When Even A 23-Year Old Can’t Count On His Body

Those who know me well, know that I am prone to injury and sickness. Fortunately, I have not had anything terminal, which explains why I am still here to write this. For starters, I have always had a stuffy nose. To make it easier on myself, a long time ago, I decided to start telling people that I had a “life cold” and would never grow out of it (hoping that I would never get a question like, “do you have a cold?” again). Just about everyone accepted my “life cold” explanation because they too had noticed my consistent stuffy nose. But, let’s get serious, what the fuck is a life cold? It’s not possible to have a cold that starts when you’re born and ends when you die…I guess that is unless your immune system is so weak that you live in a bubble (sorry to that guy that Travolta played in that made-for-TV movie). I am pretty sure I even told my doctor that I suffered from a “life cold” without him questioning a thing. I must’ve been a pretty convincing young guy. 

Even though a “life cold” might not be a real thing, as I sit here and type this, I am blowing my nose. So go figure. Nothing I’ve done has ever made much of a difference. What I can do though is apologize to all you sweet people for enduring the sound of my sniffles.

Sicknesses I can deal with. It’s syndromes and disorders that I can’t. Currently my life has taken on the direction of Benjamin Button, although I am certain that on my death bed I will not become a baby. I suffer from things that most 80-year olds have to deal with, which is why I am like B. Button….all the old man sicknesses are hitting me early (I am a young-old man). I have had a lot of gastrointestinal issues, which has led to my having a colonoscopy and endoscopy about thirty years too early. Luckily they found nothing, but now unfortunately I know the horror that awaits me when I am 50 and I need to have another colonoscopy. The rest of you are blissfully unaware. You have an idea of what a colonoscopy is, you know that you will have to have one some day, but you cannot know the full extent of the punishment you’ll receive until you’ve actually had one.

Personally, I don’t like things near my ass, so you can imagine that when they stuck something up my ass that I wasn’t too happy. The doctor doesn’t even put you to sleep. Instead they face you toward a screen that depicts what the long thing inside of you sees. This is where it starts to sound like a new Saw movie or some fucked up horror-erotica combination film, both of which I want nothing to do with. They should be putting people to sleep during a colonoscopy. It is wrong for a doctor to expect that their patient would want to watch a tube traverse their insides. A choice of whether or not to face the screen should. at the very least, be an option.

Thankfully, I am passed my colonoscopy phase for the time being (yay, I have something to look forward to later in my life!!). However, now I am in my “let’s experience the worst pain ever via a kidney stone attack.” Last spring, I was diagnosed with kidney stones. I had come to expect this fate because both my father and my grandfather have previously suffered from kidney stones, and apparently it is hereditary. Though I had accepted that I would inevitable suffer from kidney stones, I did not expect to experience the wrath of a stone at the young age of 22. 

My first one was no problem. It came out without any doctor interference. I wish I could say my second stone was as easy. If you don’t already know, last Wednesday I woke up with an excruciating pain on the right side of my back. I had been dreaming that I was in jail and right before I woke up I got shanked for eating Big Earl’s fruit cup. So at first the pain made sense, but then I realized I was not in jail, rather I was at home. Then I also realized that even if I were in jail, I would never have the balls to eat Big Earl’s fruit cup. So no jail and no fruit cup meant that there was something wrong. After running to the bathroom and falling in pain, I realized that I was passing another kidney stone.

My wonderful mother got me to the hospital quickly, where I stayed overnight. On Thursday I had a procedure that sent a shock wave into my kidney, which then breaks up the stone(s). What have I learned throughout this lengthy, expensive and painful ordeal? Even though I am twenty-three years old, I cannot count on my body. But more importantly, I have been forced to realize how lucky I am several times over. Though I suffer from annoying things such as a constant stuffy nose, cyclical vomiting syndrome or kidney stones, I know that none of these things are likely to take my life. There are plenty of people out there that are struggling to stay alive, which is why I know that my complaints are selfish. 

My only hope is that if I am to feel this old when I am young that I will be fortunate enough to feel young when I am old.

