this situation, the primal human reaction is to say, “You’re over me?  Well, we’ll see about that.”

This leads to the next step.  Eventually, maybe after two or three times of hanging out in the presence of the Girlfriend and the Girl, Tim should sleep with the Girlfriend – alone.  Careful not to make any moves in front of the Girl, Tim needs to get the Girlfriend in the sack.  After all, he’s going to have to sleep with her either way, whether he wants the threesome or wants to break them up, so this will hedge his bets.  I have no idea how he should do this – if I knew how to properly seduce a woman, I wouldn’t spend every Tuesday evening beating off into a freshly washed and still warm fleece blanket – but no seduction can take place in front of the Girl.  The Girlfriend should be secretly raging with jealousy (and lust) about having been gotten over and willing to prove what she’s made of/what Tim’s missing over some casual sex.  Remember the ancient rule I referenced way back in the Upper Hand post: once you sleep with someone, it’s totally not a big deal to sleep with them again.  Word is bond. 

Before we get to the third and final step, a small note about the sex that Tim and the Girlfriend must have.  Tim and the Girlfriend can’t put on some Van Morrison, drink a glass of port, stroke each other’s hair, say things like “I love the way your eyes look in the candle light” and “When you touch me, it’s electric”, and then make love missionary-style.  After climaxing, which they both would do quietly and tastefully, they can’t kiss the sweat from each other face’s, cuddle, and giggle, eventually falling asleep nude in each other’s arms.  No, that is not the kind of sex we are talking about.

Tim and the Girlfriend need to have criminal sex, sex that literally might get them arrested if anyone else witnesses it.  I’m talking about Tim putting on Mountain’s “Mississippi Queen” so loud that the walls shake, showing up in the bedroom balls naked except for a skinhead boots, brandishing a broken bottle of whiskey, and screaming things like “I AM GOING TO MURDER YOU WITH MY PENIS!  I AM GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU WITH MY PENIS!”  I’m talking about the Girlfriend wearing nothing but barbed wire, masturbating to a hardcore Scheiße film (German shit porn), and pulling her own hair out in clumps because she wants to be murdered with a penis so badly.  Their shrieks of orgasm, of which there should be several, should be so loud and devastating as to kill all animals under twenty pounds within a two miles radius.  I’m talking about Tim, post climax, giving the Girlfriend a three count before he ties off the used condom like a water balloon and chases the naked Girlfriend around the apartment to hit her with it.  Before he throws her out, they both punch each other in the face and simultaneously orgasm.  This is the kind of sex that Tim and the Girlfriend should have. 

[Is anyone else really turned on right now?]

Once some crazy sex is established, now comes the clincher.  Before said crazy sex loses its edge, Tim should hint or suggest to the Girlfriend that she should get the Girl involved.  This suggestion should be brought up after the second time Tim and the Girlfriend have had criminal sex.  This timing is critical.  As I said, the sex can’t lose it’s kinky edge.  It should still be dangerous, make the Girlfriend feel a little guilty, and not allow the Girlfriend to start thinking that she and Tim are getting back together.  That’s the thing about threesomes; they only work if all parties involved are convinced it’s purely physical.  That is not to say that parties involved can’t have feelings for each other, but that the particular moment of the threesome should be only about doin’ it.  Get your nut off and get the F out. 

Here is where the booze – and some luck – comes in.  Tim and the Girlfriend should now be a team and work to seduce the Girl.  The suggestion for the threesome should be made by the Girlfriend to the Girl in a social situation.  All three should be bombed.  The Girlfriend should spend the night heavily flirting with the Girl, but also occasionally flirting with Tim (though nothing too extreme to make the girlfriend jealous).

At this point, it’s up to fate.  Either the Girl, warmed by alcohol and flirtation, will agree to the sex and the three of our heroes will enter into a world of sensual delights that few are able to experience.  Or, offended by the suggestion, the Girl and Girlfriend have a fight that hopefully ends in a break up.  Either way, Tim gets to hit his ex-girlfriend with a semen-filled condom water balloon.  So that’s pretty sweet.

To recapitulate, in order to realize his dream of a threesome Tim must:

1) Meet the Girl and Girlfriend, be cool
2) Have crazy sexy with the Girlfriend
3) Team up with the Girlfriend to seduce the Girl

So that is how, according to me, Larry Awesome, you have a threesome.

And if you don’t like this idea Tim, just fucking get some hookers.  Or start a website and ask every girl that emails you if she’d like to be in a threesome.  Whichever.

(Actually, go with the hookers.  A friend of mine has been trying the latter since February of 2004 and it hasn’t worked out for him.  Not even close.) 

[Post Script - I know that I took a lot for granted here: that the Girl is not a butch lesbian and has at least some bisexual tendencies; that the Girlfriend will sleep with Tim again; that the Girlfriend will even be up for the threesome in the first place, etc.  But I had to take some liberties or else you were getting a post about the end of the NBA season and the sorry state of the Sixers.  So shut up.] 

My hunt for an apartment has ended.  I’m not moving.

I spoke to my landlord and because I have only bounced one rent check and have the words "Senior Analyst" in my title at work, he has agreed to lower my rent a little bit.  I can continue to live in my humble abode in the ChiLiTa section of Manhattan - by myself - so that I finally have my own apartment in New York City.  And as I predicted, as soon as the landlord and I shook on the deal, his tight Italian alpha male handshake wrapping around my clammy tentacle-fingered hand, I immediately regretted it.

(I think.) 

First and foremost, I am essentially kicking my roommate Brian out on the street.  I told him shortly after moving into this current place that once the lease was up, I’d be looking for my own place.  He thought too that it was time for a change, admitting that he was surprised when I agreed to live with him in our current apartment, thinking I’d struck/striken/had strucked out on my own a year ago after moving out of the Upper East Side.  So this is not unexpected.

But I never thought it would go down like this.  I assumed I’d easily find some overpriced shithole in Manhattan and he’d easily find some moderately overpriced shithole in Brooklyn, we’d help each other move, and then never see each other again.  But now it looks like only the last of those are actually going to happen. 

Brian is having as difficult a time as I had in searching for a new apartment.  Though his search is open to more than just Manhattan, his price range is lower (apparently, he doesn’t want to spend 65% of his monthly income on rent – loser).  So though he’s looking, it ain’t easy.  

Also, I’m not moving, so he doesn’t have to help me move.  I’m now done, stationary, and basically waiting for him to move out.  This is the bigger problem for me.  While I’ll never concede that I have any real emotions (aside from lust and hunger) and I don’t care about anything that doesn’t have two nipples and no penis, I do feel bad about how things have turned out.  I’m staying, he’s going.  Brian knows I feel bad but, seeing as he is so laid back that he actually dies for the majority of the weekend, says he is not bothered. 

Still, I am.  The good news: I’m sure I’ll get over this in the next 24 to 48 hours.  My compassion only goes so far and "guilt" to me is only an abstract concept used in courtroom dramas.  By Friday, I’m sure I’ll be saying things to Brian like, "So…if you want to move out earlier, that’s fine by me" and "You’re not going to take your iPod when you move out, are you?  Because I’d really like to have two."

The second reason why I may regret this is because it’s still a lot of money.  Sure, I knew I was going to pay around $1800 a month for an apartment and my landlord lowered the rent (currently $2100 for both Brian and I) into that range, but the reality didn’t hit me until I walked out of our little meaning.  I am now on the hook for A LOT of money per month.  And I am only pretty sure that I have this money.  Like, 51% sure.  But the good news is that at least I know a lot of lawyers.

