Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 2

Proven: Controversy Sells!

When I saw all the negative reviews come in on E. L. James' Fifty Shades books as the sales shot up, I had a feeling the controversy was driving them. Heck, it persuaded me to buy them. I was tempted to send my books to reviewers I knew would be highly offended (Sunday-morning people) in order to feed my evil machine. But first, I needed to perform an experiment: Write a controversial post. Not highly controversial, mind you--mildly. Sure enough, that post increased my blog traffic over 500% and drove a great week of book sales.



(Sure, it caused some neglected housewives to blog out their sexual frustration on someone not financially supporting them: me. Bring it, you lonely windbags, I can take it.)



Time to step it up. Daddy's hungry for filet and top shelf bourbon. More controversy must be served! OK, let's see how many controversial statements I can make in one blog post. Let the gasping begin.


Obama is the best president of all time, and he should replace that dope Franklin on the hundy.
Gay people are better dressers, less obese, and more sexual than straighties.
Abortion is a much better option than dick-numbing condoms.
Steroids make sports interesting.
(Stand back. I'm going to use the N-word now.) Nipples need nibbles.
Dogs that bark should be baked at 350 degrees and served with cabbage.
Wine is for pussies, especially white wine. ({}) <--- My sign for a large, stinky pussy.
We don't pay enough tax. I want banked fucking turns and gold-plated curbs on my street.
Bring back the Humvee, and this time make it bigger.
God lives in an poppy patch, where She reads her Kindle and farts a lot.
Whiny children should be locked in closets and fed celery.
French people are kind.
Bloggers are doo-doo heads. Um, wait--except me.
Professors should be having sex with their students in order to "teach" them the proper ways to have sex.
Stop signs are merely suggestions, especially when you have to pee.
The inside of a vagina is no prettier than an uncircumcised cock.
Hiney sex is fun, especially in the bathtub.
Fat people are happier.
The Tour de France needs weapons.
Cats are way fucking smarter than most humans, especially ones from Pennsyltucky.
Nothing is better than a blowjob ... nothing.
The drinking age should lowered to two and pot should be handed out like coffee sleeves.
Cocaine smells good.
Bald isn't beautiful, it's fucking regal.
People who post negative comments on my blog are fat-tongued, yeast-infested, jiz guzzlers.



There you go. Every statement comes directly from my loving heart. I guess that makes me wicked. I should be punished, yes? Don't you ignore me! I'll never learn if you do. Let me have it, you mindless rube. ( ! ) <--- That's me mooning you. Nyah, nyah. (I'm dancing, doing the twist right now, with my tongue out.)



Oh, come on already. Jeez, you are stupid. Just go up there to the top-right and type in "random insult generator" in the search box, if you need help. Christ, must I do everything?

ABC Announces the Next Bachelor: Satan

In light of recent seasons featuring too much sobbing and not nearly enough violence, ABC has decided to cast none other than the Prince of Darkness to get rating backs where they belong.

“Recent contestants have caused numerous douche chills with their incessant whining and blubbering,” according to independent TV ratings. “Female viewers seem turned off by high hair, hairless chests with little-boy nipples, and runny noses. It’s obviously time to insert a bad boy.”

And, who could fill the role better than the angry beast from Hades? We stopped by his steamy pad in the bowels of the earth, and interviewed the new bachelor (AKA Jimmy Mac) about his role.

“So, Mac, what are your expectations for this season?”
“I’ll tell ya one thing for sure: There will be lots of fuckin’.”
“Wow. Anything else?”
“I may gnaw some toes off the ones who annoy me, and slap others with a trout. It all depends on my mood.”
“Is there anyone you’re hoping to connect with?”
“Well, since that horse-lipped hedge-head Ben stole Courtney away, I’m not confident the talent will be up to my standards. Courtney would have made the perfect bride. Damn it. Guess I’ll wait until she breaks down and starts hitting the pipe. Hey, speaking of chicks on that slippery slope to rehab, where’s Vienna?”

ABC has been silent about who the contestants will be, but they did leak three of the names to whet the media’s appetite. Here’s your first look at who might wind up your Princess of Darkness.

