Plenty Of Stinky Fish

Plenty of rotten fish, spineless fish, slimy fish, cheap fish, dull fish, ugly fish, dumb fish, and late fish. 
But it's better known to the general public as 'Plenty of Fish', a dating website. Some refer to it as P.O.F. Or more realistically, once you consider how fast the actual date will make you want to disappear from the restaurant table, 'P.O.O.F.'.

This is a dating website that should be avoided at all costs. But that’s redundant. All dating websites should be avoided at all costs. However, there was this one stray fish who somehow snuck through the cracks. Recently, I've become one of these people who despise hours of lengthy emails and text messages. Why drag out the torture, when so much can be determined from a phone call. Especially when for women, a bad voice on the phone is an automatic deal breaker. So I’d personally rather just get on the phone and see if we either a} can have a stimulating conversation, and as importantly b} make sure his voice doesn’t sound like he's had a recent tracheotomy. 

We talked on the phone, and his voice passed inspection. It was fine, but the conversations being spewed by the voice were more or less the audible versions of a bottle of Ambien taken with a handle of whiskey. Beyond underwhelming and borderline suicide inducing. Like I was on the phone with my dry cleaners, trying to muster up some type of physical chemistry by discussing the chronological history of a lint brush.


Shoot me.

He asks me out for that coming Saturday night. Not for dinner, heaven forbid, but just to meet to see if we weren’t revolted by the sight of each other. I was already revolted by the inane conversation, so I couldn’t imagine the actual personification of this conversation resulting in a bigger, more gaggier revulsion.

Crap. Now what.

Well, I was meeting some friends out later on that evening, so initially, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal to meet up for a few drinks prior to that. And as everyone that's done Internet dating knows, you need a plan; If it's going well, you just stay out. But for the inevitability of it going horribly, you must prepare. This is done by first prepping your friends that within the first 10 minutes of meeting your date, you might be bolting into the public bathroom to send them the infamous S.O.S. text message, instructing them to call you immediately with some sudden, fictitious broken down car stories, or possibly some type of life threatening emergency that can only be resolved by you and you only. (You know, "she needs a kidney and we're both the same blood type." I don't know. Make it up.) So it's vital that your friends be kept apprised of the dates status, via live stream Tweets, so you can flee on a dime if the need should arise. 

And it always does.

I'm beginning to think that my dates must think my friends are the most accident prone, organ dependent, needy cluster of people on the planet.

OK, so the boring guy and I pick a time. 8:00 was my original time, but he said he was hoping to spend more time with me, even though he must've heard me hacking into my toilet as he said that.

He asked if we could do 7:00. A bit early for my comfort level. I was hoping to drown out his dullness in a bustling room of colorful alcoholics a little later on. But then again, meeting him a little earlier would leave me a greater bed of time to make fun of him after I left.


7:00 he wants? 
7:00 it is.

I walk into the bar, 6:59 P.M. I wait until 7:05, sit down and politely text him letting him know there's parking right next door, and I’m sitting at the bar. I also tell him he can’t miss me, since at 7:00 on a Saturday night, I’m of course the only asshole in the entire place ( the edited version of that ).

He sends me a text back: “Be there in like 15.”

Wait. What's that sound? I hear an umpire. 

He yells: “Strike 1!”
(Actually Strike 27 if you count the grueling 10 minutes of lame phone conversation, but let’s try and forget that for now. Because even starting at 1, come the end of this date, the umpire's coming down with an acute case of laryngitis).

I don't get this. A full-grown man asks out a full-grown woman. He bumps up the time a full hour earlier. I practically run over every squirrel and baby groundhog to get here on time, and ...“Like” 15??

I’ll be gone in “Like 13 and a half”.

Unreal. A 40 year old dude that can't be on time. Disgusting. This is why I usually date younger guys. The older ones are so irresponsible.

I take out my card and order a drink. An apple-pear martini.

And now I need to kill "...Like 15 minutes". 

Let the friend texting / man shreddage commence.

Just as I was just finishing up my second drink, and texting my friend that I wasn't staying any longer, I feel someone tap me on my shoulder. Here he his.

34 minutes late.

No apology, no acknowledgment of being late, and a severely annoying poke on my shoulder.

