Here's what women tend to like about me:
I'm a casual, relaxed, "go with the flow" kind of guy. I'm funny, flirtatious, a little naughty, reasonably attractive, smart (though mostly just clever), supportive, non-critical, non-jealous, stable, an excellent communicator, and last, but not least, I tend to "get" what women want.
Here's what women tend to hate about me:
(Go back to the second paragraph and read it all again.)
Get it? What attracts you, drives you away. My coin is shiny and only slightly tarnished, till you see the other side and realize the futility of changing me.
Let's take it all apart, just for the sake of deconstruction.
I'm relaxed. Good quality, right? But it also means . . . I'm lazy.
Good quality: I'm casual. Bad quality . . . I'd prefer to wear shorts and a tee shirt to your wedding. In a perfect world, pajamas (I have a nice selection of South Park PJs that would almost certainly match any bridesmaid's dresses!)
Good quality: I'm a "go with the glow" kind of guy. Bad quality . . . you create the go, I'll flow, which means you have to do all the work.
Are you seeing it now? Dating me, or anyone for that matter, except the pope, which in this day and age may be against some Italian law, but in the old days, the good old righteous days, the pope had a wife and sometimes a mistress. He was Italian, after all.
What was I saying? Oh, right, sex . . . no, that's not right, well it is, but. . . .
Dating me is like buying a house. A warm Sunlit parlor means your electric bills will be astronomical because your A/C will be running at 118%. "Cozy" means you can't turn around in the bathroom, even to wipe yourself.
Should we keep going? Somewhere, I can feel two drunken heads nodding and saying, "Shhure, whyda fuck not? Ishh your bottle!"
Good quality: I'm funny. Bad quality: I'm never serious, even when it's starting to make you want to go that big butcher's knife out of that drawer, and even then I'll probably make a joke about how I'm finally going to get your point.
Bloodshed, shovels in the wee hours, explanations, and you're the next subject of interest on 48 Hours: Hard Evidence . . . The Killing Joke!
I'm flirtatious. With you. With co-workers. With gay men. With other women. I'm flirtatious in general, which may at some point have you considering the corkscrew rather than the butcher knife. Let's hope I'm a good vintage.
I'm reasonably attractive, which means I vacillate (which to my shock has nothing to do with Vaseline) between being over-confident and being insecure. It also means I will probably not have my back hair lasered, but I will spend countless hours grooming my beard (or yours . . . see? that was a "butcher knife" joke . . . told you!).
I'm smart (mostly clever). Do you like feeling dumb? No one does. So when I let you do something dumb and then let out a dry witty remark about what you "should've" done, you'll probably move from the corkscrew department to the axe department. I recommend a hatchet. Axes tend to be too heavy for most women, which will probably be dying my words. "Should've . . . killed . . . me . . . . . with . . . . . chainsaw. . . . much . . . . easier. . . ."
Supportive. Right? What could be bad about that? Ah, let's find out, shall we? Supportive means supporting you even when you're fucking something up and supporting you in the expensive compensation at which point you'll turn to me and say, "Why the fuck didn't you stop me from doing something so asinine?!" Because I'm non-critical and supportive. See?
Non-critical. You're perfect. We both know it. Even when that spinach leaf in your teeth, a long ribbon of toilet paper on your heel, your skirt tucked neatly into the back of your pantyhose and your hair looking like Quasi-moto's hairdresser had a go at you. Once you've walked around all day like that, the phrase, "Hey, I love you just the way your are!", will likely get me buried in six pieces rather than 4. I don't want say anything about where that sixth "piece" will end up. But may I suggest an old ex's mailbox. He'll think twice about everything!
Non-jealous. Every once in awhile, don't you kind of want your man to get a little "tense" about other men?
Stable equals "not a risk taker".
An excellent communicator means I have the ability to turn your own words against you and squirm out of most the crappy things I do which you are trying to call me on only to find yourself apologizing and explaining why you did the thing you did. Tip: it's because you're a girl. I forgive you.
Last, but not least . . . "getting" what women really want, which means I'm going to know that when you're saying that seemingly innocuous thing that there's really something much deeper going on and it's going to drive you nuts because I'm going to call you on it rather than play your game and we're going to spend the next 40 minutes arguing about what you "really meant" only to have you finally give up and invite me over to have sex. You'll probably have much better luck in the morning before I've had my coffee. I'll tend to apologize and own up to anything when I'm just waking up, aching, uncaffeinated and feeling old (and spent), and feeling like a homeless person with the Swine Flu.
With all that said, I have a lovely, cozy, sunlit cottage on the beach to sell you.
Which means it's a dank, tiny, hot shack that might or might not be underwater depending on the tide.
Read the damn COMIC!!!!!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
80% nice + 20% mean
A woman's heart is like an onion. I could spend the rest of my days peeling back the layers, only to be met with more layers. There is no inner truth, only layers.
Women have been called fickle, but then so has love, but then I'm convinced that love was invented by women. It's our fault for believing the lie when our genitalia tells us otherwise. After all, can you really blame the billboards for being broke and fat or yourself?
I always figured women just didn't know themselves, didn't know their true nature and spent every day trying to change who they were in an attempt to find out or were waiting for a man to tell them.
I could be wrong.
Now, I realize, it doesn't matter. Men don't have to understand women any more than a fisherman have to understand fish. That is to say, we must must understand female behavior and ignore the rationalizations that justify it.
Case in point: I happen to be dating a drop-dead gorgeous blonde who is a little bit of a ditz, a little bit of a child and who complains endlessly that I'm "mean". She asks me why I'm mean to her. I ask her why she would be with someone who is "mean" to her. She thinks about it for awhile and replies, "Well, you're not always mean. Sometimes you're really nice."
She's right. Sometimes, frequently, I am really nice to her. I cuddle with her, give her sweet kisses on the forehead, tuck her into bed, pat her bottom, make her laugh and generally encourage her to do whatever she thinks is best for herself.
But the mean parts are where I refuse to give her what she wants. I refuse to fall in love with her, refuse to call her my girlfriend, insist that I don't want a girlfriend and that I've been honest from the beginning only to listen to her rationalize in the following manner:
"Well, I mean . . . what really is a girlfriend? What is a relationship? Y'know, it's just friends and--"
"No, you know what a girlfriend is and what a relationship is, and right now, I'm just not looking for that."
