fun size candy = devil's gateway

Dear i+i:
I don't wish to disappoint my children, but I am a Christian, and I don't want them trick-or-treating. Halloween is a pagan holiday, and I feel very strongly that it undermines the Christian values I'm trying to instill in my kids. Am I wrong? - Party Pooper for Jesus

Great question, PPJ:

Rest assured: you are very much NOT wrong. Halloween is a heathen holiday intent only on corrupting young souls. There are those who contend that it's a harmless means of letting kids engage in a bit of fantasy and escapism. THIS IS A LIE!!!!!!!!! Halloween is a remorseless pageant of Wiccan bloodlust and carnality that aims to sap the Christian resolve from this once great nation. Is by accident that Obama's birthday (his REAL birthday - not that trumped-up one in "Hawaii" or wherever it is he's claiming to have been born - the one that took place under a blood moon in a Haitian swamp with not fewer than SIX DOZEN actual zombies in attendance, where he was "baptized" in the blood of Pentecostal missionaries) is on Halloween?!??!?!? OF COURSE IT'S NO ACCIDENT!!! IN THE SAME WAY THAT IF YOU ADD UP THE DIGITS FROM ANY BAR CODE, THEY ALWAYS ADD UP TO "666"!!! *

* We are fact-checking this paragraph, because certain elements of it don't feel quite right. We'll report back. - Eds.

Not only should you forbid your kids from trick-or-treating, compel them to spend the evening in reflection and prayer (shackled to a boiler or radiator in a windowless basement is best - since I'm pretty sure that in Leviticus someplace, it ID's a "cheerless underground chamber" as the "piousest place in the eyes of the Lord" - I don't have to check this, it just feels right), beat them with flails if they request meals for bathroom breaks, and remind them that "Fun Size" is an acronym for "Drinking the Blood of Innocents"!!!!! **

** Again. This doesn't seem to line up, really. I mean, we'll bust out the Scrabble® tiles to run down this lead, but we gotta be honest, we're finding it suspect.

Beyond your unambiguous rejection of the Godless practice of candy-whoring from door to door, you should take the following precautions to safeguard the souls of your family on this the least Christian night of the calendar:

• Douse the lights and tape around every window so you're not corrupted by visits from the little infidels in your neighborhood - they may smell of Starburst® ("Pop one in your mouth and unleash the juiciness" - which is right there on their website - seems a pretty BRAZEN reference to satan spooge), but this is just to MASK the brimstone that's leaching out of every pore. It's been proven by science *** that a costumed kid on Halloween represents a greater concentration of satanic energy than Uday Hussein presiding over a torture orgy or Ed Gein hosting the Emmys.

*** These findings are unpublished in any scientific journal we could find. - Eds.

• In the event that an especially persistent group of trick-or-treaters continue to ring your bell/knock on your door, you are authorized BY LAW to spatter them with battery acid **** from the window of an upper floor.

**** Please CHECK your local ordinances regarding this recommendation. It is only in effect in parts of Alabama.

• Avoid use of the google search term: "looping video of the crucifix masturbation scene from The Exorcist." *****

• Avoid purchase of Jack Skellington rape porn fan fiction. *****

***** These seem advisable for pretty much anybody, regardless of faith.

• Avoid viewing John Carpenter's "Halloween" since Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite sent by Satan to confuse you.
• Avoid acceptance of apples at any point today - they are packed with urban legends about razor blades, and will dissuade you from keeping your focus squarely on vanquishing Satan and His minions.
• Avoid listening to rock duo The White Stripes, for Satan is RIGHT BEHIND THEM!!!
• Avoid listening to blues rock duo The Black Keys, because everything they record just sounds dirty.
• If for some reason you DO find yourself in some heathen neighbor's house that's got one of those "blindfolded chamber of horrors" things set up - it's actually OK to put your hands in the "mummy guts," since that's just cold spagetti; it's also OK to feel the "werewolf eyes", since those are really just peeled grapes; DO NOT, however, stick your finger into "the devil's anus," because while it is true that it's just a dollop of chunky peanut butter. It is also true that it's actually inside Satan's ass.
• Avoid listening to Alice Cooper. Not only does he kind of suck, but he's a total fraud - he's a staunch Republican retiree who goes golfing all the time. Seriously - all that makeup and guillotine shit he does onstage? Total horse shit. Same with Rob Zombie.
• If you eat candy today - and chances are excellent you will, since the data suggests a correlation between being an avid Christian and being a lumbering giant fat-ass - ONLY eat full-size candy bars. The letters in the words "Fun Size" have been proven to be an anagram of "Mmmmmmmm… Satan Cock."******

****** Well this is clearly just flat-out wrong. There are no ellipses in "Fun Size"

• Refrain from wearing a costume yourself. Wedging that fat ass of yours into a naughty nurse get up or a sexy witch costume will just ruin it for everybody else. We are totally not kidding with this - any garment the back of which carves those haunches of yours into four ass cheeks is just ruinous and hateful. Honestly, it's like a fucking garbage bag filled with lumpy gravy back there. Stick the Tweety sweats you wear most days.
• Do not, under any circumstances, make candy corn fangs on yourself. This is a known Satan-summons. Plus, they make you sound lispy and ridiculous.
• Avoid watching Elvira, Mistress of the Dark - though totally evil, obviously, she's pretty severely developmentally disabled, so she doesn't know any better. I mean, she's still going to Hell and everything, but in her case it makes you a little sad.
• At work, don't answer the phone "Accounts receivable, this is Debbie" in that Vincent Price voice. This has less to do with avoiding Satan's influence than it does the fact that your impressions eat ass and everybody hates you enough as it is.
• Refrain from watching Laughton's Night of the Hunter, as the artistry and audacity of it may cause you to reevaluate your entire relationship to your faith, and to cast doubts on Christianity as a force for good in the world. Anything that causes you to ask questions was sent by Satan to test you. And, yes, the test is  Pass/Fail, but a failing grade means an eternity spent as Lucifer's anal bead, so seriously - call in sick.
• Listen to all the Decyfer, Rush of Fools, Eden's Bridge, Soulger, or King's X you feel like. Actually any Christian rock you have lying around sucks so bad Satan will totally leave you alone. Blast it. Fair warning, though: this stuff really, really sucks. Like a shit-ton. So you better be pretty goddamn committed to your faith. Because it's like these dudes are forcibly sodomizing coolness every time they tune up. Plus, the irony is that all these bands, in order to attain "success" on the Christian "rock scene," have signed pacts with Satan.
• Don't be taken in by "holiday" versions of your favorite snacks. The secret ingredient? Satan's nut sweat. I'm looking at you, Krispy Kreme.
• And again: stay vigilant! Even if they are from that bowl in the break room at work, a Fun Size bar will enslave you to the Dark Lord for all time. Because as everybody knows "Fun Size" is an anagram for "His Infernal Majesty Awaits the Eternal Feast of Ass-Rape With His Barbed Cock That Your First Bite of This Krackle Bar® Represents. This Is a Binding Contract. You Cannot Hope to Extricate Yourself From It, So Don't Even Try. HAIL SATAN!!!"*******

******* Again, in the interests of thoroughness, we'll check this, but it honestly doesn't seem like this matches up. - Eds.

If you follow these simple suggestions, you MAY awake tomorrow morning with your immortal soul intact. Don't forget to unshackle the kids, cause you don't want DCFS coming down on your ass on top of this whole "being locked in a mortal struggle for your soul" thing. And be sure and have them wear long sleeves - shackle bruises are a dead giveaway.

Yours in Christ,
i+i

border dispute

Dear i+i:
My neighbor and I have a long-standing dispute about our property line. He contends that the fence we put in FOUR YEARS ago is on his property and wants us to tear it down and move it. I say if he wants us to incur that kind of expense, HE has to pay for a new survey of both properties to help us figure this out. Can you help? - Fences Make Good Neighbors

Sure thing, FMGN.

Property rights are pretty central to the Constitution, and the Founders obviously put great stock in protecting the rights of individuals against the incursions and curtailments of the State. But that's not what I'm seeing in this case. What I'm seeing is two white people. Unhappy about other things. Afraid to fight each other.

To you, the letters"FMGN" stands for "Fences Make Good Neighbors". To me, they stand for "Fucking Motherfucking Goddamn Nontroversy". I'm betting you both wear fucking sweaters draped over your shoulders in that little fucking cashmere bitch-cape you fucking shitbirds are so fond of. I bet I could get on the roof of your house and throw a rock in any direction and hit a golf course, am I right?

Bet you're a big golfer, aren't you Skid Mark? Except you say "avid". You describe yourself publicly as "an avid golfer". Which is the rough equivalent of saying to a black person: "Yeah, you know something? My share of your reparations for slavery? You know where that's going? Green fees. And I realize I'm wearing all pastels on the outside, but my boxer-briefs? Confederate flag." Your life has all the fucking authenticity of Elvis fucking Presley singing "In the Ghetto." In fact, I'm pretty sure that your continued prosperity constitutes a hate crime. Against fucking everybody. We could bring you up on seven billion counts of being an oppressor douche-face. If every man, woman, and child on the planet took say 8 seconds to punch you in your hypocrite face - and believe me, we all want to - it would take over 1,700 years. So plant your feet, dickhead - here it comes.

