My Own Worst Enemy

Ken [adjusting tie as he scrambles to the toaster]: Alright. Five minutes for breakfast, then I hit the 7:30 D Train.

Inner Ken: Hold it.

Ken [munching toast furiously]: What?

Inner Ken: Did you want to watch the news? Check the weather?

Ken: No, no, no. No TV. I'm all set. Nice day today. Mid-70s.

Inner Ken: Come on, let's just flip it on for a sec. You never know when a monsoon might hit. Here we go. Okay.

Ken [trying to look away as TV flips on]: I really don't have--

Inner Ken: Uh-oh. This ain't the Weather Channel. Looks like a new episode of In Shape With Sharon Mann on FitTV. Or is that Denise Austin?

Ken [looks at watch]: Fuck. Shut it off.

Inner Ken [staring at TV]: Oh my god. Those shorts. That body. Christ, her ass looks like it's carved outta marble.

Ken: I don't wanna see. I've got a train to catch. I can't be late again.

Inner Ken: Dude, just check it out for a second. It's glutes day! She's doing squats!

Ken: Squats? Fuck. Maybe I could just check it out for a sec.

Inner Ken: Totally. Jesus, look at that form. Imagine backing right up to that and... [does the patented, goofy-ass "white boy gettin' some" jig].

Ken: Haw fuck. And look at those legs. [Checks watch] But that's enough. I gotta go.

Inner Ken: Just a few more minutes. It's almost stretching time.

Ken: I know what you're up to, and it's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna make my self late for work again by jerking off to another women's exercise program.

Inner Ken: Whatever. Hey, check it. Leg scissors.

Ken [drops toast]: Holy jumping Jesus.

Woman on Exercise Show: Alright ladies. Now it's time to work that tush.

Inner Ken: Oh, yes!

Ken: Alright. The 7:45 train. Can't miss that one.

Inner Ken: Right, right. We won't. I promise.

Ken: 'Course I could always tell the boss the train got derailed... or there was an electrical problem... [starts jerking off to another women's exercise program.]

No Way She's In It For The Money

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Hola, Chicas

Everyone knows the Spanish Channel. If you're a guy, you likely spend an inordinate amount of time staring blankly at it.

And, like me, you probably don't speak a word of Spanish.

This is like TV from another planet, where hot chicks aren't relegated to soap operas and sitcoms, but roam freely through news shows, weather reports, sports shows. Skintight pants. Oversized hair. Breasts that don't simply defy gravity, but taunt its wife and children as well. The Spanish Channel is a good place, and I like spending time there.

Even the kids shows are frighteningly well-populated by golden twenty-one year olds who, in between elaborate, booty-centric dance moves, relate such important lessons as "drugs are bad" and "stay in school" and "Would you please ask your dad to leave the room because I can feel his fifty-year old eyes burning a hole directly through the television screen and it is freaking me out."

The Spanish Channel is my oasis. My escape. Where I don't have to hear about the sunken economy or who's being voted off the island or how many North Korean missiles are aimed at my house. Everybody's dancing. Everybody's happy. The chicks are smoking hot. And I can't understand a bloody word they're saying.

Somebody's Got to Do It

Not to go off on some porno tangent [twist my arm, why don't ye?], but I must say I've always been intrigued by the employment opportunities offered by this robust industry. Not acting, mind you. Christ, I can barely keep my mojo working long enough to keep one lady interested, let alone a room full of gaffers and cameramen.

No, what truly intrigues me are the guys [and ladies, I suppose] who get to write the little blurbs on the back of the DVD cases.

Seriously, talk about overkill. I mean, imagine for a moment that I was interested in a certain genre of porno flick. I dunno... let's say, oh, facesitting. Wouldn't seeing a photo like the one above on a DVD case pretty much tell you everything you needed to know? It's like putting a picture of a bowl of Frosted Flakes on the front of a box of Frosted Flakes. "Hey dudes, guess what's in here?"

