coronavirus, Covid 19 pandemic, football, sex, Trump

A pandemic diary: Sex and violence and then some

July 29, 2020

Six feet apart beats six feet under. Apart: Good. Under: BAD. Repeat until you’re saying it in your sleep.

Want to liven up a Zoom call? Say, “Raise your hand if you’re wearing pants!”

Those who reject masks, vaccines, and science should be required to wear tinfoil on their heads at all times so the rest of us can steer clear.

If you still trust Trump’s Twitter feed, Google “Sex with demons” and see what pops up. Really. (Hint: this is the aforementioned sex.)

If you can’t wait to see young men play football when a deadly virus is everywhere, you probably would’ve appreciated the Roman gladiators. (Hint part 2: this is sort of violent.)

Working from home means you can never set your email for “Out of office.”

A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. A man who cuts his own hair has a bigger one.

People panic if someone blows out the candles on a birthday cake, yet they’ll scarf up takeout the cook might have sneezed on.

The people packing the bars are like the amateur drinkers who ruin St. Patrick’s Day. Please let the professionals get hammered in safety!

We’ll never reach herd immunity when the herd is made up mostly of lemmings and cats.

I wish I’d bought stock in pajamas,* Valium, seeds and fertilizer, sewing machines, bread machines, “Zoom for Dummies,” and box wine in BIG-ass boxes.

*This means, “purchased shares in manufacturers of sleepwear,” not “blew a small fortune on E-Trade while sitting around in my new Gap PJs.”

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humor, men and women, sex, tech

Toys in the…well, not the attic

I don’t know why I write about sex toys so often. It’s definitely not based on personal history: in my long career as a human of the male variety, I have never needed any artificial prodding, encouragement, incentive, or hydraulics. Note: Vodka and “Taxicab Confessions” reruns don’t count. (Besides, I used to be a cabbie and the only thing my passengers ever confessed was that they couldn’t pay the fare. But I digress.)

I thought my pioneering post on hot bots would be the last word for a while. Now, however, there’s a monumental tzimmes* because a toy for women and gender-nonconforming people was denied a promised award at CES, the big tech industry trade show. The show claimed it’s allowed to disqualify immoral, obscene, or indecent products. Which sounds juuusst a bit like a double standard when said show has “booth babes” all over the place.

Since the award has been restored, we can focus on the device itself, which is called the Osé. If I was looking for cheap laughs I’d insert—I mean write—something like “Osé Can You See My Heaving, Lust-Filled Loins” but this is a serious discussion so I won’t. The company promises blended orgasms, which it describes as “the holy grail” of orgasms. It claims Osé doesn’t vibrate but mimics all of the sensations of a human mouth, tongue, and fingers…because there are better uses for your hands.” Like what? Instagram?

It looks like science is moving faster on bedroom bliss than trivial things like saving us from climate change or escaping into outer space. Come to think of it, have any of our astronauts ever done the deed in zero-G and joined the 100-mile-high club? “International Space Station Confessions” is coming soon to a screen near you!

*Yiddish for fuss, uproar, hullaballoo etc. I usually use “kerfuffle,” which is British in origin, but I’m an equal opportunity word nerd.

humor, life, men and women, sex

Bring back the plain brown wrapper!

The other day, one of those typical catalogs landed in our snailbox.* It’s labeled Garden, Home, Pest Control, and is sort of a cheaper Skymall, with a raft of goodies to gussy up your house and simplify your life.  There’s a tool that will “Easily Cut Through Everything from Delicate Fabrics to Sheet Metal!” Want to be environmentally correct and show off your artistic vision? “Solar Frog is Also a Mosaic Sculpture!”

Another gadget “Illuminates the Toilet in the Dark” (by making it glow like a radioactive salamander).  And no home is complete without “What My Family Should Know,” a notebook for the “important details”– medical records, insurance, bank accounts etc. – in case of one’s departure from our mortal coil. This is described as “A great gift for your parents!” Unless they get the notion you’re hoping to hurry things along.

Son: “Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Look what I got you and Mom.”
Father: “What YOUR family should know is you’re dumber than mulch, and as of now you’re out of my will.”

Then you come to page 54. WARNING: For readers of a certain age, this may harken** back to page 27 of the paperback version of “The Godfather.” For readers of an uncertain age, go look it up at the library. You won’t be sorry.*** There, in the middle of all this regular, boring stuff, are two pages of the very latest adult entertainment devices.