I know. You're cowering behind "my family loves me." This is a ridiculous thing for you to say. Because of the model you have provided, your daughter will date an unbroken string of date rapist bro-ham assholes. She is cutting herself as I write this, and at the back of her spacious closet, she has eleven shoeboxes lined with Target bags that she's filled with sour bulemic puke. LOOK at her, you fucking swine - she makes Britney Murphy look zaftig. Go look up "zaftig", shit-for-brains. Now go look up "Britney Murphy". Your fucking HOUSEKEEPER knows about this, but she a) has no fucking idea how to cope with these white people problems, and b) is afraid you get INS on her if she says anything - so she leaves the puke-filled boxes as a rank little shrine to your epic shittiness.

And that wife of yours? Doesn't fucking MATTER what she thinks, because lemme tell you something: I could fire an arrow in her left ear and it would come whipping out her right without hitting a goddamn thing in between. She may look like Shannon Tweed a little bit, if the light is poor, and you've had like 13 drinks, and you don't have your contacts in. But, shit, dude - is it worth squinting at the off brand star of White Cargo and The Dark Dancer when every fucking syllable out of that collagen mouth is more bone-crushingly stupid than the last? Are fake tits honestly that appealing, even where they are attached to the Grand Marshall of the Irritating Retard Parade?

And the reason your son is pissing away his Tufts tuition on an Art History degree is just to spite you. He has no real interest in art or its history - he just wants his fucking might-as-well-be-printed-on-Charmin BA to serve as a $200K dick-slap to your face on graduation day.

And your partners down at the firm like you well enough. Except that they define "like" as "find you so hopeless and stupid that they're stealing from the company like crazy." You're a fucking chump and they hate you for it.

You are so fully horrible, I don't even know where to begin. Your anchorman hair white as cocaine? Your giant red scotch face? That fucking shoulder sweater? Seriously, dude. The bitch-cape cunty epaulets look has got to go. Like yesterday. I'm not like super-butch or anything, but even I know that any individual wearing a motherfucking duckling-yellow cardigan tossed over his shoulders has relegated his manhood to the dustbin of history. You would need a radio telescope to pick up the ghostly signal of your manhood, you arid little turd. That fucking sweater cape is a shroud for the sad, puckered corpse of your manhood, son. You are a little bitchbird and those limp sleeves are your flightless fucking wings.

And here's the real trouble: your neighbor is every bit as insufferable as you are. He's every bit the vein-ruptured drunk you are, exactly the same kind of sweater-shouldered limpdick, precisely the same form of smug and disengaged trauma-peddler to everybody around him. The fact that both of you douchebags drive Audis* speaks fucking volumes.


* Studies confirm that it's uniformly the biggest dickstains under the fucking sun that drive Audis. It's science. If you drive an Audi, then I am sorry to report that that fuckface staring back at you out of the mirror is a weapons-grade asshole.

So here's your answer: my solution involves a bulldozer. But the fence will stay intact. The bulldozer will be used to crush you and your worthless neighbor into a long red streak on the street out front of your houses. And here's your legacy, dickwad: 6 months after you're both squeegeed up off the asphalt, you'll have faded so completely in their memories, one of the assholes down the way will be watering his lawn one day, and some other shithead will be taking out the trash. And they'll gaze out at the spot where you died and go:

"Man. That was a such a shame about… Greg and… Todd, was it?"

"Ken, I think. And… I wanna say, Doug, maybe?"

And they won't think about it too hard, because they don't give a rat's ass about you, or your neighbor what's-his-name. Or about anything else.

And the way you can tell there's no God is that a gas main doesn't explode and incinerate everyone on what was once your cul-de-sac in this gated little slice of hell on earth. For if there was any justice and you people got anything like the fiery retribution you deserve, the ONLY thing left standing in the aftermath of the just desserts that cause you each to be reduced to a charcoal fucking briquette should be the fucking fence you douches were arguing about in the first place.

FACECROOK.

Today at school, someone came up to me after social studies and asked me why I said mean things about her on Facebook. Then I found out that my best friend got into a fight online, and to fix things she hacked into my account and backed herself up. It got me into trouble with my friends, plus she lied to my face about it. Should I forgive her or not?

FACEBOOK IS A FUCKING LIFE-RUINER. stupid assholes insistent upon tagging the most awful and wretchedly disgusting open-mouthed pictures of your flabby arms and sweaty skin beard; your nonstop stalking convincing you that that one dude you're obsessed with is fucking all nineteen girls that constantly comment on his statuses (EVEN THE DUMB ONES) and post pictures of themselves in catsuits on his wall, forcing you to sit up all goddamned night trying to discern the nature of his online relationships from a stream of suggestive comments with zero fucking context or background; misinterpreted messages from your friends that read as bitchy or dismissive and you have no idea whether or not that jerk is mad at you for real, so just in case she is you respond with an equally terse, vague message for her to try to translate; spoiled attention whores littering your newsfeed with pictures of their labia all fucking day long (or links to their STUPID FUCKING BLOGS, omg); bitches you HATED in high school flaunting their happy lives and handsome husbands and adorable children in your face every goddamned motherfucking day while you post about tv shows and what the cat is doing: I'M SURPRISED WE HAVEN'T ALL COLLECTIVELY HEAVED OUR COMPUTERS OFF THE NEAREST CLIFF.

but then how would we know what restaurant you just checked into?!

i wish i never had to meet anyone in real life. god, i am SO MUCH BETTER ON THE INTERNET. i'm so much smarter, so much funnier, and the cropped parts of my face and upper body are so much better looking in the thumbnails on my profile. am i right?! i fucking DARE you bitches to act like it's just me. it's amazing to have that level of control over how other people perceive you. on the internet no one has to know how much you don't have your shit together unless you want them to, and what kind of idiot would ever do THAT?! my real life is fucking stupid, but my internet life is AMAZING. because i designed it that way.

i love facebook. how else would i know so much about people without having to spend even a minute in their company?! i can decide, based on your religious and political beliefs and your taste in music, whether or not you're the kind of person i could tolerate in real life. i can determine, based on the kind of shit you post, whether or not you are dumb. do you have stupid friends? do you still live with your mother? all these things are right there for me to click through, and i can make you into whomever i want you to be with even picking up the telephone. that's some magic shit right there.

but omg, i CANNOT EVEN IMAGINE what my life would have been like if facebook had been around when i was in school. it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about that shit. seriously, i got stress diarrhea just reading this fucking question. i'm not kidding, I AM IN PHYSICAL PAIN imagining what a fucking nightmare my life would have been if the jerks i grew up with could add FACEBOOK to the arsenal of tools with which they tormented me. good luck being the ugly kid in these modern times. to go from school, which is a microcosm of everything that fucking sucks about real life, to facebook, which is an even smaller distillation of everything that sucks about school, must be fucking ridiculous. it's like bullying, concentrated. the thought of even having had a cell phone when i was in high school gives me the meat sweats, all that texting nasty shit about people and spreading camera phone pictures all over school. there were three thousand kids in my high school, every single one of whom would probably lunge at the chance to humiliate one of our fellow classmates. myself included. just think about it: health class, swimming during gym, THE GODDAMNED LOCKER ROOM?! all opportunities to take a grainy cell phone picture likely to make some bitch drop the fuck out and opt for homeschool.

i'm too goddamned old for internet fighting. and even when i was a kid i was pretty docile and harmless. i just wanted to read books and stay out of everyone's way. don't believe me? CHUBBY KID MARCHING BAND. pretty much sums up everything you need to know about my high school experience. AND I SANG IN THE FUCKING CHOIR. for honors credit! next time you see me, be sure to pull my underwear out of my pants or knock all my science books out of my hands. i'll tape my glasses for the occasion. anyway, my fertile imagination is coming up with all sorts of sordid reasons your girl got into a comment war with some mean girl on the jv cheerleading squad. did they show up at homecoming wearing the same dress? choose the same project for physics class? develop crushes on the same soccer forward?! it KILLS ME not knowing.

the real question, though, is WHY DOES THIS BITCH HAVE YOUR PASSWORD? you can't tell that kind of shit to regular people! if someone figured out any of my passwords or pin numbers i would have a LOT of explaining to do. you know how many shitty emails i send in a day?! DOZENS. and they're usually about some bitch who thinks we're friends. guess again, asshole. I HATE YOU. but you'll never know because the trusty internet keeps all my secrets safe. i perish at the thought of someone reading who i want to bang or what's really in my checking account, and no one ever will because i don't do dumb shit like jot my passwords on the back of things for safekeeping. that shit is locked in my mindgrapes, and when i die all my nasty gchats and slutty sext messaging dies with me. even if you just happen to be sitting at my desk and open the internet, ain't no passwords saved there! and the history is deleted, too, because I DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW HOW MUCH PORN I WATCH. i could die at any time, and i shudder to think that bitches will be at my funeral shaking their heads because they found out i like to watch dudes straddling a fucking sybian.

this shady bitch. fight your own battles, trick! you kids need to learn how to junk punch a ho the minute she picks up your fucking laptop. i'd set this bitch on fire for fucking up my e-lationships, because they're all that i live for. i mean, you probably shouldn't go searching for your dad's blowtorch just because i would. you're still young, and this too shall pass. but forgiving her sounds weak to me. yes, i am one of THOSE PEOPLE. i don't forgive anyone, i just cut them out of my life. i feel like after a certain age you shouldn't be doing a whole lot of shit you have to apologize for, and that most times someone offers an apology it's not really for the intent of that action (because bitches usually mean the fucked-up, horrible shit they do to you). it's mostly to make themselves feel better and to try to convince you to keep them around so they can cut your fucking throat and shit down your goddamned neck again.