I don’t want to think about these negatives now and am focusing on the positives, of which there are three that stand out above the rest.  I have listed them below, both in bold and with exclamation points, to further convince myself that this is a good idea. 

I don’t have to move!
When I got into work today, instead of immediately hitting craigslist to search for apartments, I did actual work.  Over lunch, I leisurely ate pasta and a slice of banana cream pie, since I didn’t have to hop a cab to another part of the city to see some shitty apartment.  And on May 15, when my current lease expires, I don’t have to lift a goddamn finger.

This is a major plus.  All the stress of moving – both finding the place and physically moving my shit out – is now gone.  A major weight has been lifted from me.  Nearly literally.

And financially, too.  Like I said, it’s not unusual when moving to pay four times the rent up front: the first month’s rent, two month’s rent as a security deposit, and one month’s rent for the broker’s fee.  If I were to have found a new $1800 a month apartment, that’s $7200.  As I said previously, I do not have $7200 in my bank account.  Like, not even close.  I’m so far away from that number that it’s laughable.  Had I found a new apartment, I have no idea how I would have come up with that money, but I’m guessing it would have something to do with old people and balls.

But now I don’t have to worry about that.  What money I do have in my bank account can now be used for essential items for my new apartment, like a wine rack.  And a new showerhead.  And maybe a couch that three people I know haven’t had sex on and that I haven’t peed on.  But we’ll see.   

I have an office!
Not only do I have my own place in Manhattan, but I have (will have) an office.  A real live fucking office.  I haven’t decided if I will make my bedroom the office or Brian’s bedroom the office.  My bedroom is in the front with two windows on the street.  Which means it’s really fucking loud.  Brian’s room is in the middle with one tiny window.  Which mean it’s a cave.  I think I have a better chance of creating whatever the hell it is I create in my current bedroom rather than Brian’s cave, but I don’t have to work that out now. 

The point is that I will be able to tell women in bars that I have my own place in Manhattan with an office.  This is especially useful now, since I’m doing a lot of traveling in the next few weekends (I won’t have a normal, free weekend in NYC until mid-June).  And we all know that people who don’t live in NYC are much more impressed by it then people who do.  I hope to impress non-NYC women with my new apartment, because it’s basically all I got:

Me: "So I live in New York."
Girl not from NYC: "That’s so cool!  Do you live in the city?"
Me: "Yeah, in Manhattan."
Girl: "Nice!  What do your roommates do?"
Me: "Oh, I have my own place."
Girl: [nipples hardening] "Really?  Your own place?  Like, a studio?"
Me: "No, it’s actually a two bedroom.  But I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into an office."   
Girl: [panting, rubbing breasts] "An office?  You have an office in your own apartment in Manhattan?"
Me: "Yup.  And here’s a copy of my W-2.  Right there – that’s how much I made last year.  But that doesn’t include all the money I made from being a writer.  Did I mention I’m a writer?  Big time."
Girl: [sweating, moaning, rubbing secret areas] "Oh wow…I guess the only question I have left is: do you want me to stick my finger in your ass when I blow you or do you want straight head?"
Me: [smoothly putting down beer, giving a sexy look] "I want you to just go crazy on my heinie." 

I think I actually like the area!
I know, I know – you’ve heard me complain about the area in which I live.  There’s no late night pizza place, the food (despite being in Little Italy) sucks, there’s no decent local bar, and on any given weekend there are about 100,000 Chinese people and 75,000 tourists standing outside my door. 

But you know what?  I don’t care.  This morning, I was on the subway platform at 9:21am and at my desk by 9:33am.  Every day I walk home from work and it takes me 25 minutes.  I can walk to Soho, the West Village, Tribeca, the Lower East Side, and the East Village in no more than 20 minutes.  I’ve never taken a cab greater than $15 since I’ve been in this apartment, and most are about $8.  I’m a stone’s throw away from the N-R-Q-W, J-M-Z, 1-2, 6, and A-C-E subway trains (not that I take the subway outside of work, because that’s for poors). 

As Brian and I have been doing, I can always order pizza prior to going out, eat some of it, and save the rest for later.  I just discovered a place called something like "Italian Food Market" right down the street from me that makes DYNAMITE hoagies that remind me of Philly.  And the local bar (which I still refuse to name because I don’t want to blow up its spot) is good, although inconsistently so.  The past three times I’ve been there, it’s been a different crowd each night.  It was the locals, then next time it looked like a Sigma Chi throw down, then the last time it was hip-hop night.  Strange and terrifying.

And yeah, I’m still going to have to fight my way through hundreds of thousands of Chinese and tourists every time I leave my apartment.  But  these are now my Chinese people and my tourists.  Don’t get me wrong - I will still wish them death at every turn – but it is now my duty as a full time resident of ChiLiTa to be both a good neighbor to my Chinese brothers and sisters and a good host to my friends from Ohio, Nebraska, and Tennessee.  That is, until the Chinese lady at the local laundromat ruins another set of my 600 thread count sheets or I trip over the ankle of some junior high girl from West Virginia because her and her friends are screaming at the top of their lungs and don’t see me trying to get by with my groceries.  Because then I start punching people in the fucking throat. 

*****************

So it is settled.  Thank you to everyone who chimed in to help with my search, including those who wrote in singing the praises of Brooklyn and Hoboken.  I’m sure your shit little towns are lovely; good luck with them.  

Note that this thank you does not apply to those who live in cities other than New York and sent me pictures of apartments in their cities that cost around $1800.  I realize that $1800 a month can get me a two bedroom/two bathroom penthouse in Houston or an apartment with a 30×40 foot private deck in Seattle overlooking the city.  But I don’t live in Houston or Seattle.  Nor do I live in Chicago or Philly (although it made me feel loved that many Philly peeps wrote in trying to convince me to move down there).  You guys were just trying to hurt my feelings.  Dicks.

Now I have to start thinking about design for the "new" apartment.  Actually, I should talk to the drunk Italian super first about fixing our broken mailbox, since I haven’t gotten mail in about two months.  Does anyone know how to say, "Can you stop drinking wine for one fucking second and fix our goddamn mailbox already" in Italian?

[Short week, since I'm heading out of town for the Easter break, so you only get a short compilation post.  I will probably post over the break, but, let's be honest - more than likely you won't hear from me until after the weekend.  I'm not neglecting you; I just think we need some space.  And I'm really fucking busy.]

I’m not against forwards, per se.  Anything that will help me waste time during the day is ok with me.

But I am STRONGLY against stupid forwards.  Of course, as most people don’t have as refined a taste in forwards as I do, so more often that not I get "treated" with a stupid ass forward, which makes me wonder what compels a grown, rational person to promulgate such idiocy on the internet.

(Wow – talk about irony.  Me, coming down on those who support stupidity on the internet.  Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.)

For some reason, the dumb forward below really got to me.  A female friend recently sent this to me and about 60 other people.  I have copied the text below, in all its annoying glory, to give you an idea of how absurd it is. 
 
GAS WAR – an idea that WILL work

This was originally sent by a retired Coca Cola executive. It came from one of his engineer buddies who retired from Halliburton. It’s worth your consideration.

