I am making a motherfucking Dream Board

OK, faithful readers, I am going to make a huge confession here: I loooovvee self-help books.

If you remember a ways back, I did once admit to reading the Deepak Chopra. Hell, I even took it with me on the Fourth of July. My friends berated and deflated me for it, but I unapologetically read on the beach, sipping out of my Coors Light cold-activated can, swearing up and down that my “Up Guru,” (it’s really “upa guru,” or “self” according to my man Dee-pack, but I prefer to say Up Guru, as in like the little woman inside me who always knows what she wants to do, which is usually sipping out of a cold-activated can in a bikini on a beach somewhere.)

I never used to read this shit. But, like I said, I get a lot of free books at my place of work, like on how to be happier, make more money, etc. Hell, I even thumbed through “The Secret” on a Greyhound once. It’s a helluva lot cheaper than therapy, and much of it is the same shit. But, much like getting backstage, out of jury duty or talking the bartender into letting you smoke in the bar, you just got to apply yourself to get what you want.

So, now I’m reading a book on finding a Real Man. Since I am a serial dater of alcoholic dickbags, man childs, insecure assholes, the unemployed and so on, I am thinking that I could use some help in this arena. There is no reason I can’t use this “Secret”-like action to scoring me some real action with someone who has an address and can afford to pay their cell phone bill.

This new book I’m reading (and, no, I’m not going to tell you what it is) actually makes some good sense. It’s about the focus on the search for your Half Orange—the other half to your orange, or something or other. So, to complete my orange—the Apollonia to my Prince (that’s right, it’ s my board, so I can be Prince), the Johnny Marr to my Morrissey, or just to put together that werewolf/vampire threesome, I just got to put out positive vibes to the universe and sit and wait and keep on keeping on.

So, my project this holiday weekend is to put on a little Whitesnake, grab some cardboard and tape and tack together my Motherfucking Dream Board. I’ve already started collecting images for my most perfect Dream Board. It already includes Justin Timberlake, the Bahamas, nachos and a cocker spaniel.

Also, this power of positive thinking is already working…I’m sure of it. This morning on my way to work, I already had a ton of dudes check me out, including one very cute Frenchman who was like, “Where are you going?”

Ok, send me ideas for my Dream Board, ’cause once it’s done, you know there’s a picture going up. And it will be ridiculous. Ridiculously awesome.

 

‘Everybody’s Rapping Like It’s A Commercial / Actin’ Like Life Is A Big Commercial’

I like shit. Seriously. I hate to admit this, as environmentally aware as I try to be–I wash clothes in cold water; I don’t buy bottled water, except in emergencies; I endure public transportation; I shop in my neighborhood and pay more for Brooklyn-made clothes, etc. My carbon footprint is as motherfucking low as it can get without me doing something retarded like going Vegan or moving to Portland, Ore.

However, I get a sick satisfaction from buying and using stuff…and throwing the bottle away into the recycling bin.  I blame the excess of the Reagan years for this.

So, as an American consumer of Stuff I’ve been noticing a lot of commercials lately. Is it just me, or are commercials becoming even more annoying than usual? I think they’re more annoying. Here’s a recap of the ones that drive me to the brink of madness:

 

