Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Men and Women (Page 7 of 11)

Manly Insecurities

August 1, 2007 / / 39 Comments

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(photo via ThreeSeven)

As you can tell, I keep on putting off writing about “being a man” for my BlogHim post, mostly because I’m not sure what that means, or what unites me to other men. Yesterday, Leah reminded me that I could have gone to BlogHer, even though I am a man. Even Sophia was pushing me to go to Chicago so I could see my friends and “promote” my blog.

OK, here’s where I reveal some inner thoughts. My main reason for not going to BlogHer is because it would make me feel uncomfortable. And I think it has something to do with this “man” issue. I have no problem hanging with a group of women, but I think that if I went to a women’s conference, it would make me realize that, despite my hanging out with so many of you gals on this blog, that I don’t belong there. I’m not a woman. I’m a man. It would just make me question what makes me a “male” blogger and whether I should be writing more for a male readership.

Besides, seeing so many hot women in one room would be too much for me.

I think this is more of a gender issue to me, than one of sexuality. I would feel more comfortable sitting with a room of gay men than a room full of straight women. At least, they are still men. Gay men don’t make me question my sexuality. Hanging out with too many women does. Maybe I’m just being a typical male, feeling uneasy not being in charge of things when I’m with a bunch of women (the perfect reason for having a BlogHer to begin with), but considering that I’ve been living with Sophia all these years, and half of my bosses have been women, I can’t imagine that to be true.

But maybe it is. I can imagine being at this conference and wanting to argue and talk all the time, not wanting women to get the last word in. Isn’t that terrible? This is how WE are brought up.

Now that I’m re-reading what I just wrote, I’m not sure this makes any sense, but I’ll keep it up anyway.

Sorry to be a little petty, but I enjoyed learning that women sometimes have identity issues as well. How should “women” be identified — as hipster mommies who are cooler than their boring mommies or geeks or real women who have the same issues as everyone else? One of the funnier “controversies” of the BlogHer conference concerns the hefty swag that everyone received from the corporate sponsorship. This year, there were more sponsors than for the Super Bowl. Women received all sorts of doo-dads, from cool bags to beauty products. (am I the only one to think this is an issue in itself — the eagerness for everyone to “sell-out”)

Some women were a little miffed at getting a freebee from Butterball — a potholder!

This is what Plain Jane Mom, my blog crush from yesterday, had to say:

These companies completely missed the boat. Seriously, a potholder? Yeah, I’m a woman. Yeah, I cook. But this was not a conference for cooking women, this was a conference for blogging women. You know, who use computers. And I know, Math Is Hard Barbie, but blow me. The more I think about the apron and the hand mirror and the potholder, the angrier I get.

Plain Jane, tell me if I am wrong, but aren’t you really talking about gender identity — the same issue I am about men? That you want a woman blogger at BlogHer to be treated like the geeky man who goes to a Microsoft conference — and not like a housewife? The main difference is that the men who go to these boring Microsoft conferences are REAL geeks who wouldn’t know how to make a turkey if you gave them Martha Steward to help. A lot of the women at BlogHer actually write about being mommies, poop, and making turkeys for dinner. And what’s wrong with that? I think Butterball is just acknowledging the obvious — women at the conference are GEEKY and DO make turkeys! Why be afraid of acknowledging that making turkeys is important to some women? Is Butterball a lesser company than Dove Soap or Apple Computers? Do we really want Butterball to change their staid image so they can better appeal to hipster Moms?

“Yo, Mom, shut off the iPod! What’s for dinner? Cool — Butterball turkey!”

I would love to go to a man’s conference where they would acknowledge us a individuals who could make a turkey, but I doubt you’re going to find Butterball showing any interest in BlogHim.

Things Every Man Should Do Before He Dies — #6 Buy a Drink for a Woman in a Bar

June 11, 2007 / / 55 Comments

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I have never bought a woman a drink in a bar. I’m not much of a drinker, so that is hurdle #1. I also grew up believing in feminism. Why should I buy a woman a drink? Let her buy me a drink! This is from a man who once called for an end to the condescending concept called “Ladies’ Night.”

