Monday, December 22, 2014

“Dear Santa Claus”

I am writing you to express my disappointment with you and the way you handle your business.

For thirty-eight years now I have been getting the short end of the candy cane, I’ve been treated like an outcast as if I was a toy from The Island of Misfit Toys.

My whole life I tried to be the best me I could possibly be, all with the hopes of ending up on your “nice” list, and avoiding your “naughty” list as if it was a homeless person begging for change.

Here is one example of what I am talking about.

When I was younger I would ask for Transformers, but to my dismay you never delivered, not even one of those crappy mini cars like Cosmos, that transformed into a frigging UFO.

Instead I would end up with something called Morphers, and they wouldn’t even transform into cool things like jets or cars, but rather lame things like chairs and pencils.

You couldn’t even give me GoBots for gosh darn sakes (pardon my language), which was just Transformers on meth.

I won’t even get into the whole G.I. Joe fiasco…G.I. Bob, what were you thinking.

Now I could go on and on about how you wronged me, but since you’re constantly watching me (perv) I’m sure you already know so I won’t bother.

My point isn’t to cry over your past mistakes, but to correct things moving forward so for once in my life when I wake up Christmas morning and I rush to the tree to see what you brought me I won’t be disappointed.

Is that really too much to ask for?

Considering the shape of the world today I’m pretty sure you’re not all that busy dropping off gifts for all the good girls and boys, honestly you could probably even keep your “nice” list on a Post-it note, so don’t even try it.

We also all know that most of the world just needs water and food, so as the saying goes, ”Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime”.

So with that being said, teach them to catch those flies that are constantly buzzing around their heads as if they were Mr. Miyagi and they’ll eat like kings.

As for water, I say to forgo altogether, because it’s highly overrated.

Give them all the Faygo they can drink, send the whole factory there if possible because no one really drinks that crap here anyways, well no one except for those crazy rapping clowns but who really cares about them.

So there you go, that solves that problem and frees up more of your time to spend on me.

If for some reason you still find yourself pressed for time, wear adult diapers like that psychotic female astronaut did when she was playing beat the clock on her way to open a can of whoop ass on some other chick, it obviously helped her.  

Losing a little bit of weight wouldn’t hurt either, replace that bowl full of jelly with a six pack and you’ll be surprised how much easier things will be on you.

And nose like a cherry, come on who are you trying to kid here, do yourself a favor and stay off the junk.

By the way, while I’m thinking about it.

Stop giving me clothes and other nonsense like that, because obviously if I wanted them I would go buy them myself, understood?

Just because I have gray hair and wince in pain when I bend down does not mean I want old people stuff, just keep the toys and video games coming, and I’ll let you know when to stop.

Well there’s where I stand, and I’m really hoping that this letter has opened your eyes and moving forward you will do the right thing by me.

For whatever reason things don’t change, you can expect another strong worded letter from yours truly, and maybe even a reindeer head in your bed when you wake up the day after Christmas.

P.S. No milk and cookies for you until you get your act together you fat bastard, not hating, just saying.

P.S.S. Keep your elves, or as I like to call them Christmas midgets, away from me or I will pounce on them like a rabid dog. Nothing personal, they just freak me out.


Thursday, December 11, 2014


With all the recent events that have unfolded lately spotlighting the issue of racism in our society I thought it only proper that we speak about it, and hopefully with a lot of hard work and dedication we can squash it all together and see past the color of a person’s skin and accept them for who they are on the inside.

Let’s call it like it is, we are all racist in one way or another, at one time or another we have all been guilty of being racist.

Have you ever told a racist joke and/or laughed at one, have you ever used a derogatory term to describe someone of a particular race and/or have you ever felt uncomfortable around a group of people who weren’t the same race as you, if so you’re racist.

Granted because someone tells a joke at another race’s expense doesn’t mean they are going home and lacing up their Doc Martens and hailing Hitler, but nevertheless it is still racism.

We as a whole need to change the way we think.

Racism is not as “black and white” as we are led to believe, there is a lot of gray area that needs to be rectified too, that’s if we ever truly hope to make headway in the battle.

Some people want to make themselves look good by saying all the right things at all the right times but then when safely home behind locked doors (for the lack of better words) letting their true colors show.

Turn on any cable news talk show and watch every last one on the panel being as politically correct as can be; they avoid ruffling and feathers or stepping on toes.

This does not solve anything, all it does it put a band-aid on the problem with the hopes of it sticking long enough until thing simmer down.

Then we have the people who cry racism every chance they get, whether it’s warranted or not, without knowing all the facts and/or looking at the big picture.

These kinds of individuals just know that people of different races are experiencing difficulties and they carelessly and without regard for their actions want to add more fuel to the fire.

Al Sharpton is a perfect example of this, a true trouble maker in every sense of the word; of course he wants things to boil over because it justifies his position as the self-appointed mouth piece for African American people.

This man doesn't care about the people, but rather the color, where is he when a white person is wronged and/or mistreated because of the color of their skin (believe it or not it happens)?

He is nowhere to be found, so in all fairness he himself is a racist, and part of the problem not the solution.

Finally we have the individuals who feel the need to riot and loot because they weren’t satisfied with a particular outcome, completely uncalled for and it does nothing to help the issue at hand.

All you’re doing is hurting other innocent people in the process who had absolutely nothing to do with the outcome, and does that make things better?