Raychel - She’s a blogger from down under who enjoys casting imaginary spells and mashing vegemite into her forehead.

Robbin - Known for her uncanny ability to stuff an entire beer bottle (not a twelve, yo--a forty) into her baby hole, this one must be an early favorite.

Susie - This bulbous skank from Kentucky has been preparing to suckle Satan by ingesting gallons of horse semen before each derby.

Some of the romantic destinations for dream dates allegedly include a rest stop in Idaho, a Dumpster behind Taco Bell in Tijuana, and a large medical waste container containing aborted fetuses and Larry King’s scrotum.

It will be a season to remember.

Form letter to a person who is annoying you.

This is a wonderful stress relief exercise. I bring it to you free of charge. No expensive webinars from me. No, sir. Copy and paste this document, and select the words that are most appropriate. Once complete, print it out, read it aloud, and shred it. (People have guns and lawyers.)



Dear [insert name of ex/colleague/critic/neighbor/random ass-hat],



This is not about you; it's about me. I'm venting.



Gee, golly, you are annoying the [living/freaking] [piss/shit/heck] out of me. You probably don't realize it, because you are an oblivious [pee-tard/monkey/lump of pus] who lives in [her/his] own [little/smelly/flea-ridden] world. If you would care to look beyond your own [enlarged/pocked/greasy/deviated] nose, you'd notice fellow passengers on this blue marble, to which you claim ownership. We don't [like/respect/have any use for] you.



Have you ever ridden the [subway/bus]? You know that odoriferous slob who always seems to select the vacant seat next to you? The one who showers monthly, at best, and talks to himself. Yep. That's you--figuratively--on this ride of life.



There are numerous traits I detest about you, beginning with the fact that you're so oblivious that you will deny all of them. How doth thou annoy me? Let me count the ways.



[Insert all that apply.]


You whine when I don't answer your [call/text/email] immediately, yet your phone seems to be dead more often than Kenny from South Park.
You never pay your fair share of the bill, which--oh, by the way--includes little things you may have heard of called tax and gratuity.
You've told me the same fucking story five times and, although it has changed slightly each time, it has not improved.
You've tagged me in unflattering Facebook photos numerous times, although I've asked you not to. You think it's funny. You think I'm kidding. I'm not.
Speaking of Facebook, one more status update from you about going shopping, and I'm going to begin hurling expensive china.
You whistle off-key.
Stop trying to borrow my [Chapstick/lip gloss/eyeliner/deodorant]. It's gross.
You use the word "like" so often that you make me want to stab my ears with a cocktail fork.
Your [pet/baby/boyfriend/girlfriend] is so not cute. You're either blind or doing ugly-care community service.
You tell enough white lies to coat a ski jump.
You have no idea what personal space is.
It takes you half an hour to decide what to order, then you customize it excessively, and send it back to the kitchen, where I hope they spit in it.

Now, please stop annoying me, you [lame, brain-dead, ugolicious, rectum-sniffing smegma eater/festering, puke-inducing, smelly-crotched bumwipe/vermin-ridden, anti-genius, vomitrocious ape-face].



Yours,

[Sign and date here.]

Grumpy



P.S. Have a nice day! ;)

When you forgive, you encourage bad behavior.

Forgiveness sucks; give it up. I don't care what ancient texts say. We are ruled by Nature, and Nature does not forgive. The squeaky wheel that gets greased will be squeaking again soon. Best to replace that wheel. You don't need to be angry about it or hold a grudge. Forget the pain of the slander, but remember the slanderer.



If you don't deliver the punishment deserved, the next person will be adversely affected because the misbehaving party hasn't learned to behave.



Let's think of some things men do in a relationship, which deserve punishment but are often forgiven:


Checking out or flirting with other women in your presence.
Slobbery, including not putting away his toys, leaving dishes around, creating dirty laundry mountains, and expecting accolades for a loud belch or fart.
Forgetting important dates.
Communicating with an ex.
Creating an orgasm tally imbalance.



You can't forgive these grievances, my sweet, or they will continue and grow more severe as they do.



