In the elevator yesterday, I came face to face with my own identical twin.
We “went up” together. She had my same approximate body shape, gaunt complexion, and defeated looking stance. I find it difficult to stand any other way in an office building elevator, because they seldom take me anywhere I particularly want to be unless they are going to the lobby. Sweet freedom, escape.
She was dressed like me - nondescript, clean, unadorned, dark colors - and she had the same long, wild hair, the same expression that shifted between exhausted and bored. The same tired eyes staring into some far-off point in the unseen distance, the classic defensive gaze of the beaten-down NYC office drone.
I know I’m painting myself in a really positive light here, and you’re all going to think I’m an egomaniac, but you won’t think that anymore when I tell you: this stranger was better than me in every way.
Her nondescript, dark, clean, unadorned clothes were better, like she picked them out specifically instead of completely at random. Her doomed posturing was better, doomedier. Her pasty, pale face and the dark circles under her eyes were more defined than mine, as if Tim Burton himself designed her on an off day. Even her wild hair was controlled in a fully intentional looking braid thing.
Furthermore, the bitch knew it. “Of all the me-type losers in this elevator,” she seemed to say, “I am the most one.”
However whatever-you-are you are, there is always someone who is more whatever-that-is than you could ever hope to be.
“Thank you so bloody much, God!”
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The weinerdog eats my hair.
I don’t know if she seeks it out on purpose, spying a tasty stray hair on the carpet and slurping it up like spaghetti, or if she ingests it accidentally whilst caught in the throes of one of her random, unplanned lickfests where she goes positively berserk licking the rug, and alternately dragging her butt across it, licking the couch, licking the television stand, licking the shower door. She’s lick-crazy, and has been known to sometimes fixate on one part of me, say, an elbow, and aggressively lick that elbow until I have to leave room just to get away from her. She’s stuck in Freud’s oral stage of development, largely because she is too long and fat to reach her rump.
The problem with a dog eating your hair is, when that dog later attempts to excrete said hair, her waste will often be strung together like a chain of horrors, and she will be unable to extract it completely from the orifice. She will spin around in circles, the horrible thing swinging desperately behind her, while you plead in the street that she stop hitting herself in the legs with it. She will gaze up at you helplessly, as if to say, “If you love me, you will pull these mysteriously connected chunks from my ass, for I swear to god I haven’t been eating your hair so I have no idea how this happened.”
Following a recent incident, I implored the Weinerdog. “Why are you this way? Don’t you want to improve yourself?”
“There is no improving upon me,” said the Weinerdog. “I am a perfect and infallible product of the Creator of the Universe. To modify me is to detract from my glory.”
“That is deep,” I said.
“Yes,” said the Weinerdog. “Now please go get me some cheese. I like how it tastes with a side of rug hair.”
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I could learn a lot from that little zen loaf. When I am face to face with a better version of myself in an office building elevator, hurtling toward inevitable annoyance in my dark, nondescript uniform, my hair all over the fucking place, my face a deathmask of dismay, I will cast my mind back to the words of wisdom of the fat little sausage whose poops are strung together by that very mop of unkempt hair, and know that in the eyes of the Creator of the Universe, I am a pasty, pale, sullen fucking masterpiece, a miracle of human engineering, a pure beam of perfect light in an indifferent landscape. A column of dog turds strung together by hair, as the maker intended, perfect in every way.
Weinerdog: I just checked my bowl, and it looks like there’s only dog food in it.
BIOU: That is correct. You are a dog, you eat dog food.
Weinerdog: Your taco sure smells good.
BIOU: That’s what he said.
Weinerdog: What?
BIOU: Nothing.
Weinerdog: No, what. I don’t get it. Let me in on the super funny joke!
BIOU: It was just a dumb joke, forget it.
Weinerdog: NO. I want to understand the BIG FUCKING JOKE. I come to you in sincerity, with a PERSONAL CONCERN about why there are NO TACOS ON THE FLOOR, and you make a JOKE, so I assume it is something POIGNANT and MEANINGFUL that will bring some FUCKING LEVITY to my situation. So just EXPLAIN IT TO ME, who HE is and why he SAID THAT.
BIOU: It’s a vagina metaphor.
Weinerdog: I see.
BIOU: Yeah.
Weinerdog: Put that taco on the floor immediately.
