You're Only as Hot As The Guys are Desperate

I have ranted before, although it was many years ago when none of you read this blog, about people who think they are hotter than they are. That whatever number on the vaunted 1-10 scale you give yourself in your head you should probably subtract 2 and that’s about where you are. While more and more guys are concerning themselves with their respective appearance, this really applies mostly to females. Because lord knows, they are the ones constantly trying to remind you how good looking they are.

While most girls of average appearance either accept the fact that they are average or surround themselves with belt contenders to look good by comparison, there is a particularly obnoxious breed of female who cannot accept the truth. This girl is typically slightly above-average in appearance, possibly due to some singular feature that gets overly complemented. This may be eyes, legs, hair or chest, but more often than not it is the ass. And these compliments typically lead this girl to somehow delude herself into thinking that she is on par with your typical dime pieces (thanks VK) that populate the VIP rooms during Super Bowl week.

These girls will not be able to get through five lines of conversation without mentioning the fact that they get hit on. Constantly. They complain about it ruining their night, but I guarantee if it stopped they would be crushed. Every guy in the room is trying to sleep with them, especially that guy over there who brushed past her saying “excuse me.” Yes, that one making out with the blonde in the corner. He was DEFINNTELY hitting on you. Oh, and you were late because a cop pulled you over for speeding but really just wanted your personal information? Hate to break it to you, but asking for your license and registration does not constitute asking you out. And I’m sure you weren’t breaking any traffic laws or anything. 21-year-old females always make the best drivers.

See, here’s the thing, these girls know, deep down, they are not all that hot. But they are still fuckable and therefore will garner some male attention, usually from guys looking for the easiest girl to take home. So these ladies take this as guys being “all over them, all the time” when, in fact, they are just seeking the easiest target in the room. Namely the not-so-hot girl with self-esteem issues. This then translates into her over-compensating for the lack of real attention she is getting, and telling every one of her friends how every guy in the bar wants to get with her. No, they don’t want to, they’re just willing to.

This girl populates most social circles and most of you know who she is. She is not the best-looking, or the smartest, or maybe even the sluttiest, but she is, quite possibly the most obnoxious. You’re not as hot as you’re trying to convince yourself you are, sweetheart. Give it up. When I see you at the Maxim party, I’ll believe it. Otherwise, stick to the Tavern at 3 AM and be grateful for what desperate attention you get.

Just Runnin' From The Homeless

I woke up motivated at 6AM after about 3 hours sleep and put on my Marine Corps PT gear, complete with skin-tight green T-Shirt and shorts that just narrowly avoid being cited for indecent exposure. And it that moment I realized something: PT gear is meant for people still actually in the Marines, not guys who got out three years ago. Either that or I'm just getting a little too fond of kettle cooked potato chips.

Next door, my neighbor who usually blasts Reggaeton and Mariachi music at this hour had on a different selection. Today it was "Love Hurts," followed by "It Must Have Been Love" followed by Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do, I Do it For You." Look, pal, just because you got dumped doesn't mean the whole neighborhood needs to get woken up before their pet chickens. I was up anyway, so my tirade was reserved. After all, I was on my way to run my first competitive race since 1996.

In true Miami fashion, absolutely no strategic planning was put into a race being run across the main causeway to South Beach, closing off 2 lanes at 6 AM the weekend before the Super Bowl. Not to mention the two thousand or so people running the race at 7:30 that had to drive there. So of course there was bumper-to-bumper traffic as soon as I hit downtown at the always-congested hour of 6:30 on a Saturday. Yeah, let's close two lanes of a major thoroughfare and not even suggest alternate routes. Does anyone ever think anything through in this town?

My friends had signed me up for this race since they know I run for conditioning purposes, but by no means are any of us "runners." We are more what you would call "drinkers." As in when the "runners" are up and about at 6 AM on a Saturday, we are still "drinking" and usually "stumbling/swerving home" as they are out "running." Yeah, you know when you see those people out jogging as you go home at an ungodly hour and wonder who the fuck they are? This is who the fuck they are. The people who are about to make you look really, really bad.