"i'm sorry i got caught" or "i'm sorry you got mad" is what people really should fucking say when they apologize for stomping all over your bruised feelings with their football cleats, then you won't feel so bad when your answer is, "YOU ARE NOT FORGIVEN." i wasn't allowed to say sorry when i was growing up unless it was to apologize for having embarrassed myself in some way, and even now i'll only say it when i look dumb in front of someone whose opinion matters to me. you already know, within this once incident alone, that this asshole is a liar and identity thief, so the answer seems pretty goddamned clear to me. unless she hacked some encrypted codes from a remote location to pose as you in the battle of katie versus megan and you can harness that brain for some evildoing of your own, fuck her. clean up the mess she made with your other friends and then ICE THIS BITCH OUT. isn't that the sweet shit about high school cliquing? ostracizing some jerk out of the popular group? wield that adolescent power, little kittenface. she'll be overdosing on black eyeliner and hanging in the parking lot with the deadbeats and burnouts in no time.

AND CHANGE YOUR FUCKING PASSWORD. kids is so dumb.

the thong: plot perpetrated by Tuck's® Medicated Pads?

Dear i+i:


My boyfriend wants me to wear thong underwear, but I find them really uncomfortable. Do you have a solution? - Bifurcated Backside

Sure thing, BB:

It's often been observed that men respond to visual stimulation, which takes the form of naughtywear; slutwear; whorewear; trampwear; hoochiewear; floozywear; hookerwear; streetwalkerwear; togs of the strumpet; concubine fashions; apparel of the fallen woman; minxwear; dragonladywear (for that Asian flavor); trollop threads; Jesus God, you look like a prostitute!; vampwear; tartwear; lady of the evening gowns; Jezebelia; wenchwear; nympho gear; courtesan clothes; painted lady vestments; St. Pauli girl get ups; ho-tards (really, these are just leotards, but the male brain turns everything whorish. This can also mean "retarded whores," so you should probably go ahead and verify which it is you're dealing with - dick-look before you dick-leap, am I right?); nun's habits; meter maid uniforms; spectacles (it honestly does not matter in the slightest what you're wearing - if you got on glasses, you are reduced [elevated?] in the male mind to Naughty Librarian or Hot For Teacher); slagwear; You're Not Leaving Any House of Mine Dressed Like That, Young Lady; naughty school girl (the kilt is like a dick-seeking missile to us - you put Sean Connery in a kilt and we'd still part the low-hanging Yeti-curtain of his man-satchel for some ass play - I'm talking about breeder dudes, here - gay guys, if I understand my cursory study of cliches correctly, like hairy nads to be like melting like candle wax out either leg of cut-off shorts - this is what Freddie Mercury tells me when he comes to me in my dreams. Which are in no way gay.); pretty much any uniform you could name - hospice care worker? yup. garbage collector? you bet. slaughterhouse sluice-cleaner? if this is even a thing, yeah; bondagewear (within reason - if it turns out stomach and involves a lot of fisting, then we'll take a pass); latex; aluminum foil; Saran Wrap®; um, let's see, burlap; a vest of raw chicken - for some of us, yeah; and sweaters. And every halloween costume currently available in the U.S. Oh, and in a pinch, if no apparel is available to you, you can always opt for the old standby of nakedness, which is a classic.

Point is this: where the getting of our rocks is concerned, the visual data you provide us is key. Speaking as a dude who is upwards of 85% straight (damn you, Freddie Mercury, for nightly luring me on shirtless dream picnics, and no-pants dream bike rides, and dream wrasslin'), I can report that I am actually of two minds where the thong is concerned.

On the one hand, they look awesome. When compared to the oft-maligned granny panty, the showcase provided by say an emerald green thong versus a threadbare and sagging pair of Band-Aid-colored cotton drawers, well this is no contest at all. The thong renders the already alluring female ass all the more magnetic by dividing it neat as a can be, creating a 50-yard line, if you will. And like football, anywhere there are borders to cross and territory to conquer, you will have captured our attention and aroused our interest. You can go ahead and insert your own riff on what else might have been aroused - we're not here to be making dick jokes, OK? We're HERE, BB, to try to HELP folks… Oh. Wait. Hold up. Sorry. We are totally here to make dick jokes. So yaddayadda 50-yard line yaddayadda - gonna spike it in the END ZONE, you know what I'm sayin'? Huh? Up top! Woo! No? Nobody? Very well, then.

On the OTHER hand, there is some portion of my mind - whenever I see a thong (for which I am always grateful, by the way, Wearer of Low Rise Jeans Over Thongs While Bending To Retrieve The Selsen Blue From The Bottom Shelf At The CVS Lady), I cannot avoid having a murmur in my mind that just keeps repeating: Assfloss.

Again: always happy to see a booty bethonged. HOWEVER, there is some portion of my mind that cannot shake the mantra: assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss, assfloss. Which can in my experience tend to undercut the erotic power of the thong, and by extension the thong wearer. Because once the Pandora's Box of assfloss is open, it is followed by visions of shit-encrusted lace, sawing back and forth with every step, shearing off ass hairs and the dingleberries thereon. It's not long before all you can see in your mind's eye is the sad, stretched-out elastic befouled by poo, gasping for a fresh breath of non-ass air, only to remain cheek-clamped and anus-ground. The shit-friction on these things has gotta be enough to burn clear through them sometimes, doesn't it? Aren't there stories circulating about overtaxed thongs pushed beyond their limits and going sling shot? With the dried little shit-pellets rocketing out of the pants and into the eyes of anybody with the misfortune to be shopping at the CVS that day? This has gotta happen sometimes, yeah? Ass David to Eye Goliath? Because, from a design standpoint, was not the assfloss inspired by the ancient weapon of the sling? I would be surprised if the thong remained contented with merely abrading the ass walls - I should think that a thong with any ambition would wanna launch some turd balls out of those pants and into the unwitting eyes of anybody in the Hair Care aisle. Perhaps there is even a kind of Sisterhood of the Traveling Underpants, Intent On Working Themselves Free of Ass Cracks to Fling Poo On the Unsuspecting.

And even if this never happened, not even once, the fact remains that this thing is in there like a goddamn bear scratching its back all goddamn day. Let's face it, fellas - if your lady stuffed a square of silk up her nose for eleven hours, how sincere are you gonna be when you say: "That is super-hot, baby"? OK, yes, IF you subscribe to Big Booger Bitches or White Hot Snot, then YES, you will be completely sincere in this. [Red Hot Snot is for bloody nose enthusiasts - those guys are freaky fucking pigs. Steer clear of those guys. - eds.]

But if your dude remains adamant on the point of your wearing assfloss despite the clear and present danger of shit-slinging it represents, you tell him that you totally will IF he will take one of those paper doilies, crumple it up, and hold it between his ass cheeks all day. If he makes it to lunch without screaming in agony from thong-burn, it'll be a miracle. By mid-morning, he'll be hauling his pants down and plucking that skid-marked doily out of there, I can guarantee you. And if he doesn't, that means that he's super-determined and you can maybe work out some kind of joint ass-custody, whereby you alternate between assfloss and the well-worn ass hammocks you prefer.

Or it could mean that he's into it. And if he's into having his asshole scraped at, in which case, eww - what are you doing with that guy? Nasty. Nasty, nasty Anus Scrubber Guy. Uch. Tuck some fucking sandpaper between there and walk the fuck away, sweetheart. Because once they get a taste for this kind of thing, their bunghole becomes not unlike the plant in Little Shop of Horrors - always hungry for more. More anus friction. Always with the anus friction, these guys.

how to have sex over the telephone. like a goddamned winner.

This guy I've been seeing for a couple weeks just left for Oklahoma for business and he will be gone for 2 or 3 weeks. How would I go about having phone sex with him?

irby: in case you were wondering, the working title for my autobiography is, "i'm only interested in sex that is not actually sex." seriousface, if i could get away with blowies, handies, and mutual masturbation until i drop dead my life would be AWESOME. don't get me started, because i can write ad nauseum about how i'd really just like a reasonably interesting dude with a decent sense of humor to HUG ME A LOT and LIE NEXT TO ME WITHOUT INTERRUPTING THIS BOOK I'M TRYING TO READ.

is anyone even having phone sex anymore? i feel like dudes just jump right into sending you blurry pictures of their genitals and trying to get road head while driving you home from your first date. phone sex is like a goddamned lost art, and i am determined to bring that shit back. i haven't had real human sex in, like, two years, but i'd be down for a phone bone any day of the goddamned week. the first time i had phone sex (maybe ten years ago?) i didn't even know it was happening. i was talking to this dude on my phone while dropping off mel's suits to be dry cleaned and picking up his lunch at foodstuffs and other assistant-type shit, when all of a sudden this pervert got really quiet and started panting into the fucking phone. and i was all, "are you having a heart attack?!" no he wasn't, he was just RUBBING HIS BALLS WHILE LISTENING TO ME ORDER A CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH ON BLACK BREAD. men are feral, despicable creatures, and anytime you start thinking otherwise please mentally reference this post.

but i quite enjoy the sound of some deep-voiced grunting and open-mouthed breathing, and after that first time i was hooked. nothing feels better than tricking yourself into believing that this dude is so hot for you that just the sound of your dulcet tones bouncing off his eardrums can bring him to orgasm. and even though 99.9% of every dude you meet in your life can probably rub one out to the mechanical computer voice that announces that you are unavailable to take his call, PHONE SEX IS STILL AMAZING. here's why:

1 no STDs or screaming babies. phone sex is the safest goddamned sex there is. i should go speak at high schools or some shit about the virtues of partially-clothed auditory self-stimulation. i mean, you beat off all the goddamned time anyway, why not let someone listen to it while telling you how smart you are and how that sweater you were wearing the other day wasn't really that ugly. or whatever it takes to get you hot. personally, i could masturbate just listening to a dude laughing for five minutes, but that's only because i write jokes and am a RAGING EGOMANIAC. babies are gross and STDs are real. i've never had one, but i've had enough ingrown pubic hairs that i've mistakenly self-diagnosed as the vaginal flu to know that just the thought of something crawling around in your privates is motherfucking terrifying. every year i hold my breath for two goddamned days after my annual at the gynecologist while patiently waiting for him to call and say i dodged the hiv bullet, but if you just stick to phone sex you ain't gotta worry about all that. i mean, you might get brain cancer from pressing your cell phone to your head for hours at a time, but everyone fucking gets cancer nowadays. at least you've come by yours the sexy way.