All my life, I’ve seen countless movies and TV shows where a guy buys a drink for an attractive woman. Sometimes, he’s sitting halfway across the bar. He’ll call the waitress over and say “Buy that lovely lady over there a glass of merlot (or a cranberry vodka or something exotic with an umbrella) … and say it is from me.” Once the attractive lady gets the drink, the guy raises his glass to her, and she raises her glass back, usually with an appreciative smile.

Now let’s say I’m in a fancy bar, maybe even in the lounge where they are having that LA Bloggers’ reading. I see a pretty woman, I buy her a drink, and we raise our glasses in an “air-toast.” What is the next move? Is the raising of her glass a universal gesture meaning “You’re one lucky fellow.” Or is it, “Thanks for the drink, sucker. You just wish you could see me naked.” Do some women accept the drink, then quickly disappear forever, laughing at you during the cab ride home?

Imagine I make it to step #2. I go over to the woman who I bought the drink for, and we start chatting. I quickly learn that she is dull or “a theater actress” or a follower of “The Secret.” Is it impolite to ask her for a refund for the drink? Or is buying the drink for a stranger in a bar a little bit like playing the slot machine in Vegas? You might win the jackpot, but changes are you’re going to lose your money and your dignity.

Male readers — Have you ever bought a drink for a woman you didn’t know in a bar? Did anything ever come of it?

Women readers — Do you always accept a drink from a man in a bar, even if he looks like a total loser?

Despite my reservations over the whole “buying a drink for a woman in a bar” activity, it is an accomplishment every man should have under his belt, along with smoking a Cuban cigar, driving a Lamborghini, having a foursome with at least one Asian woman, climbing Mount Everest, and shaking Roger Clemon’s hand. For that reason —

Welcome to “Citizen” Virtual Bar and Grill

You’re a woman sitting at the bar, alone, feeling a little drunk from the one beer you’re drinking. It was a tough day at work. Suddenly, the waitress comes over to you with a martini.

“It’s from HIM,” she says.

You look over at a nearby table and you see ME, smiling at you, toasting you with my bottle of Samuel Adams.

OK — What do I do next?

And how long do you wait for me to come over there? If it takes me longer than twenty minutes to approach you, do you just say “forget him” and end up doing the hunky bartender in the stock room instead?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Comedy and Modern Science

Proof that I’m a Straight Male, Despite the ABBA

June 6, 2007 / / 35 Comments

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Last night, I fell asleep watching “America’s Got Talent,” which has to be the worst show ever created (and I love these types of shows). In the morning, I was awoken by Sophia calling for me from the bedroom. It sounded like a cry for help.

“Neil! Neil” she yelled.

I rushed upstairs, and saw Sophia frantically massaging her right leg.

“I have a terrible cramp in my leg!” she said.

I started to massage her leg, even though I was still half asleep. Sophia started to cry. I had enough of this misery. It was time to fix everything.

“Stop it. Stop crying and making those faces! I thought you were listening to those self-help tapes at night so you’ll be positive. SO BE POSITIVE. You told me that this author said if you think you’re healthy, you ARE healthy. So, you’re healthy. Think you’re healthy. You’re making me upset with all this crying and making faces! Enough already! How long is it going to go on?! Get over it!”

Sophia stopped crying, but looked annoyed. Well, at least I got her to stop crying.

“Why don’t you write that ON YOUR BLOG? Let all your female fans SEE THAT! Let’s see if they ooh and ahh now.”

If any of you are thinking of throwing tomatoes, remember — they are very expensive this year.

Note: If I don’t post here for the next couple of days, it means I’m feeling down. But I stil love to hear from you via email or phone. Wait a minute… that reminds me of a song…

(don’t worry, the current ABBA obsession is coming to an end)

Guys and Doll

April 12, 2007 / / 38 Comments

Today I received a phone call from Danny.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but you just got ONE more birthday gift in the mail!”

This was very surprising.  Surely, someone felt very guilty for not sending me a gift for my birthday.   When I arrived at Danny’s, he handed me the package, saying, “This person must have felt VERY guilty.”  The colorfully-wrapped gift was enormous.  I brought the box home, placed it on my bed, and ripped it open.  Inside was a female blow-up doll, ready to use. 

