Open Letter to Myself: Please Don't Go Drinking With the Crazy Girls from the Office

Dear Ken: Next week, you will be representing your company at "the conference." While you are at "the conference," you will be in the company of several coworkers, all of them female, between the ages of 23 and 46. These girls, as you well know, like to drink. Often to excess. This note is to remind you that no matter how much you want to, you should not go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Part of the reason is that you know how you get. A coupla beers and suddenly you're going on and on about how you've mastered the art of eating pussy. How you gently suck the clit and hold it between your lips, appying gradual pressure while briskly racing your tongue across it. These are not the sort of things you should be saying to women you work with. So please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Also, you know they like to dance. Remember that night they pulled you onto the floor with them at the Hong Kong? If you go drinking with them, you'll invariably end up dancing with them. Which means Loretta from Customer Service will sashay up to you and arch her not entirely bad ass at you, inviting you to start dry humping it to the dulcimer tones of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." And you'll do it, because you're drunk and, well, it's a female ass. And, because you're a heterosexual dude, you'll begin to stiffen. And suddenly Loretta from Customer Service is giving you a hard-on. And that's not what you want to happen, dude. It just isn't. So please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Remember, also, that these girls never know when to quit. And because, as Tom Waits once sang, "the night does funny things inside a man," you'll invite them all up to your room after last call. Because you've got "the big room." The Executive Special that comes with a big-ass conference table and a wet bar. And you'll imagine them all fighting over who gets to blow you first, but they're really just coming to drain your minibar. And the closest you come to naked flesh is when Janet inexplicably pulls you into the bathroom with her, locks the door, and forces you into the shower and closes the curtain so she can take a whiz. When you come back out, you see Frances polishing off a bottle of champagne which, according to the Hyatt mini-bar pricelist, just cost you sixty dollars. You don't need to be explaining such expenses to your boss, so please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Dude. Seriously. Do you really want Loretta telling people that she gave you a hard-on? Just don't even give it a chance to happen. Don't get yourself into such situations. There's probably a good movie on. Hell, get a porno and spank it till the wheels fall off. But don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office. There's just nothing good that can come of it.

Note: The conference was actually last week. And, yeah, I went drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Homeless, Yes. But Well-Laid.

So last Friday, me and my man Sully were taking lunch at a bar near Kenmore Square. And there's this skeevy looking dude sitting all by himself at a corner table. A dude who seriously looked like a bona fide homeless fella, with a tattered Herald under his arm, one of those hand-held transistor radios they stopped making back in the Carter administration, and hair like he'd just brushed it with a pillow. Sully and I started wondering aloud how long it would be until a waitress or bouncer kicked him out.

About four beers later, this cute, professional-looking woman walks in: long brown hair, tight skirt, smokin' hot ass. And as Sully and I suck in our chests and start involuntarily flexing our biceps, she passes us and beelines for the hobo. Gives him a kiss on the cheek. Runs her hand through his impossibly scroungy hair. And I'm thinking this has gotta be a joke, A B.U. sorority chick "let's tease the homeless dude" thing. But as they're talking, he places his unkempt hand on the spectacular curve of her derriere. And it stays there. Until she kisses him again and joins him in the booth.

So Sully and I start doing the math. A hand on her ass. Kisses on the mouth. It's not her dad [and if it was... ewwwww]. Not a brother. Might be a cousin, but... who the fuck feels up their cousin's ass? No, we figured. These two must be romantically involved. And as they sat there, her perfume covering the dirt fumes rising off his scalp, you could see that she was actually enjoying his company. Christ almighty, she was there by choice!

And it gets us thinking... how do guys like that [and you see the photo above, folks? Not that far off.] score premium trim like her? It's the one thing that always blows my mind when I see a guy who by all accounts is either destitute or filthy with some hygiene-related disease or barking madly at a wall in a Heineken-inspired haze and he's got a fucking hottie on his arm.

What is it, ladies? Do these scumbags have money? Huge cocks? Real estate in Miami? Or is it a sympathy thing? Because I'm ready to give up on the whole showering bit if it lands my mouth between your legs with greater frequency.

Oral in the Car. And Why Not?

The blowjob in the car is one of those things that is awesome simply in and of itself. Slightly cooler than the blowjob in the hammock but a little less fantastic that the blowjob in the space shuttle, the car smoothie is intensified by the fact that it adds a precise element of danger to the proceedings.

