Salute the Vagina — All Hail Pussy Power

If you don’t know about Atlanta Public Access TV star Alexyss K. Tylor yet, it’s time you met her. Why? Because she will teach you about “vagina power,” how you need to be a “pilot over the pussy,” how you need to be the “pussy police” and, most importantly, how “dick will make you slap somebody.” The best part is that she does it while sitting beside her mother. This woman must be given an HBO show immediately.

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Charles Nelson Reilly — R.I.P.

uncle_croc.jpg“Just me on a hilltop with 15 girls,
In a Nelson Reilly orgy that’ll make your hair curl”

— ‘Serrated Edge’, Dead Milkmen

Before game shows started featuring lame people singing, dancing, eating insects and choosing silver cases, there were game shows like $10,000 Pyramid, Hollywood Squares and Match Game, which featured the brilliance of B-List celebrities like Nipsey Russell, Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly.

We had already lost Russell and Lynde, but Monday it was announced that Reilly was also gone. While that may not be a big deal to pop culture junkies under 30-years-old, to those of us who grew up watching Reilly and other B-List geniuses, it’s a sad thing. Sure, there are plenty of B-Listers around these days, but name one of them that has even a fifth of the charisma and flair that Reilly had. I guess now it’s up to Rip Taylor to carry the innuendo-encrusted torch for B-List Brilliance.

Check out this trailer for the movie ‘The Life of Reilly,’ and remember to tip your 40 and pour out some for your fabulously flamboyant homie.

My Adventures on Match.com Part IV (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part II)

tongue2.jpg(This is Part IV of a five-part series. Click here for Part I, here for Part II, and here for Part III)

CrazedHippieGirl and I continue to drink beer on her deck, and she continues to ask me if I am having a good time.

“Are you regretting coming?”

“No, of course not,” I say, as I move from peeling my beer label off to playing with the rocks surrounding the candle that sits on the table.

Eventually we move to the kitchen, where she begins cooking the meal that brought me here in the first place. It turns out she is cooking chicken breasts and… Rice-A-Roni. I am in no way a food snob, but if I have someone over for dinner, especially for the first time, I’m not breaking out the boxed food mixes.

Once the chicken and the San Francisco treat are cooking, CrazedHippieGirl moves in for the kill. She kisses me.

It’s just a small kiss, but then she starts hugging on me. I would like to say that I pushed her away and told her, “I’m not really into you, so we shouldn’t do this,” but I did not. Instead, I start massaging her neck and back.

I’ve been told I have nice hands, but CrazedHippieGirl seems to like them so much that she feels the need to tell me, “You know you can’t have your way with me tonight, right?”

“Of course,” I say, thinking that the Rice-A-Roni better be kick ass, because, so far, the conversation is scary, the dog still won’t stop barking and now I’ve been informed I’m not getting laid.

The chicken and Rice-A-Roni is adequate, but during dinner I have to hear about how great the jam band String Cheese Incident is as they play loudly on her stereo for the 12th time. I don’t dislike a lot of music, but I have a healthy disdain for jam bands. I would rather hear her goddamn dog barking than the String Cheese Incident over and over, but instead I get to hear both. And I thought match.com would never lead to romantic bliss.

After dinner we move to the couch, which is “where the tragic happens.”

We start kissing again. As we kiss, I start having rapid-fire thoughts go through my head, which are occasionally interrupted by awkwardly-timed questions I’d rather not answer.

Why can’t I feel her tongue? Does she not use it when she kisses?

“You’re such a great kisser.”

Holy shit. Where is the goddamn thing?!? I must get a look inside this girl’s mouth.

“Are my kisses doing to you what yours are doing to me?”

Is she kidding? Where is that tongue? Oh wait I feel something. What is that? It feels rough, but not rough. Is that her tongue? She didn’t talk weird. I wonder if I can accidentally turn off her iPod. Will her dog just shut the fuck up?!?

Kissing stops.

She stares at me with wide eyes.

“I like looking at you.”

I can’t think of anything to say. Eventually I manage to utter, “Do ya?” and we start kissing again.

Really, I need to just stop kissing her and get the fuck out of here. But, before I do that, I need to stick my tongue out at her in a playful way. Then she’ll be forced to stick out her… whatever the hell it is. Fuck the String Cheese Incident.

“Do you think I’m weird.”

Finally, a question I can effortlessly answer yes to.

I don’t answer. Instead, I start kissing her again.

I think it must have been lopped off somehow. Maybe it was an accident at the factory. But, she doesn’t even work in a factory. I need to go home. Did I remember to set the TiVo to record The Sopranos tonight? Why have I not gotten the Season Pass yet? I really need to do that.