“Whoa!  Who sent me this gift?” I wondered.  “Crazy Aunt Purl?  Charming but Single?  The gals at Poetry Thursday?”  But there was no return address or card.

“It was me!” said my Penis.

“You sent me a birthday gift?”

“Sure.  I felt bad that everyone gave you a gift except for me.”

“How did you buy this?”

“I bought it online while you were sleeping.”

“And what did you use for money?”

“Oh, they’ll give a American Express card to ANYONE nowadays”

“What name did you us?”

“Kramer.  Penis Kramer.”

“They gave a credit card to someone named Penis Kramer?”

“Have you seen all the weird names out there?  LaKisha?  Apple?   Why not Penis?”

“Well.. uh, thanks for the gift, I think.    But I’m not really sure what to do with it.”

“What are you — a moron?  What do you think you do with it?  It was my birthday, too.  Think of  it as a birthday gift for both of us.”

“It just seems a little… unsanitary.”

“And REAL SEX is clean?  Don’t worry, the plastic is hypo-allergenic.”

“I don’t know.  I’m really not into having sex with a plastic doll.  Can’t we exchange if for something else?”

“Think about it, Neilochka.  No more waiting for Sophia.  No more worrying about women again.  Whenever you want a woman — there she is.  She is the Perfect Woman!”

“Well, I could definitely save money not having to buy flowers on Valentine’s Day.”

“Exactly.  Come on, let’s give a try!”

“I’m not really in the mood now.  I was hoping to watch “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo.”

Neil’s Penis presses the TV remote control.  MTV comes on the TV.   On the screen, Shakira is shaking her hips in a music video.

“Oh look,” said my Penis, as sly as a snake, “Shakira!  You loooove Shakira!”

Shakira bellydances for the camera.

“OK, I’m ready.” I said.

I quickly undressed.  My Penis and I jumped into bed, next to the blow-up doll.  I politely propped the blow-up doll’s head against a pillow, making her comfortable.

“Hi there.  It’s very nice to meet you, maam,” I said, and then started caressing her and whispering things in her ear.

“What are you doing?” asked my Penis.

“Sophia taught me to always do foreplay first.”

“You don’t need to do foreplay on a blow-up doll, you dummy!  That’s the whole point.”

“Good.  Because she pretty much tastes like a Hefty trash bag.”

“Just stick me in already!  I’m getting bored.”

I climbed on top of the blow-up doll, feeling my way to the cut-out hole under the midsection of the doll.

“Jesus.  I don’t even need to see the tag to know that this was made in Hong Kong for the Asian market.”

“Quit kvetching and just push in!” my Penis yelled.

“Will you be patient?!  The last thing I want is to puncture her.   You want half of a blow-up doll permanently melted on you, Penis Kramer?”

After some maneuvering, the blow-up doll and I started “making love.”   I was thrusting and my penis was loving every minute of it… but I was unsatisfied. 

I stopped.

“What?! What?!  What’s going on?” screamed my desperate Penis.  “Keep it going, Neilochka!”

“It all just seems so… cold.” I replied.  “It’s like she’s not even human.”

“We’re f***ing a blow-up doll, Neilochka.  What do you think?  Just enjoy it!”

“It just doesn’t feel like a real woman.”

“Look, I’m happy.  Can’t you be happy for me?   You still get the in and out.”

“I’m not just talking about in and out.  There’s more to sex.  There’s the smell of the woman.  The heat of the woman.  The voice of the woman.”

“Oy!  What a nudnik!”

“I’m sorry, Penis.  I just need to feel some sort of connection.”

“I have an idea.  What if I make believe that I’m the voice of the woman you’re having sex with? 

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I can “throw my voice” like a woman, so it sounds like it is coming from her.    This way the “sex” can feel more “real” to you, and I can finally have some fun here.”

“You can do this?”

“Sure.  I once took a “ventriloquism” course at the Learning Annex.”

“OK, Let’s give it a try.”

I started my thrusting again.  My penis did his ventriloquism act, and it really worked.  He really made it sound so authentic.  It seemed as if feminine orgasmic moanings and groanings were coming straight from the blow-up doll’s bright red open mouth. 

