How Skinny People Can Take Over the World

Noticing the type of people who seem to frequent the local Taco Bell, I'm starting to think those of us possessing speedy metabolisms should just go ahead and take control of society. Honestly, it was kind of like every person who walked into that place after me had just given up. On, like, everything.

I don't think it would be too hard. Really, we just need a little bit of a head start. I mean physically. If we try running as we go I don't think many of us would be caught. We can outrun rascal scooters, right? Seriously, it wouldn't even be hard. We might even be doing it right now and I just haven't gotten my invitation to the 3000 Calorie A Day Club. I suppose I might after today.

Here's my plan: we just keep selling unhealthy food. Not for a profit, not for status our our own health. No, we do it to make the fatties fatter. I figure eventually the incidence of heart attacks will skyrocket and anyone with glandular disorders and impulsivity issues will just be bred out of the gene pool.

Shouldn't take more than another 80 years, unless those health assholes save some chubsters along with us gorgeous, exomorphic types.

On Running II: The Runnenning

Well at least she's not fucking Kenyan.



Those of you who know me well know that I hate runners. Runners are terrible people. They think they are better than everyone else but they are not, and their smugness only makes their inevitable cardiopulmonary "event" that much more satisfying for the rest of us. I have sworn that I will never become a runner.

So yesterday I went running, guys.


Easily the worst decision I ever made. Worse than shower sexting, worse than building an entire playlist around two cross-genre covers of Miley Cyrus' "Party In the U.S.A." (actually a fantastic idea), worse than the time I tried to ollie a packet of duck sauce on the spine of a hardcover book onto my kitchen table without squishing it.

It started well enough. "It's just running for a while. I can run for a while," I thought. "I run all the time. I'll just be doing it without some other purpose. It'll be fine. I'll be great at it."

Man, I bought my first pair of basketball shorts since I was about twelve. I got powdered Gatorade mix to stick in my refillable water bottle. I found an old clip-on iPod case and my earbuds. I was going to head down to the high school track and be awesome. "I'll just run for the 30 minutes and figure out how far I went later."

Do you have any idea how awful an idea this was? Do you run? If yes, than you don't know. If you don't run, go out and try it. No, wait. Don't do that. It's a terrible idea.

It looked hopeful when I got their. Little 12 year olds on a skateboard and a couple of Razor scooters rode by me asking for high-fives. I figured I'd make their day and put some feeling into it, and for my trouble I was told that I was "cool" and asked to come talk to them and meet their wives. I believe by high-fiving them I completed some kind of "Sure, we'll marry you if you high five [x-number of] random strangers." The wives, for their part, told my my mustache was cool and looked good. (I do not need middle school skanks latching onto me. I look like enough of a pedophile as it is hanging around my old high school with a bachelor's degree and baggy shorts.)

I stretched, I loaded up my Party and Bullshit In the U.S.A. playlist and I set off.

Horrible idea. I have no idea how to run, but I guarantee you I did it wrong. Sure, I can sprint in a game. I do well. But I have no stamina. Zero. In the time it's taken my to write these last two paragraphs I could have started running, gotten tired and quit already. And running around a track is just worse. There is absolutely nothing to do but think about how lousy of an idea running is. Every single step imbues me with nothing more than the fervent desire to stop running. My only thought was of not feeling like this anymore.

So I backed off. I figured I did pretty well for a first lap. I did a whole circuit pretty fast. I past the walker mom and even the track kid already sweating his balls off. I should take walk to ease back and then start again a little slower. I took a half-lap walk, set my drink down in a shady, out of the way spot and resumed a brisker pace, intending to cycle through full-lap runs and half-lap walks. Get a nice little stagger pattern going.

I'm a fucking idiot. I kept telling myself. How can people do this? Why do people do this? This is the worst feeling ever. I want nothing more than to end this feeling immediately. So desperately. Maybe this is a wall? There's a wall these people break through and then it's good. Then you get the endorphins? Dolphins? Milhouse was the real dauphin. But he'll never be a meme … holy Christ I am about to pass out or throw up I need to get hidden in case that actually happens stop running you fucking lunatic.

So yeah, that happened. I got a whole half-lap in of my second heat before I was hit with shin splints, side cramps, chest pains, throat knives and all the good fun that comes with completely over exerting yourself without any proper prep or training. I tried to very calmly walk back to my drink, and then out the back gate of the track so that the little kids and their child brides wouldn't see my skulking away in shame and defeat. I rounded the front of the school and got cruised by some seventeen year old assholes in a busted-up El Camino who might have thought I was someone else. That or they just like idling next to shamed runners.