"But, y'know, I mean, I just like being with you."
"I like being with you, too."
Of course, when she refers to me being mean, she could be talking about the time I spanked her until she cried because she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know.
So I ask her why she would respond to such treatment. She says that she doesn't and that she responds much better to being treated nice.
I performed a little experiment on the off chance that I was wrong. Here's what I did:
I was really nice and sweet and kissed her and held her and whispered nice things in her ear about how beautiful she was and how good she smelled and so on. I slipped my hand under her skirt and tested her reaction. Think of it as a litmus test of sorts, except most such tests don't get you laid.
Dry as a bone. She might have been aroused emotionally, but not physically.
Then I was mean to her. I bossed her around, twisted her arm and forced her into my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her chin and turned her roughly around and had her bend over the counter while I checked her underwear.
She was wet.
Have I proven my case? She was ready and that was all the signal and reinforcement I needed.
The fact is you girls respond to a man's aggression, our assertiveness, our possessiveness. Yes, sometimes it's too much and it's a turn off, but even then there's a part of you that likes it.
The hot blonde I'm seeing (who is my age, by the way, and that is kind of refreshing) complains to no end that I think I understand women, but that I really don't. I always respond that I seem to understand enough to get her on her back with legs in the air, and that I've managed to avoid the usual traps that women subconsciously lay for us foolish men.
I'll let you be the judge. You can throw a pie in my face, slap me, throw a drink at me, if you like, and I'll freely admit that I'm not expert at keeping women, but I've never had a problem getting women.
Maybe that's what she means. Maybe the meanness will get her going in bed, but drive her away eventually.
But then, there's the depth. I'm a deep person, a truth seeker, a man open to discussion and learning from his mistakes.
Confusing, no? Not to me, but then I know me and I know what I'm about.
But I'm willing to be publicly educated so I'll put it to you. . . .
Why would a sweet, beautiful woman put up with a man who was mean to her every now and then?
Women have been called fickle, but then so has love, but then I'm convinced that love was invented by women. It's our fault for believing the lie when our genitalia tells us otherwise. After all, can you really blame the billboards for being broke and fat or yourself?
I always figured women just didn't know themselves, didn't know their true nature and spent every day trying to change who they were in an attempt to find out or were waiting for a man to tell them.
I could be wrong.
Now, I realize, it doesn't matter. Men don't have to understand women any more than a fisherman have to understand fish. That is to say, we must must understand female behavior and ignore the rationalizations that justify it.
Case in point: I happen to be dating a drop-dead gorgeous blonde who is a little bit of a ditz, a little bit of a child and who complains endlessly that I'm "mean". She asks me why I'm mean to her. I ask her why she would be with someone who is "mean" to her. She thinks about it for awhile and replies, "Well, you're not always mean. Sometimes you're really nice."
She's right. Sometimes, frequently, I am really nice to her. I cuddle with her, give her sweet kisses on the forehead, tuck her into bed, pat her bottom, make her laugh and generally encourage her to do whatever she thinks is best for herself.
But the mean parts are where I refuse to give her what she wants. I refuse to fall in love with her, refuse to call her my girlfriend, insist that I don't want a girlfriend and that I've been honest from the beginning only to listen to her rationalize in the following manner:
"Well, I mean . . . what really is a girlfriend? What is a relationship? Y'know, it's just friends and--"
"No, you know what a girlfriend is and what a relationship is, and right now, I'm just not looking for that."
"But, y'know, I mean, I just like being with you."
"I like being with you, too."
Of course, when she refers to me being mean, she could be talking about the time I spanked her until she cried because she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know.
So I ask her why she would respond to such treatment. She says that she doesn't and that she responds much better to being treated nice.
I performed a little experiment on the off chance that I was wrong. Here's what I did:
I was really nice and sweet and kissed her and held her and whispered nice things in her ear about how beautiful she was and how good she smelled and so on. I slipped my hand under her skirt and tested her reaction. Think of it as a litmus test of sorts, except most such tests don't get you laid.
Dry as a bone. She might have been aroused emotionally, but not physically.
Then I was mean to her. I bossed her around, twisted her arm and forced her into my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her chin and turned her roughly around and had her bend over the counter while I checked her underwear.
She was wet.
Have I proven my case? She was ready and that was all the signal and reinforcement I needed.
The fact is you girls respond to a man's aggression, our assertiveness, our possessiveness. Yes, sometimes it's too much and it's a turn off, but even then there's a part of you that likes it.
The hot blonde I'm seeing (who is my age, by the way, and that is kind of refreshing) complains to no end that I think I understand women, but that I really don't. I always respond that I seem to understand enough to get her on her back with legs in the air, and that I've managed to avoid the usual traps that women subconsciously lay for us foolish men.
I'll let you be the judge. You can throw a pie in my face, slap me, throw a drink at me, if you like, and I'll freely admit that I'm not expert at keeping women, but I've never had a problem getting women.
Maybe that's what she means. Maybe the meanness will get her going in bed, but drive her away eventually.
But then, there's the depth. I'm a deep person, a truth seeker, a man open to discussion and learning from his mistakes.
Confusing, no? Not to me, but then I know me and I know what I'm about.
But I'm willing to be publicly educated so I'll put it to you. . . .
Why would a sweet, beautiful woman put up with a man who was mean to her every now and then?
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Litanous, Somewhat Litigious Ticker Tape of the Male Mind.
Women, hate us or love us, this is the truth. This is honesty in it's purest form. This is evolution, biology, reproductive strategies, testicular thinking in it's crudest, most subconscious, Alligator mind form as you will ever get.
The sweet guy that you claim you love will never admit the truth. Assholes like myself will . . . and here it is:
The thoughts of the male mind during an average day:
"I wonder if she'd wake up if I just started fucking her?
She'd probably be pissed. But would I get off before she woke up enough to be pissed? Nah, I'd probably pay for it later. God, she's got nice tits. Man, I could eat that ass up. Maybe I should lick her feet. Shit! I gotta get ready for work!