“Oh, OH, you are so good!” cried the “woman.”  “I love how big and hard you are.  You are the most amazing Penis in the world.  You are like a Ninja sword of pleasure, you apple-headed monster, you bald-headed battering ram.  Do me, you Captain Howdy, you Cock-a-saurus Rex, you Danger the one-eyed Ranger.  You fill me completely with your Fire breathing Dragon, your Incredible Bulk, your King Kielbasa.  Take me to math class with your Perpendicular bisector.  I kneel before you, mighty Longrod Von Hugenstein, Erectus Nebuchadnezzar.  Show me “the Wall” with your Pink Floyd, you upright citizen of the month!   Forever bless you, oh, proud member, Navajo nightstick of Neilochka…”

“Hold on… Hold on!” I said, stopping again.  “This is not working for me at all.”

“‘I thought you wanted to hear a turned-on woman.”

“Yeah, but all she talks about is… YOU!”

“So?  Aren’t I the one doing all the work?”

“It makes me feel like an object.  I’m not an attachment to you, Penis.”

“You’re not?” my Penis asks, surprised.

“A woman is not with us for YOU.  She’s with us for ME.  For being a good person.  For holding the door for a woman.  For helping the old woman across the street.”

My Penis laughs.

“Yeah, right.  And my name isn’t Penis Kramer…  Can we get back to “doing” the blow-up doll?”

“It feels empty.”

“Not every sexual encounter has to have harps and violins playing in the background.”

“Remember when Sophia and I were honeymooning in Spain, and we were in that small town, and there was this man outside playing the violin…”

“OH NO, not that story!”

“It was so beautiful… there was a full moon… and then he sang that Spanish song, “Me Amor…”

“No… no… you’re not going to start crying again…”

“What went wrong, Penis?” I sobbed.  “What went wrong?!”

“Stop it.  Stop it!  I’m getting soft.  The walls are crumbling!  I’m melting.  I’m melting!  I can’t believe it, Neilochka.  You’re so ungrateful.  Especially after I got you this gift.”

“Are you sure this gift was really for me?”

“What are you saying?” asked my Penis, his voice rising in anger.

“I’m saying you’ve always wanted a blow-up doll, and you used my birthday as an excuse to get yourself one.”

“You know, it was my birthday too!   And where was your birthday gift to ME?”

“Who buys a birthday gift for his Penis?”

“You’re a hypocrite.   To all your blogging friends you go, “Buy me stuff!  Buy me stuff!”  But when you have to buy a gift for someone else, it’s always, “Oh, I forgot,” or “Who buys a gift for his Penis?””

“Now you’re acting like a woman.”  I said mockingly.  “A high maintenance woman!”

“No, you’re the woman!” yelled my Penis.   “You can’t even have sex with a blow-up doll without crying about “the violins in Spain.””

“No, you’re the woman!  Look, who is the one throwing his voice so perfectly?!  “Oh, you’re so good.  Do me!  Do me again!”

My Penis turned red in anger.

“You’re a dick, Neilochka!”

“Hah, look who’s talking!”

“You lousy son of a…”

“Stop it!   Stop it!  Stopi it!”  cried the blow-up doll, stepping out of the bed and walking away.  “How hard is it for a blow-up doll to get laid around here?!”

She headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?” asked my Penis and I simultaneously.

“I’m going out to a nightclub in Chinatown.  I have needs too, you know.  Call me when you two grow up and straighten things out.”

After the blow-up doll slammed the door behind her, my Penis and I looked at each other, daggers in our eyes. 

“You want to masturbate?”  I asked.

“Sure.” he replied.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  You Decide

Nominee for 2007 Nobel Peace Prize

March 21, 2007 / / 21 Comments

 

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I received an email today asking if Sophia and I got along during our road trip.  And the answer is, “Yes.”  This is very surprising because we usually have our worst fights while on the road.  All the new stimuli can create a lot of tension.  So, what was different this time?  Did therapy help?  Prozac?  “The Secret?”

No. 

It is something I would like to nominate for the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize.

