Unpopular baby names, Part 2

If your’e a world famous assassin who goes by both your first and middle name, say like Lee Harvey Oswald or John Wilkes Booth, its a pretty safe bet your unique name combination is going straight to the grave right along with you.
I mean really, how fucked-up does a mother have to be to name her kid Lee Harvey? Even the worst mother on the planet wouldn’t do that to her newborn for fear the kid would be relegated to a lifetime of shit.

Famous killers with double handles aren’t the only people to make it to the unpopular baby name list, there are plenty of other assholes who’ve managed this rare accomplishment.
Take Charles Manson for instance.
Charles is a popular name and certainly one that has stood the test of time. But name your kid Manson and see what happens. Manson might work for your Rotweiller or an overly drugged-out rock star, but it’s not the name you want to see showing up on your kids kindergarten class roster.

Which leads me to the point of this post.
When exactly does the statute of limitations run out on one of these killer (not a pun) names before returning to the popular baby-name stockpile?

Personally, I think it depends entirely on who you killed.
Take the guy who killed Jesus for instance.
I can’t see the name Pontious making a comeback anytime soon, and that’s been 2011 years.
I think it also has something to do with the spectacle of the event.
The guy who killed Jesus used a cross, thorns and nails. Shit, he even made him carry this huge cross up a mountain before killing him. That would have been punishment enough for me, but then to nail him to it? Fuck. That’s totally brutal.
I get why no-one would ever name their kid Pontious, may as well name your kid Satan for that matter.

And to further illustrate, lets take John Lennon.
Lennon was an important figure. Maybe not as important as Jesus, but he did sell a shitload of albums, and, he carried a message of peace and love, so why isn’t his killer on the ‘do not name under any circumstances’ list? The name Mark David is as popular as ever.
Here’s my theory.
It was due to Lennon being killed by a gunshot wound. Big damn deal. Everyone in America will get shot or die from a gunshot wound sooner or later, it’s inevitable, especially with our penchant for guns. I think this is why the name Mark David is still popular. Chapman’s crime, although horrible, wasn’t heinous enough to get his name banned. Not like Pontious Pilate anyway.
I submit that had Chapman made a spectacle out of the event, say he strangled Lennon with a rainbow colored hair scrunchie, carved a pentagram into his forehead with a dull knife and given him a Columbian necktie, while Boy George’s Karma Chameleon blared from his boombox, the name Mark-David would have joined the ranks of the dinosaurs that very same day. As it well should be.

Maybe there will be a day when the world collectively takes note of the worlds biggest assholes, banishing their name forever like we did Pontious Pilate. I hope so.

Well that’s it for today’s post, gotta run, I’m late for my Pilates class.

Someday

I wrote this some time ago, in loving memory of my mother, Filomena.

Like most, I loved my mother.
I loved that she taught me to be independant, to always think for myself.
How she instilled her work ethic into my childhood habits—requiring I cook, clean, do my own laundry, even sew my clothes when torn or a button lost.

I loved her life-lessons as she explained how no one on the planet was better than me, and I, no better than anyone.
It was her unwavering love and support that inspired me to believe in myself, giving me an unusual abundance of confidence as a young man.

She encouraged me to never depend on others;
“Make your own way” she would often say, her biting intonation still reverberates in my head.
The lessons in love;

“Put the needs of  others first”
“Give more than you take”
“Always give others the benefit of doubt, everyone has a good side, look for it”, she used to say.

And most important, her lesson in humility whenever she caught me acting up.

“Diego, always remember, he who humbles himself shall be exalted.”

“What’s ‘egg-salted’ mommy?”

“You’ll know someday.”

“When is sum day mommy—when we go to church?”

Mom always used to smile in an odd sort of way that said in very certain terms, no more questions for now.

She liked the word someday and invoked it often when she spoke.
Someday.
I liked it too.

It offered reassurance in a single word.
Believing in someday gave me hope, inspiring me to chase dreams, knowing all the while I would catch them—someday.
Someday taught me patience.
The patience needed to survive life’s struggles and to learn of its many mysteries as time slowly unfolded them.

An inquisitive child.
A loving mother, skilled at knowing which of life’s puzzle pieces to hand her son at precisely the right moment.
I can only be grateful.

The ultimate holiday toddy

Here’s my recipe for a holiday toddy guaranteed to knock your dick ass in the dirt.

5 parts shopping
2 parts snarled traffic
2 parts attitude (others)
3 parts fucked-up family members (non-immediate) arguing
4 parts weird foodstuffs the aunts prepare
2 parts decorating
5 parts depression from listening to 12 year-old Michael Jackson holiday tunes blaring from every sound system within earshot
4 parts opening useless gifts
1 part getting caught re-gifting
6 parts television commercials for automobiles under the guise of “Holiday shopping event”
100,000,000 parts people wishing others peace on earth, goodwill toward men on one day out of an entire fucking year

One loaded pistol

Oh, I almost forgot.
Shaken, not stirred.

An oxymoron?

Does the term “clever asshole” qualify as an oxymoron? I’m not sure.
I heard the term for the first time yesterday and questioned if using clever in conjunction with asshole didn’t somehow negate a person’s assholiness. Case in point.