• “Karl…it stinks in here,” says Karl’s Hot Mom as she walks into his bedroom. Yes, indeed, the adolescent, pimply, gangly Karl replies in his pubescent breaking voice to Hot Mom’s request that they wash the room, “Are you kidding? Wash it?” Why, yes, Karl, nothing like Frebreze to cover up the stench of your jizzed-upon crusty socks and skid-marked Fruit of the Looms. So, they start Frebrezing everything—which, after four fucking years of not living with a washer/dryer setup, it Blows Me Away that People are so lazy that they cannot even strip their sheets and take it downstairs to their very own W/D hookup! Anyway, the room gets “fresh” just in time for Karl’s hot female friends to arrive, and let me say, as a former teenage girl, Frebreze or no, there’s no way I’d be going over to some Virgin like Karl’s house to hang out in his funky-ass room. Next.
• “We are Miracle Whip, and we will not tone it down.” There are so many things I despise about this ad campaign—and the sheer disgusting fact that MW is so clearly inferior to real mayo isn’t even the beginning of it. It features a bunch of squirrelly looking hipsters smearing Miracle Whip on sandwiches and all over each other, licking it off their faces and prancing around and posing with the jar, while wearing vests over T-shirts and ’80s Ray-Bans and playing guitar and making toasted paninis on rooftops. Hey, fuckers! Yeah, you! Miracle Whip is not the new Pabst. But I can’t help but think that the one thing it would be good for is slobbing some on a hot dog so you can toss it down the Hipster Grifter’s hallway. Just saying.
• K&Y His and Hers. I don’t think this one needs that much explanation. A bunch of boring, married, mediocre couples find that this lubricant makes them enjoy fucking each other again. What I don’t get is, after they’re done in bed, they always still have their clothes on.
• Kmart Christmas layaway commercials. Ok, any Christmas commercial (“Buy more crap! Seriously, just buy more crap, you lazy, stupid, fat American!”) drives me insane, and they’re out early this year in droves. But if you’re putting shit on layaway at Kmart you really need to consider if you should be buying anything at all in the first place.
• Smart Food. As a woman—no, as an Educated Human Being—these commercials offend every cell of my being. A bunch of moderately plump cartoon chicks sit around and bitch about doing one sit-up, then plop their fat asses down on the couch to consume some fucking fake carmel popcorn, or whisper crackers, or whatever shit is being pushed as Smart Food. When these come on, look at the men in the room if there are any—you can physically almost see their dicks shriveling back up into their bodies. Choice lines include “Cheryl, you can’t wear control tops with a bikini,” “If I eat it standing up it doesn’t count, right?” and “ ‘Four hours of aerobics’ ‘Why?’ ‘Hot fudge sundae.’ ” Or as my roommate put it, “Calories, calories, calories, vagina.” Whoever created this campaign should be drug out in the street, beaten and given to Michael Vick.

 

The posts have been slow coming lately due to business factor—fucking day jobs. But now that the holidaze are upon us, look for a lot more. I mean, it’s not like anyone works between Thanksgiving and Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa anyway, and I plan to spend the next month watching “New Moon” over and over again and dreaming of vampire kisses on fluffy white clouds.

 

 

Let’s Talk Coke!!! (A Special Three-Part Series Brought to You by the War on Terror and Mötley Crüe) Part III

At a certain point, I was meeting strangers, going with them to buy coke, snorting it up. I met this one guy, a jeans designer, at a friend’s loft party in Brooklyn—we chat, smoke cigarettes on the roof all night, and toward the end of the evening when the party is clearing out, he turns to my roommate and me and says, “Does anyone want to go get some coke?”

She wisely declines and heads home. And, like an idiot, a few minutes later I find myself standing on a street corner right across from my ex-boyfriend’s apartment in front of a bar at 2 a.m. while Jeans Designer goes inside to buy from “this DJ guy I know.”

I think that I cannot get any more pathetic than this.

After what seems like forever, he finally emerges with the coke. We walk to his place, a one-bedroom in an ugly, concrete, multi-story building that used to be part of the projects. His place is filthy—clothes are scattered everywhere, and the bathroom and kitchen haven’t been cleaned in ages. He proceeds to cut lines, and we tear through that bag of coke and a case of Tecate, and the night fades into 3, 4, 5 a.m. Line after line, he starts blathering about designing jeans for a big-name rap mogul, how impossible it is to fulfill a celebrity’s every wish and the demands of working with denim as a fabric.

As he’s talking, he brings out dozens of jeans, explaining washes, cuts and pocket designs. I nod along, pretending to care, realizing about the time the sun is coming up that I’ve spent the previous two hours talking about denim when I couldn’t give a shit less about how jeans are made.

Then it comes down to what it always comes down to—are we going to mess around?

He starts rubbing my feet. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I feel like I can,” he says. “There’s this charge kind of pending against me right now…Um, I don’t know how to say this without it sounding really bad.”

“Ah, go ahead,” I say, exhausted, wanting him to leave me alone. I am not attracted to him at all, but for some reason I cannot tell people to stop touching me when I am on coke. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Uh, I got thrown into jail in April,” he says. “My friend had this girlfriend, and they were fighting, right? So I run into her at a party, and she’s all flirting with me, and I always thought she was hot. So we end up having sex, she tells me after that she did it to piss him off. Then she goes to him and tells him that I raped her…I mean, I know that sounds bad, but it was totally consensual. She asked to come home with me. And now?” OK, Jeans Designer is almost crying. “My friend came over and beat the shit out of me and called the cops. I got thrown in jail for a couple days before I could get out. And now, I’ve got to show up at this court date.”