If you want to do something, help out the family who you feel was wronged, show them that they are not alone in their time off need and that there are good people out there who are willing to lend a hand to help them rebuild their lives for the better.

Trust me I am 100% certain that most people who just lost a loved one would rather have a shoulder to lean on for support over people vandalizing and destroying everything in sight all supposedly in the name of the deceased.

This type of behavior tarnishes the memory of those who you claim to be fighting for, leaves the masses angry and even more hate filled than before, so all in all it is not the way to go.

Think peace; follow the example of some of the great leaders of our time such as Martin Luther King, Jr. or Mahatma Gandhi, these men were able to get their points across in a nonviolent, but meaningful and powerful way.

They led with peace and love not by an iron fist and fear, the spoke of truth and equality not with a forked tongue...just something to think about.

Being a white man I can’t say that I have ever felt the magnitude of its power firsthand; for the most part I have always been on the outside looking in, however I can clearly see the devastation it is bringing upon our society and our people as a whole and that does not make me happy.

We must all work together to kill this monster, regardless of race, because otherwise things are only going to get worse.


Friday, October 3, 2014

“The Ayes ‘I’s Have It”

Here are some secrets that I never told anyone about myself, have fun reading them but please do me a favor and do not tell anyone else, just keep it between us…okay.


…Sometimes cry myself to sleep, but that's only because I toss and turn a lot during the night, and unfortunately end up getting my boys wrapped up in the sheets.

…Think I'm built like a Greek god, well more like a Greek slob, but who's keeping score.

…Sometimes feel like an addict, a pumpkin spice junkie, if I could I would smoke it like it was crack…it sucks when it is no longer pumpkin season because then I’m stuck smoking yams, and they are nowhere near as good.

…Sometimes gangsta rap in the shower, sure I make as much sense as Mushmouth from Fat Albert and sound like Herman Munster on crack, but my imaginary audience loves it and that’s what keeps me pushing forward.

…Am racist when it comes to my porn, well actually more like jealous, because I can't watch anything with an African American male in it without experiencing a “sizeable” insecurity...but I'm okay with Asian men.

…Sometimes sneak into those big warehouse stores on the weekends and gobble up all the free samples I can, makes me feel like a real rebel…a rebel without a clue, but nevertheless still a rebel.

…Sometimes make-believe that I’m a badass, a real law breaker, but then I start thinking of getting banged in the booty by some big hairy inmate in the joint and I quickly get snapped back into reality.

…Sometimes talk to myself, and yes I also answer myself, because what would be the point if I didn't, otherwise I might as well be talking to a brick wall, or my parents…why didn’t you ever listen to me mommy.

…Still find myself laughing at certain words that aren’t necessarily meant to be dirty, but sound as if they are, for example duty, crack and wet…just to name a few.

…Once tried to see what I would look like as a woman while looking in the mirror, I tucked my junk between my legs and pushed my shoulders forward with my arms crossed in front to deliver the full effect, but I had to stop because I found myself getting turned on and grossed out all at the same time.

…Spend more time picking out my porn for my masturbation sessions than I do my clothes for work for the next day, but it doesn’t really make much sense since I know my body better than O.J. Simpson knows how to turn people into human Pez dispensers, so needless to say the party is over shortly after the first guest arrives.

…Find it rather difficult to order items off the menu in fast-food restaurants without laughing, mainly because the names they give their meals/sandwiches are just so stupid sounding it’s pretty hard not to.

…Sometimes fart in the tub and pretend it’s a Jacuzzi, just so I could see how the other half lives.

…Sometimes pretend to be a racecar driver when I’m in the car, like I’m in one of those Fast and Furious movies, but then I see a cop and the script quickly flips to Driving Miss Daisy.    

Well there you go, now you know more about me then you ever wanted to know, and I don’t know if it’s possible to think any less of me than you already do, but if so have at it and enjoy.


Thursday, September 11, 2014

“Blog-to-Blog Sex Toy Salesman”

I used to be a door-to-door salesman, I sold sneaker insurance but no one was buying, I also sold vacuum cleaners that both sucked and blew but that wasn't paying the bills, so I had to get with the digital times and try something new.

I decided to become a blog-to-blog salesman, visiting blogs from around the web and trying to unload my goods and/or services with the hopes of turning a profit, and not getting any virtual doors slammed in my face in the process.

So now I have a mission, but I still need to figure out something to sell.

What do people need to that I could offer them, what could I bring to the masses that everyone could use and at the same time would enjoy using? 

I got it…I would sell sex toys!

I would sell used toys for the people out there who were cheap and nasty, you know the individuals who are always looking to save a buck and who are not too concerned about getting an STD in the process.

I would even sell some higher end merchandise like sybians, you know for those who like a little extra horsepower with their masturbation.

I would offer a wide assortment of butt plugs, plugs with colorful hair attached so that people could fulfill their fantasies of being a real My Little Pony, plugs that were also whistles so that if the plugie had to pass gas while wearing it the sound would be a little more pleasant.

I would sell dildos in all shapes, sizes and colors, some so large that they could substitute as a baseball bat for Paul Bunyan, and some so tiny they could be used by Charolette while she’s getting down and dirty on her web.

I would also sell blowup dolls that came with their own “in case of emergency” kits, which included a can of Fix-a-flat and a roll of duct tape; we can’t let the good times stop just because someone sprung a leak.

