When it rains, it poors.

I don't consider myself a dumb person. Sure it took someone drawing a diagram of a vagina before I realized women had a separate hole for peeing, but overall I genuinely believe I am somewhat intelligent. However, I recently began to doubt this assessment of my brain power after reading a post a few weeks ago over on Jay's blog.



In this particular post, the phrase "for all intents and purposes" was used. For three seconds I wondered why he had typed this phrase incorrectly. After my brain took those three seconds to use that ever elusive thing called reason, I suddenly became aware that I am in fact a massive dumbass because for as long as I can remember I have been saying "for all intensive purposes."



I'm sure I have used it on this blog more than a few times. This kind of mistake makes me feel quite stupid because I have been walking around saying it to people for years like I am some genius while they laugh at me later on during cellular chats with their friends. I know I am immediately calling them dopes and morons to other people as soon as I hear someone make a similar mistake.



The last time I remember this happening was when i realized I had been mispronouncing the word "covalent" since High School because I had a Sikh chemistry teacher with a very thick accent.



Anyway, that was dumb. Here is another paint piece.



Becky: Here is mine. Please draw Estelle Geddy wearing jean shorts, a coconut bra, and a hat with a very long feather attached to it. The feather should be yellow.She needs to be standing next to Patrick Duffy, holding hands and watching YOU riding a shark to work.

It's Estelle GeTTy, Becky.

Dumbass

More Arts

This is more difficult than I thought it would be. My lack of artistic talent is staggering.

Diane: I request a lovely sunset or a rainbow. It could be worse, I could have requested a unicorn.

That would be a Unicorn waiting to cross the street....

yllwdaisies: A gorilla running toward a plane w/ a ziploc bag of bread (2 slices).

You have to trust me when I tell you there are two pieces in there.

The Art of Desperation

I'm shot this week. Perhaps I need a break. Perhaps I am emotionally drained from witnessing history as one of my fellow African Americans was elected to the most powerful position in the world. Whatever it is, it's not giving me any "oomph" to blog.

So we turn to gimmicks and reader participation.

I would like to draw you a picture in MS Paint. I am not a good artist, but I will attempt to create an image of anything you would like. What should I draw for you?


*UPDATE*

Here is what I have done so far.

Chris : In honor of the economy, how about you draw me a soup line?

Em: A smiley face.

Crystal: flying tiddies with a knife through the right breast and a moon shaped like an orange slice to represent the detriment that the objectification of women has on today's youth.



Obviously I have never seen breasts before.

Rocking the Vote

Due to reports of long lines  to vote today I decided to bring my MP3 player along with me to help pass the time.

For 2 hours and 3 minutes I listened to nothing but "The Final Countdown" by Europe. That is 27 times in a row.

By the time I got into the voting booth I was completely worked up and oblicvious to the people staring at me every time I yelled out "Come on!" or "LETS DO THIS!!" and "NOW IS THE TIME!" I was so amped for Freedom and jacked up on Liberty that accidentally ripped off one of the switches as I voted.

So I apologize ahead of time to State Assemblyman Michael Cusick if you lose by one vote.

Sorry dude.

Nothin'

Due to a discussion I had over the weekend, I don't have anything to post today. It went something like this.

Me: I am working on my rebuttal to your rebuttal.

Lady-Friend: What?

Me: A response to your bread story!

Gal Pal: Think for a minute. Do you think the bread story is the only story I can tell to demonstrate your lack of charm?

Me: Crud...

So with that I am left with the always risky move of talking off the top of my huge head.

I don't drink coffee. Really I am pretty grossed out by coffee. I can not stand the smell of it. I'm not talking about the smell that may fill one's breakfast nook when one is brewing a fresh pot of java. That I can tolerate. I'm referring to the smell that I can not seem to get rid of when I pick up a cup for someone and it spills on my fingers. Then every time I bring my fingers anywhere near my face, which is a lot because I am one of those face touchers, my head jerks back because there is coffee whif on them. 

