Thursday, April 29, 2010

There is Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Me...but the Rest of You are Highly Suspect!

I'm over 40. I drink. I fuck. I eat.

Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.

Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.

So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.

But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.

At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.

And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.

But I can still drink. Except. . . .

Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.

Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.

That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!

Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.

Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.

In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.

That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.

I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.

I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.

It's. fucking. beautiful.

Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.

Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.

On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.

Read the damn comic.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Women who hug

As many of may know, I run an Evil Toys is Us. Run means manage. Evil toys for an evil world. It doesn't bother me much, but as a manager, I have employees. Not many, but enough. Any at all is enough for someone who doesn't like people.

On Thursday, April 1st, it came to my attention that a young woman in my employ (who I have not slept with) was busy having her birthday, but had kept it from everyone so we wouldn't make a fuss. Good for her, I say. Although, it could've been a ploy to make us make more of a fuss. She might be that insidious; it's hard to tell.

It turned out another woman (who I have also not slept with) in my employ was also having a birthday. The two women had never met.

One sits in my office droning on about some such problem, to which I nod and smile and refrain from staring at her somewhat large-ish breasts. One thing leads to another and somehow I happen to mention she's not the only one having a birthday. One thing still leading to another, the woman in my office asks to meet the young woman who has the same birthday as her.

I introduce them. They're both suddenly dressed in smiles, then before I know it they're hugging and giggling and making other girly noises. I can't explain it. I can only attest to it, having witnessed it (and been a tad bit aroused by it for reasons obvious to any man).

Inside I'm thinking, "Why are you hugging each other? You don't know each other? The only similarity between you is that you both have ovaries that popped into being on the same day."

The last time I hugged another man was more than a decade ago. It was my father, right after he told me he was dying.

Men don't hug. We can hug. We have the ability. We have the know how. We choose not to.

Oh, if we'd served time in a war zone together or one of us had saved the pilot from drowning right after he managed to ditch us in the bay without killing us . . . then we might hug on the ten year reunion of the disaster. Hell, we might even sprinkle a few tears.

I do hug my nephews, but they're kids. If they were grown men, I'd probably punch them in the face, because, y'know, I like them.

These two women now have lunch every day. They appear to be best friends.


If this had been two men, we would've remarked on the coincidence of our similar birthdays then preceded on to business or, well, something else, all the while discreetly trying not to be obvious in our ogling of all nearby women.

If this had been a man and a woman, the same, except there would've been half as much ogling, and probably twice the amount of discretion.

If this had been two gay men, well, probably the same as two women, hugging, but then things that in no way resemble anything discreet.

Here's why men don't hug:

We don't have breasts.


You can't possibly need more of an explanation than that.

There's no squishy, sexual organs. If you're a woman, think about why you hug a man and what you want to feel. Do you like feeling small, protected, wrapped up safely in his arms, all cuddled and cozy? Now think about what a man wants to feel. He wants to feel big and strong, like a protector and possibly just a hint of nipple against his chest. It's tough for a man to feel those things when he's hugging another man who also wants to feel those things. See? But two women embracing can both feel safe and cuddled and cozy.

Plus, the breasts.

Read the damn comic.

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Monday, March 1, 2010

The Blind Kingdom...Part IV (Now with Real Lemon flavoring!!!!)

Smart advice for numb-skulls!


It's best to hate someone below you, meaning someone poorer, dumber, uglier, fatter or generally less well-adjusted. Due to the diversity of the human species, pickings are plentiful. If you have not yet found a reason to hate your fellow brother / sister, then you have not been alive long enough nor have you really lived. You think you will never ever ever hate someone? You will. Never underestimate your fellow humans' ability to annoy, betray, hurt or anger you. The lesson of hate, like so many things, is in how you overcome it.

Note: Nothing pisses people off more than being generous and genuinely forgiving when they're busy trying to hate you. Just a tip from me to you because I care . . . you filthy shit-eating bastards.


They are the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full.

The economy:

No one responsible and mature and wise gets hurt in a depression / recession. Oh sure, those of us who pay our bills on time and in full, those of us who prefer not to live beyond our paychecks might have to tighten our belts a tad, but not by much. We don't eat in restaurants every night anyway. Maybe once a week, if that. Instead of a trip by plane, we might have to drive, but we've got a sensible car and the low interest rate to pull it off. We're happy with what we have. We're not impressed by the Jones's because we know they can't really afford their new house, and we can afford ours. In fact, we're paid a few months ahead. We know we're okay because the mortgage company keeps calling us in the hopes that we'll refinance for lower payments, but we never do because we recognize it as a thinly veiled attempt to raise our interest rate, which just happens to be low and fixed, and when they call us and tell us it would cost us an additional $3,000.00 to refinance, we laugh in their face and put an additional $3,000.00 on the principal just to piss them off.

For the rest of you: be thankful you live in a country that allows you to go bankrupt with dignity and style. In any other part of the world, you would systematically be thrown into the streets to starve. Blame Darwin, and please, when begging, try to stay on the curb. I can't afford to have my brakes replaced just yet.

Your House:

You don't own it; it owns you. If you put as much time and energy into your relationships (i.e. spouse, children, brother, sister, parent, etc.) as you did into decorating your house, you'd be the happiest person on the planet, surrounded by love, companionship and happiness. But you didn't. Let's just hope the local Home Depot shows up at your funeral and refrains making jokes about how much wood they gave you.


