How to kill insects (when no-one is looking)

Running down a cockroach and smashing it with one’s shoe can get old over time, not to mention how a size 13 boot can take half the sport out of it. Let me suggest a new technique. Fire.
It’s easier than one might think, and not near as messy or crackly.

Here’s how it’s done:

1. Go to the store, get a can of Aqua Net hairspray. I suggest two, for when you see how much fun this is.
2. Leave the hairspray along with a cigarette lighter on the kitchen countertop before bedtime.
3. Wake up early, around three…head for the kitchen, being careful not to switch the lights on.
4. Fumble around in the dark for the hairspray and lighter.
5. I almost forgot, the flame adjustment on the lighter should be set to high…do this the night before.
6. Now flip on the lights.

Upon lighting the room, all the healthy roaches will scatter for parts unknown. Fuck them, you’ll never catch any of those guys. What you want is that older Darwinian fuck, the one that should have met his fate long before this. He’ll be easy to spot.

First, he won’t be moving.
It’s almost as if when the lights came on, he found himself standing there, frozen in his tracks, going; “Wait…where’s everybody going?”
While he’s standing there, thinking about his situation and just how fucked his life may be at this point (he’ll signal this by slowly gyrating his antennae like an old stripper’s tassels), that’s when you fire up the lighter, get the hairspray stream ablaze, and send his pestilent thorax straight to Hades where he belongs.

I think you’ll find this technique to be much more sporting (and rewarding) than traditional footwear and, with practice, you’ll eventually follow in the footsteps of such greats as Red Adair, or Boots and Coots; internationally famed oil-well flame extinguishers.

I should probably point out how this is a totally unsafe act.
And how ‘working’ with fire as a novice may have some unintended consequences, such as setting your nightwear on fire, or worse, blowing yourself up.
Or, if you’re even more unlucky….
Your wife will walk in on you as you’re setting up—torch fully ablaze—startling the absolute shit out of you, saying screaming something along the lines of;

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING???…TRYING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN?”

This, as you spin around [torch still ablaze] looking dumbfounded, responding with something like; HUH? What are you doing up at this hour? [flame still going] Things can go wrong super fast.

To this very day, I still have to hear about the time I set her late mom’s hand embroidered table runner ablaze.

IMPORTANT NOTE TO MOM’S AND WIVES EVERYWHERE WHO USE AQUA NET HAIRSPRAY:

Don’t leave your Aqua Net hairspray cans lying around the house, especially if you have boys or adult boys living at home.

Poverty’s silver lining

Whenever I see news reports showing people living in squalor—their domiciles looking more like hand-made cardboard huts, I don’t feel sorry for them.
Instead, I reflect back on my youth when me and my cousins routinely fashioned whatever junk we could find in our alley’s trash containers into a clubhouse. Once built, we would sit inside talking and giggling for hours, right up to the time when mom would order me into the house to eat and my cousins to go home.
This is why I don’t feel sorry for hut people.
I think the irony of their being poverty stricken and living in a hut (or clubhouse, depending on your point of view) somehow gets lost on the idea that there may be a happy group of folks inside, sitting around giggling and talking for hours, just like me and my cousins.
Well, maybe except for the part where mom busts up the party by sending everyone home because it’s time to eat.

Homage to summer

It’s summertime.

And I can’t help but think about kids everywhere, whom, at the urging of their older siblings (and mean spirited friends) are floundering around in backyard pools feigning blindness, shouting; MARCO!
Pausing.
Listening intently.
Waiting.

Not for the loudly reverberating POLOS coming from the other end of the pool, but listening for the shallow-breathing, non-splashing buffoon whose aversion to chlorine and swimming underwater with eyes wide open, have now brought him within inches of Marco himself.
And then comes the worst part of the game.
Where Marco without warning, his sonar functioning on high-alert, has detected your being and spastically lunges toward you with his eyes shut….viciously clobbering you in the head with a down-stroking elbow. [fucking-ouch]

This was the point in the game where I’d hastily leave the pool, beseech my friend’s mother for an iced tea or juice box booby prize and sit out the remainder of the game, watching from my perch on a deck chair. This of course as my eye begins to swell shut from Marco’s precipitous elbow attack.

