Dear Jeremy,

I have a hairy asshole. As a woman, is this wrong? Do men prefer a hairless, baby soft asshole on a gal, or do they not care? I'm also curious about what lesbians think about hairy butt holes. Do they mind if their partner looks like a Yeti in the pooper?

Sincerely,

Curious, and Hairy in South Minneapolis

Dear Assquatch, how hairy are we talking here? Peach fuzz? Secret garden? Radiated tarantula? Personally I prefer a hairless ass. A large percentage of Americans have hangups about hair. Here we like smooth lines, lickable armpits, and bald landing strips. In Europe, you're not as likely to encounter hangups about your rectal spider monkey, but as American tastes drift eastward, you might encounter more beret-wearing Nair lovers clucking their tongues nowhere near your hirsute butthole. In other words, you better get over to France to get your pooper pounded by an unshowered Frenchman before he discovers Old Spice shower gel and beav shaving porn on ScrewTube.

As for lesbians, they like and dislike the hairy tickle hole at similar ratios to everyone else. If I were a woman, lesbian or not, I'd keep my shitter waxed like a surfboard.

But you're looking to strip some hair out of your bread pan, ask for Jen at the Beauty Room in Minneapolis. She is an expert waxer. If you pay her extra, she'll use the ass hair she strips off to build you a handlebar mustache for your vag.

Dear JoTF,
I just ate refried beans spread upon Triscuits with EZ Cheese on top for lunch. I was wondering what awesome effects this will have on my libido in a few hours? Are there any foods that you know about or have experienced that make for a perfect storm of whoopee?

Love Infested Intestine

Dear Intestine, first I would suggest incorporating more fresh fruit and vegetables into your diet. Not only for your libido, but so you can actually take a dump every once in a while instead of hovering over the bowl straining to push out a paltry teaspoon of blood-caked cracker crumbs and sawdust. But having a system flush with water and healthy vitamins can also help keep that soldier saluting and increase your stamina in the sack. Now you might still pop off after thirty seconds of steady pumping, but you can do that maybe five or six times in an evening instead of just one or two. In her eyes, you'll be two-thirds of a man instead of just half of one.

As for your Triscuits, refried beans, and EZ Cheese, the answer is, "NO! STOP! BAD!" followed by a smack across the back of the hand with a celery stalk. Even if it did help you launch your rocket, you're going to leave a reddish brown skid mark on her sheets, and she'll never invite you back for another roll in the hay. But maybe that's just how you roll, player.

Dear Jeremy,

Sometimes when I'm at the bar and drunkenly pick up a fugly chick, I don't have a bag to put over her head. Makes it hard to get hard, you know.

-JK

JK, there is a really simple solution to this problem. Don't put a bag on her head. Flip her over and draw a new face on her back.

--

Hey! My boyfriend is Mr Spooge-a-Lot. He cums on my tits, my face, my stomach, my back, my mattress, my headboard, my curtains, my carpet, my lamp shade, and my vanity.

geen

Geen, first off, that isn't a question. Second, tell him he best wipe off his mess tonight or chisel it off in the morning.

--

Got a question for Jeremy On the Fucking? Send it to fucking@afterglide.com

Ang from St Paul writes:

What is your favorite color?

Sincerely,
Your fucking fuck buddy

Ang, when it comes to fucking, I don't play racial favorites. True, my girlfriend, who happens to be you, is caucasion, but I don't draw the line at only fucking white chicks. I like African-American snatch, Asian cooter, Hispanic gash, and any other type of panty slit you can think of. In fact, I would still be rod-docking all of these types of women if I was not in a relationship with you... and you hadn't caught me with that group of African-American, Asian, and Hispanic girls when you came home from your business trip. To summarize, I like the poon.

Chelsea from Minneapolis writes:

How did you break the bed? I mean, was it standing, jumping, role playing, a donkey?

Chelsea, it was just straight out, American-style fucking. Where American = cowgirl. Granted the structural stability of the bed had been previously compromised a few months ago in an unrelated incident, but this vigorous episode was the final straw for the poor bed frame. The good news is that Miss Ang has decided to buy a round bed from Ikea. I have not-at-all-jokingly told her that I'm going to build a motorized platform for it that will turn the bed slowly while I bang her drum quickly.

