Wednesday, April 25, 2012

bite me!

Dear Irby and Ian:
Are men intimidated by kink? I love it all: spanking, biting, breathplay, rough sex, etc. Is that a turn-off? Most men I've met were kind of uncomfortable with it and made me feel like I have to fake being into vanilla sex.

original advice dude's answer: Deep down many/most men are intimated by women who really know their way around sex. It is intimidating. It makes them "kind of uncomfortable" as you say. The reason sucks, but is very simple: It doesn't play into our overall sexual and social narrative. The one society rains down on us and we internalize as correct: men are the sexual aggressors and women are the willing reactors. Is every dude a slave to this? No, absolutely not. But when a woman asks point blank to be bit, spanked, pulled, or smacked it makes a good portion of guys somehow, suddenly not want to bite, spank, pull, or smack you. You relieve them of "the power" and "pilot status" in bed consequently rendering them neutral at best or retreating and dismissive at worst.

irby: there are two things I TOTALLY FUCKING HATE. 1 the idea that someone might be into some bedroom shit that is so advanced and exciting that i've never heard of it and 2 having to look up dirty sex shit on my computer at work. doesn't this bitch know that this privacy setting shit is going to get my ass caught up? what if someone walks in just as i'm clicking through these google images?! (i learn better from pictures, so shut up. also, i hate reading.) listen, i watch so much porn that i had to get a smartphone to make masturbating on-the-go easier (and lightning fast thanks to my nationwide unlimited 4G coverage), so why is breathplay a thing i've never goddamned been asked to do?!

BUT FIRST. at ladies night a couple weeks ago one of my ladyfriends was telling me that recently she'd found herself watching torture porn and asked if i had ever seen any. ever the jackass, i said, "like those 'saw' movies? girrrrrrl, you know i'm too scared to watch that horror shit." she shook her head sadly. "baby, imma email you a link," she promised, petting me on the soft, unformed hole at the top of my newborn head. "you have so much to learn." do i, though? i mean, how many different ways can two human beings with a limited number of both orifices and appendages possibly have sex? the older i get the less i'm interested in watching people spit in each other's faces and fart on birthday cakes to get off. the only porn i can stand nowadays is the fruity soft-focus kind with lots of hair-stroking and intense eye gazing. seriously, i really need to know that these people FUCKING LOVE EACH OTHER, GODDAMN IT. *welp*

i clicked the link she sent and immediately snatched my computer's power cord from the goddamned wall and glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one had snuck into my apartment and seen me looking at that shit. i thought "torture" was fucking hyperbole, dude.did not know that people liked bloody broken bottle sex. i did not know that an aluminum baseball bat could fit in a butthole. I CAN NEVER UN-SEE THAT TERRIBLE SHIT. and all i could think after ten of the most horrible seconds of my life (okay okay, thirty) was, "i really need to disassociate myself from this bitch."

here's what the internet says about breathplay: erotic asphyxiation or breath control play is the intentional restriction of oxygen to the brain for sexual arousal. the sexual preference for that behavior is variously called asphyxiophilia, autoerotic asphyxia, hypoxyphilia. colloquially, a person engaging in the activity is sometimes called a gasper.

OH. okay. that choking shit? that's all this is? well, that is way less exciting than i was hoping for. i've witnessed a roman shower, girl. (google that shit if you would like to RUIN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE.) this choking business is kids' stuff. i was thinking (hoping!) that maybe this broad had devised a way to bring a dude to orgasm just by breathing on him. that's the kind of shit i could go for. all of this sweating and removal of clothing is downright horrible. let's just breathe on each other for twenty minutes then get up and make some nachos and watch the goddamned game. i'm down for whatever you need to do to get yourself off, but the thought of fainting makes me uneasy. my worst nightmare is having to maneuver some passed out dude out of my bed before rolling him down the stairs or into the elevator and making an anonymous call to 911 for them to come get his ass from in front of my building. i mean, how do you explain that shit if he doesn't wake up?! "i am so sorry, officer. i totally didn't mean to kill this motherfucker. by the way, have you ever heard of breathplay?"

so, this internet manswer is the reason most women want to rip the spine out of a dude before setting him on fire on some tekken fatality shit. that madonna-whore thing is the absolute worst. just has having a preference for cheddar cheese on your hamburger does not make you a compulsive overeater, knowing you want a dude to pull your hair out at the root and sink his teeth into your shoulder doesn't make you some dick-gobbling slutface. COME ON, MAN. it only takes having sex one fucking time to know what you do and don't like. it doesn't take a hundred failed attempts to know that a tongue in your ear grosses you out, and it really only takes one good stab with a kitchen utensil to know that yes, you'll be wanting some more of THAT.