Hours and hours after burning through a shit-ton of coke and a case of beer—I think, if he was going to try something wouldn’t he have tried it by now? But still? Rape? I sit there, frozen to the couch, not saying anything—I can’t decide if I buy his story or not. But I also don’t want to seem freaked out and piss him off in case he is dangerous.

“See?” he says. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew that this would happen. I knew you would go cold.”

“No, it’s not…well, you seem to be telling the truth,” I say.

“So, do you want to come to my room?”

“Um, I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m just gonna crash here for a couple hours.”

The sun spreads light into the apartment. I look around—a case of empty cans spread over the coffee table and two very depressed people sitting there trying to figure out if having sex could make them feel better.

Finally, he leaves me alone, and I go to sleep on the couch, admittedly a dumb move in hindsight, but when a person is coming down and tired, one does not make smart decisions. I wake up a few hours later, buried in a pile of jeans and decide to make a run for it. I grab my socks, boots and try to find a pen and paper to leave him a note. I stand there for a bit, hovering over the kitchen table, thinking of what to write. “Seriously, you want this guy calling you?” I say to myself. “What are you going to do together? Go to museums?” I put down the pen.

I grab my purse and shift through it—I always, always leave an emergency $20 for a cab. There is no money in my bag. I frantically start looking all over for it—the table, the floor, the couch, the bathroom—but it’s nowhere to be found.

I go out the door and am immediately in pain. There is a mean 11 a.m. sun beating down on my throbbing, dehydrated head. And I am completely at a loss as to where I am. Bushwick? Bed-Stuy? I finally find some guys and ask them where the G train is.

And I chuck that $20 up as a small price to pay for the stupidity of doing drugs all night with a complete stranger—and to be grateful that I didn’t lose much more.

Let’s Talk Coke!!! (A Special Three-Part Series Brought to You by the War on Terror and Mötley Crüe) Part II

Yesterday, we learned about the perils of going out to a shitty bar in Brooklyn, doing coke all night and trying to keep a day job. It’s like Sesame Street that game, One of These Things Is Not Like the Other.

Well, today we are going to delve into the dumber side of the drug—i.e. dumb things—or people—you would never imagine doing if it weren’t for the fact that you are completely out of your fucking mind.

This story starts at the races.

“Do you want to go to the races?”

“What? What races?” I say, still half asleep. I roll over. It’s 8 a.m. on a Saturday.

“The Belmont Stakes.”

“That’s in New York?” I had no idea that buried in Queens somewhere is the track that is home to one of our nation’s most beloved sporting events—and easily the sleaziest prong in the Triple Crown.

A half hour later, I’m on the curb, the June sun blaring down on me, holding a bag of bagels and a very large coffee. A tan, busted-up Chrysler minivan roars up, piloted by a crazy rock singer and his two derelict cousins—one who’s called simply “Uncle Joe”—and my friend. Uncle Joe just moved back from L.A., where he’d been mostly unemployed and “accidentally” ingesting crystal meth.

“I didn’t go out for a week,” he says, wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. “My friend told me it was the best coke. They get it, and I’m in my apartment doing it, and I’m like, ‘Shit, this doesn’t look the same…’ ”

“Of course it doesn’t look the same,” I say. “It’s crystal-y, a la ‘crystal’ meth, you moron. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“Uh?” Uncle Joe says. “Uh, I don’t know. It’s all white to me. Anyway, I was stuck in my apartment for a week. I couldn’t go out, eat, anything. I think I even shit my pants.”

We finally arrive at the track, and there amid Nassau County’s finest, the unwashed masses, the chain-smokers and their wee whipper-snappers running around their legs, getting ashed on, it becomes obvious that Belmont is not the garden-hat, mind-julep affair those bastards at the Kentucky Derby would have you believe horse-racing embodies.

Betting on ponies is fun for approximately 32 minutes, but a person can’t watch horses running by them all day and not bet. So out of boredom and that part of my DNA that lets me believe that I’ll actually hit the Mega Millions every time I buy a ticket, I bet. And then I bet again. And wait in line for beer. And hit the ATM. And try to find a porta potty that isn’t close to overflowing.