--

Today I also wanted to tell a story of a couple of friends who I want to applaud for their honesty. They were running late for a small gathering at the home of some mutual friends. When they arrived they explained that they were late because they had been boning. That is not only an acceptable reason for being late, it is a strongly encouraged reason for being late. Unless you are Ang, and it is me who is waiting for you somewhere. "Sorry, I was late, Jeremy. I was getting plowed like a field of harvested sorghum." HEY!!! Not cool, Ang. Not cool, at all. Next time you show up for the matinée at 4:30 pm sharp.

This week I won't be answering a question because none of you fuckers ever send me your fucking questions to fucking@afterglide.com!!! Instead, I'd like to address a topic of concern to me because it happened to me recently. I'm talking about breaking the bed while fucking. Now if you're thinking, "Oh, Jeremy, you're just writing this blog post with no other purpose than to brag about the fact that you broke the bed while fucking," I say, you are correct. This is proof positive that my cock wields the power of a thousand suns. And I wield my cock recklessly. One time I burned a chick's ovaries out then blasted her through the hot water heater when I came. Another time I used it to melt through a blast door when members of the Trade Federation tried to kill Obi-Wan Kenobi and me on their command vessel. I also use it to kill crickets.

Anyway, start sending me questions, or all of my future posts will be about stuff that I burn with my dick. Not including all the chicks I gave the weeping snatch pustules in the 90s.

Do you have a question for Jeremy On the Fucking? Send your seriously fucked up sex questions and stories to fucking@afterglide.com. If it's disturbing enough, I may just post it and respond. Or call the cops. Oh, and a story about bangin' one out reverse cowgirl style is not fucked up. That's just common sense.

So a reader that I totally made up sent me the following letter:

Dear JOTF, I dig banging my girlfriend as many times as I possibly can. But she unloads the twice a day limit on me. Fuck's up with that, haas? Anyway, I'm actually writing about when I can't rail her during her period. Hey, I could be tits deep in heavy flow, and I won't complain as long as I'm also shank deep in her mitt. But she's all like, "I don't feel sexy! We'll ruin the sheets! Stop rubbing your dick on my cat!" I tell her I can ignore her period bloat, we can put down a tarp, and that her cat likes it, but bitch don't listen, son!

-I Don't Mind a Red Shaft

First off, IDMARS, your letter seems like something that I pulled out of my own ass. But I'll answer it because it's the smartest thing I've ever read in my entire life. Unfortunately, pal, I don't think you'll likely be getting any during her rag time ditty if she's not game. You can try telling her that her rack looks totally honkable or shaking your dick in her face, but chicks can be stubborn during their periods, so even those tried and true A-game tactics might not be enough. Here are a few things you can try that will not only give you some you time, but might actually convince her that letting you give your bone a burial at the Red Sea isn't the worst thing in the world.

1. Jerk off constantly - At the dinner table, while driving, while mowing the lawn, every chance you can get. You'll get your jollies, and she'll likely be so mortified at your behavior that she'll spread like raspberry jam.

2. Get things done - During times you'd normally be having the relations, check off items on your to-do list (not HER to-do list, YOURS, fool!!!). Finally finish the last few levels on the latest Grand Theft Auto game, build that diorama of the Golden Girls, and while you're at it, take that gigantic dump you've been saving up the last few days.

3. Ignore her entirely - This will drive her nuts with randy desire. Don't talk to her, or even acknowledge her existence. Chicks fucking love this shit. A couple days of this, and you'll be sure to get a lap full of Kool-Aid.

4. Imply that you will touch the kids - Now let me be clear, never ever EVER actually touch your kids inappropriately. If you do, I'll come over there and snatch away your fruit basket quicker than a table saw. But if you leave subtle hints around your wife that you might go that way if your needs aren't soon satisfied, she might rock the panty drop. Or call the cops and divorce you. Who knows. I can't be responsible for things I tell you to do if you actually do them.

Alexis finally got her column on how to give a good blowjob published in vita.mn after a small bit of controversy. Alexis, your columns are almost always quite entertaining, if not informative, and while you do occasionally provide offhand examples of what not to do, I feel that I must supplement your blowjob column with detailed examples of brutally bad oral techniques. This will not only be of use to women who want to avoid poor beejetiquette but will provide some guidelines for women who actually wish to give a piss poor hummer. Perhaps this desire is out of spite, revenge, or even boredom, but this isn't my concern, as long as I'm not the subject of the substandard jock slobber.