(Umpire: “Strike 2!”)

I turn around and see he’s wearing a beigey/grey t-shirt that was so wrinkled that by comparison it made a Shar-Pei puppy look ironed and starched.

(Umpire: “Strike 3!)

Me: “Oh hey, how are you. I’m sorry, did we say 7:34? I thought you emphatically said 7:00."

He kind of smiles, makes a stupid shrug with his shoulders, and basically ignores the question.

(Strike 4!)

The bartender asks him if he’d like a drink. He orders a Bud Light, (Strike 5!), and puts it on my tab, and then tells me I look exactly like a girl on TV (who I look nothing like), that he has a mad crush on.

(Strike, errr…13!!!)

Not only was he wearing a t-shirt that rivaled a ball of aluminum foil that was sat on by an elephant, and somehow peeled itself back open and molded into a homeless persons shirt, but I glance down and see he’s wearing a pair of ancient filthy sneakers, which were being tickled by pants that were so shredded at the bottom, they could’ve been used in a car wash in replace of those soapy dancing car noodles. Except unlike the car wash dancing soap noodles, his stringy pants noodles didn’t look like they ever had a proper introduction to soap.


At least be one. Either late. Or sloppy. If you’re always late, you better make sure you dress to kill. If you’re a fucking slob, you better be an on-time fucking slob. But whatever you do, don’t be a late, unforgiving, sloppy, cheap, tab-hijacking, boring, car wash noodle fucking wearing slob. Just a helpful dating tip.

Maybe it was a blessing. Because after nights like those, I always seem to find God again.

I'm sitting there thinking, “Please Dear God. Please God. Please. God? Don’t make me sit here any longer than I have to. My mother fell down a flight of stairs when she was pregnant with me, broke her water in her first month, laid in bed with me for 8 months, and I survived. I was on my death bed with Lyme disease for over 3 years. I’ve been tested enough. And I’m pretty sure I genuinely can’t make it through this horrid date / t-shirt disaster. Please God, set the restaurant on fire so I’ll have to run out mid sentence. If you do, I promise from now on I’ll just have sex to make babies. See you in church on Sunday. Swear. (Sorry God. No swearing.)"

I'm sorry but whether we want to believe it or not, first impressions are everything. That’s why when you go on a job interview, you don’t show up wearing a track suit, eating scrambled eggs with an armadillo in tow. And casual is one thing. I'm all for casual. Casual is great. Jeans and a nice button down or a pull over. But from head to toe, he was wearing something more like it was pulled-apart. This was like Friday Casual Dress Down Day at the oil refining factory.


Shoot me again. But this time do it so it actually pierces my front temporal lobe and kills me quickly.

And if this is him when he’s trying, what’s gonna  happen after 5 dates with him. 10 dates. When he's comfortable. He’s gonna meet you out in a used contractor bag and banana leaves for shoes, that’s what'll happen.

And guess what, if you’re going to show up looking like you pulled an all nighter with your drinking buddies, your intelligence and personality best be off the chart. And like I said, he was about as exciting as talking to a wet cotton ball. A wet, wrinkled cotton ball. Now I can at least die knowing, if a cotton ball were to talk, I’d know exactly what it would sound like. And it'd be late.

At this point, my normally talkative self apparently decided to go into hibernation for survival purposes, and was replaced by a reticent, bathroom-going, coaster-playing, bitch. (FYI guys…when a woman goes to the bathroom after meeting you for the first time, within 5 minutes of saying hello, she’s leaving in 10 minutes.)

He finally finishes his first shitty free drink, and orders another one. I think this time around he went for the upgrade and got a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and evidently decided to simply rollover the previous "Ordering Beers On My Tab" plan.

(Strike…what number are we on?...)

The depth of boredom in talking to this guy in person, actually made our previous phone conversation about road signs in Yonkers or guitar parts or whatever it was, seem like we were previously unraveling the origins of the universe. So for the remaining 5 minutes, I joyfully brought up guitar parts.


After a painful 45 minutes of what seemed like death by fire ants, I tell him I have to leave in a few minutes to meet up with some friends for dinner. "Have" being the integral word.

He asks me if I’d like another drink.