The funny thing is that in my age group, that is males 25-29, the average time was slower than any other. You know why? Because I don't think anyone takes running all that seriously unless they are a teenager and running cross country or old and afraid of getting fat or having a heart attack. The rest of us? Running is really just something we do to justify the massive amounts of light beer and fried foods we consume while those who pretend to enjoy it are doing healthy things like sleeping or eating a salad. Nonetheless, the rest of the guys our age looked equally if not more hung-over and equally if not more unprepared. Which may explain how my friend who ran a 5K in a blazing 23 minutes finished 9^th. Still beat me, though.

The run was nice enough, although getting passed by guys you'd swear should be dead by now is always a little demoralizing. We ran over the MacArthur Causeway into South Beach and ended up at Nikki Beach Club. Where we were greeted with water, a steel drum band and, oh yes, chocolate chip cookies. Because nothing is better than kicking your ass for half an hour trying to burn off calories only to take them all back in roughly 25 seconds. Thank you very much, Tropical 5K. Thanks to you this whole thing was a wash. We were all given medals at the finish line, and I didn't remove mine all day. Everyone who asked why I had it I told "because I'm a winner." I'm thinking they probably figured it was from Special Olympics.

All in all it was an excellent and scenic run under perfect conditions that the following day's marathon runners wish they'd had. I got a T-Shirt that said "Just Runnin' For the Homeless" (apparently this race was for some sort of "charity" a fact I learned as I was crossing the starting line that definitely would have prevented me form doing this in the first place.). I thought it would have been much funnier if the had replaced "for" with "from." I guarantee you if that were the case everyone's time would have been cut by at least 3 minutes.

You Say I'm in the Wrong City, I Call it Niche Marketing

Someone recently told me I was in the wrong city to be “shopping around.” As in “Well, you don’t like Cuban girls, so you’re really in the wrong city to be shopping around.” Really? Am I? Oh, I beg to differ.

You see in business school I learned about this little thing called “niche marketing.” It may be the only part of that degree I am actually putting to good use. Niche marketing is when you target your product to a select niche in the marketplace, a small amount of people who will nearly all buy your product. In my case, the product is me and my niche is White girls in Miami.

Now, you have heard, or more likely read, me rant and rave many times about the lack of White girls here in Miami. And for the most part it is true. But here is the thing: The White girls here? They think the exact same way. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been talking to a girl and she asks my ethnic background (a very common first encounter question down here) and they say “Wow! It is so nice to finally meet a regular American boy in this town!” See, they’re starved for whiteness too. So when you do finally meet that American girl of your dreams, she is equally happy to meet you.

So while the supply of my type of girl may be short here in Dade, the ones I do encounter are of a similar mindset. Perhaps there is not the plethora of girls here that would allow me to pick and choose as much as I’d like, but when I do reach my target market they are much more receptive to the product. And while I seriously doubt I will find the woman of my dreams in Miami, I am a novelty here. And that, my friends, can be more valuable than you can ever imagine.

Miami is The City You Fuck

This is not a city you bring home to mom. She is not a place you want to raise your kids, or to settle down with or to plan a future. While superficially she is perfect, and will show you the time of your life if you let her, doing anything real with this city would be a grave, grave mistake.

Because you see there are cities you marry and cities you fuck. And Miami, well, Miami is the city you fuck. A lot of people come to Miami and fuck her for a weekend and go home. And they swear it's the best sex they've ever had. Many get a taste of her and make the mistake of trying to make her theirs. But most, after a few months, realize her inherant sexiness wears thin pretty quick. They learn about her insanity, her volatility, and her constant abuse, wise up and leave. But man, it was a good time, wasn't it?