This applies to platonic relationships as well. On my twice-weekly commute into the city, often I am stuck next to a man who has some sort of problem with his nose. This, mind you, has been going on for months. He sits near me, takes out his iPhone, tilts his head down, and begins playing some pointless game. Since his head is tilted down and he has a leaky noggin, he performs a snot symphony for the entire forty-minute ride.



*Sniff, Snort, Sniff, Gulp, Sniff, Cough, Snort*



I'm not allowed to euthanize him, oh, but I fantasize about it--sliding that needle into a vein while he sniffs and whimpers. One final gurgle, then off to the glue factory for Mr. Boogers.



Since his parents, friends, and (horrors, if such things exist) ex-girlfriends have forgiven this behavior instead of stuffing cotton up his nose and swatting him with a rolled-up magazine, we, the disgusted commuters, must endure this nonsense.



Another example close to my black heart is the way some fellow authors behave. As authors, we consume a large share of written media to see what is selling and why. It guides our work. Do we enjoy everything we read? Hell no. When we dislike something we read, we need to make the following distinction:


Does this suck because I don't enjoy this subject, whereas certainly others would?
Does this suck because it is horribly written?



In scenario #1, it's best to stop reading and move on without providing feedback or negative reviews, because authors, of all people, should realize that authors need to eat, and it's plain wrong to hurt sales due to a mismatch in tastes or preferences.



In scenario #2, it's best to provide PRIVATE feedback and suggestions directly to the author. Again, a bad review won't help correct the problem; it will just create hatred and embarrassment.



A fellow author has left a nasty review on one of my books. (See Rachel's review here.) If I forgive her, she'll do this to others. Instead, I'm going to read one of her books (already started and it is god-awful, as expected) and trash the shit out of her in a public forum by posting a one-star review. I also have a social media army I can enlist to assist me in the defensive assault. I hope she learns that her bad behavior must cease.



So, the next time someone offends you, pause to see if the offense was accidental. If it was intentional, don't forgive--punish.

NOT to do list for new relationships.

A friend is visiting from back east this week. She met a man on a dating site. They had some online banter, and she requested more pictures from him, since the ones on his profile were mostly head shots. That's a reasonable request, right? He asked for her mobile phone number so he could send the pictures. She complied. He sent (attached) a self portrait naked in bed. With the corny caption: "*Stretch, Yawn* Do I have to get up? G' mornin'."



What do you predict her reaction was?


"Damn, that's hot! Wish I were there to get you up."
A picture of herself naked.
Lose my number, quick.



If you chose #3, you were correct.



This is a grown man who needs to be schooled on dating etiquette. He sent this picture to one woman. How many people does he assume have seen it? Probably one. In reality, she has shown dozens, and I just posted it here to thousands. Now, this guy quite possibly has a massive ego and is unfazed and flattered by the spread of his nonsense. If nobody calls him on it, he'll continue doing it. I'm confident he will eventually find a woman who finds it sexy. Maybe he's strong enough to shrug off the misfires until he meets that woman.



"Dude. I'm sorry, but it's just creepy," is what I'd like to tell him.



Another thing people tend to do early in relationships is mention an ex. Bad move--not sometimes, every time. If you trash your ex to your next, you're showing the person you haven't healed. How many times have you had a person were dating wind up back with the ex he trashed thoroughly? It happens all the time, Sugartoe.



"I can't believe he went back to her."

"How do you know he did?"

"He friended her on Facebook and is tagged in photos with her."

"OK, that's slightly stalkerish on your part."

"It came up on my wall."

"Bull poopers. Don't go looking for dirt if you don't want to get dirty."

"He said all sorts of awful things about her, including how crazy, controlling, and sexually dull she was. Why would he go back to that?"

"Because she's really not all those things. He described her that way to justify the split to himself and to disarm you in case she appears in the vicinity."



If he speaks too highly of his ex, this also waves the yellow flag of caution. It could signal that he's not over her. This puts the new woman in a defensive posture and ruins the game.



This, among other reasons, is why exes should not come up in conversation. Exes are like sewage treatment plants: We all know they're around, but nobody wants to visit them.