playing demure is gross unless that really is your thing. if, by nature, you are a tepid little flower too shy to ask for her meat pink and her coffee black, then yes, it's cool to just lie there and let that dude have a seizure on top of you while you work on a sudoku or whatever. but after a certain age (and yes, a certain number of manseizure-induced vaginal yawns) you just have to speak up for yourself. even if what you want is disgusting or weird (or involves spikes through your nipples and being tied to a bedpost with barbed wire omg scarred for life i just can't with that), ASK FOR THAT SHIT. what do you do at starbucks, just stand in line mute until someone intuits that you want an iced americano?

if a dude thinks your asking that he zap you with a taser or put your face into a lawnmower or whatever it is that gets you off means you've got "pilot status" or makes him uncomfortable (poor baby), that's probably not a dude worth your strap-on and velcro restraints. a real man doesn't need a realdoll. for real.

now that we've cleared that up, exactly what is this vanilla sex of which you speak? i've never heard of that before! does that mean i get to eat haagen-dazs out of the small of a dude's back? or do we just have to light some vanilla candles during the sex? what i gotta do, girrrrrrrl, bake some cupcakes and shit? WHY IS EVERYONE MORE ADVANCED AT BANGING THAN I AM?!

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

gift horse, mouth, looking in that shit.

Dear Irby and Ian,
My husband gets me the worst gifts. He tries, but they are just terrible! How can I be stealth about giving him a few good ideas? Or is there a way I can tell him without hurting his feelings?


irby:
what kind of gifts is he giving you? do they seem to be thoughtful? if so, this could be a fucked-up, mean-ass situation you are about to instigate, sister, since he’s actually putting some goddamned mental effort into making your ungrateful ass happy. if they’re generic gifts like heart-shaped necklaces from shopping mall jewelry stores or hastily purchased items in the check-out line at walgreens, get ready to put on your junk-punching gloves because he's obviously a jagoff and he hates you. oh, i'm kidding. no, i'm not. i'm an ingrate, and if you don't get me something good i'm likely to pout like a sullen child. and before you guys publicly stone me to death with ugly sweaters that don't fit or a big batch of your homemade peanut brittle (or whatever stupid thing you thought i'd be happy to receive on THE GLORIOUS DAY OF MY BIRTH that isn't made of angel tears and unicorn hair), can i just point out how easy it is to not give a shitty gift? i know you thought that giant yankee candle would add a nice touch to my bedroom, but "rotting human corpse" isn't my favorite scent. would it have killed you to notice the sachets of "sulfur-drenched dog vomit" i have scattered around the house last time you were over for dinner?! I THOUGHT YOU FUCKING CARED ABOUT ME. *sob*

i take bad gifts personally. because good gifts are totally easy to give, even if you're fucking stupid, especially when the recipient has a working vagina. have you ever heard of a florist, son? why spend an hour in that gift store at the mall agonizing over which "love is" figurine i might like best? (the answer is: NONE, MOTHERFUCKER.) just go to a flower shop and buy me something expensive that doesn't have carnations or baby's breath in it. better yet, whole foods has decent flowers. go there, bro. and get me a couple tubs of that overpriced cut-up watermelon ooh and some chicken from the hot bar while you're at it. unless you're caucasian. then the flowers should be enough. every time i see an ugly-ass handbag some lady is carrying around because her manfriend thought it was okay to PICK OUT A FUCKING PURSE i think to myself, "damn, y'all ain't got a 7-eleven with roses where you live?!"

i totally give the best goddamned gifts, especially if i'm banging a dude who isn't a shit-eating dicksnot. my old boyfriend omar was a fucking peach, and for christmas a few years ago i gave him a wii. i had to drive all out to the western suburbs to find that shit, too. it was the first year they came out and every best buy and target parking lot within a fifty mile radius was full to overflowing with SUVs and minivans manned by harried mothers trying to get there hands on a dwindling supply of their children's new most favorite toy. i left work early and drove to bumblefuck and told the best buy manager i had a wii on hold for "johnson," figuring there had to be at least one johnson in the city of chicago trying to layaway a wii for their kid. dude came back and said, "james johnson?" and i was like, "YES, I AM JAMES JOHNSON'S WIFE," and i paid for that fucking wii and walked out of the store with it and gave that shit to a dude who broke up with me six weeks later over something stupid. i RUINED THAT JOHNSON CHILD'S CHRISTMAS, and this dude was all, "yeah, sorry, i don't have time for a relationship or whatever. you're cool, though." i should've bought his ass something terrible. and explosive. sigh.