So it goes without saying that I would try to have a little something for everybody, gay or straight, man or woman, none of that matters as long as your credit card isn’t declined, it’s all good.

Now here are some of my success, and horror, stories for your reading pleasure.

Here is Starr’s (from The Insomniac's Dream) recollection of that fateful day:

When MJM came knocking on the virtual door of my blog, I was beside myself.
“MJM has finally come to pick me up, whisk me off to a Comic-Con and then spend all night playing Marvel Legendary with me!” I foolishly thought.

No, the bastard only came by to try and sell me something.  I hate salesmen, and I especially hate anyone who knocks on my door and interrupts my day.
“I don’t want any,” I started to push the door closed, but MJM stopped it from shutting with his laughably large clown foot. 

“Starr,” he said, very seriously with intense and creepy eye contact, “You’re going to want to see what I have.”  He even wiggled his eyebrows.  What a fucking creeper.

With a sigh of resignation I stepped aside and motioned MJM into my foyer.  Moments later we were seated on the love seat, steaming mugs of coffee in hand (because I’m a fantastic hostess), and a large briefcase between us.  He assured me that, if I liked what I saw, there was more down in the car.

MJM opened the briefcase with a flourish and much fanfare, and the lights of Heaven shone out of that attaché, a crescendo of music fit for angels played, and my eyes opened wide in wonderment.  I shuddered as the chills crept over me.

“Just what I need,” I gasped.  “How did you know?”

MJM  just winked at me, and pointed to the brochure sticking out of the case, crammed in amidst all of the wonderful sex toys.   All sizes and shapes, in every color of the rainbow, those plastic and rubber phallic symbols beckoned me to play. 

I had to be patient.  I needed to see what else he had for sale, I needed to leaf through the brochure. 

After I had ordered one of everything, I couldn’t wait to get started playing with my new toys.  I was so excited, I could barely contain myself.  I was actually rubbing my hands together in anticipation, drooling with excitement of things to come.  (pun intended)

As I walked with MJM to the front door to retrieve my brand new Sybian from his car, I realized my folly.  What was I doing spending all of this money on inanimate objects for my afternoon of delight when I had a perfectly – well, mostly just okay – viral (somewhat) man in my presence?  MJ was the nerd I’d always lusted after, and here he was, in my house, and I was about to send him away for some alone time with buzzing replicas of the real thing.

“Wait,” I said.

MJM turned to look at me, and I smiled. 

“You wanna see my Harley Quinn costume?” I asked.  “I have a Joker costume you can wear,” I enticed.

MJM jumped on me, knocking me to the floor, and had his lips fused to mine faster than a fat kid attacks a cake. 

Eventually, we did make it back upstairs to play Joker and Harley, many, many wonderful and memorial (mostly just okay) hours (full disclosure, it was really just a few minutes) later.  In case you’re wondering, dear reader, we made use of those toys, too.

Here is Terrye’s (from Asshat Rants) recollection of that fateful day:

It was another hotter than hell day in the city that was built on the face of the sun, also known as Phoenix. The kid and the dog were both down with the screaming shits and I thought my day couldn’t get any worse. But as usual, it did. My cell phone began to ring and without checking the number I answered it. I should have known better; it was my mother-in-law. This is never, ever a good thing.

“Hello?” I answered, distracted by the fully loaded pull up I was holding at arm’s length as I carried it to the trash can.

“Hi, Terrye, it’s Kathy. I wanted to remind you guys that Meagan’s birthday is next week and she’s turning 30. We want to make it a big deal.”

My mother-in-law makes no effort to hide her favoritism. She never sends birthday presents or Christmas presents to me, my husband or our son. Yet, she insists that we shell out money for presents for people that never acknowledge our existence. Or recognize the gifts we send. If you can’t buy friends, you certainly can’t buy relatives.

“Nope, I haven’t forgotten. I found the perfect present for her and it’s going out in the mail tomorrow. No worries,” I lied my ass off, as usual.

“Oh good. I wish you all could be here for the big party. We rented a hall and got a local band, and…”

“I wish we could, too,” I cut her off, “but I have to go. Collin has the smelliest case of the shits I have EVER come across. It’s running down his legs and I need to get him into the shower before he gets it all over the place.”

“Ok. Don’t forget to send out Meagan’s present.” She may have said more, but I hit the “END” button on my phone and chucked it onto the sofa before turning to my attention to my son’s predicament. Yep, my day got a whole lot worse.

I finally managed to stem the tide of the unholy shit storm and decided to celebrate by jumping on the interwebs and checking my social networks. Quietly demanding my attention was an email with the subject line “Sex toys for your every need.” As I was about it send it to a spammy death, a little voice in the back of my brain begged me, perversely, to click on it. Who am I to say no to that?

This was the answer to my birthday present dilemma! A used butt plug with a happy “My Little Pony” rainbow tale! And they even gift wrapped for a small fee. Perfect. I was hoping that it came with a plethora of STDs as a bonus gift. I merrily placed my order and with a devious smile, hit the purchase and ship button. As an added special little touch, the enclosed birthday greeting read, “Our dearest Meagan, I hope the enclosed gift reminds you of all those sexual adventures you had in your teen years when your career as a porn star was beginning to take off. Happiest of birthdays! Love, Us!”

The perfect gift for an uptight, Mormon woman. MJM saved my day.