Join the resistance!!!! I hear we are going to hit close to $4.00 a gallon by next summer and it might go higher!! Want gasoline prices to come down? We need to take some intelligent, united action. Phillip Hollsworth offered this good idea.

This makes MUCH MORE SENSE than the "don’t buy gas on a certain day" campaign that was going around last April or May! The oil companies just laughed at that because they knew we wouldn’t continue to "hurt" ourselves by refusing to buy gas. It was more of an inconvenience to us than it was a problem for them.

BUT, whoever thought of this idea, has come up with a plan that can really work. Please read on and join with us! By now you’re probably thinking gasoline priced at about $1.50 is super cheap.   Me too! It is currently $2.79 for regular unleaded in my town. Now that the oil companies and the OPEC nations have conditioned us to think that the cost of a gallon of gas is CHEAP at $1.50 – $1.75, we need to take aggressive action to teach them that BUYERS control the
marketplace….. not sellers. With the price of gasoline going up more each day, we consumers need to take action. The only way we are going to see the price of gas come down is if we hit someone in the pocketbook by not purchasing their gas! And, we can do that WITHOUT hurting ourselves. How? Since we all rely on our cars, we can’t just stop buying gas. But we CAN have an impact on gas prices if we all act together to force a price war.

Here’s the idea:

For the rest of this year, DON’T purchase ANY gasoline from the two biggest companies (which now are one), EXXON and MOBIL. If they are not selling any gas, they will be inclined to reduce their prices. If they reduce their prices, the other companies will have to follow suit. But to have an impact, we need to reach literally millions of Exxon and Mobil gas buyers.   It’s really simple to do! Now, don’t wimp out at this point…. keep reading and I’ll explain how simple it is to reach millions of people.

I am sending this note to 30 people. If each of us sends it to at least ten more (30 x 10 =3D 300) … and those 300 send it to at least ten more (300 x 10 =3D 3,000)…and so on, by the time the message reaches the sixth group of people, we will have reached over THREE MILLION consumers. If those three million get excited and pass this on to ten friends each, then 30 million people will have been contacted! If it goes one level further, you guessed it….. THREE
>>>>HUNDRED MILLION >>>>PEOPLE!!!

Again, all you have to do is send this to 10 people. That’s all. (If you don’t understand how we can reach 300 million and all you have to do is send this to 10 people…. Well, let’s face it, you just aren’t a mathematician. But I am, so trust me on this one.)

How long would all that take? If each of us sends this e-mail out to ten more people within one day of receipt, all 300 MILLION people could conceivably be contacted within the next 8 days!!!

I’ll bet you didn’t think you and I had that much potential, did you?

Acting together we can make a difference. If this makes sense to you, please pass this message on. I suggest that we not buy from EXXON/MOBIL UNTIL THEY LOWER THEIR PRICES TO THE $1.30 RANGE AND KEEP THEM DOWN.

THIS CAN REALLY WORK.
 
Stupid as a mother fucker, right?

Stupid as a mother fucker, right?

Unfortunately for my friend, she did something even mo’ dumb: she didn’t bcc the recipients.  So right there, on the forward, were 60 people I could reply to to voice my disinterest in such stupid forwards. 

So I wrote back, quickly typing up a response:
 
POOP WAR - an idea that will work
 
For years, human beings have been enslaved by the paper companies.  We rely on paper for our every day needs: on the job, at home, and, um, on the job.  Without paper, civilization as we know it would not be possible.
 
However, every day, literally ZILLIONS of trees are cut down by little brown people in strange and exotic lands with names like Montevideo and Uruguay and Connecticut.  Without trees, life as we know it would not be possible. 
 
So we are forced to choose: do we want paper or trees?  Paper gives us shit to write on, but trees, in a chemical process known as photosynthesis (by which the environment’s natural air is transferred into oxygen or some shit), give us air to breathe. 
 
I think the choice is pretty obvious.
 
Therefore, I ask that you take part in NATIONAL NO PAPER DAY.  On MAY 1, 2006, I ask that you NOT USE ANY PAPER.  This includes paper, paper cups, toilet paper, construction paper, papier mache (from the French for "paper make"), and rolling papers.  
 
Do not USE any of these types of paper on this day.  The Paper Industry is run by weak-willed and impotent executives with high blood pressure.  Only ONE DAY of non-use of paper will totally flip them the fuck out, sending them into a tailspin of dementia, depression, and ultimately suicide.  When they die, WE will take their jobs and CHANGE THE WORLD.
 
So on MAY 1, 2006 – DO NOT USE PAPER!  DO NOT TOUCH PAPER!  IF POSSIBLE, DO NOT EVEN LOOK AT PAPER!  
 
Change starts with one person (you), telling a bunch of other people (your friends and co-workers).  MAKE THE CHANGE.  DO IT.  DON’T BE GAY. 
 
NATIONAL NO PAPER DAY: MAY 1, 2006.  AFFECT CHANGE!!!!!!!!
 
[By the way, "POOP WAR" has nothing to do with actual NO PAPER DAY.  It was just a way to get your attention.]
 
I was feeling pretty proud of myself, thinking that I got across my message rather clearly.  Even though I only quickly spit it out, I think my idea is actually better than the previous one.  But at any rate, after I sent this email to 50+ strangers (I knew some people on the list) the original sender responded to all: 

Shame on me for not BCC’ing everyone.  There are moms and co-workers and younger people on this e-mail and the "f" word is not appropriate for any of the aforementioned.  My apologies to everyone for sending a mass e-mail, it won’t happen again. 

The moral of the story?  Send me a stupid forward and forget to bcc the recipients and I will respond with extreme prejudice, writing "fuck" to moms and co-workers.  That’s just how I roll.  You have been warned.

****************************

I am constantly amazed at the stupidity of fat people.

I myself am a fat person, but this isn’t some sort of self-loathing thing.  Because while I’m fat, I ain’t fucking real fat.  When I say "fat" in this context, I’m talking about the people who get two Double Whoppers at Burger King, whereas my type of fat only gets one, and maybe a Hershey Sundae Pie.  Big difference there. 

(And now I’m hungry.)

The office building I work in has revolving doors (note: this is not my actual building).  Most Western people are familiar with how these work.  You step into them, push on the door in front of you, enter a tube, continuing both pushing and walking through a quarter-circle, reach the outside, and (and this is important) continuing walking away from the revolving doors so the person behind can escape them. 

As I was leaving the office to get lunch yesterday, I passed through the turnstile and headed to the revolving doors to exit.  In front of me were two overweight women heading outside to grab a smoke.  The first was mildly obese while the second has half-human/half-rhinoceros.  The less fat woman entered the doors, followed by the rhino, followed by me.  

As I was leaving the office to get lunch yesterday, I passed through the turnstile and headed to the revolving doors to exit.  In front of me were two overweight women heading outside to grab a smoke.  The first was mildly obese while the second has half-human/half-rhinoceros.  The less fat woman entered the doors, followed by the rhino, followed by me.  

The less fat woman made it through and cleanly exited, but Ms. Rhino messed it up.  She made it through the doors, but when she left them, instead of walking away from them so that the next person (me) could get out, she immediately stopped to light her cigarette.  The result was that I came out of the doors (there was a person behind me as well) and stumbled into the Rhino, nearly tripping over one of her tree-trunk ankles and making a small scene.