I miss summer.
Or perhaps more accurately, I miss its days of youthful frolicking, even if they did carry with them trials best suited for strong, healthy bones.
I miss my childhood friends.

It’s 3 a.m. and the house is as quiet as a church mouse, and yet the sounds of summer continue to reverberate in my head.
I hope I always hear them.
The sounds of pure, unadulterated joy.

Traffic jams and other creepy stuff

Traversing three freeways on my daily commute, I spend a considerable amount of time sitting in my car not moving. This means the guy in the next lane isn’t moving either.
One minute, I’m speeding down a highway, focused and alert, careful not to let my eyes detract from the goings on of the roadway.
The next?
I’m sitting stationary with all the time in the world.
Still focused and alert, but now however able to look around, to see the other cars and their drivers, and to notice how some are feverishly preoccupied with various tasks.
I totally get this.
A moment ago, we were shrouded in a cloak of invisibility—not seeing one another as humans, but rather foes in need of vanquishing, as we routinely cut one another off in an effort to arrive at our destination a few seconds earlier than do they.

But traffic has slowed to a crawl and now we’re stopped, lifting that cloak of invisibility to reveal an actual human being behind the wheel.
Still alert, and still very much focused, I use this time to spy on other drivers…to see what they’re up to.
Some are texting.
Women are coiffing and putting on make-up.
And then there’s the nose picker.

The guy who without a care in the world, and apparently hasn’t figured out how we are now visible to one another is hastily exploring one of his nostrils.
I’m not talking about the guy or gal who takes an honest swipe at their whistling beak in an effort to rid it from some foreign presence.
I’m talking about the guy (and it’s always a guy) whose incessant mining efforts have now produced some kind of god-awful extraction, one requiring a momentary pensive gaze as he studies it for who knows what.
Size? Shape? Configuration?
Color? Is he examining it for color? Maybe its color and configuration.
Or maybe there’s a wayward nose hair in the mix. I can see where, at least visually, this could create a stir. That usually freaks me out when I see one on a kleenex. I can’t imagine my fingertip and in traffic no less. Eeewwww!
I’ve now drifted into a euphoric gaze staring at this dolt—one where I catatonically sit and stare at something bizarre—as if seeing it for the very first time.
One where time seems to slow, as the cacophony of traffic noise, car stereo, and any random thoughts now have mystically faded away, tranquilizing me into a deep visual fog.

 

 

 

 

Sorry, I’m back.
Holy shit, what’s he going to do with that thing I begin to wonder. Jesus I hope he doesn’t eat it.
I knew a girl in fourth grade who often picked her nose during math, and just when she thought no-one was looking, she inserted her mining finger into her mouth, pretending to bite her nails.
She lived with the moniker ‘Boogereater’ all through elementary school.

But this guy. I wonder about a guy like this.
Whether he’ll wipe it on his person or the seat of his car.
Or whether he’ll roll it up and flick it someplace. A lot of people I’ve watched pick their nose in traffic do this. Although I did see a woman use a kleenex once, making me wonder why she couldn’t have used it to blow her nose with, this in lieu of her full-scale pick. Weird.

But this guy is dressed to the nines, driving a late model BMW 750I, I seriously doubt he’ll be eating it, or flicking it onto his fine leather interior for that matter. I surmise he’s probably preoccupied, thinking about that big meeting he’s headed off to this morning, complete unaware of the fact that he’s knuckle-deep into his schnoz, and how any one of a number of other drivers are now monitoring his productivity efforts.

I wonder if he’ll stop off in the mens’ room to wash up first.
Or whether he’ll simply forget about his mindless activity during the commute, shaking hands with everyone pre-meeting, getting his remnant boog spoils all over them…this as they unsuspectingly gather for coffee and pastries.

A fellow blogger recently posted a bit about shaking hands with others and how detestable an act it is, for reasons such as this, I presume.
I wish I had never read it.
That’s all I can think about now every time someone sticks out their paw to shake my hand—thinking how they might have been stuck in traffic earlier, spelunking for that all elusive, once-in-a-lifetime boog—most likely the holy grail for the seasoned professional.
You know which one.
The one resembling a long wayward string of hot melted cheese right after you slowly pull the pizza slice away from your mouth.