When you are young and single, that's the kind of city you want. One that makes all your other friends jealous because she is so crazy and so hot at the same time. The kind of city that gives you mind-blowing sex and even more mind-blowing drugs whenever you want them. The kind of city that has you thinking about her 24-7 and all the things you want to do to her the next time you are together. And then you get there and the reunion is spectacular and you swear she is the greatest thing that ever happened to you.

Until that first night when she drives you crazy and you get in a fight and she has an ecstasy-fueled threesome with a couple of German Tourists. And blames it on you. And then you have make-up sex and it's all good again until the next time she drives you insane. You swear you'll leave, but you know you can't. She's too hot and the sex is too good. Yeah, you get a little jealous when you see the douchebags from Long Island come down and fuck your city raw for three days and not have to stick around and deal with the crazy aftermath. But in the back of your mind you tell yourself you're getting to hit that every night so you'll deal with it.

I tried leaving her once. I was 23 and wanted a more relaxing life. But the longer I was away the more I thought that she was the kind if city I belonged with. After two years I took her back with open arms, admitting that she was flawed but I loved her in spite of it. Since then she has given me unwavering highs and debilitating lows, but this time around I knew what I was in for. Another friend of mine also tried to leave her after being with her since Middle School, but after three years he too came back. "Yeah," he told me recently, "not only did I take her back but now I'm living with her fucking parents."

A day will come when I decide that I want more out of life than fun and adventure. When Miami's moral corruption, personal volatility and drug-induced insanity will become too much for my old bones. And I'll move to a nice, smart, personable city like Sacramento or Raleigh. The kind of city you marry. But for now, well, for now I am young and single and void of any significant responsibility. So what I need is a city that will fuck me senseless and make me insane. I love you Miami, you crazy, crazy bitch. You will always hold a special place in my heart as the passion of my youth.

Words Cannot Fully Express My Unmititgated Glee That Tom Brady was Finally Exposed as The Overrated Choke Job Fraud That He Is

But I’m going to try anyway.

Reggie Wayne tried to do it, Tom Brady. He really really tried. He tried to give you your traditional, fourth-quarter tuck rule, kickoff out-of-bounds, fumbled interception bail out that you always get. He fumbled the ball up in the air, and as he looked at it he thought “Wait a minute..I’m from Miami. Apparently the only city that knows this guy is the most overrated professional athlete since John Starks. The only city where we know Tom Brady is an above-average quarterback at best since that is exactly how he plays every time our team faces him. I can’t let this happen. I won’t” And Reggie Wayne’s Hurricane pride showed through as he grabbed the ball away from two New England Patriots and saved us from two weeks of Brady fallatio.

We all knew your luck would run our eventually, Tom. You’re in the same league as Montana and Elway? Really? Well, here was your chance to engineer a playoff-winning drive that made you actually score a touchdown instead of getting the ball thirty yards from the end zone. Here was your chance for a play labeled “The Catch” or “The Drive” or even an unnamed touchdown to John Taylor or spinning touchdown run against the Packers. Here was your chance to shut all the assholes like me up who say you’ve never done much without the help of your kicker and the rest of your team. And what did you do? Exactly what you did last week: Threw the ball to the other team. Only this time the DB was smart enough to fall on his ass, not wanting to hear about you for the next seven months.

Let me make something clear, Tom Brady: You are a Tuck Rule away form never winning that first Super Bowl and probably being benched for Drew Bledsoe. You are Adam Vinatieri’s foot away from possibly losing two Super Bowls. If that guy couldn’t kick in the snow, you’re Tony Romo. You have been exposed as exactly what you are: A guy who can get his team into field goal range. Hall of Fame indeed.