Uncle Joe walks around all day in his filthy, holey jeans, going up to women at the track and saying, “Nice tits.” Then he comments about how he has to take a dump and tells us about his next job, running a website that sells skin-care products. “These moisturizers are really great,” he tells me. “Not that you have bad skin, but this shit will make it amazing…you won’t age. Seriously. Here, let me write down the website for you on this napkin.”

I don’t win a thing at the track that day. We head back to NYC and sit in the rock star’s piss-soaked apartment building in Williamsburg waiting for him to get his shit together for his show later that night. Uncle Joe is running his mouth, “Spanky downstairs is my buddy now,” he says. “He said he could get me whatever I wanted.”

Blame it on day drinking in the sun. Blame it on losing at the ponies. Blame it on Spanky being home, but we stupidly scratched together about $60 to buy some coke. Fifteen minutes later, we are in the van, doing key bumps on the BQE in daylight.

This continues throughout the night, handing the baggie back and forth, going into the bathrooms, ingesting easily some of the shittiest drugs I’ve ever had in my life. Around 4 a.m., somehow a guy named Richard Pryor Jr. from Indiana and some other gay dude who is trying to hit on the rock star have joined our group, and I entertain the idea of taking Uncle Joe home with me—I am turned on and absolutely revolted by him at the same time—and if you’ve never experienced this emotion, I don’t recommend it.

Then I have a moment of clarity—I imagine him in my room, in my bed, the next morning, farting and belching and being disgusting and smelly, asking me to make him breakfast and coffee and trying to sell me skin cream.

And I hail a cab to go home alone.

Let’s Talk Coke!!! (A Special Three-Part Series Brought to You by the War on Terror and Mötley Crüe)

Like every asshole, I have a few good coke stories. And let me start with this disclaimer: If you do, indeed, do blow, snort lines, ride the white lightning, go skiing, etc., you are probably most likely an asshole. Life is not a Bret Easton Ellis novel. Grow the fuck up.

That said, let’s talk coke!!!

Three moments in my New York life stand out as life-changing Coke Moments—the fun one going in, the stupid one, and the downright pathetic/scary one going out.

So, while living at 233A, my roommate and I decide to go out on a Thursday night. And where did we go? The Boat, mentioned previously in this blog for its aura of elegance and sophistication, so much so, that you need to Hoover up lines in the bathroom to justify being there in your brain. While my roommate was sucking face with a tall gentleman of Swedish descent, I was stuck playing Wing Woman for his idiot friends, one of which, oh, let’s call him Coke Train, offered me unending pulls of delicious, delicious powder—it was like the never-ending pasta bowl at Olive Garden!—for the paltry sum of pretending to like him. By the time we got home, after the Boat kicked us out, it was around 5 a.m. and I proceeded to go the fridge and crack open a beer.

“Holy shit,” my roommate said. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“No way, man,” I countered. “I’m on the Coke Train!”

Oh, and I was. I couldn’t sleep for shit and the next morning, or, um day, I rolled over and looked at my clock. One p.m. One p.m. on a Friday where I was supposed to be at work. Since I’d left my cell phone in the living room, I found it with several missed calls and messages from my boss. “Shit, shit, shit,” I said, fumbling around, getting ready, slamming coffee, slapping myself in the face. But the problem was, I was still coked up.

When I got to work I found this little e-mail: “Holy shit, dude. I am so tired. I barely made it to work on time!” from the roommate.

I emailed back, “I just made it to work. Now.” It was 2 p.m.

For the rest of that excruciating day under bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights, I started to come down from a very nasty high. I kept telling myself, “Act normal! Act normal!” I could barely focus on the words I was editing on the computer screen. My head could not have hurt worse if there was a tiny Mexican cock fight tournament going on in there.

So, yeah, Coke is Fabulous! As will be evidenced in this next piece, when I explore Part II of Being an Asshole Who Does Coke!

T-giving is for sharing and caring

A few weeks ago, I asked for some, what a friend once dubbed, “icewater down the back” moments—it’s those moments when someone does something that so revolts you when you are just about to do it that it is the equivalent of someone dumping a bucket of icewater down your back.

Moments of clarity, if you will.