Coffee Fingers are the worst. The smell takes forever to go away, so all day I am forced to encounter the stink of that dirtbag Juan Valdez. I guess I could wash my hands, but I'd have to get up to do that and I doubt there are enough scrubbing bubbles to erase the columbian taint from the tips of my digits.

Coffee ice cream is horrifying. I am fighting the urge to expand on this statement because it would quickly turn into my dissertation. Let's just say I find the coffee flavor in ice cream as appealing as tapeworm  flavored ice cream, with real bits of Tapeworm for that extra tapewormy taste.

Tomorrow will be better.

Charm Fail

Please Note: This is a response to my previous post written by my girlfriend. I agreed to post this in the interest of fairness

Hi.

I'm going to make this quick. You probably aren't used to that on Ryan's blog, but I am. All I need to do is tell you one story for you to fully grasp his lack of charm.

A few months ago my boyfriend was to pick me up from the airport. Before my flight I told him that I would probably be hungry when I landed, and he said he would have food for me when I arrived. What a great boyfriend, right? 

There are lots of places to get good junk food at the airport. So what does Ryan have for me when I arrive?

A ziploc bag full of sliced bread.

And when I say "full of bread" I mean it was probably full of bread when he left for the airport, but when I got there only 2 pieces were left.

Not a bagel from the deli. Not some fries from McDonalds. Not even a candy bar. Just two pieces of bread in a plastic bag like I am some pigeon he is going to feed at the park.

So charming.

P.P.S. If he does post this it's only because I told I wouldn't blow him until he stopped lying to the internets.

"You used to be charming"

These words were produced by the mouth of my girlfriend and flung towards my heart. If not for my abnormally strong ribs due to my bizarre habit of drinking a gallon of whole milk a day, these sharp words would have pierced me to my very core. Still, the blunt force of it hurt. It hurt bad. I have this strange high pitched wheeze whenever I exhale, and I can't read certain fairy tales without openly weeping.

I know you are suffering from a similar shock that I was experiencing after hearing this statement. How could anyone say that I am not completely charming? I apologize for what may be a boring post, but I feel I have no choice but to defend myself.

Oh Girlfriend. Have you considered that I am, in fact, no less charming than when I first got into your pants? Maybe it only seems like this because you dismiss the nice things I say and do for you.

Early on in our relationship if I were to comment on the loveliness of your hair, you would smile your gorgeous smile and start making out with me. If I were to make the same comment to you today, you would say, "Whatever. It's gross. I need to wash it. Make me french toast!" 

Many months ago when I would purchase for you an inexpensive but thoughtful gift, you would thank me and rub your hand over my crotch. Now you often tell me, "Buy me shoes" and elbow me in my tender shanks.

Maybe this is my own fault. Maybe I have too often proclaimed you beautiful and told you that I love you, and as a result it is no longer as special as it once was. This I can accept responsibility for. But to say I used to be charming and no longer am? Baby I got charm hangin' out my ass.

I'm only 65% sure I will regret this.

Real American?

This is a photo of a business card that was found on a bulletin board at a supermarket.
I apologize for the cell phone quality.

I'm concerned that "Deer" is secret code for wife.

DJ Restraining Order

Is it normal to have a big party for your child's 1st birthday? I can see a healthy gathering of friends and family would be appropriate, sure. A nice yard party perhaps.

What about if you have the party in a hall? With a bar? And a DJ?

That's what I was at yesterday. Instead of ranting about what this says about the current state of society, I have to discuss this DJ.

He was a large fellow. He was about 6 feet tall and dressed in all black. His gut was light years passed the point of entertaining any thoughts of fastening his belt over it. Lifting it has to take so much effort that he has resigned himself to sitting down to take a leak. He had a short pony tail and arrived in a creepy vehicle that my cousin's husband referred to as a "rape van."

I'm not sure how a 1st birthday party rates on the scale of gigs for a DJ, but I can't imagine it is very high. I'd have to put it above Nursing Home Christmas Party but below a Bris. The self loathing this DJ was experiencing had to be monumental, and it started to show at points during the shin dig.