Here is Mandi’s (from Cellulite Looks Better Tan) recollection of that fateful day:

Today was anything but typical. I woke up early, and per my usual, reached over to pat Morty only to realize, like the last 124 mornings, that he’s not here and that he’s never coming back. I pressed my nose to his pillow and inhaled, searching for his unique musky scent. My mind may play tricks on me, but I swear I can still smell him in this house. I wiped my eyes and reached over to the nightstand, pulled out a Virginia Slim, pressed it to my lips and watched as the flame hit the end and the cherry burned orange. The only saving grace of Morty’s passing is that I can smoke again without his smug looks or pretend coughs. I took a long drag staring at the empty room, and tried to talk myself into getting out of bed. After two more cigs, I pushed myself from my bed and threw on my robe.

I walked into my kitchen, poured a double gin martini, sat down at my bar, and flipped open my laptop. Imagine my surprise when I typed in my URL and saw the orange light on my blog indicating someone had commented on one of my posts. My first comment!! I went straight to the comments and gasped when I read the first sentence.

Are you lonely?

I swallowed a big swig of gin and read on, nodding my head to the question. 124 days of solitude aside from the niceties of the people at the market and the liquor store. Yes, I’m lonely. Married for 29 years and then all of a sudden, my Morty gasps in the middle of our love making and dies on top of me. He suffered from a massive heart attack, and I only have myself to blame, myself and my raucous untamed libido. I continued to read.

When was the last time you had good sex?

I wondered why he was commenting these things on my blog dedicated to Morty’s memory, but my curiosity got the best of me, so I continued reading through the comment.

Would you like to have earth shattering orgasms again? Ask me how…

At first I was flabbergasted at the audacity of this person shaming me on my blog, asking me too personal questions. I slammed my lap top shut, chugged the rest of the martini, and stormed out of the room. I sat down on my sofa and turned on Guiding Light. In the opening scene, Jemma watched Maximus finish up his piano solo. When the crowd cleared, she sauntered to him, unbuttoning her blouse as she walked. As she reached him, he grabbed her tiny waist and pulled her onto the piano. He ripped her blouse away, revealing her ample breasts barely covered by a lacey bra and rubbed his chin over her collarbone. I began rubbing my legs together, squirming uncomfortably on my couch, realizing it had been quite a while since I had in fact had an orgasm. Grief and loneliness had enveloped me since Morty’s passing so much so that orgasms seemed selfish and frankly like too much work.

I ran back to my lap top, logged onto my blog and replied to the commenter.

Yes, I’m lonely. The last time I had good sex was 124 days ago. I would very much love to have an earth shattering orgasm right now, maybe even two.  How? Please, for the love of God tell me how…

I sat for a minute staring at my screen. Then the orange light lit up again.

All you need is a credit card and a delivery address. I sell sex toys. Anything you like. Would you like to view my online catalog?

I thought for approximately twenty-two seconds.

Nope, I don’t need to see anything. I’ll take three of the best vibrators you have. And throw in something to surprise me. Something the other ladies love. Can I get it overnight?

Another couple of seconds later.

You bet.

I smiled at my lap top with visions of Maximus’ chest pressed against mine in my head.

I’ll Paypal you. Thank you.

I lit another cigarette, poured myself another martini thinking, tomorrow I will start with day one again.  Then I went into my bedroom, stripped my bed, and washed my sheets.

Now that you've read what these three lovely ladies had to say in regard to their experience with me and my sex toys, make sure you go check out their sites and send them some love, they totally deserve it.


Thursday, August 21, 2014

“The ABCs of Perversion”

Now this piece isn’t going to be about The Jackson 5 and their hit song “ABC”, or a trip down good old Sesame Street to get your learn on, so if you’re easily offended and/or looking for some of that wholesome humor that you would find on Lifetime you’re in the wrong place.

This is a list of the ABCs of Perversion, a list of things that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush, or at least feel a little uneasy about.

A is for ass, and not as in donkey or Obama, but rather the backside of an individual. Now some are nice and firm, and others are flat and nasty, but no matter how you cut it an ass is an ass.

B is for balls, and not the kind you bounce (ouch), but rather the kind that holds the ammo and fires when the timing is right.

C is for cock, and not the a doodle doo kind, but rather the kind that enjoys a good stroking every now and then, and when left to its own devices can get its human counterpart into a lot of trouble.

D is for dildo, which provides many females with pleasure without all the extra baggage and drama that comes with being with a man. And they don’t have to fake it when using one to avoid hurting its ego like they do when with a man.

E is for ejaculation, which is just about the best feeling in the world…enough said.

F is for fart, which can be both gross and funny all at the same time; it is the true laughing gas but also the original room clearer.

G is for grab, which is what I want to do to all those lovely lady parts I see walking around, but of course I refrain because I don’t want to get kicked in the nuts and/or thrown in the joint as a result of doing so. It’s also for gag, which is what I want to do when I see those nasty lady parts running around, especially here in Florida.

H is for hanky panky, which is what happens when two (sometimes more) people get together when their motors are running and sex on the brain.

I is for ice, which could be used to arouse and stimulate certain body parts when things get hot in the bedroom.

J is for Jergens, which can be used when your skin is dry, and when it requires a little extra lubrication to get things moving in the right direction, back and forth like the shake weight.

K is for kiss, which is not just for the lips, it can be done all over and often as you like, and even on the ass without the fear of being known as an ass kisser as a result of it.