To See If I Can Be Broken

I am not ashamed to admit that on countless occasions I have enjoyed watching daytime talk-shows such as Maury, Montel and Jerry Springer. Each is ludicrous and somehow all manage to showcase some of the most ridiculous people inhabiting America (perhaps even the world). Thanksgiving is especially a great time to watch Jerry Springer. Every year they seem to have an episode that features a dysfunctional and highly obese family eating dinner on the stage together. Inevitably, a food fight ensues, often with some de-clothing. The fat girls get gravy rubbed on their bellies by the fat guys. Mom farts on Dad. Cousin Jenkins confesses that he slept with his twin sister. And so on. The usual Springer routine, if you will.

Nothing is as entertaining though as when one of these shows has “out-of-control” adolescents on an episode and they get sent to boot camp. First of all, it is obvious that if you have parents that think the proper way to go about adjusting your behavior is to go on television, that you are in fact somewhat fucked up. Kids don’t need national exposure. If you have a kid that is acting out, and you bring them on one of these shows, chances are they will probably keep fucking around, because they’ll think that if they do, they can be on the all-lovable television again. I don’t want to live in a world where we have to rely on Maury Povich to make our lives better.

These episodes are so great because the kids that are featured always think they are so badass that there is no chance in hell any one can make them change. At first they aren’t aware they are being sent away to boot camp, so the host of the show first parades them in front of the audience and typically gets them riled up to the point where they bitch at their parents in front of everyone (which helps to stereotype the child as a little monster). Their parents often bitch for a couple of minutes about all the nasty things their child does while the kid proceeds to boast about how each claim their parent has made is true. Then they bring in the drill sergeant, who is inevitably someone I want to punch in the face, and shit hits the fan.

The kids get taken away. Their parents usually cry as though they aren’t responsible for having their kid taken to boot camp on national television (you irresponsible fucks, way to make your kids feel vulnerable!). These kids at first are typically relentless and do not break easily. In fact I am often impressed by how negative their attitudes are…sometimes leaving me to feel that they are justified in some of their anger; maybe things really are that bad for them. Regardless though, they all break. The kids start as badasses and by the end of the episode they are all crying and hugging their parents; some just take longer to get to that point than others.

Now, I am someone who is extremely stubborn. I am convinced that I could last for a long time at one of these boot camps. I have often said that I wish I could join the army just so I could go to military basic training to see if I can hold on without giving in to the authority figures. Technically and legally no one is allowed to hurt me if I do not acquiesce to their demands (right? I hope), so I think it would be fun to see who would get pissed off first, me or the officer bitching at me. Someone tells me to drop and give them twenty push-ups, I tell them to drop and suck my balls. Someone tells me to peel potatoes, and I say I will, but without washing my hands!!! I’ll be all like, “take that authority,” and they’ll all be like, “whoa this kid won’t give in, we can’t hurt him, so maybe we should just let him win.” And I will win.

Realistically, I know that that is not how the situation would play out. I know I would be broken, and probably pretty quickly too. I am stubborn, but I also don’t like confrontation. So while I would want to tell anyone who yells at me to go fuck themselves, I know that would just be matched with, “No, you go fuck yourself.”

I commend the kids who get dragged onto shows like Maury or Montel if they can resume their lives without resorting to meth to make them forget they’re parents exploited them on a daytime soap opera/talk show hybrid. I have a hard enough time trying to put Oprah behind me (it’s not cool, believe me).

Even if I would be broken though, I still think it’d be worth the try. Regardless, it’d be an entertaining experience; just wouldn’t do it for the public.

Purposefully Lost

Toward the end of September, I sought out to chase a dream. Along with two others, I headed out west to California. As though I could be any more cliche, I had hoped to find a job in the pictures. Needless to say, and as most of you probably already know, my exciting yet short lived experience on the coast came to a close a day before my 23rd birthday.

Let me take you back for a minute. As a child I loved to spend time outside during the winter. I could entertain myself for hours with nothing but mounds of snow. There was an extremely weird game that I used to play. I would pretend that the snow flakes harbored aliens and that they were setting up for a hostile take over in the mounds of snow that get created by snow plows. I would then proceed to terrorize the pile of snow. I would kick it and watch as the pieces crumbled everywhere. In retrospect, it’s hard to understand some of the things I did as a kid. Some kids played ice hockey or skied, but I saved the world by destroying made up aliens in snow piles. What the fuck was I thinking? My imagination was clearly overactive.