The kissing ends, and this time I’m quick to employ the deep breath, hand slap on the knee, “Well, I know you have to get up early in the morning” maneuver that I should have utilized hours ago.

She walks me to the door, kisses me again and I drive away. I can safely say that I have never been so happy to leave a girl’s house without having some kind of sex.

No more than three minutes into my drive home, my phone rings. It’s her. I don’t answer. Instead, I go home and go to sleep.

The next day, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. It’s her, over and over.

Eventually she emails me and asks if her “smooches,” were bad. I use this opportunity to tell her that, “while I had a good time, I feel like things moved too quickly.” I go on to tell her that I’m new to the whole dating thing, and that I’m not ready to be with anyone in a serious way.

She responds with, “I totally understand. If you want, call me sometime and maybe we can go to a movie or something.”

Ah, how easy was that? I’m so glad she understands where I am coming from.

A few days later — the same day I meet a woman who I had been having a torrid email and instant message relationship with — the phone rings at midnight. I don’t recognize the number, and I’m hoping it is this new woman, who I can’t stop thinking about. So, I answer.

“Hey, it’s me!” says CrazedHippieGirl. “This is your drunken, midnight phone call.”

I’m pissed that she is calling me at midnight, but finally she gives me an opening to be as upfront as I can with her.

“I tried to see your profile on match, but it wouldn’t let me. Did you just block me, or everyone?”

“Well, I’ve actually met someone and we really hit it off. We are going to see how it goes before dating other people.” There is no misinterpreting that, right? She wishes me well and apologizes for calling so late. I am relieved as we hang up, knowing that I’ve had my last interaction with CrazedHippieGirl.

Until a week later when she emails me, wanting to know how my week went and to tell me she hopes I have a great weekend.

I do not respond.

A week after that, I get another email from her, saying that she’s not trying to win me over, but wanted to know how my job search is going.

I do not respond.

I hope my second non response is enough to put an end to this story, but I’m not so sure. I am just so happy I didn’t “have my way with her.” If that would have happened, it would have turned into something out of Creepshow. Instead of hearing my phone ringing within three minutes of leaving her house, I would have heard her holding onto my back window, screaming, “Thanks for the ride Tony. Thanks for the ride.”

To be concluded in…

My Adventures on Match.com Part V (Sweet Success?)

My Adventures on Match.com Part III (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part I)

tongue.jpg (This is Part III of a five-part series. Click here for Part I and here for Part II.)

My match.com profile made CrazedHippieGirl smile. At least that’s what she tells me in an email asking if I’d like to correspond with her. I check out her profile, and even though I’m not blown away by it, I figure I might as well see what she’s about. So, I write her back.

She seems OK during our first emails back and forth. She’s in her early 30s, loves music, beer on the deck and her dog. Pretty general stuff, but women with dogs are always preferable to those with cats. No offense to my cat-owning female friends and/or former flings, but it’s the truth.

Anyway, after a few emails back and forth with CrazedHippieGirl, we decide to talk on the phone. The conversation isn’t exactly stimulating enough to keep me up all night, but we talk for 30 minutes. So far, so mediocre. I am already thinking that I’ll probably stop corresponding in a few days. Before I get the chance to stop, however, she suggests we meet in person. I know that, given my bland feeling after talking to her, I should just say no thank you at this point, but I decide to see what she has in mind. Little do I know that what she has in mind is inviting me to her house so she can cook me dinner.

I know I previously said I was against the coffee shop first date, but that doesn’t mean I’d rather be invited to someone’s house. Talk about going from one extreme to the other. I know I’m a great guy, but CrazedHippieGirl doesn’t know that yet. She certainly doesn’t know me well enough to have me over for dinner. But, to be fair, I don’t know her well enough to go to her house for dinner. It’s sexist to think, “What kind of girl would do that,” because it is just as crazy and potentially dangerous of a proposition for myself. But, I accept anyway.

As soon as I do, my phone will not stop ringing. I guess she is excited about me coming over, because she calls and calls. This is really where I should come to my senses and change my mind. But, I do not.

Anyway, the big date night arrives, and I make my way to her house. Once I get there, it doesn’t take me long to figure out that I’ve made a mistake. First of all, dogs love me. Even the dogs whose owners say “be careful, they are strange around new people at first.” Those dogs are the ones who usually love me the most. Well, CrazedHippieGirl’s dog starts barking when I arrive, and proceeds to bark throughout the evening. I am taken aback that I have finally met a dog that doesn’t like me. In retrospect, I realize he liked me a lot and was just trying to warn me. “My mommy is crazy, run!”