L is for lick, which is what you want to do when you come across a freak with a body as sweet as candy, and just like an ice cream cone you want to make sure to do it all over.

M is for masturbate, which is a great way to pass the time and to help relieve stress, and just like in the movie Field of Dreams, if you stroke it, it will come…or maybe that was Jurassic Pork.

N is for nipple, which are a lot of fun to pinch, suck and flick, depending on the person you’re with.

O is for orifice, which in a way is like playing Whack-a-mole with your penis, aim to the right hole with your hammer and try to whack the mole. Boi oi oing.

P is for pink, which all the best parts on a lady are.

Q is for quest, which is what you feel like you’re on when you’re trying to bed the person you’re with, some quests are easier than others, that much is for sure.

R is for restraints, which can be very sensual if done right and not against your partner’s will.

S is for sex, which is really the only thing worth living for, and is great alone but better with a partner(s), kind of like playing video games.

T is for t-shirts, which make boobs look great, one chest at a time.

U if for undies, which are great to pull down, just not up because no one likes a wedgie.

V is for vagina, which is really the supreme ruler of the world, whatever the vagina wants it gets.

W is for wet, which is what you hope to have the female in your life when the time and mood is right.

X is for x rated, which is what all the good movies are rated.

Y is for yes, which is the word you love to hear when your motors running but you’re not sure if your partner’s is.

Z is for zipper, which is like pulling back the curtain to reveal the great and powerful wizard of Oz, except you’re not looking for a heart, courage or a brain behind the curtain.

Well there you have it, the ABCs of perversion brought to you by the crazy mind of a man whose brain is stuck on horny around the clock.


Sunday, August 10, 2014

"Intercourse Comedy"

I’m behind this chick getting busy like Don Juan, we were playing naked leap frog if you catch my drift, and then out of nowhere it hit me like a ton of bricks, I got a bad case of the giggles.

Now I couldn’t tell you why it happened, it wasn’t like she was telling me jokes or anything like that while we were in the middle of getting busy, but unfortunately it happened and I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know if I should just let it all out and start laughing like a wild man, like a crazy hyena on crack, or if I should try to hide and finish the deed without her catching on, I was as lost as a kid on the back of a milk carton.

I decided to hold it in, only because I’ve heard that they don’t really like it when you bust out laughing while in the middle of a naked wrestling match, they take that shit personally…some people just can’t take a joke.

Holding it in wasn’t easy, not at all; I was sweating like crazy and shaking like I was having a bad seizure, which surprisingly she seemed to enjoy.

I tried biting my lip to avoid laughing; thinking that if she happened to see my face she would just think I was making one of those cool fuck faces, as if I was a real stud or something.

Unfortunately it didn’t work, the giggles came flying out of me like the steam from a ready teapot, and I started cracking up like a lunatic in a padded cell sitting in a straightjacket.

I fell off her like a cowboy from a mechanical bull, lying on my back on the bed as if I was just knocked out by Mike Tyson, laughing so hard that I could barely breathe and my pecker pointing straight up like a middle finger to her.

Needless to say I felt bad, I tried to compose myself and convince her, but rather something funny I heard earlier that day, but she didn’t buy it and ran out of the room as if the cops were after her.

I hauled ass after her, trying to plead my case and keep her from jumping off of a bridge as a result of my actions, but as I got up off the bed my feet got tangled up in my underwear that was lying on the floor and I fell flat on my face...and I think I dislocated my dick in the process.

She came back into the room to see what happened after hearing me scream like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert, and as she saw me lying there on the floor crying out in pain, with a crooked cock, she started laughing.

So needless to say it was quite the experience for both of us, and after we got things straightened out (literally), we engaged in sex a few more times, but from that point forward to a soundtrack of depressing music and with all our clothing as far as possible from the bed.


Thursday, July 31, 2014

“What Men Want”

A while back I wrote a piece entitled, “What Women Want” and had the aid of three lovely and very talented ladies to help me figure out just what that was.

Now however, I figured it was the men’s turn to share their thoughts and spill their guts, hence this piece.

There were three totally radical dudes (listed below) who actually answered my questions, can you believe it, I’m as happy as I was the day I discovered masturbation.

(Color coded so you know who answered what)

Rich Rumple
Google+: +RichardRumple

Gary Sidley
Bubblews: &gsidley
Latest post: The Circle of Life

Phil Holtberg
Twitter: @RegularGuyNYC

1. Which do you prefer, a woman who can hang with the boys, or a total priss who is out getting her nails done while you’re a home watching the game?

Richard: Okay, by hanging out do you mean screwing around with them, literally, or simply a great looking female that everyone wishes they could have?  I’ve never been one to entertain the pass around pack concept (too many chances of catching something you can’t get rid of).  I do have to say I like one that can hold her own in a conversation and not be afraid to try new things. 

Prissy bitches drive me crazy, although the thought of solo time does appeal to me.  The only problem with the “Priss” being absent is that there’s no one to go to the fridge for me.  Being the lazy bastard I am, that is something that is almost too horrible to even imagine.  Remember, in the South, a primary phrase of all men is, “Go git me ‘nother beer, bitch!”  (Don’t tell my wife I said that.  She’d kill me!)

Gary: Woman who can hang with the boys for me – that is, as long as she’s not seeking to get laid by all of them, at least not all at the same time! My lady enthuses about football (soccer) as much as I do, and can swill down pints of cold lager at a rate that would match that of many male boozers.

