Raising Your Own Backyard Pig

   

9 dirty socks, 8 empty, crushed bottles of Poland Spring, 7 multi colored sticky guitar picks, 6 wrinkled, stained t-shirts, 5 blankets, on the floor of course, keeping a 5 week old dried doody log company, 4 drinking glasses fused to the nightstand, 3 crusty forks, 2 empty family size bags of Doritos, an empty, archival container of chicken... or pudding, hard to tell, and probably 1 dead partridge somewhere, which I assume used to live in some sickly, withering pear tree.

This is my sons room. Well, not the picture above, but that's what it feels like. Walmart's Day After Christmas Sale.
(The anal retentive in me had to make sure you knew that.)

However, I think it's safer to assume that canoeing through the Amazon river, sans malarial shots, is less deadly than it is to embark upon a seedy journey into my son's room to change a lightbulb. Whatever the deal, I'm sure I should've called the CDC before I volunteered for helping out with something this categorically cootified.

In nature, there's a fascinating bird called the Bowerbird. The male Bowerbirds collect and artfully arrange color and object specific collections to attract a mate. And the males with the most spectacular displays in their lairs, win the female. The collections are varied things ranging from piles of nuts, heaps of specific flowers, piles of dead beetles, heaps of deer shit, and even color coordinated garbage. It's a trait fascinating for a bird from Papua New Guinea. And a borderline repulsive / heave worthy trait if you're a human. If my sons lair were the basis for any long standing relationship, it would only attract the head custodian of a hazardous waste removal company, a senior archeologist, or a herd of protozoologists. You shouldnt need tongs to clean a bedroom.

I'll try and give you a better visual: If his room were the first thing you saw when you opened the door to your house, you'd immediately smack the security alarm button, and call the cops because you'd think your house was ransacked by an irate band of bat wielding meth addicts that had a particular hankering for 2 week old ham and cheese sandwiches during their heist. And then you'd find the nearest shovel, pick it up and swing it around every blind corner you turned, hoping to bring whoever did this to their knees.

I'm a little nicer than that. I don't use a shovel. But I'd be lying if I said yelling with flailing arms, and a cattle prodder weren't involved.

A total pig sty. I have to say 'pig sty' because thats what my mom always called it, so for nostalgic reasons, filthy room must under all circumstances, equal "pig sty". I've never really hung out in an authentic pig sty, but I can promise you this; there's no loose leaf binders stuck to the walls there. And about the dried dog poop on the floor that I found-- pigs will at least eat shit. My son just leaves it there waiting for the fine art of disintegration to show us how it's done.

So on second thought, it's not like a pig sty at all, It's more like the 'after' scene of a Fall Out shelter, where someone forgot to install the door.

Bottom line is, unless you enjoy the sensation of deli meat caressing your scalp, laying on the remnants a 3 day old turkey sandwich is not an acceptable substitute for a pillow.

I guess the ability to live amongst viruses and newly unearthed species of cream colored fungi are one of those teenage milestones I just have to get used to. But how could it not bother him. You'd think that rolling over to go to sleep, and crushing nachos with your ear, or pulling up a blanket, but not being able to, because the gum and soda you spit out 6 weeks ago has welded the sheets to floorboards, would force upon him some type of personal intervention. I'm sure this is how the first Glue Trap was invented. Walking barefoot onto a teenage boys bedroom floor. Then I think, eh, stop complaining. At least it's still just gum. Innocent, little fruit scented gum. I seriously dread the day that used condoms become part of the harvest.

Thankfully, he does shower every day and spends more time coifing his coif than Justin Beiber ever did.
But showering is clearly his ploy to make his friends think that his cleanliness factor somehow infuses the rest of his life as well. And that he doesnt fall asleep on Village Bagels # 6 sandwich. Well ladies, let it be known that this cleanliness ends as soon as the last bubble encapsulating his filth goes down the shower drain. The waterlogged towels are thrown to the ground, where his wet, stanky clothes will lay for days, mulching into crop fertilizer.

So once more for clarity purposes: The showers are merely to fool the women. Not THIS woman, of course. The other ones. The ones who dont have to blow torch his underwear off the floor.

Now I don't expect a 12 or a 9 year old boy to have the same level of fastidiousness as their slightly anal retentive, moderately OCD, stain removing, rug cleaning, toilet scrubbing, sink bleaching, laundry doing, stink removing house maid of a mom does, who showers three times a day, periodically gives the vacuum cleaner attachments herbal baths, and rearranges the magazines so they stack in the proper descending color spectrum.

But I do expect him to know that when the sheets crack, it's time to wash them.

I finally decide I can't do it anymore. I walk into his room to make my last plea for cleanliness, but wearing socks now for protection. We make a truce. Sign peace treaties. Chest bump. And I walk out. I feel a cool breeze on my feet. I look down and see my socks are missing. I turn back and see that I walked out of my socks, because they're stuck to his bedroom floor. Stuck to the floor like 2 dead war flags waving in the toxic wind. Symbolic of my futile efforts.

So before I fall victim to some rare airborne e coli saprophyte, I'd like to extend an early apology: In the event of there being a sudden resurgence of the Bubonic Plague, or some other virus where your skin and appendages melt off and my kids indirectly wipe out your entire family, I'm truly sorry. I tried. I really, really did.

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.

Not So Pretty In Pink: The Men of Westport, CT.

It was Labor Day 2009, the end of the summer and i innocently thought, why not celebrate it by having a little barbecue, a little Frisbee and some much needed cathartic time taking notes dismantling the residents. That's always a favorite family pastime.