Super Bowls, you say? Brad Johnson won a Super Bowl. So did Jeff Hostetler. So did Trent Dilfer. No one is talking about them as top 5 all time. The great ones don’t do what Tom Brady did yesterday. And they certainly don’t do it two weeks in a row. The good ones do, and that is what you are, Tommy, good. Good like Phil Simms was good, good like Roger Staubach was good, good like Jim Kelley was good (and if he had Vinatieri instead of Scott Norwood you probably wouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath as him either). Those guys are all hall of famers, but nobody is talking about them as the best of all time. And thanks to a lot of other people, I guess that is the caliber of quarterback he is. But do not ever, ever think of yourself in the same league as Montana, Elway, Marino, Bart Starr, Johnny Unitas, or even Steve Young, Tom Brady. You couldn’t carry those guys’ hip pads.

You know who has to smiling big right now? Adam Vinatieri. You know him, he’s the guy responsible for winning two of the Patriots’ Super Bowls and getting them there the first time. Belichick and Brady you say? How many championships have they won without their hall-of-fame kicker? If I’m Adam, I’m laughing my ass off right now. Tom Brady should cut that guy half of every endorsement check he gets and let him fuck every single supermodel and actress he dates. Because without him, Tom Brady is probably wasting away as a backup in Arizona or Atlanta or Barcelona right now.

Good night, Tom Brady. You have been exposed. Go down to that second tier where you belong with Matt Hasselbeck and Philip Rivers. Leave the adoration to the guys who actually play the position at the top of their profession like Peyton and Carson Palmer. You are in the top ten in the league right now. You aren’t bad. But you’re not great either. Enjoy the off-season Tom. I’m sure I'll see you at one of those Super Bowl parties with all the other people NOT playing for a championship.

Oh...And as For My Thoughts on the NFC Chamionship:

Don't Be That Guy Vol. 4: The Skank Thief

A lot of guys have to put work into getting laid. I’m not saying I am one of those guys, but I can certainly appreciate someone who puts a little effort into achieving their goal as opposed to sitting back and waiting for the mountain to come to you (sometimes literally). So when your boys are out and they are chatting up a girl who just oozes moral casualty, and they decide to invite her somewhere else, let them go and go to sleep.

Whether it is in a bar, on the beach, in a coffee shop on or the Subway, the guy who shows the stones to start up a conversation with a girl should be the one with the opportunity to sleep with her. Now, if she is not into that guy and summarily blows him off (figuratively) that is a different story. But if a couple of your boys are talking up some girls and invite them out for drinks, to a club, or back to your apartment, keep your grubby hands off them. The guy who puts in the work should be the one who gets the reward.

Now, sometimes the girl he is with may actually seem more interested in you, maybe specifically because you are NOT putting in any effort, or maybe because you are more her type, or maybe because she is just an attention whore and wants you to pay the same attention to her that your friends are. But even if she seems more into you, do not, under any circumstances, pursue any action with this lady. Despite the fact that you may (and I repeat, MAY) have a better chance with her than the guy who has been pretending to be interested in her tales of shoe shopping and binge drinking, it is still not your opportunity to take. As I said, sit back, relax, and go to sleep. Your night is over.

The one exception may be the potential for a gangbang. While extremely rare, it is not still not your gangbang in instigate. In other words, you must first let your boy, or boys, who have been putting in the work start things up and then invite yourself in. Anything else is a gross violation of ethics, friendship, and, if you want to be cheesy and cliché, man-laws.

Sometimes we get greedy, but it should never come at the expense of a friend getting laid. There is cockblocking, which is interfering for the sake of someone else not getting any, and then there is downright skank-thieverey. I’m not sure which is worse, as one is done for spite and one is done for greed. But any way you cut it, preventing a friend from getting laid is just plain wrong. If someone is nice enough to even let you talk to a girl they are interested in, respect their efforts and back the Hell off. Otherwise, you shouldn’t be surprised if you get a punch in the face as soon as you walk out of the bedroom.