Jesus Christ! I hate oatmeal. Fucking bland tasteless nothing. I'm fat. I should probably start doing some weights. Fuck that. I'm a god! She loves my belly. Maybe I could skip a shower? Nah, probably should shower. There's a couple of cute girls at work, not to mention the checkout girl. I could get her. I wonder if I need to stop at Wal-mart. Why couldn't I be fucking a redhead? I wonder if she'd get too way pissed off if I went and fucked her breasts and came all over her face. She'd probably wake up.
Godammit! I hate getting up before the Sun. I should grab a bottle of wine, wake her up, make her watch the Sunrise with me, then fuck on the back porch, then go back to sleep. I wonder if she'd make me the perfect BLT. Fucking perfect world maybe.
Fucking Lexus cut me off! The bast-- . . . wait, it's a bitch. Fucking bitc--fuck it! She's cute. Too rich for me though. Could I fuck a girl long term that made more than me? It'd be weird if she wanted to pay for everything because I didn't have shit. Fuck it! Being a kept man would be pretty cool--pretty cool--fuck it! I couldn't do it!
I really want to pull her hair when I fuck her. I wonder if she'd let me fuck her up against a wall, wrap her legs around me. Jesus, she's wearing a lot of makeup. What the fuck?! Don't wanna fuck a rodeo clown!
Damn, Deb is hot! I should call in, flirt with her, tell her I love her show. Maybe I could meet her in a club and talk about how she's British and how I've been there. I wonder what the radio show intern girl looks like. Is she really hot? I can't believe Deb has brown hair. I was thinking blond.
Fuck it! What else is on? I need some music. Fuck! Almost missed my exit. Do I have time? Yeah, a little late, but I should get there. I should call her. Should I call her? She's probably on the road. I should call her and say "hey". She'd love that, but fuck it. I've gotta get to work. What would I do without her? Well, honestly, I'd find someone else to fuck, but she's pretty great. Fucking cracks me up. I . . . maybe . . . do I love he--
Damn, look at this bitch! God, what an ass! But she's black. Could I fuck a black chick? I don't know. Fucking exotic. I should find an Asian chick to fuck.
Shit. People. Gotta deal with people. Smile. Say hi. Smile. How ya doin' today? Ha ha. Funny. Stupid fuck. God what an ass--hey, how ya doing? I would so fuck those breasts, except the rest of her is a little fat. Goddamn, that face though. I could fuck that face to kingdom--
Statistics. Reports. Excel. Data. Discussion. Number. Tact. People. Employees, I'd fuck that. I'd fuck that, too. I need a real girlfriend, not the bullshit I've been playing around wi--data, numbers, math, microsoftmicrosoftmicrosoftmicrosoft
microsoftmicrosoftmicrosoftmicrosoft, fucking Bill Gates, microsoftmicrosoftmicrosoftmicrosoft, what the fuck's up with the mosquitoes, sorry about your loss. Man, fucking death. I can't believe I'm fucking forty. Mother fuck--I'd fuck her. Cute, but kind of mannish. I'd fuck that. She's kind of chubby, but maybe if I was drunk.
What. A. Fucking. Day.
I'm tired as shit. I should get a burger or a fucking pizza or some fucking ice cream of maybe I should get loaded. I wonder what escorts really charge. I wonder how much a high class escort really costs. I wonder what they smell like. Do they smell like the last guy they were with or do they clean up and smell really pretty and nice and fuckable. God, I would so love to fuck a model or maybe a supermodel, like in her twenties. Twenty-five. Could I get a twenty-five year old? Maybe, if I didn't want to pay my mortgage for the next three fucking months and could fucking lie and sweep her off her feet. I wonder if I should buy a suit?
God, she kisses good. Jesus, she smells like fucking heaven. I want to fuck her in the foyer. No, fuck that, on those don't-use-because-they're-fucking-decorative cushions. Prop her ass up and dig in tight. What the fuck? Are you actually bending over in front of me?! Are you fucking serious? Oh, I am so totally fucking the daylights out of you ton--get together with friends? Fuck that. Shit. Really? Why the fuck do I promise anything ever? This sucks. Oh, right, because I want to fuck her. I'd promise to launch myself into the fucking Sun if she hinted at opening her thighs. All this bullshit about the glass ceiling and women. They've got all the power. Man, if I had tits like that I'd be such a fucking slut. She should be sluttier . . . but only with me. I wonder if she'd kiss another girl on videotape for me, but only want to fuck me, but invite another girl, a hot friend, to fuck me, too . . . on video.
Goddamit, I'm fucking tired. Fuck it. I'm taking a nap. Of course. Of fucking course. She wants me to go down on her now?!? I'm half a-fucking asleep. A long boring party, a shitload of beer, a hostess with cleavage that i wanted to dive in, and now that she's half drunk, she wants to fuck, and all I want is to go to slepzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
Aaron Diaz Hoal
2/13/09
The sweet guy that you claim you love will never admit the truth. Assholes like myself will . . . and here it is:
The thoughts of the male mind during an average day:
"I wonder if she'd wake up if I just started fucking her?
She'd probably be pissed. But would I get off before she woke up enough to be pissed? Nah, I'd probably pay for it later. God, she's got nice tits. Man, I could eat that ass up. Maybe I should lick her feet. Shit! I gotta get ready for work!
Jesus Christ! I hate oatmeal. Fucking bland tasteless nothing. I'm fat. I should probably start doing some weights. Fuck that. I'm a god! She loves my belly. Maybe I could skip a shower? Nah, probably should shower. There's a couple of cute girls at work, not to mention the checkout girl. I could get her. I wonder if I need to stop at Wal-mart. Why couldn't I be fucking a redhead? I wonder if she'd get too way pissed off if I went and fucked her breasts and came all over her face. She'd probably wake up.
Godammit! I hate getting up before the Sun. I should grab a bottle of wine, wake her up, make her watch the Sunrise with me, then fuck on the back porch, then go back to sleep. I wonder if she'd make me the perfect BLT. Fucking perfect world maybe.
Fucking Lexus cut me off! The bast-- . . . wait, it's a bitch. Fucking bitc--fuck it! She's cute. Too rich for me though. Could I fuck a girl long term that made more than me? It'd be weird if she wanted to pay for everything because I didn't have shit. Fuck it! Being a kept man would be pretty cool--pretty cool--fuck it! I couldn't do it!