When he asked the father of the birthday boy if he should play music to entertain the many kids present or some more adult jams for the bulk of the crowd, he was told, "I'd say focus on the kids, but don't forget about the adults." This couldn't have cleared matters up, but I still don't believe it is a valid excuse for playing unedited versions of "Crank Dat" and "Jump Around." I can only imagine the awkward silences and near collisions that were caused when more than one child asked their parents what "Supaman dat ho" means during the ride home.

I will give him credit because the kids did look entertained. He showed them had to dance to several of the songs. Sure he commented on a woman's large breasts into the microphone while the children were limboing and wouldn't stop talking along with the singers, but the kids expectations seemed very low.

And it's a good thing the kids didn't expect much because this guy had the absolute worst balloon art skills anyone has ever seen. It was obvious he couldn't make anything resembling an animal. Maybe a dead snake, but that's it. Most of what he handed out was, I hope, supposed to be a sword, but more resembled a giant drooping cock. I have no idea what the other objects he made were supposed to be, but here is a picture I took of what I can only describe as a pile of fail.

As I left I saw him sitting at a table eating his third piece of birthday cake. Two kids whacked him in the face with their big pink balloon dicks as "Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden blared out of the speakers.

I'm going to check the paper today for any reports of a fat guy hanging himself with his own pony tail.

Criminal or Just Creepy?

Yesterday a gentleman I work with, the one who used to make pancakes in his office before someone ratted him out, approached me at my desk and threw some papers onto it. They were pictures he printed out, pictures of some girl walking along Broadway. Four of them. From different angles. Not expecting to see paparazzi photos of some strange woman walking down the street, I didn't know how to react which lead to my default setting of staring blankly. 

"She's hot huh," Pancakes said to me. 

"Oh. Oh! yeah. She is smokin'," I replied, deciding it was better just to act like I wasn't wondering if viewing these photos made me an accomplice. The girl was very hot though. She looked to be a tall, large breasted Asian gal in a small plaid skirt. I have always been sad I have never had the chance to experience the joy that is a large breasted Asian gal, but looking at these pictures still made me feel lecherous, even the shot from behind.

"She was wearing that same outfit the first time I saw her. Oh my god I love her." Ooookay this

sentence was enough for me and I went to hand him back the pictures.

"Oh don't worry about it. You can keep those. I have my own copies. Just put them in your desk so no one sees them."

"Oh.. cool. Thanks," I muttered as I buried them under a pile of junk in a drawer.

I feel gross.

The "H" Word

None of you know what this is? Really?

I'll paypal 5 American Dollars to whomever knows it first.

If you really want to know you can always take off your pants and call me. I'll say it eventually.

Distraction

Lately I have taken to using the seaborne portion of my commute as a time to write, or at least think of, things I can post on here. I do this with a ball point pen and a spiral notebook I keep in my man bag along with an uncanny ability to block out all ridiculous chatter around me.

Most of the time this chatter comes from groups of Russian people spewing out noise that sound like me when i vomited after trying borscht. In high school I took 3 years of Russian, but I can not understand more than a word or two of what these Chatty Katyas are saying. Unfortunately the only bits of Ruski that remained in my head after graduation were "The milk is near the window," "I live in a summer house," and "I love men in sour cream." Therefore I do my best to ignore them.

Yesterday I was in the early stages of writing what could have been an award winning short story, when my obliviousness was destroyed by a wackjob that sat across from me. This fella was a straight up weirdo. He didn't need to open his mouth for me to gauge his lunacy because he was wearing a bright blue cap with big silver wings sticking out from the sides. It looked like something Thor would wear if he was a slow adult. The hat was so bizarre it took me 5 minutes of discreet staring to notice that he was also wearing one of those always stylish leather jackets with hundreds of tassels hanging off of it. Topping it off was his ratting almost ass length pony tail of pumpkin colored hair. This bizarre vision blew out some fuses in my brain, and my attempts to block out the surrounding noise were about to fail miserably.