The Seger-Sterger Weekend

For the five people I hadn't mentioned it too, I spent last weekend in the Tampa Bay area going to see Bob Seger at the St Pete Times Forum. Oddly enough, not actually located in St. Petersburg, but rather in downtown Tampa. But I suppose if the Angels can say they play in LA and the Giants can say they play in New York, anything is possible. And you wonder why most kids can't locate Texas on a map. At any rate, I had been waiting for this concert since about 1996 so it was very exciting. Bob sang a lot better than I expected him to at 112, and I got to hear all the classics I had wanted to hear. I also came to the realization that while every girl whose ever heard "We've Got Tonight" thinks it's this beautiful, pretty romantic song, its actually pretty depraved. The song is basically a guy bottom-lining a girl for a one-night stand. That is the genius of Bob Seger: He makes scumbaggerey sound poetic.

Aside form a rather uneventful night out in Tampa, the rest of the weekend consisted of a rib barbecue at the home of Leo and Carolyn Sterger in Lutz. Yes, yes, the same Leo and Carolyn Sterger who gave birth to my favorite Florida State fan, Jenn Sterger. I don't talk much anymore about my interactions with the Sterger family as first of all they are rather minimal and second of all it has gotten to a point where I've sort of forgotten how I got to know them. So the whole surreal aspect of hanging out with the family of a girl I devoted more energy to ripping than anyone in the history of this blog is more or less gone. I got to meet Jenn's sister Stacey, who was understandably confused as to why I was there. Mom explained the whole thing to her and apparently her response was "Oooh. The mean guy." Yes, Stacey, the mean guy is coming over for dinner, so make sure put lots of laxative in that chocolate cake.

The Stergers have an enormous house on an equally enormous lot in Lutz, which apparently played home to many marching band parties when the girls were in High School. Leo showed me his various landscaping projects while grandma (who also lives there. Hmm, three generations in one house? You guys would fit right in in Westchester) regaled my friend with tales of growing up in the everglades. I made mojitos for everyone and we had a delicious rib dinner. They even made beef ones especially for their Jewish guest. Jenn came by for a while, and it was the first time I had seen her not done up in cowgirl attire. I will reiterate that while definitely attractive you probably wouldn't notice her twice walking around the FSU campus.

It was at this point that Jenn Sterger uttered the words that changed my old opinion of her 180 degrees. "I'm so sick of Tom Brady," she said while watching the end of the Chargers game. "He is completely overrated and gets way too much credit for his team winning." Wow, I guess she really does know a lot about sports. Turns out the whole Sterger clan agrees with her, and me, so a better portion of the evening was spent discussing how he is no better than Jim Kelly and probably the 5^th or 6^th best in football right now. Jenn then left for a "watching football in front of the TV" date with an undisclosed guy.

So today I went back and read the post that made this blog what it is today and I thought "Wow, this is some funny shit. But man was I offbase." And not just because she hates Tom Brady. And not just because her dad made me dinner and gave me a copy of Jackass 2. It turns out Jenn really is a pretty normal girl who lives at home and drives her drunk friends around and goes over to a normal guy's house to watch football for a date. But don't get your hopes up, guys. Even girls who are only mildly famous are still out of your league. So this weekend I learned that while I was always a fan of Leo's, I guess Jenn isn't too bad either. Looks like all those people who were telling me to shut up before I got to know her were right. This is not an apology, mind you. That post has done more for me than anything else I've ever written, and I have no regrets about anything surrounding it. But it is an admission that perhaps I spoke too soon, and that maybe, just maybe, Jenn Sterger isn't everything that is wrong with America.

Excuse Me, But Why the Fuck are You People Getting Married?

I had long been under the impression that the only people whose entire senior class had gotten married by this point were rednecks from flyover country and my two old roommates from the outskirts of Carson City. In other words, people with nothing better to do. But an old friend who is a friend of the blog sent me some links that sent me into convulsions of revulsion, realizing that maybe Seattle is not so cosmopolitan as we would all like to believe.