Moral of the story: running is a horrible, horrible thing and the only people who can actually do it are the kind of people to stupid to listen to their body saying, "Ow this fucking hurts stop it stop it now there has got to be a better way you are hurting me ow!"

For reference, I came home feeling light-headed, nauseated, and in terrible pain throughout my whole chestal region. Also my left shin for some reason. How far did I actually go? Well one lap plus two half-laps makes it a grand total of half a mile. In eight minutes. Give me a pool or a goddam bike any day of the week, brother.

Do you know what I did afterward to make myself feel better/punish the fuck out of running as a general concept? I ordered a large pizza. Half pepperoni, half cold mozzarella on top. With three pickles and a glass of milk. I ate five of them in the first hour. I'm going to eat the last three out of spite.

Running is for chumps.

Things Which Are Only Appropriate to Say In Bed Or While Working Out

Things Which Are Only Appropriate to Say In Bed Or While Working Out:

• "You really want to feel this."
  
  
• "Feel how tight that is."
  
• "Put your hands under your buttocks."
  
  
• "Both legs up in the air … that's it!"
  
  
• "None of these moves will hurt you if you do them right."
  
  
• "It's only eight minutes a day!"
  
  and I'm almost afraid to say it, but:
  
  
• "Do you feel the burn?!"
  
  
  
  

On Gyms

I'm starting to plateau in the kind of results I can see lifting weights at home, so I'm putting some thought into joining a gym.

Many people are embarrassed to start hitting the gym because of how they look, but I'm more concerned with looking stupid because I have no idea how to perform any of the exercises.

This, I gather, is why people who aren't in shape tend to go to the 24-hour chain gyms in the middle of the night.

Everyone seems to think this way. Go to the gym when it's late and no one's around.

If that's the case and everyone's there at midnight I'm going to start going to the gym at three in the afternoon when no one's really around.

On Fitness

Times It Is Appropriate To Work Out

• When your doctor tells you to
• Before swimsuit season
• Before Spring Break/vacation
• When taking off your glasses to look at yourself naked in the mirror no longer brings with it the same thrill of positive body image it once did

Times It Is Not Appropriate To Work Out

• While consoling your girlfriend at her grandfather's funeral
• In a crowded elevator
• At weddings
• Any time The Jersey Shore is on T.V.
  

On Inappropriate Reactions

Before they realized antifreeze also raises the boiling point of car fluids, mechanics used to drain it and store the clear liquid in mason jars during the summer. This led to many accidental deaths of thirsty people. Antifreeze makers began artificially dying their product lime-green because no one would ever drink that. When Gatorade's producers refused to change their product the antifreeze people switched to the most unappetizing electric blue color. Well played, Gators.

So I've been seeing this new commercial around dinner time a lot.

A rather frazzled, high-energy couple accost a pharmacy clerk, demanding to know, "WHAT IS THIS YOU SOLD US!?" They slam down a box of new Trojan condoms.

I have no idea what the name actually is. As a man I understand that Trojans are a reliable brand. The white box is for cheapskates, the blue box is your go-to and the purple is trying to impress her. All I really know about condoms is how to use them, when to use them, and that you order them by color like a sports drink.

However much like the introduction of original lime and later blue Gatorades ruined antifreeze safety protocols not once but twice, Trojan has thrown off my typical hue-based consumption by injecting a new color into the inactive vagina that is my social life.

I may not know what this Yellow flavor is, but apparently neither do the actors.

The weird thing is when the couple says, "It feels like nothing's there!" they say it with a smile. They are happy that they can't feel the condom they're using.

Which is fine for the advertising team. I get it. Whatever they named Yellow officially, the premise is thinner and less obtrusive. Fine.

However.

I feel like if a couple is interrupting their sex, running back to the pharmacy to desperately find what is going on with their disease-/tiny dependent-prevention and why it feels like they're not using any, it's probably not out of joy. They're probably terrified, angry individuals, imagining the hell they could live through the rest of their lives and realizing this is not the person they can go the long haul with. They are pissed.

And even if they're just happy and coming back for more? Really?

The 24-hour pharmacy is not closing any time soon. And somehow I seriously doubt you two can finish off a standard Trojan 12-pack before morning. Go finish your fuck and leave the poor CVS girl alone, already.