Of course, Ms. Rhino was not happy about this.  In front of the small crowd, she turned around and angrily scolded me, saying, "Why don’t you watch where you’re going?"  The incident happened so fast and I was so flustered that I could only mumble an "I’m sorry."  Then I got a death stare from the Rhino, who continued to mumble something like, "He better watch where he’s going next time" under her breath as I walked away.    

If I had been drunk, I would not have walked away so quietly.  If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have been so meek about the incident.  Not only because it was clearly her fault, but also because she was morbidly obese.  And I mean that literally – she is so fat that she could die at any moment.  

So I stomped the rest of the way to the lunch place, revisiting the scene in my head, with one major difference: When she says, "What don’t you watch where you’re going?, I respond with something like, "Why don’t you learn how to properly use a revolving door, Fat Chops?  Here, I’ll help you out: next time you come out of the door, pretend like they’re giving away free cheeseburgers across the street.  That should get you moving, Chunky."  Or perhaps I would have still said "I’m sorry", but would have done it slightly differently, like, "Geez, I’m really sorry you stopped walking and caused me to run into you.  So sorry about being right.  And I’m sorry that you have lost all self-respect and are grossly overweight.  As proof that I’m sorry, would you like to take a bite of me?  You know, since you’re really fucking fat and all?  Maybe I’ll go upstairs to the cafeteria and cover my thigh in mayo – would you like that, Chubb Rock?  If not, I think I might have an old Snickers in my bag.  Let me check."

I’m going to be fat for the rest of my life.  My dreams of being skinny ended sometime around 8th grade.  But if I ever get so fat that I turn my fat anger on those around me because I can’t move properly, please shoot me.    

****************************

Six Songs (half edition)

"Release Yo’Delf"  Method Man
Many of you write in to ask, "Jason, what is your personal theme song?"  Others will ask, "Jason, what is your favorite song to make love to?"  The answer to both questions is this song.  Enjoy.

"Can’t Get Enough of Your Love"  Bad Company
Whenever I hear this song, I think of my dad.  He fucking LOVES Bad Company.  I can picture him driving around South Philly in the mid-70′s, when this song comes on the radio.  He’s smoking a joint (naturally) and starts banging on the dashboard of the car and singing along, especially at the end when Paul Rodgers starts freaking out and singing, "I love you so much – I can’t get enough of your love!  I love you so much – I can’t get enough of your love!"

Fast forward to the present.  Last night, subconsciously inspired by the white-haired dude on "American Idol", I was in my room, belting this song out, "Idol"-style.  I mean, I was getting into it – holding the microphone, marching around the stage (my bedroom), giving a sexy lil’ hip shake now and then.  

I expect that you’d write that my roommate Brian caught me doing this, or some Midwestern tourists were outside taking pictures of me, but nothing like that happened.  I did, however, during my performance feel more alive than I’ve felt in years.  So I’m contemplating a return to performance art/show business.  I’ll keep you posted.

"I’m Pretty Sure I’m Over You"  Will Hoge
The only version I have heard of this song is the live one, so I can only vouch for that one.  A kick-ass song that I don’t have anything to add to, expect to say that I’m pretty sure that I’ve never fully gotten over any relationship I’ve had.  I’m what’s called a "slow healer" in this department.  I’m also pretty sure that if the first girl I ever kissed (three years ago) were to ask me to marry her, I would probably do so in a heartbeat.  But I think she’s already married, so I guess that’s out of the question.

(Unless she’s reading this and is dissatisfied with her marriage.  Kelly, you know you and I were meant to be together forever.  Drop me an email, won’t you?)  

Hear me now: I am about to make a huge mistake.  I am on the verge of getting my own apartment.

Yes, after living in four different apartments in five years – all with roommates – I’ve decided to strike out on my own.  For better or worse, I am going solo. 

My roommate Brian and I are parting ways after four years of living together.  I won’t eulogize our roommateship here, but I mention it now only to convey that we are ending it amicably, without bitterness or resentment or debt and only two punches thrown in four years (both from him punching me, both aimed at my neck, both misses by a wide margin).  Not too shabby.

The impetus for our split is my desire to live alone, which is rooted in no reason aside from, "Well, I just want to."  I’ve never lived alone in my life and I’m at the point where I can (barely) afford to do so, so I’m going to do it.  And then I plan on immediately regretting it.  

The first negativo about living alone is that I’m going to be lonely as a mother fucker.  I am a pretty social person, so I like being able to come home, eat some shit meal, heat up a pint of ice cream, and shoot the shit with a roommate.  This, of course, doesn’t mean I’m a good friend or anything like that, but that I need someone around who will listen (or pretend to listen) to me talk.  So I know I’m going to be lonely when I’m on my own.  Hell, a few weeks ago, Brian was in Hawaii and I was bored to shit without him.  I know that sounds horribly gay, especially when you consider that every Tuesday night Brian and I pull our mattresses in the living room and have a slumber party, but I told you – I’m a very social person, ok?    

But the lonliness I might be able to get around.  The second bad thing about living alone is more universal and more problematic to me: the cost.  

The cost of apartments in NYC are astounding.  I’m going to tell you how much I’m looking to pay a month for rent for my new own apartment, and those of you reading outside of the greater NYC area are going to shit yourselves.  Then you’ll inundate me with emails telling me I should move.  Then you’ll never donate money to me again (not that you’re donating now – that $6 a month I get in donations is good for exactly one pint of Guinness a month, way insufficient).

I’m looking for a one bedroom apartment in the $1800 range.  Yes, gasp, yell, and scream all you want, but that’s really how much it costs to have a one bedroom in NYC.  But please do NOT think I’m rich.  Admittedly, I’m no longer poor, since I’m back at work, and I have some money from my projects.  However, I’m only working four days a week as I continue to work on my stuff, which means I’m only getting 80% of my salary. I got paid a little bit for my projects, but those of you who’ve been reading for a while might remember that I took four and a half months off work to work on said projects.  I left my job in late September, I finally got project pay in March.  During that time, I tore through my savings, ran up massive credit card debt, and borrowed money from gambler friends.  So less than a week after finally being paid, most of the money was gone.  Now I’m back to "surviving" mode. 

This is very reason why living alone is going to be such a bad decision.  It’s pretty much going to cripple me financially.  For some reason, I’m not able to quantitatively process how much this is all going to cost.  Not only will I be paying more in rent, but all the bills will be on me and me alone.  I am totally unconcerned with this.  This part of my brain, the one that computes finances and contacts the Worry Department, just doesn’t work (along with the "It’s not ok to store ejaculate in Snapple bottles under your desk" part). 

Add to that that I’m terrible with money.  An example: I had some friends up in NYC this weekend and we went shopping (or rather, they went shopping and I walked around in stores staring at attractive women and making moaning sounds).  I remember looking at a $300 pair of sunglasses and thinking, "You know what?  $300 isn’t that much money for a pair of sunglasses.  I mean, sunglasses are an investment, you know?  And you don’t have to just wear them in the summer.  So if you wear them for a whole year, that’s less than $1 a day.  Not bad at all."  Had I had the money, I probably would have bought those $300 sunglasses.  Never mind that I don’t wear sunglasses, or that prior to seeing them I had no desire to buy sunglasses, or that I really need new shoes, since there are holes in the bottom of my shoes that are so large and deep that I can’t wear them in the rain, lest my feet get soaked.  I would have certainly bought those fucking sunglasses if I had the money.  

So I’m not rich and I suck with what little money I do have.  I didn’t want to even tell you how much I was planning on paying per month in rent.  The only reason I did tell you how much I plan on paying is because I turn to you, dear readers, for help. 

