Universal Appeal

Conversation between New Wife and her husband:

NW:  You remembered that we’re going to [male friend’s] birthday party tonight?
Me:  Uh huh.
NW:  What are you going to get him for his birthday present?
Me:  A decent pocket knife.
NW:  Oh come on.
Me:  What?
NW:  He probably doesn’t need another one.
Me:  Of course he does.  No man ever has enough knives.
NW:  But I’m sure he has lots already.
Me:  How many knives do you think I have?
NW:  Yes, but you’re strange.

Anyway, here’s what I got him, a Case Mini-Trapper with a “chestnut bone” grip:

It’s nothing fancy — I’m too poor to buy him a quality knife like an Al Mar — but would any of you turn up your nose at this little present?

Final thought from New Wife:

“But if you buy yourself another knife while you’re shopping, I’ll use it on you while you’re sleeping.”

Chicks…


Quick (unpaid) endorsement:  I got the knife at The Cutlery Collection at the Willowbrook Mall in Plano, and spent half an hour chatting with Karl, the owner.  If you live in the north Dallas / Plano / Frisco etc. area, buy all your knives from him in future.  He’s our kinda guy, but the Covidiocy nailed him, big time, and we can’t afford to lose businesses and people like him.

It goes without saying that if I had the money, I’d probably drop at least a grand there, so nice is his collection.

Rather Die

There’s just no end to the madness:

Same sex couples score better than straight people in most sex studies, consistently across the board. Research shows they have better orgasms, more partner orgasms and more satisfying sex all round.

Really?  And just how do we quantify “better” orgasms, Sex Lady?  Describing an orgasm, any orgasm, to someone else is like trying to describe a sunset to a blind man in the first place.  Then, to define “better” in terms of “degrees of indescribable”?

Ah don’ thank so, Scooter.

Never mind that I’m never going to ask someone else for tips on having better sex — FFS, have we no decency nowadays? — and also because I’m not 15 anymore.

And frankly, if I wanted to know how lesbians pleasure other women, I’d hit the “Lesbo Porn” tag at letsfuck.com.

I don’t want to be part of this world anymore.

Fuck it, I’m off to the range.

“Dear Dr. Kim”

“Dear Dr. Kim: 

“I’ve recently been reading about something called ‘andropause’, which is apparently something like women’s menopause. 

“Should I be worried about this?  I’m nearly 60.” 

— Apprehensive, Ohio

Dear Appy,

Back when we used fewer pretentious words, we called this “getting old”.  It happens to every man — even to Clint Eastwood — and it manifests itself in your body being less able to do the things it could once do quite easily:  lift heavy objects, run up stairs without feeling like your heart is going to give out, pee like a racehorse, grow hair on your head, see anything clearly at any distance without cataracts and.or glaucoma, and worst of all, have an erection pretty much on demand.

All this is pretty irritating because to be honest, you can’t stop it happening.  You can try to delay the process by doing foolish things like going to the gym or taking up jogging, but it’s a lost cause;  Nature is rightly regarded as female because she’s a cast-iron bitch and she hates men.

The worst part of all of this is that with this cessation of manly activity (“pause”, my ass) comes feelings of inadequacy, of having passed your prime (because you have) and knowing that your dreams of bonking some young hottie have vanished because a.) you’ve become invisible to hotties except to those with daddy issues and b.) even if you did miraculously manage to entice her to your bed the experience would likely be humiliating.

Nothing causes in-bed passion to disappear quicker than an attack of uncontrollable diarrhea, as my old buddy Patterson once explained to me.  And the drooping phallus before said attack didn’t exactly help matters, he added.

This is why old men become irritable.  They get upset over kids playing on their lawn, over their food being burned, over their favorite beer suddenly disappearing from the supermarket, and over the failing eyesight which causes hitherto-enjoyable trips to the gun range to become yet another failure among so many others, e.g. not remembering the name of the actress who once got your hormones racing and your erection to skyrocket.

And we haven’t even started to talk about Democrats.

Yes, it’s fucking depressing.  And typically, we don’t talk about it because we’re men and not women.  What we do is make bitter jokes about it, like the Rules For Old Men:

  1. Don’t make long-term investments (including buying green bananas)
  2. Never trust a fart
  3. Never waste an erection.

I have a cure for all of this by the way, and it’s called “Fuck It”.  Here are some examples.