If I had started a pool my senior year as to who would be married by this point, I think Fat Mormon Joe would have topped the list. Most Mormons not married by now are more or less assumed to be gay. Although, now that I think about it, even Fat Mormon Joe's brother, Gay Mormon Mike, is "married." But no, no, the links I was sent were not to the White Trash girls who used to go smoke Crystal Meth at Lunch or the Puerto Rican Princesses (PRP), half of whom had their kids at graduation, but rather the 5 or 6 thin, tan, preppy girls who bucked the then-popular trend among Seattle women to wear nothing but flannel and not shave. In other words, the hot chicks.

Here we have Kirstin. Kirstin was a friend of mine my Freshmen year until for some reason she decided not to be, possibly when I gave her a set of ankle weights for no apparent reason. Her mom is quite possibly the best Spanish teacher on earth and well-prepared me for a life in Latin America. Perusing their wedding website, it seems Kirstin and Erik were married in June of 2005, somehow managing to omit me from the invitation list. It's okay Kirstin, you can consdier those ankle weights your early wedding present. Apparently Erik lives in San Jose while Kirstin is working for a local TV show in Seattle. Yes, long-distance relationships and working in entertainment alaways spell happy marriage to me. I'll give you my uncle's card at the reunion.

Next we have Ramey. Ramey was actually my stunt partner for a brief time (yes, I was a high school yell leader, now fucking drop it) until one day she slipped on a dismount and I accidentally felt her up. I don't think she would have been so upset except that my first reaction was "That was your boob? It felt like a rib." I guess small-chested teenagers don't take to well to you not realizing you are feeling them up when you are. Oh well, I guess this explains why I wasn't invited to this one either.

And lastly we have Terra Meistrell. Terra was a nice enough girl in High school, and was even a co-worker of mine at Tony Maroni's pizza for a brief while. She actually managed to pull off the hot, skinny girl look while still being neither hot nor skinny, being the only girl in the clique with a beer gut at age 15. At any rate, she was a raging cunt the last two times I saw her, and therefore I have no qualms discussing her now. Terra and Peter apparently met playing Golden Tee, which is cute I suppose although I think the only person I ever met playing that game was a coke dealer named Sherm. They are getting married a week before the Super Bowl this year, and have also mysteriously left me off their guest list.

Looking at the wedding party, there is a girl named Ara Sleeth, who if you google under her maiden name you get my blog as the #1 response. It is a sad, sad thing when the most noteworthy thing you've done since High School is being mentioned on my blog. Of course, if you google my name you get a driving school in New Jersey. Also included is Lia Ramos, who was hands-down the hottest girl in my High School. That, of course, was back when I considered girls named "Ramos" attractive. Google her and you get four pages on a former Miss Philippines (not her) before you get to White Dade. The rest of the party is a venerable who's-who of 1996 Seattle Keg Parties, so I'm guessing the White Hats will be in full effect for the reception.

My point today, aside form making fun of a bunch of people I haven't seen in several years and surely providing some sort of drama for our 10-year reunion in November, is this: WHY THE FUCK ARE ALL YOU PEOPLE MARRIED?! What kind of backwater freaks get hitched before 35? Seriously. I know these were the hottest girls at my high school circa 1997, but guys, they were the hottest girls at my high school circa 1997. That's kind of like buying the nicest house in Compton. They do not rate forgoing all future tang for the rest of your freaking lives. And ladies…..you are all still hot. You need to spend this time getting as much free jewlery and trips to Bimini as you can. Argh. I need to go throw up and bang a hooker now, once again reminding myself why I am so much cooler than everybody I went to High School with.

People are People, So Stop Kissing Ass

It is the perpetual cry of the recently fired for misconduct. When asked why they were dismissed the answer is always “I just wasn’t good at kissing ass.” Now, admittedly, 90% of these people are actually unruly, surly sons of bitches who couldn’t get along a Mormon Missionary, much less appease a critical supervisor. These people rarely see the error in their own ways and see everyone who does not tell the boss to eat a dick every time they are asked to do something that is, strangely, part of their job as a kiss ass. It is not impossible that I am one of these people.