*****************

I have seen about a half dozen apartments so far, and none have been even close to being livable.  The best of the bunch was a $1700 "gem" at 10th and 1st.  I love that area – good vibe, a little sketchy, nice local bars – so as I walked to see the apartment, I hoped and prayed that it would be just good enough for me to live in.  I’m not looking for elegance here, just enough space for me and my stuff.

It was not to be.  I should have guessed the place was going to be small when after entering it I had to walk down a ten foot hallway that was so shallow it was rubbing against my shoulders as I walked.  The good news was that the apartment was clean.  The bad news was that if I wanted to live there, I’d have to throw out my books, my desk, half of my clothes, and get a single bed.  So, um, no.

And that one was the best.  The worst was a $1550/month apartment in the east Lower East Side.  When the super opened the door, one word came to mind: junkie.  It looked as though a junkie had lived in the apartment.  I’m not talking about a junkie living there in the 1960′s, but rather a junkie living there this morning (actually, it looked more like a junkie died there this morning).  Adding to the apartment’s charm was the shower, which was in the living room.  Yep, on one wall of the living room stood a tub with sliding glass doors and a shower.  Shell-shocked, I walked into the bedroom.  I opened the door to what I thought was a closet and saw…a toilet.  A fucking toilet.  In the bedroom fucking closet.  So that’s a) a junkie vibe/look; b) the tub in the living room; and c) the toilet in the bedroom closet.  For $1550 a month.  But hey, at least the Lower East Side is cool.  Well, three years ago it was.    

So I’ve only just begun my search, but I feel like I might do something crazy.  Something regrettable.  Something entirely out of character.

I might move to Brooklyn. 

The logic behind the Brooklyn move is that, well, you can get a pretty nice fucking place in Brooklyn for $1800.  Hell, you can get a pretty decent place in Brooklyn for about $1400, which is music to my ears. 

The downside?  It’s Brooklyn.  It’s far.  It’s big.  And most importantly, I don’t know anyone out there.  True, I only have about four friends in Manhattan, but if I move to a nice place in Brooklyn, it will surely be my Fortress of Solitude and Jerking Off Four Times a Day.

And I know nothing about the geography of Brooklyn.  In my first year in NYC, I lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.  I know only that this area is way too fucking far away for me to live.  When I look over the Brooklyn apartment ads on craigslist, I have no idea whether I’m looking at apartments located in Bill Cosby Brooklyn or Biggie Smalls Brooklyn. 

So I might do something crazier.  I never thought I’d write these words, but…I might move to Hoboken.

I know, I know – nobody hates Hoboken more than I do.  It is a town filled with 26 year-old Jersey-born and bred frat boys who work in finance, love Jager bombs, and wear stripped shirts – and the women who love them.  Moving to Hoboken would mean that my social life would undergo an amazing transformation (and I don’t mean amazing as in "good" or "awesome", but rather "what a total fucking difference and this stinks").  I mean, my god, I’d live in Jersey.  New Fucking Jersey.  And by choice!  Not under duress or because I had to!  I would choose to live in New Jersey!  Good god!

(I must be losing my mind.  I need a minute here.)

(…)

(…)

(Ok.)

The positives?  Like Brooklyn, I can get a decent place for my spending limit.  But Hoboken has another factor.  One of my best friends from college lives in Hoboken.  Another one is moving there in a few months.  So if I were to live in Hoboken, I’d have two very good friends living there with me, two guys I’d feel comfortable calling on a Tuesday evening, saying, "Clear your schedule for the night – we’re getting fucked up!"

(But again – it’s Jersey!  My stomach is getting upset just thinking about it.)

My fourth option (after continuing the search, moving to Brooklyn, or moving to Hoboken) is staying in my current place, sans Brian.  Don’t get me wrong – I do not like my current place.  There are way too many tourists and Chinese people, no decent bars, late night pizza places, or diners, and the temperature fluctuations nearly kill me every time I get sick.

But I’d rather not be bothered with this whole thing.  I have a lot to do this month, and looking for an apartment does not appeal to me very much.  Not only that, again it goes back to money.  If I use a broker, I will need four months rent up front (first month’s rent, one month broker fee, two month’s security).  So if I’m looking to pay $1800 a month, that’s $7200 I’d need right away.  Which, as you might guess, I do not have lying around.  That means I’d have to call home to borrow money either from my dad, who’s been out of work hurt since 2001, or my mom, who works two jobs.  Not really an option.

So if my landlord agrees to knock down the rent a bit, I might just stay in my current place.  Brian’s looking to move out anyway, and I can turn his closet-like bedroom into an office (read: sex den).  But odds are that my landlord is not going to lower the rent, so I’m not sure how viable this option is.   

*****************

So as you can see, I’m totally fucked and completely clueless.  When I first decided to live on my own, I thought to myself, "I don’t care what the apartment looks like – I just want it to be in a cool area."  This was important to me.  If I was going to live alone, I needed to be surrounded with things to do to occupy my time.

But after seeing places, my reasoning has turned to, "If I’m going to spend fucking $1800 a month on rent, my place better be nice."  I can not, in good conscience, justify paying that much money for a shithole.  Indeed, the saddest part of seeing the LES apartment with the crapper in the closet is that someone would eventually pay $1550 a month to live there.  The landlords have all the power, because everyone wants to live in NYC. 

With no where else to turn, I’m throwing up a hail mary to you guys.  If you are in the apartment game or know anyone moving out of their apartment, please let me know.  Here’s what I’m looking for:

• one bedroom (not a studio)

• available May 1, but can do immediate for the right place

• somewhere around $1800 

• with a living room (not a kitchen/living room) 

• no broker fee if possible

• below 34th Street, but not in the Financial District 

• preferrably in any of the following areas (in order): East Village, West Village, Alphabet City, LES

• sexy hot neighbors who live to fuck bloggers

• if you know of a great place in Brooklyn or Hoboken, I’m willing to listen, but am still focusing on Manhattan right now

I don’t think this is asking too much.  Literally, about 1.5 million people live in the area in which I’m looking for an apartment, so there have got to be some vacancies.  But, since God and I are feuding (again), He’s not going to help me out here, so I turn to you, my loyal, wonderful, good-looking, intelligent, well-endowed readers.   

In the meantime, I’m going to continue to search craigslist.  Not so much for apartments, but for lovers.

(I mean, have you read the "Casual Encounters" section?  It is FULL of penis.  Full of it.  Where the hell are all the women looking to give blowjobs over lunch?  Does anyone know of that website?  I mean, fuck.) 

At 12:19am on April 1, my month-long flirtation with vegetarianism came to an end.  And it was not a moment too soon.

I wish that I could say something positive about not eating meat (fish and other seafoods were allowed), but I’ve got nothing.  It didn’t make me feel any better physically.  It’s not like that by cleansing my body of meat products I became a better athlete, worker, lover, or person.  This is probably because I replaced protein and vitamin-rich meat not with fish and vegetables, but pasta and pizza.  LOTS of pasta and pizza.

I didn’t feel morally better.  As I’ve said, I firmly believe that God put animals on this earth for us to dominate, eat, and perhaps train to perform simple household chores.  So I could care less if I saved a few chickens or cows.  They’re born to be eaten, so if I felt anything, it was guilt about not taking advantage of the plentiful bounty that God has provided us (especially when so many of His children can’t). 