2 no having to explain why your thighs touch. we all have body issues. ladies, dudes, cats, dogs, EVERYBODY. and listen, my body is totally gross, too, but there is absolutely nothing LESS SEXY than the whole "please don't hate my belly" apology dance we all have engaged in once or twice before banging someone new. first of all, he should feel way more self-conscious about his dick than you should about your wide ass, because he could at least gauge its girth while you still had pants on. and second of all, THAT'S SO DUMB. and on the phone you're spared from all that business. you get to be as amazing and sexy as you want to be without some asshole disputing it to your face. plus, you can wear your meat-eating shirt.

3 no spending all goddamned day cleaning your gross apartment. hands-down the worst part of getting laid, for me, is being forced to live like i actually give a shit about organizing my books and making sure there are hand towels and whatever. imma need to ask a real dude what dudes actually pay attention to when they come over to bang you, because i know broads who are running around wiping down light fixtures and scrubbing window sills when there is an impending booty call situation, and i have never met a penis in my entire life who was worth all of that EFFORT. maybe the reason i don't get laid is because men really care that there are two old, broken dvd players sitting on top of my stove? the bathroom is usually clean because butts are gross, and my kitchen contains more pharmaceuticals than it does edible food, but the rest is a fucking crap shoot. plus: CAT HAIR. but none of that shit matters when he's looking at his own disgusting bedroom, so this shit is a WIN.

4 no need to turn the tv off. also, you can do chores. one of the best phone sex sessions i've ever had occurred while i was WASHING THE GODDAMNED DISHES. for real. he didn't notice, or maybe he thought i was peeing, but when you text a dude "call me when your dick is hard" guaranteed he doesn't give a shit what you're doing at the time of his call. not that you shouldn't enjoy yourself, too, but sometimes you have shit to do and it's enough just to listen to someone else have a hot time. i'm a motherfucking giver, obviously. the fucking mother theresa of audio banging. it's also killer that you don't have to get dirty or sticky or sweaty, and it's nice not to have to sleep with a washcloth jammed between your legs. (am i the only one who does that?) no muscle aches or sore neck, no bruised knees or gnarly hickey marks. in other words, NO GROSS SHIT.

5 no awkward goodbye as you shiver in your pajamas at the front door. THIS IS THE WORST. you cuddling bitches probably don't worry about this, but i start thinking, "when the fuck is he going to leave?" the minute some dude trips over the bags of feline pine lined up in the entryway inside my door. nothing fucks up getting to work on time more than some dickbag who isn't a morning person dragging ass when you need to be up and on the fucking train by 6:55. what a bonerkiller, a dude with sleep in his eyes and pillowface standing in front of my empty refrigerator asking why i only have two bottles of coconut water and a half-empty pitcher of crystal light. god, and fumbling with the remote control and asking how to work the french press when ALL I WANT TO DO is brush my teeth and feed the cat so I CAN GODDAMNED GO. phone sex spares me from that uncomfortable, "i know it's cold and you parked nine blocks away, but you are going to have to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE SO I CAN GO TO SLEEP" conversation. and then you have to stand there while he slowly gets his shit on, hoping that you'll change your mind because his big man boots have so many laces, but i never do. GO HOME ALREADY.

6 no weird "i think i'm in love with him" anxiety just because you let some talking gorilla with a nice car come inside you. you don't have to be in a relationship to talk a dude through some sexy spanking. this ain't me, but i know a lot of broads who end up long-term dating some dirtbag who would better serve the earth if he were put to death, and it's mostly because they shared their cookies with him and then felt some sort of "connection" afterward. um...okay. i guess? well, there are no eyes to stare into when you're phone boning, so the risk of becoming psychotically attached to a dude who might be, ahem, less than desireable are pretty goddamned slim. ps, this is the reason you need to squeeze your eyes shut or only fuck doggystyle. JUST SAYING.

finally: HOW TO DO THIS SHIT WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL ASSHOLE.
this question is a little out of my depth because i refuse to have phone sex with someone i've banged before. half of the phone sex thrill is all of the crazy shit you can say and get away with, and the other half is pure mystery and fantasy. so, if i've already seen your wilting boner or fallen asleep while you were going down on me how am i going to turn that into some sexy shit on the fucking phone?! "yeah, i'm licking your balls. is your dick still hard? the other night it wasn't, so..." THAT IS NOT HOT. so we're just going to pretend that you're not the kind of slut who would bang a dude within two weeks.

1 learn to dirty talk. now your definition of dirty and mine are probably WAY DIFFERENT. i'm a fucking pig, and i'll just say any nasty, horrifying shit that pops into my ladybrain. like, you'd be embarrassed to listen to it. unless you were a freak. but you're going to have to get comfortable saying some dirty words. if you need help, google that shit. my friend natalie is one of these puritans who thinks saying shit like, "ooh, you're so strong. hold me in your big man arms," qualifies as phone sex. and if oklahoma goes for that, LUCKY YOU. i have to use my GODDAMNED IMAGINATION to get off the phone sexperts i play around with. these jerks are professional. seriously, it's like the fucking PSAT. i have to fucking study and concentrate. just say whatever you can that feels believeable when you say it. and...

2 don't let your mouth write a check your ass can't cash. SUPER IMPORTANT. this dude won't remember your birthday, he won't remember how you take your coffee or what you like on your pizza, but six months from now he will recall, WITH CRYSTAL CLARITY, that you said you couldn't wait for him to wrap barbed wire around his penis and buttfuck you with it. (I'VE SAID THAT BEFORE.) and that's not a problem with someone you aren't going to be in a dark bedroom with anytime soon, but if there is even the slightest chance that you might end up naked in this dude's presence, then you might want to scale back any promises you are unknowingly making. because talking shit and not backing it up is gross. that said, if i ever hang with mister barbed wire i better have an ambulance waiting downstairs. seriously, that's why i burn up my anytime minutes with dudes who live across the country. that lessens the chance any of them will show up on my doorstep demanding i let him vomit on me. (I SAID THAT, TOO.)

3 prepare yourself to be disappointed. for me, the talking is the thing. so it is A GIGANTIC BONERKILLER when some unimaginative jagoff is saying something boring in my goddamned ear. or if he's grammatically incorrect. so get ready to find out that this great guy you met two weeks ago has a language problem and isn't the least bit creative. figure out what you like to hear and then clobber him over the head with it. seriously, you might have to just come out and say "WHY DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT BITING ME?" when he doesn't get your subtle hints about vampires and dentists or whatever. more often than not my decision not to chill with a dude is based on his terrible phone sextiquette. i'm not asking about the space program, homie, i just want you to talk about how long your balls are! and you can't even get that right?! LATER FOR YOU.

4 miscellany. candles and soft music are for jerks, but if they help you get in the mood then GO FOR IT. i like to get a little dirty movie action going (gay porn featuring kissing dudes is the best) and put on my grimiest, pee-stinkiest pajamas; the kind of shit you could NEVER wear and expect someone to want to fuck you in them. and i'll maybe have a bottle of water and a crossword and some sexy snacks at hand in case he's one of those dudes and i have to find ways to entertain myself while he chafes the skin off his dick for forty-five fucking minutes. if i can be done in three, SO CAN YOU, BUDDY. my parts are more complicated! what the fuck are you doing over there, your taxes?! the first time will be hella awkward, and you might hate it in the beginning, but pretty soon you'll be able to do this in your sleep. LITERALLY. i have, sister. you can just disguise your snoring as, um, "unbridled passion and lust." totally works. homeboy finished and everything. like i said, THEY'RE ANIMALS.

papa wheelie

Dear i+i:


I have a disability and work in an office. The facilities manager has had to make some alterations (restroom, my work station, etc.) to bring this workplace into ADA-compliance. He's done the work, but it always takes multiple requests and a ton of follow-up. He drags his feet on everything, and it's frankly a real pain to get these things done. It might be worth mentioning here that I've served in the Guard for two tours of active duty in Afghanistan, and an IED took both my legs just above the knee. How can I handle this guy? - Tiptoeing Through the Minefield


I hear you, Hopalong.

First of all - thank you for your sacrifice.

While I have never served in the military myself, since I understand it's pretty much nothing but gay dudes, now. I COMPLETELY identify with your plight. I'm a pretty avid runner, and despite everything I've tried, I still over-rotate pretty bad, especially my right foot. Which leads, you guessed it, to uneven wear on my shoes - the outer edge of my heel wears out way before the inside. I've calculated it, because of my condition - a condition that is no fault of my own, that I am forced to replace my running shoes a full 12% sooner than someone who just happens to have been blessed with better form. Over the course of like 18 months, that's almost a full pair of extra shoes I have to buy.