Me and a friend were stuck in traffic yesterday when the guy behind us, (a very large pickup truck resembling one of those monster trucks) blew his horn. Only it wasn’t your typical horn.
Where once was a normal sounding horn, a horn likely manufactured by Ford or GM, was now a horn manufactured by Union Pacific railroad. Somehow or other, this guy had managed to install the very same horn used by modern day locomotives in his pickup truck.

Our first reaction upon hearing this extremely loud and unique blast was that we were about to get hit by a speeding train. But after a millisecond or two, quickly remembering how we were on a freeway where train tracks typically never intersect, we both realized the sound was coming from the vehicle to our rear.

My nervous system was still in shock from the blast as I spun around to see what kind of an asshole would put a train horn on his vehicle, while my friend was laughing uncontrollably. His laughter tempering my WTF moment as he affectionately casted this jerk as a clever asshole.
The gears in my brain were spinning, trying to reconcile the phrase.

He’s obviously clever, demonstrating ample ingenuity fashioning a train horn onto his truck. But he’s obviously an asshole too for blasting the abomination in bumper-to-bumper traffic, where from his perch, he could easily see the long line of cars ahead and how we weren’t moving, so why blow the horn?
If he wanted to frighten us all, I’m pretty sure he accomplished that.
Or was he somehow trying to negate his being an asshole (driving a monster truck in city traffic) by proving to all of his traffic captors he was much more.
That he had risen (no pun) above the rest of us everyday rank and file assholes, to claim the the top spot of clever asshole. I presume this was the case.
Clever asshole? Probably.
Oxymoron? Perhaps.
I know one thing.
Anyone who puts a train horn in their pick-up truck isn’t doing it to politely notify you the light has changed while you’re still texting.
In horn speak, it has to be the ultimate ‘FUCK YOU’, qualifying them in my book as a monumental dickhead, which I’m pretty sure is not an oxymoron.

A train horn...seriously? Who does this?

The guy code…don’t try to understand it ladies, we can’t even understand it.

The guy code.
I personally don’t believe in the existence of this imaginary ‘code’.
But if there was such a thing…
And someone (a woman) asked me to define it, to the best of my knowledge, this is how I would respond—

The guy code is a comprehensive set of principles, rules, and to a lesser extent, guidelines, used expressly by men and only men for the direct benefit of any man who, with the help of his man-friends, is likely to find himself immersed in relationship goo, with an extremely high probability that a relationship meltdown is now in the works, unless an intercession, (by and from the same friends who helped get him get into trouble), with the specific intent to collaboratively devise a scheme that will purposely deceive, defraud, defame, debase, debunk and discredit any myth, story, gossip, sighting, photographs, or social media posts, belonging to, in possession of, witnessed or even suggested by, his wife, concubine, admin, mistress, or cleaning lady, any of their girlfriends, gay friends, friends of friends, or private investigators, all of whom’s bullshit information might individually or collectively serve to threaten, dismantle, weaken, or destroy the sanctity of his relationship by exposing the truth about various people, places and events, including but not limited to; parties, bachelor outings, road-trips, fishing trips, office parties, baby-sitter encounters, discovery of hidden weed paraphernalia, wedding receptions, gambling losses, STD origins, stripper encounters, over limit credit cards, Las Vegas conferences, dents in her new car, or dead house pets.

Now, ladies, I submit.
Do you really think there’s such thing as some ‘supposed’ guy code?

The truth is, there is no guy code. It simply doesn’t exist. Not in any form, oral or written. You’ll never find it. Anywhere!

And it’s most certainly not passed down from doting father to post-pubescent son in some covert attempt to insure future generations of men don’t fall prey to the intense line of questioning directed at them from girlfriends, spouses, mistresses, concubines, admins, cleaning ladies, or babysitter’s parents, arising from suspicion of or relating to any action, non-action, event or group activity in which said person may have taken part in, bore witness to, or assisted in the cover-up thereof.

Take it on good faith.
The guy code doesn’t exist.

Now, just let it go.

Thoughts on being a caveman…

Sometimes I picture what it would be like to be a caveman, whom upon waking, noticed it was cold and rainy outside, instantly beginning to wonder where he’d to go to take his ritual dump after morning coffee.
I suspect he’d ultimately elect to unceremoniously squat in the middle of the cave, grunting at his wife and kids in caveman speak to look away.

But the youngest of the bunch wouldn’t understand, not being fluent in caveman, so he’d sit and watch as the old man shat out some kind of brontosaurus nightmare from the prior evenings meal.
This would probably fuck the kid up for life.

I know it would me, the fact that we lived in a cave where dad shits all over everything at will, even my moms nicest stuff.

HELP….there’s a song stuck in my head

I have this quiet, unassuming little white dude living somewhere deep within the confines of my brain, his name is Grand Master Douchenozzle and he’s a deejay.
Grand Master Douchenozzle, or GMD as I like to call him, is stupefyingly lazy, but does do one thing and he does it rather well.
He spins really bad tunes.

