Mind Over Bladder

Having a girlfriend with a bladder the size of a walnut puts men in awkward positions. I love mine to death (I should rephrase that. Knowing my luck, something fucked up will happen to her, and a Podunk detective with too much CSI and THE FIRST 48 on his TiVo will find what I wrote. Hilarity WILL NOT ensue.), but I watch her liquid intake like a parent who hasn't discovered rubber sheets yet. She spends half her life dehydrated and the other half sneaking drinks out of restroom faucets when she has one of the ten daily bathroom breaks. Meanwhile, I can't figure out where all this pee's coming from so I tighten my grip on the water supply. It's a vicious cycle.
Despite what my court appointed therapist says, this has nothing to do with me trying to control every facet of her life. It's more a pattern of inopportune moments. For instance, when we go to the local burger joint, she cuts a path to the ladies' room instantly. And it's not like I'm STARVING, but now I've been put into the default position of standing by myself, looking like a moron.

Fast food eateries don't have much dead space on the floor. Either you're waiting to order, ordering, waiting FOR your order, sitting and eating your order, or leaving in an orderly fashion. Nothing in the franchise plan mentions an area for schmucks like myself who are stuck like dogs outside a variery store waiting for our owners to come pick up as soon as they're done taking their sweet ass time getting a pack of smokes and a couple scratch tickets. Least you could do is bring me a fucking Slim Jim. Unless we're back to talking about the bathrooms. Don't expect me to eat anything you find in there.

When I brought up the problem, she asked:

"Why don't you go in the men's room if it makes you so uncomfortable?"

Fantastic idea. As if it's not conspicuous enough to be leaning up against the wall of TACO BELL like a coyote waiting for potential Spaniards to smuggle, standing in the bathroom when I have no bathroomly duties to perform sets off alarms faster than Buddhist protesters in a smoke detector store. I might be able to get away with it in highway rest area (a wonderful place to make friends if you're not as deathly afraid of herpes), but not there.

Thank God for my cell phone. I pull it out of my pocket and make a few deliberate-looking motions with my fingers, shaking my head as if thinking, "Why did the children's hospital schedule me to do an open heart surgery on a Wednesday afternoon? Don't they know it's quesadilla date day with my supermodel girlfriend?"

Good thing that's not true. If it were, and a child's life depends on my girl getting out of the bathroom in a timely manner, Little Sally's a goner.

Like Father Like Run

I've never been a fan of meeting chicks' dads. Not for the usual reasons. As a man myself, I can sympathize with a father who has to deal with another set of testicles encroaching on his castle with every intention of banging his little princess. Denying that simple fact is as misguided as thinking a dog balances a treat on its nose to impress you with its agility and extraordinary willpower.

My true worry lies in the family resemblance. Nothing kills my will to mount and hump faster than a father who looks like a girl I thought was attractive before I met him. Facial structure, mannerisms, and speech patterns are all eligible for a quick case of BONER-B-GONE. It's this effect that made it impossible for me to masturbate to any Janet Jackson videos. No amount of sit-ups or simulated sexual gyrations could wipe clean the memory of her brother. A bad camera angle or a stray thought could default me into technically beating off while thinking of a dude, and I avoided the situation altogether.

Like Janet said: That's the way love goes...

Cold (and Flu) Shoulder

While I understand the reasoning of the 'sneeze into your sleeve' campaign, the next logical step is the 'no more hugs' movement. The easiest way to make me return to my antisocial bomb shelter mentality is to make sure I'm rewarded for my affections with influenza.

Truth in Technology

    One time my girl was bitching me out via text for something stupid I did, was planning to do, or maybe something I hadn't done (Last one's doubtful. Her accuracy's amazing.) Every message triggered a cute ringtone, a happy face icon, and a preview of the incoming text. Something adorable like: "You are such a FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!"
   Amazing as technology is, I'm surprised there isn't an app that scans the words, determines the tone of the transmission, and selects the appropriate emoticon. This conversation would provoke a screamy face with a knife in one hand and a pair of testicles in the other. Gimme a fair chance to delete it before my ego gets to read it.

