Your Baby

No yeah he’s cute but here’s the thing. I was led to believe this baby was somehow special. “Aiden has such wisdom.” Direct quote! “Aiden has a real ear for music.” But so far all I’m seeing is pretty standard baby material. Some crying, some drooling, the inability to control his head or arms or anything, really. Classic baby. I was expecting this thing to be doing cartwheels or algebra or funny impressions. I was really looking forward to an evening of getting my mind asploded by some next-level baby shit, something I could film and somehow make money from on the YouTube.

And I know I said before how cute he was but I think we both know the truth. I’m sure six months from now when everything’s popped out and smoothed over he’ll be a looker, but right now he’s got this Hervé Villechaize Just Snorted Some Cheap Cocaine And Then Ate A Whole Bag Of Donettes kind of vibe going on. He’s sort of sweaty and bloated and frankly I’m not a fan of the smell. I thought babies’ heads were supposed to smell amazing but this smells like a monkey diaper that just got back from Burning Man and that is some straight talk.

Also: I think this baby might be retarded. Hold up! Before you get all mad, I’m not using that word as an insult but rather as an accurate, medical description so I’m pretty sure it’s not offensive. I mean this baby just ate all the pennies I put in his mouth. Like didn’t even think twice. Yeah well that’s a coincidence because I can’t wait to get the hell out of your trailer. Chicks with kids sort of kill my boner anyway. Thanks for nothing, Match.com!

» Rating: TWO SEXY LADIES AND I’M BEING GENEROUS HERE

That Broken Toilet

Boy what a time I had in the office bathroom! Get this: I go into one of the stalls and see there is still pee in the bowl. Wait there’s more. I briefly consider moving to the next stall but that’d be a middle stall, and who wants a middle stall. Nobody is who. So I flush the toilet and it gets going on a very hearty, loud, industrial-strength flush, the kind you can only get in office buildings. I stand there and admire its thoroughness.

OK, Josh, so far nothing noteworthy! Your story is delivering exactly zero goods! Aha but here comes the surprise twist: The toilet never stops flushing. It just keeps churning away! This roaring flush is locked in an endless loop! It will not stop for anything or anybody.

I am of course frozen in terror. Should I fruitlessly jiggle the handle? Burst into tears? Run away? These were all very me options but I did come in here for a reason, so I say whatever and sit right down on the flushing commode and get to business. And I’m so glad I did! Check it:

1. The constant flushing provides a nice level of white noise, which covers up all other bathroom-related sounds. This puts the user at ease, minimizing embarrassment and encouraging him to void with gusto.
2. All waste product is immediately whisked away, as if it were never there to begin with. This makes the user feel like a being of pure light, above the petty and corporeal concerns of ordinary men.
3. The splashback from the neverending flush provides gentle bidet-like action, which users find both titillating and refreshing.
4. Said bidet action and decadent waste of water make the user feel like a member of a royal family or maybe a chairman of an awesome board. The user may find himself engorged with a sense of cruel entitlement, and think less fondly of his loved ones, who suddenly seem crass and filthy.

I was in there for like half an hour. The thing was still flushing when I finally left. I felt dapper and confident. I was a man who could crush the whole world in his mighty fist.

» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES

The Dressing Room At Old Navy

The mannequin seemed so happy, so carefree in his plaid shirt and cargo shorts, forever about to throw a frisbee. That could be me, I thought. Maybe at my summer house on the lake, playing badminton or no wait something manlier like rugby, the manicured lawn cooling my feet which are normal sized, the kind of feet that don’t make people recoil. I am trim and effortless and I do not sunburn. I’m taking a few months off to just figure things out, you know? Just hang out at the lake, go for a swim without wearing a shirt, lay out, let my mind journey. In the evenings there are no mosquitoes and the stars spell out my name. I’m smooth with the waitress over at the brewpub and we have uncomplicated intercourse in a hammock—somehow—and it leaves us in a state of postcoital bliss which is totally standard for me because I never cry afterward because that would be weird.

Anyway I didn’t get the cargo shorts.

» Rating: ONE SEXY LADIES

This Greeting Card From My Aunt

Where to begin. First off, it’s a Hanukkah card and on the front it says Jews do it for eight days. Inside, the words L’chaim Kaelee! Love, Mom have been angrily crossed out.