Reasons you should consider the old dog at the shelter.

Since I'm single and an exceptional wingman, I enjoy a great view of mating dances from behind bars.



You've been to the animal shelter, right? You're checking out the cute, yet sad animals in the cages, trying to decide which to save. There are spunky puppies yapping and playing. You like those. There are tired, lonely dogs lying at the base, staring up at you. Sad. Over in that far corner, in his dusty cage is an older dog, calmly gnawing on hide. He winks at you. He's cute, but you want a puppy.



"Aw, look at this old fella."

Yeah. I'm flattered. Move along.

"I wonder if anyone will adopt him."

Doubtful, but that's OK.

"He'd probably make a good companion."

Well, that depends. Would you?

"I'm sure he's housebroken."

I chew what I should and I shit where I should.

"He looks tired, though. He's probably not very playful."

No, I'm not going to chase a fucking flying plastic disc.

"The last two puppies I took home drove me crazy. I probably should consider a well-trained grown dog."

But, you won't, because you haven't been trained.

"I think I'm going to get the puppy."


It's the same silliness in human adoption. I'm not claiming all older men are better-trained. We grasp for the games of youth and pay the price, occasionally. Still, if you take home a puppy, you're going to have your hands full.



Part of the blame for this masochistic tendency is the way the media glorifies romance. Women create lists of attributes they must have in a man, including:


Tall
Dark-skinned
Defined abs
Good job, his own home, no roommates, and a nice car.
Believes in a similar diety.
No ex he's not over.
Close-knit family.
Within five years of my age.
Likes pets.
Is available to see me when I'm available.

Naturally, they meet someone outside this range and consider filing a waiver. The friend reminds them about the list, insisting "it would never work out." So, they walk past the old dog's cage and pick up the trainable puppy. Let the shoe chewing begin.



Women are all caught up in the impression they give to society, so they worry about being with the mature dog and being labelled as a gold-digger who has daddy issues. Pity. Have fun with that, sweetness. I've grown to enjoy my shelter, with or without you.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Twenty (Epilogue)

I'm at Poinsettia Park, playing catch with my lovely daughter, Gerty. She's an all-star junior in high school, and one of the best pitchers in the nation. Her sister, Dee, is in the on-deck circle, hovering over a tripod while focusing a high-speed camera.



*WHAPPP*



"Ouch! Take it easy on the old man, will ya?"

"Oh, Dad."

"Seriously. I'm not wearing a cup. Straight stuff only."



*ZZZIP*



Dee's camera clicks off numerous shots with every pitch. I take a quick water break.



"I thought twins were supposed to be alike. You should be catching your sister."

"Sports are silly, except for their artistic qualities," she responds while showing me an action photo in on the camera.

"Nice."

"We need about a dozen more good ones for the yearbook."

"Great. I'm going to need a thicker glove."



As I head back behind the plate, Bea is sitting in the stands smiling at me.



"How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

"Could be worse. You could have a son throwing in the nineties."

"Good point and, just so you know, I'm not opposed to having another go at my little Pippino."

"That will be up to your daughters. Better start working on them now."

"Grandson Pippino. Perfecto!"



I put the catcher's mask on and squat.



"OK, baby doll. Let her fly."

"Pop?"

"Yes."



*BZZZT*



"I've been kind of seeing someone, and he asked if I'd go to the Senior Prom."

"You've been seeing him or seeing him?"

"Ugh. You know."

"No, and I'm not sure I want to."

"Whatever."



*SSSNAP*



"Anyway, he's a nice guy. He plays baseball."

"All right, that's one good thing."

"He got accepted to Stanford."

"Two. Does he treat you like a lady?"

"Of course. In fact, just yesterday he gave me the most romantic gift."

"Flowers?"

"No, a butt plug," she winks.



*FFFFFT, BOINK, CRACK* ... sinkerball, square in the nuts.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Nineteen

We drive down to Comic-Con. I'm amazed by the variety of outfits and personalities. Crowds gather in bunches around celebrity sightings. Grandma hands out VIP badges as the limo drops us off at the main entrance.