I really want to pull her hair when I fuck her. I wonder if she'd let me fuck her up against a wall, wrap her legs around me. Jesus, she's wearing a lot of makeup. What the fuck?! Don't wanna fuck a rodeo clown!
Damn, Deb is hot! I should call in, flirt with her, tell her I love her show. Maybe I could meet her in a club and talk about how she's British and how I've been there. I wonder what the radio show intern girl looks like. Is she really hot? I can't believe Deb has brown hair. I was thinking blond.
Fuck it! What else is on? I need some music. Fuck! Almost missed my exit. Do I have time? Yeah, a little late, but I should get there. I should call her. Should I call her? She's probably on the road. I should call her and say "hey". She'd love that, but fuck it. I've gotta get to work. What would I do without her? Well, honestly, I'd find someone else to fuck, but she's pretty great. Fucking cracks me up. I . . . maybe . . . do I love he--
Damn, look at this bitch! God, what an ass! But she's black. Could I fuck a black chick? I don't know. Fucking exotic. I should find an Asian chick to fuck.
Shit. People. Gotta deal with people. Smile. Say hi. Smile. How ya doin' today? Ha ha. Funny. Stupid fuck. God what an ass--hey, how ya doing? I would so fuck those breasts, except the rest of her is a little fat. Goddamn, that face though. I could fuck that face to kingdom--
Statistics. Reports. Excel. Data. Discussion. Number. Tact. People. Employees, I'd fuck that. I'd fuck that, too. I need a real girlfriend, not the bullshit I've been playing around wi--data, numbers, math, microsoftmicrosoftmicrosoftmicrosoft
microsoftmicrosoftmicrosoftmicrosoft, fucking Bill Gates, microsoftmicrosoftmicrosoftmicrosoft, what the fuck's up with the mosquitoes, sorry about your loss. Man, fucking death. I can't believe I'm fucking forty. Mother fuck--I'd fuck her. Cute, but kind of mannish. I'd fuck that. She's kind of chubby, but maybe if I was drunk.
What. A. Fucking. Day.
I'm tired as shit. I should get a burger or a fucking pizza or some fucking ice cream of maybe I should get loaded. I wonder what escorts really charge. I wonder how much a high class escort really costs. I wonder what they smell like. Do they smell like the last guy they were with or do they clean up and smell really pretty and nice and fuckable. God, I would so love to fuck a model or maybe a supermodel, like in her twenties. Twenty-five. Could I get a twenty-five year old? Maybe, if I didn't want to pay my mortgage for the next three fucking months and could fucking lie and sweep her off her feet. I wonder if I should buy a suit?
God, she kisses good. Jesus, she smells like fucking heaven. I want to fuck her in the foyer. No, fuck that, on those don't-use-because-they're-fucking-decorative cushions. Prop her ass up and dig in tight. What the fuck? Are you actually bending over in front of me?! Are you fucking serious? Oh, I am so totally fucking the daylights out of you ton--get together with friends? Fuck that. Shit. Really? Why the fuck do I promise anything ever? This sucks. Oh, right, because I want to fuck her. I'd promise to launch myself into the fucking Sun if she hinted at opening her thighs. All this bullshit about the glass ceiling and women. They've got all the power. Man, if I had tits like that I'd be such a fucking slut. She should be sluttier . . . but only with me. I wonder if she'd kiss another girl on videotape for me, but only want to fuck me, but invite another girl, a hot friend, to fuck me, too . . . on video.
Goddamit, I'm fucking tired. Fuck it. I'm taking a nap. Of course. Of fucking course. She wants me to go down on her now?!? I'm half a-fucking asleep. A long boring party, a shitload of beer, a hostess with cleavage that i wanted to dive in, and now that she's half drunk, she wants to fuck, and all I want is to go to slepzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
Aaron Diaz Hoal
2/13/09
Sunday, February 1, 2009
If (Poor=Fat) then (Skinny=Broke)
If I'm buying a lot more groceries these days, it's because I'm trying to eat healthy and cut back on expenditures. Ever notice when you go on a diet the first thing you do is a buy a shitload of "healthy" food? Ever notice when you try to cut back on spending money, you stop at the grocery store twice as much?
I'm starting to wonder if I wouldn't save more money by being fat. Fast food is cheap, so is store-bought crappy food. Packages of powdered, sugared, glazed crap seem to be much cheaper than organic, multi-grain, high-fiber, low-fat crap. The grocery store is tempting me with a choice, be skinny and poor or fat and less poor.
I have poor relatives. They are on the "Gummit" program. On this program, they qualify for butter, cheese, eggs and the like because they have really shitty jobs that don't pay them nothing. But they do have Direct Dish and pretty sweet pickup trucks and all the ammo they can carry. Go figure. The government gives it to them for free (the food, not the ammo). I haven't had actual butter in probably a decade. Why? Because I care about my cholesterol and my heart and my colon. Or possibly because I'm an idiot.
I'm writing this because I'm getting old and starting to sound a lot like Andy Rooney. I was actually standing before the chicken at the local H.E.B. yesterday and griping aloud about what a rip off it was. "$8.00 for three chicken breasts?!? Are you fucking kidding me?!?" And that wasn't even the organic stuff. Chicken thighs are about half the price, but they are also full of fat, right?
When the food prices started soaring, I remember hearing news stories about how it was because the price of delivery had soared, because the price of gasoline had soared, because the Sheik in Dubai decided he need four more manufactured islands in the shape of his three new wife's uteruseseses. (Plural female genitaliaseses are a grammatical weakness of mine. Deal with it.) But when the gas prices came down, all of a sudden the same news channels explained (patiently and always with glossy, shiny effervescent smiles) that it was because of the speculative market. It was all about the stock market, you see. Gas prices didn't enter into it. Huh?
This is what I know. We (you and me) got sick of the food industry sneaking crap into our food (fat, sugar, salt, chemicals, etc.) and we asked nicely, "Please stop", and they said, "Fuck you. When you stop buying it; we'll stop making it". But they'd stacked the deck against us, snuck in things like high fructose corn syrup that tricked our brains into overeating, and other assorted little tricks designed to make us eat more, buy more, eat more, buy more. They were turning us into a nation of "Tribbles", always eating, always buying because what we ate never satisfied us.