The weirdo was chatting to a more normal looking colleague across from him.

"Sunday I got up early and got ready before heading to the cat show"

This is when I realized what I would blog about today. I didn't expect to be nearly blinded with confusion and rage as his comments continued.

"You know, for all the Italian people around, there is a lot of bad pizza on Staten Island..."

What the?! Having lived on Staten Island all but one year of my life and being one of these Italian people, I couldn't believe what i was hearing. I had maybe run into a bad slice once or twice. Don't ever order from Monty's. Aside form that it's a regular pizza heaven. He then dropped this nugget out of his unbrushed mouth.

"We got Domino's the other night. In all the times we ordered from them, this was the first time they got there in less than 30 minutes."

What? What?! 30 seconds ago he is complaining about bad pizza. Now he is saying that he orders from fucking Domino's? More than once? That's like saying "Man music today is really bad...I love this Scarlett Johansson CD."

Domino's pizza should only be eaten by students away at college in a place where people say "Eye-talian."

Thanks for the post, asshole.

867-5309 Meghan

I have had a healthy amount of phone sex. I have had it with girlfriends, people I've never met, and even a married woman. I do not count the time my aunt had an asthma attack while on the phone with me despite it sounding virtually the same as my previous telephonic encounters. This is story about the first time I participated in the act of the Phone Bone in one part.

At the tender age of 19 I had begun to spend more and more time swimming in the cesspool known as online chat rooms. Until this point, I had only used them as a source of mirth and merriment by way of insulting people until I got banned from AOL. Things started to take a much more mature and unfortunate turn for the worse when I began to use them for socializing. I found myself enjoying it far too much as a result of this pesky social anxiety problem I couldn't seem to shake. Conversations were had. Jokes were made. Girls were flirted with.

There was one broad in particular who enjoyed my textual stylings a great deal. Her name was Meghan. She was from New Jersey, but I didn't hold it against her because she talked about her boobs a lot and would send me winking smiley faces. ;) 

Meaghan and I had talked quite a bit for a few weeks when it was suggested, I don't remember by who, that we should maybe talk on the phone. Up until this point the depths to which our sexual chatting had gone was only at a level of half-joking genitalia mention that was usually followed by yet another lame ass emoticon. For example:

Megan: Oh it's so cold in here. I guess I have to put my pants on.

Me: :-O

Meggin:  hehe

Within minutes of getting on the phone however, she ratcheted  up the raunch a notch or eight. Her vocabulary became peppered with "F" words, "P" words, "C" words and even an "H" word. I feel uncomfortable even thinking about that one. She not so casually mentioned she was strumming her harp and suggested I start tuning my mandolin. Only in a much filthier and less musical manner. My brain quickly abetted my loins. 

Brain: "Well she definitely sounds like a girl, and that fake picture she sent us was pretty hot. Go for it, cowboy."

What followed this decision, aside from hellatious chaffing, was an awkward realization that I had zero clue what I was supposed to say. I mean I knew I wasn't supposed to ask her what she thought of the latest episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer no matter how much that would have aroused me, but at this point in my life I did not have the best friend-like familiarity with the language of filth that I do now. Mghan was well underway when I decided I need to pipe up before I lost her. Not having formulated a plan yet, I sent out an array of fail.

"I want to kiss your boobs," didn't sounds as bad as you think when I followed it up with, "I bet your vagina feels really good." Yes, I said "vagina."

Miraculously her enthusiasm didn't wane one bit. In the midst of my futility I came up with an ingenious strategy. Or maybe it was a tactic?  We all know how well a man thinks when he is full on masturbating. I brilliantly decided that since Meghan was clearly much better at this than I, taking what she said and using it in my response would be my best bet. This plan resulted in a series of exchanges that went something like this.

Meghan: Do you want to fuck me?

Me: Oh yeah I want to fuck you.

