Sales Pitch

Girls, you don't realize how easy you have it.

You see, men are an ugly species. We've got nothing going for us. We don't have any sexy curves or soft features - and most of us are covered in fur. We are one Rogaine bath away from being Sasquatch.

Think about the last time you saw a guy naked in a movie - it was funny, right? Think about that. Our naked form is used solely for the sake of comedy. There's a boost for the ol' confidence.

Now that you are giggling about our naked sasquatchian form, imagine how hard it is to walk up to a girl at a bar and flirt with her.

"Hey...there. I saw you from across the bar and thought you were super attractive so I thought I would come over and...hope you were drunk enough to talk to me."

Being a guy is like being a salesman for a product that you know sucks.

That is why we have to rely on pick-up lines and alcohol to even have a shot at picking up a girl.

I hear attractive girls complain about the fact they never have guys approach them at a bar. Well, if you were a guy, would you approach you? Imagine approaching a complete stranger in a crowded, loud bar - now try not to sound creepy. It is nearly impossible.

Anytime you have to stop yourself and think, "Wait, does that sound like something a rapist would say?" you know you are set-up to fail.

And fail we does.

But we keep trying, keep working those angles, keep trying to sweeten that deal.

But mostly, we rely on the booze.

Put a Ring On It

It isn't often that I am THIS disappointed in a product, but I have to vent.

I haven't gotten hit on ONCE since wearing this damn wedding ring.

If sitcoms have taught me anything, it is that wedding rings are chick magnets. Hell, there is a movie about Adam Sandler dating Brooklyn Decker's boobs just because he is married.

BROOKLYN DECKER'S BOOBS!

And no one will even throw me a bone. I'd have a better chance of getting hit on if I were wearing a replica Lord of the Rings band. Or one of those class rings that Zach Morris bought from that skeezy ring salesman that left green marks on everyone's fingers.

And obviously I'm not going to act on any of this - but damnit if I don't like to feel pretty every now and then.

Maybe I'll start wearing a fake non-wedding ring on my finger to pick up chicks so I can tell them, "Sorry, I'm married."

Or maybe I'll return this ring and see if they have something a little sexier. I mean, if a ring lands Adam Sandler a date with Brooklyn Decker's boobs, I should be able to get to first base with Betty White, right?

Weather or Not

If anyone wants to know what the weather in Cleveland is like; I had my sun roof open yesterday for a nice afternoon drive and woke up this morning to a car completely frozen over from freezing rain.

Although, I guess that is a bit misleading, since my sun roof was still open today.

Which meant I didn't just have to scrape the ice off of the windows of my truck, but also my center console.

Happy Monday.

What's My Name

One of the first rules of being married is putting a limit on the amount of dirty comments available.

My wife doesn't need to hear me talk about how I almost saw down the shirt of the cashier at Burger King. Mostly because she was 250 lbs.

But I also don't need to hear about that new guy in her yoga class and how great he looks for being in his 40s. Or anything about his "downward doggie".

So rather than hold it all in, we each have a few celebrity crushes that allow us to release our innuendos outward.

She has her crushes: LL Cool J, Lenny Kravitz, John Hamm, Me, Robert Pattinson, every Italian soccer player on the face of the earf, etc.

Mine include Marissa Miller, Norah Jones and Rihanna.

Following this system, all was well in the world. When one of these celebrities popped up on the screen, we would let loose with some of the most filthy and disgusting things that would make most rap songs sound like something from Yo Gabba Gabba.

That is, until Rihanna had to go and screw everything up.

You see, she put my last name in her new song, "What's My Name?"

"Oh Nomina, what's my name?
Oh Nomina, what's my name?"

Followed by some lines so filthy Andrew Dice Clay felt uncomfortable.

How do I explain this to my wife? What she thought was just a silly crush is obviously deep, passionate love. Rihanna has it bad, and, while it is hard to blame her (I mean, look at me), I'm a committed man and can't go running off to her private jets to be pampered and pleased as she sees fit.

No, this is my break-up letter to Rihanna. I'm sorry, but this just won't work.

Besides, I'm holding out for Marissa Miller

When Your Heart Hops, Skips or Jumps a Beat

I'm tired of people trying to define love.

Love is inexplainable. It isn't a math problem. You can't just say, "I love X because they have Y and Z."

Otherwise everyone would love me. Because I'm the total package: looks, brains, abs, punctuality and humility.

It goes without saying that we all like people who are kind, attractive, thoughtful or have huge boobs. It is human nature - and saying that is why you love someone is obvious.

Love shouldn't be explained or quantified. It should happen. It should be a thousand tiny reasons that you yourself don't even realize.

So while I am sure your boyfriend or girlfriend is nice, and funny, and attractive, I hope they also wake you up at 1:30am to ask how a T-Rex would jump rope with those tiny, stupid arms.

Because my wife does. And that is more of a reason to love her than anything you'll find on a candy heart.

Unless that candy heart says something about huge boobs.

Happy Valentine's Day

Dating Up - Ashton and Demi

Welcome to the 2nd edition of everyone's favorite game -

Dating Up.

Where I put up two celebrities so you can put them down.

Here's how it works:

I show a celebrity couple in all their pre-angry voicemail / drug rehab / sleeping with a Nazi-hooker bliss - and you tell me which one is more physically attractive, and therefore more important.

The person in the relationship who is less fun to look at is dating up.

This week's lucky couple? Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore.

First up - Demi.

She's hot. Ok, let's just get that out there. I'm not denying that she wango's my tango. But know what isn't hot? ROBOTS! And you cannot convince me that her 48 year-old ass isn't made out of 99% synthentic materials. I'm more worried about what her emissions are doing to the o-zone level.


On to her little beaux, Ashton Kutcher.

I get it. He's goofy and giggles while he talks and always has cool hair. Like the love-child of Jimmy Fallon and Orlando Bloom. And I guess if I were a chick he could be fun to look at. But he is also running full speed ahead into "Matthew McConaughey" territory, which means we should all be looking to destroy him as quickly as possible. If only we had a 48 year-old robot with 99% sythentic butt cheeks!

And there you have it - which one of these people (term used loosley when describing Demi) is calling every 20 minutes just to "check-in" because they didn't like the way that your friend was looking at you even though you've known them forever and there is nothing going on there?

Name Game

Now that I am married, I am getting asked all of the usual questions:

How does it feel to be married?

Are you going to have babies?

How many babies?

When?

What flavor?

But perhaps no question comes up more than "Is she going to take your last name?"

Which got me to thinking -

Is there ANY scenario that would make it ok for the guy to take the woman's name? I don't mean "OK" in the "We can do it!" Rosie the Riveter kind of way - but in the, "My friends won't make the whipped noise everytime I see them" kind of way.

Like what if your name was Harry Buttsmells. It is totally cool to switch then, right?

What about more realistic names like Weiner, Gay or Buttsmells?

And not just if you have a BAD name - what if she has an awesome name - like Incognito, Bond or Buttsmells?

Seriously, I need to know, because I'm sick of my friends making the whipped noise.