You'll Know Exactly What These Are

Oh. My. God. My newest time waster:

www.TextsFromLastNight.com

Sweet jesus. Here's some examples:

(734): Pregnant stripper...not hot.

(843): I guess there's a 50 percent chance that it was her that wet my bed.

(859): im in a kiddie pool, high, with a keg in arms reach. If i had a sandwich and a blowjob this would be the best day ever

(516): Dude, just walked by a homeless guy pissing on the sidewalk while he was screaming at his wang. God, I love this city.

(714): I wish there was an iPhone app to help you with your shitty personality.


I can't stop reading.

Spring Break in Mexico

**Editors' Note: This guest post comes in from a buddy of ours named Kenny.**

Several years ago while living in Arizona, my girlfriend, Betsy, and I decided to spend our spring break visiting Rocky Point in northern Mexico. Scarcely a twelve pack drive away, it was a popular destination for land-bound Arizonan's who wanted some beach time. We packed up and headed south, crossing the border just before midnight and arriving at the beach in the wee hours. We slept in the sand next to my trusty Honda Accord.

The next morning we woke up and headed into town for supplies. It was already hot, so pounding a few beers on the way seemed appropriate. As did smoking a joint or two. We entered town and, with Betsy at the helm, were navigating towards the supermercado, beers already warming between our thighs.

Familiar with the town, we moved qucikly along, windows down, stereo up, sipping beers -- until we stopped unexpectedly upon the bumper of the car in front of us as it waited patiently for a red light. As we peeled ourselves from the dash (carefree springbreakers, we dismissed the idea of seat belts) the large woman driving the car that was currently wedged beneath the hood of my Honda approached us, suggesting loudly in Spanish what amounted to her personal opinion on Gringos, spring break, drinking and driving, and godless heathens.

Betsy, speaking no Spanish, remained mute and simply applied direct pressure to the cut trickling blood from her forehead. My limited command of the language was further compromised by the remainder of our weed that I was choking dryly down.

Soon the cops showed up, and with very little ado, quickly confiscated my car and ordered us to report to the police station at nine the next morning. Considering ourselves lucky for leaving the scene without someone so much as smelling our beery breath, we split. And proceeded to party the rest of the day, and night away.

The next day we hitch a ride with friends into town and, nursing hangovers, we arrive at city hall promptly at nine. Betsy, tough girl that she is, walks towards the front door while telling me nonchalantly over her shoulder that she's "got this under control, feel free to wait outside". Which I do. For like an hour and half.

Finally, I go looking and enter a seemingly deserted police station, long halls extending in three directions. Somewhere a radio played tinny ranchero music.

"Hola? Buenas Dias?" Nothing. "HOLA?" Still nothing.

I wait.

Eventually I make my way deeper into the building following a long hall with flickery florescent lights. I hear a metallic clicking and look down another hall to see a heavy door swinging shut. Just before it closes I spot Betsy, sweaty hair in her face, hands held before her gripping the bars of a jail cell, looking wide-eyed right at me.

And then SLAM, the door shuts.

Get It On

Dear Serial Monogamist

Hello interwebs.

Not too long ago, a commenter accused me, THE Serial Monogamist, of trying to take over DIW with my giant ego. Really, I’m just so happy someone was paying attention to me. Thanks for caring. But I thought and thought about it; thought about me, re-read all of my old posts again and again, and realized that yes, Lucky, you’re right. It is all about me. Me and my ego.

Funny thing, in addition to being egomaniacal, (and incredibly modest) I’m also a knowitall. And what do egomaniacal knowitalls just love to do? Give advice. This came in from a friend of a friend, and I couldn’t help myself.


Dear Serial Monogamist,

After how many days of unreturned phone calls should I write a guy off as a jerk?

Sincerely,

Miss Lonely Heart



Dear Lonely,

How many DAYS of unreturned phone calls? What the crap are you doing, lonely? Calling him day after day, leaving pathetic messages on his voice mail, and not hearing back? Or is this just one call, and then sitting around on your ass wondering when Mr. Wonderful is going to get around to thinking of you? Yikes.

Here’s the thing: If he doesn’t call you back, you can’t really write him off. He’s written you off. Forget about it. What you need to do is pull up your big girl britches, give him the finger, and move on.

But don’t be afraid to ask yourself why he didn’t call. Are you boring? Do you sit around waiting for awesome things to happen to you? Because that’s not really the way it works. I could be wrong (I think I was, like, once), but something about your question just reads “needy and boring.” Try being less of both. Go out and get an independent life. Take a drawing class. Learn a new hobby. Stop watching so much reality TV. Then maybe you won’t have to count days between phone calls.

Love,

Serial

Got a dating question? Email me at seriallymonogamous@gmail.com

A Friend of Mine Recently Lost His Mind

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from anonymous. But not the same anonymous who wrote about reading his girlfriend's email. We hope.**

At least, that's what I thought when he abandoned a decade-plus relationship with a woman I admire and started playing house with his new, 19-year-old girlfriend.