For generations, there has been war.  Each time a man and woman get together to travel to a new destination, the fragile harmony is always broken by bickering and verbal insults.

“Why don’t you ask for directions?” the woman asks, her voice shrill with nagging.

“I have a c**k, woman!” the hot-headed male responds.  “It will point me in the right direction.”

“It certainly had a lot of trouble pointing anywhere last night!” she answers, throwing the first grenade, signalling a readiness to use weapons of mass destruction on the male’s Achilles heel — his ego.  

Soon, the male brings up the female’s “weight,” which means only one thing —  all-out war. 

How many divorces have occurred over asking directions?   Throughout history, this event has occurred over and over again — on camels, on horse and buggies, on Volkswagen Bugs (I punch you).  The Trojan War — started over bad directions.   Henry VIII killed his third wife for constantly bringing up a right turn he made in London once when he was supposed to go left.

But now — FINALLY — there is peace and love on our modern highways and freeways.   There is fraternity among the sexes.   The automobile has become a friendly place again.  There is less fighting over directions, and more lovemaking in the backseat — all because of one invention.

The Future Winner of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize — GPS Navigation!

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How can you argue over a robot chick with a pleasant voice who knows how to go EVERYWHERE? 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Really Extreme Makeover:  Home Edition

Rich Man, Hot Babe

February 22, 2007 / / 36 Comments

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I’ve never done speed dating before, but I know I would be good at it. I’m an immensely interesting person for one minute, and then I become a total bore, so with speed dating, I could capture a woman’s attention before she saw “the real me.” Also, since the woman finds it OK to interact with me for just one minute, I assume she won’t be rattled by my perennial problem of premature ejaculation. She’ll already be used to me making it through one minute, and then the conversation is over.

New York can be a tough place to meet someone, and speed dating is popular in the Big Apple. I was especially intrigued by this new form of speed dating that I read about on Zandria’s site.   The sponsors included New York Magazine and was titled the “Natural Selection Speed Date” — Rich Guys and Hot Girls.  The application requirements were very specific:

Men (solely based on wealth)

Salary:

  • Age 25 or below $200K +
  • Age 26-30 $300K +
  • Age 30+ $500K +
  • Invested Assets: $1 million +
  • Trust: $4 million +

*Men will be asked to provide documented proof

Ticket Price $500

Women (solely based on beauty)

  • 5 pictures will be submitted for judgment by celebrity Matchmaker Janis Spindel
  • Pictures are judged for beauty
  • No additional information will be accepted

Ticket Price $50

The first meet-up took place two weeks ago in a Upper East Side supper club. Now, if you’re expecting me to be all P.C. and all, and call this disgusting, I’m not. The company’s website makes a compelling case for this type of natural selection:

[Our company] is honoring the age old union of wealthy men and hot girls. Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious – no longer dear friends. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman – this is a factual force of nature. Women don’t ask “So, what does he do for a living?” because they’re interested in his personality and guys don’t ask “is she hot?” because they’re concerned with character. Guys know that money buys them the car, the house and the trophy wife. This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stay beautiful.

My main problem is that the match-ups don’t adhere to true scientific testing. The qualifications for the men can be easily documented, but the choosing of the women seems as rigged as a Russian figure-skating event.

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First of all, is Ms. Spindel really that qualified to judge what I find beautiful?

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And does she just pick stereotypical-looking blonds like I might see on FOX drama as CIA agents? Where are the hot Asian chicks? Where are the slightly-eccentric looking redheads who you just know will show you a wild time? Look at the three women that Ms. Spindel considers beautiful.

#1 — Eh. Looks like my cousin Miriam.

#2 — Flat as a board and thinning hair.

#3 — She is OK, but has a pig nose. She also looks like she is very quiet when she has an orgasm.

Of course, if I were drunk and lonely and “American Idol” wasn’t on TV, I wouldn’t say no to any of these women saying, “Neilochka, let’s ****!” (this does not include Ms. Spindel, no offense… she just seems like she would be too aggressive). But are they THAT BEAUTIFUL? For five hundred bucks and opening up my bank records, I would expect more. I could easily come up with a list of BLOGGERS who are prettier than these women. Just go on Flickr, which is my new pornography.

