Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 13

What should you leave or take?

There's a famous scene (well, famous to most Italians) in The Godfather where Peter Clemenza says, "Leave the gun, take the cannoli." Peter obviously enjoyed his food and there was no blood spatter on the fine dessert, so I understand. When I leave my nest, I often run that thought through my mind as I decide what to leave and what to take.



For example, if you go to a bar that is foolish enough to serve Moscow Mules in a lovely brass cup, you're probably going to leave a tip and take the cup. The bar owner knows this, yet ginger spiked urine is all that is typically left.



When you visit a house party, what do you bring, leave, and take? If you're slick, you can manage to do your eco-best by bringing a nice bottle of wine, leaving a dirty wine glass, and taking home tomorrow's hangover. You might also take home:


An intoxicated woman with a certain itch,
A decorative spoon, as a souvenir,
A covered plate containing your next three meals,
Liquified shit because the host left the deviled eggs out too long,
Fun, blue pills you found in the master bath,
Unwelcome dog fur,
A refrigerator magnet since you can rarely buy just one,
Business cards for people who selfishly see house parties as prime opportunities to "network," which means begging you to give them money for something you don't want.



When you go to your office job, you should:


leave a mug, take the paper clips.
leave food you don't want to eat, take food other people left.
leave post-it note penises on pictures in neighboring cubicles, take the pictures of your homely pets and children back home.
leave an extra shirt in case you spill, take Splenda packets.
leave the coworker's vagina/penis, take yours.



When you stay in a hotel for business, you should:


leave a mess, take the maid's tip.
leave a sock (you're going to do it anyway), take some towels.
leave a stain on the comforter, take a Purell bath.
leave toothpaste dots on the mirror, take the cute little soap thingies.
leave someone else's neglected spouse, take your anonymous identity.



None of this requires a fancy derby or hungry Clemenza. Give and take wherever you go and keep the scales of visitation balanced.

Sorry, my dear, that is never a turn-on.

Bukkake (pronounced boo cock key) is either a Japanese method of serving an assortment of noodles or a facial, so to speak. I am admittedly a twisted, demented, and crass person, who befriends savages because they amuse the pee out of me. I'm desensitized to people like me or nicer. I need to be around beasts. My pal, Ronnie, needs some major therapy because he loves the bukkake.



"Dude, nobody--not a single woman on this planet--likes having a load blasted into her face."

"I know. It's the married ones."

"How did I know you were going to twist that?"

"What?"

"Single or married--none of them likes it. In fact, it's probably one of the biggest turn-offs."

"How do you know?"

"Because I talk to women, as opposed to spraying them like driveway dirt."

"Whatever. I get off on it."

"OK, I'm putting on my therapist's hat now. You have some issue where you feel the need to demean women."

"I don't think it's demeaning."

"A woman kneeling in front of you with goo dripping from her eyebrows and nose isn't imagining she's a princess about to be whisked away in a horse-drawn chariot."

"I usually keep a towel handy. It isn't like she needs to walk around with her eyes pasted shut."

"What do you get out of it?"

"I'm not sure. I just love it."

"So you purposely withdrawal and launch semen soup onto the poor unsuspecting woman's face?"

"Yep."

"Why don't they duck?"

"Good question. Maybe they enjoy it."

"Not possible. I think they're momentarily stunned by your cock Taser."



I've had some errant goo fly and it can be comical, especially when it creates a rope bridge across her lovely locks. It must be accidental, however; or it's completely bizarre. Man goo can land on sheets, pillows, carpets, counters, and apparel, but nothing from chin to forehead. If your man is into this sort of thing, I suggest you put an immediate end to it. Here's Dr. Phil's suggested treatment:




Make a nice dinner, complete with fancy linens and china.
Flirt, tease, and giggle during dinner.
For dessert, heat up some tapioca pudding; lukewarm is best.
Sit on his lap and tell him to close his eyes because you want to feed him.
Ask him to open his mouth.
Make motorboat or airplane noises as you loop a heaping tablespoon toward his mouth.
Splash him between the eyes with it.
Laugh, grab your iPhone, take a picture, and email it to his mother.
Enjoy many goo-free nights henceforth.