  • If you can no longer hit the bullseye with your favorite rifle at 500 yards, move the target (much) closer and use a .22 instead.
  • Take a daily dose of Viagra (sildenafil), which may cause other physiological problems but so what — erections are more important than any of those, right?  Believe it or not, the ability to get an erection is more psychologically beneficial than people realize — and it’s a lot more effective than uppers or “mood adjusters” (as pushed by Big Pharma).
  • Accept that your looming death will not be a tragedy, but a blessed relief.  (It may well be a tragedy to your loved ones, but that’s not really your problem anymore, is it?)
  • Ignore all doctors, because they’re a bunch of killjoy busybodies and their advice, if not generally wrong, is usually going to require that you give up life’s little pleasures like warm buttered bread, single malt Scotch or red meat.
  • Forget all regrets.  In most cases, you can’t do anything about missed opportunities — seduction of your hot neighbor from twenty years ago didn’t happen then, and it ain’t gonna happen now — and continually kicking yourself about not having bought Microsoft or Apple stock back in the late 1970s when it cost $2.25 a share is as counterproductive as wishing you’d never married that bitch in the late 1970s as well.  Let it go.
  • Don’t worry about the fact that you may be dead when the Glorious Day comes and the Commies are being lined up against the wall.  I know, that sucks:  nobody wants to gun down Commies more than I do.  But if that wonderful opportunity escapes me because I’ve already moved to a dirt condo, at least I know that I’ve left enough ammo to my heirs so they can do the job for me.
  • Watch lots of porn, not because it turns you on but because it pisses off people like women and other Puritans.  Also, unlike regular movies, you don’t have to remember any of the performers’ names when talking to your buddies at the bar or VFW.
  • Carry a gun, everywhere.  Make your assailant’s life miserable, even at the cost of your own.  You are no longer able to brawl like you used to, so let John Moses Browning or Sergei Kalashnikov help you out instead.
  • Forget trying to learn stuff, other than for the sheer joy of acquiring knowledge.  Chances are you’re going to forget the details anyway, and in all probability, all the learning you’ve acquired so far will be more than adequate for your needs from now on.
  • Ignore everything that anyone from government tells you.  It’s either a blatant lie, or else it’s wrong.  If someone from the Census Bureau wants you to fill out some form which tells them all about you and your life, tell them to fuck off.  If some apparatchik demands that you show them some document or other, tell them you lost it.
  • Be prepared to accept the consequences of all the above advice.

I could go on, but I think the point has been made.

A WHAT?

This is kind of an interesting story:

A wealthy divorcee has sold her luxury home to fund a new life on the high seas.  Mimi Bland, 59, is one of hundreds of high-fliers buying cabins on maritime firm Storylines’ luxury residential cruise ship, MV Narrative.  The liner will go around the world once every three years continuously with stops in ports across the globe.

So far, so good, although the ship’s name did cause a momentary twitch of the nose — “narrative” is not what I’d call a romantic name — but the question which arose as I was reading is:  that’s all well and good, but eventually she’s going to need some income to pay for all that luxury, i.e. a job.  Which is when my nose nearly twitched right off my face.

She plans to work as a mindfulness mentor while on board.

Great Kafka’s throbbing phallus:  WTF is a “mindfulness mentor”?

I thought I had seen some bullshit jobs (and titles) in my time — “diversity consultant”, “human resources manager” and “psychologist” come to mind — but this one takes the Golden Turd Award.

For someone hammering hard on the door of 60, our prospective mindfulness mentor is quite a babe;  but aside from being mindful of her boobs, I can’t actually think what she’d bring to any sane man’s party.

 

Unless “mindfulness mentor” is just another modern term for “sex worker”, but I’m completely out of touch in that area as well.  I report, you decide.

Amateur Drunk Day Warning

Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, wherein all people with Irish blood more diluted than a ripoff bar’s house gin can get together and get shitfaced.

Also, there are the traditional parades in Irish ghettos like Boston, New York and Chicago to contend with.

I’m not “Irish” in any way, shape or form except on occasion that I have been known to enjoy blowing things up.  I hate corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew (just the mention of which makes me want to gag), their soda bread is inedible and I don’t care much for Guinness either.

Don’t even get me started on unpronounceable names like Aisling, Saoirse, Eoin, Eoghan, Líadain, Aoibheann, Aoife, Meadhbh, Caoimhe, and Tadhg.

Mr. Free Market has been known to opine that if ever there’s a 1,000-ft tsunami heading east from the mid-Atlantic Ocean, at least the doomed English will get to live a half-hour longer than the Irish.

Which says it all, really.

And that goes for their poxy holiday as well.