I didn’t feel sexier.  A lot of women readers wrote in and said that I should try to use my vegetarianism to impress women.  The women who suggested this obviously don’t know me very well.  Any sex appeal (and I use that word in the loosest possible sense) I have is based on being a man, a real man, an alpha male.  I have a beard and lots of body hair; I’m fat and have fat boy strength; I like drinking beer, watching sports, and yelling; I get jealous if other guys talk to you and will beat up any co-worker who hits on you (never mind that I listen to Sade in the shower and have a good cry).  Vegetarianism is the antithesis of my "man" persona and is essentially emasculating.  So in between taking shots of whiskey and yelling about titties and "god damn Mexicans", dropping "I’m a vegetarian" didn’t work out very well.   

I did, however, feel a little superior.  I found myself looking down on the meat-eating peasants, feeling much more sophisticated than the assholes lining up in Burger King for a meat fix.  But that was quickly replaced by jealousy, because, well, I wanted some Burger King, too.   

On Friday night, March 31, I had dinner with two friends.  We went to the restaurant in the swankalicious 60 Thompson.  I normally don’t go to such classy establishments, but a buddy was in town on business and expensed the meal. 

Long story short, the point is that my last vegetarian meal was delicious: fish cakes, tuna tartar, and chilean sea bass.  And a lot of wine.

After leaving the dinner, I joined my roommate Brian and some friends for drinks.  But I was itching.  I knew at midnight I could have meat, and god damn it, that’s what I was going to do. 

So just before midnight, I pulled what my roommate Brian calls an "Irish exit" – I left the bar without telling anyone.  I said I was going to make a call and just kept on walking.  I was going to Bereket.

Why I decided that my first meat-meal in over 30 days would come from a middle-aged Turkish man slicing processed meat of questionable origin off a spit, I do not know.  But when I started digging into that doner kebab at 12:19am, it was all good.

…Until I was done, when my stomach staged a small revolt.  Perhaps even a revolution.  Over the next day and a half, I was hurting.  I am no stranger to gastrointestinal pain, but this was something new.  And not good.

But I soldiered on: bacon, egg, and cheese bagel for breakfast, chicken salad sandwich for lunch, chicken parm dinner.  This was only the beginning.

I’ve been eating meat a breakneck pace and my body seems to have righted myself.  Just in time too, because I’m going to Philly tonight, and you can bet your ass that when my dad picks me up from the train station he and I are going to Jim’s and I’m getting TWO steaks, extra whiz, without.  I have a boner just thinking about this. 

So it’s over, dead and done.  Thank god.  It was a stupid and miserable experience, but I have a (small) measure of happiness having proved to myself that I could do it.  So to my friends who doubted me, a ha!  Take that, bitches.

(To which they have been replying, "Yeah, but you were miserable for a month, so you kinda lose."  Irrelevant.  Totally irrelevant.)

****************************

This article has, hands down, the best headline/lead I’ve ever read:

Pregnant woman beaten at baby shower
Police: Fight escalated over whether woman gave 5-year-old beer
SPRINGFIELD, Massachusetts (AP) — An argument at a baby shower escalated into a brawl in which one man was shot and the pregnant guest of honor was beaten with a stick, police said.

I mean, call off the search for this year’s Pulitzer Prize winner and immediately give it to this person.  THAT is how you open an article. 

And it only gets better (if that’s even possible), as the main people involved are named Aristotle, Jazz, and Juan.  Sure, it’d be better if instead of Juan we had a "Pluto" or perhaps "Banana", but I’ll take Aristotle and Jazz.

Fucking Massholes, always shooting people up at baby showers and beating mother fuckers with sticks.  You really can’t take them anywhere. 

****************************

Last night, I was walking home from picking up dinner at Sea, the best Thai restaurant in the world, when I came up two semi-attractive hipsterish tourists.  They appeared to have Eastern European accents.  I had my iPod on at the time, but that didn’t stop them from asking me for directions.

Girl: "Hi, do you know where Avenue A is?"

Now, I’m always nice to tourists.  If I see people on the street looking at a map and pointing in different directions, I will usually proactively go up to them to ask them if they need help.  In this way, I balance out my karma, since most of the time I wish death by dog attack on all the fucking tourists who clog my street and walk at a snail’s pace when all I want to do is get home with my laundry and make some really crappy meal. 

Also, these girls were more than good-looking enough.  So I had to show off a little.

Me: "Yes, it’s two blocks down that way.  This is Second, it’ll go First, then after that, it’s Avenue A."
Girl: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yes, I’m sure – I’ve been living in New York for 51 years."
Girl: [surprised at my age] "Really?"
Me: "No, but I still know where Avenue A is." 

At this point, one might expect a chuckle or at least some acknowledgement of the clever joke, but instead, Girl looked at me strangely, didn’t say anything, and was pulled away by her friend. 

My question: um, what the fuck?

I wanted to run after them and say, "Really?  Nothing?  Not a laugh or even a thank you?  Nothing?  Are you sure?  Do you get the joke?  I know I look older than my age – I’m 26, by the way - but telling two strangers I’m 51?  That’s not funny to you?  No?" 

I don’t think I’m particularly neurotic with my humor – I’ll be the first to admit when something’s not funny (like, for example, this blog for the past, oh, eight or so months), but come on.  That was a pretty solid little joke.  I wasn’t expecting her to drop to her knees and fellate me right then and there, speaking in hushed Ukrainian, telling me how my bird tastes like broccoli, but a little something would have been nice.  Hell, all I wanted was a smile and a thank you.  And I got walked away from.

Fucking tourists.  This is what I get for being nice to them.   

****************************

I was talking to a female friend this weekend when I made some lame joke about blue balls.  My female friend said, "Yeah, they don’t exist."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Blue balls, they don’t exist."

She then proceeded to tell me that it’s a scientific fact that blue balls are all psychological, a product of a man’s frustration upon not having an orgasm.  There is no real physical pain, just mental frustration/anguish.

I informed her that blue balls do, in fact, exist, as I have had them several times.

She said it was all in my head.

I said it wasn’t.

This went back and forth for quite a while, and for some reason, got me more fired up than I had been in years.  How can a woman, who does not (presumably) have testes, talk to me with any authority about testes?

It was eventually settled when I went on the internet and proved that blue balls, technically called vasocongestion, do exist.  According to Discovery Health:

When a man becomes sexually excited, the arteries carrying blood to the genital area enlarge, while the veins carrying blood from the genital area are more constricted than in the non-aroused state.

This uneven blood flow causes an increase in volume of blood trapped in the genitals and contributes to the penis becoming erect and the testicles becoming engorged with blood. During this process of vasocongestion the testicles increase in size 25-50 percent.

If the male reaches orgasm and ejaculates, the arteries and veins return to their normal size, the volume of blood in the genitals is reduced and the penis and testicles return to their usual size rather quickly.

If ejaculation does not occur there may be a lingering sensation of heaviness, aching, or discomfort in the testicles due to the continued vasocongestion. This unpleasant feeling has popularly been called blue balls, perhaps because of the bluish tint that appears when blood engorges the vessels in the testicles.

This was news to me.  I always thought that blue balls were the result of semen that had left the testes in preparation for ejaculation getting stuck in the vas deferens, the tube that connects the balls to the bird, but apparently I was wrong. 

