Inspected by Number 57

ME: How's her cross-dressing friend?

HIM: She is the same. She's planning to get gender reassignment surgery.  She's weird.

ME: She IS weird. And not because she dresses like a man...but because she's so bad at it. She says things that she thinks guys would say, but they come out all wrong...like she's trying too hard.   Like always talking about how she hates chick flicks and likes action movies. I'm all, "I GET it, you want to be a guy.  Relax already."

HIM: You have no idea. She's been asking me for tips on being a guy.

ME: Really? 

HIM: Yeah. Do you know that she wears a fake penis?

ME: WHAT?

HIM: Yeah, it's a little tube that's tied to her with a strap. It allows her to use the men's bathroom and pee standing up.

ME: Jesus.

HIM: Yeah, so anyway, she asks me tips about using the men's bathroom. She asked me, "What happens if I fart while I'm peeing?  Should I make a joke about it?" And I'm like...dear God, no. 

ME: Guys just don't talk in the bathroom.

HIM: Exactly. I'm like, NO, you can't make a joke. When a guy has got his junk hanging out, that's a big deal. It's no time for comedy hour.  You shut up and do your business.

ME: That's good. You gave her good advice.

HIM: Yeah.

ME: You think she'll be okay?

HIM: No. I think she's totally going to get her ass kicked.

One of the things that I just can't figure out is bestiality.  I mean, to proactively go out and seek congress with members of the animal kingdom--I don't get it.  Don't get me wrong; everyone has their thing. If it's a bucket of crisco and several slices of bologna, more power to you. But animals? "Hair of the dog" should always mean an early morning drink and not an aphrodisiac.

There's lots of sexy things out there.  Clothes, smell, skin, leather, lace--even the sound of a voice. Who gets through of all of that and thinks "Yeah, okay, fine, but you know what would really make this picture perfect?  Adding a MENAGERIE."

Now, you have to understand that I believe in being accommodating. So even if it's not something I'd go out and seek on my own, I'd be tolerant in regards to what my partner wanted. I'd be all "Yes, honey, you can be on top. And yes, we can use your toys. And sure, if you really want the peacock, we'll go with the peacock."

But even there I'd have my limits. At some point I'd have to lay down some ground rules: "Fine, bring on Fluffy. On two conditions. First, he sleeps on your side--I don't want a repeat of all the mess that happened last month with the ferret. And two, this is a FAVOR I'm doing for you. That means the next time we go see a movie, it's a violent shoot 'em up and nothing starring Matthew McConaughey."

Using emoticons is like Mormonism.  It's not right for me, but you have to practice tolerance when you encounter others who are into it.

How well does your name Google? Who are you up against? (Celebrities, etc.)
Submitted by Matt Blank.

Oh please. How vain and bored would I have to be to Google my own name and see how I stack up against better-known people with my same name?  Do I look that lame to you?

On a completely unrelated note, I'd like to offer a big FUCK YOU to Mr. Bigshot Stick Player "Greg Howard" from the Dave Matthews Band.  You're a dicksnort.

This weekend I acted on a whim and went to a local spa to get a massage.  I've never done it before.

I know that you're supposed to strip completely, and I also know that the masseuse leaves the room while you undress and then lie face down on the table. But at the last minute, I decided it was my massage and I felt like leaving my boxers on.

My ass is fairly formidable.  It has power. It has personality.  You don't just take it out and wave it around as though you're showing a photo of your cat to your co-workers.  It needs to be treated with care and class before being introduced to the public.  It needs to have specially scheduled gallery exhibitions, complete with invitations and itineraries.

I'm not saying my ass is perfect.  However, I think it often comes very close to greatness.  If I had just a touch more business acumen, I'd franchise my ass across multiple demographics and regional markets.  If my ass descended into a village during the dawn of Man, it would have sprouted several religions and been an inseparable part of modern-day theology.  If it appeared over thousands of cities at the same time, people would dance underneath as though it were a spinning disco ball.  For these reasons, I decided that my ass should not be a part of the day's proceedings.

But as the massage continued, I realized this may have been a mistake.  My masseuse started doing a truly lovely length-of-the-body thing where she started with the shoulder and went all the way down to the tip of the foot.  It felt great. But when she came near my boxer shorts--well, remember that scene in "Speed" where the bus is hurtling towards a huge hole in the freeway, and it suddenly defies the laws of physics by leaping up in the air, sailing over the  gap, and safely landing on the other side?  That's basically what her hands did around my boxers.

Afterwards she said "You should come back when you have more time; we can work on your neck more."  She was right--as she did my neck, I was surprised to feel my bones and muscles groan in protest, as though all my recent work-related stress had secretly sequestered themselves there without even telling me.  She probably would have had an easier time giving a neck rub to Skeletor. But I also wondered if my ass was partially to blame for her rough time.  Perhaps it's okay to let my masseuse into my sacred inner circle of those with intimate access to my ass.  I mean, it's sort of like supplementing her tip, right?

What's the most famous movie you've never seen? 
Submitted by Mike.

You know, I never got around to seeing that Paris Hilton video.  Now that it's been out so long, maybe I'll just wait until I have kids of my own and then we can see it together.

I'd like to offer a big FUCK YOU to my body chemistry.

After having somewhat high blood pressure, I took my doctor's advice and had my blood tested at the lab. The results came back.  I'm just shy of having high cholesterol.  "We can talk about meds next time," the doctor's note said when he mailed me the results, "But in the meantime, think about what kind of lifestyle changes you can make."

Lifestyle changes?  FUCK YOU.  I'm ten pounds within my body mass index, I work out several times a week, I don't smoke, I drink in moderation, and I use brown rice instead of white.  I can maybe cut out the infrequent frozen pizzas, and go to the gym six times a week instead of four--like some sort of GODDAMN CALIFORNIA HIPPY FUCK.

Live long and Thrive, eh Kaiser?  Here's a lifestyle change: GO FUCK YOURSELF.

Hmm...I wonder if it would help if I didn't get so worked up about stuff.

Who would you like to kiss under the mistletoe?
Submitted by EmmyAngua.

This reminds me that I have a theory: you kiss under the mistletoe, but underneath a sprig of poison oak you have complete license to start dripping hot wax.

This weekend, talking to the boyfriend of my gay friend:

ME: ...and my mother says she can trace her ancestry all the way back to the Mayflower.

HIM: Pilgrim, eh?  Well, that explains your taste in shoes.