I said: “Awww no…that’s kind of you, but I’ve already bought myself enough drinks tonight. And I also want to be sure that when I tell my friends about you, and I’m throwing up, they know it’s because I’m describing you, and not that I just have liquor poisoning.”

The S.O.S. call finally comes in. It's my awesome friend, who upon my death, I shall bequeath all my worldly possessions 
(Which at that point could've been within 5 minutes). The call. That beautiful, "sorry dude, gotta go!" call. I stood up, shook his hand, bullshitted something about "nice meeting you", and left leaving a dust trail like the ones where Road Runner is being chased by Wiley Coyote.


The next day he called and asked me out for the following weekend.

I simply told him I couldn’t do it because he had way too much laundry to catch up on.


Clueless fish.

;)~

Toy Story: The X Rated One

***The following story you're about to read is not intended for those under 18, (they are blocked), those who practice political correctness, nuns, priests, born again christians, people who shop at Mormon-Underwear.com, chastity belt manufacturers, mahjong players, polo players, bible thumpers, mothers of Westport, vagiphobes, peniphobes, or anyone else who thinks that sex is purely a tool for reproductive purposes. What you are about to read may be deemed as crude and crass and wreaks of classlessness and pina colada flavored Astroglide. So if you're the type who, like in I Love Lucy, sleep in 2 separate beds out of fear of naked body parts colliding, and thinks 'cum loud' is an honorary graduation accolade, you might wanna take some precautions before your eyes move in a southerly direction. And maybe even opt to read Pixars Toy Story reviews instead of the soon to be perused, adult toy story review, where bad taste is the main character, and lewdness is the co-star. That is unless your objective is to confirm why my writing can at times be childish, disgusting, vulgar, salacious, depraved, inappropriate, unfiltered and shameful. Quickly followed up with why I should live in a pink, rusted out trailer, eating canned Deviled Ham for breakfast and The Price is Right for dinner. Then welcome. You're amongst friends. Let me get started.

Now let's not poo poo what I'm about to say. But what's so wrong about going into an adult toy store. In my opinion, strolling into an adult toy store for whether it's lingerie, or toys, or latex cow buttocks, is so much more subtle and incognito than going to one of those adult toy parties that your friends decide to throw in their living room, where everyone even knows each others husbands, boyfriends, and gynecologists. Those I refuse to go to. I'm sorry, but I don't want my friends knowing what exact sexual preferences or perversions I may or may not gravitate towards. I don't need to get defensive about why I'm buying sperm flavored cupcake batter. (Okay, I'm just doing a little volunteer baking for some upcoming Westport PTA meetings, if you must know. )

Nor do I need to know why my friend's buying pomegranate flavored stilettos and a dildo called The Shaquille O'Feel. Or why my girlfriend's buying her boyfriend a live chicken that 'coincidentally' comes with a bag of corn feed-covered hot dog rolls for his penis. I really don't. Do your thang. Leave me out of it.

So for my money, adult toy shops win over parties. And even if you're uncomfortable with complete strangers seeing you there, you can just snatch one of their S&M masks off the shelf, and casually walk around making your selections that way, and maybe even grab a whip, to ensure a better place in line.

There are however, 2 things about adult toy stores that can be awkward. One, is that they actually have a guy, carding you at the door. Nice. So now they know my car, license plate number, my complete name, and my exact street address. Which tends to be a little unsettling when you're usually walking out with an electric penis. And two, they usually test the batteries AND the toy, simultaneously, up at the cashier desk, when there's a full horny line of people behind you watching. Seriously? Don't bother. I'll buy it broken. No surprise that I steal my stuff when I go there, and I'd encourage you to do the same.

Which brings me to the best part: adult toy store merchandise.

Anyone whose ever been in an adult toy store knows its pretty much like walking into a party gag shop with a seriously bad sexual twist. Like you know those infamous gag toy 'peanut cans' that rattle when you shake them, like you think there's peanuts in there?? But you open it and a coiled up fabric snake pops out? A porn shop would sell that exact same ridiculousness and somehow make it a sex toy. So instead of a fake snake surprising you and launching out of the can, a big black dildo would. Probably with a snakes face painted on it. And 2 nuts. And they'd call it, " Rocket Dick"....or something subtle like that.