The Sugar Scraper

Some women get a tad toothy in their fellatial technique, particularly if those teeth are snaggled in nature. While the occasional enamel-on-rod contact may hit a gentleman's reset button, it normally is something that can be ignored long enough to blast her uvula back into her spine. The sugar scraper, however, is akin to using one's top front teeth to strip mine the caramel and chocolate off of the cookie in a Twix bar. Unfortunately, when a real, live fleshy penis is involved, the analogous caramel and chocolate are replaced with layers of skin and the occasional prominent vein. The man's erection usually wilts instantly, and it is not uncommon for him to bleed to death within minutes.

The Bazooka Joe

Much like chewing absentmindedly on soft bubble gum or onion patch cud, the cock ingester gnaws viciously on the head and shaft, leaving the man's genitalia looking like someone ran a strawberry cheesecake through a wood chipper. If the recipient doesn't bleed to death, he usually shoots himself in the hypothalamus before enduring dozens of reconstructive surgeries and a lifetime of carting around a battle-scarred dick that looks like a frightened pufferfish.

The Serious Blowjob

This was conceived by Coco, who often pantomimes the act while dining in classy lounges and supper clubs. The performer of the serious blowjob has a stern look on her face, sucks on the cock like she is trying to remove the stubborn wrapper from a drinking straw at Arby's, and maintains uncomfortable, glaring eye contact with the recipient at all times, as if to say, "I see you, buddy boy. I know you're up to something, and I swear I will figure out just what that something is." The recipient likely will maintain his erection and ejaculate with some delay, but the entire experience will be quite uncomfortable, as no one likes to get the stink eye, particularly when getting their knob gobbled.

The Chastising Blowjob

Another Coco creation, the chastising blowjob is the natural extension of the serious blowjob. Unlike the serious blowjob, the blower knows exactly what shenanigans the blowee has been up to, and will stare angrily at him while wagging her finger at him. "For shame, dude who's cock I'm sucking! I know it was you who ran over the neighbor kid and drove off without saying anything. I'll continue sucking, but I am very displeased with your actions." The recipient's guilt will make it very difficult for him to maintain his erection, and it may take hours for him to ejaculate, assuming he does not break down in a tearful confession. "I did it! I admit it! Hey, I didn't say stop. Keep going!"

The Trojan Whore

The woman disrobes, gets on her knees, opens her mouth, and leans in as if to suck, but at the last millisecond, headbutts him in the peaches and absconds with his wallet. The man is left writhing in pain and concern over potential identity theft and damage to his credit rating.

Epilogue

Ladies, please keep in mind that using these techniques as a distraction for the sole purpose of engaging in criminal activity is unladylike behavior, unless -- as in the case of The Trojan Whore -- the crime is intended as punishment for the cock-bearing party. Maybe he slept with your roommate or tricked you into climbing into a cargo van for a 6-man gang bang -- frankly I don't care. Just promise me that you will use this information only for the purposes of misandric and selfish gratification.

by Jimmy Steeps

Yeh, whuts up with these chiks who all fat and shit? Im trying to git my shit waxed and these fat ho's be all "Yeh I wax it for you." Fuck that shit bitch! I sooner wax my own shit then let you near it. My boy Joe digs him some large hunnyz though. I come home and find him with these big bitches all stuck in my door. I gotta kick most of them in the thigh to get them all the way thru that shit! Get out my god dam way bitch! I got hot yumz up in this BK bag need eatin. I dont need you fat ass in my way every nite! Then they go hot n naughty on my fuckin leather couch. Now that shit gots a tear in the back and a cunt juice stain on the arm god dam! So I tells Joe "God dam mother fuckah you need to drop an lb limit on these hoz." I says if hes gonna keep living on my couch this shit gots to stop. Shit I dont fuckin care if he bang 6 skinny chicks, 2 heifers or 1 land whale but you just keep that shit to 6 hondo a day. Nuff of this fuckin 5 ton train breakin my couch and messin up my throw rugs every god dam day.

Jimmy Steeps is mildly retarded.

"I love you even though you're frigid."

"I love you even though you're an asshole."