Spending weeks at a time scouring old song titles for the most annoying ditty he can find, upon making his selection, he then proceeds to the part of my brain where OCD hangs out, spins the song and conveniently leaves the area, forgetting altogether how he’s just left a song playing.
In my OCD center.
And not just any song.
A really bad song, one he knows I loathe.

I know when he’s been working almost immediately, typically first thing in the morning when I awaken to his bullshit one-song playlist.
His operating procedure is always the same.
Show up brandishing one of my old albums, one I meant to throw-out in our last move but didn’t, plug it in, hit repeat and vamoose.
It’s then, after a few days of having this tune reverberating in my skull, after humming, whistling, singing, even thinking it, I want to take a baseball bat to my head and beat it unmercifully in hopes GMD is somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

Now as I sit here, waiting for GMD to return in hopes of putting Blondie’s ‘Rip her to shreds’ out of its misery, I have but one thing to do.
Issue a warning to Grand Master Douchenozzle.

GMD, wherever you are, know this.
One day, you’re going to show up smiling, happy as a clam, song in hand, and just as you’re about to hit the play button, I’m going to sneak up on your foul little pelt and give you a whatfer like you’ve never seen ya little fucker.
Best have eyes in the back of your head boy.
I’m coming for ya.

Learning how to eat all the right foods

If I was a taste bud, the first thing I’d do is to have my name legally changed from bud to Edward.
Edward is a strong name, one that would command respect from all the other little taste buds. In this way, I could rule my taste bud domain.

It’s not that I have anything against the name bud, I rather like the name bud. But only when used as a term of endearment directed at one of my friends, the name itself sucks.
I never liked anyone with the name Bud, especially after my Uncle Bud tried to mess me up for dirty dancing with his wife at a wedding this one time.

Anyway, as taste director Edward, I’d organize an uprising amongst all the other taste buds, demanding we reject any foods that weren’t sweet and delicious, or weren’t flavored with Rum or Brandy.
Everything else would go.
That’s right.
The next time that buffoon host of ours goes out on a weekend night, starts slogging down that bitter-as-gall ale hoping to impress his friends, then orders something from the appy menu like jalapeno poppers, I’ll give him a lesson in rejection he won’t forget anytime soon.

I’t will be glorious to be in control for once.
Soon, we’ll be eating like a fat kid, and not all this organic free-range bullshit this idiot is constantly piling down our gullet.
We’ll be eating candy and ice-cream, and pastries—lots and lots of pastries.
There won’t be any more of those cruciferous veggies like cauliflower or broccoli.
And we won’t be having any more caviar, or anything remotely smelling of fish. No way.
Pizza yes.
Salads no.
No bunny foods of any kind. Especially cole slaw. I have no idea what he’s thinking eating that shit. Like he’s going to avoid cancer by eating that garbage. Yeah, right.

We will however eat hot dogs, sausages and brats. All phallic foods stay.
But no yogurt or cottage cheese, fuck that slime. In fact, no dairy of any kind.
Beer is in, but not those hoppy ales or any of that hand-crafted horseshit.
Liquor maybe, rum and brandy for sure. Everclear, only at a luau or office party.
Barbecue definitely.
Scones, crumpets, lady fingers, shortcakes—any kind of chick food—gone.
No more fruit either. Fruit gives us gas. We don’t need any more gas. Those days would be over.
And beans? Don’t even think about it.
I’d stay away from pasta. Pasta might fatten us up.
Ethnic foods are out.
Carnival or fair foods, in.

I guess that narrows it down to beer, meat, sausages, pizza, ice-cream, candy and pastries, anything from a carnival, office party, or birthday celebration.
Weddings too.

Large and in charge.
Edward, the reluctant taste bud.
Food steward to the unholy.

Edward might be in the taste bud closet

Diego

App to make you think

I hope someday soon there’ll be an app for my Iphone that predicts the life-form one might be reincarnated into. Of course it would have to be designed with the assistance of someone who underwent a near-death experience, someone who  lived to tell tales from the other side,  but I’m sure Apple can round one of these guys up someplace.

This is how it might work:

TRANSGRESSION>      Kicked dog when no-one was looking    [enter]

APPROXIMATE NUMBER INCIDENTS >   [50]   around 3 or 4 hundred…I think…he lived a long time   [enter]

PROBABLE LIFE-FORM >       lab-rat’s cancerous testicle

[New Query]  press enter

As a former practicing Catholic, I suspect the Pope might want an App like this for some of his priests, especially the more problematic ones.

TRANSGRESSION >      Diddled the Mueller boy after swatting him for lying…his pants were off, I couldn’t resist.    [enter]

APPROXIMATE NUMBER INCIDENTS >   [1]   maybe twice…I was drunk the second time and don’t recall    [enter]

PROBABLE LIFE-FORM >     Fly larvae, nesting in dog shit

[New Query]  press enter

Let’s say you led a solitary life. One of goodness, putting others first. A path similar to the Buddha or Christ.

TRANSGRESSION >      []  None, I lived a good life   [enter]

APPROXIMATE NUMBER INCIDENTS >   [0 ]     [enter]

PROBABLE LIFE-FORM>     Amish woman sans libido

[New Query]  press enter

I hope to see an app like this someday. That way, the next time I’m about to do something I probably shouldn’t, I can simply look up the consequences and see how I’m about to be turned into something resembling a huge fucking mess.