We are not Jewish and I do not know who Kaelee is and anyway it’s April, so I’m thinking my aunt was looking for bargains in a long-forgotten dumpster, saw the card and was all eureka! because she’s a chronicles* skinflint of the “take a razor blade and slice open the spent tube of toothpaste to scrape out a few more brushings’ worth” school.

(*“Chronicles” is my hip fresh slang for “ridiculous,” which stemmed from saying that something ridiculous is “chronicles of ridic” which stemmed from the terrific Vin Diesel opus Chronicles of Riddick. Use it in good health.)

Or maybe she saw it on a coworker’s desk and just thought: You know what? Fuck you and your dumb ugly fat face, Kaelee. Go fall into a pit of poo and polio. My mother never sent me a nice fancy card with nice fancy words in it. (This is true. In case there’s any confusion over where the skinflintiness came from, my grandmother would send blank birthday cards and ask that you send them back so she could reuse them for somebody else, somebody who deserved an actual handwritten message, most likely that minister at her church who liked to wear shirts that, and I quote, “really show off his nips.”

Anyway L’chaim has been replaced with HAVE YOU READ THIS ARTICLE????? (Never any fewer than five punctuation marks for my aunt, which lends innocent subject lines like WILL WE SEE YOU AT EASTER????? a kind of desperate intensity.)

There is no article. There is, however, a check for $25 made out to Alex Trebeck [sic]. The memo reads: “Thinking about you.”

» Rating: NINE SEXY LADIES

The People On This Bus

Teenager With “Koяn” Tattooed By His Eye: You were probably, what, four years old when Korn was forced upon us? That’s like me getting a DEBBIE BOONE 4 LIFE tattoo and yes I know that doesn’t mean anything to you and by the way it’s on your eyeeeeeeee oh god did you mean to do that? Here on out, you’ll only be able to have sex with blind chicks (who are hot, I’ll grant you) and only be able to work at off-brand gas stations where people go to do murder in the bathroom.

Little Girl Staring At Me, Just Staring: What, you’ve never seen a grown-ass man eat cotton candy on a bus before? This is my lunch, Ringu. Go freak out somebody else.

Morbidly Obese Man In Poncho, Coughing Horrifically And Nonstop: Sometimes I like to imagine what people looked like when they were kids.

The Bus Driver: Maybe three potholes away from abandoning this bus in an intersection, tearing off his clothes and running and running until his legs give out, his words distorted by sobs.

Angry Businesswoman w/Bluetooth: It’s just a PowerPoint. How important could it be, really, in the grand scheme of things? A grand scheme that also includes you finding, for the first time in your life, a real emotional connection to another human being, unlocking a new world of mindblowing experiences you never thought possible (hint hint: Pokemon cosplay), and finding it in the unlikeliest of people: me, sitting across from you, eating cotton candy and reading Eat Pray Love upside down.

Me: Nice Crocs, asshole.

» Rating (Avg.): TWO SEXY LADIES

My New Chewing Pens

OK look. We’ve known each other for a while and I feel comfortable saying that I have this thing where I need to be chewing on a pen. Not like all day long all night strong, just when I’m sitting here and concentrating and typing these genius words for you free of charge. Just to bring a wistful smile to your delicately stubbled cheek.

Anyway the other day I finally chewed off the end of my chewing pen. I gave it a hero’s funeral in the toilet, which is normal, and then tried another pen but it didn’t feel right. Too big and roundy! My old chewing pen was your standard classic meat-and-potatoes Paper Mate with a nice tapered end that felt good in my mouth. You know how sometimes you’ll put something in your mouth and just go: Yes. That belongs there. That is going to be in my mouth a loooong time. It was like that. These other pens? Shit garbage.

Which is how I found myself at Walgreens shopping for pens to chew on. Sure, I picked up a couple other things—a Quickscreen At Home Cocaine Drug Test, a Liberator Wedge/Ramp Combo (in leopard print) for adventurous but comfortable lovemaking—but my soul knew what I was really there for.