okay then. for practicality's sake, if you're too much of a pantywaist to tell him yourself (can i just interject here? just for a second? let me ask you, how come married people are always so afraid to talk to each other? you bet your fucking ass that if i sign up to incur half a dude's debt and be responsible for the care of his gnarly, cancerous ass when he's old then that motherfucker is going to be the kind of dude i can GODDAMNED TALK TO. i can't imagine smelling a dude's disgusting nightmouth every single day yet being afraid to tell him that I HATE THOSE PAJAMAS FROM KOHL'S that he insists on buying me every goddamned birthday. the horror! anyway) maybe you could get in touch with his best guy friend and get that guy on your side. that’s who guys talk to about things like gifts, you know. their single male friends. just write him an email and explain the situation. "marquise, j'avondre buys me the worst gifts, can you straighten him out? he bought me a tackle box for my birthday last year…" if marquise is an idiot too, your ass might be fucked. like i said, shouldn’t you know how to do this by now? marriage is all about manipulating and tricking your significant other. so get out your loaded dice and your phony card decks.


besides, i don't believe in "stealth." stealth is the reason you girls are still faking orgasms, because you're too mousy and weak to demand that a dude do what you WANT instead of what he thinks is a good idea. men get everything fucking wrong, and most of them know it and are happy to be relieved of the burden of thinking for themselves, particularly when it comes to buying you something awesome. i have very specific, impossibly fancy tastes, and i dread any event that involves someone giving me something unsolicited that i have to smile and pretend that i like. so i either say "that's okay, your presence is present enough!" barf
or i say "i just ran out of kiehl's musk oil" at the top of my lungs while circling my birthday on the calendar with a red marker. or i'll make a reservation someplace nice and say, "dude, you're coming with me and paying." he'll be too flummoxed at how forward you are to object.

i don't understand people who want handmade, thoughtful gifts. you know those bitches. the ones who want you to make a scrapbook of your first year together full of movie ticket stubs and dried flowers and printed-out screenshots of your facebook "in a relationship with" status. that, to me, is garbage. i don't have time for that shit, ho. you know i love you, now WHERE CAN I GET YOUR ASS A FUCKING GIFT CARD FROM?! and it requires so much unnecessary work, all that goddamned thinking and coming up with something creative. plus, when everything ends in a flaming ball of regret, as all relationships inevitably do, burning that patchwork quilt you spent two months cobbling together in effigy on your man's front lawn could get you in some serious trouble with the local fire department. i am so not sentimental, and real love can be proven in so many more tangible ways. get me some itunes cards and keep it moving. so make sure he knows what stores you like and tell him to slap some money on a gift card for you. or do what i do and go buy your own shit and hand him the receipt. i'm not kidding. that shit works. AND IS TOTALLY BRILLIANT.

also, if you decide to do it, be careful talking to that motherfucking friend of his. maybe i've watched the hand that rocks the cradle more times than a normal, healthy, well-adjusted woman probably should, but striking up a friendship with your husband's friend could be a slippery fucking slope. and NOT the sexy kind. seriously, they didn't have to do marlene like that. ALL SHE WAS TRYING TO DO WAS PLAN A GODDAMNED SURPRISE PARTY FOR THAT UNGRATEFUL BITCH, CLAIRE. SHE DIDN'T DESERVE TO DIE LIKE THAT. *welp*

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

acceptable gifts to give a man.

Dear Irby and Ian,
Is it ever okay to send a man flowers? I'm dating this really nice guy and I want to do something nice for him to show him how much I care, so I thought I would send a bouquet of flowers to his office. I really, really like him. Do you think that's a good idea?

spinster irby: I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT. most dudes aren't into flowers, and if yours is then he is probably moist. women like to get flowers because they like for the other women gathered around the office water cooler to seethe in a jealous rage at the sight of them. you really care about some rapidly-dying birds of paradise that fell off the back of a delivery truck, sister? yeah fucking right. you want liz in accounting to SHIT HER FUCKING PANTS that you got flowers the week after she found out her husband was cheating on her with a hooker. and you really want amy in HR to know you're getting laid on the regular because you overheard that dumb whore making fun of your wide hips in the break room the other day. if i got some flowers right this second i wouldn't check the card or anything. i'd brandish them in laura's face and yell "HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?" then i'd upload a picture of that shit on facebook like the rest of you bragging ass sluts with the caption, "guess whose boo is more thoughtful than YOURS?" but since i'm gross and unloved i will continue to post pictures of the raw steak i'm about to eat and irritating shit the cat won't stop doing.

you can always spot some lonely, cockblocking-ass broad from her facebook activity, and my shit is no goddamned different: 1 delicious food that bitches who actually worry about calorie contents would never eat in a million goddamned years 2 pseudo-feminist ladyposts (jezebel links, "you go girl" slogans, articles from the hairpin that gives the appearance that you're okay with not having a man, shit like that) 3 so many camera phone pet pictures 4 cool songs from the youtube that make you seem hip and legitimate just in case that dude whose profile you stalk actually knows you exist and was wondering what your favorite godspeed you! black emperor track is. all the hot broads who get fucked a lot are busy posting pictures of random sexy dudes bathed in alley sex afterglow at 3am, or flooding your news feed with pictures of the dozen roses mr. perfect sent this morning. man, fuck those girls.