If it doesn't work, take the pudding, leave the boy.

Are your friends annoying as paparazzi?

Sally has lost all of her interpersonal skills. She now resides within social media. She checks in everywhere, tweets hourly, and is constantly snapping iPhone pictures and uploading them. You used to like Sally and enjoy her company. You now consider tossing her phone into a margarita blender.



She always wants to pose with you when you're not feeling at your best. Then, she hands her phone to a gap-toothed cretin who hasn't progressed beyond a flip.




Sally returns to pose, hugging you a bit inappropriately.
He points the iPhone the wrong direction. Sally corrects him.
He counts to three and pushes the edge of the phone. Sally corrects him.
He counts to three, but at two Sally stops him because he's covering the lens area.
He counts to three and nothing happens, so he turns the iPhone around to investigate; it flashes in his face; Sally now has a picture of his nose. Sally tells him there's a delay.
He counts to five, thinking that would solve the timing issue. The phone flashes at seven.
Sally takes the camera, checks the photo, and realizes you had your eyes closed. Your drink is nearly empty and you'd rather suffer an under-nail splinter than a retake.
He tries again, but someone walks in front as he takes the picture.
He tries again, but an idiot is holding rabbit ears up behind your head.
He tries again, and you sprint away before she can force another shot.



Sally spends close to five minutes posting the photo to Foursquare and Facebook while tagging everyone within a twenty-foot radius. You're notified on your phone. Your mother texts you suggesting you may have a drinking problem. "Thanks, Sally."



A nice gentleman approaches and asks the usual questions a stranger poses to someone he'd eventually love to penetrate. Sally notices and screeches about how cute you two are. She deploys the dreaded iPhone and demands a photo. The new guy stands next to you and smiles. That's not good enough for Sally.



"Come on, you two. You're acting like strangers. Get closer."

"Sally, I just met him."

"We're all friends here. Hug her, Mister ... hey, what's your name?"

"Trevor."

"Hug her, Trevor. She's a hottie."

"All right."



Great. You permit the cuddle. One picture isn't enough. She takes six, thinking she's doing you a favor. Sally needs a beating. Sally remarks about what a nice couple you make, but she doesn't show you the pictures, which she posts and tags. You receive a text message from your mother reminding you to use condoms. Your ex-boyfriend sends you a text calling you a heartless skank-ho. You leave the bar and plot your revenge.

How to escape a boring conversation.

Aren't you more easily bored as the days pass? You're becoming selfish about your ever-dwindling time left on this spinning blue marble. When someone begins a long story, you ache for the punchline that will set you free to revisit your favorite bartender.



Some people live for being on stage; that doesn't mean you need to join the audience. When the babble begins, here are simple ways to remove yourself:




Fake a sneeze and make sure a booger dangles off the tip of your nose like a disease-ridden pendulum.
Begin tweaking your own nipples.
Unlock your phone and continue your Scrabble game. Interrupt and ask what four-letter word you could make from the letters N-W-A-Y.
Tug your undies from your butt crack and then sniff your fingers.
Look around and say, "What's that smell? Is it blue cheese stuffed olives? I must have one right this second or I shall perish."
Laugh before the punchline, spit up a little, and run to the restroom.
Ask the speaker to hold that thought while you search your purse for earbuds.
Blow bubbles through the straw in your mojito.
Yell, "He shoots; he scores!" (This works best if there is a TV in the vicinity with hockey, basketball, or soccer playing.)
Floss.



In case you're wondering if you are one of the offending parties (just wondering suggests you probably are), before continuing the extended rant, see if the subject of your dissertation is any of the following:


Your children, pets, or coworkers.
A picture, video, or cool app on your phone.
The election.
Church.
Hot dog ingredients or the caloric content of anything.
An odd-looking mole you found on the back of your neck.
Plants.
Any TV show from the 90s.
How much money you saved by ... anything.
The weather.