Meghan: Oh god I want you to fuck you now.

Me: I would fuck you now.

Meghan: Yes! Fuck me now!

Me: I am fucking you now!

I can't even get into how I tried to force some grunts and moans out in response to hers. Let's just say that for a week after this, neighbors were asking me to come over and play with the sea lion they heard me training. This all went on for a surprising 15 minutes due mostly to my confusion delaying the inevitable mess I failed to plan ahead for. 

Alas, no mess was to be had as suddenly I heard a door slam shut. Before I could realize what was happening,  I heard  my mother's voice say, "Ryan ! Come down and help me bring in groceries!" I froze in terror which only resulted in her yelling again. My lack of response caused her worry which led to the sound of footsteps on stairs.

Panicked, I stood up and tried to return to some state of dress as Meghan continued to frost her cupcake. What the? With my mother's presence looming on the other side of my bedroom door, I blurted out "GOTTA GO," and hung up. I stood there sweating and out of breath as I told my mom I was just getting off the phone with Johnny and didn't hear her come in. Smooth.

I actually told Meghan what had happened later on. She thought it was funny and for some reason wanted to have phone sex again. Crap, she was a dude wasn't she?

Questions

Next week I plan on posting a story that is large in both size and embarrassment. My dilemma is whether or not to break it up into two posts because of it's intimidating girth. It worked pretty well previously when I broke up my nightmarish Jean Shorts epic into Part 1 and Part 2. 

So what do you prefer? One over sized post, or a two part special with some time in between to digest how ridiculous a human being I am?

My other question is equally as dull. I need some new books to read. They make my commute more bearable.  Recent ones I have read include Pound for Pound by F.X. Toole, Agent ZigZag by Ben Macintyre and The Wizard of the Crow by Ngugi Wa'Thiong'O. I picked out the last book because the guys name is awesome, and it turned out to be a fantastic choice. I also read a few by my second favorite writer from the damp and lush land of Northwest America, Tom Robbins.

So what should I be reading? Books involving dinosaurs will go to the top of the list. 

Mistakes on a Plane, Part 2

Previously, I told a tale of fail regarding my method of dealing with air travel. This is basically to deprive myself of sleep the night before my flight, resulting in sleep filled, but panic and boredom free flight. Never one to give up on a bad idea, I put my method to use again even after spraying hot saliva all over economy class on my way back from Florida.

One reason I had been so enthusiastic about the idea of sleep flight was the whole not sleeping bit allowed me to engage in obscene amounts of procrastination. So the night before I was to fly to Minnesota I had a grand ol' time packing 3 items of clothing every time I felt like taking a break from Nintendo, the Internet and On Demand Showtime porn.

Previously my flights had left early in the morning which facilitated my plan. This time however, the plane was not due to leave the Earth until 2PM. As you can imagine, after about 32 hours without sleep or even listening to Losing My Religion, I was not in the most solid of mental states.

I have no recollection of how I made it to the airport, through security and onto the plane without  falling down or asking someone if I could pet their unicorn. Somehow I stumbled into my seat feeling like tiny Shaolin monks were kung fuing my brain. It felt like they were using the Plum Flower Fist style. Had I fallen asleep when my ass hit flotation device, things would have gone swell. It seemed as if some part of my tea totalling self was enjoying this euphoric brain damagey feeling and wanted it to continue.

The plane was not full by any means, but the few people who walked by me on the way to their seat stared as I made feeble attempts to fasten my safety belt. I had struggled with insertion before, but never in such a public venue. We pulled away from the gate and I still was not buckled in. A kindly, and somewhat cute, flight attendant felt sorry for me and offered to help.

"Let me give you a hand. They can be tricky," she said before leaning down, snapping the two ends together and pulling the strap tight with ease and grace. " There you go. You're all set."

Under normal circumstances my brain would be exploding with ridiculous thoughts that would paralyze my vocal chords. Right now though, my brain was mush. Out of my mouth slipped, "You smell pretty."