Good day, Idiots. We’ll get back to talking dog butts and jizz farts and stupid commercials and monkeys and stuff before you know it, but first: I know you guys are spread out far and wide around the planet, so I’m asking a favor of you. My friend’s son has been missing since May 7th, and she’s going through some shit that nobody should ever have to deal with, so please contact her if you’ve seen this boy.
I know it’s a long shot, but lots of good things have come from long shots so I thought I might put this out there. She’s been beside herself as you can well imagine, and I would love to see her reunited with her son as soon as possible, and I give you my personal guarantee that helping her find him will get you into heaven. And not lamer harps and clouds heaven, but GOOD heaven, where all the parties are. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
So, here is a conversation I had with my weinerdog.
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BIOU: I’m gonna get you!
Weinerdog: Ok.
BIOU: I’m gonna GET YOU! GET YOU GET YOU!
Weinerdog: Okay, get me.
BIOU: I’m chasing you! Here I come!
Weinerdog: (rolls over) Do it.
BIOU: I AM GOING TO GET YOU WEINERDOG.
Weinerdog: LET’S DO THIS.
BIOU: How come you never run away? You’re supposed to run?
Phew! Yesterday was an ordeal. I had no gumption for Simian Idiot matters yesterday, because I was running my ass all over Manhattan for various medical exams. The good news is, I’m gonna live. The bad news is, someday, I’m gonna die. The good news is, the doctor wasn’t able tell me when. The parable of maybe in action once again.
I am also slightly ornery (can city women be ornery? Or is that a frame of mind reserved for people who had a pet possum as children?) because I had to sleep on the couch last night. In an unthinkable act of good fortune, I was able to fall asleep uncommonly early, which is why, at 12:15, Man’s Best Fucking Friend woke me up to declare that she had left a wee and a steaming loaf at the foot of the bed and it was time for me to get my ass up and clean it. Then Miss Grimybutt thought she was going to snuggle in bed with me, which was not her destiny.
Sifu recently made a discovery. He determined that when Grimybutt is having a restless night, which is frequently as she ages, the only way to keep her from crying to get on the bed, then crying to get off it, then crying again to get back on, is for BOTH of us not to be in bed at the same time. If we sleep in separate locations, she paces back and forth between us all night and stares at us as we sleep, but she does not cry. It was my turn last night, so I spent the night in luxurious comfort on the sofa under the watchful eye of Woo, the Carpet Pisser. It was a relaxing climax to a bullshit day of pondering my mortality while sitting on butcher paper in a backless cotton gown.
But boring existentialism is not what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about what happens when Sifu goes to w*rk and leaves me home alone with the weinerdog.
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The Weinerdog is an alarmist.
She’s old now, and hard of hearing, and prone to leaving piles of poop on my kitchen floor and then standing next to it, wagging her tail, looking proudly up at me as if to say, “Look what I didn’t do on the RUG! I am good. Give me a piece of cheese.” And at this point, she’s a little too old to listen to reason, so I give her the cheese and clean her butt and that’s that.
Sometimes, however, her stubborn old lady nature causes a ruckus. I was putting some dishes away, when I accidentally clanged a pan against its lid. Weinerdog went apeshit.
Weinerdog: OH MY GOD. DID YOU HEAR THAT? SOME ONE IS BREAKING INTO THE HOUSE.
BIOU: No, baby, it’s okay, it was just me.
Weinerdog: SOMEONE IS GETTING IN. THERE IS SOMEONE AT THE DOOR. HELP! HELP! HELP!
BIOU: Look girl! It was just me! With the pan!
Weinerdog: DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN WON’T SOMEBODY HELP US! HOLY SHIT! FUCK! AAAAHHHH! SOMEBODY IS GETTING INTO THE HOUSE! HELP US PLEASE! BARK!
BIOU: Get a hold of yourself! It was just…
Weinerdog: INTRUDERS! FUCK! AT THE DOOR! THE DOOR! THERE IS SOMEONE HERE! OPEN THE DOOR! I’LL KILL THEM! I’LL KILL THEM ALL!
BIOU: Just relax. It was ME!
Weinerdog: I’LL SAVE US! AAAAGHH! AAAAAAAAGH! THERE IS SOMEONE HERE! SOMEONE IS HERE!
BIOU: Knock it off.
Weinerdog: BARK.
BIOU: You are not getting the last word.