After about fifteen years living in a frozen tundra though, I began to hate winter. Fuck the aliens in the snow mounds, I would say to myself. Let them takeover. I’m not going outside so that my nose can run like a faucet, my clothes can get all wet, and the neighbors can stair at me awkwardly.

Minnesota is great for its change of seasons, but come the end of February when it’s negative 20 degrees outside and the snow is all black, it’s no wonder people suffer from seasonal affective disorder (could it be any cheesier that the acronym is SAD?). With the combined affect of my appreciation for the first two seasons of “The OC” (yes, weird), the fact that there was no winter, and knowing that the movie industry is based there, I decided that I wanted to move to California. And that I did. I had a great time, but couldn’t justify staying there.

I have preached for a slower pace in life. I’ve advocated for the trial of new things. I’ve always liked to embrace uncertainty. For the first time in my life I am fully in control of what I do on a day-to-day basis. Of course I want to make money, but right now I am granted the luxury of time. 23 will eventually be 46, and I hear the years go by fast. So instead of making any serious commitments, I am seeing where life takes me. I am waiting for notifications that will reinforce what I want to do with my life.

Purposefully Lost is probably a little dramatic. I am fortunate to be surrounded by my family and many close friends, so lost has to take on a non-literal form, more along the line of not knowing what’s to come. I plan to do a lot of writing of screenplays and stories, and thankfully I find a lot of inspiration in Minneapolis and the midwest in general.

Though I may want to hop the first flight to somewhere sunny come the saturation of black snow in February, I will be able to decide at the drop of a hat if I want to get out. I would normally like to have some sort of moral, but I am talking about myself, and I don’t know what is right. That’s all part of what I am trying to say. I currently lack direction. I do not know what comes next. But at this age, when I don’t have a family to take care of and my cost of living is low, why buckle down right away? I don’t want to get caught doing something that I don’t feel passionately about, and I feel that I am too young to know what it is I want to do for the next several years. Instead of getting anxious, I am excited to see what happens. If I end up homeless, I suppose I should head back to California, at least then I can sleep outside year-round.

On Why We Should All Be A Little More Like Richard Simmons

I would like to start by acknowledging that this is a weird fucking topic. Up until recently, I do not think I would have ever regarded Richard Simmons’ disposition as something we should all strive to attain. But we all know how quickly things change in this life. And as such, I firmly believe that if we all took some cues from Mr. Simmons, that our lives would be that much more fruitful.

In case you are wondering who I am talking about, I will relay a quick synopsis of the life and times of Richard Simmons. He was born Milton Teagle Simmons on July 12th, 1948. Upon graduation from Brother Martin High School, Simmons weighed approx. 268 pounds and suffered from gynecomastia. Gynecomastia is a subtle way of saying he had man saddle bags; he had triangle floppy pillows; he had nice titties. Though, on second thought, does anyone consider man boobs to be “nice titties?” Or are they automatically gross because they belong to a man and not Fran Drescher? Let it be known that I am an equal opportunity boob-purveyor. Man boobs may not do anything to stimulate my sexual appetite, but perhaps if they were photoshopped onto a nice looking lady, I may change my tune. But only unknowingly, so please refrain from sending me pictures of Beyonce with the boobies of a “The Biggest Loser” contestant (at the beginning of the season) photoshopped over her chest.

Simmons moved to LA in the 1970s. He quickly became dissatisfied with the way in which gyms and fitness centers were promoting health. In his eyes, the system was flawed. He felt that health establishments favored customers that were already in shape versus those that were in desperate need of losing weight. Simmons opened “The Anatomy Asylum,” and successfully carved out a niche market. His style became popular because of its emphasis on positivity, success, and fun.

Is there any one in the world that is having a better time with life than Richard Simmons? Perhaps Madoff before being exposed for a fraud (yes, I had to make some cliche reference). If I slept for a week straight, I still do not believe that I could match the level of energy that Simmons typically exerts; he is a combination of every 3-year old in this country and a man who has never ejaculated despite continual arousal. Yes, there is something weird about referencing 3-year olds and a horny man in the same sentence. Sorry about that. Regardless, if there were a way to bottle Richard Simmons, I swear that it would do good for this world. 