This was news to me.  I always thought that blue balls were the result of semen that had left the testes in preparation for ejaculation getting stuck in the vas deferens, the tube that connects the balls to the bird, but apparently I was wrong. 

In fairness to my female friend, who wished to remain nameless here, Discovery Health goes on to say:

The condition usually does not last long and the level of pain associated with blue balls is usually minor and can be exaggerated. Most men have been socialized to ejaculate when they get an erection during sexual activity. Failure to ejaculate and to feel orgasm often adds frustration and disappointment to the reality of the physical sensation.

Ok, yeah, sure, maybe part of the pain is psychological.  But guess what?  It sucks when some drunk chick is rubbing your bird through your jeans for a half hour and then passes out, leaving you with a chaffed penis, a raging boner, and some chick you just meet at the all-night Chinese food place an hour before snoring in your bed.  Also, she has a weird smell to her, kinda like formaldehyde or maybe like warm bleu cheese.

[By the way, ladies: it is awesome to rub a guy's bird through/on top of his pants.  Maybe it's the whole high school element to it, but it's incredible.  I once hooked with up a girl in college for two months because she did this to me, even though she was basically my enemy and even kinda looked like me, too.  It was worth it for the bird-through-the-pants rubs.] 

The point is that blue balls exist.  They are real.  They suck.  And I get them all the time.  Hell, I’ve had very good hugs give me blue balls, but I don’t want to get into this now.   

****************************

This guy is better than me at playing the ukulele.  And not just because I can’t play the ukulele. 

My natural inclination is to hate this person for being such a good musician.  For example, I’d remind viewers to take into consideration that his parents probably forced him into playing the piano for four hours a day starting at age two.  Because we all know how Asian parents are all about forcing their kids to play music.  And karate – they love karate too.

I’d also point out that the ukulele is like the guitar, but for beginners.  Not only is it considerably smaller than a guitar, meaning there is less ground to cover, but it’s also just the bottom four strings of a guitar.  So if you can play guitar, you can play ukulele.

[Actually, I’m not even sure if this is true.  There are, I think, different types of ukuleles.  I’ve only played one, but I know it was tuned the same as a guitar.  So that’s what I’m going with.]

But even through my hate-filled jealousy, I have to say: wow.  Totally fucking awesome.  Sick, even. 

Now someone please buy me a ukulele.  Maybe I can learn "Something" and put up a dueling video, but instead of playing really well, I’ll just film myself in the shower playing and singing and breaking into "Slow Ride".

****************************

Six Songs

"Friday’s Child"  Them
The two disc The Story of Them Featuring Van Morrison is one of the five best cds I own.  If you even marginally like Van Morrison, I suggest you get this cd.  It’s a bunch of dirty-ass men from Northern Ireland playing straight rock.  Maybe it’s because I’m the perfect combination of mentally, physically, and emotionally drained, but this is not a song; this is a moment.  Really beautiful stuff. 

"Apple Tree"  Wolfmother
If Jack White wrote half a song and Ozzy and Tony Iommi wrote the other half, it would probably sound like this.  Hell, it might even be this song.  Great riff at the end there, when the guitar and bass double up.  I’ve recently grown to appreciate hard rock as I continue my descent into madness, and I look forward to rocking out to these guys in the future. 

(And yes, I realize that if I keep recommending heavy rock songs I’m going to have to stop talking about "riffs", but I’ll work on it.)

"You’re The Nearest Thing To Heaven"  Johnny Cash
I’d like to meet a girl who says, "All I want is for a guy to sing this song to me."  I think that would be quite nice.    

"Tymps (The Sick In The Head Song)"  Fiona Apple
In the pantheon of Famous Women That I’ve Been In Love With, there are many notable names, including Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Emma "Baby Spice" Bunton, Elisha Cuthbert, Josie Maran.  But the longest imaginary love affair I’ve had – by far – has been with Fiona Apple.  Since "Shadowboxer", those blue eyes and that total fucking craziness have haunted my dreams and sent me into fits of desire and longing.  It occurred to me only recently that the album Tidal was released in 1996.  That’s ten years ago.  Ten fucking years!  Am I the only one who’s shocked by that?

Anyway, this is another one off her new album.  Hearing it, the fires of my love are stoked with the same intensity as did those songs on Tidal, and it makes me feel all warm inside (especially when she sings "Or I just really used to love him…" over a nifty little chord progression).  There are few artists that I feel non-negotiable about, but if you don’t like Fiona Apple, I don’t know if we can be friends.  Sorry.  Find yourself another humorist-who-happens-to-have-a-blog-but-we’re-trying-to-get-away-from-the-"blogger"-title-and-go-with-"humorist"-instead-because-"blogger"-carries-too-much-baggage to send your naked pictures to. 

"Formula, Cola, Dollar Draft"  Marah
This band is so fucking good I want to pee myself.  This song is so fucking good I want to quit my job, grow my beard out, and ride the rails with only a box of condoms, a banjo, and my geeeetar.  If you can play banjo and would like to play along to the outro with me, please email me asap. 

"Devil’s Daughter"  Silvertide
Speaking of songs that sound like they’re by other artists but are still very good, this song sounds very much like The Black Crowes.  I’m tempted to say it sounds exactly like The Black Crowes, but I actually don’t know that much about either band to make such a strong comparison (because suddenly I’m against making grandiose comparisons or something). 

Anyway, I’d like to make a video for this song.  It’d have a cheesy early 90’s feel and be set in a dusty Texas bar.  The band would be in the bar, along with some rough looking locals.  The video would start when the girl walks in the bar, looking all prim and proper and sits down at the bar.  For the next few minutes of the video, there’d be splits: the band gets up to perform and starts rocking out, with cuts to guys hitting on the chick.  She keeps rejecting them, but as the song continues, you can see the girl getting turned on – not by the guys, but by the song.  She keeps patting the sweat from her forehead, biting her lip, maybe unbuttoning her blouse a little.

Then, out of nowhere, I come out of the bathroom.  I’m wearing the same outfit that the Hamburgler wears.  When our eyes meet, she pushes herself off her stool and stands up, panting and sweating.  I approach her with the sexual confidence of a man who has slept with over thirty women. 

Then during the solo, we have a dance off.  The camera alternates between up close shots of our eyes, shots from our points of view (i.e. me watching her dance, her watching me dance), and views from the ceiling, as we try to out do each other. 

All the locals are standing around in a circle cheering us on.  We are both extremely sexy; she swaying her hips back and forth and rubbing all up on herself, and me, licking myself lips, nodding my head "Yes" seductively and squinting my eyes just a little bit, and occasionally spinning around and pulling down my pants a little, revealing some nice ass shots. 

Then, just when it couldn’t get any hotter, we both pull out guns and start shooting up the bar (the band continues to play unharmed).  We shoot the shit out of everyone and chaos erupts – bottles breaking, people getting shot and failing over tables, gunsmoke filling the room.  She hops behind to rob the cash register while I continue shooting mother fuckers.   We then run out of the bar into a waiting getaway car, driven by none other than the late Jerry Orbach (digitized, of course). 

The video ends with the band playing the song in the middle of desert.  Jerry is outside the car, rocking out and smoking a cigarette.  The car is rocking to the beat of the song, as the viewer picks up that the girl and I are inside making love.  As the song comes to a close, the video ends on the car stopping rocking.  A used condom flies out the window.  Video closes on an up close of the used condom.  Fin. 