Kid you I do not! There’s the “Adonis Extender,” which promises an extra two inches and a “comfortably articulated head.” We also have “The Climaxer” and “The Wild G” with six (!) different speeds. The one called “Butterfly Dreams” is billed as “perfectly sized for both beginners and advanced users.” How much practice does it take to become advanced?

There’s also “Triple Tease,” not to be confused with the Nipple Teaser, and last but not least the “Raging Bull Couples Massager.” It has a “dual enhancer ring” for him and I swear, for her a vibrating protrusion shaped like a bull’s head, horns and all. Who knew?

Seriously, I’m not making judgements about these gizmos. I’m just wondering what in the name of capitalism prompted the catalog company to put them in with the mops and reading glasses. With no notice or advisory of any kind, which could cause an embarrassing moment or two if the kids read it first. It’s not as noxious as what’s happening on the New York subway, involving photos of men’s, uh, turnstiles, but still.

All I want is a little truth in advertising. Instead of Garden, Home, Pest Control, it’d be Garden of Frenzied Ecstasy; Home of Stuff That’ll Get You Hot, Hot, Hot; and Control Those Pesky Passions with the Touch of a Button. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go cut some sheet metal and find my library card.

*My word for snail mail box, i.e., “all the dead-tree junk that comes by USPS.” Isn’t “snailbox” a lot snazzier?
**Do I have to define everything ? “Harken” means “to give heed or attention to what is said, listen.” You wouldn’t use it like this: “Dub had 17 beers and harkened all over his wife’s new car.”
***Or just click here and visit pages 17-18. You know you want to.

football, humor, life, men and women, sex


Stipulate: Law . to accept (a proposition) without requiring that it be established by proof: to stipulate the existence of certain facts or that an expert witness is qualified (from

Party A stipulates – at probable great cost to his relationships with his relatives, friends, neighbors, college classmates, exes, ex-roommates, and various strangers – that there is no real, tangible, temporal, actual, discernible, existential, or other connection between one Nicholas Lou (Nick) Saban, of Tuscaloosa, AL or Paul W. “Bear” Bryant, late of Tuscaloosa, and the deity, of any known, real, mainstream, or even non-mainstream church or faith. Said party further stipulates that The Mighty Fine Divine House of ‘Bama, operated out of Stumpy’s Sports Shack in Alabaster, AL, fails to constitute a church for the purposes of this discussion.

Party B appreciates Party A’s renunciation of a lifelong belief, and states that in return she will forswear further use of the story about how the coach went out for his morning walk and got run over by a Jet Ski.

Party A appreciates Party B’s willingness to not bore people with that old joke anymore. He questions whether his initial stipulation means he can no longer employ Alabama Expression #1,“ROLL TIDE!,” or Expression #2, “RAMMER JAMMER YELLOW HAMMER!,” at key points during games.

Party B stipulates Party A can use them all he wants during games if he’ll just stop using Expression #2 during sex.

Party A will stipulate no such thing because he never did. Party A also reminds Party B that people could hear her halfway to Memphis screaming Michigan Expression #1,”GO BLUE!,” last fall, so what’s the big damn deal?

Party B reminds Party A oh yes, he did, and it might be on that video they made that time when they were pretty drunk. Party B stipulates that her enthusiasm might’ve been excessive, but reminds Party A that Michigan State is like Auburn only more so, and he’d know that if he ever damn listened.

Party A stipulates that if she wants to yell “GO BLUE” she isn’t going to do it in HIS house anytime soon and maybe she should do it in the actual Michigan Stadium. And if she wants to freeze to death in September that’s fine with him too.

Party B stipulates that she’d rather freeze than sweat like a goat, and it really doesn’t usually snow much up there during the season, and if he wants to be in any more videos it’s not going to happen in HER house anytime soon.

Party A stipulates that from this moment on, he no longer agrees with Paul Finebaum on the subject of Michigan football.

Party B appreciates his stipulation. In the spirit of reconciliation, she stipulates that her own phrase “drunk-ass goobers” was an inappropriate description for (most) Alabama fans.

Party A thinks it sounds right for a couple other schools.

Party B agrees. She further stipulates that “barbeque” is in fact a noun, not a verb, but refuses to yield on the Dreamland vs. Carlile’s issue.

Party A would like to call the “Slot wide right triple-option naked reverse.”

Party B says no way, but she’s open to a zone blitz.

Parties A and B, B and A, together stipulate: