It happens. You say the wrong thing, you do the wrong thing, and before you can say “oops!”, it’s too late. You fucked up… and now, you feel like a dick. No worries, here’s four things you can do to de-dickify yourself:
Your body is trying to tell you something but you’re too fucking busy to see it!
Let’s all put our whiskeys down and get connected ’cause if I notice it, you’ve gone and neglected your shit for too fucking long.
Check yourself, your body wants you to.
Here’s a reference for you with some FAQs on
What your body may be telling YOU:
Constantly digging in your sock drawer for a pair of socks without holes in the toes?
That’s your foot’s way of telling you you need a motherfuckin’ pedi. Those ‘aint holes, they’re goddamn gore marks from those talons you call nails. Scratch up a ten spot (pun totally fucking intended) and bring your kids if you have to, just GO before you wake up with shredded sheets or casualties in your bed in the morning.
there may be times you want to kill your man, but do you really want it to go down like THAT??
Do you run your nylons by just simply putting them on?
That’s your legs crying out for you to wax them bitches. And if you don’t wax, then shave em, and if you don’t shave, then get a motherfucking blow torch. Depending on the method, leg hair removal can be costly, but in the long run (another motherfuckin pun) it’ll pay for itself in the form of pantyhose replacement costs, and trips to the ER for your kid’s stab wounds from that razor sharp stubb.
You don’t want to be Star Magazine’s next Yeti sighting… do you?
When you look in the mirror, do you often wonder how it is your updo has unintentionally gone the way of the
That’s called grease and it your hair’s way of BEGGING you to WASH IT. Remember in the old days when bitches used to deny a date ’cause they had to wash their hair? Yeah, well YOU need to turn down movie/date night tonight, take a hint, and wash THAT SHIT. Jheri Curl slick on a white bitch ‘aint cute…. matter fact it ‘aint cute on ANYONE unless you’re Rick James, which you ‘aint bitch. Besides, you don’t want your locks to be more buttery then your popcorn now do you? Oh, and if you’re gonna leave a wet spot, don’t make it on the back of your movie chair.
You ‘aint Rick James bitch.
Does your clean-cut man ever look like Black Beard the Pirate when he goes down on you?
Well… if that motherfucker has to brave the Black Forest just to reach the man in the boat, he deserves a goddamn medal. Your hooha won’t tell you it needs some bushwacking but it WILL tell you it needs some motherfucking attention, bite the fucking bullet and clean between the lines. Feeling bitter? Want to leave it wild down there as some sort of punishment for your man? Listen, I get it, I can be a heartless bitch too but just remember, ultimately YOU will benefit most from this landscaping** then him.
Remember, YOU are your HOOHA’S ONLY ADVOCATE.
Although my little reference guide stops here, there are MANY more things your body is trying to tell you….
YOU JUST NEED TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN.
I hope this was a good jump start for you though, and on that note, MY grumbling stomach is my ASS’S way of telling me it needs to be FATTER so I’m gonna go grab some leftovers and take care of that. Ciao.
** Tip: for extra hooha attention try landscaping your shit in the shape of your man’s initials, be careful though, doing this while drunk could result in undesirable effects including some other dude’s initials which will subsequently result in some ‘splaining to do.
There’s a lot of cool stuff about being pregnant. There’s a lot of really horrible stuff too but I think that’s the whole point of life really. No pain, no gain right? Today, I want to tell you about something that happened to me when I was pregnant that wavered from cool to horrible and back again.
I don’t really remember everything about my OBs visits when I first discovered I was pregnant. I remember there was a lot of questions, a lot of paper work, a lot of excitement and a whole lot of Dos and Don’ts (bummer). I don’t remember the questions really or what exactly was on all the papers I filled out that day but I DO remember one particular moment and I think I remember it because it made obscure “I’m having a baby shit” really real for me. “When was your last period?” your OB asks, and you’re pretty sure, maybe not exactly but you give her an estimation and then she does it. She takes out this little magical paper wheel. She spins it carefully lining up arrows with numbers and then says… “So your DUE DATE IS….”
“Wow… did she just say what I think she did??…. are you serious? So my
DUE DATE is MY BIRTHDAY???” Yup. She said it alright.
Now I know that due dates being inaccurate is an understatement but it’s still a really weird feeling being told that your child’s birth will coincide exactly with the date of your own. At first I remember I felt really happy. I can’t really explain why. It was kind of like being told that before you even feel your baby’s first kick and before you even know if you will be welcoming a boy or a girl, you already share something super special with them. When my OB told me this news, I thought of how many times I would tell people that my baby would be my ultimate birthday present. I imagined the expressions on their faces, and if saying it would eventually get annoying.
I imagined being in the hospital on that day and being showered not just with well wishes for the new baby but also with birthday presents for ME. I imagined joint birthday parties with pinatas, and sharing the same sensibilities and passions with this little person who would be my ultimate astrological twin. In hindsight I can only review my thoughts at this time with three words: How fucking stupid.
The closer I got to my due date the more fantasies I reveled in. By then, I knew I has having a girl which brought with it a whole new level of foolish and idealistic scenarios that danced around in my head. She wouldn’t just act like me, no no, being that my baby is is now a girl she would, of course, look just like me as well! I would fashion a clone of myself inside my own body… correction, destiny would. Why else would she be scheduled to arrive on a day which obviously was intended originally for me??