On Changes

Back in high school I was pretty much the only kid with significant facial hair. I was short, scrawny and for the most part just way too smart for my own good. But now everything's changed.

Everything but me, I mean.

Now everyone I knew back in high school is older, fatter, more out of shape and fully cognizant of how stupid they used to be.

I, meanwhile, am in the best shape of my life and have the wonderfully downplayed smugness of vindication years after the fact.

I'm actually planning on getting old and fat now, mostly because I'll know that everyone I know will just look older and fatter and I'm gonna have the pick of the retirement home hotties.

On Thriftiness

My mother told me the other day that we need to start spending less so we can eventually move to a cheaper place and allow her to quit her horrible job she hates but which pays for a very nice apartment.

Her main talking point was the need to buy generic and plan more meals in advance, things like entire roasted chickens which could yield multiple meals. Additionally, we should eat less fast food. I suggested we cut back on the fruit, because she has been going fruit crazy lately, paying upwards of $4 for a 1/2 pint of raspberries. Outrageous. She proceeded to tell me that this was to encourage me to eat healthier.

Tired of the conversation, I casually informed my mother that I only but berries when they are ripe and under $3 a package, that I eat far better than she does, that I restrict my fast food diet to $10 every two-to-three days, that my daily meals are based in non-perishables and bulk perishables that are always in the house (rather than costly one-time items), that most of my ingredients are off-brand already and that over the last 6 weeks the only time I've allowed my mother's money to pay for my meals out was on the day when she was being incredibly condescending to me.

Oh, also I told her she still owes me $305.67 for going grocery shopping for her all the time.

Granted she was a tad miffed, but most of that was her not getting to go through with her frugality speech as planned. Nothing like getting a lecture on responsible finance planning along with a bill. From your son.

On New Beds

A few days ago the new bed I ordered arrived and last night was my first real night sleeping in it.

I had picked out a good one. Soft top but the firmest model in the store; when I lay down I don't sink in, I just lay flat and cushioned. (This is actually terrible for your back, but I sleep on my stomach so I seem to reverse everything. At least that's how I've decided it works.) Basically, I got a bed exactly like the one I had in college but newer and nicer.

I seem to have forgotten, however, that in college I routinely slept hours later than normal because my bed was so wonderful. Last night I rolled over maybe four times in total and didn't wake up until 3:40 p.m.

Honestly, if I weren't unemployed this would be a serious blow to my ability to actually work.

On Priorities

So I hung out with my friend Dean tonight. He felt like getting out of the house and getting some food, and I felt like going along for the ride.

During the course of our excursion Dean asked what I did today, and I replied that my big accomplishment was moving my half-down Blu-Ray discs from my bookshelf to the DVD rack in the living room. I know, huge accomplishment.

The problem is like a minute later I mentioned spending my day blogging, comparing cellular phones and service plans, then later working out and having a tremendous sandwich for dinner.

Dean noticed it. I didn't.

Apparently, physical fitness and cost cutting my bills take a back seat in my life to alphabetizing movie collections and thinning out my iTunes.

Ah, the beauty of sad, twisted little brain.

Of Titty-Based Technology

HI DAVE ZUCKER HERE, EXCITED TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT AN INCREDIBLE NEW PRODUCT THAT'S GOING TO REVOLUTIONIZE THE LIST OF THINGS YOU'RE LOUDLY TOLD TO PURCHASE BY PAY-FOR-PLAY SPOKESPERSONS!

I can assure you, none of you have ever seen a product the likes of this. This is simply an astounding new device that's gonna change the way people think about boobs.

It's the Kush^® device from some crazy person who thinks this is marketable.



Basically, it's some kind of solid-core silicone loofah that you women are supposed to place between your breasteses as you sleep at night. Apparently the idea is that when you sleep on your side one breast droops uncomfortably under it's own weight, effectively squishing the lower mammary simultaneously.

The Kush^©, however, is situated in the inter-boob region and divides a woman's boobage into two easily dealt with teardrops, preventing sagging of the upper boob and adding extra weight to further squish the lower coconut into complete submission. All the while, the device's super non-slip silicon padding firmly grips your trans-titty skin flaps, preventing your chestal areas from retaining that pesky natural ability to become elastic and move with your body as it moves. I know, real pain, right? I mean where do your cans get off? Pushing you around with their girth and sphereosity? The gall.