Anyway, there’s a street not far from mine. And I can’t pass a certain bodega/house without thinking about meeting my Icewater Dude. It was Thanksgiving and everyone in my house had left for the holiday. I was alone (yeah! A rarity in NYC) for four solid days. For the first day or so, I just sat around my house in various stages of dress, eating junk food, watching bad TV and drinking wine. By around 5 p.m. Friday, I dusted the Doritos off my lap, looked at the little hurricane of destruction spread about my coffee table and decided that I needed to A) Shower and B) Go Outside.

So, I did. I showered and walked to my neighborhood bar, Last Exit. At Last Exit, some little boy, oh, around 23, sits down next to me, proceeds to devour his order of fish and chips from across the street, and we strike up a conversation, none of which I can recall, though the bartender did not seem to like this boy very much.

At one point, he turns to me and says, “So, you wanna go to my place? It’s just around the corner.”

So we go to his place, hit the bodega on the corner for more beer, and climb the stairs. We’re sitting on the couch. “What music do you have?” I say. He pulls out some pathetic flip folder of stuff like Sum 41, John Mayer and the like. “Ugh,” I say. “You have crap taste.” “Wait a minute, my roommate has some…” And so he fetches his roomie’s folder of shit, and I finally dug out the Fugees, which was the only decent, I swear to fucking god, CD they had in that entire house.

So, we’re making out, then we’re making out in the bedroom. And clothes are coming off, and I’m in that moment of decision—should I fuck this guy or not? Pros—he’s kinda cute, nice body, I should probably get some because it’s been a while, etc. Cons? Eh, I don’t really like him that much, he likes John Mayer, is this gonna be worth it?

So, I’m having this internal debate, and I’m like “Well, I better not…but maybe I should…” and I am just about to be wavered over the to the side of doing it, when he says, I shit you not, “Too bad, baby, I would’ve rocked your world.”

Now, there is no phrase I probably hate more than “rock your world.” I mean, what does that mean? Am I a 21-year-old frat boy? Am I wearing a No Fear T-shirt? Are we at a WWE rally, snapping into a Slim Jim with Randy “Macho Man” Savage? (Because that would really excite me, no joke). Last I checked, no. There are many things that night could’ve done for me—a good time, getting something something—but seriously Rocking My World Beyond All Human Comprehension was probably not going to be one of them.

Icewater. Down the back.

 

And so, I share the brave who wrote in with their icewater-down-the-back moments:

 

Having crap taste: “When I was about 18, I started dating this superhot surfer guy…way older, like 25, which when you’re 18 is a real man of the world. And I wasn’t even in college yet. So we’re about to seal the deal and the CD changes…No Doubt’s ‘Don’t Speak.’ He stops for a minute and starts singing all sexy-like and says how much he loves the song. I started laughing and was just like, ‘GET off me NOW’ and I left.”

 

Let’s talk hygiene: A friend shared that one guy she was dating took off his clothes to reveal an entirely shaved set of junk downstairs—like red, chaffed and doughy.

 

Into every life a little two-inch peen must fall: “Getting hot and heavy and getting ready to make it happen—a mood killer and showstopper was when the guy disrobed, all supposedly ‘ready’ with all 2 inches!”

 

Puking: “Getting vomited on while getting head from a girlfriend in college temporarily cooled my ardor…Likewise, I was giving head to an Aerosmith groupie I clutched back to my hotel room after last call when my ministrations were interrupted by the sound of her snoring.”

Thanks all for sharing.

 

Destroyer of lives, Ruiner of men

As we go careening through this little lifetime of ours, it’s easy to sit back and fixate on all the people who have jacked us up. Whether it be for a night, a weekend, a few months, or even years, our worlds have collided with those who are not so good for us—or to us.

Rarely, if ever, however, do we stop to reflect upon the masses who we have fucked over. I know this may sound hard to believe, gentle reader, but I’m no angel.

I practically threw a guy out one morning after the worst one-night stand of my life; I called this guy “inadequate” after a lackluster round of oral sex; and I even put a boyfriend on a Greyhound bus out of Vegas after I kicked him out of the apartment—I’m pretty sure I fucked up his life for a while.

A little something happened over Halloween, and while it is completely inconsequential to me,  it is very likely that I put some serious fuckwittery into someone for maybe the rest of their days.

Or, at the very least, I kinda messed up their night.

So, I’m dressed like Joan Jett. We are at some horrible bar in the Village after the parade—you know the kind of place that is wall-to-wall sexy nurses, vampires, etc., and finance and banker guys—and I’m thinking, “Ugh. One Drink. Tops. Then I gotta take my leather-clad ass back to Brooklyn.” Some dude approaches me who is dressed like the Love Guru, or that’s what he calls himself. He’s in this long, belted white robe.