Lady and gentlecock
Photo by YanniIf you read this blog regularly, you know that I am a refined man of distinction. You also know that I am a true gentleman at heart. I care a great deal about the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex, particularly my dearest, the lovely Miss Angela. I feel it is imperative to protect proper ladies such as Angela from the more offensive reports and odors produced by the manly bottom. For this reason, fellow gentlemen, I pass along this maneuver so that you may use it with your wife, significant other, or paramour. No, it is not a sexual maneuver (please, this is a family blog!), but it is a maneuver that will be cherished and appreciated by your bed mate once they realize the suffering from which you have protected them. When you feel a particularly noxious emission of gas pressing for release from your anus, hold the sheets tight to your torso with the arm farthest from her, throw your free arm around her chest to form a tight seal with the sheets against her body, and push in such a manner as to fart. This move will protect your fragile lover from your ass vapors and could very well save your relationship.

P.S. Don't make my mistake. A few moments later, I always forget and lift the covers ever so slightly to excitedly sample my wares. This releases a potent, high velocity stream of methane straight up both of our nostrils, causing her to shriek in horror and knee me in the nuts.

With all of the time I've been spending away from home lately, The General has been feeling lonely. Her basic needs are met, but she doesn't get a lot of mommy-kitty bonding time these days. I know it's been bothering her, not because I'm a crazy cat lady and take her to cat psychologists or animal psychics or think she speaks to me, even though I'm pretty sure she once called me a bitch, but because she has her little ways of letting me know she's unhappy.

My entire condo is hardwood floors or linoleum with the exception of a 6 sq foot area of my bedroom covered with a pink shag rug. Yeah, shut up, I like it. It's the softest rug I've ever owned and it's wonderful to put your feet on first thing in the morning instead of the cold hardwood. I'm assuming this because it hasn't exactly been cold, but I digress. It's also the most difficult thing to clean if something with oh, I don't know, chunks mixed with liquid, for instance, happens to fall onto the rug. And by fall, I mean intentionally puked on by a pissed off cat. Why do I feel she does this intentionally? She hates that rug, refuses to walk on it and if she happens to accidentally land on it during one of her late afternoon satanic possessions, she will MAUW! exactly like she does when I kick her and run full force in another direction. She does not hairball the rug randomly or often, only when I've been gone for more than a day, or if my brief stops at home aren't enough to keep her happy. Also, there are almost 700 rugless square feet she could be horking on. When I'm around, she barfs on the kitchen floor like she knows she should.

Her second act of rebellion is hairballing my fucking bed. Thank god for duvet covers that can just be tossed in the wash.

Her third, and possibly most disgusting yet, is what she did last night. When I am home alone, she will curl up on my pillow next to me when it's bedtime. As she settled in, I noticed the weird yet distinctive smell of cat urine and figured she must have been curled up in her litter box, as she does sometimes when I'm vacuuming or making a lot of noise. It's not delicious and I wish she'd stop, but it seems to soothe her. It does nothing for me. I checked her out and she didn't seem to have any body fluids stuck to her coat, so I assumed she must have just recently relieved herself. General Mauw's PooPing Palace is only about 10 feet from my bedroom, anyway. Well, what I discovered this morning was her message in the form of a giant, sticky puddle of "you should stay home more often" pee-pee in front of her Palace. Seriously, she has never, ever freed the stream on my floors before. Unfortunately, I didn't give myself enough time this morning to clean it up before work, so it'll be there in all its glory when I get home.

I suppose in some ways I totally deserve it, because I'd be pretty upset if the human I hired to pet me when (and only when) I gave a shit was paying more attention to cute boys than to me.

PETA related disclaimer: no animals were injured during my complete discomfort having to clean up hairballs and puke from an impossible-to-clean piece of fabric, nor am I gone as often as I make it out to be. Also, I don't kick her that hard. So, don't harass me about being mean to my cat or I'll make you spend a day with her.

A friend of mine has been casually dating a man who lives across the street from her. While on the phone this evening, I asked her how it was going.

N: Oh, it's not going anywhere.

A: That's too bad, what's the problem?

N: Well, he farts all of the time. Not, like, "oh, oops I farted," but more like, "hey, hey, I'm gonna fart!"

A: Whaaat? You don't like that?

N: Uh, no.

A: [laughs] That shit never fails to make me laugh.

N: In private, yes, it's hilarious. [pause] On the crowded patio at the bar? No.