Have a nice day.
I hope you’re not having pizza for lunch.

My loss

It was a cautious respect. I wouldn’t hurt him so long as he did the same.

THE day we met he scared me, leaping from behind the fence, his countenance in full attack mode.
A brindle colored dog, half pit bull, half mutt coming at me as if to attack but now stopped. His instincts sharp, an animal of the streets no doubt.
I introduced myself in my own street-wise fashion by raising both arms and lunging at him, teeth bared and screaming a mighty roar.
Stopped now, mid-charge, he stood there, bewildered. I suspect he knew he wouldn’t fair well in a fight with me. Or maybe he thought I was crazy. For whatever the reason, he didn’t attack.
From that day on, neither would bare their teeth again.
Both wary of one another and the harm we could inflict, we kept our distance, this despite his nightly return.

Some nights, he would sit curled up against the fence, watching me, until I’d gotten too close for his liking as he bolted for safety.
On one such night, he was simply too tired to run, simply laying there exhausted. He needed food.
It wasn’t a fair fight between us any longer, not with him in this condition. I chose to do something about it. After all, his being healthy served our tenuous relationship. I wanted him strong. I fed him.

This changed our relationship. I was now a food source instead of a combatant.
Not a friend.
Or a pet-lover.
Simply a means to his own instinctive survival.
I liked the relationship.
I didn’t want to be his friend—I didn’t want the responsibility.
I didn’t want to care for another being.
But I didn’t want to see him die either, a result of his being too weak to fight the coyotes that came haunting nightly.
If they did come for him, it should be a fair fight I thought, for I knew he’d fair well. But not in this condition. He needed help.

Weeks went by as I watched him get strong, the result of my looking after him, feeding him, making sure he had water on those hot desert nights.
Until one day when upon his seeing me, he began barking again.
I was glad for him, he was back.
The brindle colored dog who once threatened my being was now at full strength in all his glory.
And yet only for a brief moment.

As mysteriously as the day he showed up, he had now vanished.
I always knew of this eventuality. I knew it was his nature to roam, but somehow I’d hoped for more time with him, thinking how maybe someday we would be friends. But it wasn’t meant to be.

And so it is.
Another being, mysteriously entering and exiting my life.

I hope to someday know why.
I miss brindle dog.
I miss my old friends.
I loved you all in my own way.
But like brindle dog, I just needed more time.

Easter

Just finished Easter dinner.

Can’t move.

Breathing, labored.

Oh, no, please God, not now….my water just broke.

Shit.

I forgot, I’m not a woman 

Arrgggh.

 

 

How to tell if you’re OCD

Nobody wants to admit to themselves how they really do suffer from OCD.
But eventually, it becomes inevitable when you find yourself frozen, standing there staring at that newly opened jar of peanut butter, torn between satiating your hunger pangs and not wanting to ruin its silky smooth surface texture.
It’s been two days.
I really would like a pbj right now.
I wish my wife liked peanut butter.
And why did my barber give me bangs yesterday? God I look stupid. Fucking Sal.

What I WON’T do if I win Mega Millions

God-

Our national lottery, Mega Millions has now reached an all-time high of over half a billion dollars. But I’m sure you already knew that due to your seeing a massive uptick in prayers…or should I say bartering.
Bartering does seem more appropriate.
I’m guessing you’re hearing all kinds strange prayers right about now, many promising anything and everything if you were to somehow rig the winning numbers in their favor.
But you’ll never hear me praying for a lottery win. No sir. I’m saving that big prayer just in case you load me up with cancer or some new strain of syphilis.

Which is why I suggest you ignore all these lottery player’s bullshit prayers.
I think people will say anything for that kind of money. I know I would.
For example:
I’ve never sucked a dick in my life, not even a hint of gayness in my being, but for over a half a billion…I can see me promising you how I’d make some queer one happy motherfucker!

My point is simply this.
Anyone who sits there and tells you how they’ll be a better spouse or parent is full of shit.
Or how they’ll continue to live a life fraught with humility in your honor—or my personal favorite, how they’d give back—donating countless millions to charity. All lies.