He's 35. A relatively normal guy. His long-time girlfriend was age-appropriate, lifestyle-appropriate and a good match for him, or so it seemed. Now she's starting over in the love department - a sad state for a woman in her mid-thirties who wants children but doesn't yet have any.

Meanwhile he has a shiny new girlfriend, fresh out of her parents house and still driving her first car.

When I first heard this, I got all hung up on the math: She was 4 years old when I met him; he was in high school when she was born; I have pubes older than she is.

But now, I just worry.

If this man can start over, can ditch his longtime girlfriend in favor of the flower of youth, what's to prevent my husband, or your boyfriend, from doing the same? This guy is not a player, or I never thought he was. But are all guys secretly players, just waiting for the chance to act on it?

Surreptitious Pleasures

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from Terry Tucker. And um, gross.**

Friend of mine met this great guy….…..smart, good looking, fun - and thoughtful! When they were walking down the street, he would stop to pick up litter, even discarded cigarette butts.

On subsequent dates, everything good…..although she did notice him sneaking surreptitiously outside for a cigarette. Trying to quit, he said, when asked about it. Later, when she noticed him picking up and pocketing a cigarette butt off the street, something clicked. You don’t smoke those, do you, she asked.

He hesitated, then admitted he did. At first, he did it out of desperate addiction, he said. Better than buying cigarettes or bumming them. Then serendipity, he discovered smoking butts was more satisfying than regular cigarettes. Nicotine tends to accumulate on the paper at the lower end, resulting in a more concentrated delivery of nicotine when you inhale a pre-smoked butt. When you inhale, a tremendous rush. It’s wonderful, he enthused. And you get better and better at spotting the good ones.

What about germs, she wanted to know. Oh, I wipe the cigarettes off first, he assured her. Hasn’t been a problem for me. They say that kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray. This was worse than that.

Gay Marriage is Weird?

A story in the NYT tipped me off to this video, apparently a response to recent same sex marriage victories.



But the online responses are so much better:

My Car is My Lover

Her Skeletons in the Closet Aren't Dead

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a guy who asked to be anonymous. Fair enough anon..**

Just one really. He's definitely alive and kicking, sending her emails of his love. Emails full of shit metaphors about that profoundly deep love of his. How do I know? Because I read them.

I fucking read her email.

Yep. I sunk that low and violated her trust and privacy.

Worse?

She feels that way for him. But also feels that way for me. She's even told him as much. But she's also told him that she shies away from looking at her feelings for him, doesn't want to look at her late night wondering if they'll ever be together. Has carnal dreams of him.

I hate skeletons. Especially when they're still alive and sharing the bed with you and your new girlfriend.

I hate that I read her email. That I didn't trust her enough. That I wasn't confident enough. That I found what I was looking for.

If I could erase a memory

My regular hookup, the ruddy-headed charmingly gap-toothed Mr. Bojangles, raised his head up from betwixt me thighs. I looked down with some surprise--I wasn't really expecting any sort of interruptus, even of the oral-coit-variety--to see an odd expression on his face. He fished his farmboy fingers into his mouth and pulled out a large, wet wad of blue lint.

Dear god. Blue lint. From my blue slacks.

Should have worn panties.

Ode to John Mellencamp

For five months I've been waiting for this bomb to drop in my new relationship.

We both grew up in the same small town, though we've both since moved away. However, he's still friends with several of his old buddies. I happened to have a one night stand with one of them eons ago. I was never going to bring this up; my sexual past is not something I particularly enjoy discussing, and we're pretty happy to follow the "don't ask, don't tell" guidelines.

I had some concerns about this other fellow, though. He's not known for his tact. Luckily they don't hang out too often though so I was just gonna keep my mouth shut. He was not so thoughtful.

Over drinks the other night, Tactless made it known that he had, in fact, had relations with me in the past. When I first heard about this my stomach almost shot out my eyeballs. Obviously My Man doesn't think I'm the Virgin Mary but did he know I hit so close to home?

My Man, the wonderful, caring guy that he is, informed me that he truly did not care about my past. Whew! I'm gonna go throw up now from relief.

Then I started wondering to myself what other things his friend were telling him about me. They don't have the slightest clue what's happened in my life but for any of you who grew up in a small town, you know that people will run their mouths about others whether they know the whole situation or not.

It took less than 3 minutes of conversation for me to be thrust back into my small town, without my even being there.

So, DIWers, here's one for you. Should I be more proactive about letting him know that this might happen again with another person he knows? I have way more faith that this other person won't share, but I guess you never can tell. Why do I have to be worrying about stuff that happened almost 10 years ago?!

I'll never go back to that small down. I won't die there. They won't bury me there. End of story.

Anthropormorphising

Yes, it's essential that your pet like your partner, and vice versa. I mean, Christ, look at this.