Diego

How you can avoid pneumonia

When I was 16, I bet my one of my vocational school classmates how I could sit in a freezer for twenty minutes with no shirt on. The freezer was set at twenty below zero. The wager, forty bucks.

As I prepared to hop into the glass-doored freezer we’d finished repairing, it was then he decided to inform me he didn’t actually have the forty bucks, asking if I would accept a small bag of weed in its place.
I took the bet, thinking I could sell the weed and still get my money. No big deal.
I took off my shirt and climbed in.

Five minutes…
It’s fucking cold in here. I hope he doesn’t welsh on the bet. Did we shake hands? He might claim we didn’t shake. I think that negates a bet, doesn’t it? Brrr…, maybe if I move around a lot, like treading water or something.

Ten minutes…
My eyelashes are sticking to one another making it hard to blink. My nose is running and there’s frozen snot on my upper lip. I’d wipe it on my shirt but oh, wait, I don’t have a shirt. Everyone can see me through the glass doors and they’re laughing, So fuck them, I’m going to win forty bucks, who’ll be laughing then? Maybe I should use my pant leg to wipe this snot, no, that would look dumb. They’ll really be laughing if I do that.
Fuck, it is really cold. Colder than I thought it would be. What was I thinking? I hope Mr. Barnes doesn’t come back anytime soon.

15 minutes…
I’ve never done multiple push-ups or sit-ups before now, but this may be a good time to start. Running in place isn’t an option. My nipples feel as though they’ll break-off if they come into contact with anything. Is that possible? Do body parts break-off when frozen? What is wrong with me? I’m always trying to show-off. This was stupid, what am I doing? Every exhaled breath resembles a car’s exhaust on a cold morning. I wonder what I’ll do with the forty bucks. Jesus…really bladder? Now?

20 minutes.
Shouts of revelry from my classmates as I emerge victorious. I’m stiff and cold. The snot has now molded into a small icicle, it feels like a huge snaggletooth.  It’s over one hundred degrees outside and I can’t feel the sun’s warmth. I’m standing spread eagled against a chain link fence. The fence should be burning my skin but oddly enough it’s not.
Mr. Barnes is back in the classroom now from his cigarette break. He’s spotted me and knows something is wrong from my odd coloration. My classmates scatter like shrapnel as he approaches. I’m fucked now. [bell rings]
Thank God. Mr. Barnes is walking away shaking his head. The classroom is empty. Marty better get back here and hand over my weed.

One week later…

I have pneumonia. I thought it was the flu but my doctor said it was a mild case of pneumonia, whatever that is. I only know I can’t breathe. I’ve called all my friends but nobody wants to buy the weed. I wonder if one bong hit will affect my pneumonia? Mom entered the room wearing her mom scowl. Something’s up. Shit. She’s got the bag of pot. I shut my eyes and pretend I’m asleep. She speaks but I don’t respond. I fake snore. She’s pulling the blanket over me. Good, we’ll deal with this later. I need time to come up with a huge lie about who the weed really belongs to.
I hear mom in the next room calling my dad at work. Fuck.

I learned a good life-lesson from this experience.
Never, and I mean never sit in a freezer without a shirt at twenty below unless you get a cash payout, and not contraband your parents can confiscate.

In loving memory of Martin Brooks.

Diego

A persons middle name: What it really says about them

Alexander the Great
Robert the Bruce
Atila the Hun
William the Conquerer
Richard the Lionheart

Just an observation, but it seems to me that if your middle name happens to be ‘the’, you’re probably one of the biggest badasses the world has ever seen.

Diego

How to put ones brain in reverse

I love it whenever I’m talking with someone and mid-sentence, they parenthetically invoke God’s name in this manner;

“My mother made the best holiday cookies, God rest her soul…her secret was butter you know.”

No, actually, I don’t know what her secret was, nor will I ever. Because the moment you said God rest her soul, my brain, which had previously been in drive up until that moment, has now shifted into reverse all by itself, and with it, all the gear clanging and grinding noises one might expect.

All I can think of at that point is why you felt the need to invoke this phrase mid-sentence.
Well just so you know, if you do pull a God rest his or her soul on me, my brain will be sealed up tighter than a nun’s box, and nothing you say afterward will ever penetrate.

So try to make all of your salient points beforehand. Please?

Diego

Penis envy: The true reason behind it

God-

Why is it everything on me has gotten bigger over time except for my dick? I think this may have been a major design flaw of yours.

If I eat too much I get fat.
Each week, I have to trim my finger and toenails.
And once a month, I need a haircut.

It seems everything on me is getting bigger and longer, continually growing except for my johnson—why?
By conservative estimates, if it grew like everything else on me, it should have been at least three to four feet long after all these years, and that’s with no trimming.
Turgid, I would expect at least a car’s length or better.