Phil: Hang with the boys! As long as she is also not banging them or participating in a circle jerk with them.  No one likes a priss anyway.

2. The three Bs, belching, beer and boobs, put them in order of importance?

Richard: Boobs, Boobs, Boobs, belching, and beer and more boobs.  I really don’t drink.

Gary: My order of preference would be: 1st boobs, 2nd beer, and 3rd belching. The typical, real-life sequence, however, tends to be different: Beer drinking (makes us randy), so passion and boob-kneading follows, and then (at the height of passion) I release a stale, hoppy belch into her ear. My wife’s a very lucky lady!  

Phil: Boobs, beer, belching. Boobs rule above all.

3. The age old question, Ginger or Mary Ann?

Richard: No question … Mary Ann!  I can’t see Ginger ever getting up to get anyone a beer from the fridge.  Mary Ann had so much energy she’d find a way to fit the fridge in the living room next to my recliner, and still make wild and passionate love for hours before ever getting up to fix a fantastic dinner while I took a nap.  I sometimes wonder if those two weren’t lesbians, though.  They were always hanging out together and never really got it on with any of the male castaways.  Then again, would you screw Gilligan?

Gary: Mary Ann for me. Not keen on ginger-haired girls (although did go through a phase in my late teens when I had an unwholesome desire to get acquainted with ginger pubic hair – come to think of it, that could be a topic for my next blog post). Also, I tend to prefer the more homely ladies than the flamboyant types.

Phil: Mary Ann. She always looked like a closet freak who dressed like a slutty country schoolgirl. Though, with Ginger I would like to know if the carpet matched the drapes.

4. Forget the chicken, what came (huh huh) first, the penis or the egg?

Richard: Definitely the penis.  There would never have been an egg without foreplay.  Sex is no good unless both parties work each other into a foreplay frenzy. (You know, when grandpa’s ashes get knocked off the table and you don’t even realize you’re rolling around in them!)  So, imagine two eggs attempting foreplay.  Even hard boiled, they simply couldn’t achieve any type of satisfaction.  Yolks simply don’t stimulate, and egg whites stick more than slide.  Yep, definitely the penis!

Gary: This question is far too philosophical for my simple mind. If pushed, my diplomatic response would be that they came at the same time – which is, of course, always the best way!

Phil: The penis I guess. Then the egg which I would fry up with some bacon afterwards. Post orgasm hunger.

5. A woman who farts, funny and sexy, or nasty and a complete turnoff?

Richard: It all depends on where my face is when it happens.  Remember, for every action there is a reaction … bitch!

Gary: It might surprise a few people to hear that I do not like to hear women fart. Surely such wonderful creations shouldn’t emit noxious gas, nor shit for that matter – for many years I was in denial and would not accept that women expelled putrid faeces; I, instead, believed that waste materials evaporated from the top of their heads and smelt like hairspray!

The lady (and I use the term loosely), who has been my partner for the last 33 years, farts like a hairy biker whose lifetime diet has consisted solely of gulping down a combination of boiled cabbage,  baked beans, Brussels sprouts and lamb vindaloo. In contrast, I never fart in front of her. You see, contrary to popular opinion, I am a gentleman!  

Phil: If in a new relationship, a turnoff. If in a long established relationship sometimes funny. Sexy? No.

6. In the sheets, do you like to be the one who gets the party started, or do you prefer the woman do be the aggressor?

Richard: Depends on the woman.  If it’s someone I really would prefer ignoring, I want to start the party, which will probably be delayed forever.  In other words, “Don’t force me to do something I really don’t want to do.” (My wife and I live by that … usually concerning each other.)  However, if I’m looking at her as a potential “Hell yes, take me to my wildest desire” type, I love for her to attack.  It really helps the camera operator from having to give so many vocal directions.

Gary: A bit of both is best, and keeps the rumpy-pumpy fresh and interesting.

Phil: Depends on the mood. If she jumps on the bed with the ball gag and handcuffs she can be as aggressive as she wants with me!

7. Is it the size of the woman’s breasts that attract you to her, or the size of her mind…now be honest?

Richard: I’m not a big breast guy, even with chicken.  For both, I prefer perfect legs.  However, if I can’t click mentally with a person, I really don’t get into sex.  Okay, so we’re not discussing the state of America’s current political structure while sweating our asses off going at it.  But, if I’m going to give effort, I would prefer it be with someone I can communicate with.  Otherwise, I might as well get out to old inflatable doll and go at it, or someone from Alabama … say, my wife perhaps.  Nawwwww … let’s go with the doll.

Gary: The initial attraction has got to be boob size and other physical attributes – I’m actually drawn more to a fine arse than boobs, although it is a close-run thing. But I couldn’t spend any time with a woman who was dim and incapable of generating an independent thought; that would be a complete turn-off.

Phil: Sorry, what was the question again? I was preoccupied staring at her boobs.

8. Have you ever stuck “it” in the wrong hole?

Richard: Are you familiar with full motion waterbeds?  They give you one hell of a valid excuse to do just that, especially if doggy style is on the agenda.  If the partner complains, just blame it on the bed and use the motion of the ocean to sail away.

Gary: Yes, late August 1977, while holidaying in southern Spain; I spent most of that autumn with my meat and two veg in a bowl of Dettol disinfectant! But perhaps I’m misinterpreting the question? Is there a wrong hole?