It seems that if you want to become rich fast, come up with an idea for a new sex toy. Everything seems to pass inspection in porn shops. And while in the creative process, you can easily leave your embarrassment by the weigh side knowing this is an industry that approves products like Suck My Nuts candy covered peanuts they sell up at the front desk and Whoopie Cushions that fart out Astroglide. It's an entrepreneurs wet dream. I think that may even be one of the names of their toys. Entrepreneur's Wet Dream.

Here's just a sampling of a few real product names / actual sex toys that are selling off the shelves and making money in adult toy stores:

1----> Captain Pecker, blow up, man doll

( Great likelihood that I dated him.)

2----> Bareback Mount Him, blow up blue latex male doll ( you've seen the movie now... hump the pool liner?)

3----> Fatty Patty, inflatable obese woman (Reviews were sketchy. No one knew when they were actually supposed to be done blowing her up.)

4----> Area 51 Love Doll--a 3 boobed alien blow up doll, with ass shaped ears.

(yeah)

5----> The Accomodator, chin strap-on dildo

(As useful as the Post-It note??)

6----> The Luvin lamb, inflatable...*ahem*...fuckable...baby...animal.

( Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase 'animal lover'.)

7----> iGasm, a snap on musical enhancement vibrator attachment for your iPod

( I think iphones have an app for this already.)

8----> The Oral Sex Snorkel

(Discovery channels Deadliest Catch Crew to perform fellatio on the sperm whales?? I'm stumped...see pic below.)

9----> The Vagina Foot, foot fetish toy

(100% screwable plastic, severed foot. Classy shit.)

10----> The Middle Finger Vibe, a vibrator in a middle finger

(A popular choice in The Bronx, I suppose.)

11----> Baby Jesus Butt Plug

(wow. Talk about being agnostic)

12----> The Auto Suck, an automatic dick sucker that plugs into your cars cigarette lighter.

(actual quote on the box : "Do Not Use While Driving.")

                      ----------------------------------------------

Yes sireee, those were all actual, manufactured, money making products.

So seeing that I had about 13 years in advertising myself, I couldn't help but create a few new products of my very, very own.

I hope you'll enjoy the next few minutes strolling down Dawns Toy Store aisle:

Dawn's Actor/Actress inspired Blow up Dolls:

1. Angelinas Holie

2. Demi Moore Moore Moore

3. Hermans Pee Wee

4. Banana-Rammer (*Only available in the brunette chick)

5. Johnny Deep

6. Courtney Cocks

7. Sandra Buttock

8. Sigourneys Beaver

Dawns Toy Inventions:

1. The Pud-ometer : Thanks to the technology brought to you by the creators of the foot pedometer, now comes the Pud-ometer. Count your way 'by the pound" to her next orgasm. Using the brilliant L.E.D. pump display, now you can easily count even in the dark! Simply tape it to your butt cheeks and start counting. The man with the lowest number wins! Perfect xmas gift for the highly competitive male.

2. "My Friend Richard" : Cleverly tagged and disguised as ''Richard",... ''Dick" the dildo will be virtually incognito anywhere you take him. So need need to worry about your boyfriend finding you two in bed together... that is since he's ..... ''just a friend."

3. The Eliminator : Ahhhhhh, shit fetish, you say??? Now with our handy pooper scooper bag of recycled dog and cat shit, your fecal fetish is only a cats purr away. Just break open the pooper scooper bag, fling, smear, and go to town. No more needless worries as to whether or not you'll 'be able to perform' on the spot. Trust us, there's no shit like this out there. Approximately 12 movements per bag. (comes in a zip lock resealable bag for guaranteed freshness.)

4. Weeeeeeee This is Fun!!!!!! : Hey, When ya gotta go, you gotta go !! With "Weeeee This Is Fun", wee-weeing on someone has never been so precise! Our colorful new face and body targets make peeing on someone more challenging , skillful and confidence building than ever before. Just stick them anywhere you want and let the fun begin! Made out of compressed toilet paper for easy clean up. This is the Weeee System everyones talking about. And for normal people who find this revolting, look for our "Weeeee This Is Gross!!!" Blindfolds. (Sold separately.)

