You’re asking yourself, why? Because I’m frequently in the restroom with urinal conversationalists and soap allergy sufferers, that’s why. Let’s review some methods to combat the bad habits of rest mates. Check the door lock before knocking or turning the handle, sometimes there’s a vacancy indicator, prove you’re literate. When entering, try to clip the door knob with your forearm or wrist, and catch the door with your elbow. Always smile at the exiting user, you’re about to discover what they’ve been through.
For solid deliveries, like dressing rooms, I will occupy the handicap stall if it’s available. For liquid deliveries, any stall takes precedence, then any urinal with space on either side; I don’t mind waiting for a comfortable opportunity as a last resort. Man to man, to properly clear your urethra, press your perineum, the space between your scrotum and anus. Yes, seriously, trust me; you’ll preserve underwear comfort and restore zipper confidence.
We’re almost done. Kick the lever to flush, and nudge the seat closed. Wash your hands with soap or hand sanitizer instead of dry handed whistling; you’ve been warned. Choose a paper towel over the hand dryer, then use it to open the door. Remember to smile as you exit and comfort the next user.
A friend of mine challenged herself to work towards a five minute plank, then she quit. I decided to record my attempt at an inspirational video, to gut through the pain; even when it feels like nobody cares. My personal best at the time was approaching the three minute mark. On the difficulty scale, the five minute plank ranks far less intimidating than 100 pushups or the four minute mile. One day I may challenge myself to maintain the Oprah Mile over the course of a full marathon.
The final result I posted to Youtube (embedded below) was my third attempt. My first attempt was a success if not for the restricted camera angles. Following my disappointment with the initial footage, I began and failed the second attempt half an hour later. Two days later and determined, I added a twist to my third attempt, to stress the fact that there isn’t always a television audience cheering our pursuit of personal goals. My co-star, who hesitated at first, grew more comfortable as the minutes ticked away; he’s a natural weight.
My strategy was to adjust at each minute: start wide for the first minute, go narrow at the second, balance on one foot at the third, then the other foot until the fourth minute, and gut it out for the remaining sixty seconds. Truth be told, my solid strategy failed after the third minute, switching feet at that point provided zero relief.
Crossing the five minute mark was less rewarding than the collapse. My entire body caught the shakes towards the end; I was genuinely exhausted. It’s unreal how much you can sweat from keeping still. Being me, I’m still unhappy with my back’s fluctuating height; being you, I’m forgiven. Thanks, looking forward to the next challenge!
The actual game started 45 minutes after its scheduled 8 pm start; rightfully, some in-game booing remained from the preceding Sears Entertainment Showcase. Every stoppage in play provided an excuse for Kia, All State, and whoever Kyrie Irving ages for, to advertise with a musical act. Excessive theatrics and commercials aside, the game itself was very touchy; the frequency of airborne players getting shoved deterred the star power. For perspective, even Kobe Bryant passed up open jumpers, so you know.
Commentators have long insinuated that an All Star Game player agreement exists to defer to the host. Knowing this, was it me or did James Harden, Houston Rockets star, act like a prima donna? He walked the ball up and generally looked frustrated coming off the bench again. Bosh didn’t appreciate being embarrassed either, which could have been another Houston connection problem. I tried switching to the D-League All Star Game between acts, only to be reminded of the talent gap; ultimately skipped the final quarter, and imagine the final two minutes of play dragged on for half an hour.
At least the three point contest remained somewhat pure after all of these years. When I heard Terrence Ross ASK Jeremy Evans to keep the final round of the Dunk Contest prop free, my choice was made for me; of course this request was made before Evans trotted out a painting of himself. This year’s dunk field was so impressive on paper, that last year’s winner, Jeremy Evans, should have been the worst dunker of the bunch. Even though we were robbed of a Terrence Ross vs Gerald Green Finals because of the lame East vs. West gimmick, James White’s dejected face was gold! Also, if we must allow multiple attempts, then at least subtract a point per missed dunk from the dunker’s final score! Jason Richardson remains the best All Star Game dunker after Vince Carter, followed by Gerald Green, Andre Iguodala, and Terrence Ross in some order.
I should have watched the bad zombie television show instead… If you’re wondering who won what contest this weekend, then you’ve missed the point; we all lost.
Ask a group of men about women and we’ll readily admit that we’re stupefied. Ask a group of women about men, and prepare for a torrent of misinformed garbage spew from their delicate lips. Ladies, for the supposedly smarter sex, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Some blame magazines, I blame absentee fathers. If no one took the time to outline simple terms for a desirable relationship, then I’ve teamed up with David Cesar to combat some misconceptions and respond to unrealistic checklists like the above and below:
By no stretch of the imagination is the following list complete, although we have agreed that each point lays an admirable foundation for compromise:
Cleans the home wearing stilettos and lingerie, cleaning the home is optional.
Eagerly trades massages for home cooked meals, and vice versa; we’re always eager for either, no man turns down or sulks over a massage or home cooked meal in return for the other.
Makes a sandwich after sex, we would if we weren’t immediately exhausted; we kill spiders, your evolutionary advantages are just as important.
Reciprocates compliments; we appreciate your beautiful ability to make yourself any more beautiful.
Calmly expresses her frustrations, and welcomes assistance to overcome obstacles; we really want to help, we would do anything to end perpetual sob stories.
Doesn’t invite ratchet television, friends, or relatives into our home; we make repairs with ratchets, don’t break our home.
Public disposition between Angela Basset and Phylicia Rashad.
Private submissive hedonist between Kim Kardashian and Ciara.