I think many of my problems with Sophia are based on our total disregard for the rule of “Natural Selection.” After all she is beautiful, but I’m not rich. If the world worked perfectly, she would be with someone rich.

But alas, I’m not rich. Only beautiful. Why can’t I exploit my beauty as much as women? Maybe I was destined to be with a rich but ugly woman. After all, that still maintains the idea of natural selection. Are there any speed-dating services for rich, ugly women and beautiful, poor men? It’s the same principle of Natural Selection, just updated for the twenty-first century — I’m all for the equality of the sexes!

If a woman was really rich, I could deal with her being ugly. Hopefully, not THAT ugly. I mean it would bother me if she had warts all over her face. But then again, if she was rich… and let me feel her up while watching TV… hey, why not? It’s natural selection!

(Update: After reading some more about this, I’m beginning to think the speed-dating service was less a legitimate operation than a crass way to create some publicity through an actual speed-dating event. By creating a dating scenario as ugly as possible, they were able to get media attention from both the networks and bloggers like me. Now, they are in talks with VH1 about doing a show about this concept.  I look forward to seeing what advertisers want to get involved in a project that uses terms such as natural selection and genetic cleansing.  What fun!  So, I am now going to take out most of the links and names in hope of not giving them any more publicity)

The Ideal Man and Woman

February 9, 2007 / / 54 Comments

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sorry, Fabio, you were voted off.

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model for Mr. “Valentine’s Day”

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model for Ms. “Valentine’s Day”

OK, we’re on for Valentine’s Day! I’m in the process of emailing out tentative time slots now (read here to learn more).

We will be open for business from 9AM EST until 3AM EST! Anyone who is lonely or needs some Valentine’s Day cheer can IM mister_valentinesday on yahoo IM and get some lovin’ from a real live person. I gave myself the last late night slot, thinking that this will be the time when most single women will be drunk and desperate. Ha Ha –I’m not stupid!

There is one problem left. Yesterday, I was talking with a blogger, and she said, “I like Stacy from Jurgen Nation and all, but I’m not sure I really want to log in and chat with her on Valentine’s Day and have her think that I’m a Valentine’s Day loser.”

Let me make something clear. All the people who are doing this experiment with me are hand-picked exactly because they are as miserable as you in some aspect of their lives. Think about it. What type of NUT would volunteer to participate in this? These are EXACTLY the type of people you want to chat with in order to feel good about yourself on Valentine’s Day.

And remember — you are NOT chatting with some anonymous blogger or Stacy from Jurgen Nation. You will be chatting with the very handsome and romantic Mr. Valentine’s Day or the glamorous Ms. Valentine’s Day, depending on who you want to be YOUR VALENTINE.

But we still need your help. We still need to create these wonderful personas — Mr. Valentine’s Day and Ms. Valentine’s Day. What are their characteristics? Since Valentine’s Day is supposedly about romance, I think these icons should have the traits of the “ideal” man and woman. Your input is essential in helping us “understand” our roles. Like Robert De Niro, we want to BECOME the characters. This means if I am on IM duty and a man shows up, depressed because he didn’t get any Valentine’s Day cards, I should be ready to immediately jump into the role of Ms. Valentine’s Day and “make his day” by telling him he is “my valentine.”

So what are the characteristics of the ideal man AND woman, so we can all better play one on Valentine’s Day? Attractive? Romantic? Honest? Sense of humor? Great ass? We need to hear from both men and women.

Tis the Season for More Male Insecurity

December 13, 2006 / / 48 Comments

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It used to be that women had all the insecurities. They worried that they were too fat, too talkative, too this, too that. Now men are as insecure. We feel bad if we don’t have flat abs, thick wavy hair, or look like the model in some underwear ad. Let’s not even talk about money, or some other personal issues that I would just have to delete from this blog later tonight.

As a connoisseur of “male insecurity” I’ve been fascinated by the amount of spam I get for increasing the size of my penis. Is this really what men are worrying about? Obviously most of these men are NOT married. Believe me, after marriage, that concern falls way down on the list. WAY down. I don’t care if you have the smallest penis in the world, I just can’t imagine a woman telling her husband that she wants a divorce because his “penis is too small.”