anyway, flowers are beautiful and expensive, and when properly displayed in your crumbling, lead-painted apartment they lend a certain classiness to the room that your precariously thrown-together ikea bookshelf just doesn't quite achieve. so even if you have to bashfully smile at the whole foods cashier who is ringing up the ones you are BUYING FOR YOURSELF, at least once you get home they'll look nice in your fancy vases. and make your apartment appear as though someone actually cares about you.

if a dude is deserving of a special treat (and i doubt that he's sufficiently earned it but let's keep living in fantasy flower land), YOU SHOULD FUCKING BLOW HIM. dude wants to get his goddamned DICK SUCKED, not smile sheepishly at the UPS man as he signs for that fruitbag edible arrangement your dumb ass spent 900 dollars on and had shipped to his fucking JOB, or eat a single one of the enamel-destroying heart-shaped hand-decorated cookie assortment he has to run out and hide in the trunk of his car because his coworkers won't stop giving him shit about it. bitches love that kind of shit, so unless your boyfriend has a vagina you should show him how much he means to you by folding a hand towel under your knees (wait, is that just me? goddamn this broken carcass i am forced to hobble around in!), and working five minutes of mouth magic. okay, maybe ten. any more and that shit constitutes a fucking hate crime. and then remind him of that blowjob every single day until he buys you some more shit or pulls your chair out at dinner or whatever warranted that surge of gift-giving emotion.

here's what you can send to a man: your dry cleaning bill, and any other bills of yours that need paying for that fucking matter; the receipt for the valtrex you had to buy after he gave you herpes; a naked picture of the hot slab of brisket you dumped him for; a cease and desist letter; DNA results that prove your child is his; or any items he might have "accidentally" left in your apartment the last time you allowed him to stay over. stop throwing salt in my game, sir. take your socks with you when you leave.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

irby's miracle baby.

Dear Irby and Ian,
I married “Andy” a year ago. He has three children from a prior marriage. He had a vasectomy eight years ago, but promised he’d have it reversed so we could have a child together. He didn’t get around to it, but I’m pregnant anyway.
At first we felt it was our miracle baby. However, 15 weeks later, Andy is now “sure” the baby isn’t his. Things have gotten so bad that I moved out of our house. How do I convince him that I haven't cheated and to let me back in the house?


irby: i have to be straight up and admit right out of the gate that i don't know shit about how babies are made. oh, i know: penis vagina sperm egg. but that's about where the understanding of human conception begins and ends for me. when i think about making babies the first thing that always springs to mind is that opening scene from the movie "look who's talking." that's right, bruce willis narrates my mental image of fertilization. shut up, i'm dumb. i mean, i'm in my goddamned thirties and still don't have a grasp of how menstruation really works. the other day some bitches in my office were talking about uterine lining and i had no idea what the fuck they were talking about. is that the poop and pee babies eat when they're inside you? HOW IN THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW.

but i do know a little something about miracle babies. a year ago i thought a dead baby fell out of my goddamned ass. i sat down to pee and passed a giant clot of raspberry jelly from my ladyhole and, convinced i'd had a miscarriage despite the fact i hadn't had sex in over a year, i called my gynecologist immediately and asked him what i was supposed to do considering that i had until very recently been gestating the king of the jews. seriously, that little blob of condiment was an immaculate conception if i'd ever seen one, unless my vibrator is way more lifelike than i'd previously thought. the doctor sighed patiently as i poked the lion of the tribe of judah with the pencil we keep in the bathroom at work for dudes who like to do crossword puzzles while they shit. "i think it has an eye," i said, peering into the bowl and stabbing at the son of man's unformed fingers and toes. "can i put him back in? is there some way we could attach him to my egg factory? DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW WEALTHY I WILL BE IF I CAN CARRY THE LAMB OF GOD TO TERM IN MY WOMB PLACE?!"

"that's not a baby," he said patiently as i fished around in a bowl of water that would surely turn to wine the minute i could rescue that little clump of eternal life. "get your hand out of the toilet and put a tampon in, stupid."

"you might want to watch your tone," i warned. "the father, the son, and the holy ghost are my baby daddy. you're about to fuck around and get yourself smited." that little jelly jesus kept slipping through my goddamned fingers, so i gave up and "borrowed" an emergency tampon from the box of them we keep hidden under the sink. then i had a fucking temper tantrum. the median age of the women in this building is 137 years old: WHO THE FUCK IS BUYING JUNIOR TAMPONS?! that shit is like trying to soak up your period with a fucking cocktail straw. or a q-tip. my gaping vagina laughed merrily as that shit disappeared inside my body, never to be heard from again. thank god for puppy training pads.

