Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 11

Chiropractic care can change your life. Who knew?

Dr. Cherie Smith talks with Phil, Cathy, and Dr. Michelle about chiropractic care.

I'll tell you what you can do with that bracket.

What an exciting time of the year! Even our esteemed president is getting involved. I'm talking about bracketology, people.



I just heard the collective yawn of thousands of women.



Actually, don't tell my brothers but I agree. Basketball blows. It's all squeaks, whistles, jumping-bean fans, and huge, sweaty, zit-laden kids with bangs and awful tattoos. Christ, the final two minutes of the game takes forever. I'd almost rather watch Snookie giving birth.



Every office has that annoying weenie who comes begging you to fill out a bracket. Resist the urge because if you place a bet, you'll be invested and forced to actually watch one of these silly contests. When Joe from accounting stops by your cube and asks for five dollars, here are the top ten nationally ranked responses you can offer:


"Go fuck thyself and do it elsewhere."
"I'd rather spoon wasabi into my eyelids."
"I'll give you ten bucks to stuff that paper and your tiny dick into a shredder."
Take the paper, blow your nose in it, and hand it back.
"You're so ugly that when your wife dropped you off for work today she was fined for littering."
Take the Sharpie, draw the word "Bitch" on your palm, and slap him with it.
"God hates brackets too."
"Please shut up and give that hole in your face time to heal properly."
Fill in each winning slot with a different word for poop. If you need suggestions try dookie, dung, doo doo, dump, drek, dropping, and defecation.
Start crying and explain that your cousin once violated you anally with a basketball pump.

Dance Partners Not Required

Since my DJing days back in the early 80s, I've always noticed the strange phenomenon of people dancing with themselves. It's odd but certainly not in a bad way. I encourage it. You can express yourself without trying to match or complement the moves of another. It's a form of masturbation that you can do in public.



Last Sunday night, a Las Vegas lounge featured a talented cover band and three patrons who spent the entire night dancing solo. I admired their bravery.



The first was a tall, thin, cleanly shaven black man. My sister refers to such as a "Cocoa Puff." (She's allowed to do that because she's quite tan as well.) I admit he was pretty. He was a good dancer so, naturally, I made assumptions. The ladies in our group must have had their signals jammed.



"Wow. Look at him move. I'm going to go dance with him."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"I don't think he's interested in your type."

"What type?"

"The type with all innies."

"So, you think he's gay just because he's attractive and fit with nice clothing and can dance."

"Prove me wrong."



She strutted out and within two moves he shut it down, said "oh, hell no," and stood at the side of the dance floor with his arms crossed until she vacated his area. I laughed and pointed like I saw her walk into a sliding glass door.



Dancer number two was a woman around sixty dressed in a lovely striped dress and heels. She tilted her head back and smiled seductively as she slowly moved to what's probably not the ideal song for such: "Everybody Wants Some" by Van Halen. My female accomplices pushed me to join her so they'd have retribution. I avoided rejection by feigning a low-ankle sprain, which I medicated with bourbon.



The third dancer was man in his mid-sixties dressed to the tees with a white derby and white fringes hanging from his pant legs over his shiny shoes. He would dash out to an open area on the floor and go through a number of poses. (Think the final move of every Michael Jackson video.) He'd spin, crouch, grab his hat, and give a bug-eyed look of determination. Yep, he was high on mushrooms.



Would you dance alone? I wish I had the balls. I feel like dancing every time I hear a song. I just don't want to be judged by critics or people-watching freaks like me.

I'm so not a proud parent.

I've got nobody to brag about. All these wonderful updates and praises from Facebook friends about talented offspring, and I gots nuthin. Well, I do have cats and a wonderful worm. Still, they don't go to school, don't belong to any clubs, and achieve little aside from slumber.



Symon will not be nominated for any high school awards--you know the ones that make the non-athletic children feel as though they have some valuable talent making them special too. I should know. I received my high school letter jacket because I made The Honor Society. Mom was so proud. Pop preferred that I know how to throw a football instead of solve a Rubik's Cube. That varsity letter wasn't quite the pussy magnet it was on running backs, who are now collecting shopping carts in mall parking lots.



What shall I place on my bumper? "My sons are pussies," perhaps.



Syd has achieved nothing beyond figuring out how to crawl under my covers and mess my freshly made bed. He also knows how to trip his brother and bite his neck--not praise-worthy. He doesn't make any human-like faces I can caption in a meme and my Photoshop skills aren't sufficient. I can't even brag about his choice to take on a drug-free lifestyle because he constantly gets stoned on catnip and chases ghosts.