Mercifully, sleep came quickly after. When I exited the plane I nearly sprinted off the plane staring at the floor as to avoid her gaze of disgust. I also tried to hum loudly to avoid hearing anything horrible, but I did make out someone saying, "Man that guy must really love Minneapolis."

These days I sleep plenty and bring lots of reading material.

Mistakes on a Plane, Part 1

I have mixed feelings about flying. I like the idea that in a few hours I can be in a strange new place where I don't have to work. I do not like that this place may be a giant  fiery wreck 35 miles away from my destination.

In the past my main concern before a flight would be how I could avoid freaking out to the point where I am squealing as I eat fist fulls of my own hair. These days I am much more comfortable with airline travel. The main thing I worry about a flight now is how best to make the time in the air pass quickly, so that I do not get so bored I start asking people if they want to play a game of "Guess Who has the B.O. Problem."

The plan I devised to solve the problems of boredom and mid-air panic seemed fool-proof. If I were to not sleep the night before a flight, I will be so tired that once I am strapped in on the plane I will pass the hell out. Not only would I avoid  the risk of soiling myself thinking the plane is going down when I sense vibrations as the fat guy next to me farts into his seat, but it will feel like no time had passed when a kindly flight attendant wakes me up telling me that if I don't get off the plane they will release the dogs on me. Sounds perfect right?

Almost. While I had several successful runs with Operation pass out on a plane, there were two incidents.

The first occurred as myself and a number of my high school classmates returned from a Senior Trip to Florida. Nothing 17 and 18 year-olds want to do more than go to Disney World. I was asleep for much of the flight, and only awoke as we descended into Newark Airport. I began slipping back and forth from being awake back to unconsciousness. On one jolt out of dreamland I gained some awareness as to my situation. My head was leaning forward. My mouth was agape in a bass-like manner (the fish or the Lance) .  

Even being somewhat out of it, my embarrassment alarm went off when I realized how ridiculous I looked. Seeking to correct this, I quickly jerked my head backwards and my mouth shut.

Unfortunately, in my woozy state I failed to notice the thick strand of drool that hung from my low hanging  mouth. As I attempted to avoid humiliation by yanking my head back, the almost pillar-like drool was flung from my lower lip  through the air and landed across the back of the seat in front of me with a surprisingly audible SLAP.

I stared at the glistening gob for a good ten seconds before slowly turning my head toward the aisle, now fully awake. Across from me sat a girl named Holly. Holly with a pretty smile. Holly with a nice ass. Holly with a look of complete revulsion on her face. You know, one of those looks where your top lip curls up really high and you kind of look like Ellen Degeneres does all the time. I was frozen by her Medusa gaze of disgust shooting across the aisle as the wheels hit the runway.

Holly and I never had a thing like I thought we would. I wasn't ready for a serious relationship being at the end of my high school run, and she didn't want me to drench her in saliva. For some reason, this didn't not cause me to abandon Operation Pass Out On a Plane.

Does the Dalai Lama have nice breath?

This morning I needed a number. No one else knew the number, so I had to turn to the big Rolodex.  This thing is massive and filled with almost 15 years worth of numbers and cards. It looks like it should be powering a Mississippi riverboat.

So me and three other guys haul it to my office and I start to look for the name in the section called G.

Abert Gargano

Gateway Casting

Amanda Gaul

Richard Gere

Michael Giordano

Wait a second...

This card says nothing on it, but Richard Gere and a phone number with the area code 310. I checked and it is sunny Southern California.

No one knows why this is in the Rolodex. I asked around. 

The question I pose to you, is not if I should call him, but when I do, what should I ask Richard Gere?

Please no hamster/gerbil related suggestions.

Don't forget de Willie

Last week, a man who used to work at my office passed away. His name was Guillermo, but everyone called him "Willie." About a year ago he was diagnosed with liver and colon cancer , and as a result stopped working shortly after. 