I live amongst these animals God and can tell you first hand, it’s all bullshit. Don’t you buy into any of these prayers…not for one New York fucking second.
Here’s why.
If someone is prone to beating their spouse or kids, money isn’t going to change that.
And living a life of humility? What kind of a moron would run around in sweats and drive an old junker if they had access to that kind of coinage? Be still my fucking heart.
And charities?
Charities waste money on stupid shit like food and medical supplies…all stuff you can get for free now.¹ Then, when they’ve spent all your donations, they’ll start sending you letters asking for more…even though you’re broke.
Fuckers.

Which I why I propose you consider making me the big winner in Saturday night’s drawing.
Because unlike all the others praying for a win, I promise to only make promises I’ll keep. For instance:

I promise to be the bad father / spouse I’ve always been. You know I can keep that one, having had plenty of money at one time, while remaining grounded…ever true to my shitty roots.

Second, I won’t be humble. I know you’re all into that shit, but not me.
I plan on riding dirty dude and I don’t care who knows it. Fuck, I’ll even take out ads on billboards with me and my bitches in a Bentley convertible, a bottle of absinthe in one hand, a blunt in the other as I give crazy mad props to all the millions who purchased lottery tickets, making this good life possible.

And finally, I absolutely promise to not give any money to any charities. And you know I won’t either.
Mom always said, “charity begins at home,” and I have no reason to start doubting mom’s wisdom at this juncture in my life.
Besides, charities don’t know how to spend money. I KNOW HOW TO SPEND MONEY!
Think about it.
When was the last time you saw an ad on some billboard with a cowboy in a Bentley, with a load of bitches, giving props to all the people who’ve donated to the American Cancer Society?
I didn’t think so.

 

¹in America anyway

Why some men like to poke the bear

We all do it.
We playfully taunt the women in our lives until one of two things happens.
She either gets pissed off, touching off some kind of major argument.
Or we go too far, saying or doing something to hurt her feelings.
Then we feel bad.
So why did we poke the bear in the first place?

I have a theory.

As kids, we were taught the importance of boundaries. Whether not leaving the safety of our front yard to walk out in the street, or coloring within the lines. The lesson was always the same.
Inside the lines, good.
Outside, not good.

In affect, boundaries become a metaphor for daily living.
Staying within the lines on the roadway.
Never crossing the pc line at work.
And not to ‘cut’ in front of another when standing in a line.

Lines are everything to us.
Property lines.
Borders of countries.
Picket lines.

And they all have one thing in common. They’re clearly defined—static, they seldom if ever move.
But there’s one line that does move.
Dynamic by its very nature. changing day by day, sometimes hourly.

A woman’s mood.
You never know where it’s going to be, never staying in the same place for very long.
When you woke up this morning, you were hoping it would be in the same place you left it last night. It’s not.
It swerves around, a lot.
One minute pleasant, the next, well, let’s just say not so pleasant.
This is where I make the connection with boundaries.
At least on a roadway, bowling alley, or neighboring property, I know where the lines are and am careful not to cross them.

But a woman’s ‘lines’, depicting what mood she may be in at any given moment is always changing, and that means one thing.
We need to test the waters to find out where the hell they happen to be on any given day.
And this requires that a man to use a variety of tactical skills to determine just that.

Some women refer to this as poking the bear, but really it isn’t that at all.

I think of it as a highly orchestrated series of verbal jabs, anecdotes, interrogatories, jokes (practical or otherwise), physical moves, or quasi-insults, all designed with the specific intention of letting us know where the mood happens to be that day.
This, in order we don’t cross it.
Knowing where your mood is keeps us safe.
Within bounds.
Careful to not cross the line by saying or doing something we KNOW will piss you off.
Only there’s one thing wrong with this methodology.

Unfortunately, by the time we figure out where your mood is, it’s too late.

And on the seventh day, he went to Costco

God-

You know how you created the world in only six days and rested on the seventh?
That was a pretty big project, was it not?
I presume you started in on a Monday morning, finishing up late Saturday night, right?
So on Sunday, what did you do when you did rest?
Did you lay around the house all day, eating, taking naps, and drinking beer?
Or did you just sleep all day?

Here’s why I’m asking.
Like you, I work all week too. And on Sunday, I’m tired as a motherfucker, both mentally and physically. Which means all I pretty much want to do is lay around and veg all day.
But my wife has other plans.
She wants me to go shopping with her, usually to Costco, where they sell everything by the dozen and load it all on big push carts, and in boxes no less.
And that spells one thing—work, which wasn’t in my grand plan, but now is.