Dog Breeders Support Eugenics

Sitting in the waiting room of a walk-in clinic, I fully expected to be surrounded by a bunch of filthy, broke people wearing vomit encrusted PEPSI CLEAR t-shirts. I was pleasantly dismayed to find myself surrounded by a th(r)ong of young chicks.
The demographic frightened me a little bit. With the nice outfits, hot shoes, and latest hairstyle, one would never suspect they'd be broke ass bitches. So when you meet that hottie (Did I just write 'hottie'? I feel sick) at the supermarket or the library, nothing would indicate a problem.
Once the pedigree is discovered, it'll be too late. Too much time has been invested in teaching her to do those things you like. Too much money blown on food. So when her hair starts falling out and she's coughing like a motherfucker, it's too late. You're attached to her. Kinda like getting a dog from the pound.

Skin Grafts

    I hope I never get caught in a fire. Especially one where I'm hurt bad enough to require skin grafts. I heard they cut the skin like sod off awkward places like the ass region and attach it to inappropriate places like the face. Not exactly kissable cheeks.

   On the other hand, maybe I'd finally be able to grow a mustache.

Retch Up 3: Retch Up 2 Da Stweet

   As a loving boyfriend, certain concessions must be made. Despite what self-proclaimed playaz/novelists will tell you, womenfolk's opinion do matter. It's important not to relent to the inner knuckle dragger. No matter how much it hurts. Even if you have to watch STEP UP 3.
   In all fairness, I volunteered to watch it. I brought the devil into the house and the devil sat for months. After a string of shitty foreign films I suggested ( I only watch so I can check off the box for my 'pretentious white guy' application), guilt set in like squatters in a condemned building.
   What followed was the unashamed rewrite of BREAKIN 2:ELECTRIC BUGALOO spliced with Rudolph's island of misfit toys. Lucky for the producers, the target audience is too fickle to remember Rudolph. And their parents were likely conceived after their grandparents saw BREAKIN'.When I was a kid, there was no sneaking the message. They had to put morals-shaping tales in the form of the infamous Afterschool Special. MTV has since learned if you hide the bitter pill of a lesson in the tasty luncheon meat slice of hip soundtrack, kids will swallow anything. I started cruising high schools with a Timbaland album wrapped around my dick.
    An underground dance crew has to win a big dance battle to save their dance studio from foreclosure. I've never seen a story like it. Ever. EVER. What boggles my mind is a dusty warehouse pulsing with chest pounding bass filled full of tight tank-topped hipsters talking about what's street. Those twinkle toes aren't nearly as street as Madonna back up dancers. Watch MADONNA:TRUTH OR DARE. Her guys would  beat the hair gel out of the STEP UP sissies and shove the street up their asses like a prosthetic fist.
   My girl claims she's not watching it for the story (though she turned the volume UP during a dialogue scene). It reminds me of when I used to have to endure a lame storyline, jammed inconveniently between the sex scenes, in porn. The writers didn't try much then either. It was always about a nymphomaniac getting a job in a mailroom. Or was it a nymphomaniac selling magazine subscriptions door to door? They all look the same after a while. Especially when the blindness sets in. And the hairy palms.

   Thank God my vision came back so I could experience the joy that is STEP UP 3.

Job Placement: Do you like zombie movies, Billy?

    Zombies are more popular than ever. Movies. Comic books. Television shows based on comic books. Zombies are so hot that someone even tried to mix the blood of the undead with Jane Austen. While I admire the effort, I read Pride and Prejudice once. Unless we're talking about the hip-hop version of 'getting brains', my interest remains unpiqued.  I can't even guarantee that a rampant amount of blowjobs could make me turn a single page unless you threatened to flunk me in English. Knowing what I know now, you can keep the fucking book. I'll get my GED instead.
    Let's say you LOVE zombies. More than anything. Certainly more than your job down at the office park where you try to black out.  Go to that special place in your mind once reserved for horrific sexual assaults or bad Jennifer Lopez movies to escape the misery. You need a new occupation.

   
Ever thought about working in a nursing home or senior center? Old people are kind of like the living dead. They certainly smell like them. Sure, they eat butterscotch pudding for every dessert and become unruly if they miss franks and beans Friday, but other than that, they're pretty similar. Elderly people wander around in a daze, blabber incoherently, don't recognize family members, and will only die if you cut off their heads (or their blood pressure medication).
    Perhaps you're saying to yourself, "Yes, it all sounds grand, but I hate the smell of pee. Have you anything more...exciting?"
    The answer, my friend, is a resounding YES. When the only danger is tripping on an oxygen tube or walking in on two fossils fucking (I imagine it's like watching elephant ears on a rubber sheet slap against each other in a wheezing, liver-spotted moist lump), I understand if you need something more to get the adrenaline pumping.