Weinerdog: Bark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I am home alone I tend to watch a lot of true crime television, Forensic Files and Cold Case Files and official sounding shows with “Files” in the title about women who were home alone with their pointless little dogs when fate came knocking.
As long as the murderer comes into my house clanging pans against their lids, I will always have the upper hand.
Hey you guys. I’m an asshole. Let’s just get that obvious fact out of the way. I admit it, everybody knows it, I suck, everyone else rules, I’m the worst, hands down, the end.
You know what I learned this week? I learned that there are still people in this world who will get hot under the collar at a total stranger for making up obvious lies about Micky Dolenz of the Monkees. Things that nobody in their right mind could ever believe are true. Things like, “Every hair on Micky Dolenz’s head has a tiny mouth at the end of it.” There are people out there who aren’t prepared to stand for that kind of slander, and I am sorry for what I did to those people, and to Micky Dolenz. It will never happen again. Yes it will.
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I should preface this post by stating clearly for the record that I DON’T HAVE ANY PROBLEM WITH MICKY DOLENZ.
In fact, I love him. Not in “that way”, but as a friend.
Pictured: My Friend, The Faultless Angel Micky Dolenz
So when my friend Anna Dynamite posed the query, “Why is micky dolenz so amazing guys come on answer me that.”
I had no choice but to spring to my natural state, Grade A Dolenz Defense: “He invented the internet, for one thing. And he has a fourteen inch johnson. Or so they say.”
But the unnecessary sexualization of Micky Dolenz is not what I want to talk about today. Not exactly. I want to talk about how I learned, within hours of the following exchange, that you absolutely do not fuck with Micky Dolenz if you value your life, your safety, and your sanity. The untimely death of Thomas Kinkade is the only reason we’re not living under the rein of Big Boss Micky Dolenz this week, because frankly, I am terrified, and the only way I can sleep at night is if I set the record straight about my love for The Do’.
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It helps if you understand that Anna and I have a long established history of spinning lengthy yarns of bullshit at each other on the internet. We have re-written American history on the fly, and invented many charming holiday traditions including the one where you MUST eat cinnamon on MLK Day or a fairy flies into your house and cuts off your thumbs. More on that another time. Anna saw my claim about Micky Dolenz’s large penis (not yet substantiated) and raised me…A CHALLENGE:
AD: It’s time for Facts About Micky Dolenz.
BIOU: FACT: Micky Dolenz’ mother invented the multiple orgasm. By accident. She was trying to invent the Post-It Note.
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz can eat a hoagie as big as a small Englishman. However, he refuses to do so in public.
BIOU: FACT: mickey dolenz submitted plans that would have saved the titanic, everybody laughed at him. THEY’RE NOT LAUGHING NOW.
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz is the reason there is a National Do Not Call list. The exact details of why are a state secret.
At this time, another expert joined the action:
Ankara: The blood of Micky Dolenz will transmute lead into wool
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz watches over us all as we sleep.
BIOU: FACT: Micky Dolenz has sex with every single clown he encounters.
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz reproduces asexually.
Ankara: FACT: Micky Dolenz invented cheese spread
BIOU: FACT: Mickey Dolenz once broke a man’s hand because he observed the scoundrel insulting a lady.
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz smells like a man, yet tastes like a pickle. Science has long since given up finding out why.
Ankara: If Micky Dolenz hugs you, your pockets and shoes will be filled with candy
BIOU: FACT: Mickey Dolenz has never urinated, once, in his life.
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz must lick everything to determine if it’s safe for his consumption, including other people.
BIOU: FACT: Micky Dolenz was the inspiration for Scarface.
Ankara: Micky Dolenz can cause a plate of Oysters Rockefeller to appear simply by yodeling
AD: FACT: Micky Dolenz once ate a bat at a Monkees concert. That bat grew up to be Ozzy Osbourne.
Ankara: Micky Dolenz once snored at a man who was shooting too loud
BIOU: FACT: Micky Dolenz once bested Apollo in a footrace. His prize was a golden pineapple. Micky Dolenz makes elderly people uncomfortable at bus stops.
AD: I am broken.
FACT.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No offense but this is the most insulting pile of rubbish I have ever read!!! Its not funny at all. I will be forwarding these so called facts on to Mr. Dolenz and his “people”.”