and i don't know shit about vasectomies, either. so i just looked on the old wikipedia, and how shameful and lonely and sad is it that my ladyparts got a giant tingle from the halved-penis diagram that accompanied the article? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? i am legit sexually aroused by a chopped-off penis side view?! i skimmed the article, and there's a picture of a shaved scrotum that's all bruised up after having undergone a vasectomy, and i'm ashamed to admit that i stared for, like, three seconds too long. okay, i looked at it for at least a minute. some hairless purple balls with a nasty-looking incision captivated me for a minute and a half. two minutes. i stopped even reading the goddamned article, i just couldn't tear my eyes away from that chicken-skinned scrotum. for, like, five whole mintues. even the drawing, which for some reason is labeled in spanish, got a second look. and maybe a third. i swear on my under-born baby jesus that the older i get the more i sexually regress. i have access to real porn! ten sleazy minutes on craigslist and i could have access to a real penis! but no, i'm sitting in the dark in the conference room at work looking at some textbook artist's rendering of a man's canal deferente and his escroto and trying not to think about putting them in my butt.

oh dear sweet toilet baby jesus, i am that asshole in your high school biology class who gets a boner when you get to prokaryotes and plant diversity. i'm in the back of the class trying not to break into a sweat when the teacher throws the "bee pollinating flowers" documentary on the old projector machine. fucking gross, man. excuse me teacher, can i get a hall pass to the bathroom, please? fap fap fap.

here's what the internet says about vasectomies getting non-cheating bitches pregnant as hell: "men with vasectomies have a very small (nearly zero) chance of making a woman pregnant." and i know what you're going to say: LOOK AT THAT NEARLY. and i hear you, peach, but i know a lot of people. and very few of them are exceptions to the rule. and i don't know andy, but he seems like a sensible dude what with the chopping up his vas deferens and all, and i bet he did a lot of research and shit before making a decision this big. or, um, small? anyway, DUDES ARE SO SENSITIVE ABOUT THEIR FUCKING DICKS. way more sensitive than i ever get about my national geographic tits or stubbled labial folds. if you don't fall to your knees and praise that jiggly sack of meat like the second coming of a certain bearded hippie we'll refer to as THE SON OF THE LIVING GOD it hurts every single one of their feelings. i cannot even imagine one running to the penis doctor to have his shit snipped without first consulting a panel of experts. according to the genius who edited this wikipedia entry, SOME MEN LOSE THEIR SEX DRIVE. these motherfuckers would rather live without eyes, trust.

so your ass got caught being a huge, lactating dirtbag, and that's cool. i just hope, for your sake, that your baby daddy is white. or whatever andy is, so you can keep up this ruse. (ain't no black dudes calling themselves "andy," but that's another topic for another time.) you can keep trying to game this dude, i guess, or you can come clean about the time your peapod delivery came and you were so depressed because andy had been acting distant and you were having really bad pms and your forehead acne came back and your mom called to yell at you and that delivery man looked SO good and SO strong in his crisp green uniform unloading the boxes of imitation cheerios you didn't order but were now stuck with because they'd run out of the real ones at the warehouse into your apartment that you were overcome by lust and tackled him to the ground and made love on top of a bag of cat litter and three 28-oz cans of crushed tomatoes and now you're pregnant and you have no idea whether or not that little asshole is going to slide out of you wearing a snug green polo shirt and a ball cap with a bunch of peas on it.

better yet, what you should've done was run into the room screaming, "call the three wise men, my belly is full of the blood of them lamb!" while doing the sign of the cross. it might also help if you could levitate or some shit. you better teach that kid to walk on water, too.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

"what kind of gay shit is this?"

Dear Irby and Ian,
Can you tell me the proper etiquette for a man to clip his fingernails?

irby:
it's been pretty well-documented that i have a thing for manly men. i like bossy dudes with armpit hair whose private parts smell like freshly seared beef. most of the notches on my bedpost came courtesy of barely-literate linebackers with 26" necks who preferred to grunt and point rather than engage in actual conversation. oh i know, who wants some mouth-breathing neanderthal with food in his beard? but most of them were all impeccably groomed and fastidious in their efforts to remain that way. so, because i don't know shit about keeping your balls clean, i emailed/texted the least retarded of my old fuck buddies and asked each of them, "what is the proper etiquette for a man to clip his fingernails?" the responses were as follows:

1 "what kind of gay shit is this, samantha irby?"

2 "DON'T EVER EMAIL ME BITCH YOU TOLD A BAR FULL OF PEOPLE THAT I HAVE HERPES THAT SHIT AINT FUNNY YOU COMEDY ASSHOLE."

3 "Who the hell is this from?"

4 "I get manicures every other Saturday. In general, though, a man should trim his nails at least once a week."

5 "I file my shit twice a week. Like a girl, as you would say. Or "that's moist." What R U doing later, asshole? Can I come by and get you pregnant?"