So the organic industry was born. They promised free-range chickens and eggs, no added chemicals and we said "hurrah!", at least until it started costing us an arm and a leg. It's gotten to where butter might actually be healthier for you than margarine or that other weird butter-like stuff. Same thing with cheese.
A few years ago you couldn't eat spinach. Last year you couldn't eat tomatoes. This year we can't eat peanut butter. Next year I think they've got rice scheduled to be the mysterious "eat it if you WANT TO DIE!!!" food, which appeals to gambling addicts, but not to the rest of us.
So here's where I am. I'm not old to get money from the "Gummint". I'm not poor enough to get free food. I'm right smack dab in the middle class with the rest of you bastards. Eating healthy gets me poor real quick, but getting poor makes me fat. Eating crap saves me money, but gets me fat, which makes me want to diet, but diets cost more money, which makes me want to cut back on money buying cheaper goods, but the cheaper goods make me fat. Jesus, no wonder we're a nation of yo-yo dieters. (Except for Yo Yo Ma, I believe he's a Slinky dieter.)
It's time like these that I envy anorexics. For the price of 1/2 of a cracker and a sliver of celery I can be both skinny and rich, at least up until the part where I die, but like smokers always say, "Hey, ya gotta die some time? Why not speed the process along?"
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Hungry, poor and pissed in Austin, Tx
2/1/09
I'm starting to wonder if I wouldn't save more money by being fat. Fast food is cheap, so is store-bought crappy food. Packages of powdered, sugared, glazed crap seem to be much cheaper than organic, multi-grain, high-fiber, low-fat crap. The grocery store is tempting me with a choice, be skinny and poor or fat and less poor.
I have poor relatives. They are on the "Gummit" program. On this program, they qualify for butter, cheese, eggs and the like because they have really shitty jobs that don't pay them nothing. But they do have Direct Dish and pretty sweet pickup trucks and all the ammo they can carry. Go figure. The government gives it to them for free (the food, not the ammo). I haven't had actual butter in probably a decade. Why? Because I care about my cholesterol and my heart and my colon. Or possibly because I'm an idiot.
I'm writing this because I'm getting old and starting to sound a lot like Andy Rooney. I was actually standing before the chicken at the local H.E.B. yesterday and griping aloud about what a rip off it was. "$8.00 for three chicken breasts?!? Are you fucking kidding me?!?" And that wasn't even the organic stuff. Chicken thighs are about half the price, but they are also full of fat, right?
When the food prices started soaring, I remember hearing news stories about how it was because the price of delivery had soared, because the price of gasoline had soared, because the Sheik in Dubai decided he need four more manufactured islands in the shape of his three new wife's uteruseseses. (Plural female genitaliaseses are a grammatical weakness of mine. Deal with it.) But when the gas prices came down, all of a sudden the same news channels explained (patiently and always with glossy, shiny effervescent smiles) that it was because of the speculative market. It was all about the stock market, you see. Gas prices didn't enter into it. Huh?
This is what I know. We (you and me) got sick of the food industry sneaking crap into our food (fat, sugar, salt, chemicals, etc.) and we asked nicely, "Please stop", and they said, "Fuck you. When you stop buying it; we'll stop making it". But they'd stacked the deck against us, snuck in things like high fructose corn syrup that tricked our brains into overeating, and other assorted little tricks designed to make us eat more, buy more, eat more, buy more. They were turning us into a nation of "Tribbles", always eating, always buying because what we ate never satisfied us.
So the organic industry was born. They promised free-range chickens and eggs, no added chemicals and we said "hurrah!", at least until it started costing us an arm and a leg. It's gotten to where butter might actually be healthier for you than margarine or that other weird butter-like stuff. Same thing with cheese.
A few years ago you couldn't eat spinach. Last year you couldn't eat tomatoes. This year we can't eat peanut butter. Next year I think they've got rice scheduled to be the mysterious "eat it if you WANT TO DIE!!!" food, which appeals to gambling addicts, but not to the rest of us.
So here's where I am. I'm not old to get money from the "Gummint". I'm not poor enough to get free food. I'm right smack dab in the middle class with the rest of you bastards. Eating healthy gets me poor real quick, but getting poor makes me fat. Eating crap saves me money, but gets me fat, which makes me want to diet, but diets cost more money, which makes me want to cut back on money buying cheaper goods, but the cheaper goods make me fat. Jesus, no wonder we're a nation of yo-yo dieters. (Except for Yo Yo Ma, I believe he's a Slinky dieter.)
It's time like these that I envy anorexics. For the price of 1/2 of a cracker and a sliver of celery I can be both skinny and rich, at least up until the part where I die, but like smokers always say, "Hey, ya gotta die some time? Why not speed the process along?"
Aaron Diaz Hoal
Hungry, poor and pissed in Austin, Tx
2/1/09
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Spankings: What's a Southern boy to do?
I don't know how they do it in the Northern states or in Africa or the Middle East, but being a boy from the South, I was always taught to "look after the 'little ladies'".
I was taught to open doors for women, wait for their short legs to catch up, let them go first, and to walk closest to the road on the sidewalk. Maybe it's all silly. Some women don't like it. They feel they don't need special treatment, that it's a compromise of their equality. Some do. Some complain that men aren't gentleman anymore. If that's true, it's because some other woman gave us some abrupt and negative feedback or maybe they weren't raised with manners. Don't know. Don't care.
I do what I do because I like doing it. It makes me feel good to do something nice for someone, man or woman.
I was also taught never, ever under any circumstances, hit a woman. There are a few women who were apparently not taught the same thing in regards to men, but that's another blog.
Men who hit their women had something demonstrably wrong with them and needed to be pushed down a nice high flight of stairs. Those of us who are at heart chivalrous gentleman find it difficult to stomach the idea of some asshole going to town on his wife or girlfriend. We don't find it difficult to stomach the idea of taking a well chosen 2X4 to the asshole's skull just so he'll get a taste of what he's been dishing out, even though we know, it won't do any good.