After a hug, we go to her deck for beer and conversation. Within five minutes, she asks me out on two more dates, which kind of freaks me out. Fist she asks me to take her to a free concert the next weekend. “Um, let me check,” I say. “I’m not good at remembering what I have planned. But, that date does sound familiar, so I’ll have to get back to you.” Ah, yes, saved by the “date sounds familiar,” line. I don’t have to say yes and I don’t have to say no, which would make the rest of the evening more uncomfortable than it was already starting to be. Then she asks me to be her date to a party she’s throwing in two weeks. Shit. I can’t really use the “date sounds familiar” this time, but I quickly come up with a slight variation. “Well, I don’t want to say yes or no until I’m certain I’m free, but that date doesn’t sound familiar, so that’s a good sign. Let me check though and I’ll let you know.”

We continue with the getting to know each other chit chat, but it’s difficult to compete with the incessant barking. Before long, she says, “You’re not having fun are you?” Damn, this girl really knows how to put someone in an awkward position. “No, I’m having a fine time,” I say, before explaining that I always peel beer labels off, fiddle with matches and look off into the distance on first dates.

As bad as this date was going so far, it would soon get worse. Much worse.

To be continued in…

My Adventures on Match.com Part IV (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part II)

My Adventures on Match.com Part V (Sweet Success?)

My Adventures on Match.com Part II (Let the Winking and Dating Begin)

(This is Part II of a five-part series. Click here for Part I. All names have been changed to protect myself.)

winksup.gifAfter completing my match.com profile, I am ready to start looking around for some ladies to “wink” at, in hopes that they will wink back and we can start a torrid email relationship, which will lead to… Actually, I don’t know how this is supposed to work. I just know that it is time to wink.

I make my search criteria for the ladies broad. I don’t really care about height, eye or hair color, body type, ethnicity, whether she has been married before or even her faith. (Although, when it comes to the latter, I will probably quickly point out my beliefs.) The only three things I really care about are that she is between 28-36, doesn’t have kids and doesn’t smoke. That’s not a lot to ask for, is it?

Before long, I find a few women that seem interesting and I wink. Then I sit back and wait for the magic to happen.

And wait…

And wait…

Match.com Alert: Blahblah123 has winked back at you!

Cool. OK, so now I guess I need to write this person an email.

I write Blahblah123 an email.

Blahblah123 writes me back.

I write her back again.

She writes me back again.

I am bored with her already and stop writing.

This pattern continues for a week or two, until some mutual winking between myself and a woman who calls herself TameKitty72.

I wink first. When she winks back, I look at her profile again and notice a few things I had missed the first time. 1) She wants someone who has never been married. 2) She wants someone who is “toned.” Thinking she has also missed these things while looking at my profile, I write her an email pointing out that I am 1) divorced and that 2) the only way toned would describe me was if she dropped the “ed” and added a “y.” (Clever, yes?)

TameKitty72 writes back and says she included these things to weed out the “divorced in their minds” guys and the “morbidly obese.” So, our torrid email relationship begins.

We blaze through the getting to know you questions pretty fast. She seems fun enough, smart enough and her personality doesn’t seem too rooted in what she does for a living. She likes old school hip-hop and Prince, so I am starting to feel pretty good about the whole thing. When I find out that, like myself, she grew up roller skating, I can’t help but think, “Is this girl for real, or is she some match.com employee trying to keep my credit card number on file?”

After some lengthy telephone calls, we decide to finally meet for coffee, which seems to be the standard meeting place for online daters. I really hate the coffee shop meeting because it seems so damn obvious what the both of you are doing. (I’m sure baristas everywhere can attest to this being the case.) Anyway, we meet and, well, there’s no spark. I can tell she’s not into me and, even though I thought I would be, I’m not really into her. I don’t even feel like turning on the charm, which is rare. The whole thing is kind of disappointing, but we decide to stay friends, which is funny to me. I never thought that online dating could really end with, “I think we should just be friends.”

After TameKitty72, I start talking to more women, and start to be the winkee as much as the winker. There are no more torrid email relationships, but there are a handful of dates which end much like the one with TameKitty72. They are not necessarily bad dates, there’s just no spark. (It’s not just women that want to find themselves in the middle of a romantic comedy you know?)

However, instead of a romantic comedy, I soon find myself in a dark comedy, making out with an obsessive girl who seems to have no tongue and still won’t leave me alone.

To be continued in…

My Adventures on Match.com Part III (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part I)

My Adventures on Match.com Part IV (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part II)

My Adventures on Match.com Part V (Sweet Success?)