6 "BITCH I'M SERIOUS YOU OWE ME AN APOLOGY. WE NEVER EVEN HAD SEX. THAT BOGUS ASS SHIT HURT MY FEELINGS. YOU ARE THE WORST ASSHOLE EVER DON'T ASK ME SHIT, YOU JERK. I DONT CARE ABOUT ETIQUETTE, SAM. YOU SHOULD'VE HAD SOME FUCKING ETIQUETTE WHEN YOU TALKED ABOUT MY DICK IN PUBLIC."

here's the takeaway from that little experiment: 1 the sexual interstate i'm driving down is littered with idiots and fruitbags, and 2 I AM A RELENTLESS COMEDY ASSHOLE.

my next step was to consult my best friend the internet, who is super smart and always full of reliable information. i happened upon a post entitled "men's worst grooming issues." here's an abbreviated list:

1 long, dirty toenails. ew and ew. that post-sex "did this motherfucker's toenail just scratch the inside of my ankle?!" feeling is the goddamned WORST. clip that shit.


2 hair where it shouldn't be.
to where might they be referring? nose? ear?! i like a  solid, hairy beast. nothing like grabbing hold of a man's back fur and telling him exactly how you like it.


3 a foul mouth. this sort of goes without saying, right? or are there really dudes who need to be reminded to brush their fucking teeth?!

4 eyebrow issues, either overgrown or over plucked. again, i must beg to differ. i don't want to bang a dude who even notices he has eyebrows. that shit is moist.

5 too much cologne. i'd like to specify "cheap ass" cologne. there is absolutely not a goddamned thing wrong with a slab of brisket that has been drenched in some kilian or serge lutens. NOT A GODDAMNED THING.

6 too much waxing. or...ANY AMOUNT OF WAXING AT ALL. sorry, son, but no one wants to fuck a newborn baby.

7 dry, cracked heels. i guess so? i mean, maybe? but the thought of some burly dude in a pedicure chair flipping through people magazine makes my penis soft.

8 hair that never moves. this is for white people. if a black dude's hair is moving that is a motherfucking NO.

this list is fucking dumb, and was obviously written by twelve year old girls too young to menstruate. frustrated, and still having no clue about a polite man's fingernail game, i posed the question over IM to my dear friend geno, a hot gentleman who is always very tastefully appointed. and here's what he said:



i've always been of the mind that if you were to feel a girl up, are your nails going to scratch / hurt her cooch?
if so, they gotta be trimmed
which is basically always
and the only time a dude should have long fingernails is if he plays acoustic guitar regularly
but even that's suspect

so there you have it. TRIM THEM ALWAYS TO AVOID HURTING A COOCH. and on the off chance what you were looking for was a technical manual: were you raised by fucking WOLVES?! i was parented by the joint efforts of a barely-functioning television and our local DARE police, and even i know how to properly whittle down these hand daggers. how to: soak your hands, clip your nails straight across, let them dry, then file that shit neat. welcome to the fifth grade. dummy.

ps, don't be a giant fucking dickface to someone who writes comedy about balls and shit.

pps, that dude totally fucking had herpes. good thing i didn't bang him. BARF.

Monday, February 13, 2012

the perfect man. total figment.

Hey, I have a  question. Why does it always seem that the men I like and could see myself in a relationship always find the girl they want to be with after they hook up with me? And then the guy that wants to be in a relationship with me is not at all what I'm looking for as far as being in a relationship. Am I doomed to be the one before the one? - Failure to Launch


ian: Well, first of all, FTL, if you were a lawyer I was a judge, I'd be like "Asked and answered, Counselor." Right here. Week after week. Ass play. The occasional dick-smoking. Trust funds. Hanging onto a man is the easiest thing in the goddamn world. Pinch of cayenne on the head of the dick. A hoagie stacked high with roast beast. A pony keg of MGD. Pair of shackles and a cask of Thorazine. Some ketamine, some zip ties, and a sturdy bed frame. He's yours for all time. Shit, you could stack men like fucking cord wood in your crawl space like Gacy.


Where you're running into trouble is that second notion you're eager to gloss over. The "not at all what I'm looking for as far as being in a relationship." That's your goddamn problem right there.


You. You are the problem. You're too. Fucking. Picky.


I know. You're like "All I want is a nice guy who treats me right. Is that too much to ask?" No. No it's not. But that's not what you're asking.


You're SECRETLY asking for a Jon Hamm-looking neurosurgeon astronaut rolling in time-traveling DeLorean and mentoring scores of urban youth in his well-pressed-but-still-casual-looking dress shirt that is the blue of Anderson Cooper's eyes. You're asking for a paragon of American manhood that's got the hands of a cabinetmaker and the heart of Oprah fucking Winfrey. You want his spooge to come in a Mason jar with a inseminating baster tied up in a grosgrain ribbon bow in a manly-yet-appealing shade of burgundy (Uncooked Marrow is what Benjamin Moore® calls it) for impregnating on your timetable - fear not, he'll never touch you unless it's Snuggle Time at the Dickless Ranch you call your separate bedrooms. 