So how did you get out of going to Costco with your wife on day seven?
Did you just smack her around, like dudes did back in the day? I don’t want to do that.
I don’t hit women, for two reasons.

One, I don’t like hitting people.
And two, if I was to hit a woman, in this case my wife, I’d be a goner in the pussy department if you know what I mean.
Like that’s going to happen.

So I go to Costco, and Home Depot, and all the other shitty little places I need to go in order to keep the peace piece.

I’m such a sellout.

Yours,

Diego

How to know what she’s really saying

I love Shazam.
The music app for your phone that listens to any song playing and within a few moments, tells you the name of the song, artist, and a bunch of other stuff. It even lets you purchase the song.

Well I need an app like that for my wife.
One I can hold up when she’s speaking and have it interpret what she’s really saying into something I can understand. In short, a chick to dude translator.
You’d think the guy who wrote ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ would have already glommed on to this concept, but I’m guessing he’s busy trying to keep his marriage alive so not to come off as the biggest douche in the universe.

WITHOUT THE APP

Her: “My back is killing me today, I must have overdone it.”

Me: “Mine too, not only is my back hurting, so is my shoulder from that old football injury, and, I have a killer headache to boot!”

What she was really saying was how she’d like a nice back massage, how she doesn’t feel like cooking dinner or cleaning up afterward, and how she’d simply like to relax in a hot tub with a glass of wine.

How the fuck am I supposed to get all that out of “my back is killing me?” I’m not a psychic.
My brain is wired to compete. So if you tell me your back hurts, I’m not only going to one-up you, I’m going to throw in a couple extra maladies to make my point, and, to make certain that if you do come back with how your feet are hurting too, I’ve still got you beat by at least one symptom.

That’s the way it works in my world. It’s not right, I know, but like most men, I wasn’t born with the nurturing gene. I was born with the ‘I need to win at all costs’ gene.
Not necessarily the best thing for a marriage, I realize.

And this is where the app could come in handy.

WITH THE APP

Her:    ”My back is killing me today, I must have overdone it.”

App response: ”Well then Missy, lets get you out of those clothes and into a nice warm tub, that should help, and if it still hurts, after I finish cooking dinner and get the dishes done, there’ll be a back massage waiting for you.”

Only I have a feeling she’d be onto me the second I recited something like that. It just wouldn’t sound right, coming from me anyway. Not that I don’t mind helping cook, clean, or provide massages, I do.
The problem is this.

The moment I say lets get you out of those clothes, she’d suspect something was up, (no pun) knowing full well she’d never see a warm bathtub, dinner, or anything remotely related to a back massage.
This is where women’s intuition sucks.
For intuitively, she’d know the minute that blouse comes off, the next thing she’d be seeing would most likely be a headboard, the ceiling, or maybe even stars if she’s lucky.

That’s when she’ll pause for a brief moment and say something like;

“Well, I guess I better get dinner started…what are you in the mood for?” 

How not to eat lunch: One man’s debacle

Lunch for me is not a very glamorous event. In fact it’s anything but as I continually explore new ways to gobble my food in record time.
Unfortunately, for me and society, this method of eating relegates me to eating mostly sandwich type foods or products I can slurp out of a pull-top container. Speed eating always being the rule.
Well today, I hit a new low.

Wendys, a fast food chain here in America, offers a bowl of chile served in something resembling the venti sized cup one would get at Starbucks.
Immediately dispensing with the formalities of eating utensils, I reasoned that since the chile was not even mildly viscous, in fact a runny mess, and, being it was in a cup I would normally drink something out of, I didn’t waste any time. I began to slurp it right out of its container.

This is the part where I learned that even fast food joints have conventions, and I had just broken an important one.
Judging from the look on my fellow diner’s faces, the line I’d just crossed must have been similar to one passing from East to West Berlin in the early’60′s, dressed only in a flak jacket with several sticks of dynamite strapped to their chest.
In short, I had everyone’s attention.
It had to be my soup cooling tactic I thought. That giant air-sucking sound I made prior to the big slurp. Great, now what.