"I like how you travel, woman."

"The meeting is in Room 19 on the Mezzanine Level," Grandma informs us.

"What meeting?" I ask.

"Ooh, Mormon, you're going to love this," Eric assures me.



A concierge guides us through the crowd and up the escalator to the Mezzanine. We stop at the concession counter to grab coffee. I take Bea aside.



"What's going on, sweetie?"

"Eric and I have been working this deal for months. Grandma made some contacts and it all came together beautifully."

"So, she wasn't in Canada last week?"

"She was in Hollywood."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

"They're ready for you, folks," the concierge informs us. "Right this way."



My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry. What could this be? I turn the corner into the room and see a small group of executive-looking people behind a conference room table containing various documents and pens. The flat-screen TV in front of the table has a web browser. It's on the home page of my blog.



I stare at Bea, still confused.



"Mormon, these folks are from Macmillan," Grandma introduces.



I press palms with various executives from the publishing giant, then Grandma leads me over to another gentleman.



"I believe you know this fellow," Grandma suggests as he smiles and shakes my hand.

"Mark Fucking Wahlberg?" I gasp.

"Mark Robert Michael Wahlberg, actually," he corrects me.

"Jesus. Sorry, dude. I'm a huge fan," I offer, while holding his handshake uncomfortably long.

"As am I, Mormon. I've been reading your blog for weeks. You have quite a story."

"I apologize. Can someone tell me what's going on here?"



Bea grabs both my hands and stares me in the eyes.



"Darling, Macmillan is offering a three-book deal and Mr. Wahlberg would like to option the film rights ... for five million dollars."



I nearly faint.



"All that's left is the signing of the agreements. Our attorney has reviewed them. Congratulations, my love."



Bea kisses me. I'm blown away, elated, and humbled. I've been blogging about my bizarre relationship with Lovergirl since that first meeting in her office. I never had any intention of publishing it.



"Books and a movie? About us?"

"Let's say, inspired by us."

"You can change some of the facts, you know, to protect the innocent," Mark suggests.

"Start by changing the names," Bea insists.



I sign the documents, stare at the advance checks, and pinch myself. Once home, I sit in front of my computer ...



My name is Mormon Silver Phil Torcivia, and women leave their marks on me.




THE END.

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Eighteen

Poker is a funny game, especially when you have beads in the bum. Perhaps that distraction was causing my string of losses to Lovergirl, but after seeing what's dangling from me, she's straining to see her cards through tearing eyes.



I'm dealt Ace-King, and do as I should: go all in. The flop is Ace-King-Deuce. If this were on ESPN, I'd see that exciting number saying I have something like a 99% chance of winning this hand. Bea foolishly goes all in also. She has more chips than I do, so this is a critical hand.



"Oh, Lovergirl. You're going down. Let's see what you have."

"No."

"Those are the rules. Flip them."

"No. Not until all five cards are out. I want to watch you sweat."

Jesus. Does she have pocket Aces?



The next two cards turned are off-suit Eight and Four. I have a sure winner. I flip my cards over and rejoice that I can name our child, yank her chain, and lose my string of butt-pearls. She bites her lip and turns over her cards: a pair of Deuces. Fuck me in the eye hole.



"Are you kidding me, woman?"

"Oh, Can-nuh-dahhhh," she sings while doing her happy dance.

"How the hell do win a hand with Deuces?"

"Let's go, Uncle M," she insists as she leads me upstairs. "It's time for the removal of the final item. You don't mind if a drape my nation's flag over my shoulders while performing, do you?"



In my candlelit bedroom, Lovergirl sits up on the bed while I lie between her legs with my chin propped on my hands--an eager spectator. She slowly removes the Ben Wa balls with her left hand while circling her clit with the fingertips of her right. I love watching my woman touch herself. I'm bone-hard between the varied sensations including the yellow pill I took before our poker match.



Every time I try to assist in her pleasure she raises a foot to my forehead and pushes me back.



"I want you to sit up facing me," she suggests, "and touch yourself too, Uncle M."

"All right."