I can't imagine how difficult it would be if my pooch hated The New One. Or if he wasn't patient with her overzealous love of him, or her overzealous protectiveness of me (used to great effect with a creepy drunk bum in the Rite Aid parking lot the other night ... he was asking for change and got a little too close for comfort, like close enough to smell, and all I had to do was crack my car door and the vicious attack dog foaming at the mouth got him to back right on up), or her general state of overzealousness, actually.

But now we've discovered how to use our pets against each other, and hide our own feelings in text messages from our pets, i.e., "Puppy misses u terribly." (Psychoanalyze that one, that's like a twice removal of feelings or something, innit?)

It could get ugly, though, right?

"Well puppy thinks u smell bad."
"Kitty sez puppy's a jerk who p's her pants."
"Hey, puppy only p's her pants when she sees u bc she loves you."

The passive-aggressive potential is delightful ....

"Puppy h8s you and ate the ugly pants u left here."
"Kitty took a shit on the valNtine u made."
"Oh noes! Kitty changed the locks on u!"
"Goldfish wants u to fuck off n die."

What would your pet text?

Craigslist Personal - Older and Fat

**Editors' Note: We couldn't make this shit up.**

Reply to: pers-75cz3-1085924688@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
Date: 2009-03-21, 5:01PM PDT

Here you have a 46 yo 300# fat balding man, that has bad teeth, a job that bearly pays the bills and is a paycheck away from being kick out of a rented place to live.. I also have a son, thats still under 18, and hes my little guy that keeps me going.. I would like to find a sugar woman, that would like to be there for me when I am bored.. I love to cook, cuddle and give massages.. and of course have sex, I am not well endowed, but love the forplay, giving and receiving.. I have been looking for a soulmate for ages on many web sites, but once they know what I look like, I never hear from them again. I would love to be a one lady's man, but for right now I want the compainonship of someone.... I get very lonely in my king size bed... I not looking for any Barbie type, but would enjoy one. But thats dreaming, I do love to watch the young ladies that think they are God's gift to man, but I know that they are way out of my reach... If that ever happened I know that I would die in bed...(hopefully a happy man). So here I am just dreaming that someone is out there for me.....

http://bend.craigslist.org/m4w/1085924688.html

Damn Tubes

**Editors' Note: Slightly Disheveled sent this in after reading about June's burning biscuit. We've had many an embarrassing sexual mishap (bed wetting, farting, etc.) grace this blog. We're just thankful this particular phenomenon has yet to happen to us personally.**

Okay, okay... so the last posting did bring this on. "Alejandro" and I had moved in together and all was blissy blisstastic. He was a tall, dark, handsome, Argentinian painter of the MFA variety and was just about as cute as cute could be. We went out drinking with friends one night and came back to our little love nest and started to Go There. Right around where we left third base I started to feel something Rather Odd which turned immediately to something Rather Unfomfortable and then to Really Very Unpleasant as we reached home base. All this in under a minute. Something smelled rather like wintergreen.

He started to howl in pain and we turned on the light. The tube of Name Brand Lubricant was sitting nicely in the drawer and the tube of Name Brand Muscle Rub was on the bed next to me. I had never noticed that they were in the exact same tubes. From then on he kept the muscle rub in his nightstand and the lube in mine.

My Biscuit's Burning

So this story goes into some detail about my sex life. Probably more than I’d generally trust the internets with, but this is a public service announcement, kiddos. I have a lesson to share. One that should have been obvious to me, but sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I can be forgetful. Woe to she who pays no heed to my warnings. Hot woe.

So, I was, as the kids say, “in the red.” My delightful new pet and I, though, have a hard time keeping our hands off of one another. In this case, he had a hard time keeping his hands off of my bits. But knowing as I did that it would all only lead to frustration, I playfully pushed his hands away, kissed him again and bid him good night. Moments later, the tingle began. I shifted. It got worse. “What the?...” And worse. Soon enough, my lady parts were afire. “Oh, god, babe, no,” I said, “It burns!”

At the same moment, he and I flashed back to earlier in the evening. I was cooking one of my favorite Thai recipes, and he, being an expert knife handler, seeded six peppers for me. Hot, hot fucking peppers. When I looked down at his pile of hot seeds, I said, “Now don’t go sticking your finger in your eye later.” I’d forgotten at the time to also recommend that he keep his hands off my own sensitive, damp areas.

“Oh, no, the peppers!” said he.
“Shit, it really burns!” said I.
“Do you want some ice?”
“No, I’ll be fine. God! That’s really hot!”
“Well, should I get some vinegar?”
“Vinegar? I’m not putting vinegar on my snatch.”
“You know some women douche with vinegar.”
“OK, well, I don’t feel like doucheing right now.”
“Peanut butter?” he offered.
“Peanut butter?”
“I don’t know, all I can think of is kitchen items.”

Now, I'm not sure, but I think it may have been the food connection that led him to the proper solution to the problem. He’s a smart boy, he is.