My Adventures on Match.com — Part I (The Great Sign Up)

tdrive.jpgThree months after a divorce, I was ready to start dating again. I’ve never thought online dating was any stranger than meeting someone in a bar, so I figured why not give it a shot. I decided to sign up for match.com.

Of course, a couple friends said, “Are you really ready to date again?” I realize three months is not a long time to be divorced, but I had finally made peace with the whole damn thing, so I was as ready as I would ever be. I didn’t even bother to tell those friends that I wasn’t really looking to “date,” but was actually hoping to find someone special. (Awww.)

Anyway, after entering my credit card information, I started on my profile. I felt this was an important step for two reasons. While most would think the first reason would be to sell myself, I actually thought that was secondary. The first reason for me was to weed out the boring women who use phrases like, “think outside the box” and, when describing their musical tastes, can only come up with “alternative.”

Within the first three sentences, I let the potential lovers of the T. know that I can play the A-Team theme song on a touch tone phone. This, I thought, would surely let the living-in-the-burbs-because-they-are-afraid-of-the-city women know I was too goofy for them.

In case that wasn’t enough to keep them away, I tell them I sing Prince in the shower, and also included the following two sentences to describe what I was looking for in a woman:

Someone who can’t stand seeing couples sitting on the same side of a booth in a restaurant.

Someone who doesn’t have to talk during a movie.

I did have a little trouble figuring out what to put for my body type. The only choices that were applicable at all were: Heavyset, A few extra pounds and Stocky. I wasn’t sure what Heavyset or Stocky really meant, so I went with A few extra pounds, although I didn’t feel like it was accurate either. So, I immediately wrote an email to match.com insisting they add “Sexy Chunker” as a choice. I’ve yet to receive a reply.

I also had an issue with having to put “Divorced,” because that word screams “baggage.” I hate that damn word, and am hoping to lobby Webster one day to come up with a word to describe those of us who are divorced but not filled with anger or sadness. But, that is another topic for another time.

I finally finished the profile, then added a photo I took of myself driving — to show off my multitasking abilities, of course — and posted my ad. Now it was time to search for the ladies worthy of what match.com calls a “wink.” This is akin to buying a woman a drink in a bar although, on match.com, if the woman winks back, you know they are interested in talking more. If a woman accepts a free drink in a bar, that just means she’s not stupid. I mean, really, who passes up a free drink?!?

To be continued in…

My Adventures on Match.com Part I (The Great Sign Up)

My Adventures on Match.com Part II (Let the Winking and Dating Begin)

My Adventures on Match.com Part III (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part I)

My Adventures on Match.com Part IV (Attack of the Tongueless Girl-Part II)

My Adventures on Match.com Part V (Sweet Success?)

Put a Bag Over Your Dummy Head and DIE!

die-aj-die.jpgOther than some Adderall-induced praise I scribbled into a journal a few years ago, I have not written about The Sopranos, but after last night’s episode, ‘The Second Coming,’ I feel compelled to express my new found hatred for the show.

The hatred began last season, which was so boring I’m not even going to try to think of harsh adjectives or powerful metaphors to tear it down. The low point of that season, at least for me, was the scene in which A.J. Soprano said he was going to find Uncle Junior and, “Put a bullet in his mummy head!” I’ve seen plenty of bad acting — I am a fan of ’80s sitcoms after all — but this scene went beyond laughable and entered the arena of, “Really? The director thought that was good enough to make the cut? Fire that man!”

While Edie Falco and James Gandolfini are racking up Emmy Awards for their performances on The Sopranos, Robert Iler should be taking home the Worst Actor in an Otherwise Good Show Award year after year. Hell, they should just name the damn award after him.

Anyway, during last night’s episode, I felt like David Chase was about to pay me off for having spent so many hours of my life watching this fictional family’s ups and downs. There he was; A.J. in the family pool, tied to a cinder block at the bottom of the deep end, with a plastic bag over his head. YES! A Sopranos’ suicide! Finally, A.J. must pay for being such a putz. You just knew this was coming when you saw his new, douche bag facial hair.

But, the little prick changes his mind mid-suicide, gets the bag off his head and starts screaming like a bitch. “Heeeelp! Someone help!!” Of course, Tony just happens to come home and sees A.J. flapping around in the pool. I was praying that Tony would do the same thing to A.J. that he did to Christopher; just pinch his nostrils together and put him out of his misery — but, no, he just pulls the fucker out of the pool. Great. Another hour of my life that I’ll never get back.

Why is it so hard for great sport’s stars, bands, and television shows to leave on top? Why do so many insist on tainting their legacy by staying around too long? And why, oh why, couldn’t have A.J. used a shotgun?