It's the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full . . . or are drunk, stoned or clinically insane.

World Travel:

For Americans: it's not a myth, there are actually other people in the world besides yourself.

For everyone else: We may be idiots, but we're smart idiots; we're litigious idiots; we're idiots with a whole shit load of missiles, a whole shit load of financial and political influence. If you were in our place, you'd behave the same, if not worse. In fact, judging you all by the actions of the Romans (i.e. Italians), British, Germans and Japanese, we're not doing so bad. But by all means, feel free to whine, but when we visit your B&Bs (which are delightful, by the way) . . . A. accept that we didn't take the time to learn the language because our vacations aren't as long yours, and our proximity is not nearly so convenient, and B. don't spit in our eggs, most Americans didn't have shit to do with, nor did we approve of bombing the shit out of the Iraqi people.


Some of the best and worst moments of your life will be spent here: you have only yourself to blame.

to be continued

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Monday, February 1, 2010

Love Notes For Men and Those Soft Curvy Animals

Valentine's day will be upon us soon, like a scourge, a Hallmark-sponsored virus, a legion of red, chocolatey hearts which if really shaped like hearts would more closely resemble big red blobby fist looking things with blueish veins--not exactly romantic, I know, but accurate. . .

. . . which brings me to the point of men and women.

Let's start with an obvious one:

Falling in love.

For Men, love is a destination. Once we're there, we know we're there, we're usually fairly pleased about having found our way there without having had to pull over and ask for directions or, God forbid, rely on a map. Either would mean we didn't know where we were going, and we ALWAYS know where we're going, especially when we don't.

For Women, however, it's an exciting past time, like free-falling from a plane. It's thrilling, rewarding, and they want to do it over and over and over (picture the Energizer bunny here), even if it's with the same guy.

For your guy, love is a house. You've both made it there. He doesn't feel the need to follow you around from room to room, reminding you that you're both in the house. Every room: "We're in the house, baby!" Jumping out from behind doors: "We're STILL in the house, baby!" Admit it, you'd want to smack him after 10 minutes of this.

For your girl, she wants you to jump out of the plane with her again. Yes, you just did it yesterday, but that was yesterday. Yesterday you proved you were willing to give it all up for her. Yesterday your grand romantic gesture was recorded for posterity, but that was yesterday. Are you STILL willing to give it all up for her, put her first, make her the number one star that leads your ship on the ocean (and over the edge of the Earth)? You can't just fall in love with her once. She gets no satisfaction, no ongoing thrill from that. There's no drama. She wants you to fall in love with her all over again every day, at least until she's menstruating. Then you just have to prove you're willing to put up with all of the crazy ass things she says, after which you may be rewarded, but only if you never ever bring up all the crazy ass things she said.

Guys, for the most part, want one thing, and that is a naked woman laying on our bed, waiting for us to arrive home. Naked and dry and soft and very very ready.

Oh, we want the other stuff, too, but it doesn't really occur to us that we might need it until we can see the hand of death looming in the distance. Then, and only then, do we really start to think, "Who will really be willing to put with me when I'm an old fart?" and "Who's going to be waiting to tell me that we'll face it together when I get dick cancer, butt cancer, back hair cancer or whatever?" and "Who's going to still let me jostle their fleshy bits and put my cold feet against the back of her warm legs when the old willy isn't quite as ready to salute the magnificence of the female nipple as it used to be?"

It's not just about facing death. That's just the first time it really occurs to us that we might actually need all that love stuff, beyond getting wet and sweaty under the sheets. Plus, at some point our testosterone levels start to plummet, but that's still not the main reason. I'm not by any means suggesting you wait until after he's had his first colonoscopy to hint that he might want to marry you, but it is a viable and frequently over looked strategy, and you get an amazing number of credits once you've driven him there and back (keep a window open on the way home, just a tip from me to you).

I was out of high school before I realized how much women liked to fuck. You could've stuck a live cobra down my pants. That was the extend of my shock. Not that high school girls didn't seem to like sex, but they seemed to attach so much baggage to it, reputation, possible pregnancy, parents finding out, etc. Now, in my forties, I'm surprised at how much difficulty women have with the emotional side of things. In fact, sex for women my age seems surprisingly easy. They're good at it. They want it. They're willing to admit it. Life's short. They don't want to wait forever to find out if you're worth it (physically anyway). But the baggage is all emotional at that point.

It's nice to date women that have had their bad boy flings and now want someone they can trust and that is fairly decent (though a little bad boy still goes a long way). Unfortunately, the bad boys have fucked them over so much that they're still walking around with a bad taste in their mouth. And occasionally the insecurities have reached critical mass. I've dated a woman who loved sex, but who refused to have an orgasm with anyone who wasn't "the one". I wasn't. I've dated a woman who was so hot and who smelled so good, she was simply completely irresistible to me, and even though I could see the fuse being lit, I still lived in hope it wouldn't blow up. It did, but what a ride. I dated a woman who wanted a purely physical relationship, until she got it and then realized she needed more.

And after a life time of women, some fucked up, some not so fucked up, some hot, some hot only to me, I'm still hungry for more.

Go figure.

I think I'll buy a large lump of chocolate shaped like a blobby fist.

Aarron Diaz Hoal