Perverted penis molester!I've informed Ang that I intend to file a sexual harassment lawsuit against her cat Spaz. I awoke at Ang's place this morning to find Spaz perched atop my junk, vigorously patting the head of my penis through my underwear with her front paws. I was violated and humiliated, and I am afraid I will not be able to perform sexually for some time to come. I have also advised Ang that she should file suit against her cat for loss of companionship. If you have been sexually harassed, touched, or otherwise intimidated by Spaz, please contact me immediately. We may be able to turn this into a class action lawsuit.

P.S. By "perform sexually" I mean shooting ping pong balls out of my ass on stage at Deja Vu.

I spent this past holiday weekend in North Dakota. My brother Troy, his wife Danielle, Ang, and I piled into Troy's gas guzzling, yet mercifully roomy Yukon for the trek to visit Mom and her husband. Troy had his 10 year high school reunion, and since my original plans of flying up to Toronto this weekend fell through, I decided this was a great opportunity to visit the family, otherwise I probably wouldn't see many of them until Christmas.

We finally hit the road around 5 on Friday, agreeing that we would stop to eat at the Subway in Monticello. Unfortunately we arrived to find that it had been torched by an arsonist. Perhaps some pissed off former sandwich artist wanted to see myriad posters of Jarrod and his crooked smirk melt into a pool of oblivion. With our first choice at risk of structural collapse, we ate at the DQ Grill & Chill next door. I haven't eaten an actual meal at a DQ in years, so I thought I would use this as an opportunity to try one of their Flamethrower Burgers they've touted on television so much. I love hot and spicy food and hoped the grease and spices would loosen my stubborn stools that had been backing up for a couple of days. The burger was tasty, but I'd rate its heat somewhere between black pepper and a moistened towelette on the Scoville scale. Unfortunately, it loosened up nothing more than my noxious gases. The rest of the ride to Mom's place, I filled the Yukon with the most horrid cloud of ass imaginable. It smelled of fried meat, spoiled eggs, and a trash can topped with fruit-filled vomit on a hot summer day. Poor Ang attempted to retaliate later with her own contribution, but there simply was no comparison to my putrid colorectal emissions.

We rolled into Mom's around 11:30 pm. More accurately, we shuddered into Mom's. It was no surprise that driving the many miles of heavily traveled, winding gravel roads leading to her house was like rolling over a washboard in a Radio Flyer on triangular wheels. This, however, was the worst condition in which we had ever found these roads. The roads lead to several popular fishing spots on Devils Lake. Add to that a new lake home development, and it makes for an excessive amount traffic for a gravel road to handle, regardless of how often it is graded. Smooth the road, and two days later, it's a washboard again.

We were all exhausted when we got to Mom's, so after staying up briefly to chat, everyone went to bed. Ang and I retired to one of the very private spare bedrooms in the basement, but there wasn't even any boning. Now that's pretty damned tired!

On Saturday evening, after spending a lazy day relaxing and catching up with Mom, we headed to Cando (pronounced CAN-doo), about 60 miles away to catch up with our cousin Ryan and check out the drug and alcohol rehab center where he works just outside of town. At the center, Ryan cooks meals, takes residents on outings and leads various activities, and in typical Ryan fashion, is a general smartass. Afterward, we had a beer at a local bar, after which Troy and Danielle left for the reunion. Ang and I drove separately in Mom's car, so I drove her around town. Five minutes later, we were done. Actually, we tried to track down my uncle, but he apparently was out riding his Harley with his wife.



Before leaving town to drive past the farm I grew up on (Mom sold it about a year after Dad died), we realized we were starving. Dining options are limited in Cando, so we stopped at yet another DQ. Across the parking lot from the restaurant is a faded sign shouting Cando's quarter-century-old motto, "You Can-Do Better in Cando." I've taken issue with this slogan from its inception. First, why the dash in "Can-Do?" "Can" and "do" are two completely distinct, unhyphenated words last time I checked. I would accept it if the slogan was "We have a can-do attitude in Cando!" But it's not, so I must stamp it as WRONG!



Also, I would like more specifics in that motto. What is it I can do better in Cando? Can I play the piano better? Be better in bed? Run faster? Increase my fire-to-kill ratio? I'm not making any plans until you provide to me in writing a bulleted list of things I can do better there. I don't want to quit my job, rent a U-Haul, pack my shit up, and drive 7 hours just to find that I can knit 5% faster and improve my dried cow shit tossing accuracy.