So what gives?
You didn’t think men would be responsible with an ever-growing willie, one requiring constant maintenance like fingernails or hair?
Granted, I’ll admit how most of us subscribe to the ‘bigger is better‘ theory, but that’s no reason to believe we’d let things spiral out of control, growing it to the size of a small anaconda.

Sure, there would always be those few who couldn’t resist the temptation of trimming it down regularly, but for the most part, I have to believe the majority of guys would ‘try’ to keep it well wthin the 12-16 inch range, eliminating penis envy altogether.

You may want to take this into consideration the next time you design another human-type species, particularly its males.

Love,

Diego

My holiday letter to Ellen

Dear Ellen,

Sometimes I daydream when you’re reading the viewer mail that my letter was chosen as the lucky viewer who’s about to win a bunch of stuff.
In my letter however, unlike the others, I’d just come out with it and simply ask you for a new car, and perhaps a small cash stipend to go along with it. It is the holiday season you know.

My plan is to be straightforward, no bullshit. Making it a point to stay away from hardship stories that might upset your viewers, although I’m keenly aware how it makes for good tv ratings, so I’ll make you a deal.
Choose my letter and I’ll trade you—one hardship story for a new ride and a bag full of loot. Deal?

Only there may be a problem. You know how you like to surprise your lucky viewers at home?
Well this is problematic for me on several levels.
First, I don’t like people showing up on my doorstep unannounced. In the wake of the Wall Street debacle, my wife and I are hard-pressed to answer the door, fearful it’s another bill collector. This is why we live in a guard gated community—to keep out this sort of riff raff.
But we’ll work around this if you go with my offer. Don’t let that be a deal breaker.
Just simply give me a heads-up call when when the camera crew is headed our way and  I’ll ring up the  guard, telling him let them through.

Then there’s the thing about me acting surprised. That could be a slight problem as well.
I rarely scream anymore unless I’m at a sporting event and plenty drunk.
I’m not giddy, and I don’t jump up and down when excited, not with this bad back anyway.
I might be able to stand there all hunched over, doing a little fist-pump, maybe even a small hop, but it would look disingenuous since I’m hunched over and all.
If I try real hard, I could do a small Kobe off the deck, since the landing would put me in considerable pain. I’d be hunched over, wincing, and now crying (a little) as your viewers perceive it as tears of joy, only we’d both know different, it could be our little secret.

The other thing you should probably know is how I have no discernible acting skills, making it highly likely I’d come off as Al Gore, that time he hosted SNL.
I suppose I could muster a “Home Alone” expression. That wouldn’t take too much effort.
Then, as I’m standing there hunched over, crying from the Kobe jump, you could explain to your viewers how we lost everything in the downturn. If you think about it, our plea for help is not dissimilar to the time Albert Brooks plead with Gary Marshall to give him back his nest egg in “Lost in America.”
Only in this version, you’re a more benevolent Gary Marshall, where I’m singing that cute little ad jingle…The Desert Inn Ellen has heart…Ellen has heart, and you’re standing there ready to present me with one of those really big checks—the ones they hand out at golf tournaments.
I only hope I’m still crying from the jump at that point.
Now that’s great television!

Seriously? A big check? OMG!

I see one other little snafu.
I don’t care much for GM products. I’ve always liked Fords.
So I was thinking.

Maybe you could give the Chevy to someone else and just bag up my loot, adding in price of the car. (Less any gift taxes of course).
That way, I wouldn’t look so resentful if your camera crew had to stuff me into the front seat of a Chevy compact and told me to “Smile.“
Although, with my back, I’d probably be crying again, and that would be good for ratings.

Well, that’s it. That’s my letter.
If you do decide to help, please make it soon.
The dues at my country club go up in January, so this would be an excellent time for a holiday handout some help.

Thank-you,

Diego

How Taco Bell names its menu items

If I was the marketing director at Taco Bell, my first order of business would be to fire the person responsible for naming their menu items.
Enchirito? Seriously?
To me this sounds like a culinary clusterfuck derived from the ‘clever’ mind of someone who one day at lunch, pensively doodling at their food with a fork, managed to combine an enchilada and burrito into an unrecognizable mass.

“Quickly, someone run and get me a soft tortilla—I think I’ve got something!”

Voilà. The enchirito.

My second order of business would be to launch an ad campaign similar to that of Subway, where I’d find some pudgy little Mexican kid, feed him a steady diet of a tacos and diet coke for a year and watch the pounds magically drip-off.
Svelte enough for a tiny Speedo sans the overhang, I’d pimp this kid to the world as the new poster child for taco lovers everywhere.
Only he wouldn’t speak English in the ads.
I’d make him speak in his native tongue for the sake of authenticity. And with no subtitles either.

That way, when he’s speaking that mile-a-minute gibberish Mexicans are so good at,  and he tries to slip in something like;

“Señor Diego, he lock me in basement—he make me eat cabbage, I go home now—please?”

No-one will ever know what the fuck he’s saying.

I'll slim this little bastard down

Diego

The single man’s guide to dating: Techniques guaranteed to win her heart and soul

I’d like to caveat this post by expressing to all readers how my purpose here is merely to educate the man who has no clue when it comes to the opposite sex—myself included to some extent.
If you don’t like the content, remember the immortal words of Sophocles when he wrote; “Don’t shoot the messenger!”