And from one angle, you want him to have a buzz cut that make GI Joe look like wizard hippie, then from another angle, you want him to have those silken Fabio locks from Legends of the Fall cascading over his chiseled shoulders. You want him to burst out of a lake with a knife in his chipped teeth and crochet needles in his dainty hands. You need him to recap the Downton Abbey while your tea is steeping as he's smacking the waitress on the ass. You require him to go bow hunting with Ted Nugent and rescue baby squirrels who have tumbled from their nest and are squeaking for their mamas in way that just about breaks your goddamn heart.


You want him to greet the dawn with a reflective and cathartic spell of journaling about his dad, dry his tears, bang out a couple-few yoga poses, then spend the rest of the day making babies with low-rent skanks he'll never call.


You want him to tear around your lakeside cabin on a shade-grown, fairly traded Jet Ski that runs on pixie turds and has a carbon footprint the size of kangaroo rat. You hope he'll not only hear your thoughts but agree with every fucking one, and murmur encouraging words in your ear about how you are totally right - all those bitches at work are undermining you. We should totally talk it over for the next nine hours or so. 


You want a man who will never touch you, except to knead the tension out of those poor shoulders of yours.


You want him to be hung like a can of tennis balls, but you never wanna see his dick or have to deal with it. You want his manscaping to by just shy of Hitler's mustache one second, then you want a thicket of sasquatch chaos down there the next. 


You want him wearing nerd glasses while he lifts the engine block out of your Camry with his bare fucking hands. You want him to recite sonnets from memory while he beats a cop senseless. You want his progressive politics tempered by his bloodlust. You need him to be as hard as a butcher block as he warms you like a tea cozy. You need an arch fucking criminal who's tender and yielding and supportive as a Muppet hospice worker.


You see? How this is? You gotta recognize that that dude you're pining for? Doesn't exist. CAN'T exist, actually - at least not in this paltry-ass reality.


Men have limitations. Men are not and cannot be the kaleidoscopic narcissus chamber of yearning fulfilled that you seem to need. And I got news for you: chicks aren't either. And unless you can find an angel with a giant waggling strap-on and pan of lasagna, gift certificates to the day spa and a brick of cash, and whose vocabulary consists entirely of praise for you. The odds against finding this creature? Astro-cockknocking-nomical.


People suck. No way around it.


But you take what you can and do what you're able. 


When life you gives you lemons, you make fucking lemonade. You don't make a Buick. Not only because it would be insane, but because it can't be done.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

a witch with a "b."

Dear Irby and Ian,
I have a situation that I need your advice on. I came out to my car evening to discover that another driver had rudely blocked in myself and another driver. There was absolutely no way for either of us to get our cars out. I went back into my apartment building to see if I could find the culprit and ask her to move her car. While discussing the situation with another neighbor, the guilty party arrived at the scene. She didn't apologize and then claimed that she had only been parked there for five minutes. In fact, she had been parked there for at least 20 minutes (for 15 of which I had been standing in parking lot).

I explained to her that she shouldn't have been parked there at all since she was not a tenant of the building. Regardless of whether she was parked for a moment or a week, she shouldn't park in the tenants' lot, and she shouldn't have blocked me in. Well, a verbal argument ensued. She proceeded to stand nose-to-nose with me and then refused to move her car until I apologized to her. I called her a nasty name (a witch with a "B"). In short, the police had to come and ask the woman to move her car. My question is, how does one handle a stranger who is so inconsiderate and rude?

irby: the only time i fantasize about jettisoning my fast-paced, action-packed, exciting city life (i don't really have one of those, i promise) for the warm, easy-to-park embrace of the suburbs is when i think about how nice it would be to never have to race the motherfucking iGo car from target to whole foods to the laundromat in under three hours because i don't want to pay for extra goddamned mileage and gas ever fucking again. strip malls are boring and omg CHILDREN ARE SO FUCKING LOUD, but there is something to be said for the ability to deposit your car right in front of the window you will be hawkishly staring out of for half the night making sure that no one so much as breathes on that shit. i've owned four cars. all pieces of absolute garbage, all purchased with whatever loose change i could scavenge from couch cushions and broken pay phones, all junked after a year or two of having been driven into the ground and virtually destroyed by life on a crowded city neighborhood street. it's totally the worst.

so i understand the appeal of a building with a lot, but i also know from experience how some people just don't give a shit that you pay $150 more in rent than they do for the privilege of not having to walk nine blocks to your apartment because there were no spots available anywhere on your street. or the next one over. or the one after that.