Not being in any particular hurry, we took the meandering back roads running past our old farm to get back to Devils Lake. Not that Ang didn't believe me, but I wanted her to see just how far in the middle of BFE I lived throughout my childhood. We chatted with Mom and her husband for a while and were in bed by 11. Since my phone was roaming, I had turned it off, so I missed a series of text messages from my sister-in-law that are amusing now, but would have been progressively alarming at the time.

12:07 AM: Where aree you guys? You're not doin it are you?

It's distinctly possible we were.

2:14 AM: I think troy is getting a dui. I'm not even sure what I should be doing. I'm sitting in the car while he's in the cop car. Should I get out?

State patrol officers and cops in general love it when the plastered significant other stumbles out of the car toward the squad. They enjoy playing a guessing game as to whether you are coming over to shoot them or not. It adds unexpected spice to the situation. And as the saying goes, spice is the spice of life. Um... no, wait...

2:28 AM: Just in case, we are fine. Troy blew ok. Cop loved it!! Well be home soon.

Whew! I should also note that I simply can't come up with a better joke than she did there. It turns out that Troy was pulled over for having a tail light out. He had enjoyed several spiritous beverages throughout the night, which he admitted to when asked (though "a couple of beers" were actually "a couple of six-packs of beer"). Thankfully he had slowed down as the evening progressed, and was under the limit. The lesson learned is that if you have a tail light out and KNOW you have a tail light out (he had known it was out for quite some time), it's probably not a good idea to be drinking any amount of alcohol and getting behind the wheel, particularly at 2 in the morning during Labor Day weekend. Or anytime for that matter.

Sunday was yet another lazy day of visiting, reading, and watching TV. Troy and Danielle took off for another reunion-related event and returned in time to head into Devils Lake to meet our uncle Doug and his wife for dinner at Pizza Hut. Just what I needed to calm my quivering, quacking sphincter. But first we stopped so Mom could pick up a few groceries. I realized I need to wander through the bulk aisle more often.



Monday night we arrived back at Troy's place around 9 pm, far later than I had anticipated or hoped. By the time Ang and I got back to my place and took care of some pressing business, she didn't get home to feed her lonely kitty (her literal kitty, not a euphemistic kitty) until 11 or so. It was great to see my family, but I was relieved to sleep in my own bed (well, in my own home -- I fell asleep on the couch again). And next time, I'm bringing some matches for the car ride.

Here is a log of a gchat from tonight between Ang and I as we sat directly next to each other on the couch with our respective laptops.

me: poop!
ang: yes
me: May I touch your buttock?
ang: Absolutely!

(She leans over ever so slightly, and I touch her buttock briefly with one finger)

ang: Ahhhh
me: That was wonderful
ang: I agree.
me: [boner]

Now sit down and grab a stiff drink (and if your dick is hard, go ahead and grab that, too -- no one's looking). This is going to be difficult for you to process, perhaps even impossible to believe. For the first time in the entire history of this blog (please, I told you to SIT DOWN for this!), I have a girlfriend. Are you ok? You look faint. Should I call 9-1-1? Do you need some smelling salts or a sandwich or something? No? In any case, she is the lovely Ang from Unapologetic Nonsense and Overheard in Minneapolis. She totally makes my pants dance. Swuht.

In the summer of 2004, I went on a date with a girl who I had met online, since that apparently is the only way I'm capable of meeting women for dates (unless I'm getting felt up by relatives of the groom at weddings, but that's a story for another day). We met for bubble tea at the Tea Garden in Uptown. I had never heard of this concoction, but she sold it hard, and I was intrigued.

For the uninitiated, bubble tea is an eponymously bubbly fruit smoothie of sorts with little flavored tapioca pearls settled at the bottom of the drink. These tapioca pearls are the consistency of super balls that have been left on the dashboard of a '63 Impala that was wrapped in aluminum foil and parked in the sun all day. Wiggly super balls that are supposed to taste like fruit but taste like wiggly super balls. I enjoy bubble tea, but I find the pearls to be mildly unsettling in ways I still can't put my finger on.