Anyway, it's made by the Germans, so you know it was tested on itinerant Gypsies, held captive in concentration camps and formally neglected by history as the result of a prominent Judeo-Christian academia eager to demonize Nazism without admitting to its own long-held biases routed in a Western Eurocentric self loathing for the old nomadic lifestyles.

Also, I'm told the Germans make good stuff.

Remember girls, guys love "more Kushin' for the pushin'!"^{© ® TM PLEASEDON'TSTEALTHISGUYSSERIOUSLYPLEASE?}

I have received no compensation from Kush for this blog entry and would really prefer to keep it that way. All comments are made in jest and under the assumption that whatever ad company promotes Kush has some kind of legal department that could hand me my own ass and make me pick up the check for it. I neither encourage nor discourage you from buying their product, regardless of how stupid it seems. Some of my favorite things in life were also horrible ideas, so if this seems like it would alleviate a serious boob-related medical issue for you, go right ahead and buy the shit out of this thing. Buy like five of them and leave them in any location you think you might fall asleep. Go for it. I totally wont be critical of you for it. No way. Not even in the slightest, you saggy-titted abomination of low I.Q. and even lower self esteem. Buy the fuck out of this legitimate sleep aid device.

On Things to Come

I promise to post more after I go through all sorts of fun tomorrow morning, but for a taste here's an impression of me visiting my grandfather in the VA hospital tomorrow morning:

"Knock knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Highly sedated Alzheimer's patient!"
"'Highly sedated Alzheimer's patient' who?"
"LOL! I DUNNO!"


Yeah, that's far better than I expect it'll go. Times like this I'm almost willing to buy an iPhone so I don't have to feel the awkward. Maybe there'll be a cute candy striper or something. Do they still have candy stripers? Maybe they're just called volunteers now. In very nonsexual scrubs.

Screw that. I'm just gonna bring my lab coat and walk around like stealing medicine.

On Cosmopolitan Magazine

According to the September 2007 issue of Cosmo magazine there is a lot a woman can learn about a man from his pubic hair.

For example, an unkempt man is shiftless and slovenly in his personal and professional lives, whereas manscaping reminiscent of the blazing Sahara points to a controlling personality, one which emulates alpha male characteristics as seen in many many many hours of porno.

Obviously, the magazine says, the preferred man is one who grooms himself but in a moderate manner, one with a bit of bush but not an ever expansive evergreen grove.

Guys.

They're telling women what to think of us based on something we usually are unaware of.

Now we really can't fight the logic because you can kind of see how it could sometimes be true and more importantly fighting this notion means we'll be having less sex overall.

So what can we do as super manly men of manliness?

Well, we could just follow the logic and painstakingly maintain proper pubic placement. Sure. But that way lies capitulation. If we kowtow to Cosmo today, what is next? Must we bow to Martha Sterwart Living next week? O Magazine after that? I think not. That is our ruin. Not only will we be subservient to magazine nonsense, we will validate that crap by obeying it.

No, instead we must that the twenty-something upper-middle class Caucasian Prime Directive; we must find ways to show our knowledge of the subject, Cosmo's opinion of it and then express how short-sited and Eurocentric it is while using big worlds like "myopic."

If we can do that than we as men at least stand some small chance of making it with a woman, albeit likely an Indie Hipster chick who herself shares a less topiary style of bodily grooming.

On Death and Being Too Poor To Pay Taxes

This is exactly how I want my death to go down; Batman and Sam Waterson solving the case, and Jerry Orbach to meat me in heaven and make a bad pun as we stare down through the clouds at my fetid corpse.



So I got some mail today.

My Phi Beta Kappa membership card and window cling arrived. They spent 90% of the material they sent trying to get me to donate to the organization. I assume most people in Phi Beta Kappa graduate and are only poor if you don't count the internship on Wall Street and the trust fund.

Also, my bank is apparently giving my $1,000 insurance in the event that I die or am horribly maimed somehow. Wonderful. THANK YOU, Bank. Thank you SO MUCH for that THOUGHTFUL thing you did.

Since the average funeral is in excess of $5,000, they're pretty much saying, "Yeah, sign this and we'll pay your way, but you could upgrade to higher coverage for only a few bucks a year!"

So I spent all night thinking about how I want my death to be handled and who needs the money. Right now I'm leaning towards paying the $2.25/fiscal quarter and get the $25,000 in coverage. That should cover medical bills and a funeral (green burial or cremation normally, regular burial in cheap, easily accessible coffin in the event my death is at all being investigated by the police.)