My idea of beach outing preparedness is a cooler packed with beer, grabbing a hoodie, snacks, and some stained sheet no longer usable for the dog bed.

But for the greater majority of well-to-do Westport residents, a typical families pilgrimage to the beach for a 'Casual' Labor Day bbq becomes this elaborate setup that Martha Stewart could masturbate to.

There's tiki torches abound, matching flame heights of course...your basic run-of-the-mill pop up tiki huts , coordinating beach recliners made from biodegradable sea grass, tents pitched whose sizes would rival Barnum and Baileys elephant wing, brandy snifters, smoking jackets, William Sonoma barbecue sauces, Clap-On gas grills, and loud obnoxious discussions about the Dow. Talk a little louder please. My aunt in the far corners of New Zealand cant quite hear you.

All this affected celebratory competitiveness, as they proudly sip their wines from only high lead crystal wine glasses overflowing with wine that is exclusively set aside for the Vatican church but with one phone call is air dropped to Compo Beach from Italy that morning.

And to top off the afternoon festivities, thanks to the added convenience of live-in nannies, ( hmmm, live-in...guess the Dow Jones is doing better...or so i fucking HEAR... ) I've been reminded that all of Westport's offspring are irritatedly named Zachery and Skyler. I know this because I heard it in yelled across the beach in Ecuadorian, Venezuelan, Brazilian, Trinidadian, Polish, Hungarian, Peruvian, and Michigan. I am now fluent in Zachery and Skyler.

It certainly does challenge my childhood memories of family beach bbqing at Coney Island... where we'd sit around and talk near a fire that was made by tossing some homeless persons stray articles of clothing into a stolen beach garbage pail and setting it on fire with gasoline we siphoned out of someones car. Those were the days.

So there I was, at Compo Beach, Westport CT, hellbent on relaxing and trying to feel somewhat welcome... with my stained broken cooler, the beach provided pre-seagulled-shat-on picnic table (you know, to open my beer) and my spider web enshrouded lawn chair I dug out of the mildewy shed. (I know how to blend. I'm super chameleon-like.) The more I look around, the more desperately I need a beer, my hoodie and come to think of it, a semi-automatic paintball gun.

To make myself feel completely invisible, I thought playing some Avenged Sevenfold out of my Jeep would be a nice backdrop for the adjacent family with the Foie Gras, Braised Ostrich and Frog Legs beach entree. I was doing my best.

When I get out of my jeep, at first glance I thought I got the wrong directions and inadvertently drove to the coast of South Africa during an active migration of the Puna Flamingos.

But much to my chagrin I was unfortunately right where I set out to go. Compo Beach, Westport Ct. 06880.

And the chaos of pink I witnessed before me wasn't in fact something as awe inspiring as the tropical flamingo, it was rich men in pink shorts. Pink. Linen. Shorts. Everywhere you looked.

Lets just call it the garden variety of hubris you only see with financially able Westport residents of the male gender.

Who else wears bright pink or powder pink linen shorts but Westport men and the mannequins in the window of Banana Republic Fag (a new division).

As far as the eye can see, upon this long expanse of sand and blue skies is a sect of full grown men dressed like they raided their daughters laundry basket. Is this perhaps to.... show their softer, more feminine side? If so, please give me some helpful pointers seeing that the only thing pink in my closet is a package of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, strawberry flavored Astro Glide and my Breast Cancer Awareness ball and gag.

See, I call rich men wearing pink shorts "Sailboat Arrogant". The message is clearly..."I don't get dirty." "I wont get dirty" "I don't do dirt."

Oh trust, you will Hendly... Before this day is over, I'll have you begging for camo shorts....once i trip you and cause your glazed Labor Day catered meatballs and red wine to careen off your turned up nose and cascade onto your crotch. You need some balls down there anyway, sir. So I'm expecting some flowers, or at least a thank you, or at the very least, an all knowing nod and grin. And my apologies for tripping you.. I didn't see you standing there, I was temporarily blinded by an abundance of sun-reflected fuchsia into my retina. You're so getting my Dr's bill.

And then of course, to compliment the flowing pink shorts , we have to have the 'I'm enjoying the good life" effect....also known as the Sweater-Tied-Around-The-Neck look. Taken right out of a vitamin commercial for retired bicycling seniors with osteoporosis. I'm guessing the "Tied around the neck" thing is an attempt to cajole female onlookers into believing that he's 'casual', yet aggressively prepared. Always ready to quickly shimmy it over his head, you know... in the event of the earths sudden shift in polarity.

He thinks aloud in a bellowing voice: "I'LL BE ONE OF THE FEW TO SURVIVE....BECAUSE. I'M WEARING MY FUZZY CAPE OF PREPAREDNESS. I'M ALWAYS THINKING. ALWAYS ON CALL. I AM SUPERMAN. IN PINK SHORTS."

And we can't forget the absolute completion of this runway disaster by wearing sockless, tasseled, leather loafers....Damp feet in dressed up wedding shoes. Very sexy. This clearly is the subconscious message...." Who has time for all this sock nonsense, putting on socks takes TIME!!! TIME I don't HAVE!! I'm too important, too on the go, too busy....dry cleaning Liberace's shorts here...."

Or is he's simply thinking, well, since my shit doesn't stink, nor will my hairy, sweaty sockless feet.

I say get some real shorts, grab a t-shirt, and get yourself a damn pair of sandals. Sandals are for sand. Loafers, are for loafs.

And I'm sure they sell them, somewhere, in pink.

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.