I suppose I could have gotten up to go fetch a spork or something, but in my typical ‘who-really-gives-a-shit’ logic, I reasoned how I’d never see any of these people again and continued to unashamedly drink my chile, this time sans the Hoover-ish noises.
But the chile was hot, taking way too much time to eat. I needed a new method.

With no eating utensils present, I decided that rather than get up to go grab a spoon, I’d simply dip into my coke with my fingers, scoop up a few ice cubes with which to cool the chile, and get this pony to the wire.
Pretty much a decent plan I thought, but again, I would learn the hard way how this convention is only sanctioned for kids under the age of five, anyone else would draw the seething contempt of any onlooker.

I want to say I didn’t give a shit, but I did, feeling much the way I imagined Hester Prynne felt after her ordeal, only I never screwed anyone, gotten pregnant, or had a baby out of wedlock.
I was guilty alright, but from little more than breaking with the norms of a fast food joint.

I guess in the long run I was long overdue for an event like this, and maybe it would have never happened in the first place had it not been for that two-hour lunch with my wife last week.
A lunch that should have taken forty-five minutes at best, but the venue was a major chick hangout where they serve fifty dollar salads and refill your iced-tea every two minutes, while all the women wait patiently for Alice, The Red Queen and Mad Hatter to come bursting out of the kitchen, happily trotting around the room validating everyone’s reason to spend two hours eating a fucking salad and sipping tea.

Maybe I’ll get a red-colored Sharpie and draw a conspicuous ‘C’ on my forehead the next time I go in for a cup of chile.

 

 

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 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

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

For John V

God-

When I was a hospice volunteer, I was assigned to an old man, who in his last days, was all alone.
No visitors, no friends, no family.
He shared a great many thoughts with me in his final days, mostly how he had come to be alone at this point in his life, despite having a large family and many friends throughout his lifetime.

Myself and a hospice nurse were his only visitors, and upon final request, we left him to pass—alone.
This poem is for you John.

 

 

If ever a time when I needed a friend,
That time would be now as my life nears its end.

But no one is left
My friends they’ve all gone.
For reasons unknown
Our story was done.

But my story played
And on it did so.
Without them I lived
not knowing or caring,
how empty this life
for the sin of not sharing
with others who could,
but it wasn’t to be
I was too busy caring for
one person—me.

And so as we lay here, just me and my thoughts,
I think of the people I wish who were here
to comfort and guide me as death draws so near.

But come they will not,
I’m here all alone as we say our goodbyes,
just me and my own to no ones surprise.

Happy Halloween Central America!

God-

Carolina, my maid is from San Salvador.
When she came to clean the house last week and saw all the Halloween decorations, she freaked out. I asked her why.
She explained it like this;

“Een my coentry, we doan beleeeve een Halloween. Ees the day oaf  the deveel.” Theese theengs scare me!”

Of course she was talking about our decorations, calling them theengs.
For the next sixty minutes, as she and her crack team of fellow non-believing Central Americans cleaned the house, there was a certain uneasiness about them.
Particularly as one of them got close to our glass globe encased witch head—we call her Mistress Bethelsda.

As I sat in my favorite chair, ensconced in its wonderfully supportive broken-in foam cushion, my feet high on the table as the girls cleaned around me, each time one of them would approach Mistress Bethelsda, they’d let out the cutest little shriek upon setting her into motion.

Did I mention how it typically takes Carolina and crew two hours to clean the house?
They were finished in an hour.

Happy Halloween

Diego

 

Smells like adult spirit

God-

What is it about neighbors?
Was your commandment to love them some sort of joke?
I only ask because I find it difficult to reconcile my loving them with the fact that some of these assholes are likely going to Hell.

It’s pretty obvious you don’t love them, if you did, why wouldn’t they be headed your way instead of Hell?
And if you don’t love them, well why the fuck should I?

Don’t get me wrong, I like most of my neighbors. But over the years, I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that there’s always at least one asshole in every neighborhood, like my neighbor, Hugh.
What a douchebag.

