Eye Contact First, Crotch Later

My darling friend and colleague will be getting married in a few weeks, so a group of us recently hit the town in her honor. We ate some food, we drank some drinks, and we ventured onto the dance floor.

I love to dance. Dancing is the best. I would die a hundred deaths if I ever saw a video of myself dancing, but I still love it. That said, the dance floor of a bar around 12 AM is just horrifying. And the reason for this is fairly simple: GROSS DUDES.

Here is what happens when you are in a group of females on the dance floor after midnight: You stand in a circle and dance with each other. You have fun. You lip-sync the words to songs and pretend to play a giant saxophone (maybe that one is just my friends?). Anyway, it always starts off great.

Then you notice some creepers working the perimeter of your circle. They stand there, just behind the circle, waiting. They are like lions waiting for one girl to fall off the pack so they can pounce.

They pretend like they're dancing, like they're just out there having a good time, but really they're waiting. Waiting like the creepy-creepertons that they are.

When guys do this, I cannot help but laugh in their face. "We are old!" I want to scream. "We already went through our stupid phase -- you're too late!"

(I do yell this sometimes, actually, but the music is too loud for the creepers to here me. Their ears are too full of beer and what I can only guess is a drunken version of testosterone.)

But at least those guys have the decency to wait for a girl to give them the time of day before they swoop in -- because there are OTHER, CREEPIER guys, who just introduce themselves by way of pelvic thrusts into your backside.

Picture this: you're out there dancing, having a good time, when suddenly there is a body behind you. The body presses into you, like it knows you, like the two of you are close enough to just mount each other with out making eye contact. But then you realize something: this body belongs to a person who you've never met before in your entire life. And he's pushing his groin into you like he's trying to make a screen print on your jeans.

Is this meant to be a greeting? How are women supposed to respond to this? "Oh hi! Whoever this is, great! I am happy to have your strange body rubbing against me. Maybe one day I could see your face and speak to you directly, but for now, this is just so great."

I can't take it.

Ladies, if any of you are approving these backwards attempts at romance, please stop. You should know that these guys are so desperate for your attention that you can demand eye-contact-first-crotch-later interaction. What do you have to lose? The weird slimy dude's smelly gross body? I'd say that's a risk worth taking.

And then, one day, when we all agree to hold gross dudes to a higher standard, they will have no choice but to abide by the new rule. I'm pretty sure that is the mission statement of feminism.

Eyes first. Crotch later.

(Maybe.)

Locker Room Business

I don't mean to show off (how many of my posts start like that?) but I've been hitting the gym pretty regularly lately. It's not really my thing, but I have to do something. The way I eat if I don't workout I might literally explode.

So anyway, I've been spending a fair amount of time at the gym, which means a fair amount of time in the gym locker room, and if you think I'm going to write about the nudity I see in there, well then you are RIGHT.

Growing up I was a competitive swimmer, so I have changed in public many, many times.  Public modesty, for me, is a science. I could change in and out of a one-piece, skintight unitard without exposing even a shade of aureola, believe-you-me. I'm obsessive about it, which doesn't make a lot of sense since I'm fairly certain no one is checking me out. I just don't want people to see my business, and I don't want to their business, okay?

Which brings me to my point: Why are some people SO naked? I mean, like, just super-naked like that?

The other day I saw this 50-something woman just chatting up her friend, totally buck naked. And her friend was sitting down, and she was really close to her, which resulted in some weird eye-level stuff. And the naked one was just like "Yeah so these are my breasts and this is my business and how was your day?" and I pretty much could not get over that.

I get dressed in the weird private booth that they provide for people with strict religious regulations, and I love it. I love it because I don't have to go all the weird maneuvers to stay covered, like holding my towel in my teeth while I put on my bra. It's much easier on my teeth, is what I'm saying.