So. You know. Solidarity with you, brother. Since I'm sure it totally blows for you having to go all suddenly legless. And when you're struggling to wedge your chair through the door the club, I'm sure it gets you a ton of pity-trim. Oh. Hold up. They didn't shoot your dick off or anything, did they? Cause if they did, my advice will be totally way more in the "roll yourself out in front of a delivery truck" vein. I'm gonna go ahead and assume you've got operational manquipment downtown and not outline the reasons life's become a moot exercise you oughtta end ASAP. You know all that. I can only assume, since you're bellyaching about this work sitch, that the squirt gun is loaded with chowder and the trigger's fit for squeezing, if you follow me. If you don't - this is in reference to your cock and balls, and the semen therein. Hope this helps.

And so to business. I will table for now discussion of how totally freaked out I am by stumps. On the few occasions I've had to look at them - like there's one dude at the gym who one diabetes leg shy of a full set that just gives me the goddamn willies every time I see him, like when he's shimmying his way out of the shower or whatever - I am not even kidding when I tell you I get a little lightheaded just looking at 'em. If that makes me a pussy, or like I'm supposed to be insensitive, or whatever then you know what? Fuck you. It's not my fault stumps are gross and everybody knows it. And I will further set aside my curiosity regarding amputee porn, which I'm not sure you would necessarily know more about than anybody else, just because you've recently become qualified to star in it. Which if you have, totally not judging at all. Just, you know, not my scene.

But so you're at work. You're trying to get shit done - you don't need some fuckwad giving you hassles. Here's what you do, man: you stand (figuratively) tall and you let him know that you are VERY NEARLY HUMAN and that you deserve the same level of respect he would give a centaur, say, or a monkey android. The days, awesome though they may have been, when we would cage "people" like yourself in a freight car lined with straw, under a garish banner with a crude painting of you as a limbless grub kind of a thing, where the yokels could pay a dime to gawp slack-jawed at The Half Man Who Somehow Continues to Live (you'd be in a like a goat fur loincloth and there'd be these two giant cloudy jars with things in there that might be legs - you know, tasteful) - those days? They are OVER! (I'll just let that hang there a sec to gauge how receptive you might be to maybe not letting those days be totally like over-over. No? Nothing? OK. Right - we are DONE with that shit. I knew that. Just, you know, just verifying. Seems like me and you could maybe make some nice coin resurrecting the freak show, but I can see this proposal does not interest you, so I'll just move on. Forget I said anything.)

So you should totally make a like impassioned speech in front of him and everybody else at the office - and then he will be so ashamed, and you will get so much pity from your co-workers it'll be a total win-win for you. Because, man, I'll tell you something: if I could get me some pity, I would never fucking do anything for myself. I'm not talking about not opening doors on my own - I'm talking about not wiping myself. That would be awesome.

Earlier? When I said I was an "avid runner"? That may have been overstating things a little. It might be a little closer to the truth to call me "an obscene fat-ass with stress fractures in my shins due to the monstrous and unstable load of blubber tottering atop my weak-ass little stem-legs". So if I could get somebody to wheel me around all the time that'd be fucking sweet. You don't know how freakin' lucky you are, dude. I wasn't lying about the uneven wear on my shoes, though.

So anyway. You should get up on the table like Sally Field in Norma Rae and get everybody to chant some like super-inspiring thing. Oh. Wait. Table. Might as well ask you to parkour through a construction site, am I right? Headsmack. My bad. Sorry, bud - big time.

No, for real, though. If he brings his lunch from home, and leaves it in the fridge in the break room, you should totally piss in it. Oh, snap. Are you wearing a bag? Are you a catheter kid? Cause if you are, again: super sorry. But also, easier, really - just dump a whole sack of piss in his lunch. Or just REPLACE his lunch with a bag of piss. With a straw taped to it. And a Post-It™ that says: "Tastes like justice, bitch." And time it so that you roll by WHILE he's discovering it, eating his lunch in a super-casual way. I think that would really drive it home - if you were like chowing down on his ham on rye. Or his tuna - whatever he brought. You get the idea, though.

That's your Norma Rae moment, man. That'll get you the doors widened and access ramps, dude. That shit will get you handrails all over fucking everything. I guarantee it. Then you can focus up on rounding up more pity pussy. You're welcome, brother - and I'm joined by a grateful nation as I say:

Dude. If you steal this guy's lunch and replace it with a catheter bag of your piss, you should TOTALLY video that shit. I would laugh my ass off watching that. As would citizens across this great land.

the artist formerly known as your boner

Dear Irby+Ian,

Why are married broads more alluring? Why is it that a girl that would, if she were single, get an "eh" from me, gets me all aroused if she is married? Do I have some fucked up reverse cuckold fetish? Is it because I know that somebody else is already on the hook for all of her incessant bitching? I realize the horrific karma generated by wanting to have an unprotected, hair pulling, throat choking, good old fashioned SKEET on someone else's old lady's pelvic bone, and I feel guilty for this fetish. And yet, I find myself watching bored mature housewife porn on the reg. Please explain. - Two Tone


Wow, TT - this is a corker. I get it, though - believe me. The cougar thing. With the boobs and a few years on 'em and the slightly hag-like, mannish faces on a lot of them. Makes for a more layered experience, am I right? They're like an orgy in one, yeah? Cause with those sort of gaunt faces, you're sort of doing a dude a little bit, but then the boobs is like a whole other person. But still, with the zits on the ass. Always with the zits on the ass, am I right?


But this isn't just about you and me hashing through our own boner-makers. There's a lot going on here. In order to give this complex issue its due, I've opted to depart from our usual form a little bit. Because there are some many dimensions to your quandary, I've invited a panel to weigh in on this thorny pickle of a conundrum. Going around the table - to my right is Husband, Berserk With Jealousy That's Largely Unfounded, For His Wife Is No Prize, I Can Tell You (HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY); next to him is An Actual Wife - Because God Knows You Clearly Have No Fucking Idea What You're Wishing For, You Sad, Backward Man-Child (AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC); An Eight-Year-Old, Who Stumbles Half-Asleep Into Her Mom's Room To Find You Rutting Away At Her Mom, You Swine (AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS); and finally Emma Starr, one of the MILF porn's brightest luminaries - she really puts the STAR(r) in "porn star(r)"! Am I right, fellas?

Ian: Well, panel, I'd like to thank you all for joining us - why don't you each say "hi" t –

HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY (Interrupting). You lissen to me, you worthless little garlic fart - you keep your filthy mitts offa my wife, you hear me?

Ian: Whoa. Hey. Dial it back, there, HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY. 

AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC (Staring into the middle distance.) …

Ian: Mmmmmkay. She's… got a bunch on her mind, I guess.

AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS (Weeping, inconsolable.) Why did you hurt my mommy in the night? Why? She was making ooky noises and I hate you.

Ian: It's OK, sweetie. It, it'll be OK.

Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): Sorry, Two Tone, but Candy's not home yet. You're welcome to come in and wait for him if you like. Here. Sit with me on the couch. You know, Two Tone, I'm glad we have this chance to talk. Maybe you can tell me why you're with a girl like Candy, when you could be… (Takes off naughty librarian glasses) with a woman. (Takes off her gardening gloves that have clearly never been used even once, which sort of ruins the illusion a little bit. NO! Must… suspend… disbelief!)

Ian: Um. Wow. That's… y-you're… it's… ahem. 

You are the single greatest panelist we have ever had. On this or any other topic.

HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY: I KNEW it! You sunnuva– you stay RIGHT there! I'm getting my gun. (Door slam.)

Ian: I'm – he's, he's joking, yeah? That's not… nah. He's just gonna cool off a bit.

AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC: (Swatting your hand away.) No. Look. We've gotta figure out Thursday. I have that late meeting with the department heads; you've got that faculty thing; Sophie's gotta get from school to soccer to violin to home; and Jake needs to get from tap after school to basketball, and then home. And we've gotta figure out dinner. Can you email Lily's mom to see if Sophie can get a ride with them to soccer, then email Eva's folks to see if they can get her from the park to violin? Uch. Hang on. We need to get her violin from school to her music place. She's gonna be pissed if she'll have to lug it to soccer. I'll call Christopher's dad to see if Jake can go with them. Then if you can snag dinner someplace, I can swing by and get her from violin, and Jake can walk from Chris'. And? We gotta get the shocks on van checked - they're doing that weird thing again. And did you call the Alderman about the property tax thing? (She goes to sleep - she sleeps the sleep of the fucking dead, friend, so if you think you are getting anything like some school night sex, you think again. I am not shitting you, dude - you might as well head down to the fucking museum and try to wake a Pharaoh.)

Ian: Wow. Pretty steamy stuff. You gotta be rock hard about now, huh, bud? 

You realize this shit is on a fucking endless loop, right? 

You realize that this is what wives talk about? Ever. Like sixteen hours a day? 

And that they murmur this shit in their sleep, too? How's it feel, big boy?

You think you can claw your way outta this fucking mineshaft of obligation? 

Go ahead and try, hoss. Better men than you fucking die down there, every goddamn day.

AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS: (Wordless, agonized. pees on carpet like Regan in The Exorcist, a puddle of panic piss streams from the cuff of her Spongebob jammie pants that are too short for her, spreading on the carpet, like a pool of solvent that will dissolve every hard-on in your bonerless future.)