Phil: I can not confirm or deny this.

9. Are you one of those guys who make women think all men are pigs, or a guy who makes them realize that chivalry isn’t dead?

Richard: I personally hate the way most men act.  (Tells you I’m not gay, doesn’t it?)  Seriously, when meeting a woman for the first time, I take her hand and do a half bow as I raise it up some, about a foot short of where you’d complete the old, classic act of kissing it.  I open all doors for the female, and do my best to treat her with the highest respect.  I even force my eyes to look into hers instead of allowing the eye magnets to be drawn to the attracting boobs.  It has always helped me show them that all men aren’t uneducated boner boys slobbering with thoughts of unrestricted lust.  (Yeah, I lied to get a laugh in the earlier questions.)  Even during lovemaking, I believe that you’ve got to take care of the partner first, before ever allowing yourself to climax.  You don’t know how many games of hitless inning baseball has gone through my mind achieving that standard.

Gary: Definitely the latter (I refer you to my farting etiquette, described above).

Phil: I would hope that I am a knight in shining armor. Brandishing a well endowed sword.

10. Your first time, how bad was it?

Richard: Terrible.  You gotta remember, pubic shaving wasn’t the thing back in the early 70’s.  Having no idea as to what to expect in the “feeling” arena, I went full blast to hurry things up before her parents got up and came to the back porch to see why we were out there so long.  After it was over, she told me I’d missed her completely.  The next time, I was able to tell the difference between what pubic hair and the real thing felt like.  Much better, I must say.

Gary: “I want you.”
“I want you too.”
“I need you inside of me.”
“I’m aching for you; give it to me now.”
“OK, here goes. Do you like that?”
“No, you’re not in.”
“Well where am I then; I’m rubbing against something?”
“You’re too high up; you’re hitting the bone.”
“OK, I’ll try a bit lower then.”
“Sorry, is it hurting?” (thinking, wow I must have a big one)
“No, you’re pushing at the wrong hole.”
“Oh sorry; shall we try again later?”
“Why later?”
“I think I’ve gone a bit … floppy.”

Phil: We were drunk and broke into a model home. Was kind of funny when we woke up the next day and the real estate agent was showing off the house!

11. Gay guys, do you run from them as if they were walkers and you were in The Walking Dead, or perfectly cool with hanging out with them and being their wingman while they pick up dudes?

Richard: I don’t run, but I don’t hang out while they do their shopping either.  I had a friend, when I was working with venomous reptiles, that was gay.  We’d go out hunting rattlesnakes, cottonmouths, coral snakes and copperheads outside of Atlanta in some really swampy territory.  I even wrote the Preface of his book for him.  He became one of my best friends.  However, we never really talked about sexual preferences.  I figured it was his business and his right to be the way he wanted.  As with any person, if you’ll simply treat them with the respect you’d expect them to treat you with, you’ll find there’s a lot of great people in the world.  Small minded people never find that out.

Gary: I usually enjoy the company of gay men. Often they are extremely witty and good company. 

Phil: Totally cool with all my gay friends. I have a bunch and they are a blast to hang with.

12. Boxers or briefs…or commando?

Richard: Briefs.  I could never get the damn thing to stay inside of boxers.

Gary: Briefs for me, as I require a firmer hold than boxers are able to provide – in simple terms, I can’t stand my bollocks stumbling out of one of the sides. In my rare impulsive moments I might go commando. 

Phil: Bikini. Sometimes a banana hammock if I'm feeling frisky.

13. When you’re sick, is it I am man hear me roar, or nurse please come quick I feel icky?

Richard: Leave my ass alone.  Let me suffer, sleep, and get well at my own pace.  You’ll know when I’m feeling better as I’ll ask you to go to the fridge and get me a Diet Coke!  Actually, when I awoke from having my heart attack, I saw my wife, daughter and son-in-law all grimly looking down at me.  Trying to make them smile, my first words were, “What?  Are y’all unhappy because I didn’t die?”   That joke bombed, but at least I tried to make them smile.

Gary: I regress when I’m sick and hanker after a mummy substitute to tuck me up in bed, stroke my fevered brow and tell me I’m a brave little boy.

Phil: I never get sick. I refuse.

14. Masturbation, an everyday event or a rare occurrence?  

Richard: Only if I’m too tired for sex.  You gotta keep your woman happy, right?  Why should she sit there unhappy just because you’re tired. You just have to put your finger on the marriage obligation and gradually work to please, no matter how long it takes.  Just don’t shut off the TV or I might go to sleep before she reaches her “Oh, Damn, Damn, Damn” moment.  
Gary: I’ve never really been into self-abuse. It has never appealed to me. I fail to see what the attraction … wait a moment, what’s happening to me … the page has gone all blurred and I’m struggling to read the question … and my right wrist has seized up with what feels like a repetitive strain injury … and my wife is referring to me as Akihito.

Phil: Well, I am typing this with my left hand. The right one is busy at the moment.

15. Looking at other women when your wife/girlfriend is around, okay to look but no long stares and please for God sakes don’t get caught, or look all you want and discuss with your wife/girlfriend about how hot the chick was?

Richard: Okay, you can talk, but you have to do it with class.  The typical guy might say, “Hey, look at that steamy, hot, succulant, drippy, gooey, type of a hole walking by in those shorts so tight you could count her pubes if she didn’t shave.”  I might say to my wife, “Now there goes a woman that is definitely looking for the right person to notice her.  By the way, how are things in camoflauge land these days.”