“So, what are you supposed to be?” he asks me.

“Who do you think I am?” I say.

“Pat Benatar?”

I am annoyed with him already for that, but he persists. “I am Joan Jett,” I say.

“Come on Pat Benator/Joan Jett,” he says, stroking his fake mustache. “Let the Love Guru show you path to wisdom and love!”

“What makes you think your path the right one? Or that I even want to get on it?”

“I am the Love Guru! My path is the only true one. Once you have the sex with me, there is no going back to anyone else.”

“So, what do you do for a living anyway,” I ask, fairly bored.

“Finance,” he says.

“Um, no shit?”

So he keeps chatting with me, and finally, I say, “OK, Love Guru, let’s see what you got.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s under the robe? Because I’m telling you right now that if you aren’t packing sufficiently, then Pat/Joan isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Now, I had no intention of going anywhere with the Love Guru anyway. But, if you are pissing me off, and I’m feeling a little nasty, then well, there’s no telling what I will do—and there is nothing more I love than fucking with these Wall St. types.

“Well, why don’t you check it out?” he green-lighted me, so I put my hand up and under his robe and started feeling around for his package. It took a while, but I found it and must’ve made a face. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think that’s gonna do it for me.”

“Well, why don’t you take another look?” I go back in and really try to give him a good feel around this time, thinking, shit, he should start getting somewhat hard by now, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt–maybe he’s a grower? You know that guy who doesn’t look like much, but then gets hard and you’re like, “Damn! Where’d that come from?” But, sadly, no, I felt just a mushy bunch of boy parts—and I’m not really a fan of the flaccid penis to begin with.

“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “Doesn’t do anything for me.”

“It’s not even a little big?” he asks. I’m shaking my head “no” at this point, watching his face deflate. “Well, Ok, I gotta go!” I say and bolt.

Then I left and went to Brooklyn, where I drank more beers, ate two Dunkin Donuts and about 20 pizza rolls. I woke up the next morning, with vague thoughts of the entire night’s events rolling around in my head. Then I remembered the Love Guru. Was I too hard on the Love Guru? What if I have given this guy a complex for the rest of his days? And while I don’t remember his real name—or what he really looked like—he will probably remember the bitchy girl who felt his package on Halloween every time he hears Joan Jett and/or Pat Benatar for the rest of his life.

Hunting for a Buck

I work at a place where we get a lot of free shit. So the other day, I plucked this gem out of the slush pile: “Hunting Season: A Field Guide for Targeting and Capturing the Perfect Man” by some 40-something hedge-funder who simply goes by “Elle.”

Now, the book’s premise is this: If women adapt to the “rules of deer hunting,” they can land the perfect “buck.” Being from the Midwest, surrounded by crazy men who carry credit cards to Cabela’s, I’ve actually seen deer-hunting in action, so I know a thing or two. Anything that requires swarthing myself down in camo, climbing up into a hidden treehouse at 4 a.m. with a case of Miller and a loaded 12-gauge shotgun, I’m down for.

This is nothing like that.

Let’s walk through Elle’s steps for catching that buck. First, just like deer hunting, there is a hunting season here. Elle calls this Open Season, and it stretches from April 1 to September 30, a time when men’s hormones makes them “perfect for the plucking or fucking.” So ladies, if you want to get some dicking during the cold, harsh winter months, you better line that shit up ahead of time, because Elle says absolutely no scamming on guys is allowed in the Off Season, which is a shame, because October is one of the nicest months for fucking.

Elle’s logic behind this is that the Tension Days of Thanksgiving, Christmas and so on will sabotage any happy relationship due to the pressures of Having a Good Time at All Holiday Functions. She asks, “How many fights have you had with past lovers regarding the Super Bowl or Valentine’s Day?” Um, none. Moving on…

OK! So it’s now April 1 and ladies, dust off your vaginas and start doing your kegels because it’s Open Season. Elle has two plans of attack for hunting the bucks: the Bag ‘n’ Tag (Dating. Companionship. But no One Night Stands—more on that later) and the Trophy Hunting (i.e. looking for a husband, or someone who will let you pin his balls to the wall).