Ian: Well. At this point, I would hope Ms. Starr would have something to offer in the way of a silver lining. Cause I gotta be honest - this shit is getting bleak.

Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): Candy tells me your… cock is too big for her to handle. Do you think… I might be able to help? (locks eyes with you, reaches for your fly, now tenting above your swelling member)

Ian: And we're back on track!

HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY (Kicking in door, chambering round): You put that filthy dick away, and get on your knees, you scumbag! I am gonna empty this clip into your piece of shit face, you home-wrecking piece of shit! (Bawling, crushed by despair, he sinks to his knees, tucks gun under chin, fires. You are spattered with his brains. And skull. And scalp. If you live to be a billion years old, you will never have an erection again. Coma cock. That's you.)

Ian: Annnnnnnnnd off the rails we go.

Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): (unbuckles belt, unzips fly.) Well, well, well. What have we – um. (She waggles your forlorn little wiener. It's about as hard as water balloon full of pudding. For real, dude - it is like sad slide whistle/mute trumpet time down there.)


Emma Starr (as herself): Can we get a fluffer in here, please? Jesus. Be a fucking professional, man. Guys shoot themselves every fucking day. Look at yourself. You're all: "I got brain matter on me. It makes my wee wee soft. Wah. Wah." Seriously. Be a goddamn MAN for once in your life. You shit. Look: little leave puddles of terror-stricken pee on the rug all the time. And stare at you mute, while you try to get it on with a stranger. That's life. Grow up, OK? Get it together. I'm gonna go get my asshole bleached. I'll be back in an hour. Get yourself cleaned up, and for fuck's sake have a dick that works right, or I swear to God, I will be boning – YOU! What's your name?

Ian: Wha? Me? Ian.

Emma Starr (cont.) Or I will be boning this pasty bastard. And you can tug on that useless little thing while you watch. (Crosses to door, muttering) Swear to fucking Christ, I am only doing girl-on-girl from now on - these dicks, man, they fuck everything up. (she leaves.)

Ian: Um. Wow. You just got porn-fired, dude. Sucks to be you right now.

Looks like I'm getting called up to the big show. (Dropping pants.)

But isn't that what they say? Porn door closes, a porn window opens?

Not to be a dick or anything, but can somebody come get this eight-year-old outta here? 

She's harshing my boner pretty bad. 

There's like popsicles in the break room, I think. That's right. 

Bye, sweetheart. Feel better! (PA leads her into next room.) 

Well that's a relief, no? 

And AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC's doing this squeak-snore thing that's pretty distracting. 

Get her outta here, too. (Crew wheels bed out.) 

Better. Nice. Good. Yeah. I am stoked for this. I am AMPED for some porn fuckin'! 

(Dropping skivvies.)

Which is where you come in. You been demoted, bub. 

Ain't nobody else here, so that makes you Fluffer One. OK, champ?

I'm new to the porn game, and I gotta say, I'm pretty nervous, so I'm gonna need an assist. OK, big guy? There's some flavored lube on the craft service table. Take your pick. What're you a French Vanilla guy? Chocolate Mint? Raspberry? Go nuts.

And get busy over here. Emma's gonna be back pretty soon. Chop-chop. 

Let's go. Less stallin', more ballin'. Get crackin'. And don't skimp on the ass-play.

And that is the image that will stay with you. The next time you have skeet-thoughts about somebody else's wife, you will see me. Doughy, middle-aged me. White as the inside of an untoasted bagel. A shivering dick with your name on it. No, no. Don't look away. I want you to fucking memorize every dimple and goosebump on this nutsack. And if you think this is less than fully horrifying, you image-search me on Google right now. Yeah. I thought so. Quit screaming like a bitch, Bitch.

Now. Close your eyes. Take a breath. And enjoy the what shards of your fantasy life you can salvage, shit heel. 

my baby daddy is a fucking scumbag.

Dear Irby and Ian,
My wife calls me at work to talk about our toddler, and gets ticked off when I'm too busy to talk to her. I'm just not interested in EVERY LITTLE THING the kid does all day. So I tell her I have to get to work, then when I get home she's a total bitch to me. What can I do keep her off my back? Help me out.

irby: OH, YOU POOR THING. getting a full night's sleep and uninterrupted shower; stuck all day in a bustling office full of adults with whom you can carry on intelligent conversations and share funny little anecdotes; entering and exiting as you goddamned well please; spending as much time as you want taking a shit while reading the newspaper; emailing and gchatting and facebooking ALL FUCKING DAY; taking clients out for delicious gourmet lunches on the company dime; getting fresh air; working those traps and delts and glutes at the gym; wearing clean, pressed clothes that you didn't sleep in and aren't covered in similac vomit; fondling the penis that didn't have to spend thirty-six hours trying to stretch itself to ten fucking centimeters and force out another human being; having drinks with your boys after the 4pm meeting; making starbucks runs; water cooler gossiping with the hens who answer the phones; afternoon delights with that cute HR girl from upstairs who's always busting out of her tight sweaters; earning all the income and depositing a percentage of it in that bank account the wife knows nothing about in case you have to buy old HR an abortion and some silence; having uninterrupted quiet time alone in your office; listening to something other than yo gabba gabba and caillou on a continuous loop; smoking those cigarettes you promised you'd quit in the alley behind your office; texting your ex-girlfriend about how much your life sucks and what a huge fucking mistake you made and now there's a baby and your parents would be so disappointed if you left your family but life with her is killing you and hey what are you up to remember how much fun we used to have when can i see you i love that thing you used to do with your hips this dumpy bitch and her episiotomy scar are no fun in bed anymore; and, you know, "BEING BUSY." it must be so hard.

my fucking heart breaks for you.

but kids are fucking boring. i mean, maybe not all kids? and maybe not all the time? but i'm going to guess she's probably not calling you to report that junior just ripped his shirt off and challenged a cop to a fight in the middle of a bridgeport bar and was shot during the scuffle, and anything other than that is TOTALLY FUCKING BORING. no one calls me ever, and that's probably because i answer the phone, "SKIP TO THE EXCITING PART." seriously, i don't even say hello. i don't need ten minutes of background, just get to the killing or the fucking so i can get back to eating cereal and taking pictures of the goddamned cat. you know, IMPORTANT SHIT.

i go to all these literary readings and storytelling circle jerks, and the gigantic bonerkillers at that type of shit is 1 no one hits on me EVER and 2 people love telling boring stories. every story should have: gratuitous fucking, angry shit, something horrifically embarrassing that makes you either squirm/cringe or throw up your dinner, destruction and heartbreak, larceny or other criminal activity, or death. at least one of those things. SO I GET IT. this jerk has the nerve to call your important ass at work to tell you how the baby hates peas and the UPS guy drop-kicked her new dishes from crate and barrel and the redhead at kindermusic was rude to her yet again and the carpet cleaning people charged twice the estimate and blah blah boring BLAH.
but didn't you know what you were signing up for? what is it that dudes expect when you wife some bitch up? haven't you ever watched television before? you REALLY thought this woman was going to shit out a kid and then call you at two in the afternoon to breathe heavily in your ear and describe her thong or whatever? women want to get married so they can finally let their shit hang, and once they've borne your demon seed they can let it hang EVEN LOWER. she didn't walk down that church aisle praying not to burst into flames because her whore ass wore a white dress to keep tiptoeing around fucking her knees up in some stiletto heels. THESE ARE HER CROCS YEARS, HOMEBOY. if you wanted some fucking excitement you should've stayed away from kay jewelers. but now that you've got a mortgage you either need to 1 fake your own death or 2 get an unlimited mobile to mobile plan. i'm irritable as shit, so i fully understand sighing and rolling your goddamned eyes the minute a number you are sick of answering shows up on your phone for the fourth time in a goddamned day. which is why i married all of the inanimate objects in my apartment because i love them, very very much, yet they won't bother me with a grocery list when i'm busy listening to shit on youtube.

dang man, i thought the sweet shit about marriage was that finally, I'VE FOUND SOMEONE WHO VOWS TO NEVER GET TIRED OF LISTENING TO MY SHIT. isn't that why you do it? because you found the one person who you always want to talk to? now i have to worry that i am calling the UNDYING LOVE OF MY LIFE too much?! i thought you got to stop fretting about that at the end of dating! i have a hard time imagining it, because people are mostly stupid and horrible, but this is fucking with my whole fairytale outlook; YOU ARE KILLING EVERYTHING I BELIEVE ABOUT TRUE LOVE, DUDE. i thought that you just have to kiss a bunch of frogs until one day you find one that's less slimy than the others who says, "hey girl, every word out of your mouth is fucking genius. you are so much smarter and funnier than i am and you have amazing taste in music. i want to spend the rest of my life letting you tell me what's cool. never stop talking to me." (that might just be me, but THIS IS MY FANTASY. so hush up.) and then you get nine jobs apiece and take out a monster loan to throw a fancy party that lasts for three hours you have to invite a bunch of assholes you hate to just so you can make sure everyone knows how in love you are and is totally jealous of you. then house, babies, death, and so on.