Back to the email spam. It’s always been unclear to me how these pills actually work. Do these pills increase your penis by 3″ just once, or can you consistently increase it by 3″, like Pinocchio’s nose, or a tax-free CD at the bank which you can rollover at the end of the year for more interest?  And why is it always 3″?  If I took the pills for say, three months, would the results be an increase of 3″ (cubed), or a 9″ increase.  And at what point are you supposed to STOP taking the pills?  At a 3″ increase?  A 6″ increase? A 9″ increase?  If you take only 1/2 of a pill, which I sometimes did when I was trying Prozac, for instance, will you only get a 1.5″ increase of your penis size?

I think it would actually cool to have a 12″ penis because then you would always have a handy ruler. Forget about looking for a dirty ruler in your “junk” drawer when you want to measure the size of your penis. Your penis IS the ruler! Think how much fun it would be for a young couple building their first IKEA-bought entertainment center:

Girl: “The directions say the shelf needs to be exactly 7″ from the edge of wood piece #D.”

Boy: “No problem. Let me just get my “ruler” out.”

Girl: “I’ll help!”

Part of getting older is learning there are things you should feel insecure about which you didn’t even know you were SUPPOSED to be insecure about. Remember that whole tighty-whitey debacle on my blog a year ago, where you told me that white Fruit of the Loom briefs were for mama boys living in their mother’s apartment in New York?

Obsession with penis size is nothing new. I was not surprised by the selling of miracle pills in my email spam. Penis size has been a male obsession since Cain and Abel had their famous duel. But lately, I have been getting some penis-related email spam that just confuses me, which is unusual for a self-proclaimed “penis” expert like myself.

Look at my junk mail box today.

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What is it with this recent onslaught of spam extolling ways of “increasing the volume” of my ejaculation. And by 500%!? Huh? Is this some new standard that modern women hold us to — volume?

Girl One: “How was your date with Bob?”

Girl Two: “He was amazing in bed!”

Girl One: Oh? How “big” was he?”

Girl Two: “Nine Quarts!”

How much volume of ejaculate is a man supposed to have? Is this supposed to impress a woman, like the more volume, the more a man’s virility, as if “When I impregnate you, you will give birth to quintuplets!”

I already can hear the banter in male locker rooms across America as this type of email spam becomes the norm:

Guy 1: “Oh, man. Did I f**k Angela good last night. The condom became the size of a beach ball with all the volume of my ejaculate!”

Guy2: “Yeah, big deal. I was f**king Susie this morning and when I came, it was like Katrina hit the bedroom. We almost had to row out on the bed.”

Guy 3: “I once ejaculated so much, I create a hole in my girlfriend’s ceiling and killed a bird flying over head.”

Guy 4: “Big shit. By federal regulations, I’m not even allowed to have sex anywhere near a major airport in case the volume and velocity of my ejaculate shoots up and knocks down a 747.”

As for me, I’m waiting for the pill that causes my penis to play Mozart during orgasm. That would be impressive.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: The Truth About Olive Garden

Every Day is Men’s Day

November 19, 2006 / / 39 Comments

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When I was a child, I used to ask my mother on Mother’s Day, “When is Children’s Day?” and she would give the tried-and-true answer, “Every day is Children’s Day.”

I was perusing through some blogs this morning, and noting all the buttons and links, and how so many of them are female-centric, like BlogHer and Blogging Chicks. I once wrote a silly post about what I thought BlogHim would be like, but today I thought about the subject in a more serious manner. Why do women feel so comfortable teaming up together, while men like to go it alone (or at least fake that they do)? For a second, I thought of starting a Blogging Guys group, but then I realized — I would be the last person to want to join it.

Is it because “Every day is Men’s Day” in this “patriarchal society” and men don’t need to join together — or are men just uncomfortable with each other and fear looking unmanly?  Is it any wonder that women can talk for hours together, complimenting each other on their shoes, hair, and bodies, while men are more comfortable talking with their penises than talking with other men?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Neilochka’s Favorite Things 2005

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