Mutual masturbation is a first for me. When I'm ready to erupt, she reaches toward me to (I assume) give me a hand. Instead, as my Mormon-juice rises she yanks the beads from me like she's starting a leaf blower.



"Eeek," is all I can manage. I feel violated--in a good way. "Great, now what do we do with the beads?"

"I think they're dishwasher safe," she offers.

"Yuck! Why don't we keep them in a bedside jar of barbicide?"

"Ha!"



The next morning, Grandma arrives home as we finish breakfast.



"Welcome home, Grandmother," I greet her. "French toast?"

"Yum. Yes, please."

"Hello, darling," Grandma greets Bea.

"How was your trip?"

"Very productive. It's a done deal."

"What's a done deal?" I interrupt.

"The three of us and Eric are going to Comic-Con tomorrow."

"Cool, I always wanted to check that out."

"Good," Bea beams.

"We're meeting the group at nine," says Grandma.

"What group?"

"You'll see."

Fifty Shades Effed - Chapter Seventeen

I'm home finishing more blog entries, hoping they drive revenue to help me catch up on the mortgage. Grandma leaves for Canada to visit family for a few days, so Bea and I have the house to ourselves.  

Bea Plastique: I say we have the final event in our baby naming Olympics tonight. You game?

Mormon Silver: Sure. What do you have in mind?

Bea Plastique: Strip Poker. Do you know how to play Texas Hold 'em?

Mormon Silver: Never heard of it. Does it involve steer wrestling?

Bea Plastique: You're not bluffing me, mister.

Mormon Silver: Bring it, sister!




I'm not bluffing, as my card skills are nearly as bad as my skating skills. I don't even know if a straight beats a flush. Still, I won't back down from a challenge.




The key to strip poker (I Googled it) is to have lots of items to remove. Hence, I enter our walk-in closet and begin layering up. I find Bea's purple thong and make it my first item. If nothing else, it should distract her. Then I add boxer briefs and jeans. I create makeshift pasties out of electrical tape in the form of crosses over my nipples. I put on a tank top, T-shirt, polo shirt, button-down, and a scarf. I add socks and Pumas, then a bandana, cap, and sunglasses. No way she wins.




When Bea arrives home, I'm a sweaty mess.




"Is there a cold front coming in?"

"Get your cute little ass over to the poker table. Italy shall claim the crown tonight."

"Fine. I'm going to change first. Start shuffling, Uncle M."




When she comes back downstairs, all she's wearing is a sundress and sandals.




"That's it?"

"This is all I need," she insists. "Can I get you a drink while I'm up? A bourbon, perhaps?"

"Yes ... hold on. No drugging me."

"I'd never."

"Right. Bring me the sealed bottle and a glass, Miss Thang."

"As you wish."




We begin our event. I lose hand after hand after hand. I'm two bourbons in and down to pasties and underwear. Bea laughs when she sees the black crosses over my nipples.




"What were you thinking? Did you forget you have chest hair?"

"Um ..."

"You lose this hand and I get to remove them."

"Fine."




I lose the hand. She removes them like Band-Aids and leaves me with two pink, tender-skinned crosses. Bea is in her bra and panties. I finally get a favorable draw, win the hand, and off comes her bra.




"Looks like a dead heat," I remark.

"Not quite."




Bea wins the next hand and assumes she's the victor until I peel down my boxer briefs and model her thong.




"That has to be one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen," Bea laughs as she tries to snap a picture with her iPhone. "I'm posting this on Facebook."

"Give me that," I insist, as I take the phone from her.




On the next hand I learn that a straight does not beat a flush; I have a flush.




"Yes! Italy wins!"

"Hold on, Uncle M," Bea interrupts as she peels down her panties to reveal a silver chain coming from her luscious love tunnel.

"What the heck is that?"

"The chain to my Ben Wa balls."

"Fuck."






Bea wins the next hand, once again confident in Canada's victory.




"Heck no. This fat lady ain't singin' yet," I insist as I turn around, peel down the thong, and expose the silver hoop dangling from my crack. It's Ben Wa balls versus anal beads for the title.