    Loony bins are full to the brim with mindlessly furious nutjobs itching for the chance to wiggle out of their restraints, spit out their bite guards, and tear you into confetti. Romero's zombies they most certainly ARE NOT. We're talking about those fast moving 28 DAYS LATER sumbitches. While a bite from the afflicted may not infect you with cuckoo, it WILL guarantee you get a hepatitis shot. Gonna have to use your imagination on that one. Pretend the zombification attacks your liver function or something. Certainly better than what would happen if you read Emma. Trust me. It's ugly.

After destroying two wooden coasters, I modified a peanut butter lid to suit my needs. The extended lip catches any spillage which will be emptied on detection. It's inevitable.

DOMOSTIC-noun: A Japanese tool used for ceremonial meet and beats

BANK 54

      BANK OF AMERICA sucks. If BANK OF AMERICA had guts, I would hate them in it. Never mind the policies, fees, and other legitimate reasons to hate banks. I'm way pettier than that. I don't even have an account there, but I'm gonna bitch anyhow.
      Ever been in a bank where there's obviously a dimmer switch at play? Not sure who's brilliant idea it was to light the joint like a night club. Is it supposed to have a soothing effect? Why not let the tellers sip appletinis and bolt a fucking condom machine to the wall. Given what I know about germs on the money, it seems somehow appropriate to create a banking environment where I wouldn't be surprised to catch hepatitis.
      What better way to accentuate the bar effect than post a faux-hawk coiffed asshole by the front door to pounce on me the second I open the door, armed with the same sorry pick up line:
      "Is there something I can help you with today?"
       Yeah, I'm in the market for a new bicycle. What do you think I'm doing here, dumbshit? Am I even obligated to answer?  I wonder what would happen if I ignored him. Walked around him. I pretend I'm a traveling salesman who's happened upon a farm. He's the farmer and the window tellers are his daughters. Then I pee on his popcorn (I don't expect anyone to understand what that means, but I'm putting it in anyways).
         I tell the Mr. Hostess I'm making a deposit and hold them up since he seems like the kind of person who could benefit from a visual demonstration. After giving my hand a thoughtful exam (Perhaps too much thought. Checking for a ring? A guy can dream), he attempts to turn our little Q&A into a discussion.
      "A deposit? Do you need any deposit slips?"
        The logical conclusion is that I don't require any because I HAVE A WHOLE HANDFUL WHICH I AM HOLDING AT EYE LEVEL. Perhaps he's concerned I may have run out considering I have a bunch of deposit slips, but now that they've been all written on and shit, they're worthless. I shake my head and give him that 'I can't believe you haven't accidentally killed yourself yet' look. He smiles and points towards the tellers:
     "They can help you with that right over here."
        Thanks for the fire, Prometheus.

Thinking (Outside) the Box

      Heard rumblings of a movie called BLACK SWAN. The director had done some other films I liked a bunch and I put a mental flag on it, even if it stood the same chance as every other movie I wanted to see. Funny how a simple thing like a girlfriend (though simple she most certainly IS NOT) can make the latest Kristen Bell catastrophe take priority over something more cerebral. Like THE EXPENDABLES.
    I was handed a nice stack of bargaining chips to help me convince the girl it was worth the movie money she would've rather spent on the latest Ashton Kutcher joint including:

• The movie's about the ballet. Women LOVE the ballet.

•  Natalie Portman, though attractive, doesn't set off jealous girlfriend alarms nearly as fast as Megan Fox or Sasha Grey.

•  Mila Kunis co-starred in FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL with Kristen Bell.

    Thanks to Perez Hilton and other jabberjaws, I got privy to a couple reasons why I NEEDED to see it, such as:

• Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman have dirty lesbian sex.

• Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman have dirty lesbian sex.

• The imagery of the film truly captures the frustration amidst the fruition of one's life dream. Namely, Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman having dirty lesbian sex.

    Of course, by the time my lazy ass got to see it, Oscar season came around and Natalie Portman was nominated for Best Actress in a girl/girl scene. The theater was peppered with suburban pseudo-intellectuals in their 50s who wanted to be able to brag about all the biggest movies while snarfing cocktail wieners in their neighbor's living room in between marital aid demonstrations. Nothing quite like watching near porn with a bunch of old white people to remind me of the time I talked up a movie so much, my parents couldn't wait to see BASIC INSTINCT with me. Ah...memories...