Guess what: No sign of my regular missionary-style Paper Mate. All the pens there looked like anime dildos. Just a lot of glitz and glamour I don’t need. I found some crappy ones that might fit the bill but the packaging obscured the bottom so I couldn’t be sure! But whatever, 20-pack for 99¢. I pulled that trigger.

I hurried home, locked the door, closed the blinds, and gently—oh so gently!—ripped open the package and watched as the gleaming new pens tumbled out. I poured myself a drink, put on my Wednesday housecoat, picked up a pen, and placed it delicately between my lips.

Shit garbage. My evening ruined, I slouched to my typing machine to share this wretched experience with you, Dear Reader. But I found that, without a proper chewing pen, the words would not come. So how are you reading this, you ask? I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.

» Rating: ONE SEXY LADIES

Nine Inch Nails

The smoke from my cigarette intertwines with the summer evening’s torpid air, heavy with jasmine and an unnameable longing. The crickets sing their jittery song, punctuated by the creak of the porch swing. Do you remember that night in Havana? I ask her.

Of course, she says.

And do you remember what you said to me? I ask.

Of course, she says, the barest hint of pink colouring her cheeks.

And do you remember what my lips tasted like? I say, leaning closer.

Like a memory of the world’s last sunset, she says.

And do you remember the song the band was playing? I whisper, my mouth not quite touching hers.

Of course, she says.

And did I or did I not fuck you like an animal?

» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES

Thomas Jefferson

T-Jeff looks a little like Robert Redford and a lot like a big slab of hot hunk, you ask me. I mean you know he was a full-on player. He had all kinds of fillies on the side. There were at least a couple dozen slave kids running around Monticello with his face. But when you’re sporting a kisser like that, it’s kind of your duty to spread it around as much as possible. That’s what my mommy tells me, anyway. I’m “startlingly handsome,” she says—direct quote!—and I “should not keep that shit to myself.”

Moving on, check out Jefferson get his jeffers on, whatever that means, with Sally Hemings:

TJ: Soooo. Sally. Long Tall Sally. Girl, you are looking tight to-night. Oopsie, I dropped something. Oh it’s the Declaration of Independence! Did you know I wrote that? No big whoop. Just sayin.

SH: Uh, you cowrote it.

TJ: Oh please. You think John Adams knows what “inalienable” means? Now come on, let’s unwind with some of my hemp, fresh off the farm.

SH: OK maybe just a little. It makes you suddenly really funny.

TJ: It makes a lot of things really funny. Except for, you know, “Mister President” here in my breeches. That’s deadly serious.

» Rating: NINE SEXY LADIES

My New Couch

Goodbye, gross stained lawn chair that smells like a bad night at IHOP! The emperor here needed an upgrade and this couch is like Beta 3.0 Vista Extreme or something I don’t really know about computers. Run your eyes along its length. Look at—but do not touch!—its lascivious curves and—I SAID NO TOUCHING—and its decadent plushness. Lean in close and take a nice long whiff. Yeah I know, what is that? Scotchgard? I’m sure it’ll wear off soon enough.

Things will happen on, around, and to that couch, make no mistake. That couch will be witness to a nonstop parade of total crazy. I will watch movies where a car runs into a monkey and they both just fucking explode and I will play video games where you do sick combos to karate-chop demon nuns into space. I will put my arms around the ladies on either side of me and sing “Wanted Dead or Alive” and evaporate panties. I will sleep a black, dreamless sleep. I will read Moby-Dick or whatever.

Now get out. My couch and I need to get to know each other better. The first time is always special, if you catch my—seriously, dude, leave. No yeah I’ll call you later with the deets. Go. You’re being really creepy right now.

» Rating: SEVEN SEXY LADIES

This Date So Far

I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves here, but I think it’s going superbly. You’re looking ravishing—and ravishable. Your hair is overcomplicated in a good way. Your succulent breasts are like quivering balloons of gentle flesh. You’re enjoying your turkey leg with gusto, and that pleases me.

That racist joke you told was quite the barnburner! Most of the ladies I take out on the town do not tell good jokes. Knock knock, they say. Hello, who is this! I cry, delighted. They say they do not know, they forgot, and then they just look out the window of my van at nothing and nobody. But you, Susannah, you are diff—Savannah, yes, my apologies, you, you are absolutely overflowing with zestiness! Look at you drink straight from the pitcher of light beer! Just look at you. Such a terrible lust for terrible pleasure.