But before you Bag ‘n’ Tag or bang your Trophy buck, you gotta learn some stuff. Here’s the stuff:

• Never hunt with a Posse—he’ll wanna fuck your friends instead of you.
• Set up your Kill Zones—places that you can hang alone that are target-rich environments (Sporting events! Cigar clubs! Ski lodges!) where you can easily start conversations. I personally like trolling methadone clinics, skate parks and Planned Parenthoods, where boys are anxiously smoking cigarettes and pacing outside, but that’s me.
• Make a list of your priorities, i.e., what you’re hunting for: first, second, third tier and so on, like “big dick” or “good kisser” or “likes the Crue.”
• Throw out your “corn,” or nuggets of tasty info, about stuff you really don’t care about but you make it your business to know about just because men like it, i.e. sports, Pam Anderson or hot-wing recipes. Better yet, just smear yourself in some hot-wing sauce.

Elle particularly enjoys military guys and “European men,” but she breaks down the types of guys you can meet into four categories: Sports guys, Outdoorsy guys, Philanthropist/Business guys and Rich guys. Sorry, there are no other kinds of men. And there are so many wonderful ways to meet these four guys: volunteering, cooking classes, charity events. There will be all of two guys there—and one of them will be gay. The other one will be Christian.

You need to dress nicely and smile to meet your buck, but also Elle suggests spinning a few little white fibs at this early stage of the game. No, no, settle down, nothing along the lines of “I just got tested” or “I’m on the pill” or “those bumps are nothing.” Here’s what to lie about: number of sex partners; money; weight; real hair color; what you look like in morning; spit or swallow; you own three cats, Itsy, Bitsy and Mitzy; and so on.

Now’s the important part: You got the buck, when can you fuck?

Hold on, there, you randy little tramp! If you want that buck as a Trophy on your wall, you can’t bed down with him for two months. “This includes all oral sex, anal sex and anything that resembles genital rubbing. I am a Republican. I do not play fast and loose with the definition of sex.” Well, I am a Democrat, and I do not consider oral sex, sex. And I know for reals that Mormons don’t consider anal sex, sex. So, I guess you can bend the rules as you see fit. Or just be a Republican? But then I guess you’d wanna have sex with underage pages on Capitol Hill, so maybe that’s not such a good idea…

But don’t worry, Elle’s father always said, “A lady in the kitchen, a whore in the bedroom,” so she tells us that men like oral sex. And when you do get to do the deed she’s got another stellar piece of advice. After sex, go into your bathroom all seductive like. Take a “nice, fluffy white face towel” (you should’ve purchased a stack of these by now, she says), soak it in hot water and “use the face cloth to clean his genitals, all around. …it makes your buck feel taken care of and it protects your 300-count Egyptian cotton sheets.” There’s nothing like taking out a little post-coital wash cloth to say, “I am a filthy whore, and I need to wipe my filthy whore juice off your balls” to keep your buck satisfied.

What about for you carefree ladies, who just want to bag ‘n’ tag? Well they should never confuse their hunt with “damning” one-night stands, which only means that you are a drunk slut. You don’t want to be a drunk slut, right?

Elle also lets us know that she doesn’t like wearing panties. And you should never be a slutty nurse or a slutty witch for Halloween. She prefers going as the “elaborate vampiress” and always has at least two costumes on hand to attend multiple parties. But Halloween falls during the Off Season, so don’t even think about hunting for a buck. Just look cute and smile with your girlfriends (it’s Ok to hang out with them now) and start cruising bucks and game plans for next Spring.

Because if you follow this book’s advice you are gonna be obscenely fucking horny by then.

 

Threesomes I would like to be a part of…

The other night, I was watching “Stripes” on the AMC. I have seen this movie several times, and as I was watching Bill Murray and Harold Ramis get ready to jump into action with the hot MPs, I was thinking, “Wow, those two together are like the perfect man—Ramis is all nerdy and smart but still cute, and Murray is the impish little scamp who will pick your pocket, then buy you flowers.”