As the driver of the car, I know I have to keep my focus on the road. Because, man, there's big-ass trucks and crazy seventeen year old girls trying to simultaneously text their BFFs and steer a Lincoln Navigator across six lanes of highway out there. But as the recipient of the blowjob, I also know that the lifeblood which is so necessary to keeping my brainwaves nice and snappy is being filtered away to my lower extremities, giving me that slightly dizzy, slightly buzzed, holy-shit-I'm-getting-a-beaner-in-the-car feeling that truly dulls the reaction times.

Also, if it's a particularly long drive, and said blowjob is helpful in keeping me from slipping off into a narcoleptic coma on interstate 95, then I certainly want to prolong the sensation and retain my seed for as long as possible (which for me, ladies, ain't all that long). But that increases the risk of being discovered by a fellow driver who might snap a quick vid of the proceedings and throw it up on YouTube.

Worst of all, as a guy who just hasn't mastered the art of post-orgasm smalltalk, I find myself in a precarious situation once the BJ has officially ended and I realize I've still got 65 miles to Boston. Once, after a Kennette obliged me in the car, I simply nodded, smiled, said, "Woah" and "Awesome" and then proceeded to mess with the radio buttons for the next twenty minutes.

I Still Don't Understand Women

So the other night I meet a female pal of mine for dinner. As we sift through the appetizers, she tells me how her lovelife's been pretty lame of late, and with each successive glass of booze, she gets a bit more descriptive as to what it is that's got her bummed. Apparently, the last few guys she's dated haven't gone down on her, and she's absolutely "dying" -- her words -- for a bit of tongue-lashing.

This being a long-time pal of mine, and quite a hot little number to boot, I assure her that those guys must be crazy or perhaps even a bit queer to not want to work her over, and that everything will likely change with the next boyfriend.

And she starts to explain how she just needs to be sucked on so badly that she's just looking for someone -- anyone -- who'll go down on her with no strings attached. Just so she can remind herself of what it feels like.

And I tell her again that the next man who comes into her life will probably be the guy for the job. I also add that if all she really wants is a little downtown action, I'm sure any guy in any bar in any part of the country -- provided, y'know, he swung that way -- would be more than up to the task.

And she says, no, she doesn't have the time to filter out the psychos and sissy-boys and Dave Matthews fans. She needs someone she can trust. Someone who'll just do the job like it needs to be done. As she puts it, she literally just wants to lay down, get eaten like there's no goddam tomorrow, and put this cursed drought behind her.

So I, fueled purely by alcohol and a prolonged look at her derriere when she got up to use the ladies room, lamely offer my services, seeing as how she almost seems to be steering the conversation in that direction. Hell, I'm always down to go down, as the Cub Scout Mantra dictates.

And that's when she quickly changes direction. "Oh god, no," she says. "We couldn't do that."

But at least I offered. And perhaps that all she wanted to hear.

Open Letter to Myself from the Future

Dude, on Saturday, Neal's going to call. And you know what Neal wants to do. He wants to go to the strip joint.

This message is to tell you do not go to the strip joint with Neal.

And whatever you do, do not get drunk before you don't go to the strip club with Neal.

Because you know how you get when you walk into the strip joint and your alcohol-soaked brain gets filled up with that perfume and music and thongs and those boots. For starters, you get that look in your eyes -- you know, that glazed-over, fattened tongue, "Man, I haven't so much as touched a girl in a month" thing you do. And the strippers can spot that a mile away.

So don't talk to the strippers. When they approach you, simply tell them that you're here for a bachelor party and it's currently raging downstairs in the "Shower Room" and you just stepped out for some air but you have to get back and thank you very much. Because once you let them get you into the corner and put their arms around you and get all up in your face with those lips and that perfume and those boobs, you're toast. So don't sit down. Not there. Dude, especially not there on that corner sofa. Because then you're cornered and she's going to sit on your lap and once she does that... oh, fuck.

Alright, we can still work ourselves out of this. Again, use the bachelor party story. Even better, say you don't have any money. Because that will get her off you quicker than setting yourself on fire. But it's tough, isn't it? Because there's this gorgeous 19-year-old stripper sitting on your lap and rubbing your neck and you'd rather swallow a cup of crushed lightbulbs than move right now. And you're gonna say to yourself "How much can one lap dance hurt?" and before you know it, you're sixty bucks in the hole and all this girl has done is rub her curvaceous and hot damn! ass all over the crotch of your jeans for five and a half minutes. And then, like Keyser Soze, she's gone, and you're sitting there with a ranging hard-on, an horrific case of blue balls, and a hangover that's rapidly staking out property across your forehead.