The problem is that while I think most organizations are not so political that one must add “sycophant” to their business card in order to get ahead, there are some places where you need to butter up the boss to succeed. Where you need to treat people who think they are important like they are important, and therefore debase yourself. This is a skill I have never possessed. There is a difference between respect for authority and outright brown-nosing, and I understand it clearly. When a supervisor asks me to do something, I do exactly what I am asked. I do not go out of my way to impress anyone unless I feel that it will improve the overall outcome. In other words, I never go out of my way just to look good to my supervisors. Unless, of course, my supervisors are hot.

Many people are also afraid of the big bosses. Like somehow the owner of a company or a general manager is a superior form of human life and must be shown complete and total deference every time they enter a room. Listen, I don’t think anyone in the world is better than me. Period. If they are in a higher postiion and I am paid to follow their orders I do, but I still talk to everyone pretty much the same. This got me in some trouble in the Marines, since you could only tell who I was talking to if I added “sir” to the end of a sentence. But the fact is people are people and you should never put anyone above yourself.

Treating people like they are better than you only feeds their already over-inflated egos. This is why I am also duly unimpressed by celebrities, and would never treat one any different than I’d treat anybody else I would meet. Similarly, I have no heroes. There is not a single person on Earth I would rather be than myself, so therefore there is no one I aspire to be. That is not to say there are not aspects of other people’s lives I would like to have, but I just don’t believe in looking up to anyone.

This is why I cannot kiss anyone’s ass. I don’t fear them and therefore feel no real reason to make them feel better about themselves. If my work itself impresses them, then fine. But I am not going to compliment anyone for no reason, or cower in fear when they come around just because they hold a higher position than I. They’re just people, like me. No better, often worse. Sometimes this warrants others who do not think like me faster promotion and better careers. And that is fine. But their advancement has come at the expense of everyone else, as now that boss has an even bigger ego and will expect such behavior from your co-workers. Be advised, kiss-asses, you are hurting everyone else by being so pathetic. Stop and think before you get your nose so brown.

Dividing the Bars

When you are young and void of any significant responsibilities or possessions, breakups are relatively easy. Or at least so they would seem to the outside observer. As my Dad (who has been through a couple of divorces) told my sister when she broke up with her longtime live-in boyfriend “You think this is hard? This ain’t shit. All you have to split up is a bunch of furniture and a cat.” And when no pets or plush recliners are in the picture, one would think that it would be simple to write off a toothbrush and an iron and call it a day, right?

Well, when you live in the same city as your ex, and you unfortunately happen to frequent the same social establishments, there is the extremely important issue of who gets what bars. Seems funny, I know, but at this age your social life is more or less limited to establishments who serve Old Crow and the occasional kickball game. So unfortunately your activities may become severely limited in the wake of a recent breakup. Sure you COULD just go out like you used to and hope to not run into your ex, or maybe, God forbid, act like and adult and see them without any drama. But lets be honest, when alcohol is involved the chances of that are about as good as the chances of some Marines finally finding those oh-so-elusive weapons of Mass Destruction. So what is a recently no-longer-a-couple to do when they want to avoid each other on the social scene?

I have always felt that whoever was going to the bar first should get to keep it. There are a few exceptions, like if maybe I walked into a bar once in 1999 and my ex has been going there every day since the Clinton administration ended, but usually it should be first in, last out. Similarly, if one bar usually hosts one of the parties’ social circle, then it would be wise for the other to avoid it at all costs. Lest they have drinks dumped on them, food spit in, or unwanted drinks added to their tab. Often the parties can sit down and devise nights of custody of certain bars, like “You get Murphy’s on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, I get the rest of the week,” but this often becomes a hassle for everyone else involved. No one likes hearing “Yeah, guys, I’d love to go out with you, but Nicole has the bar tonight. Lets just stay home and watch poker!”