Perhaps I can brag about my wonderful worm, Willy. He has a knack for causing oxytocin leaks, but that's typical of his breed. He's not athletic. I tried playing pool with him, using him as a peg for doughnut ring-toss, and introducing him to hands-free Jenga. He sucked at all three. Willy isn't artistic either. He can't draw on much other than toilet rims. He's not very smart, as he's taken me into some dark places that weren't easy to find my way out of. I'd say he's a little prick. Don't get me wrong; I still love that fucker.



Nothing to brag about here. I can't even find suitable decals for my Jeep's rear window. I thought it would be cute to stick a pair of paw prints and an anaconda there. The minivan mommies would probably misunderstand my decal, though, as some anti-Christian walking snake thing. It's unfortunate that I can't be a proud parent. Maybe I should have a political agenda I can rudely display on my vehicle in an attempt to sway voters:



"Bush/Wiener 2012"



They're always running.

Uncomfortable conversation from the dentist's chair.

The worst place to have a conversation, aside from between bathroom stalls, is in the dentist's office. When I'm reclined, staring up at an artificial sun, I feel vulnerable. Time can't move quickly enough for me. Naturally, there's a bit of smalltalk about the weather and such, but once devices start entering my mouth, my vocal cords should be considered out of business. Regardless, the life of a dental hygienist must be lonely.



"Hello. How is your day going, Mr. Tore ... Torsh ... um, ..."

"Hnrchifveea."
"What? Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I should take this thing out of your mouth first."

Out it comes, dripping spit on my light blue paper towel tie.

"Fine, thank you. Tor-SIVE-eee-ah. Please call me Phil."

"Yep, just like it's spelled."

She reinserts the saliva suck tube.

"So, do you have the day off?"
"Khnnda."

"Excuse me?"

Nodding.

"Oh, well, good for you. What do you do for a living?"

Rolling eyes, while pointing to mouth.

"You're a dentist too?"

Shaking head.

"Oral surgeon?"

Shaking head.

"I give up."

"Hnmme too."

"What?"

Making writing signs with hands.

"Rrrrthr."

"Oh, you're a reporter."

Shaking head.

"No, rrrthr."

"You're a writer, yes, I understand."

Shrugging. Close enough.

"Do you write books?"

Nodding.

"So, what do you write about?"



Here's where I should consider my audience and censor myself. She's a woman, around thirty, wearing a wedding ring, and her pupils are partially dilated, which means she's attracted to me. Sadly, these are the actual thoughts that traverse my mind. Far be it for me to deduce her dilation is relative to the ambient lighting. Nope. I immediately entertain thoughts of her fellating me like we're acting out a porn plot. She must like me. To make her like me more, it's time for me to make funny.



I use my sign language to cross my chest with an X. She's confused. I take a bold leap and make a vagina out of my left hand by circling my index finger to my thumb and inserting two (that's my thing) fingers into the hand vagina. She doesn't stab the drill into my left eye. So far, so good.



"Ha ha. You write about sex. I get it."

Shrug.

"Anything I might have read?"

Shaking head.

"Oh. Well, I'd like to. You should give me a book."

"Fhynne."

"Huh?"

Nodding.

"Awesome. Don't forget to sign it."

Winking and smiling as best one can while his gums are being blasted with ice water.



Once the stretching, stabbing, scraping, spraying, sucking, and spitting are through, I'm escorted out to settle up and schedule the next appointment.



"And, remember to bring my [making the hand-fuck signs back at me] book next time."

The receptionist gave me a look with an odd combination of curiosity and disgust.

"I'll bring two."

How to play the Name Game with Rush.

You remember the original Name Game, don't you? Let's try it with the first name Rush*:



Rush, Rush, bo-big-headed-blowhard-ass-brush,
Banana-nana fo-fat-faced-druggie-lush,
Fee-fi-mo-monkey-turd-flush ...
Rush!



Wasn't that fun? Throw in some hopscotch and cherry-flavored Spree and we have us a party.



I picked that name, because it's what we call that mean kid who lives down the street and likes to pick on defenseless girls. Yep, he's the kind of shittard who will throw gum in a cute girl's hair because she won't talk to him. Jeezie-Peezie, I can't blame the poor girl. Aside from having fat, blubbering cheeks, he spits when he talks. So gross. He's always touching his to-pee too. (Not toupée.) Frankly, I doubt the dorknoodle showers more than once a month. He farts a lot too. Stinky fucker. I'd beat him up be he'd probably sit on me until I turned purple and said, "Uncle."



Anyway, I'll defend my little girlfriend, Sandra, forever because Pop taught me to be nice to girls. I'm hoping I can take her to prom and she'll let me have heavily protected sex with her afterward. (Please don't rat on me and tell Pop I said that.) Sandra is my love because she's cuter than kittens wrestling. I heart her, head-to-toe. Rush is stool--not the kind in a bar, either. So, he'd better lay off my girl or I'm going to tinkle in his gym bag. That's how I roll.