If it's on the list, stop immediately, apologize, and fetch a round of shots--not the cheap, fruity kind either--for those you have offended.



This is national low-tolerance month. Do your part.

Do you let your spouse off the leash?

The more married women I meet, the more I appreciate my vacancy. When a husband lets his wife off her leash for the weekend, it makes me wonder:


Is he secure enough in their love and commitment to give her space?
Has she been annoying the heck out of him about putting down the remote, taking out the garbage, and emptying the dishwasher?
Does the husband have a little side thing going?
Does she really have a husband or is she playing games?
Is the husband aware that she's out on the town, tossing back fruity shots like Fruity Pebbles?



Well, the best way to find out is to ask, right?



"How did you obtain the fun pass, Sugarlass?"

"We've found that spending weekends apart brings us closer together."

"Ironic and interesting. How so?"

"It gives him space to watch his porn and gives me space to, you know, have space."

"Tired of catching him making belly puddles?"

"No."

"Tube sock babies?"

"Ew, no."

"Sofa stickies?"

"Look, I don't mind. I've told him I'd watch it with him if he really wanted me to, but he doesn't."

"Well, at least he probably shaves his entire groin, makes funny sex faces, and manages to keep his bunghole out of the closeups."

"Sounds like you know a lot about porn."

"I find it contains great tips on how NOT to treat a lady."

"Really? So, how do you treat a lady?"

"I love to talk, read her poetry, tell her how beautiful she is, kiss for hours, nibble her earlobes, massage her feet, and ..."

"Right."

"What? You don't believe me? I'm hurt."

"Sexually. What do you so sexually?"

"After a three-month courtship and mutual commitment to monogamy, I become her personal orgasm delivery person. I even wear little brown boxers and flex my sweaty biceps. Now, would you kindly sign here for me?"

"You're silly."



Relationships aren't complicated; they're weird. Maybe it's a California thing. I can relate, Jim Morrison, people are strange and I am stranger.

How to craft a rejection letter.

If you're female, you have many daily opportunities to refer to this guide. If you're male, you're probably going to begin hearing many of these excuses. I'd bet the average woman is propositioned three to four times daily, with most of solicitations originating from men who'd never get to touch anything beyond her oil filter. Pity, although at least women have options.



It's important to be kind. These men don't realize how repulsive they are. They assume that you got all dolled-up to attract their attention. (As if.) Be gentle. Help the monkey off his high horse without shoving him into a pile of manure. If his advances continue, all bets are off; nail his pecker to the floorboard.



So, the next time he comes a-calling, especially via text or email, try this:



Dear [insert name of not-cute-enough guy],



I'm [flattered/stunned/covering my mouth to prevent spewing my chardonnay] by your proposal. Ordinarily, I would enjoy having [coffee/dinner/sex] with you, but at this moment I am:



[Insert all that apply.]


Married
Seeing someone
Not over my ex
Pregnant ... with twins
Swearing off penis
Looking for a job in Madrid
Not [thirsty/hungry/horny] enough
Concentrating on my [career/children/crossword puzzle]
Involved in a serious relationship with my Netflix queue
Not drunk enough to get past how repulsive you are
Caring for a sick [parent/child/vagina]
Working in the same building as you, which makes this extra-creepy
Half your age, Grandpop
Desperate, but not quite on my deathbed yet
Not looking for another pet to take care of
Plotting the extermination of all men with soul patches, hairy backs, and boat shoes
About to pass out from the scent of your Axe Body Spray
Considering adding your blood to my collection of victim slides
Speechless



I do appreciate your asking. That must have taken some [tequila/foolish pride]. I have [cute/horny/desperate] friends who might be interested. Can I set up you? Do you have any [cuter/blacker/richer] friends--not for me, of course--for my friends?



Here [hand him a bar napkin]. No, don't write on it. I thought you were tearing up. Sorry.