Not having him around the office was a great loss. Without him strolling into my room all day long to tell me bizarre things or call Oscar De LaHoya a pussy, the only reason for me to get up and come to work was the chance that my "work wife" would brush a boob against my forearm.

It is unfortunate I can not tell this story to you out loud as I feel my humble impression of his accent better conveys the hilarity that was Willie. Despite having moved here from Puerto Rico about 40 years ago, his accent was still thicker than London fog, and he often forgot the a word in English, usually during the punchline of a joke he had spent the past 10 minutes telling you.  

So picture a short, energetic,  bongo drum playing sixty year old Puerto Rican man with this heavy accent as I tell you this story. 

One day during my lunch break, myself, my work wife (yes I feel the urge to clutch my man bag every time I say this), and two other co-workers were in my office hanging around my computer. We were looking at some old sex pictures of a girl who was on American Idol, or Survivor, or So You Think You Can Kazoo, or whatever. The point is, on my computer there was a picture of a girl with a penis in her mouth.

As we are observing and discussing said photo, Willie happens to walk by and looks in to see what all the hubbub is. Upon seeing the reality contestant engaged in  her vocal exercises, the following conversation ensues:

Willie: "ooooOOOOOOOOH"

Me: Laughing

Willie: "Is like... Is like de chicken."

Me: "The chicken? what?"

Willie: "You know is like de chicken. How you say? Chicken? With de corn?"

Me:"Chicken with corn? what?"

Willie:" You know de chicken! With de corn! De Chicken!"

Willie then proceeded to open his mouth wide, lean forward and bob his head up and down, simulating a chicken eating off the ground. After realizing what he was talking about finally, this yanked a great bellowing laugh out of me that I would dare say might even be classified as a guffaw.  Once he saw I got it he said "yeah! De Chicken!" And then walked down the hall laughing, Ah...Ah...Ah" like the count form Sesame Street. 

For the next week Willie would walk by my door multiple times a day and say, "Hey. Hey Ryan. Ryan...Don' forget de corn. Ah... Ah...Ah."

I really need to figure out how to record something and put it up here so you can get the full experience. But, even if I can't I now plan on sharing the story he told me where he got too drunk to have sex, why he loved Derek Jeter and why he called me "Ryan de Octopus."

Comments?

Should I respond to comments left by those of you who are kind enough to leave them? 

In cases where a blogger does respond to comments, do you actually go back to check what they said in response to yours? I do, but I am a filthy attention whore, so I can't know what others do.

Who has it harder in life, a very ugly man or a very ugly woman?

It's got a good beat, and you can hump to it

Until somewhat recently, I had never made sweet love on a woman while music was being played. 

I should clarify here and say that I have never intentionally done it. There was one time sex was in full effect while the TV was on, and I wound up winded due to the Price is Right theme. There also was a time  where I was receiving an oral gift on a park bench and, in an attempt to act nonchalant, I whistled "White Christmas." Neither of these count.

I had been with a girl who had mentioned she wanted to bang to Closer by Nine Inch Nails, but I couldn't be bothered to burn it to a CD. I have often mused about having sex while the Mortal Kombat Techno Theme plays, but it might lead to me breaking my neck when I try to jump off a dresser. I can understand why some people might feel some sexy music can enhance the mood while hittin' the skins, but I personally don't see how anything can enhance a mood better than actual intercourse with a woman does.

That being said, this past Valentines Day I decided that for the oh so special night I was planning for my ladyfriend I would purchase a CD by a musical artist she loves. This Compact Disc would be played as I romance her down using candles, exotic oils and a precoital dance I like to call "The Lusty Gibbon."

The music played as we did our thing. I can't say I noticed the music very much at all once the heavy petting began. I have the ability to tune things out during lower stimulation which in the past has lead to many awkward moments with my family during my youth. I feel it was a blessing in this case however. 

As we lay in the bed afterwards, sweaty and ignoring the disappointment that hangs in the air after I do it, I put my arm around her and said...

"I can't believe we had sex to Purple Rain."

What is the soundtrack to your reproductive acts?