We thought this was all harmless fun, until the above comment appeared on Anna’s blog about this Micky Dolenz fact marathon. I wrote an entire paragraph explaining this, and Tumblr chose it at random as unnecessary and deleted it.
My first instinct is that this was a prank, but as the days pass, strange incidents are leading me to believe that the Micky Dolenz Illuminati may be onto me. For one thing, my weinerdog’s anal glands exploded and she had to be taken to the vet for an emergency anus repair. I now have to feed her antibiotics and swab her poop chute with a warm cloth. That’s not the kind of thing that happens to people who stay off Micky Dolenz’s shitlist.
I am reporting this from an undisclosed hideout, because I am in fear for my life. Don’t let this happen to you. Show Micky Dolenz the respect he deserves. It is better to have pockets and shoes filled with candy than a dog with a burst anus. I can only hope that the punishment for my transgressions is not visited upon you as well, for your association with me.
I’m sorry that I made up blatantly false lies about Micky Dolenz. Happy Friday.
Saturday night was great fun. 75,000 of my favorite people came over and we all feasted and celebrated and revelled and howled at the moon. My insomnia kicked in at that point and I didn’t get to sleep until 5 AM.
It wasn’t all bad, though. By 7 AM, I was awake again, cooking my assigned contribution to the 13 Family Easter dinner.
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I have a long daily commute. Actually, it’s only about 12 miles, but they are 12 slow miles, 90 minutes each way. This being a booming metropolis, I am able to commute by bus. I get a lot of reading done during this time, which is why I am so wonderfully literate and witty and urbane. Heh.
Unfortunately, riding a city bus introduces one to unsavory characters, some of which are me, but many of which are far more insidious and dangerous. A few weeks ago, I was stuffed into approximately 1/3 of my rightful seat for a 90 minute ride next to a large woman in a fur coat whose personal aroma was a deep, putrid, saturated essence of ham. There were undertones of fried eggs to her fragrance, but overall, the overwhelming whiff was hammish.
I sat crammed up against the window, the cloying ham bath drenching my senses, trapped in place by her girth. She was calmly playing with her cell phone as if she did not smell like ham. Everyone in the seats around me sat happily in comfort, none of them breathing the ham fumes, oblivious all to my personal hell. Do you know what smells many, many times worse than ham? The smell of ham, when no ham is present. The inexplicable ghost of hams past, clinging to everything. It was as if this woman rubbed her entire person with a canned ham before boarding the bus. I know she was not frying ham in that outfit. There was no explanation. I wrapped my face in my hair, sucked the occasional fresh breath from the window vent, and wondered, “How is nobody else smelling this?”
When I got home, I had to hang my coat outside. I began disrobing in the driveway and bagged my clothes for the laundry. I took a shower and washed my hair twice. I still smelled it the next day.
The bottom line is, I now detest the smell of ham.
Guess what I was instructed to bring to Easter dinner.
THANKS, STINKY BUS COMMUTER.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I was up on Sunday morning at the ungodly hour of seven a.m., manhandling a ham over my kitchen sink, unsure of what to do with it. I plopped it in a pan and stuck it in the oven and prayed it would not smell. As usual, God broke wind all over my prayers for mercy and within hours, my entire apartment was infused with the succulent smell of my enemy, ham.
My mother-in-law was making lamb, something I also hate.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Eight other relatives would be converging on grandpa’s house, each bringing something for dinner, some of which would have to appeal to my refined palate.
Except nobody showed up, because someone got sick and everybody stayed home with him so he wouldn’t have to spend Easter alone. My cousin’s boyfriend of all people. The guy with the anus issues.
Easter dinner consisted entirely of ham and lamb.
THANKS, JESUS. THANKS, I.T. GUY.
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It wasn’t all bad, though. We got home Sunday afternoon to discover that the weinerdog had approximately twenty five startling and weird looking bowel movements on the carpet. Monday is easily the most fun day of the week for a birthday, which was Leap Year’s gift to me for 2012, but it’s especially exciting when you’ve spent the entire night before consoling a twenty pound shit volcano who is incapable of erupting on the bleachable tile kitchen floor. The sadness in her little weiner eyes, and the sorry state of her butt warmed my heart but I still had to put in a twelve hour workday on an average of one hour of sleep for the past two days.
It has just come to my attention that I already have a tag for “dog shit”. Um…victory?
THANKS, LEAP YEAR.