Anywho, this has been [lovely/awkward/disturbing]. You're such a [nice/super/not entirely repulsive] guy. Have a wonderful day.



Yours [truly/unimpressed/hating life right now],



[Insert some woman's name, not yours.]

Do you create your patients, Doctor?

You've heard of firemen setting fires, right? How about doctors creating patients? Therapists driving people crazy? It happens, and probably more often than we'd like to think. I see it in the dating pool. People are not playing nice. Some are making a splash and some are holding others down.



Although I don't float well, I'm the Michael Phelps of the dating pool. Fine, the Mark Spitz then. I know how to avoid the mischievous little pricks.



For example, I had a woman grill me last weekend. Every question she asked me began with "What's wrong with you ...," although she didn't speak the words. She tried to make me the patient so she could play doctor and fix me.



"[What's wrong with you?] Don't you want to have a girlfriend?"

"I don't need a girlfriend."

"But, [what's wrong with you], don't you want one?"

"If someone comes along in a situation where we can enhance each other's lives, I'll consider it."

"You'd 'consider' it? [What's wrong with you?]"

"Yes."

"[What's wrong with you?] Wouldn't you like a partner to have sex with regularly?"

"Yes, but I don't need one ... yet."

"Yet?"

"If my dry spell extends into the warmer months, I'll have to make some sacrifices."

"[What's wrong with you?] You mean you'll go visit a prostitute?"

"I can find amateur ladies who need lovin'. There's an entire neighborhood of sex-starved, neglected wives less than five miles from here."

"[What's wrong with you?] You'd sleep with a married woman?"

"Not my first choice."

"That's awful. [What's wrong with you?] Don't you have any morals?"

"Fewer every year. I think I'm growing out of them."



She was badgering me, trying to create the bad boy she could tame. Not happening.



There's another type of woman, with similar tactics. Yet, I suspect these women are unaware of what they're doing. I'm referring to the motherly type. When they find a man they like, they look for neediness they can address. If the man is secure, the motherly woman feels worthless. Ironically, needy men will eventually drive her crazy, she'll swear off them, and wind up right back with another needy Ned.



"I like to cook. You should let me make you dinner."

"That's very nice of you. I also like to cook. I'll have you over."

"Um. OK, I'll make us dinner at your house."

"No, silly. I'm the host. I'll make you dinner."

"Well, I'll bring wine and bake a lovely dessert. What's your favorite?"

"I have a full rack and frozen cookie dough. You'll be my guest and your company is all I need."

"I'll bring cat toys for Syd and Symon."

"I already live in a cat house. They're fine. Just come wearing a smile."

"You probably enjoy doing laundry and ironing too."

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Hm."



At this point the motherly lass finds excuses to back out. She needs to be needed. I want to want. How do these life puzzle pieces ever fit together?

Does what you watch define who you are?

Being unaware of something doesn't make a person superior. Still, people will use that angle to involve themselves in a conversation when they should be listening instead. In Pulp Fiction, this situation is handled brilliantly:



Vincent: I
don't watch TV.

Jules: Yeah,
but, you are aware that there's an invention called
television, and on this invention they show shows, right?



Why can't people admit to doing or watching certain things? We all fart, pick our noses, and watch shows that don't make us smarter. So what? Why deny it? Look at all the money these shows make. Somebody is certainly watching them, and the viewers can't all be dolts.



Here are the top things people deny doing:


Watching The Bachelor, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and Project Runway.
Watching sitcoms.
Watching the news.
Watching TV in general. The person who tells me she doesn't own a TV had better have a huge Lego collection or an extraordinary dildo.
Driving while drinking, texting, or eating.
Burping, farting, yanking, flipping, scratching, sniffing, singing, and talking to pets when nobody is around.
Using Facebook and Twitter.
Watching funny YouTube videos at work.
Playing online games.
Using porn, whether video or written form.



People around me quote Seinfeld constantly and refer to the characters. I don't watch the show; never did. Yet, I am aware of it and the premise-less premise. When I confess to never watching the show, I get grilled.



