Misadventures in Dating

It’s like receiving a gift and it’s not your birthday or Christmas.

What could be better than going out with a chick (or randomly meeting a chick) on a Monday, a Tuesday, or even a Wednesday? These are the quiet days. You usually go to bed and watch porn. You usually spend it watching Stallone movies with your friends. Getting laid on any of these days – but particularly on Monday – means that whatever happens for the rest of the week, whether you go and party your tits off, whether you spend the rest of the week eating lunch with your aunties and uncles, you still had a fucking great week. Shit, visit your grandmother. You’ve been blessed.

Aside: If you’re married or have a girlfriend, this chapter doesn’t apply to you. Nobody cares if you got laid on Monday. In fact, nobody wants to hear about you fucking your girlfriend or wife, ever.

Keep it to yourself. Telling us about the sex you had with your wife or girlfriend is even less interesting than telling us about your last jerk-off session. Only new conquests need apply.

Aside aside: The only time your boys want to hear about you banging your wife or your girlfriend is when it is followed up by a “And then I went out that night and banged a random chick in her hotel room after drinks” or maybe your wife decided to bring a young girl she met at the grocery store home to cook you dinner and fuck all night. That would be acceptable.

Once you’ve gotten laid on Monday, you can relax. Kick back and know that you have done everything you needed to do this week. Even better, never call her again, and whatever you do, don’t give her your business card. She should remain a piece of fortuitous pussy, a fond memory, a symbol of everything that is good and uncomplicated. Don’t look gift pussy in the mouth.

Advice: If your friends ask you to go out for drinks on a Monday night, say “Yes”.

You just never know what might happen. Watching movies the following Friday night has never been more relaxing.

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We’ve all had fun out of town. You know, you hit the airport and get instantly horny, you get to the hotel, check in, jerk off, call your buddies and hit the town. There’s a whole bar full of chics you’ve never met and you are, “like, so unique.” You are a novelty. “Yeah,” you say, “I’m from New York. I’m only here for a couple of nights.” That’s right, you are drinking on the expense account, buying up the bar, sticking your finger in girls asses on the dance floor. It’s kind of like heaven.

But here’s the thing. Trust me. It is only funny where you are.

If I get one more phone call from one of my boys who are out of town and partying, I swear I will make it my life goal to fuck their girlfriend and make them cry. Stop doing it! The last fucking thing I want is to be sitting at home, watching TV, and to have to take a call at midnight from a bunch of screaming fuckfaces – buddy included. Yes, buddy, you are a fuckface. You know why?

• If you were having as much fun as you say you are, you wouldn’t have time to call me. You are obviously trying to get credit for having more fun than you actually are. Yeah, man, I know you’re a fun guy, that’s why I hang out with you, now stop talking to me and go grab a teenager who will let you shit on her chest. Take pictures. Then we can look at them together and laugh over a scotch, once you are back.

• Cell phones suck. Listen, douchebag, imagine how loud you are screaming at me so I can hear your voice over the music. Now imagine how that sound played through a tiny little cell phone speaker. I can’t hear you, or your idiot drunk friends, or the girls who you claim are all up in your ass. You sound like Stephen Hawking on crack. Give it up.

• I’m a terrible actor. After faking a laugh three times I am all spent. For the rest of the time you are on the phone with me, just know that I am filling out my tax forms, paying bills, or clipping my toenails.

Aside: There are two very small exceptions to this rule. It is absolutely OK to call me if you have been invited to go party with a bunch of chics for the weekend and you want me to book a ticket. Failing that, I’ll put up with the call if one of the girls you have met is coming to NY and loves sharing.

Evidence can be photos , blood or shit on your underwear, or a used tampon. Nothing will bore me more than your lame-ass voice at midnight. Yes, you are my friend, but I have only one thing to say to you: Go fuck yourself.

Advice: Keep it to yourself. Have your fun, and come home with stories and, preferably, evidence.

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