fighting bitches is totally stupid, especially if you don't know whether or not she happens to be insane, so my initial reaction of "beat her motherfucking ass" is goddamned irresponsible. i have no idea whether or not you can throw a solid punch, or if you keep a shotgun in the back of your car. pepper spray is also handy but, unless you keep it in your pocket and are a reliable shot when under duress, you will most likely end up spraying yourself in the face and falling to the ground in the fetal position next to your minivan. so let's try this shit instead, and hope this inconsiderate bitch has an old-ass fucking car.

for this exercise you will need:

a slotted screwdriver.

a wire stripper.
insulated gloves.
a lion heart that pumps molten lava through your motherfucking veins.

pregame.
do you have any beers in your car? or a bottle of cheap whiskey or something? if you're anything like my salty ass, your answer is HELLS YES. i always had a bottle hidden under the seat of my car, mostly because i'm a scumbag. anyway, if you do, take a few warm-up swallows. this will help lubricate your joints and also serve as the courage you'll need to pull off something this BAD-FUCKING-ASS. i've only attempted this once, unsuccessfully, and i blame not having enough liquid gunpowder coursing through my system for my failure to properly execute stealing my ex-boyfriend's car so that i could burn it by the side of the road. okay, so with the hellfire that is a shot of old granddad screaming through your lungs, take what's left of that bottle and smash in the driver's side window. try the door handle first, as it is likely to be unlocked because this idiot planned on being gone for "just five minutes," but if she was smart enough to lock it? SMASH THAT SHIT. no bottle, no problem. i'm sure there is something in your car hard enough to break a window. take that paper starbucks cup and put your fucking back into it, you pussy. now get your gloves on and jump in, QUICK. before any nosy neighbors come outside to investigate that shattering glass noise that interrupted their 60 minutes viewing.

step one: remove the ignition cover.
you can try sticking the screwdriver in the ignition and attempting to start it that way, but that shit isn't going to goddamned work. so you need to gain access to the wiring if anything is going to jump off. most cars have large plastic panels that snap together and cover the top and bottom of the steering column. you'll want to carefully remove these panels so that the cylinder (and the wires running into it) are exposed. at some point you'll want to put these pieces back together, so be fucking gentle while separating them.

step two: identify the battery and starter wires.
you'll typically see three pairs of wires running into the back of the cylinder. don't freak the fuck out, each pair just represents a different key position on the ignition. in short, one pair should trigger the battery-only position, another pair the lights and radio position, and the last pair is responsible for the final key position: starting the car. there's no universal color system for the wires. consulting the manual is probably the best way to find out that vehicle's specific color code, and that's also probably the best way to GET YOUR STUPID ASS CAUGHT THE FUCK UP, DUMMY. however, in a pinch, which you are definitely in, the red pair is usually the set that provides power to the car, and the brown (which can be a single wire or a pair depending on the car) handles the starter.

step three: strip and connect the power wires. once you've located the wires that provide power to the car, disconnect them from the cylinder. use the wire stripper to remove the plastic from the ends and then twist them together. the result should be goddamned obvious: power to the dashboard, lights, and pretty much everything else in the motherfucking car.

step four: connect the starter wires to the power wires.
connecting the power wires is relatively safe, but the wires responsible for starting the car carry live current. don't fucking touch the bare starter wires with your hands. you could die, asshole. and then that bitch wins. strip the insulation off the ends of the wires and carefully touch them together. you should see a spark and hear the engine fire up. once it's started idling, separate and cover the ends of the starter wires.

SHOWTIME.
i have a flair for the dramatic, so i would wait until that bitch came out of the building and could watch me drive her car off the goddamned lot and into the side of a dumpster or some shit. those of you among us with smaller onions and a greater propensity to bitch the fuck up (read: some goddamned common sense) might just want to park that rusted-out ford focus a few blocks away and run back to wherever you've inconspicuously hidden your car to watch this bitch go crazy yelling on her cell phone to a tow truck company that has NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK SHE IS TALKING ABOUT. and sure, that's fucking hilarious, but setting that raggedy motherfucker on fire would be way sexier.

remember, jerks: hot wiring some asshole's inconveniently parked chevy beretta is ILLEGAL AS FUCK. and you should not, under absolutely any circumstance, ever consider doing this. but driving that shit into a light post before dropping a lit match and a bottle of nail polish remover into the back seat will be a uniquely satisfying experience, if you're willing to risk possible jail time and total ostracism from the family and close friends who prior to this break with sanity never suspected you were capable of such horror.

ps keep the gloves on the entire time and try not to get your fucking DNA all over the goddamned place. i watch a lot of fucking CSI. that shit is even in your tears, bro. they'll find your ass. for real.

pps seriously, though. this is a joke, not a solution you should ever resort to in your real fucking life. unless you're crazy. but just in case you do hotwire a car, get caught, and wind up in front of a judge somewhere slobbering and crying and begging for a plea bargain? ian wrote this shit.