So the question here is, how do people get to be so naked-comfy? How were they raised? Did their parents walk around naked all the time when they were growing up? Is that normal? My children have literally never seen me naked, and therefore they do think I have a penis. (They also think my boobs are my "tummy" and therefore I'm perpetually-pregnant, but I digress.) This may not be the best method, but at this point it would be pretty weird to be like "Hey kids, I just wanted to show you my naked body so you can see I don't have a penis" . . . so what's done is done I guess.

I should be clear that I don't begrudge these ladies their impressive self-esteem. I envy it, really. Just to walk around like "WHAT" and air-dry like Cuba Gooding Jr in Jerry McGuire? It sounds liberating.

But until I reach that point (never) I guess I will just be the mom with the penis.

Have a nice weekend.

Happy Birthday, Stupid!

Last night I spent 25 minutes trying to complete the simple task of selecting a birthday card for my sister. It should not have taken that long. I care about my sister, a lot, but I don't particularly like standing in the card aisle reading card after card of the stupidest humor America has to offer.

How does one become a "funny" birthday-card writer, anyway? Hallmark must advertise those job opportunities during commercial breaks of "Two and Half Men" and "Two Broke Girls" or something. Either that, or they are sending headhunters to fourth grade classrooms.


From what I can tell, if you want to buy a birthday card for an adult female, your choices break down into the following categories:

 
1. You're Old and Ugly!


2. Buy shoes and eat cake, Girl!


 3. Religious.












If you want to buy a card for a male, your choices break down into these categories:





1. Fart Joke



2. Hot Chicks/Sexual Inadequacy



3. Tool belt-Fart Combo













But what happens if you don't want to tell your sister that she's old and ugly, or that she should buy some shoes, or that sisters are God's way of showing His love on earth? And what happens if, on Father's Day, you don't really want to tell your dad that he farts a lot and that he hogs the remote and then farts again? What happens then, greeting card company???

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I am weird for thinking that telling your best friend her boobs are saggy on her birthday is not really in the birthday spirit. But I doubt it. I think many of us would prefer a joke that wasn't insulting to the receiver, but just normal funny. Like, for example:


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: Your boobs look amazing!


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: I bet you have lots of sex and that you are good at it!


Front: Happy Birthday!
Inside: I hope you get one of those good cakes from Costco and no one insults your body.


Is that so hard? I mean granted, I am a comedic genius, but that took me two minutes to create. Two minutes, and I would buy all of those cards. And people would like them.

So if you want a custom-made, funny, not-made-by-a-fourth-grader greeting card, just let me know. I will go into business. I will change the game and make millions of dollars.  MILLIONS!!!!!!!!!!!

Just say the word.

This one's for the ladies.

By now it's pretty clear that this blog is for men. I mean, most of my readers are dudes, and I always write about stuff like babes, and sports, and beer, and Band of Brothers. But this post is going to be different. Sorry, fellas, but this time I have to write something for the laydays.

Ladies, we've got problems, am I right? Boy-howdy. If it's not one thing, it's another. Mm-mm-mm. Lady problems, day and night.

Today I'd like to address one particular, very serious problem. It's something that women have been dealing with for generations, and it's caused a lot of pain. What I'm talking about is of course the underwire bra.

Now there is nothing wrong with underwire bras on the surface. They are functional, and nice-looking, in many cases very necessary. But they are dangerous, and here it why.

 

1) The wires eventually poke out

2) These wires are lethally sharp

3) There is no good way to fix the pokey wires

Must every bra come to this end? Bras are expensive. I always try to keep wearing them anyway, but then I spend all day pushing the wire back in again and again, which looks pretty awkward if you can imagine. Still, no matter what, by the end of the day I am cut up from that god-forsaken wire. 

Why can't companies manufacture stronger stitching or something? Maybe this is because I buy my underwear at Target, but still. Women deserve better. If men had to wear boxer shorts that occasionally wore-out and made little cuts on their wieners, you can bet someone would put an end to that noise. Especially when you consider how long men are prone to wear their boxer shorts.

So that's it then. Pass this along to your congressman or whoever, and let's see what we can do about this travesty. 

(Don't worry guys, I promise my next post will get back to my fantasy league.)