At that point, just leave. Don't even look for Neal. Because you know where he is. He's downstairs, in the wrestling area. And he's watching the strippers wrestle these drunken buffoons and they're all covered in shaving cream and slipping and sliding across each other and you know what Neal's thinking. He wants in. But he's not going to do this alone, you see, which is why it is absolutely imperative that when Neal asks if you want to wrestle, you say no. And when he calls that girl in the American flag short shorts over and starts asking her how much, don't look at her, and especially don't look at her ass. Because then your jaw will drop at its sheer awesome-ness and she'll key into this and get all Superfly Snuka on you, dropping down on the bar, wrapping her legs around your head and pulling your nose right up against her buttcheeks. At which point you'll surrender, throwing down cash and credit cards and social security numbers and whatever else she's trying to shake out of your wallet.

So when you're back there, in the changing room, getting into a grimy pair of wrestling shorts and waiting for the "ref" to call you out to the ring, I suggest that you just run. Don't look back. Don't even collect your clothes. Just bolt out into the Sunday morning air and be done with this madness. Because once you step into the ring, you're going to realize that these chicks mean business. And it's almost like they're trying to fuck you up. And when one of them flies off the top rope to elbow you in the chest, you swear that six of your ribs just splintered. And Neal's next to you, face down in the shaving cream and getting pumelled by that redhead and you're not sure if he's even still alive, but you can't worry about that now because holyfuckingshit here comes your girl off the top rope again and all you can do is shield your package and pray god she doesn't pierce your skin. And when she actually does sit on your face, it's only to grind a couple pounds of shaving cream up your nostrils and into your eyes and down your throat. Then, just to add an exclamation point of humiliation to it all, she stands you up and pours a pitcher of ice down your shorts, painfully extinguishing whatever semblance of a hard-on you could muster at that point.

Don't even look at your credit card invoice. Because when you realize how much you just paid to have your nuts slung up, you'll want to drop some arsenic. Better to just scurry backstage, wash yourself up, and slink back to Boston.

Better yet, when Neal calls, don't even answer the phone.

Things Are Tough All Over

So Joran van der Sloot -- the dude who confessed to killing some girl whom he invited to his hotel room and likely killed Natalee Holloway -- is fielding proposals of marriage. From women.

Here's where I have to ask, is the dating scene really all that bad in these women's cities? Have they literally torn through all the law-abiding citizens in their respective zip codes, and have decided to start branching out? Is the pool of available guys so shallow that they've decided to lower their criteria to the point that "accused murderer" is no longer a deal-breaker?

Frankly, I'm sure the women offering themselves to Slootie are fairly psychotic themselves. But the fact that he's got a line of women willing to bone him and I've still gotta go out and garner my leads the old fashioned way or find me a great Vancouver escort is fairly depressing.

Ladies of the world, let me just say this: Before you go offering your heart and/or loins to a murderer, consider the alternative.

Namely, me.

I'm not nearly as dashing or connected or rich as van der Sloot. But I eat pussy like a madman. And I've never killed anyone.

Me? Emotional? Irrational?

My friends at MetAnotherFrog have asked me to contribute another guest post. This one on the subject of irrational, reactionary, emotional women. Here's a taste:

There may be one or two exceptions in my chequered past. But for the most part, they’re all the same. If I’m a few minutes late coming home, I get a crazed call screaming, “Who is she?” If I can’t make her Dad’s birthday party because of a business trip, she insists I hate her parents and want them dead. If I fall asleep during the chick flick we’re watching, I’m not sensitive to her feelings.

I’ve had girlfriends break down in tears because I was too slow to notice a new haircut. One who threatened to punch out a female ticket-taker at the local movie house because she thought she was “making a play for my guy.” Another who stopped talking to her best friend for three years because she was convinced the girl wore the same dress as her to a wedding out of spite.

Again, I can only base this on the women I know. And with my predilections and obtuse desires, it could very well be that the women I know represent a small demographic. But in my experience, if there’s a conclusion to be jumped to, a handle to be flown off, or a boyfriend to be kicked in the balls based purely on suspicion and nothing resembling hardcore facts, women are gonna do it.

Check the rest, baby. Right here.