It got me thinking about threesomes. Here are a few combinations that I would like to participate in:

• Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem are together for reals, but they are both crazy hot, especially in that Woody Allen jerkoff film, “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.” I would like to jump into that action per Scarlett Johansson’s place—she was just really a cum-rag in that movie anyway.
• Gina Gershon and anybody else.
• Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt—I think this would actually be pretty mediocre, but selling the hidden camera footage and the pics alone would buy me enough whiskey, baked Cheetos and real estate for the rest of my days.
• Drew Barrymore and her next boyfriend. I’m not fucking that Apple dude. He sucks, so Ms. Barrymore? Pony up and get a better boyfriend.
• Bjork and Beck…Things would get soooo freak-ay!
• Barack and Michelle. Come on, like you never thought of it. I think it’s really awesome that, maybe for the first time in history, we actually have a First Couple we’d want to bang!
• George Clooney and a mirror. I bet he makes really great poses to himself when he’s doing the deeds.
• Robert Pattinson and Zac Effron. I like cradle-robbing—and I think Pattinson is just hot enough to convince Effron to do a chick.
• Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams because they are so adorable!
• I’m a Cubs fan, and I have to say, that during their entire dismal season, I imagined myself in a Mike Fontenot/Ryan Theriot sandwich. Not only can I not pronounce their last names–which is key to any good threeway–but it’s not like they’re busy or anything right now. Call me!

I am suffocating in a Sea of Preciousness

A couple years ago, Gawker posted a great piece on “Brooklyn’s Most Precious Neighborhoods” that featured Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and Park Slope—indeed three of the most twee and fairyland-like neighborhoods in existence in the entire history of humankind, filled with overpriced coffeeshops and kids stores that sell $150 dresses for two-year-olds.

If you’ve watched HBO’s new series, “Bored to Death” you know what I’m talking about. I really wanted to like that TV show because I enjoy some of Jonathan Ames’ writing, but alas, I cannot, as the protagonist, played by the Jason Schwartzman, is just another fucking NYC manchild pussy who will whine to you about needing to be held, but doesn’t know the first thing about how to find your clit. The neighborhoods in that show? That is Precious Brooklyn.

Anyway, I have been a resident of Precious Brooklyn for over four years now! Am I more precious? Hardly. Why do I live there? Because it’s that, or suffer the concrete dog shitpark that is Bushwick or similar up north, where the hipsters pass the Pabst and HPV freely. So, I choose to exist among a few Stroller Moms and Hot Dads in lieu of Leotards and Beards. It’s quiet and, aside from a few moments, fairly peaceful.

I’ve noticed, however, that in the last year or two my neighborhood is becoming evermore precious. This is a feat I never thought possible, but alas, there it is. Here are just a few things that send me into a semi-rage these days:

• More poncy clothes stores. Yes, they’ve always been there, but there seem to be more of them selling $200 Jellies—i.e. the disgusting, uncomfortable, do-not-breathe footwear from the ’80s. Also, I hate Bird. I think I’ve been in there twice and the girls are complete bitches when they should be kissing my ass because I am their target demographic—i.e. young, thin, and I like to buy pretty dresses. So, fuck you, Bird. Get out.
• Trader Joe’s is too far away. It just is.
• Ok, American Apparel is everywhere. Fine. (Disclosure: I like their T-shirts.) But the Precious Halloween-y setup they have going on now in the display window? Fucking “Grease.” Now, I know that the soundtrack to “Grease” or thoughts of “Grease” or even the opening to “Summer Nights” sends 19-year-old girls into a pre-orgasmic state that often leads to keg stands and group singalongs, but it doesn’t take a whole lot to excite someone who’s never given more than two proper BJs in her life. Take down that fucking display already.
• Faux speakeasies. Oh, wow. Can I go to a place that’s really new construction that is distressed to look like it’s really old and have wannabe-actors in white pressed shirts and bow ties and vests and cumberbunds serve me overpriced rye whiskey and amaretto in tiny glasses for $13 a pop? See Bird above.
• Friday and Saturday nights. My ’hood has turned into the new LES/Meatpacking area. Dickbags from State Island and Jersey come hooting through, tromping up and down Smith St., teetering on their heels in trashy outfits, yelling, vomiting and driving up the prices for all of us. Amateurs.
• Bouncers. Really? You’re a place on Smith St. and you need a velvet rope and big black guy?

On a side note, I have yet to see “Where the Wild Things Are”—in fact, I may never see it—because a friend warned me that it may be too precious for my tastes. Lately, it seems that I am suffocating in a Sea of Preciousness—from bands, to clothes, to movies, to pop culture. Am I the only one?

(Ed. Note: Listened to AC/DC while composing. No kittens or puppies were harmed during this rant.)