kids are also sticky and noisy and always trying to BUST YOUR FUCKING BALLS, plus they get sick all the time and they cost so much money and you really have to pay your bills and shit so that they have heat in the winter, so i'm going to do the universe a favor and not have any. but i want to kick your jaw off your fucking skull for this. this right here is why NO DUDE gets to do this to me. not ever. sorry to crush your dreams, but if you had designs on me letting your alien offspring hijack my womb for nine months you better let that shit go. trap me in a house with no life and no friends with a little tyrannical asshole who has no motor skills that i can't take my eye off for one goddamned millisecond before she's ingesting poisons and poking her fingers in light sockets and otherwise trying to get my ass locked the fuck up by dcfs? NOT ON YOUR LIFE. i can't call any regular people, because they are all at work. and even if they aren't, they don't want to listen to this little infant bitch caterwauling into the phone at the top of her goddamned lungs because i can't put her loud ass down for one fucking minute. i can't take a shit or a shower or brush my goddamned teeth or make a sandwich or drink a beer because that SCREAMING BALL OF NEED wants a bottle or a rattle or a cuddle or is miserable and teething or rife with colic and can't situate herself comfortably. i can't get my hair done or my eyebrows waxed or my feet tended to, so i am ugly and itchy and sad and tired and fifty pounds heavier than i was before this whole nightmare started because i can't walk more than five feet at a time and my sore-ass nipples make it impossible for me to breastfeed so i'm not burning any calories that way either. not to mention i have a tenuous grasp on my fucking sanity. i am on the precipice of a complete emotional breakdown because i have no one to goddamned talk to. all my single ladyfriends are out getting fucked in the ass by hot bodybuilders, and my pregnant and/or married sistergirls are too busy trying not to SHAKE THEIR LOUD-ASS BABIES TO DEATH. so when i call the ONE PERSON who should be caring and supportive and INTERESTED during this horrific time in my otherwise ruined life, the one person who swore in front of god and a judge and my cousin karen that i didn't even want to invite but mom forced my hand to love every single word that falls from my lips for the rest of my life, and he is "too busy" to give me five minutes of his precious time, forgive me if i am a little "ticked off."

i hope you get mauled by a bear and your baby gets a sexy stepdad who loves law and order: SVU marathons, buying flowers for no reason, giving oral without reciprocation, watching the kid so this broad can take a fucking yoga class, and making tv-watching pajama snacks. seriously, though, someone should stick a hornet's nest in your asshole. you're the worst.

doggy bag. of shit.

The last two serious long term relationships I ended up with a partner
(I=dude) who didn't give me the lovin' I need. I mean real talk
loving. The first was better, always excited to see me, but we always
fought because she likes alternative medicine and crystals. The second
was always holding out on love, I mean ruthlessly pulling back just
enough to feel like I was getting an indian burn 24/7. For some stupid
reason I love them both and can't just say "they were not a good match
I need someone who can provide meaningful mutual respect, admiration,
blah blah blah." I am looking for long term settle down love. Second
one kept getting there but only after crazy confrontation on her part-
dumping me, pulling a temper at a party, etc.

ITS NO GOOD. I think the problem is decisions I make about who to date
or how to react or something. Yes, they are not a good match, but I
should see this. The hell is wrong with me.



OK, based on the scenario you're describing, you are an abysmal failure in this department. You may be a failure elsewhere, but we'll focus in on this for now. Listen: you are a disaster and you need to stop trusting yourself right away. Seriously - like yesterday.


Here's what I'm getting from the pair you're describing - it's like one of them is a dog shit on a rained-on greasy pizza box that fell out of a garbage can at the park, and the other one is a dog shit that's in one of those classy tinfoil swans from a fancy restaurant. MOST of us - at a glance - go: "Huh. Dog shit," and move on with the business of living. YOU, however, seem to go on a few dates with each dog shit, maybe even get serious about each dog shit, and, yeah, maybe even take the plunge and move in with the by now crumbly and sun-bleached dog shit. Which would be fine - IF YOU KEPT IT TO YOUR FUCKING SELF. But no. Not your style. You're the dude who holds your buddies hostage - you're like "I mean, I know Pizza Box Dog Shit is really down to earth and really gets my humor and everything, but there's just something so regal about Restaurant Swan Dog Shit - she's such an amazing kisser, and I just daydream about her in a wedding dress, you know?" And you fucking agonize about how Pizza Box Dog Shit is a righteous log marching in one direction, but Restaurant Swan Dog Shit is in the alluring form a helix ("Kind of like a turban," you think to yourself) and you JUST DON'T KNOW HOW TO CHOOSE. And your buddy, to the extent that he's listening to you - which, trust me, he is not - is like. "Dude. Can we just shoot some darts, or what?"


And you will fucking terrorize your friends, and your co-workers, and your mom (cause you call her at least every week, don't you, bitch? Yes you do), and the chick who cuts your hair, and your letter carrier, and the dude who picks up when you call for takeout, and all the guys in the steam room at the gym, and the crossing guard at the school on your block, and the guy in tech support, and anybody hapless enough to step onto an elevator with you FOR FUCKING MONTHS about who you should be with and which one feels right and who makes you happy and about your hopes for a future with them and what your fucking kids will look like - all because you have demonstrated an appalling and vast failure to grasp the actual problem, which is, if you'll allow me to sum it up: THEY ARE DOG SHIT. 


Parsing dog shit does nothing to change its essence. Interrogating dog shit will not make it otherwise. Enlisting the input of friends to help you examine the dog shit, and list with you its virtues and vices, makes you the fucking Emperor, friend - your dick in swinging in the breeze and the cabinet of advisors you have gathered around you, after you have gone to such lengths to convince yourself of the splendor of your clothes, is not going to tell you you're bare ass naked. You have to SEE your nakedness before they will help you. If you don't - they'll just keep marching behind the Grand Marshall in the Fucking Retard Parade. But the SECOND you have the courage to see your nudity, they'll all go: "Dude. My God. What a fucking relief. If I had to stare at that mole on your left ass cheek for one more fucking minute, I was gonna have to punch you in your dick, man. With a cast iron skillet. For real."


Same principle applies to your dog shit problem. You can't see it. You know now that you can't see it. Go to your best friend. Now. Ask him, point blank - no fucking around, no dodging: "Dude. Peel back this Swan Foil and tell me straight up: is there a hunk of dog shit in there?" And if he's really your friend, he'll tell you. "Total, man. Total dog shit. And not even a quality dog shit, either. That's like a loose-stool heart worm dog shit, bud."


So here's the news, Dummy: if you wanna hop off the dance floor that's got Dog Shit Mix 2011 on perma-shuffle, you need to pay close attention. Here's what you do:

1. Put down the dog shit. Let somebody else step in it. 
2. Burn your shoes. They're lousy with dog shit.
3. Go get some other shoes. Barefoot = hippie = throw you off a balcony by your pony tail. You've already demonstrated sub-par decision-making. Don't make it worse.
4. Identify your prospect. Attracted to somebody? Good. Fine. Do and say NOTHING about it.
5. Focus group. Go to your friends with a clipboard and a quiz. "Is this a log of dog shit? Is it s coil? Is it a crescent? Is this person little Morse Code shit nuggets? Is this maybe a shit smear? Is this a chain of shit sausage? Or a pearl necklace of shit? Is this like a soft-serve minaret of shit? Or a Bloomin' Onion® of shit? If I open this heart-shaped box, will I find little pieces of shit in crenelated paper? Is this a croissant-style shit? Shit patty? Is what I'm looking at here really just a wad of shit? Might it be a tower? Is this a tower of shit situation? Shit blossom? Is that a thing? What about a shit muffin? Is this a shit muffin? Or loaf? It's a loaf, isn't it? Is this a brick of shit, maybe? Or a block? Has this piece of shit sculpted itself into a block? Is this some weird, exotic-type of shit that's formed like driftwood or coral? Shit rope! This is a rope of shit, am I right? Or a braid. Level with me - is this braided shit? Or a shit knot? Shit bow? Is this maybe like a sheep shank of shit? Or is it more like shit-spatter, or shit-sprawl? Or niblets? Is it niblets of shit I'm confronted with, here? Or like little rabbity jelly beans of shit? Is it a wafer, maybe? Or a puck? Is this a shit puck? Shit curds! How about shit curds?"
6. ONLY after you have exhausted EVERY dog shit permutation you can conceive of AND your friends have signed an affidavit that this prospect is by their reckoning not a piece of shit, ONLY THEN may you talk to her.
7. If you remain attracted to her after a series of conversations, you must then RECONVENE the focus group to ascertain where she falls on the Nut Job/Psycho Spectrum™. If yes, begin a the beginning with a new prospect. If no, then you may meet her for coffee.

If this seems extreme, fine. Don't do it. Have fun at the Dog Shit Buffet you keep returning to. 

You're a shit junkie, man. This is your intervention. 

It's not even that your friends care particularly who you're dating - they just want to go for wings and shoot pool. It's that when YOU date a piece of this, THEY gotta make small talk with a piece of shit, which is a form of agony you shouldn't wish on anybody. 

So go round up some shoes, get yourself a clipboard, and get quizzing. Otherwise you'll find yourself friendless, lashed to a piece of dog shit. Again.

i would suck a dick for a diet coke.