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It wasn’t all bad, though. Visiting grandpa means picking up my mail, which consists largely of catalogs for things I’ve never ordered. For example, I get a catalog for geriatric sex toys, and if you think I’m kidding, you aren’t my friend on Facebook where I posted photos of the pages.
I also get a catalog for wigs and prosthetic body parts. And another one for clock makers, filled with little cogs and wheels and magnetized containers. And another one for horse husbandry, which is something I just don’t agree with. Nobody should marry a horse. They’re not intellectually capable of consenting to that.
And, in honor of my birthday, I received this, from Pinelawn Cemetary:
Pinelawn Cemetary wants me to know, it’s time to face facts about my mortality. “You’re gonna die. Happy birthday, FRIEND.”
I know that sometimes, the tone of my tales makes it sound like Weinerdog13 and I have an adversarial relationship.
And it’s true that before I came along, she was Queen Bee in Sifu’s life. She had a very rewarding role as his right-hand girl, his nine-nippled canine co-conspirator, and I was an interloper, moving in on their happy home like a Black Vulture who smells decomposing hyena anus. So she does occassionally give me a bit of tough love, to remind me of my place (last).
For example, she is known to walk precisely .0005 inches in front of my feet while I do chores around the house, then suddenly grind to a halt and back up half a step into my legs, which, if I were not possessed of a cat-like agility would surely have caused a fatal fall by now.
And she does insist on sleeping directly across my legs in bed, ON TOP of the blankets so I will be pinned down as I slumber, cutting off all circulation to my legs so that when my beetus bladder inevitably wakes me in the middle of the night, I will be more likely to fall on my face on my way to the bathroom, potentially face-first into the tile where my teeth will be driven backwards into my brain, killing me instantly. And if it doesn’t, there’s always the fact that limp legs will render me defenseless against other, more sinister villains lurking in the depths.
And she does steal my coffee on weekend afternoons when we are home alone together, subsequently erupting into volcanos of dog diarrhea on the carpet, inches away from easily bleached tile flooring, even though she knows perfectly well by now that coffee does not agree with her.
But to suggest that we are enemies is misleading at best, and total bullshit at worst. Because when I wake up in the morning, this is what I see, no more than three inches from my face:
And the moment my eyelids unseal themselves and this image comes into focus, before I even recognize the source of the smell, a happy percussion begins thumping away at the mattress, and it is a whip-like weinerdog tail which communicates only this: “You are awake! You are awake! I’ve been watching you sleep for HOURS. I can’t believe you are UP! I’m YOUR DOG, and I LOVE YOU! Can you reach the CHEESE in the FRIDGE? Because I CAN’T! I can’t wait to SMELL YOUR FACE! HOORAY FOR YOU, WONDERFUL HUMAN WHO FEEDS ME!”
And then, before I can stop her (because my hands are pinned under the blanket by the weight of her loaf-like form) she commences licking my actual eyeball, with the tongue that has been in her mouth since she was born almost twelve years ago without ever being cleaned.
Do you know what I would do if anyone else on this planet, or any other, squatted over my face while I slept and applied their filthy tongue to the surface of my eye within seconds of my waking? Neither do I, but the aftershock would be felt for miles. But when Weinerdog13 does it, I wrestle her onto her back, smooch the fuck out of her stinky face, and get out of bed to make her breakfast.
She is the Big Boss of the Big Boss of This Area, and today is her day. Congratulations, little nine-nippled goddess. Tonight, you get hamburger.
Last night I went to bed in a rotten mood, so my Idiot brain cranked out tumultuous dreams and I awoke feeling more than a little spiteful.
I seldom dream about Sifu. In my nightmares, he is noticeably absent. I’ll dream that a gang of Eskimos is about to disembowel me, and when I wake up and tell Sifu about it, he’ll say “Where was I? I’d never let anyone disembowel you.”
“I kept trying to call you, but every time I got to the last digit, my finger slipped and the screen flashed ‘AMPUTEE’ for some reason.”
He’ll tell me things like, “You are in control of your dreams. Why don’t you just tell your mind to make me appear? Then I can kill everyone and save you.”
I’m in control of my dreams. This guy is living in a fucking delusion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night was bad. I dreamed we were at a carnival with our friends. The setting was hazy and confusing - there was a booth that sold nothing but used Tupperware, for example - but one thing was clear. I was GOING to eat apple cobbler with ice cream.