5. Willys Wonkas : Satisfy more than just your sweet tooth with these edible dildos! Available in a variety of confections,.... forever suck on the 'Never Ending Gobstopper' flavored dildo, or try our XXX large dildo in Hersheys Choke'a'lot. It's like winning the golden ticket! (Side effects reported are frequent transformations into a fat oompa loompa. )

6. The MuddaFucka : Listen up Ladies, dis is da real deal. There's nuttin' quite as lifelike as this fuckin douchebag. This Mafia approved, real live penis, comes freshly packed in a cooler on ice, right outta da back of someones trunk, and delivered right to ya front daw!!! Hey, someone screwed you??? Now it's your chance ta screw dem. You give us da names, we'll send you da goods. Allow 24 hours for specific orders. Sizes will vary dramatically.

7. The Reddi Whip : Next time you want to lash out at a loved one, do it in style with our fashionable 100% genuine Italian leather whip. But this is a whip for those with a little taste. Unlike other whips, with every thrash, you'll experience a cool refreshing spray of moms homemade whipped cream... just to "cool things off a bit." Guaranteed to have her screaming..... "gimme more Massar! " Available in regular or fat- free. (This product is perishable. Please refrigerate whip immediately upon delivery. )

8. The Wind Tunnel : Nows your chance to turn your very own embarrassing trapped sex air into productive, earth friendly energy! With our ergonomically designed vaginal fan, you simply position your sex-air filled self on top of it, and away the fan goes! With The Wind Tunnels award winning design, and 3 speed selections, it allows you to effortlessly dry your laundry, your toenail polish, or just save BIG on a/c bills. So ladies, theres no need to ever apologize to your man anymore. With smaller electricity bills, he'll be thanking you. (no batteries required.)

9. Crotchety Old Crotch : We've taken cougar lovers to a whole new height. M.I.L.F. you say? Try G.I.L.F. Figure it out. Portable, lifelike post 8 children, 6 grandchildren vagina. For a more mature crowd. Available in XL only. Please specify color: Grey, Bald or Thinning.

10. The Cock-Adoodledoo : Women have been doing this for years!! Now men can join in on the fun too! Guaranteed to get your tired ass outta bed, once this alarm goes off, this revolutionary penis shaped alarm clock sprays a mysterious hot fluid all over your lazy self and you'll jump right outta bed. So guys, you never have to worry about missing that meeting again. No snooze button necessary. Make your own damn refills.

11. The Ball and Chain: You've all heard of the ole ball and chain. Now OWN the ball and chain. You'll enjoy hours and hours of wild abandon with our new 1200 lb. steel ball and chain. It's as easy as click and go. Simply clip the cuff at the end of the chain to your spouses ankle, take their cell phone away from them and go, go, go!!! Go out all night, EVERY night with whoever you want, without ever having the useless worries of being called or followed. Your freedom is just a click away. (Ball and chain available in natural steel, or pink glitter.)

12. The Ejacu-LATER : Harder and harder for you to hold out.?? Designed for a definite delay in orgasm, this simple inner ear recording device allows easy playback all of your wifes nagging comments and requests. "Did ya take out the garbage,?" "..You said you were coming home earlier,"..." Did you fix the faucet yet?"..." Are you getting a raise soon ?", " How come you cant remember anything.", "Who's that bitch on your Facebook page?" And magically, the urge is gone. So when you feel like you cant hold out anymore, click the handheld start button ...and just listen. *Poof* Your sexual excitement will wane in no time.

13. Pretty Petunias Pornstar Petri Pole Purifier: Capture all your favorite porn stars chiggers with this new breakthrough, easy to install invention. As she slides up and down this pole, the newly patented clear Lucite strippers pole with multiple high velocity suction holes, captures all the cooties off your favorite hootchees cootchee. The clear Lucite also allows for hours upon hours of entomologists like study afterwards for the whole family !! This product cannot be returned. (porn star disinfectant kit sold separately. )

Thank you for visiting Dawns Exotic Toy Store Aisle.

Please come again.

And please allow 3 1/2 years for all orders. I'll need time to start making these things.

Celebrating Singularity

Saying you're single has always carried this weird stigma.

Like you're somehow that Lone Lost Dryer Sock of the dating community or something.

Granted, anyone whose dated knows the dating world can be brutally aggravating at times. Lots of immature drama, gross tongue-darting kissers, and blind dates that when you go on, you wish you were the one that were blind.