But as much as it may seem overkill, these video blurbs provide some intriguing and ultimately hilarious reading. So much so that you may forego another Saturday afternoon at the Chelsea Library to hang at the adult video store and just work through the stacks. My personal favorite these days is this one, from a cinematic classic called Saddle Face:

Paige Richards is an arrogant, imperiously cruel Femme-Domme who dressed in black lingerie. Her subby boy alix tries to impress her with a gift -- a stuffed owl. Mistress Paie is NOT pleased by this gesture. "Are you out of your mind? Is this a joke?" she asks as she slaps his face cruelly. "Look at how fabulous I am. Is that how you show me you adore me?" Using her gloved hands, she wrestles him to the ground and uses her hands to block completely his access to air. "You see these? Aren't they beautiful?" she asks as she unveils her glorious rack. But she does so only to taunt alix (and us!). "You'll never touch these again!" she promises.

Trust me, it only gets better from there.

Today, I'll be writing a tech manual. Somewhere else, some dude will be writing blurbs such as these, pondering at the keyboard, asking himself "How can I most effectively convey the vast amounts of fucking contained on this video?"

To him, I raise a glass.

Health, Shmealth

Yeah, I work out. Thanks for noticing.

And I realized something about working out last weekend, as I sloshed my way through another set of Romanian Deadlifts: I don't do this shit for my heart. The damn thing's been beating just fine on its own without my help, and despite the occasional Triple Whopper and Vodka belt, so who am I to interfere? Nor do I give a flying handshake about my circulation, pulse rate, or "core."

I bust my ass in the gym so I get that extra look from Shirley in Accouting. So that future Kenettes will say, "nice," when they run their hands along my chest. So that the college chicks in the apartment next door will stick their heads out the window to watch me watering my lawn sans shirt [as will the mailman, who will sulk away, knowing he's but half the man].

Simply put: I workout so that I look better for the ladies. And if the girl across the gym from me, who's been pounding away at the "Butt Blaster" for over fifteen minutes, is here out of concern for the aging process and not thinking about how her aerobicized ass is going to turn every third guy at the Rattlesnake Bar into drooling fiends, then I'll eat my towel.

On the Night Shift

Back in January, realizing that huge chunks of my income were being siphoned away toward electricity, gas, food, hookers, whiskey, child support, alimony and that damn blackmailer who's got the photos of me with the shop-vac, I took a part time job. It wasn't much; just working the desk at a hotel within a couple minutes of my place. It was time alone to read, write and reflect, hand the occasional guest a room key, and get paid.

A couple months later, I got a promotion at my day job. But I kept the hotel gig. Because I dig money, and there's always room for extra. And also, the hotel I'm working at is a veritable hub of sexual activity.

Seriously. In the four months I've been working there, I've heard literally 5,000 excuses from guests for having to check out early. As in roughly three hours after they checked in. One guy said his big sales meeting was canceled. Another said one of his kids came down with the flu. Yet another said he needed a place closer to the city. All of them ushered a female pal out the door as they shuffled toward the exit.

I've seen the married couples looking to spice up their lives with a little "hotel action." I've seen escorts and dommes stop in to set up shop for the weekend. I even had one guy ask me where he might find a women who would come to his room and let him wash her ass with Windex.

I also get propositioned by the occasional private investigator. The guy who comes in, drops a fifty dollar bill on the desk in front of me, and asks if I've seen anyone check-in under the name "peachy peach" or "kissy kiss." Because I am a man of some moral fiber, I never take the bait. Who's dogging who isn't really my business, so long as they leave a valid credit card and don't bother their neighbors.

And in my four months of employ at this hotel, I've learned the following things:

1) If you're looking to make an adulterous connection in a local hotel/motel, don't enter and leave at the same time as your companion. It seems such a simple thing, but I've seen more buffoons waltz in and out with the object of their illicit affection on his/her arm, creating a private investigator's wet dream. Intent and opportunity is half the argument, folks; always make sure one of you exits the hotel, say, fifteen minutes after the other.

2) Hotel sex is apparently way, way hotter than regular "at home" sex. And why not? When you're in a hotel, that ice cream smeared on the sheets, the whipped cream on the rug and the whip-marks in the wall are the cleaning crew's problem. At home, they're just a nagging reminder of what a freak you are.