A man walks into his bedroom with a sheep under his arm. He sees his wife in bed and says, “this is the pig I have sex with when you have a headache.”
His wife looks at him disdainfully and says, “that’s not a pig, you total moron. It’s a sheep.”
He replies, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
For years, I’ve heard women complain about the double standard that men who sleep with a lot of women are considered studs, yet women who sleep with a lot of men are sluts. Let me clear this up once and for all: This is in no way, shape or form a double standard. Allow me to explain…
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Do you know what the most dangerous creature on earth is? It’s not the great white shark or a she-tiger defending its young. It’s not grizzly bear or a penguin with a switchblade and a crack habit. The most dangerous creature on earth is the married man at a bachelor party.
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I just spent the day with a friend of mine, who used to work in the music industry. In his day, this fellow was a legendary party animal. Not any normal party animal, but a fantasy party animal from Greek mythology amalgamated from the best partying bits of other animals: drinking capacity of the camel, nocturnal abilities of the owl, intense focus of a hawk and… nostrils of a race horse.
But he gave all that up when he went into rehab, quit the music industry, moved to a beautiful cottage in the countryside and subsequently got married three years ago. So I was shocked by his appearance when he invited me over the other day, having not seen each other in over a year. Read the rest of this entry »
I have discovered where SPURMOs come to die. Los Angeles. But it’s not a SPURMO heaven for the reasons you think.
You think Los Angeles is a SPURMO heaven because it’s a Mecca for every prettiest-girl-in-high-school from every small town across the United States and Canada. You think it’s because the streets abound with ex-cheerleaders, ex-prom queens and ex-girlfriends-of-captains-of-football-teams. Although this is true and it is delightful, it is not the reason why LA is a SPURMO heaven. Read the rest of this entry »
Cars are important to us men. Especially as we get older. Even more so if still single. We feel that our car defines us. And, in many ways, it does.
A married friend of mine was not ashamed to admit that he shed a silent tear when his child was born, but he wept like a Arab woman at a funeral when he subsequently had to replace his 1972 British racing green convertible Triumph TR6 with something that looked not unlike a milk float to accommodate the wife and child. Read the rest of this entry »
There are various landmarks in a man’s life by which he measures moving from one age to the next. In my three decades plus change, I’ve blown through most of them like a drunk driver confronted by road blocks.
But I’m not talking about the good landmarks, like ‘having sex’, ‘graduating college’, ‘getting arrested for the first time’, etc. I’m talking about the depressing ones that just make you feel old. The first big one that hits a young man is realising he’s older than Playboy playmates (and he hasn’t had sex with one). The next stage is realising that most professional athletes are younger than him (and he still hasn’t become one). The next depressing one is when he catches himself checking out women’s fingers for wedding rings. Which is followed sharply by the discovery that he’s too old to make the list of ‘hot young prospects’ published in his industry’s trade magazine. Read the rest of this entry »
Ah love! According to Owen Wilson’s character in the film ‘Wedding Crashers’, love is the soul’s recognition of its counterpart in another. Sweet sentiment. We’d all like to believe that. Sadly, the truth is more prosaic. In reality, love is the soul’s acceptance that it’s not going to do any better than what it’s currently faced with so might as well just bite the bullet, buckle down and get on with it before we’re too old and liable to die alone surrounded by cats without ever having fulfilled our biological imperative of procreating. Or am I just disillusioned?
It’s different with famous people, though. Isn’t it funny how famous people seem only to date other famous people. Actors marry actresses who marry sports stars who marry rock stars who marry politicians who marry industrialists and so on and so forth. It all sounds a bit suspect. Read the rest of this entry »
Many people are complaining about a lowering of standards in our education system now that the Qualifications and Curriculum Authority has decided to allow McDonalds to hand out GCSE’s and A-levels along with burgers and fries. But I say, why not. How can it be a bad thing to help no-hopers to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. From my own personal experiences with staff in fast food restaurants, I would suggest they start with a GCSE in acne management and follow it up with a course in enunciation. But after that, it’s up to them. It would be interesting, one day, to see people with McDegrees in positions of authority. For example… Read the rest of this entry »
Once again the other night I found myself sitting at a cramped dining table in a part of London I didn’t know existed outside of Dickens novels. And I wasn’t happy. It wasn’t the food that bothered me. (Although why, in a shepherds pie, is there always five inches of potato to half an inch of meat?) It wasn’t that I was worried about my car parked outside in this particular neighbourhood. What bothered me was the purpose of this dinner: for me to meet Sarah (I’ve changed the name).
I love my friends. But something terrible happens to them after they get married. They become marriage evangelists. With the starry eyed zeal of Victorian missionaries, they proselytise the benefits of settling down to the unhitched masses. As if my life, like theirs, could finally have meaning if only I would welcome matrimony into my life as the one true savior. Read the rest of this entry »
