Not the Hiring Kind

So last week, I went out with some folks from the office. Never a good idea. But in this case, there were some hot girls from the finance department so I figgered it'd be good to tag along.

So we're out and about and drinking and laughing and all is good. And I found myself having a nice conversation with a pretty girl I'd seen passing about in the halls but never spoke to. And about three hours into the night, she kinda laughs out loud, moves in a bit, and, apparently emboldened by alcohol, says to me, "You know, me and the girls have a name for you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We call you 'hard-on guy.' 'Cause you're almost always walking around the office with a hard-on."

Anyone out there know of a place that's hiring? Because apparently it's time for me to move on.

The Things I Wish They'd Taught Me

When I was a kid, Americans had not completely lost their grip on rational thought, and I learned about the magic of puberty in sex-ed. There were booklets handed out, covered in pink, script fonts, and pictures of girls doing wholesome activities despite growing hair in funny places and the sudden need to invest in a sports bra. Feminine hygiene companies gave us samples of pads and tampons. And I thought my butch gym teacher had armed me with all the information I needed to Become A Woman.

But nobody warned me about the shits that accompany my period.

I knew that sore breasts, mood swings, and cramps were possibilities. But the most debilitating aspect of my monthly curse is the stomach upset. As soon as food or drink passes through my lips, I am in the restroom. I'll be walking through the mall, minding my own business, when my uterus contracts and my entire intestinal tract is twisting more violently than a Russian gymnast and I'm on the dead run to the ladies' room. As an added bonus, I've got more gas than a Shell station on delivery day.

There's certainly some hormonal reason for this. Why aren't we telling America's young women about this? Why hasn't some sitcom writer adopted a guy's wife having the shits during her period as a plot? Do not be afraid, girls: You are not alone. Many women get the runs during their period. You will fart like crazy. Just eat your snack foods and wait for it to end.

The Thing About Stealing Underwear...

I saw something on the news last night about a dude who got busted for stealing close to a hundred pairs of women's thong underwear out of his college's laundry room. And, of course, it reminded me of something from my past.

In my college days, I had a pal whose dorm room gave him a strategic vantage point of one of the campus laundry room. What this dude would do is sit lazily by his eighth-floor window, tucked neatly out of view of passersby on the ground below, and wait for the hottest chicks to come by to use the washing machine.

After he watched them exit the laundry room -- with their unmentionables tucked safely in the whirlwind of the spin cycle -- he'd get out his own laundry bag, and head on down (at this point, I should probably mention that each of our campus laundry rooms contained just one washer and one dryer). Once inside the laundry room, he'd sift through the booty in the washer before him, grabbing anything even slightly resembling female underwear, and stuffing it in his bag. Then he'd walk back to his room nonchalantly, giving any onlookers the impression that he's just another sad sack who wants to do his laundry but has to wait for the friggin' machine to free up. Little did they know that he had just added to what amounted to one of the largest collections of pilfered underwear that I, myself, can recall.

What's the point of all this? Hell, I don't know. The thought of a guy collecting women's underwear -- even as proof of sexual conquest -- seems a bit odd, even to a perv like me. But there is definitely an allure to women's undergarments that can sometimes get the better of the male species. That's why walking into Victoria's Secret is like a religious experience for most guys.

Yes, the embarrassment factor is high; wander too close to the dressing rooms and you feel like a pervert, let your hand rest a bit too long on that camisole and you feel like a cross-dresser. But there's something about the smell, the atmosphere and the sales assistants that makes my heart do the flippy-flop every time.

And let's not even mention the incredibly uplifting feeling you get when you see a red hot mama casually sifting through a sales rack of thongs. It is, I can only hope, what heaven feels like.

Anyway, there was a point to this. And that point is that if stealing women's underwear from the dryer is a crime, then the terrorists have truly won.

Just Say No to the Romper

Apparently, this spring's must-have item is the romper. Which, as defined by our good friends Merriam and Webster, is a "jumpsuit, especially: a jumpsuit for infants." Emphasis added by me, because it's a garment for babies that has been adopted by grown-ass women. To be worn in public.

A friend of mine declared her joy at buying one of these atrocities on Facebook the other day, and I recoiled in horror. No one, in the history of the universe, has ever uttered the phrase "Hey, baby, looking good in that romper." Except for possibly Michael Jackson. And look what happened to him.

Give me a pencil skirt, sassy short pleated skirt, or a perfect pair of jeans. Those are the items that make a woman's physique shine. For fuck's sake, this year it's a romper. Next year, will I see the pink skort I wore in 1986 looking back at me in the pages of Elle?

Open Letter to Myself: The Hot Female Bartender Isn't Going Home With You

There needs to be an official rule for guys in bars. And that rule needs to be as follows: The Hot Chick Bartender is Not Going to Fuck You.

Seriously.

And I'm the worst offender. Seven "black and tans" and I'm drooling over the lassie behind the bar, telling her for the umpteenth time that I'm mad crazy about her and want to start a family with her or at the very least, bury my head between her legs for a good half hour. And when I stop to take a sip or breathe or vomit, there are six other guys who chime in with the same platitudes.

See, the bartender is the only woman in the bar who has to talk to us guys. At least, she has to acknowledge us. No one else has any such obligation. So the bartender hears it. And if she's ridiculously hot, like our friend in the photo above, she hears it non-stop, start of the shift right up to last call. Drunken buffoons in our Banana Republic shirts, thinking we can score the hottie who's working the tap. Or that we're the first guy in the world who's told her that joke or complimented her on her ridiculously tight, round ass. Or that we're the only dude she's ever shown that tattoo.

But in the end, it's always the same. Her Levi's get stuffed with tips. I walk out with nothin' but a headache. And a raging hard-on. And it's go home, puke, take the intravenous Vitamin C, H2O and aspirin elixir, then come back again tomorrow.

Because I'm sure she'll eventually cave.

Romance Through the Ages: A Brief History as Reflected in Popular Culture

Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare:

"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."


"I Really Like Girls," George Thorogood and the Destroyers:

"I really really really really really really like girls
Yeah, I really really really really really really like girls
I like girls
I like girls
I like girls
I like the way that they giggle
when they walk up and ask you to dance
I like the way that they wiggle
wrapped up in their skin tight pants
they're really really neat
they're really sweet
they're real petite
I like girls."