If any of you reading this know the band, please pass this along to them as a de facto video proposal.  Thank you.    

If any of you reading this know the band, please pass this along to them as a de facto video proposal.  Thank you.    

For those peeps in Philly, I am mentioned in today’s edition of The Philadelphia Inquirer.  I don’t have a hard copy (since I’m in NYC and all), but it’s on Section D at the bottom of the first page (this is what my mom tells me, in between saying, “My God, you’re so much better than your brother and sister” over and over again).  It’s basically the hard copy version of what was written up in their blog yesterday, but here’s the link.

It occurs to me that I’m going to have to get a semi-normal picture of me for these things.  They asked for one and I sent them the moustache one and the boner jacket one (the first and third pictures on my MySpace profile) and they went with neither.  Totally understandable, since I look like a moron in both.  So if anyone in NYC is willing and able to take tasteful, semi-nude shots of me, please let me know.

(Oh, and for free.)

Hopefully more to come later today.

I was planning on taking time today to discuss the end of my vegetarianism, but there is a much more pressing matter at hand: boobies.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I am a breast man.  I wish I could explain why I am so enamored with breasts instead of only saying things like, "They’re awesome and look nice" and "They are fun to touch" and "I like it when they bounce," but I can’t.  I don’t want to get all Freudian, because that’s just nasty.  I am damn sure that that’s not the root of it. 

Alternatively, my first serious girlfriend, my first serious everything, was very, um, gifted in the boobs department; the kind of girl that sprouted breasts when I was still eating paste and pissing myself in class.  Perhaps that has something to do it; I am forever search of boobies to match the first I ever became acquainted with.  My lust for large mammories is a manifestation of nostalgia, not specifically for the girl, but generally for my past.  But that seems almost too easy.

And even before that, as soon as I knew they existed and that girls were pretty, nice breasts have been important to me in a potential mate.  Nay, not just important, necessary.  I immediately can and will disqualify a woman as a possible life partner based on the size of her breasts.  This is so shallow that I’m shocked to even write it, but it’s true.  I admit: I require ample boobies in a lady friend.  This doesn’t necessarily mean DD’s, but they have to be at least bigger than mine (and let me tell you something, mine are nothing to sneeze at).   

[I ask you to allow me to be a pig for a minute and clarify what I mean by "nice" boobies.  If you have D-sized boobs but are 250 pounds, those are not nice boobies. What we're aiming for is slight disproportion.  Meaning, you don't have to stop traffic with your 34D-22-32 measurements, but I want a little extra sumpin' up top, just enough for it to be noticeable.  Slight disproportion is ideal.] 

Over the past few weeks and months, I have become increasingly obsessed with boobies.  Again, I don’t know why, but it’s happening.  Maybe it’s a function of getting older; as I grow older and more lonely I’m becoming just that more perverted and have less and less a problem with staring down a girl for a solid three minutes, often causing her to switch cars on the subway, all because the top two buttons of her blouse are open.  The worst part is that this is a development that will surely not be helped by the arrival of spring, when cleavage makes its grand return to the streets of NYC (also known as the greatest time of the year).  This may push me over the edge and you may soon be reading a headline saying, "Blogger/Humorist Jason Mulgrew arrested in Central Park for allegedly recruiting actresses for sex fetish tape with promises of cocaine, enemas."   

But the real reason I’m compelled to discuss this matter today is because of two women, Jenny Lewis and Tabitha Tindale, singers of the bands Rilo Kiley and Joy Zipper, respectively. 

I was introduced to the music of Rilo Kiley a few months back but almost immediately dismissed them as chick rock.  I like chick rock a little, but at that point in my life I was not interested in it.  Eventually, I gave them a second chance and started to like some of their stuff, particularly the song "Does He Love You?", which I pimped on here in January.  I continued to listen to them but wasn’t blown away.  It seemed that I was destined to be a casual Rilo Kiley fan. 

And then I saw this.  That’s Jenny Lewis, singing away.  And those are some serious fucking cans. 

So moved was I that I put the link to this picture on here when I found it, so that you all, too, might feel as in awe of Ms. Lewis’ boobs as I felt.  But that was only just the beginning.  I dug and little deeper and learned over time, by scouring through pictures on the web and downloading some Rilo Kiley music videos, that Jenny Lewis is, indeed, certifiably boobilicous. 

Suddenly, I became a huge Rilo Kiley fan.  I listened to everything of theirs I could get my hands on, starting telling all my friends about them, learned how to play many of their songs on guitar.  I was hooked.  According to my iTunes, "The Frug" was played about 48 times last week (to give you an idea, the most played song on my iTunes is Joe Cocker’s version of "She Came In Through The Bathroom Window" at 89 plays, and I’ve had that song on my iTunes forever). 

I fell into near obsession because I was captivated by boobies, trapped under their spell.  But then it got worse.

Meet Tabitha Tindale, singer/keyboard player in the boy-girl duo Joy Zipper (that’s her on the left – forget about the dude).  This is another picture of what Tabitha looks like.  And this is what Tabitha really looks like.

Goodness gracious.

I did not like Joy Zipper prior to seeing these pictures.  I didn’t dislike them, but my general feeling was "Eh." 

Now, I am mounting a campaign to run for the presidency of the Joy Zipper fan club.  Every time I hear the song "Baby You Should Know", the only song I kinda liked before learning that Tabitha was arguably the most boobilicous fox in the world, I pee a little.  Only the pee is white.  And thicker than pee.  And stickier.

For a few days, I fell so deeply into boobmania that I lost track of myself and what’s important to me.  I found myself effusively praising and obsessively listening to Joy Zipper, absorbing news about the band, looking at all the pictures, convincing myself that they were the next coming of Elvis, and wanting to be a part of it. 

I take my music very seriously.  For years, I tried to keep my love of music separate from my love of boobies.  But now the two were combining.  And I had a moment.

Am I really that easy?  Is a pair of breasts really all it takes for me to lose control of all judgment?  Is that how it works: I forsake my sense, my taste, my objectivity when I see a nice pair of tits?  Really?   

The answer is yes.  It has always been yes.  But today, it ends.  

I, Jason Mulgrew, am a booby addict. 

This is something that I have come to accept in the past few days.  And I know that acceptance is the first step.

I, Jason Mulgrew, am a booby addict. 

I don’t know where this road will lead me, but I realize it is time.  I have to rid myself of this specter that has haunted me for the past fifteen-plus years.  And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m terrified.  We’ll start slowly, as I try to wean (no pun intended) myself off my obsession.  Maybe I’ll tell myself over and over again that boobs are just fat. (Wonderful, glorious fat.)  And that though a girl might have large, round, sweet, delicious orbs right now, they will eventually only sag, which will cause her any number of back problems. (Though I will probably be long dead before my girlfriend’s/wife’s/lover’s breasts get to this point.)  And maybe, when searching for porn to download, I will not use words and phrases like "big tits" and "large naturals" and "cummy busts" but rather "flat chicks" and "tiny titties" and "boy chest."  But I’m getting off track here…

The point is that I promise you that I committed to affecting a positive change in my life.  I plan to rid myself of this curse that has controlled me for too long.  Both for my sake and for yours.

Because I, Jason Mulgrew, am addicting to masturbating. 

I mean, I’m a booby addict.  I, Jason Mulgrew, am a booby addict. 

(One addiction at a time, please.)

At least somebody loves me.

More later today (mostly about boobies, so be warned).