Diego’s dating tips

I’ve often heard the saying; “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”  
I don’t believe that’s true. I believe there’s an easier way to a man’s heart if we’re speaking purely anatomical here, and it’s not his stomach.
But that’s beside the point.
The point is, there doesn’t seem to be a cutesy saying about ‘the way to a woman’s heart’.
Well, wonder no more. I have it on good information there most certainly is a way to a woman’s heart.
And you won’t get it from a cutesy saying, a pair of diamond studs or a Hawaiian vacation.

You ready for this?
It’s her footwear.
I know, crazy, right?  But it’s true, trust me. I’ve been around women my entire life, I know this firsthand.
It’s an indisputable fact, women have an affinity for shoes. Period.
Know this. Accept it. Much in the same way you would an irrefutable math axiom. You needn’t understand why, it’s not important to know why.
Just take solace in knowing greater minds than yours have grappled with this age-old phenomenon, always returning to the same answer, women-love-shoes.
Especially the expensive kind, the ones that hurt their feet after an evening out.
Which brings me the point of this post.

If women love shoes, and you desire women, it seems only fitting you adopt the same sense of excitement about their shoes as do they, especially if you have any designs on ferreting your way into that special someone’s heart, or boudoir,  you pick.

So without further adieu, I present to you my highly coveted, (by men) techniques for winning over that special lady, or at best, getting laid.

Disclaimer
The following are postulates based entirely on empirical data only, responses may vary by participant. If you fuck-up, don’t go blaming me. You’re the asshole taking advice from a blog.

 On arrival at her place…

Whenever she dresses up for a big event, chances are good she’ll be wearing expensive shoes. She’ll also take forever to get ready. I suggest using this time productively by preparing for her grand entrance—that special moment when she pirouettes into the room, asking; ‘Well, how do I look?”
This is when you leap into action with a statement exclaiming;  “OH MY GOD, I love those shoes? Wow, do they make that outfit!” Announce this rather loudly, in your best authoritative tone, as if talking into one of those speakers at a fast food drive-through. The point here is to shock and confuse. You’ll do both if you bark this comment using the proper amount of inflection. Anything less will come off as disingenuous.
Now, sit back and watch the magic unfold.
It’s amazing to see how this one little phrase will send noticeable shock waves reverberating through her entire body, lowering her defenses like a Klingon warship taking one too many photon torpedos from Captain Kirk.
It’s on now.

At the event…

On the drive to, and at the event, try not to speak. Speaking will be your undoing.
The probability you’ll say something stupid is statistically pretty high, negating any kudos you may have gotten from the shoe comment. This is why it’s important you very simply sit and smile… a lot. Don’t be fearful of those moments when you’re both enveloped in awkward silence. In fact, it’s the perfect opportunity to bust out your next big move.

“So, uh, what kind of shoes are those? They kind of look like this pair I was thinking of buying for you last week but wasn’t sure you’d like them…they had red soles and all. Something Louboutin, I forget…anyway, that made me think of your shoes, they’re really very pretty you know”

She should be softening like room temperature butter by now.

The compliment…

Her dress, her styling, her fashionable accessories, all pale in comparison to her shoes and pedicure. This is where things can get dicey as you compliment not only her shoes, but the pedicure as well, going deep into uncharted waters.
One small problem.
You don’t know the difference between long, unkempt toenails and a French pedicure, and since they both look the same, this is where it’s wise show a little couth finesse with a statement like; “Nice pedi,” covering the entire gamut—toenails, polish color, all of it.
I realize most of you won’t know what a pedi is, but trust me, calling it by this name will endear you to her as if you were her best gay friend. And this is what every straight chick wants..a dude who knows chick-speak, despite his obvious heterosexuality. For her, it’s like having the best of both worlds.
But be very cautious, trouble is looming just around the next corner.
After the pedi comment, a whole new world will open up as she starts droning on about chick stuff. She’ll do this because you bullshitted her about the pedi, making her think you’re fluent in chick-speak when in actuality, you’re not. It was a high-stakes gamble that will pay off, but you’ll need to follow these next steps, otherwise you’re proper fucked, and boy do I mean howdy.

Listen…

Men, as a general rule don’t listen for shit. We do if it’s something we’re interested in, but chances are she’s not going to be babbling about how the Lakers are about to lose Kobe to some European league.
Oh she’ll be talking alright, just not about sports.
Your little pedi comment has now touched-off a flaming shitstorm, one that will have her whining about one of her uber-bitch friends and all her recent doings. You’re in deep waters now as she looks to you for validation. Unfortunately, you’ve got no game at this level—you’re a fish out of water.
The only way out now is the reverse comment technique.

“Then do you know what that dirty bitch said? She told me I was lying to protect Jessica.”

“Seriously…lying to protect Jessica?…she really said that?”

This technique works like a charm, spurring hours of circular conversation about either the bitch or Jessica. The reverse comment always makes it appear as though you’ve been listening and validating when in fact you’ve been thinking about whether she’ll finish that entree.
Just don’t forget to listen for some piece of that last sentence prior to her coming up for air.