My girlfriend recently posted on Facebook that she would "suck a d" for a box of Fannie May Trinidads. Sweetest Day is today and I did not buy her any Trinidads. It's just that she's the first white girl who I ever heard mention Sweetest Day and it made me confused. I'm not black. Or from Trinidad. What if someone else bought her a box of Trinidads thinking he could get his d sucked and he was not white like me? She usually sucks my d just because she's horny. Could she be trying to tell me something through some subtle, feminine methodology?


irby: i don't mind sucking a d. as a matter of fact, i'm kind of partial to it. especially when i don't have to take my shirt off. because i'm totally goddamned lazy and having sex sometimes takes too long and there's probably something really good on tv that i'm missing while a dude fruitlessly searches for my g spot. and i'm pretty fucking good at giving head, too. by "good" i mean "i can get a dude to finish in under two hours and have never broken any foreskin with my fucking teeth." which is quite an accomplishment where i come from. a dude broke my nose a few years ago while i was blowing him, and if that isn't a testament to how dedicated i am to this craft than i have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT IS. seriously, he was, like, fucking me in the face and moved right when i went left or some shit and my goddamned nose exploded, and in the emergency room everyone thought he'd kicked my ass and i had to explain to the fucking police twenty goddamned times that he'd BROKEN MY NOSE WITH HIS DICK. you should've seen that officer's face. in the beginning he was all skeptical and shit, but by the end of the story he totally had a boner. seriously, i could tell he wanted my number. anyway, i didn't have insurance to cover a fucking nose job so they set it and i had to walk around like an asshole with two black eyes FROM A FUCKING BLOW JOB, and to this day i have a deviated septum caused by a dude who broke my fucking heart into a million pieces after he fractured my stupid nose. i should've said he beat me. fucker.

godfuckingdamn, I HAVE SUCKED SO MANY FREE DICKS. holy mother of semen, the most compensation i've ever received for wearing threadbare holes in the knees of my jeans is a hearty slap on the back and a glass of water to rinse the salt off my fucking tongue. if a dude rolled over, unglued his balls from the inside of his thigh, and reached into the nightstand to hand me a box of chocolates i would marry him on the spot. no, i wouldn't. but i would TOTALLY get up and make that motherfucker a sandwich or something. that shit would be amazing. first thing i thought when i read this was, "trinidads? no, gurl, suck some holiday d for a box of eggnog creams! them shits is DELICIOUS."

there are so many things i would suck a d for right now. and don't you judgmental bitches look down your noses at me, because you probably sucked a broke d that doesn't have a job this morning before you got out of the twin bed in his mom's basement to leave for work, and i'm sure he didn't even KISS YOUR ASS GOODBYE. so shut it. this is the future of romance, i think, sucking dicks for regular shit. because there aren't any rich dudes anymore, and even if there are they ain't trying to holler at our regular asses, so why not make this hourly wage motherfucker put a down payment on that load he wants to deposit in your cleavage? and i believe in setting reasonable goals, which is why i would never pull a dick out of my mouth and be like, "hey dude, you think you could cover my rent this month or take me on a nice vacation?" but i most certainly would text a motherfucker "bring two rolls of paper towels and a box of dryer sheets" if he was on his way over to bang me. and then when he brought them i would suck his motherfucking d.

right fucking now, at 2pm on tuesday october 18th, i would suck a d for a meatloaf sandwich and a beer from bat 17.
i would suck a d for a ride to target.
i would suck a d for a new computer mouse.
i would suck a d for someone to clean my ceiling fan.
i would suck a d for high-speed internet.
i would suck a d for brunch at m. henry on sunday.
i would suck a d for a handful of scratch-off lottery tickets.
i would suck a d for tacos at big star.
i would suck a d for a new pair of north face winter boots.
i would suck a d for clean sheets on my bed.
i would suck a d for some fucking advil.
i would suck a d for someone to pick up my dry cleaning.
i would suck a d for a pandora membership.
i would suck a d for a preview copy of mindy kaling's new book.
i would suck a d for a 7 day pass.
i would suck a d for better plumbing in my apartment.
i would suck a d for someone to take my trash out.
i would suck a d for a bottle of effen cucumber.
i would suck a d for two slabs of sultana of soap from lush.
i would suck a d for $50 toward my light bill.
i would suck a d for a plane ticket to san diego.
i would suck a d for someone to finish writing this for me.
i would suck a d for a reason not to hate fucking sweetest day.

boy oh boy, SWEETEST DAY. black people have appropriated that shit as our own because cupid is too white for us, i guess? i am never dating anyone at any time, so i'm not really sure how this whole fake holiday gift thing works, but if television sitcoms and movies starring drew barrymore have anything to say about it, bitches LOVE any opportunity to chastise and castigate a fucking dude, and valensweets day is one of the BIGGEST. women love shit like this that they can use as a test of "how much does this motherfucker really love me?" like, she's not going to dump you or anything, but if you send her a sweetest day e-card and split your happy meal with her at dinner then she is totally going to let you get in the back door and maybe stay off your case about dirty dishes and emptying the litter box for a couple days after. now if you DON'T do anything for her you obviously hate her and are just biding your time until someone skinnier and prettier comes along. welcome to ladybrain.

i see you dudes with your ipenis and your dickberry, always texting and gaming and updating your twatter and your fuckbook. you need to take a few minutes and note every single one of these stupid holidays in your electronical calendar machines, that way you ain't gotta listen to a bitch's shit when these days sneak up on your ass. and by "listen to a bitch's shit" i mean "READ ABOUT HER WHORING HERSELF OUT FOR CHOCOLATE ON THE INTERNET."

once i put "i will trade anal sex for better health insurance" on facebook because i had a belly fully of cancer cells and an insurmountable $182,000 of hospital bills in my mailbox, and i fucking MEANT THAT SHIT. everyone thought i was being cute and provocative, but if i'd gotten even one response that said, "hey girl, i've got blue cross blue shield" i would've greased my asshole right up. i still mean that shit. dying is expensive business, baby. i'd suck a d for a full-coverage hmo with a $500 deductible. MY CO-PAY KEEPS GOING UP, HOLY FUCKING FUCK. so rest assured that your girl was probably gargling with warm water to get her throat ready for a pounding. if you read it on the internet, you know it's probably true.

were there any responses? i mean, was anyone brave enough to offer up his d for the sucking? have you found any half-eaten boxes of trinidads tucked in the pantry or hidden in a dresser drawer? if not, you're probably cool. BUT, you need to learn from this little bit of attention whoring. and stop fucking lying to yourself. NO BITCH IS SUCKING YOUR D BECAUSE SHE'S HORNY. you can get that shit off your motherfucking mind. she's putting a down payment on tomorrow night's dinner. she's putting a down payment on ownership of the remote control. she's making sure you change the oil in her car and call the tuckpointer like you promised you would. she needs a reason to yell at you about leaving your socks on the floor, and that unbelievable slobbery bj she just laid on you is as good as goddamned any. never have i been so overcome with lust that i thought to myself, "hey irby, this dude is so hot and awesome that we should injure our jaw and chap our lips and dislocate our shoulder trying to jack him off down our throat. who cares if our knees are bloody because he takes too fucking long? I AM SO HORNY FOR HIM."

NOPE, that internal monologue goes a little more like this: "i hope this motherfucker won't want to sleep over after this. OH MY GOD his balls taste terrible. there is a pubic hair stuck between my molars. if he puts his hand on the top of my head one more goddamned time i am going to bite his fucking dick off. holy fucking shit i might have to unhinge my goddamned jaw. why does he insist on thrusting so hard? can't he just lie there and enjoy it?! my arm hurts. should i open my eyes and look up at him like they do in porn? these ridges feel weird. IS THAT WHAT HERPES FEELS LIKE?! what if i am catching mouth herpes right now? fuck, i didn't clean the cat box. why is it taking so long for him to come? am i bad at this? he's not sexually attracted to me, i know it. i bet his ex-girlfriend gave better blowjobs than i do. why isn't he making any noise? is he mad at me? is it normal for a dude to be this quiet? i wish he wouldn't STICK HIS FINGERS INSIDE ME WHILE I'M DOING THIS. it's distracting, and he's just making a fucking mess down there. should i have left the tv on? i hope his come doesn't taste weird. oh shit, i hope i don't choke again. that was so fucking embarrassing. i wonder what amy is up to tonight. did my rent check clear? STOP BANGING MY FACE SO HARD, DUDE. do i suck the head? or just, like, keep it near my throat? how much attention do i have to pay to his balls? man, they STANK. ugh, when he scoots forward like that I CAN SMELL HIS ASSHOLE. wait, should i be LICKING HIS ASSHOLE?! is that what he wants?! maybe i should put a finger in there. i read in cosmo that they like it. omg but what if he POOPS on me?! i shouldn't even be sucking his dick, i mean, he took me to BUFFALO WILD WINGS for christ's fucking sake. come on, son! i'm supposed to fuck you after $7 worth of hot wings?! my stomach hurts in this position. i wish i would've keep my bra on, my tits are totally flopping around right now. is he noticing? my jaw hurts. like, really hurts. would i be an asshole if i took a break? shit, if i take a break i have to start all over. OR i have to let him fuck me, and i cannot deal with a dick in me after two plates of buffalo wings. our waiter was cute tonight. i'm going to go back there tomorrow with amanda and get his number. MY ARM HURTS. ugh, his dick is getting dry. i don't know how much longer i can keep doing this. i need a drink of water. i'm getting a cramp in my right thigh. i should just fuck him and get this over with. WHY HASN'T HE COME YET? this dude really has to stop watching porn if he wants me to ever blow him again. there is so much shit to watch on my dvr. my back is starting to hurt. this is humiliating. he won't even hold my hand in public, i CANNOT BELIEVE i am sucking his dick. all i ever wanted was a boyfriend who would go to movies and concerts with me. all i ever wanted was a boyfriend who would take me to nice restaurants. ALL I EVER WANTED WAS A BOYFRIEND WHO WOULD BUY ME TRINIDADS FOR SWEETEST DAY. fuck this dude. we're breaking up."