Gary: I do have a wandering eye, but stop short of long stares which would be disrespectful to both the lady in my eye-line and to my wife; I would not wish to render either one uncomfortable. (Another consideration would be that, if I gawped at another woman, my wife would pummel me when we got home!)

Phil: I look all I want and discuss with my gal about how hot the chick was. She does the same with guys. We have our healthy fantasies!

16. Chick flicks, take on for the team and go see them, or no way in hell you’ll be caught there?

Richard: I refuse to go to the theater these days.  Too much of a rip off for what you get.  However, I will record chick flicks off of the pay networks for my wife.  I find that if I can keep her attention elsewhere, the times I have to mutter “Yes, dear” are minimal, and I can pretty much do as I want while they’re on.  Plus, I can pause the damn thing while she goes and gets me a Diet Coke from the fridge!

Gary: I rather like chick flicks. I enjoyed Freaky Friday (but that might be because I have a thing for Jamie Lee Curtis) and I wept watching The Notebook. You see, I do have a feminine side.

Phil: Usually no way in hell. They are boring. Plus, my gal loves action, raunchy comedy, and adventure flicks. I win!

17. Would you hold a woman’s purse while out in public if she asked you to, or is it no thank you drive through?

Richard: Hell yes!  Especially if the wife is trying on clothes.  It gives me a chance to check out the cash in her wallet and see if she’s holding out on me.  I’m still waiting on the day I’ll find hundreds of dollars there.  Hooking is grounds for divorce that allow a guy to keep most of his stuff.  I’ve been looking and hoping for 34 years and the bitch is still not working the streets.  And people wonder why I’m always depressed.

Gary: I’ve been known to hold my wife’s purse and handbag in public (even when I’m not taking money out of either). Also, I have bought her sanitary products in a supermarket. This must mean I’m either a modern man or the hen-pecked variety – come to think of it it’s probably the latter.

Phil: Sure, and I have. Plus, I look in to snag some cash when I need it.

18. Is there anything worse than being hit in the balls?

Richard: Being hit in the balls twice!

Gary: No, but do we expect you women to understand? Of course not. They go on and on about childbirth, but how can a natural bodily function like labor compare to a totally unnatural process like being walloped in the nuts? Kneeling on a Lego brick might come close, but a whack in the bollocks takes first prize in the excruciating pain competition.

Phil: Hitting yourself in the balls. Belt buckles suck!

19. Are you ever too old to fart in the tub?

Richard: I am an old fart in a tub.  However, if one must, they can sit there enjoying the way the bubble bath filters the acid smell out of the gas and makes the fart smell like coconuts!

Gary: No, but only when there are no women in the house (see response to question 5). Also, with advancing years, you have to guard against follow-through, otherwise the bath water might resemble a melt down in Willy Wonka’s factory.

Phil: Never. It offers a good laugh.

20. Manscaping, you’re comfortable trimming up the hedges and making thing neat and clean, or no freaking way let that shit grow wild and free?

Richard: Fuck working in the yard.  Sweating during leisure time is not my thing.  If I can’t hire someone to do the work let the shit grow until the neighbors file a complaint with the city.  Then, I’ll complain to the landlord and get them to clean the stuff up.  Besides, I’m too damn busy answering well thought out questions like you provide.

Gary: Being hairy never bothered me until my mid-40s when I underwent a transformation. Now I’m always trimming my intimate hedges, which can be a precarious business when using the Power Comb of a Braun Series 5! – my nooks and crevices can appear like the aftermath of the Battle of Rorke's Drift. If I was brave enough I’d consider waxing, the full monty: back, crack and sac – but I’m a coward.

Phil: I always kept my chassis neat and clean. Body hairiness in the nether regions is not really sexy. No one likes to dig through a forest down there with their teeth.

**Extra Credit**

21. If boobs were cars, would you like to drive a smart car, a mid-size car or a monster truck?

Richard: If you do it right during your lifetime, the same person supplies all three.  Generally, to attract the male beast, many young females diet ridiculously, which usually gives you a minimal taste.  As age comes around, the dieting leaves and children arrive.  Boobs tend to get bigger here.  Finally, in older age, years of gravity pulling at them cause the boobs to droop like hell, stretching them to the max.  Those are the monster truck years. 
I’m still trying to figure out why it works exactly opposite on a guy’s super snake.  God’s got to be lying back laughing his ass off at that trick!   “Kind and loving God … bah, humbug!”

Gary: Somewhere between mid-size and monster would be my ideal, but with less than perfect suspension and handling (excuse the pun). A woman’s boobs should bounce and wobble. A female chassis should not be rigid and unrelenting; the veneer-like, plastic boobs of many porn stars (so I’m told) are a total turn-off.  

Phil: Monster truck. AMURRICA BABY!

Well there you have it peeps, what men really want out of chicks and what they think about certain “male-specific” topics, so if you’re ever hoping to get some loving from a dude that doesn’t require a credit card, I would highly recommend you pay attention and deliver the goods.

Also, if you happen to run into any of these dudes wife/girlfriend don’t go dropping dimes on them for what they shared here, because that’s not cool.

Make sure you visit all my fabulous guests (links below their pics) to show them just how much you appreciate them opening up and being honest with you.