Or, if my mom doesn't think $10 a year for $25,000 in coverage is a good bargain, I'll just take the freebie $1,000 coverage and simply pay out to one random friend. I've got someone in mind, but I'll open the floor.

Anyone interested in the role of "Most Likely To Profit from Dave's Death" please apply here or buy him something really cool looking.

Of Health and Well Being, Part II

So I got my genitals fondled by an old man today. An old man who has fondled both my father and grandfather. Awkward.

So yeah, got my physical. If I'm not perfectly healthy, my blood pressure is a little high which is normal for my family. Of course I wanted to placate my doctor's fears so when he went to retake my BP at the end of the check-up I consciously lowered my heart rate to around 70 BPM and dropped my pressure a good 10 points for both systolic and diastolic.

Did I not mention I moonlight as an Indian yogi? I'm fairly certain I mentioned I moonlight as an Indian yogi.

Anyway, yes, my biggest decision today was whether it was more important to leave things be and get a positively certain check-up or masturbate and reduce the chance of autonomic response at the frenzied testicular examination of a sexagenarian geriatric specialist.

For the record, I closed my eyes and thought of England. Somehow that was an excellent erectile dysfunctor.

Of Health and Well Being, Part I

Today's post shall come in two parts, this one to sate your brains' lusty desires for my lofty prose, and then an other to see how things went.

Tomorrow I have what is ostensibly my last doctor's appointment with our family physician. I lose coverage under my mom's insurance as of the new year and have already been dropped from my father's, so it's now a mad scramble to get me all the medical treatment I'm legally entitled too while I'm still eligible. Tomorrow.

At noon.

Dear God, what is wrong with me that I have to go into the doctor and explain to him that noon is 3.5 hours earlier than I usually wake up? That I've vanquished all but the sociologically learned behaviors associated with being nocturnal? That I'm truly happier avoiding all news shows and daytime programming?

How can I explain the benefits of recently cutting out my vitamins or eating and sleeping now only when and any time that I'm actually hungry or tired? Will I have to explain my choice of turning down the N1H1 vaccine if he recommends it? Will that old bastard try to take my blood himself again? Buddha come down in your magic lotus car and save me now.

On the up-side, I was totally gonna ditch this guy anyway. Granted it's convenient that he has my entire family's medical history memorized, but that also means he's been practicing medicine for like 40 years already. Also, he's a geriatric specialist.

Call me crazy, but I'd prefer my doctor to be more familiar with new and interesting medical options which can be offered to patients who are not old enough to qualify for social security.

Now all I have to do is convince my mom that I simply don't need health insurance as I don't get sick or injured. I mean alright I've been to the emergency room but that was like one time and I got hit in the head with an entire 'nother Jew.


[If you were wondering, no, two Jews to not cancel out and annihilate each other when they collide. Only everyone else annihilates Jews. HEY OHHHHH.]

On Things That Are Completely Not True

So my girlfriend is kind of an aspiring actress.

She recently did a commercial for a herpes medication. I was a little weirded out by it, but she reminded me that they don't exclusively search for attractive actors who have herpes. Apparently it's just a lot easier to find hot actresses and then give them herpes.

Yeah, I laughed at that too.

I stopped giggling right around the time my girlfriend told me she requested to be paid in free samples.

AcipHex - Bonus Update (Because I'm Sick and Bored in Bed)

Recently I came across AcipHex through its television commercials.

As a heartburn and acid reflux medication, I can understand the use of prefixes and suffixes and middlefixes like "Aci(d)," "pH," and "iphex/effects."

However I cannot overlook the fact that there is an add agency in the English speaking world that green-lit any stomach and gas-based medication that is phonetically pronounced "Ass Effects."

Family Brunch

So I held off on updating today until I'd finished brunch with my family, assuming I would encounter something constituting comedy gold.

I was totally right to do this.


Turns out my cousin's husband, a fairly normal guy, intelligent, a doctor, has a bit of an issue pooping in a fully-carpeted bathroom.

Just those little area rugs? Not a problem.

Wall-to-wall green carpet? Nope. "It makes him feel like like he's crapping in the living room."

Of Overzealousness In the Art of Ritualistic Mating Displays

So many times I've walked through a department store and said, "Ooh, lookit that. Cologne. I'm smelled the same for a few years now. Maybe it's time for a change."

And then I smell something and have a palsy fit.