Everything seemed so fantastic. My belly grew larger and rounder and so did my expectations. It was all so fucking wonderful……. until it wasn’t.
So I wake up and it is the day. MY day, and mine in so many ways. It was my birthday, it was my due day, it was my Birthdue day. So, why wasn’t I feeling anything? I waited. My husband kissed me and wished me a happy birthday and I got all the calls from family members wishing me the same. Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s great and all, but where is this baby?? As the day trudged on, I felt the usual movement in my belly but not much else. I was getting disappointed, I was getting discouraged… I was getting pissed.
“Why do they give people a due date in the fucking first place???” I thought. What a fucking racket. “Why cant they just say something like the first week in April, or the end of November??” “Do these OBs really think that little fucking paper wheel somehow turns their asses in to God?? You just spin it and tell some eagerly expecting mother when she’s going to give birth down to the very day??? Okay bitch, why don’t you spin your little fucking paper wheel and tell me what tomorrow’s Pick 4 numbers are gonna be then huh!? What are you some kind of modern day soothsayer substituting your crystal ball for a fucking spinny wheel?? Where’d you get that thing anyway? Thing looks like a decoder ring from a fucking cereal box.”
Yes, so these are the things going through my mind while I lay in bed on my birthday until it is no longer my birthday. Needless to say, not one of my better birthdays.
The next day I woke up and realized I wasn’t mad at my OB or her paper voodoo wheel. I was pissed, rather, that I had banked so hard on trying to make a fantasy become reality. I didn’t realize it then, but this whole experience was really just preparation for the pitfalls of parenting in general. Was this the real destiny that was laid out for me? The whole process of learning to be let down, but not letting it get YOU down is as vital as it is recurring. And going even deeper, it’s the grander lesson of learning to be selfless — something that takes real getting used to when you first become a parent, and something that never goes away.
So I did of course give birth, and she did come close. Two days after my birthday to be exact, which as it happens, turned out to be absolutely perfect. As the past 6 years have shown me.
You see, there are years when I want to have a birthday and years I don’t. When I do, it is far enough away from my daughter’s that I CAN do MY thing.
When I don’t, it’s close enough to my daughter’s that I can completely ignore it and focus on her’s instead.
As the number keeps going up, and one year slips past the next, I find myself favoring the latter.
I should warn her though, when I get up to a birthday, like the big 4-0, the one who will be learning the lesson of selflessness will be her. And so she’ll have to settle for something a bit more quaint.
Happy Birthday to me.
Hey kiddies! Welcome to the second half of my NYC tour and remember to keep your valuables out of sight. Make sure you’ve taken some time to check out my A-L blog post if you haven’t already!
Here we go!
Well, that’s all folks. I hope you had a memorable visit and don’t worry, I’ll get your gold chain back…
Im a local fucking New Yorker. And when I say local, I mean LOCAL as in my ass was born a few blocks from where I live now and haven’t strayed much further since.
REAL NYC TOUR from a the perspective of a
REAL NYC BITCH . . . .
and no Statue of Liberty either,
that’s for fucking tourists.
Picture book style, cause that’s all I’ve been reading these past 7 years…
Well, I hope you enjoyed your tour so far.
As soon as I start drinking again, I’ll get going on the next installment.
I am visiting my family in South America. The apartment I am in is huge, but three kids fill it up with ease. Their Lego games would make Shakespeare blush. Everyone betrays everyone, no one survives, and there are even little Lego beheadings here and there. This happens while their mom is away.
She returns to complete chaos. There are pencils right behind the bedroom door (boobytrap I presume), the dog has eaten through the throw pillows that have been thrown on the floor, and the little one DEMANDS that she change the batteries on his Wii remote. She, is covered in sweat, clutching six bags, and her cell phone is ringing.
At this point I would just lay down, soil myself, and start crying. She, instead, grows arms like an octopus, and pulls the most amazing Matrix style multitasking slo-mo move I have ever seen.
I looked down at my penis – whom I seldom ever engage in direct conversation – and said, “nap time, my friend, let’s rest… life is good.”
Hey hey hey, I am a guy of thirty five years living in New York City but, I’m not just any guy….
I AM The Single Guy Position.
Many of the women my age are having babies. There are strollers everywhere in this city, filled with little soft bags of cutely dressed chub and eyes staring back at me.
I can’t help but look at these mommies – my contemporaries – and admire them in their daily grind. Some of them look euphoric – enthralled with their new bundles of light. Others, however, will tell you all the right things using just the perfect words, while their strained faces scream out “what have I done??” and “Get me out of this nightmare!”
This is a dangerous blog about these women from a daring single man’s perspective. And I know I have no right. But I think it is important to both celebrate, chronicle and comment on this pack of resilient women, for better or for worse.
Okay, so it’s Friday night and that feeling’s in the air. You know, the sensory overload that IS FRIDAY NIGHT….
Being a SAHM these past several years has taught me a lot of shit. Like how to handle hostage negotiations and how long past the expiration date you can still drink milk without massive diarrhea. I’m used to my life. It’s comfortable, and no one else fits in my couch’s ass impression quite like me. So you can imagine my dismay and feelings of impending doom now that the little one is approaching school age. I have a feeling something’s going to eventually be expected of me. Something sinister………