You’ve been given the recipe; reverse engineer at will. If you insist on being stubborn, a unique snowflake, or legion to the same Marilyn Monroe who died of a drug overdose, then here are four final tips to best relate to the man in your life:
Play with his dick
Play with his dick
Play with his dick
Play with his dick
Finally, no, I am not a chauvinist. I love women, I treat women respectfully, I have argued in favor of suffrage more times than I care to disclose. If you’re still not satisfied with these suggestions or their ethical nature, then imagine each suggestion comes with a bottle of Merlot, or add a sense of humor to the list. Happy Valentine’s Day!
As a moderately handsome man, I have a few of these stories, I know your plight ladies; hell, accept my apologies for every failed attempt at wooing your sisterhood. I vividly remember this one time in Tampa, Florida. I was on the bus, can’t recall where I was going, and I sat next to a rotund lady with a friendly face. Her face was friendly, not attractive; for anyone adamant about beauty being in the eye of the beholder, I did not behold beauty on that bus. On some days I wear a titanium wedding band on my left ring finger. Like an ethical fool, I always seem to reveal my farce when someone inevitably questions my marriage. Besides my bachelorhood preference, the ring subconsciously relieves pressure from conversations with females, their friends, colleagues, and so on; I’m also very well mannered, I can generously compliment, and by nature my intentions can be confused. I mention the ring because it’s been forgotten as she strikes a conversation.
We get to the fact that I arrived from New York, which is a desirable trait for all women without ties to New York; then her questions became more personal: Are you here with anyone, to see anyone, away from someone? I’m paraphrasing, I can’t be exact this far after the fact; what I do know is, I kept saying, no and no one. Finally, she asks if I want to hang out some time; I tell her, no and never. This doesn’t dissuade her from expressing her feelings; I’m flattered, and that doesn’t dissuade me from scoffing at her date proposal. My faux wedding band suddenly comes to mind, at which point I showcase it and blurt out something about my wife’s approval. Instead of referencing the omission of a wife from my previous statements, this woman proceeds to instigate an affair. These were her words, you’ll have to envision her easy callousness: if she’s not with you, then she won’t mind! Just like that. We’re not talking about *insert gorgeous woman I would briefly picture nude before rebuffing nonetheless* here. I must have blacked out after she so unceremoniously offended my matrimonial sanctity, because I recall hearing myself, like a spectator, say, I love my wife more than anyone will ever love you. And I promptly exited the bus a full stop early. Florida heat is tragic; I will always remember that walk. I’m still trying to forget that woman.
For the most part, I quit outright cursing, ever since the emotional expression of vulgar language was proven to momentarily shut off your brain; the occasional “fuck you” or “fuck off” escapes for the dry humor. Being the loudest person in the room has never been in my best interests either. Not to be disillusioned, my passive aggression is very smug despite my best attempts to seem aloof. When I’m in a groove, with kind honesty at my disposal, I can forego the first and last word, raised voices, and embellished lies. There’s a very important difference between snaps and insults, laughter has no place in contempt.
Fuck, as a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb, is too ambiguous. For one, the words sex and fuck are voluntarily interchangeable. Lustful connotations aside, exclaiming a fuck denotes an inability to properly express the grounds for disagreement. Shit and bitches aren’t literal observations of a human being, nor are they detrimental metaphors. On the other hand, reminding a remedially educated adult of their limited vocabulary can occasionally be self-gratifying. As a sadist, I imagine masochists can feel berated by figurative language; from afar, watching children cry themselves to sleep can be equally entertaining.
For me to truly hate something, is to prefer said object be at my disposal, rather than oppose me; then it’s a compliment. My ideas of insults don’t slap you in the face; they firmly clench your soft hands and shake your weak wrists. I’m the fifth horseman of the apocalypse, the harbinger of self-loathing; because when all else fails, I remind you that we’re going to die, and this conversation won’t mean a thing; besides a wasted opportunity to be more than two negatives.
If you immediately thought, “two negatives make a positive;” not when they add.
On OKCupid, there are questions used to compute your compatibility with potential mates for a relationship, as friends, or as enemies. Whenever I encounter a high enemy rating, I’m always assured that woman is a Christian with extra-marital children, and they hate homosexuals. I’m that heterosexual black male who endures flak for drawing a civil rights analogy from the homosexual movement for marital equality. America has statistically disproven the efficacy of marriage, denying the right to be federally observed as a matrimonial union is a senseless affront to the Bill of Rights. The internet, our final modicum of democracy, has logically argued, “Oh, you don’t like gay marriage? Then don’t get gay married.” And that makes sense.
I would love more gay male friends, their typically impeccable style complements me, and they have a knack for attracting attractive women. Gay females on the other hand, have shared far fewer benefits in my favor, especially being menage opposed; sorry ladies, I’m sure you’re wonderful people nonetheless. If I must confess distaste for anyone, it’s for obscenely flamboyant people; gay or straight, I’m an introvert, that much attention is nauseating. For some helpful insight from my inexplicably accurate gaydar, ladies meet kegels; because once a man mentions anal sex, then he’s obviously bored of your most feminine feature.
Two people have ever asked me if I were gay, one privately gossiped as much, another thought he could insult me with a public insinuation, and multiple gay men have hit on me; I was flattered every time. Because, even as a heterosexual black man of West Indian descent, the second most homophobic region of the world outside of the Middle East, I don’t associate homosexuality with bad or wrong. At the same time, there’s another internet meme that asked, “What if homosexuality is nature’s way of preventing over population.” And I can find the humor in that, the same way I can be entertained by Django Unchained, Dave Chappelle skits, and rap music. It’s easy to digress over the suitable nature of potentially offensive humor, butt fuck it; everyone deserves a fair chance.