Sifu made it a point to tell me that he’d never met the waitress. This seemed like extraneous information, since it was our first time at this carnival, and I hadn’t asked. I should have recognized this as a cue that things were about to go downhill, but I had a raging cobbler boner and could muster no interest in anything else.
The waitress brought my food and leaned over to say something to me, loud enough for all my friends to hear: “I was just telling your husband last week that he should fulfill his lifelong dream to get his Farming Certificate. You should be more encouraging to him, instead of holding him back all the time!” And then the slut gave my husband a dreamy look.
“Yes,” I replied, shouting over the table to Sifu. “We should all take unsolicited career and marriage advice from this CARNIVAL WORKER, whom you have NEVER MET BEFORE TODAY. The one you come here every week to SHARE YOUR DREAMS AND ASPIRATIONS WITH, and talk about how I’m CRUSHING YOUR DREAMS OF BECOMING A FARMER. You don’t even have a plant.”
And then I did what any rational person would do. I threw my cobbler on the floor. I was aiming for Sifu’s legs, but I missed them by a good three feet. I’m so great.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now that I think about it, this is not the first time I have dreamed of a waitress interfering with my marriage. Gonna have to keep an eye on this. This morning, I told Sifu about the dream, because I was still annoyed with him for his infidelity and badmouthing me to carnies. He was supportive.
“What did she look like? Was she hot?”
“No,” I said. “She was haggard and mannish, like Patti Smith, or Faye Dunaway in ‘Barfly’.”
“Well, what are you worried about then? If it was Salma Hayek, that would be different, but I’m not sneaking around with some ugly dream waitress. Next time dream me a hot waitress, then we can fight.”
He is so obviously fucking delusional. I need to take my mind off this now. Let’s learn about sexy music.
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Lots of people like to play a little music to help set the mood when they plan to bump uglies, in the parlance of our times, but I for one have never really been a fan of this romancing technique. For one thing, it sets a person into a rhythm, and in an intimate moment, I don’t think Elton John should be able to set my pace. That’s giving the man more power than he’s earned.
But if you must, choose the soundtrack by which you freak carefully, because you don’t want to fall into any sandtraps, so to speak, in the heat of the moment. Speaking of which, let us kick it off with:
The Heat of the Moment - Asia: As you know, I have some really shitty taste in music. And I’ve been up-front about my audial attraction to John Wetton. My weinerdog is a notorious humper, and ever since Sifu sang that song to me while she was in the throes of really giving it to my elbow one night, “The Heat of the Moment” is the soundtrack for all ridiculous couplings, end of story. turtle humping a shoe? Heat of the moment. Don’t ever let this song play while you are attempting to get some, or your partner will laugh his or her way back to their car.
Beast of Burden - The Rolling Stones: Not that this ever happened to me, but if you are ever mid-lay and “Beast of Burden” comes on, everything will be just fine until Mick Jagger gets to the falsetto part that goes “am I ROUGH ENOUGH?” and everything will just go straight to shit. Another bad choice is “Street Fighting Man”. Don’t ask me how I know.
Let’s Get It On - Marvin Gaye - I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Rev. Back It On Up 13, have you finally lost your mind? What could be sexier than a little Marvin Gaye? Next you’ll be telling us no Luther! Next you’ll be outlawing Barry (White)! You don’t know what you’re talking about and your whole blog is a chunk of shit.” Well you’re wrong, I do know what I’m talking about. Check it.
One day Sifu attempted, successfully, to seduce me while I was cleaning by turning on Let’s Get It On, and despite the cliche of the song, it really did the trick. Except. He selected that song and pressed play without taking it off “REPEAT TRACK”. And since we went longer than 3:45, we got to hear it, over and over and over again. And that is when you will realize that “Let’s Get It On” is really a very desperate song, pathetic, in which poor Marvin literally BEGS some woman for booty using every tactic he can possibly cram into one single ballad. And you will start to feel tragic, because if even Marvin Gaye has to beg, you’re doomed. And you’re already doing it. You don’t want to feel like a failure right out of the gate. Do not play this song.
I hope this guide helps salvage your romances. If it doesn’t, you can just control your dreams so you turn into a total master of love while you sleep.
Delusional.
Comment of the Day: “For gawd sakes Guy- don’t put the weiner milk on your chips….” - LA Juice