So when a girl you're dating decides she'd like a good spanking and then expresses disappointment that you didn't give it to her hard enough, a boy like me is left with a dilemma.
On one hand (pardon the pun), I have an innate desire to give a girl what she wants, that which makes her squirmy wet and infinitely enjoyable.
On the other hand (ditto), it just feels flat out wrong to wallop that beautiful bottom no matter how much she shivers with delight.
The answer to this great dilemma, in case you're wondering, is that pleasure wins out, like it always does.
You learn to get past that little voice that says "don't you never hurt no girls", and to listen to that voice that says, "well, this is interesting".
I guess it all comes down to whatever turns you on. I know there are some things I could never do, things I might be able to get past or stomach, but don't want to.
Sexually, we're all a bunch of depraved little monkeys. Fact: 1 out of 1000 monkeys hope they fall from a tree and "accidentally" get a stick poked up their ass. Fact: that wasn't a fact at all, but something my stream of consciousness made up. It seems we're a lot less in control of our fetishes than we would like to be. I'm sure there are a lot of people who would gladly give up their desire to lick plastic shoes or to waft cigar smoke over their sphincter from a woman's black-lipsticked mouth, but then again, maybe not.
Maybe those little fetishes, those breast fixations and feet fixations, intensify sex, make it bigger and more powerful.
For the record: I gave her another spanking that left her bottom and my hand raw. She loved it. She shivered with delight, and as weird as I felt doing it, I enjoyed it, too, because, well, when a woman shivers with delight, delightful things happen to their breasts.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
(self confessed man-whore)
1/25/09
I was taught to open doors for women, wait for their short legs to catch up, let them go first, and to walk closest to the road on the sidewalk. Maybe it's all silly. Some women don't like it. They feel they don't need special treatment, that it's a compromise of their equality. Some do. Some complain that men aren't gentleman anymore. If that's true, it's because some other woman gave us some abrupt and negative feedback or maybe they weren't raised with manners. Don't know. Don't care.
I do what I do because I like doing it. It makes me feel good to do something nice for someone, man or woman.
I was also taught never, ever under any circumstances, hit a woman. There are a few women who were apparently not taught the same thing in regards to men, but that's another blog.
Men who hit their women had something demonstrably wrong with them and needed to be pushed down a nice high flight of stairs. Those of us who are at heart chivalrous gentleman find it difficult to stomach the idea of some asshole going to town on his wife or girlfriend. We don't find it difficult to stomach the idea of taking a well chosen 2X4 to the asshole's skull just so he'll get a taste of what he's been dishing out, even though we know, it won't do any good.
So when a girl you're dating decides she'd like a good spanking and then expresses disappointment that you didn't give it to her hard enough, a boy like me is left with a dilemma.
On one hand (pardon the pun), I have an innate desire to give a girl what she wants, that which makes her squirmy wet and infinitely enjoyable.
On the other hand (ditto), it just feels flat out wrong to wallop that beautiful bottom no matter how much she shivers with delight.
The answer to this great dilemma, in case you're wondering, is that pleasure wins out, like it always does.
You learn to get past that little voice that says "don't you never hurt no girls", and to listen to that voice that says, "well, this is interesting".
I guess it all comes down to whatever turns you on. I know there are some things I could never do, things I might be able to get past or stomach, but don't want to.
Sexually, we're all a bunch of depraved little monkeys. Fact: 1 out of 1000 monkeys hope they fall from a tree and "accidentally" get a stick poked up their ass. Fact: that wasn't a fact at all, but something my stream of consciousness made up. It seems we're a lot less in control of our fetishes than we would like to be. I'm sure there are a lot of people who would gladly give up their desire to lick plastic shoes or to waft cigar smoke over their sphincter from a woman's black-lipsticked mouth, but then again, maybe not.
Maybe those little fetishes, those breast fixations and feet fixations, intensify sex, make it bigger and more powerful.
For the record: I gave her another spanking that left her bottom and my hand raw. She loved it. She shivered with delight, and as weird as I felt doing it, I enjoyed it, too, because, well, when a woman shivers with delight, delightful things happen to their breasts.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
(self confessed man-whore)
1/25/09
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Other than that, how was the play, President Obama?
First they compared him to Kennedy, now Lincoln.
Is this really a good idea? Jesus Christ! It feels like every one is setting him up for martyrdom.
I have a nightmare of waking up one day and seeing a black face shining with sweat on some television street in some television city, exclaiming with tears running down his face, "They killed him!!!"
We're desperate. We're hurting, and like desperate hurting people do, we're reaching for anything, anyone, which is not to say President Obama isn't worthy of our hope. It's only to say that we're putting all our eggs in his basket, painting a huge "S" on his chest, handing him a cape and saying, "Save us."
This ain't Metropolis, and he's not Superman.
Believe me. I feel it, too. Calling all the Ex-Presidents together like some superhero Justice League, riding the train, irritating his own party. I feel the hope, too.
But--
--the more perfect he seems, the more likable, the more golden, the more I worry.
What if something happens to him? What then? What happens to the rest of us? The race riots will eventually die down, but what happens to the economy? What we're feeling now, depression or recession, call it what you like, is just a pinch. While some of us are losing homes, going broke, searching for jobs, most of us are still treading water. If Obama gets assassinated, America is likely to become the United States of the Titanic.
Dubai will be the new capitol of the world. They will take our celebrities, and the celebrities will go with open arms, because in Dubai, they can shoot photographers if they feel like it. Okay, well, maybe they won't do that, but they can lock them up, deport them if they want, and that will make the celebrities happy. Wait, no celebrities, hmm, okay, so it's not all bad.
This is the part that gets me tagged with the FBI. This is the part that sends them and the Secret Service scurrying to my door with me stuttering and crying out to the media (if I'm lucky enough to get talk radio attention), "But--buh-buh-buh . . . it was only a BLOG!!!"
This is the part I call, "If I Were a Terrorist".
If I were a Terrorist, I'd be finding the next John Wilkes Booth, the next Harvey Lee Oswald (or well, anyone who uses all three of their names), and setting him up as the next patsy.
Which would have the most disastrous results? Taking down the Twin Towers of New York or having some Southern Racist assassinate the first black president?
Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I'm scared of nothing, but it feels like Obama is taking the same kind of chances that Kennedy and Lincoln took.
This is the part I will call, "If I were a Secret Service Agent"
To Do List:
People, most people, are basically good. We all want the same thing: to be happy. Most of us just want to get to work, do our jobs, get home and enjoy our lives, whether that's through a night dancing at a club, a quiet night with the family, an outdoor BBQ with neighbors or getting shitfaced on our front lawns.
But there's a lot of us in the world, enough to create a tiny percentage of us that are fucking nuts.
A rule of thumb about this whole "one person making a difference" crap.
To make a change for the better, it may take only one person or event to start the movement, but it takes a consistent effort by a shit load of people to carry the movement forward until it sticks.
But it only takes one, single nutcase to fuck everything up.
And now my own State of the Union address:
Folks, we're hoping things get better and we're struggling and putting a lot of faith in our new golden boy, rock hard abs, new puppy and all. This ain't Camelot. This is America. This isn't the Civil War. This is a united country that's accidentally put nearly the entire global economy into a tailspin. No one said it better than the Sargent on Hill Street Blues, and it's advice that goes for our new president as well as us:
"Let's be careful out there."
Aaron Diaz Hoal
1/18/09
Is this really a good idea? Jesus Christ! It feels like every one is setting him up for martyrdom.
I have a nightmare of waking up one day and seeing a black face shining with sweat on some television street in some television city, exclaiming with tears running down his face, "They killed him!!!"
We're desperate. We're hurting, and like desperate hurting people do, we're reaching for anything, anyone, which is not to say President Obama isn't worthy of our hope. It's only to say that we're putting all our eggs in his basket, painting a huge "S" on his chest, handing him a cape and saying, "Save us."
This ain't Metropolis, and he's not Superman.
Believe me. I feel it, too. Calling all the Ex-Presidents together like some superhero Justice League, riding the train, irritating his own party. I feel the hope, too.
But--
--the more perfect he seems, the more likable, the more golden, the more I worry.
What if something happens to him? What then? What happens to the rest of us? The race riots will eventually die down, but what happens to the economy? What we're feeling now, depression or recession, call it what you like, is just a pinch. While some of us are losing homes, going broke, searching for jobs, most of us are still treading water. If Obama gets assassinated, America is likely to become the United States of the Titanic.
Dubai will be the new capitol of the world. They will take our celebrities, and the celebrities will go with open arms, because in Dubai, they can shoot photographers if they feel like it. Okay, well, maybe they won't do that, but they can lock them up, deport them if they want, and that will make the celebrities happy. Wait, no celebrities, hmm, okay, so it's not all bad.
This is the part that gets me tagged with the FBI. This is the part that sends them and the Secret Service scurrying to my door with me stuttering and crying out to the media (if I'm lucky enough to get talk radio attention), "But--buh-buh-buh . . . it was only a BLOG!!!"
This is the part I call, "If I Were a Terrorist".
If I were a Terrorist, I'd be finding the next John Wilkes Booth, the next Harvey Lee Oswald (or well, anyone who uses all three of their names), and setting him up as the next patsy.
Which would have the most disastrous results? Taking down the Twin Towers of New York or having some Southern Racist assassinate the first black president?
Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I'm scared of nothing, but it feels like Obama is taking the same kind of chances that Kennedy and Lincoln took.
This is the part I will call, "If I were a Secret Service Agent"
To Do List:
- Hire and Train the shit out of more agents
- Corner the market on Teflon and Bullet-proof glass
- Buy Depends in patriotic colors.
People, most people, are basically good. We all want the same thing: to be happy. Most of us just want to get to work, do our jobs, get home and enjoy our lives, whether that's through a night dancing at a club, a quiet night with the family, an outdoor BBQ with neighbors or getting shitfaced on our front lawns.
But there's a lot of us in the world, enough to create a tiny percentage of us that are fucking nuts.
A rule of thumb about this whole "one person making a difference" crap.
To make a change for the better, it may take only one person or event to start the movement, but it takes a consistent effort by a shit load of people to carry the movement forward until it sticks.
But it only takes one, single nutcase to fuck everything up.
And now my own State of the Union address:
Folks, we're hoping things get better and we're struggling and putting a lot of faith in our new golden boy, rock hard abs, new puppy and all. This ain't Camelot. This is America. This isn't the Civil War. This is a united country that's accidentally put nearly the entire global economy into a tailspin. No one said it better than the Sargent on Hill Street Blues, and it's advice that goes for our new president as well as us:
"Let's be careful out there."
Aaron Diaz Hoal
1/18/09
Welcome to Dallas, President Obama
First we compared him to Kennedy, now Lincoln. Neither president ended up where any of us want our new Commander in Chief to end up.
What do we do with a black president? Well, he's not that black. I'm going to be a racist for a few minutes, because I can, because it comes easy, because I'm white and not that poor, and because I've got nothing better to do. I was thinking of writing Pepsi to discuss how their logo is a perversion of the unnursed female breast and how God explicitly forbid such a thing in Luke 23: 47--49 . . . ahem. . . .
"The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, 'Surely this was a righteous man.' When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things."
See? The red and blue breast of the Pepsi logo?! Can this resemble nothing more than the bruised unnursed breasts of the people Galilee? Atrocious!
But now we're going to get a black president, and I, being Holier than all you Thous, must weigh in. Don't worry about the weight thing though, I'm trying to exercise more. I make two trips to the refrigerator for each commercial break and I walk down my driveway to get my mail now instead of driving my car.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, a black president.
Do you think any of his advisers are whispering in his ear, "Oh, yeah, one more thing, see that? The Manson-Nixon, er, Mason-Dixon line? Yeah, don't go South of that. And for God's sake, whatever you do, do NOT let them talk you into taking a sunny drive through Dallas!"