And such grace. You accepted defeat—crushing defeat!—at the mini-golf place with the smallest of tantrums, and you took it like a pro when I laughed at how funny you walk. Susannah, please do not alarm the other diners by shrieking with delight as I get down on one knee and ask for your hand and … HIGH FIVE YOU HA HA oh I am terribly sorry but I am a funster at heart and I don’t, as a rule, propose to women I met in a Quiznos men’s room like two hours ago.

» Rating: NINE SEXY LADIES

That One King Soopers

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s located inside a parking garage complete with rape-friendly flickering fluorescents. Or maybe it’s the guy wearing pretty much nothing but a strategically located Pringles can who stands by the broken vending machine out front, winking, just winking at everyone who goes by, everybody gets a friendly wink, free of charge! Or maybe it’s the Saigon ’72 vibe of the produce aisle. Or maybe it’s the smell of burning hair. Or maybe it’s that they mostly play Tool over the PA system.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s all the slightly off brands like Dr Pepe soda and Crust Extra Whitening toothpaste that make me think this whole thing is an elaborate hoax and all the other customers and clerks are in on it and the next time I go there will be nothing but an empty lot and an old Mexican lady who’ll say You are mistaken, señor, there hasn’t been a King Soopers here in over a hundred years! and I’ll go insane and the hoaxers will have a good laugh and have me committed to a nuthouse and take my limited edition Princess Diana commemorative plate from Royal Doulton which was what this whole thing was about because you can seriously get like $450 for it on eBay if you time it right.

» Rating: TWO SEXY LADIES

My New Moleskine Notebook

Chum, you and me are going to blow the face off people’s faces. Years from now, creepy old historians will open you with trembling fingers, hardly daring to gaze upon the treasures inside. Your blank canvas—so achingly virginal!—will soon be filled with the seed of my genius in a non-gross way.

Sketches of people across from me on the subway, perfectly capturing their sad, broken lives. Poems about the girl at the bookstore who sold me to you, whose mellifluous words thanks next hinted at the arousal she could barely contain. Short, minimalist stories about writers riding the subway. Thoughts, feelings, impressions. Dreams. Um. Phone numbers. Maybe some 3-D boxes. My signature a lot of times. I could draw the Slayer logo, I’m pretty good at that. Pictures of boobs. Oh! That reminds me, I need that ointment for my nipples and some dishwasher detergent, let me jot that down before I forget. I am such an airhead sometimes, notebook! Oh, notebook. It’s gonna be different this time. I will definitely not only use you when I need to write down Call of Duty cheat codes. Not exclusively, I’m sure. I’m positive.

» Rating: SEVEN SEXY LADIES

My Penthouse Letter

Dear Penthouse,

I never thought I’d write a letter like this because a) got no hands and b) am super illiterate and c) do they even make Penthouse anymore? and d) don’t people just use the internet for naked ladies? and e) wait, do people even write actual letters on paper anymore, I mean isn’t that sort of played out and corny? and f) I forget what f was for.

But then something happened to me that was so sexually weird and gross and true that I decided to hire a secretary to transcribe my every word in fancy swirly letters so I could send you my very true story. She’s doing it right now. I am saying these words and she is writing them down as I say them. Hello my name is Josh. Now I am talking very fast can she keep up uh oh she’s starting to panic and her hand is cramping ya ya ya ya blee bloo pee poo. OK, sorry Martha, I’m just funnin’ around. Did you spell funnin’ with no g at the end? Wow, you are good. Craigslist, you done it again.

All right anyway let’s get to the crazy fuck story that happened to me when I was working the night shift at the Center for Jewish History. It was just an ordinary night for me, who is blond, six foot four and basically all muscle.

You know what, I am not transcribing this jerk for one more second. I’ll just write this so he thinks I’m—oh god he actually just said a total poon explosion or should I say sexplosion. I really need to get a new job. Something where I can finally put my doctorate in poetry analysis to work. Maybe I could be a staff writer for The Endless Ache of Days blog. I heard Valmont just killed himself by overdosing on absinthe so there should be an opening.

Sincerely,
Joshua Allen

» Rating: THREE SEXY LADIES