"Who on earth hasn't watched Seinfeld?"

"Me, on Uranus."

"You, of all people, would love the show. You write comedy."

"Can't do it. The dubbed-in laughter makes me crazy. I don't like being told when to laugh."

"What? Still ..."

"I'm aware of the show. Carry on and quote away. I'll not interrupt you and decide for myself whether it's worthy of a reaction."



The next time someone is mid-story, don't slow the flow by pleading ignorance. You'll delay the punchline and annoy the speaker. Open your ears and close your lips around the straw that leads to the substance that makes everyone more interesting.

Why do drunk women make out?

You're having a family gathering and the kids are playing in the family room while the parents chat. One of the mothers realizes the kids are being remarkably quiet, for being kids. Upon investigation, Mommy notices the reason: They're playing house with dog kibble and decorative coasters. Before Mommy does something rash, Daddy asks her to weigh the silence against the possibility of boldly harm or damage. They concur; the children carry on.



This is similar to how I feel when I'm at a nightclub around inebriated women left unattended by their husbands. I'm the daddy who doesn't want to spoil the fun.



After a few triangular glasses are emptied, the carnage ensues. Daddy likey. Wife #1 says to Wife #2, "I bet you're a great kisser. Men don't know how to kiss. I love the soft lips on a woman. Guys have itchy fur around their mouths."



I took no offense.



Naturally, it was time to lip-seal the deal and the two women went at it like teenagers under football stands. I sat next to the show, giddy like a kid with his first scooter. As they went at it, Wife #2 grabbed my thigh and squeezed. I felt like the branch held between a soldier's teeth while he's having a limb amputated.



"How'd that work out for you? Is she a good kisser?"

"Oh, yes."

"All right."

"You're going to write about this, aren't you?"

"Only if you two involve some breast fondling in round two."



I was only kidding but I turned out to be kindling, as they went at it again. I looked around the club, wide-eyed, hoping my fellow swine weren't missing the show. A few men noticed and smiled like they found a beer geyser. Many women noticed and wrinkled their noses like they found a skid mark in the guest bathroom toilet.



This playful fun went on for hours. The group planned to taxi back to birthday girl's house later that night. I was invited, yet I passed. I deserve a gold star for having such restraint, but I fear I'll receive a rainbow-colored one instead. I've learned to leave, create my own reality, and avoid regret and armed spouses.

Proper ways to deal with an ass.

She was grabby with my buddy. I should have been proud of my pal as they walked arm-in-arm in front of me. Yet, the overly analytical side of me thought, How far we've come, as she gradually slid her hand down his back and cupped his cheek. An uninvited move like that on his part could have landed him in the clink. She had gender specific immunity.



I should have been paying attention to a number of other things, but I'm obsessed with courtship so I kept watching and missed out on the ocean breezes, yellow moon, and puddle I stepped in.



Women grab ass cheeks differently than men do. She went straight down the crack and grabbed the middle. Hm. She may be kinky--into the stinky pinky maneuver. Some men are into that. I'm not. I would have squeaked, vocally.



When I grab a butt, I go more for the outside lower quadrant. (Look for a future infographic on the topic.) I squeeze gently as I would a grapefruit. At home games with no fans in attendance I may creep toward the lower, inner quadrant and mix in a diddle or two. That's tough on the elbow and wrist. Perhaps if I wore a bowling glove it would stabilize my wrist. Heck, I'll try anything once.



My pal did not return the squeeze, mostly because he's six-foot-many and she's five-foot-few. He had to settle for the tender skin on the back of her neck. A bold move would have included a backhand. (I was watching tennis while filtering wine through my liver, hence the reference.) He could have sneaked from her neck over her trapezius, across her sternocleidomastoid, down her pectoralis major, and landed on her left boobius niceus. That would no doubt cause rotator cuff tenderness with a good chance of nipplicus erectus.



Alas, he remained a gentleman as she groped his glutes, be-bopped his bunghole, and made me giggle.