Xs and Os for all the hotties. Holl-a!

Philly-Silly-Bo-Billy-Banana-Fana-Whateva



*This is a fictitious name and it doesn't refer to any real person. I mean, seriously, who would name a child something so asinine, anyway? Nobody. It's obviously just a silly nickname I made up--kind of like the name Gush. See? Dumb, right?

The Nice Guy Show - 3/5, segment #4 - Publishing

So, you want to write a book?



In this week's show I discuss how to go from idea to book with my co-hosts Cathy McLoughlin, Dr. Michelle Wolford, and interior designer Michelle Salz-Smith.

Cry, baby, cry. It's OK (not).

Men raised by men learn to harden and block tears. Welling up is seen as a sign of weakness. Sure, some women will say they find it charming when a man cries. They're lying, unless the man is a friend she doesn't plan to sleep with.



I'll provide a few exceptions. Men are allowed to cry when ...


mourning the death of a relative or pet.
pulling a nose hair.
watching Brian's Song or Rudy.
having an ingrown toenail removed.
buffalo wings are 86'd



Balk all you want, ladies; you're not convincing me you'd appreciate a sniveling snifflepuss across the table from you at your favorite wine bar.



"Honey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. [*sniff*]"

"Oh, no. You're welling up. Sweetie?"

"I'm OK. I just need a moment."

"You can talk to me. What is it?"

"It's just that [*sob* *sniffle*] I really like you and [*cough* *snort*] sometimes I'm not sure you feel the same."

"Aw. Of course I do. I adore you."

"Hand me a napkin, please. [*dab* *dab*] Great. Now my eyes are all puffy."

"Don't be sad."

"I can't help it. [*trickle* *snot-drip*] I never learn. I always open up too quickly and set myself up to have my heart broken."

"No. I like that about you. Everything is fine, my love."

"Really? [*blink* *blink*] Do you still want me?"

"Of course I do."

"Why? I'm such a failure."

"No, you're not. Stop it."

"I can't even pay my Visa bill. [*sniff*] Oh, god."

"Baby, I love you for who you are. It will all be OK."

"Well, thank you. I feel better. Excuse me for a moment. I need to freshen up. [*snort*] Be right back."



This is when the woman has her iPhone out the minute Ole Booger-Bubble turns his back.



"Help! Nate is having an emotional breakdown."

"WTF? Where are you?"

"At Wine Vines. He totally just started bawling."

"With tears and all?"

"Oh, yes--tears and whiny spit-ropes."

"Jesus."

"I don't know what to do?"

"Well, if you don't want to be the man in the relationship, you should run."

"No kidding. He'd probably hang himself."

"You have your gay friend, Howard, you don't need another emotional man in your life."

"I know! Why do I attract such messes?"

"Must be your masculine energy."

"Ugh. FML"



Men, when you start welling up, remove thyself from the public eye, lest ye expose thy man-pussy.

Are you aware of newsjacking?

The latest trend in the media is for celebrities to hijack the news. As soon as something breaks and trends, the hype whores spring to action. I'm not disrespecting those who do this. I realize how important it is to run in front of spotlights when the opportunity arises. You may have been unaware of this practice but, after perusing my prose, that should change.



Here's a recent example:



Jeremy Lin is an Asian-American NBA player who, when given a chance to start, excelled and created a buzz around sports fans. It's the popular plot of an underdog rising to greatness. People, especially men, eat it up.



In an effort to ride the media wave and hijack the story, Floyd Mayweather (boxing great) tweeted:



"Jeremy Lin is a good player but all the hype is because he's Asian. Black players
do what he does every night and don't get the same praise."



What Floyd tweeted was partially true because there are few Asian superstar basketball players, and oddities are hype-worthy. Most of what he tweeted was horse dookie as nobody could overlook the praise Kobe and Lebron get. Dana White, UFC president called him on it (and re-hijacked the hype):



"First of all, what [Mayweather] said, I think, is racist. He's made a
couple of racist comments. And yes, Floyd, you're racist with the stuff
that you've said."



So, the newsworthy item that deserves media attention and the eyes of the fans is Lin's sensational rise. That story is diminished as Mayweather and White create a controversy. I'm so jaded about the media at this point, I wouldn't be surprised to find out those two camps choreographed everything.



The Donald does this constantly and, in my opinion, usually makes a total ass of himself. When Sacha Baron Cohen dumped Bisquick on Ryan Seacrest at The Oscars, Trump tried to hijack the story saying Cohen (which he intentionally mispronounces "Cone") should have been "punched in the face ... and the security guard that was standing to the right — he ought to be fired immediately." Trump is aware that Cohen is a comedian, and he's aware that Seacrest was most-likely in on the gag since he had another jacket waiting.