Speaking…

If things do go south on date night, it’s probably because you said something stupid. As I said earlier, you probably shouldn’t be saying much of anything.
Remember, she’ll be talking, but she may as well be talking in Japanese because you’ll be deep in the land of chick-speak, where you won’t have a clue what she’s saying, or worse, how to respond.
And you will be required to respond sooner or later, that whole reverse comment thing will only get you so much mileage.
This is when it’s best to speak in short, two-word phrases, such as ‘Oh, really? or “You don’t say?” Use plenty of inflection if you don’t want her to smell a rat.
A good rule is to pretend you’re on a witness stand, answering a bully prosecutor with terms like, yes, no and I don’t recall. This should keep the date going…at least for now.

Talk about her…not you

If you’re wondering why her gaze is no longer fixed on you, as she furtively scours the room for anyone or anything the slightest bit more interesting, it’s because you’re doing too much talking about yourself. Women don’t like this.
Here’s another dating axiom you’ll need to know.
Women, in all their fickled glory, either want you to listen to them, or talk about them, in either case, the subject matter should always revolve around them, not you.
Keep talking about how cool you are and she’ll check-out faster than a trick at a twenty dollar motel.

If you hope to have any chance of not putting this date into a deliberate death spiral, limit your dialogue to all things her, as you barrage her with questions about her favorite things.
You’ll quickly learn how there’s no end to that topic.

Never interrupt…

Seeing how most men are good at being around other men, interrupting is purely a way of entertainment for us. And when we’re not interrupting, we’re thinking about interrupting so we can dazzle the interruptee with our one-upmanship skills.
Be forewarned however, this method does not work well with women, even less so when on a date.
Interrupt her once, she’ll probably overlook it. Twice, and she’ll know you’re not a good listener.
And if you’re not a good listener, how realistic is it to think pillow-talk is in the cards?
It’s not. Time to listen up, buster.

Carpe Noctis…

Assuming you haven’t fucked-up yet, your blob of melted butter should now be ready for an evening of romance.
Your complimentary stylings, the way you listened throughout dinner without so much as a peep—she’s liking what she’s seeing and hearing. All of it. The time has come to seize the night as I like to say.
Here’s my final tip to help seal the deal.

Never use a cliché such as “Your place or mine” as your closer.
You need creativity at this critical juncture.
Clichés are a death knell, announcing all too loudly you’ve got no game when it comes to sex, prompting a faux-yawn and the dreaded; “It’s been fun, we’ll have to do this again sometime.“
You both know sometime is date speak for never. You can’t have that. Not after putting in this much effort. What you need now is a clever line, and quickly.
One that’s sure to close the deal.
One that says in no uncertain terms how you’re by no means a zero in bed. A thrill seeker.
A dude with real game.
Be proud man.
You managed to course an entire evening filled with land mines, lowering her defenses, and now here you are at the finish line. There’s only one thing left to do.
Show her your vulnerable.
Demonstrate how your defenses have been lowered too, by exposing your true self in a brief moment of weakness.

“Hey, you know what? There’s a pair Manolo’s in it for you if you blow me on the way to the motel,” you announce coyly.

Whatever happens next, don’t forget to hand over the Manolo’s on your way to wherever, and hopefully, it’s not back to her place to drop her off.

I guarantee they'll close the deal

You’re welcome.

Diego

Classic movies: Why I can’t watch them

I really don’t like watching classic movies, the ones where the entire cast and crew are now deceased.
The problem is this.
Despite their cinematic magic, I can never get past the fact that everyone in the movie is dead, taking my focus from the film, to thoughts of death and the like. So I simply stopped watching them years ago.

Yesterday after a long sabbatical, thinking I’ve matured enough to dismiss this kind of thinking, I watched A tree grows in Brooklyn.
A 1945 classic which yes, nearly all of the cast and crew members are gone.

And yet once again, I found myself unable to resist checking out the IMDB website, curious to see if any of these guys were still living, and as it turns out, one person is still alive. Yea!
Imagine that. One person out of the entire cast is still living, although I don’t know where, or if he made enough money during his career to support a comfortable retirement. I’m guessing he’s bunking-in with his kids. He’s probably in his late 80′s by now. I’m certain hes with his kids. I hope he’s not in one of those Alzheimer’s homes. Maybe he’s in an old folks home, bragging about his glory days.

Or maybe he’s in a trailer park somewhere. Or maybe not. After all, they are still playing this movie, and that means royalties. Although, he had a bit-part, I can’t imagine his agent wrote a royalty clause into his contract back then.
Did they even have agents back then?

Two hours of this, as I never once heard a single line from the movie.
I guess I haven’t matured as much as I thought I had.

For once I wish the movie channel would present a disclaimer prior to running this genre, for all the people like myself who have trouble watching these damned things. It should go something like this:

WARNING
All of the people in this movie are dead. Cast, crew, everyone.  Gone, kaput…finished, kicked. In in the event you have an unreasonable fear of death, dying, or are generally repulsed at the thought of watching ‘dead’ people performing in a black and white medium, you should probably change the channel now.
Otherwise you could be in for a serious mindfuck, now, and all your days to come.