But what is one to do if an opportunity comes up that may throw you head-long into a confrontational situation with an ex? Like, say, the entire female promotional team for a major beer manufacturer, who happen to be spending a month at the hotel you work at, inviting you to go play beer pong at an establishment so frequented by your ex that she may or may not have named her cat after the bar. Stay home and you miss out on what promises to be, at the very worst, an evening surrounded by attractive women who will be buying you beer all night. Go out and you are immediately “that guy” saying “Hey, look at me, we broke up and now I am surrounded by attractive women buying me beer all night!” More than likely resulting in either A) your ex thinking you are a total douche bag or B) Her going home with someone else right in front of your face. Most likely both. And all this after you came to the decision to avoid all you ex’s frequent watering holes for an as-yet-undetermined period of time so as not to cause any drama. Of course, since when have I been good a that?

I have always been of the out-of-sight, out-of-mind mentality when to comes to ex’s, and I like to keep it that way. But it is difficult to stop going places you like to go because you don’t want to run into her making out with some guy who is richer and better looking than you. Eventually, you both grow up and accept the fact that you are going to have to share your city's drinking establishments, but in meantime it becomes a difficult social probation. Until then, perhaps the party just has to get put on hold.

The Lies stay the Same, Only the Men Change

The first time it happens is usually in High School. I mean, not for me obviously, but for most people. You are out late one night with your High School “sweetheart,” or maybe just the class tramp, and as you pull up to a deserted alley her phone rings. “Oh, hi Daddy. No, no, I’m just over at Stacey’s house. We’re going to do some studying. I’m just gonna crash on the couch and be back in the morning.” Now Daddy may or may not have believed her, but it wasn’t really relevant to you as your pants were around your ankles and you were feverishly searching for a condom as the lies were being spewed. But it was not the last time you would hear them.

When you get to college you are at first disappointed that girl in the dorm room next door has a boyfriend from back home. Perhaps the same guy she used to lie to her father about. But the longer you are there the more you realize that back-home boyfriends are forgotten about as fast as 12^th-grade algebra, and life becomes a lot more interesting. One night, as you are in the middle of trying to squeeze two bodies onto a twin bed for the first time since you were 4, her phone rings. “Hey, baby,” she says, “No, no, I’m not going out tonight. Just gonna chill in my dorm room for the night. Yeah, okay, my roommate is here so I gotta go. Uh huh. I may go over to the Sigma Chi house later, we’ll see.” First of all, any guy buying this line of bullshit is either cheating himself of such a massive pussy that he deserves whatever he gets. Second, I have come to learn that “chilling” is not the appropriate term for “getting fucked on every piece of furniture in the room until my roommate comes back from band practice.” Oh, but the lies, they don’t stop at graduation.

Perhaps the most entertaining of all female lies is the one told to the children calling to check on mommy at 7 in the morning as they prepare to go to school. “Just wanted to say hi before Daddy drops us off!” How cute. Daddy got you for the week so mommy decided to take a little vacation and remember what life was like before she got knocked up. Of course, waking up with a morning erection is cured no faster than hearing the girl you’re lying next to say “Yes, honey, mommy is having a fun time. Who’s my little snuggle bug? Yes you are! Mommy will be home in a few days, okay? I looove you!” because I guess “Mommy got fucked in a stairwell and then again in the same room as Aunt Steph” just doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. At any rate, there is still something rather diabolical about hearing some little kid on their way to kindergarten having no idea their mother is lying naked in a hotel room and as soon as she is off the phone will be giving oral sex to a stranger. Classy!

The lies never end, it is just the men on the other end of the line who change. Whether it is a father, a boyfriend or a little kid, women just love making up stories to cover up their deviant behavior. Just be sure you are never on the other end of that. Remember the bullshit you’ve heard on the giving end, and recognize it when it is being told to you. Because lies are funny when you hear them told to someone else, not so much when they are being told to you.