I am a man. I do not wish or need to smell of woods or beaches or non-sequitur adjectives pulled at random from celebrity thesauri like a game of capitalist Mad Libs. Unless I am a fishmonger, literally caked in brine, hair awash with the scents of the sea and gutted aquatic life, I do not need to smell like T-Pain. My Method Man & Red Man endorsed Right Guard with Power Strip^® technology does that just fine, thank you.

But yes, on occasion I do prefer to smell lightly of something more attractive and nose-catching than my own personal erotic musk. In my entire life I have used unscented deodorants, lightly scented deodorants, Axe Bodyspray – shut up, we were all young and stupid, shut up shut up SHUT UP!! – Eternity for Men (in attempt to smell attractive to one specific female/jerk), different Axe until they made it much more emphatic, and a GAP-branded scent titled simply "The Artist," which I continue to enjoy because it is cheap, lightly scented water. Bravo. On the off-chance I smell bad but do not have the opportunity to shower, I can smell more desirable to the ladies. Success.

But no. No success. Bad libido. Bad. No.

Those of us who choose to mask our own chemical-laced pheromone cocktails, for the most part, men do not smell bad. Now what we eat, that usually smells atrocious. I mean garlic? Who the fuck doesn't love garlic?

Ladies.

Ladies hate garlic. This of course led to what is possibly the most clichéd move for a sex-crazed movie douchebag since feathered hair went out of style, came back in and then went out of style again: the breath spray.

Remember Binacca? My friends found a can of Binacca in one of their rooms after like four years and immediately used it the way they did when they were 14, they sprayed each other in their open wounds and waited to see who cried first.

This is unacceptable, dudes and breath-concerned dudettes. We must have some way of making our nutrient holes smell appealing to the opposite sex, because that's where we keep our tongue muscles. It's not always possible or even affordable to brush our teeth after every consumption of delicious but malodorous food.

I have a solution, friends. What is the one food that every person on earth loves unconditionally? What is the one smell and taste that regresses any person to childhood, unwrapping presents, waiting up for Santa, sneaking down the stairs at 2 a.m. for a midnight treat?

Cookies.

Let that sink in. Cookies. Motherfucker, take a cookie and put it in your pocket when you run our to the bar. Enough of this flossing and repetitive brushing that never gets the last little taste of footlong sandwich out of your maw. Anchovy pizza? Cookie. Basket of jalapeno poppers? Cookies. Human flesh seared lightly on both sides and served on a bed of fava beans and a nice Merlot because you are not a slave to fucking convention!? Cookies.

It's real simple. Just pop a cookie in your mouth. Chocolate chip works best because it contains the base cookie, a hint of vanilla and chocolate, which sticks around as a flavor whilst simultaneously creating phlegm, which just means you keep tasting the cookie all night. No one can resist the smell of fresh cookies. It's like an electromagnet of love.

Imagine it. You start edge over to the hotty at the end of the bar but she's not giving you the time of day. Defeated, you head towards the exit WHEN SUDDENLY you remember the magic in your pants and reach into your pocket for a home-baked bite of heaven.

Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Lick clean. GAME TIME. You walk back to Ms. Perfect and intrude on her circle of friends. No, ladies, there will not be a "No Guys Night" this eve. This is a place of magic and romance. Bring not your heavy baggage in here.

"ExCHUse me," you say, stressing the breathy syllables to their fullest. "HI. HOw are you? I was just HAving a HArd day WHEn I saw you HEre at the bar, and I was really just tHInking tHAt you are an inCREdibly atTRActive WOman and I was HOping tHAt perHaps you'd like to HAve a drink wHIth me?"

Her friends cannot understand why she would go with you. You are not a model for Ambercrombie. You are not the kind of man who has a Ferrari or a penthouse or even a job. Yet still she is drawn to you.

"Brenda, but … why??" Her friends call after her but she is lost to them.

"I- I'm sorry, girls. I have to. He- His breath smells like cookies."

Game, set, match. How else could it play out? You pop a cookie in your mouth and the girls are all over you? You're all of the flavor with none of the fat. Kissing you is delicious and it burns calories! You are the celery of sexy.

So just put a little cookie in your pocket if you think you might get lucky. That little circle you see in my wallet? Naw, baby, that's not a condom, that's a cookie, because I'm thinking of your comfort and needs. So if you could do me a real solid and get on the pill of somethin' we can both feel real good. I here those come with a candy coating now that melts in your mouth, not in your uterus resulting in knockedupitude due to improper administration of a perscription medical device.