Despite exchanging several messages prior to our date, I had somewhat of a difficult time getting a read on this particular woman. Alicia was an a creative type in every sense of the word. She was a black sheep of sorts, the only sibling who chose not to work in her wealthy family's astronomically successful business in New Zealand. Instead she studied music, and became a professional opera singer. So how was it we got to this point, the farm-raised computer programmer with a penchant for juvenile toilet humor and the Kiwi opera singer from a well-to-do family meeting for a fruity cup full of chewy fruit-flavored super balls? Perhaps it was simple curiosity over someone completely outside of our normal realm of experience. She had never even met anyone that worked in a cubicle before. She was floored that I could work in such an environment and seemed interested in how I came to choose my profession. I thought her accent quite adorable and found her tales of life as her days performing professionally enthralling. However, despite our interest in one another's lives, it was clear there was an unease in the air. We were just so different.

Not surprisingly given my ongoing struggles with insomnia, in the nights leading up to this date, I was unable to get sleep in any sort of quality or quantity. I had jacked myself up as much as I could with caffeine prior to my arrival, but I felt like a damned zombie. As sincerely interested as I was in what she had to say, I soon found myself zoning out. I stared into space and for a few seconds, I was gone, floating in a white abyss, devoid of sound, feeling, or substance. I quickly snapped out of it, but as I reconnected to my senses, I became aware that my eyes had drifted downward in a most unfortunate way. While I was gone, my eyes had fallen directly to Alicia's breasts and were practically burning a hole through her floral dress and the center of her chest. I gasped quietly to myself and corrected my aim to her eyes. Her eyes which were now locked directly on mine. She pursed her lips subtly, shifted uncomfortably in her chair, pulled her sweater closed, and buttoned it to the very top button. Busted!

Dammit, dammit, dammit!!! I was equally mortified and disgusted. I was mortified for being caught red-handed staring at her tits and disgusted that none of said bosom-gazing had registered in my zombified state. It was like getting slapped for accidentally grabbing her ass when I was reaching for an apple that was next to it. Sure I grabbed her ass, but I didn't get to enjoy it!

Strangely enough, this was not the end of our date. In fact, she packed me into her tiny, cluttered car and drove me to an Indian restaurant she wanted me to try. After more pleasant conversation and a tasty, but diarrhea-inducing meal (the diarrhea waited until I got home thankfully), she dropped me off at my car and we bid each other good night. The next day she sent me a very polite email saying that she didn't think we clicked and that she hoped I found Miss Right. I wasn't surprised, given our wildly different backgrounds and personalities, but the thing is, her email wasn't the least bit phony or contrived. I got the feeling she truly wasn't interested in me for all the right reasons and that my inadvertently staring at her rack was a mere trifle. That made her pretty cool in my book. And it made me wish I'd paid more attention when I was staring at her headlights because now I'll never know if they were worth it.

On Monday, I had my twice-yearly dental exam and cleaning. As always, both the hygienist and the dentist had nothing but praise for my teeth and my brushing and flossing habits (I thank my Sonicare and genetics more than my personal care routine). The appointment wasn't without hassle or annoyance, however. Originally my appointment was scheduled for 8 am. I live a mere 5 minutes from the dentist's office, so I slept in until about 7:30 and quickly got ready, paying extra attention to my brushing and flossing. Upon my arrival, I was informed that the hygienist was running late and that it might be 8:30 or 9 before she got there. I could wait until she got there, come back at 5, or reschedule for another day. Normally I probably would have simply waited, but I had rolled out a huge enhancement to our system at work on Thursday night. Since I'd been out of the office Friday, I was somewhat anxious to get there see how everything went with the updates. I opted to come back at 5.

When I came back to the dentist's office after work, the hygienist led me to the exam room. She and the dentist had stayed late specifically for my appointment because of the scheduling issue, so you would think that would entice her to hurry things along, but her love of idle chatter was far too enticing evidently. For some reason, she couldn't start the cleaning until she had spent a good 10 minutes explaining why she had been late that morning. Then it morphed into stories about her son's school trip, retrieving items from safe deposit boxes, and her daughter's job interview with a big company downtown. Hey, it's cool if you want to talk about all of this stuff I'm completely uninterested in, but since you haven't stopped for a breath in the last 15 minutes, and I'm obviously not required to be a respondent in this conversation, maybe you could just go ahead and jam your gloved fists and sharp tools in my mouth while you're blathering, huh? Fabu then.