But once you've been married, as I myself had been for 13 years, you realize just how much more aggravating marriage can be, and how carefree and satisfying dating can be by comparison. This is not to say that marriage can't be a harmonious, loving union between two people. It's just that I'm not going to be the one saying it.

So seeing that I've been on both sides of the relationship fence, I'd like to not only share my observations on being knee deep in a serious relationship / matrimony, but also to verbally illustrate the less obvious, more advantageous aspects of being single.

Let me start by saying, in marriage or any committed relationships, there's an endless list of expectations that go along with it. Alot because of that damn word "married". It ruins everything. It's so 'MARRIED'. Last I checked, I think it weighed like 46 lbs. and the shipping was outrageous. And that's even before anyone gains their "I'm married weight". It's super laden with time inquiries, money arguments, quests to the outlaws houses, and demands to hang things up properly centered, and fights because they're usually not.

And while it's true that being married may mean you can comfortably tell your other half all of you're deepest, darkest secrets, it's also true that you're cleaning they're deepest, darkest underwear stains.

I know I know, when you love someone, that crap's not supposed to matter (pun absolutely intended) Maybe. But still rather hard to "strike that shit from the record" once you bore witness to it.

Versus when you're single. There's always the freshest, newest underwear involved. No dingy old underwear with dried out, overly stretched, crunchy elastic waistbands. No beige grandma bras. But instead, shiny new super heroine pushup bras from porn shops, and crispy new ass hugging boxer briefs. When you're single, skid marks are only something seen on the highway. That's being single. I say, we're off to a good start.

As importantly, when you're not married or in a serious relationship, lucky you... there's approximately 26 less farts per week you'll have to pretend that you didn't hear. I call this progress.

As opposed to when you're single/ just dating someone, no one ever defecates right? Nope. Not at all. No farting either. Not allowed yet. I think I actually once lied and said I left something in my car so I could go outside and fart. It wasn't a complete lie, I believe I left the fart in the car.

I think we'd actually prefer to systemically poison ourselves by voluntarilly imploding than use our dates bathroom to empty our intestines.

So therefore, when you're single, you're viewed as pure. And so there's theoretically no dirty underwear decorating your laundry baskets. Which if i haven't impressed upon you enough as of yet, is a guaranteed buzz kill.

So thankfully, single/dating couples, in the heat of passion, will never have to worry about seeing their partners stained, grimey underwear on the floor, because seeing that no one poops, that would have to be something like the Immaculate Conception of the Underwear World. Come to think of it, when you're married, there no longer is that 'in the heat of passion' vernacular anywhere to be found, so underwear being torn from your body and displayed mid-center-floor isn't of real concern anyway.

Once you're married for years, sex, one day sadly becomes intercourse. Then it becomes reproduction. That's when suddenly there's calendars, calculators under your ass, fertility testing strips, egg timers and Mayan sun dials involved. That once, raw, primal, spontaneous, sensual thing tragically becomes as precise and computed as a NASA Space Probe launch. ("Don't cough honey. I'm goin' in.")

And after years and years of marriage and screaming kids, sex can basically become as rare and hard to prove it ever existed as Atlantis.

Actually, i think there's even more proof of Atlantis existing, down at Epcot Center in Disneyworld. The display window down there for 'Marital Sex' has a "This Exhibition Is No Longer Available" sign in front of it, with a pair of shit stained underwear hanging from it.

When you're single, sex is sex. It's still SEX. Good or bad, it's always new, thought provoking, and visceral. There's face licking, toe and eyeball sucking and words exchanged that would give a priest a ripe heart attack.

And seriously, even if you both just lay there like logs, you're both still two freshly cut logs.

Also, when you're in the lovely maritally committed scenario for a few years, and you're bending over all day, its usually because you're thanklessly picking up your kids sticky toys.

When you're single, its because you're picking up your own sticky toys. I just did a coin toss and being single won.

A small point, but key for germaphobe singles- when you're not in any kind of committed relationship, you can be rest assured that the soap in the shower only had YOUR ass on it.