Hmm...matching eyebrows and mustache...how clever!

When not to hug someone: some simple guidelines

I wish there was a handbook explaining when it’s appropriate to hug someone. I never know when to hug.
Hugs come quite naturally between my close friends and family members, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m referring to the person I haven’t seen in a while, like an old acquaintence or former business associate.

My rule, has always been to look for obvious signs someone may be expecting a hug, such as outstretched arms, or their cranium noticeably listing to one side—eyes squinting—mouth and lips tightly formed, as if their body language is saying; “ok, bring it on in.”

In the absence of the more overt clues, I tend to look for less subtle indicators, like when the other person continues walking into my personal space with no intention of slowing their gait, charging me as though I’m a matador or something.
Even less subtle is when the other person disrobes, almost certainly signaling their desire for a hug, and then some.

I think the worst is the hesitater.
This would-be hug signals how you’re both uncertain of the other’s intentions, starting out bad and ending bad as well, making it the most awkward in the entire hugging genre.
It’s like you both feel some need to hug, but the uncertainty stalls you both briefly, and instead, now has both of you bobbing your upper bodies back and forth like chickens—falsely pecking at one another until one or the other finally gives in. As a result of all the uncertainty, very often both hugger’s heads will collide in a low-impact head-butt.
The hesitater, by virtue of its awkward nature, is almost always accompanied by a condensed hug, offering little or no warmth.
This hug always tends to remind me how I should have let my instincts govern and never hugged the person in the first place, since it never felt right to begin with.

The long hugs are the ones that drive me nuts.
While they may carry with them a certain warmth, overextending them by only a mere second or two (past the obligatory 2-seconds) causes my claustrophobic gene to launch into action, signaling both arms to begin patting the other person’s back in an effort to tell them in hug-talk, let go. NOW!

But summer hugs are the worst. Particularly when ambient conditions are such that my clothing appears as though I’ve been routinely basting myself like a turkey or something. One would think this visual would thwart even the heartiest of hug aficionados, but I’ve yet to see where this is the case. Nothing seems to stop the person who’s inclined to hug under any circumstance.

I take it back, summer hugs aren’t the worst.
The worst hug is the one where I’ve been toiling outdoors for a period of time, developed a musky scent similar to a bowl of Edna Finkelstein’s famed chicken soup, and run into someone I haven’t seen for a while.
As they charge in for a hug, unaware of how my pheromones have temporarily gone to their dark side, emitting an odiferous funk tantamount to that of a sweaty barnyard creature, panic sets in.
There’s no way out.
In an instant, I know this person will have the rest of their day ruined by second-hand stench. But what to do?

And that’s when I finally reconcile the fact that anyone wishing to hug me this badly, probably gets what they deserve at that point.

“Hey you, long time no see, bring it on it here.” [smiling my best horse-toothed grin]

Diego

Lady boobs…a really poor design

God-

Can I ask you a question?
Did you design dogs and cats before or after you designed us. Here’s why I’m asking.
If it was before designing us, why then did you only give women two titties instead of like six or eight?

My little dog Molly has eight, which personally I think is a tad too many. I would have probably gone with a nice round number like four, or even six if she was just a skosh bigger.
But women?
I think at minimum you could have given them at least four, don’t you?
Two working tits, and two non-working tits. Now that design truly would have been a triumph—a crowning achievement.

With four tits, when my wife had our children, she could have nursed them with the two working tits, leaving the other two available for my full-time usage.
Not that I actually ‘use’ them per se. And not exactly full-time either. That could get old fast. (for her)
I’m just saying how it would have been nice to have my own pair of designated titties during that whole nursing thing, especially considering how she was constantly shooing me away, like one does an obnoxious fly.

But even if you couldn’t design a woman with four, three would have been cool too.
I’d just have to make sure I designated whose belonged to whom with a Sharpie or something, but otherwise, I don’t see a problem.

Another row sure would be nice

Love,

Diego

Paradise lost

Sometimes I think about the people who inhabit small islands in the South Pacific and wonder how idyllic their lives must be
living in a tropical paradise and all.
Drinking beverages adorned with those little colored parasols.
Eating lobster and cracked crab at will, while some native beauty fans them with a palm frond.
Debating the neighbor over some kind of banal shit like which tide was the highest, today’s or yesterday’s. (like it matters)

That’s when I hear my dad’s voice uttering his most famous catch phrase;  ”Son, the pasture always looks greener someplace else.”

And in a second, my little island fantasy is gone, replaced with dad’s higher vision of a somewhat less than green pasture, where:

I’m now working at the tropical island resort as a waiter.
Serving drinks, (the ones with the stupid mini-umbrellas) to wealthy guests.
Fanning hot chicks by the pool while I’m in my little white uniform sweating my stones off.
And getting in fights with my drunken neighbor, over something important, like how his dog is constantly shitting on my front lawn.

Thanks dad.
For providing me the comfort of knowing that whatever the fantasy, there’s some poor shite living it who’s just as miserable as I am—fantasizing about how idyllic my life must be.

Take it from dad, it's not all it's cracked up to be