Of course, we're all wiser and more politically correct now. Our nation is without hate. No one hates black people anymore, or white people, or brown people, or even yellow people. That's what we have terrorists for. If red is the new black (and I'm not sure that it is, honestly), then terrorists are the new communists which replaced the horribly antiquated "witch". Where's Senator McCarthy when you need him? Oh, yeah, rotting in the grave, heh, heh. Right now, he or is ilk (why does the word "ilk" make me "ill"?) should be holding up laundry lists before Congress or the Senate and claiming to have proof of terrorists sympathizers having infiltrated our God-fearing nation, wait, was that supposed to be God-fearing or God-loving? I'll have to check the bible again. Strangely, I feel a perverse need to fondle myself when I perform Biblical research, which explains why I'm not allowed in church anymore. (Well . . . at least one of us was not nodding off during the sermon, and I was certainly feeling the hand of God, because we're all made in His image you see, and that means God's got to be hung like a horse with great big luscious breasts. Again, kicked out of church, now you see why.)
Now, a small passage which attempts to redeem me before both African Americans and America's Salt of the Earth:
First, I like black people. I grew up in Louisiana, and have lived in the South my entire life. Being somewhat musical, I find it difficult not to groove to the blues, R&B, and even the occasional rap. Being a gourmand, I find it difficult to pass on a plate of good soul food. Being human, there's something beautiful about a black family on Sunday morning, the men all bald and beautiful, the women dressed in flowers and heels. I especially admire the older black men, of course, with their suspenders, their pot bellies and the pride of their family gleaming in their eyes.
Second, I like farmers, ranchers and cowboys. I've had good experience with these good ole boys, and I know that if you were stranded somewhere in your finest hose and heels (which I often am) and one of these "rednecks" came by in their pickup truck (confederate flag sticker and all), they wouldn't hesitate to stop and give you a helping hand, buy you a new battery, offer you a ride or use of their cell phone, and you'd be thankful, because like African Americans, they are basically good people.
Now, allow me to unredeem myself:
President Obama will soon find himself in an impossible position (which is not the fun impossible position where you try to lick yourself because today is one of those days that you are depressingly single and it's fucking HOT!). No, I mean the impossible position of being too black for the whites, and not black enough for the blacks. At least with white presidents, all the off-white citizens expected to be fucked. If one of these white guys give an off-white citizen a concession, a boost to immigration or inner city schools, they have the right to be ecstatic, though that ecstasy could and will be used against him.
For some reason I keep seeing a smiling Hillary and a Billy whispering into the microphone, in his scratchy Southern dialect, "Wow, he didn't even last 30 days."
Let's hope I'm wrong. I usually am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more bible research to conduct, as soon as I find that hand cream my last ex-wife left behind.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
What do we do with a black president? Well, he's not that black. I'm going to be a racist for a few minutes, because I can, because it comes easy, because I'm white and not that poor, and because I've got nothing better to do. I was thinking of writing Pepsi to discuss how their logo is a perversion of the unnursed female breast and how God explicitly forbid such a thing in Luke 23: 47--49 . . . ahem. . . .
"The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, 'Surely this was a righteous man.' When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things."
See? The red and blue breast of the Pepsi logo?! Can this resemble nothing more than the bruised unnursed breasts of the people Galilee? Atrocious!
But now we're going to get a black president, and I, being Holier than all you Thous, must weigh in. Don't worry about the weight thing though, I'm trying to exercise more. I make two trips to the refrigerator for each commercial break and I walk down my driveway to get my mail now instead of driving my car.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, a black president.
Do you think any of his advisers are whispering in his ear, "Oh, yeah, one more thing, see that? The Manson-Nixon, er, Mason-Dixon line? Yeah, don't go South of that. And for God's sake, whatever you do, do NOT let them talk you into taking a sunny drive through Dallas!"
Of course, we're all wiser and more politically correct now. Our nation is without hate. No one hates black people anymore, or white people, or brown people, or even yellow people. That's what we have terrorists for. If red is the new black (and I'm not sure that it is, honestly), then terrorists are the new communists which replaced the horribly antiquated "witch". Where's Senator McCarthy when you need him? Oh, yeah, rotting in the grave, heh, heh. Right now, he or is ilk (why does the word "ilk" make me "ill"?) should be holding up laundry lists before Congress or the Senate and claiming to have proof of terrorists sympathizers having infiltrated our God-fearing nation, wait, was that supposed to be God-fearing or God-loving? I'll have to check the bible again. Strangely, I feel a perverse need to fondle myself when I perform Biblical research, which explains why I'm not allowed in church anymore. (Well . . . at least one of us was not nodding off during the sermon, and I was certainly feeling the hand of God, because we're all made in His image you see, and that means God's got to be hung like a horse with great big luscious breasts. Again, kicked out of church, now you see why.)
Now, a small passage which attempts to redeem me before both African Americans and America's Salt of the Earth:
First, I like black people. I grew up in Louisiana, and have lived in the South my entire life. Being somewhat musical, I find it difficult not to groove to the blues, R&B, and even the occasional rap. Being a gourmand, I find it difficult to pass on a plate of good soul food. Being human, there's something beautiful about a black family on Sunday morning, the men all bald and beautiful, the women dressed in flowers and heels. I especially admire the older black men, of course, with their suspenders, their pot bellies and the pride of their family gleaming in their eyes.
Second, I like farmers, ranchers and cowboys. I've had good experience with these good ole boys, and I know that if you were stranded somewhere in your finest hose and heels (which I often am) and one of these "rednecks" came by in their pickup truck (confederate flag sticker and all), they wouldn't hesitate to stop and give you a helping hand, buy you a new battery, offer you a ride or use of their cell phone, and you'd be thankful, because like African Americans, they are basically good people.
Now, allow me to unredeem myself:
President Obama will soon find himself in an impossible position (which is not the fun impossible position where you try to lick yourself because today is one of those days that you are depressingly single and it's fucking HOT!). No, I mean the impossible position of being too black for the whites, and not black enough for the blacks. At least with white presidents, all the off-white citizens expected to be fucked. If one of these white guys give an off-white citizen a concession, a boost to immigration or inner city schools, they have the right to be ecstatic, though that ecstasy could and will be used against him.
For some reason I keep seeing a smiling Hillary and a Billy whispering into the microphone, in his scratchy Southern dialect, "Wow, he didn't even last 30 days."
Let's hope I'm wrong. I usually am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more bible research to conduct, as soon as I find that hand cream my last ex-wife left behind.
Aaron Diaz Hoal
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