Once she somehow connected all of her stories to her tardiness, she felt that she could begin the cleaning. The talking continued. One of her daughters just graduated from college. Traffic makes her nervous. She saw a motorcycle with a stuffed bear on it outside once. The dentist is such a jokester (then oddly enough, no story to back that up). My responses were typical mouth-stuffed dental patient fare: "Uh huh... yeh... uhhh huh... yah... guhnurrrgleshcccoohh..." Oops, time to rinse.

As we waited for the dentist to come in to do the exam, she asked me, "So, are you single?" Warning! WARNING! BEEP BOO BEEP BOOP! Where is this going, woman old enough to be my mom? Warily, I answered with a simple "Yep." Her eyes lit up like an arsonist's Christmas as she cooed, "Oh! My daughter is newly single. I should match you two up. You're quite a catch!" Instinctively and uncontrollably, I cocked an eyebrow of incredulity. She continued to prattle on about how I was "quite a catch," repeating that specific phrase ad nauseam. It's a nice thing to hear, but really she had no practical information on which to base this opinion. I rewound and replayed what few words I'd been given the opportunity to utter since my arrival. Based on what little I had said about myself, she had gathered the following: I had a job, I had a home, I was single. Add to that the visible evidence of my quality set of choppers, no humps or missing limbs, and ding, ding, ding! "This guy's quite a catch! He might very well beat up puppies and spit on the elderly for all I know, but on paper, this dude is pure gold!!!" If that qualifies me as dateworthy, her daughter must be "quite a catch" herself. Just as I was picturing a 250 pound mole-covered warthog, the hygienist interrupted her fawning and said, "Oh, but you're probably too old for her."

Somewhat incensed, I asked, "Well, how old is she?"

"She's 26."

HEY, DAMMIT! How the hell old do you think I am, lady? I informed her in a somewhat protesting tone that I was 31 and that 5 years of age difference is perfectly -- wait, why am I arguing here? I don't want to date this jabberbox's wildebeast of a daughter! It was at this point that the dentist walked in and added in her syrupy southern drawl, "Oh, honey, her daughter is a sweetheart. You'd looooove her!" Stop ganging up on me! I've said maybe a total of 50 words to the both of you combined since I got here. Just look at my fucking teeth and let me go home so I can masturbate while thinking about someone else's daughter. I'd rather be single and jerk off to someone super hot than be in a relationship with a fugly dental setup. I'm an old school romantic that way.

Photos stolen from Hedy De Vine, apparently and sadly now a former blogger but a continued friend.

UPDATE: Hedy's back, and she's fine. Seriously. It's ok. For reals.

I'm not a dick-in-my-hand gamer who eats, sleeps, and breathes video games, but sumbitch do I love me some Grand Theft Auto. The combination of open-ended game play, comically exaggerated violence encapsulated in realistic graphics, and challenging missions appeals to the most base of my juvenile endorphin triggers.

I got an email today announcing an upcoming trailer for Grand Theft Auto IV (since III there have actually been two games, Vice City and San Andreas -- four if you count a couple PSP games). I'm sure the fuckers will announce it will come out exclusively for the PS3 or Xbox 360, and I'll have to wait an additional 6 months to a year for the PC release. And I'll wait, because I'm not spending $400 to $600+ on a game console I'll use for a few weeks at a time once or twice a year.

Hmm... when you think about it, a game console would be like my dating life. I'll probably spend $400 to $600 (over the course of a few months instead of up front, which is different -- that's prostitution) taking a woman out for drinks, meals, and other dating activities. Then I get bored with her and abandon her before moving onto another one a few months later. Ok, so in reality she gets bored with me and abandons me. I call her at home, at work, send her teddy bears, chocolates, broken Hummel figurines, hunting knives, and Bratz dolls with the eyes blacked out in Sharpie and cat blood. But she won't take me back. Then it escalates to ejaculating into the door handles on her car and pooping in the change return of the 3rd floor candy machine in a hotel she stayed in once in 1997. What's a guy gotta do to show a girl he cares about her?

P.S. Have you noticed I'm taking Hedy's advice and trying to include more photos? We'll see how long this lasts. I'm not quite as appealing of a photo subject as she is.