This week, blubbering boob Rush Limbaugh tried to hijack a story by referring to Sandra Fluke (Georgetown law student denied the right to speak at a congressional hearing on contraception) as "a slut" and "a prostitute." He also intentionally mispronounced her name. The next day he added, "if we're going to pay for your contraceptives
and thus pay for you to have sex, we want something for it. We want you
to post the videos online so we can all watch."



This story was then re-hijacked by Rachel Maddow at MSNBC who called Rush a "dummy" who doesn't "understand how babies are made, let alone how people can have sex without making a baby."



It was also hijacked by our commander-in-chief as Obama called Sandra Fluke to commend her willingness to speak out and share her dismay over the slur.



And, indeed, I am attempting to hijack those stories by blogging about them.



You can join in the fun by catching the breaking news and making it about you. Here's my effort around today's news:


Twister Destroys Town - I don't think they were following the rules of the game. Jesus. Right Foot Red. How hard is that?
Teacher Leaves Family for Student - Think of all the money her parents will save on tutors.
Gold Found in Bering Sea - Meh. I can only afford to wear aluminum nowadays.
YouTube "Am I Pretty?" Tween is Really an Adult - Yes! I mean, to the adult part. OK, she's kind of cute too. I wish she'd make her bed.
Stylist says J.Lo didn't play peek-a-boob at Oscars - What?! God damn it. You mean I whacked off to wardrobe tape? This is a preposterous. I demand a do-over!

The top 10 things you should give away.

As springtime rolls around, what better time to get in a generous mood? Look at me: I'm giving away my latest book for five days in March 2012 (Nice Knowing You). You're welcome and I'm broke, so why would I do such a silly thing? Good question. Maybe I want to see how many people I can offend. Maybe I'm masochistic. Maybe I'm just a super-generous and righteous dude.



Allow Mr. Munificence to inspire you, my sweet.



Even if you're not an obsessive hoarder, look around and I bet you'll see numerous things you don't need. Now, this doesn't imply that others could use those things, but it's possible and it's the thought that counts, right? I'll bounce around my house and find the top things we should give away.


First thing I see is my cat, Symon. He has been pissing me off lately by pigging out on Friskies and then depositing lumps of partially-digested goo like landmines around my house. That little fucker is close to being donated to a hungry coyote. Oh, who am I kidding. He stays but I do have a self-cleaning cat litter box I can donate because that box scares the shit out of my cats, and not while they're in the box.
To my right I have three printers. Take a guess how many of them are actually compatible with Windows 7. One, and it uses a Spanish-language driver so, much like my maid, I have no idea what it's constantly complaining about so I ignore it.
Last year I cleared out around 100 pounds of clothing--old T-shirts, fancy jeans, and shoes that scream "this man takes it in the hiney." For my generosity I got $129 from a secondhand clothing store. I took that $129 and bought a nice bottle of hangover and a steak, while not wearing Tommy Bahama.
Inside my freezer I have a cheesecake that is 18 months old and in the fridge I have three bottles of booze that have been there longer than Bieber has had bangs and a vagina. The booze inside my bottles of Bailey's and Alize has actually separated into layers. I'm confident there are sea monkeys living in them.
Now that the price of gas is approaching $5 a gallon, I'm tempted to dump the Jeep and invest in rollerblades and a backpack.
We all maintain shelves full of books we've read (right) in order to impress our guests. I've heard the backhanded compliment, "Wow, you've read all of these books?" more than once. This is where my sarcasm overrides my niceness and responds, "No, I hide cocaine and dildos inside them."
When I venture into rarely used drawers and cabinets I find expired meds, partially melted candles, and dried-out contraband. None are useful but I have sprinkled my leftover stoneregano over frozen pizza and was entertained for hours watching Erin Burnett while pants-free and not hearing a word she said.
My garage has no fewer than a dozen old paint cans. I have no idea what to do with them. Maybe I could do curls, roll them down a steep hill in front of bikers and skateboarders, or plays drums on them with wooden spoons while Led Zeppelin blares on my useless boombox.
Old pots and pans fill my drawers under the stove. This is substantial space where I could store something more useful, like marshmallows and beer. The largest space hog is a pasta pot, but if I part with that my Italian mother will probably part with her foolish son.
Finally, I own stacks of CDs, laserdiscs, and VHS tapes. I admit, many are pornographic. Porn is pretty much one click away in just about any flavor. (Today I'm considering something with naughty college cheerleaders looking to experiment with raspberry jelly and Professor Pervert.) So, there's no use keeping the old media around. I suggest setting up a card table in front of church with a sign saying "Free to a good home. No contraception required."