A few years back, my barber, (who apparently still thinks I’m in my twenties) gifted me with a small bag of weed for Christmas, saying how it was extremely potent, and that I should be super cautious—“a little goes a long way dude“— is how he put it.
His warning was disturbing. So much so, I was instantly paranoid and I hadn’t even smoked any of it yet, and not sure I wanted to, so instead of trying it out I found a suitable hiding place and stashed it, thinking I’d break it out on some special occasion.
Unfortunately, I hid it so well, I didn’t find it until several years later when I was searching for something else.

Hmmm.
I immediately began thinking how fortuitous it was to finally locate it on a weekend when my wife and kids were out of town, in the summer, and all the neighbors had bounced to cooler climates, leaving the hood a virtual ghost town.
I decided to toke up.
My plan was simple. I’d take a couple hits as instructed, then lounge in the pool on one of the kid’s float toys, sip some delicious, ice-cold Mexican beer, and crank the shit out of my outdoor sound system.
A good plan. I couldn’t wait to get started.

Drawing from my youth, I fashioned a pot pipe out of aluminum foil, grabbed a few beers along with an ice bucket, switched on the outdoor sound system and headed for the pool. I was ready.
Next, I loaded the pipe, took a couple hits, squeezed my fat ass into my daughters duck raft, popped open a brew, and within a few short minutes, found myself in one of the nicest euphoric funks I’d ever experienced. “Really potent” my ass, this weed was outrageous!
What a lovely afternoon, that is, until…
Hugh, my hobbit-like neighbor, completely uninvited, barged into my backyard like some Nazi stormtrooper and began staring me down as if he was going to kill me or something. I freaked.

I quickly, (but really more like slo-mo) wrestled myself free from the ducks grip, hopping out of the pool.

“So, uhm, Hugh, [stutter] what brings you by this afternoon?” I ask innocently.

“What’dya think brings me by Diego?” he angrily retorted.

“Uh—is the music too loud?” I asked.

“Guess again dipshit!“

Dipshit? I’ll bet he smelled the weed.

“I don’t know, Hugh, did you want a beer or something?”

“Something?”  ”SOMETHING IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM, ASSHOLE!”

Shit, it was the weed! But calling me an asshole? That’s a little harsh I thought.
He must’ve been hanging out in his backyard, but why? He doesn’t have a pool and its over a 100 degrees out.
What the hell is he doing outdoors at this time of day?

“I’M CALLING THE FUCKING POLICE DIEGO, YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL!”

What an asshole! I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
I also couldn’t believe that weed either.
My barber was right. I should’ve only taken one or two hits and just stopped there. But I didn’t, and now thanks to Hugh and a few too many tokes, I was in the grips of a fully-blown paranoid episode.
I immediately raced inside, turned off the tunes, drew every window shade in the place, locked the doors, and sat there frozen in terror as if these were my final moments in an electric chair before some guard threw the switch.
To think that one minute I’m laying in the pool, enjoying some rays, got a nice buzz, and thanks to the chronic, I’m finally decoding all the lyrics to “Smells like teen spirit,”  as the next, I’m wet and shivering in a cold, dark room, waiting impatiently for the police to show up, handcuff me and haul me off to jail.
What the fuck, Hugh, really? Was any of that necessary?

Alright, so maybe what Hugh did isn’t enough for you to send him to Hell, but it should be enough for you to let me hate the little leprechaun without sending me to Hell.

At least that’s how I see it.

A denial, A denial, A denial, A denial.
A denial.

Diego

Please don’t hit me

God-

What does your voice sound like?
I’d like to think its similar to ours, except for maybe how it bellows and booms, like the subwoofers in my jeep.
I hope it sounds like that.
I’ll be pretty disappointed if it doesn’t.

I knew this guy once who physically, was extremely big. What was weird however was his voice.
I expected him to have this deep, baritone voice, so you can imagine how shocked I was when I heard him speak for the first
time. He sounded just like Minnie Mouse, very high pitched and squeaky.
It just didn’t fit.
Here was this big strapping lad, with this little girl voice. Really strange.

Anyhow, that got me wondering what you sound like.
You’re probably a big dude too, like him.
I hope you don’t sound like him.
I busted out laughing the first time I heard him speak.

If you do sound like him, when we meet, if I start laughing, would you please not send me to Hell.
And don’t sock me either.
Somebody your size could really fuck me up.
You really should be more mindful of your strength!

Diego