And of course, the same goes for the toilet seat. Only your ass on it. Plus there's no one outside the bathroom door impatiently awaiting their turn to stink up the bathroom. So there's no advance reservations required. You can hang there as long as your butt desires. Technically, if it's just you, you can basically read half of Barnes and Nobel in there. So pooping for singles can most definitely have a cultural slant to it.

Possibly why they say 'you learn so much being single'.

Lets not forget that when you're married and you're a woman, cooking mouth watering dishes every night is somewhat expected. Culinary prowess, a must. Dinner parties. A must. Courses? Must.

A subscription to Bon Appetit and little white skirts on your Thanksgiving turkey drumsticks? Double must.

However when you're single, you can hang over your sink like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, shoveling your third bowl of expired Tooty Fruitees cereal into your face for dinner, squirt a 6 month old can of Reddi Whip onto your uvula for dessert, and call it a night. Dinner is served.

And while we're on the subject of Thanksgiving, let me remind you that when you're single, there's no shuttling back and forth for holiday dinners from one persons annoying family to the next. It's a no-brainer. You just go visit your own annoying family. One down, none to go.

Another benefit. Fighting over the air conditioning becomes a thing of the past.

Its inevitable that when 2 people consistently share a bed, there's A/C wars. It's either too damn hot or too fucking cold. No two people are ever thermographically in sync.

When you're by yourself, the controlling of the climate in your bedroom habitat is your call, and your call only. You are The Thermostat God. You singlehandedly rule your mattress empire. Freezing you ass off or sweating your balls off. Just the way you like it. Now if it's cold in your room, its because you choose. Not because you're married for 10 years and getting the natural runoff of sleeping next to an emotional iceberg. Although the latter can definitely save on air conditioning bills for sure. I'd know.

When you're in an all out fight with your husband or wife, you still have to lay in the same bed with them later that night... with that heavy silence in the air....pretending youre sleeping, trying to not make your eyelids not twitch. This is no easy task. The eyelids always twitch.

But the nice thing about being single is, when the guy or girl you're dating isn't treating you how youd like, you simply roll them off the bed, down the stairs, and out the door. Thanks to the invention of the wheel, unless you so choose to roll them into oncoming traffic, we have a relatively harmless, effective, yet simple solution.

It's seems so clear to me now. When there's no binding piece of paper between 2 people, you can quickly flush any annoying relationship down the toilet like a dead goldfish.

No lawyers, No fights. No house selling, No custody battles. Simply, drop and flush, and away it goes. Nice and easy. Right into the public waste management system for some other prideless fool to sort out.

If a single woman or man wants to see someone they like, they just call them. And the worst that can happen is, the person says no, and they dont get to see them. Big deal, a little ego bruise. At least hazardously shaving your genitals is off your itinerary. When you're married, its quite the opposite. If you DONT want to see that person, the worst that can happen, always does... you DO see them. They still come home...horny...with their unshaven genitals.

Yes, being single now means taking out my own garbage, and having to take multiple trips to the hardware stores for miscellaneous stupid Home Depot nonsense, that I'd normally pass off to a caveman.

But now my garbage is remarkably lighter, is in floral scented bags, and it's free of oversized toenail clippings, beard stubble residue and an occasional loogie.

Plus I've learned that an attractive single woman walking into a hardware store looking for advice on screws and S clamps, is quite identical to an oiled up, naked Venezuelan centerfold walking into a death row prison camp. You get tons of help. So now I walk around my house with a splintered broom handle, voluntarily busting all the lightbulbs I can reach. Whoops. Out of bulbs, Hooray!

And lastly, the most important advantage to being single versus being in a fully committed deal is this. If you're not happy with your spouse during the course of your marriage, even if you're full out miserable, you still have vows to keep in mind.... Those damn binding vows.....'TIL DEATH DO US PART.'.... Ooof. Death. Funerals. Aunts you haven't seen in years. Quite the heavy package deal.

But when you're single, and a guy or a girl treats you like festering cow poo, and you decide you're done, the only vow you need to stand by is self respect and ..."TIL YOU ANNOY ME". So next time you're feeling sorry for yourself because you're just dating some idiot who doesnt treat you right, and everyone else around you is seemingly happily married, grab a handful of rice, throw it over your head, and celebrate your biggest advantage: You dont have to sit around and wait for them to die before you're out. Seriously. Just call a cab people.