As anyone can tell from his persona, Simmons could care less what anyone thinks of him. Thank god too, because if you are easily hurt by the words of others, it is never a good idea to wear shorter than short-shorts and to maintain a healthy amount of glitter on the body at all times; both of those qualities tend to attract criticism. Though, perhaps such criticisms wouldn’t exist if we were as open-minded as Sir Simmons. Is it not better to live your life on your own terms than it is to subscribe to societal conventions solely to avoid mockery? Granted, societal conventions become such only after a vast amount of people confirm it as a convention, so perhaps we should stop defining everything so rigidly, thus allowing for more lateral fluidity.

When you see Richard Simmons on a talk show or in one of his exercise videos, he is always smiling. I have no fucking idea why or how, but he is always smiling. Either he consumes a boatload of pills or has found some fucked up key to inner-happiness. Where is the key? Do you have to wear glitter? Or do you just have to be comfortable with yourself? Until I find out more, I may have to pick up a pair of short-shorts. Only question is: How do I keep my balls from hanging out?

See what I am talking about, check out these videos:

Party off the Pounds

Sweatin’ to the Oldies

Disco Sweat

 

Sources:  -http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Simmons

                  -http://www.richardsimmons.com/j15/ (picture)

Sandler. Like Adam Sandler?

People, we need more last names. Who wants to invent some new ones? So far I haven’t found anyone in the world that has the last name Zorfelson. Billy Zorfelson, that has a decent ring to it. Right? Mine, Sandler, is a good one. Save for the fact that I have to share my last name with a famous comedian–whom also happens to be Jewish.

People constantly ask me if I am related to Adam Sandler. First of all, not all Jews are related. I know it seems like we all share a great-aunt or a first cousin with each other, but if we were all related, we’d be in serious shit. Jews are too uncomfortable with something as taboo as incest. They don’t have it in them. So in a really fucked up, roundabout way, I would like to tell you that I am not related to Adam Sandler. Sure, we have the same last name and both grew up calling our grandmothers Baubie, but that’s all.

At some point in my life I got tired of telling people I wasn’t related to Mr. Sandler, so instead I just decided to say ‘yes.’ Yes, Adam Sandler is my cousin. He’s my Dad’s second cousin. Eventually, after getting used to answering yes, I began to expand the story. Yeah, um, I met Adam Sandler at a cousin’s bar mitzvah. Was he funny? Yeah of course he was funny. Cool? Oh my god, the coolest.

I know that I had some people convinced. So if you were one of those people or better yet, if you are still gullible, I am officially coming clean. I am not, nor was I ever, related to Adam Sandler. If I were, I’d be psyched. Not because he is famous, but because I find most of what he does to be hilarious. His work on “Saturday Night Live” in the early 90s is great (backed by a remarkable ensemble at the time). Many of his movies, though juvenile, have some ridiculous bits. And some of the best cameo roles. Little Nicky has some memorable appearances from the likes of Kevin Nealon, Henry Winkler, Rodney Dangerfield, John Witherspoon, Dana Carvey, Jon Lovitz, Michael McKean, Rob Schneider and Blake Clark. Adam’s dramatic performance in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Punch Drunk Love was impressive. Unfortunately though, I have not enjoyed many of his recent comedies. The Longest Yard, I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, and You Don’t Mess with the Zohan, were all pretty weak. None took themselves seriously enough as movies and would’ve worked better in sketch form. Remaking The Longest Yard proved to be pointless, as do many other remakes. Thankfully, I think Funny People will push him into a new direction, hopefully one in which Sandler will take on more characters with depth. He’s proven to me that he is capable. 

But enough about Adam Sandler. My point is not to qualify his abilities, as I think he has already done that for himself. I want to know why people want so badly to know someone related to someone famous? If they didn’t, they wouldn’t so often ask if I am related to Adam Sandler. There are plenty of people that share a last name with someone famous. I wonder if they get the incessant questioning as well? What the fuck is the difference? If I was related to him, I wouldn’t call him to tell him my 7th grade science teacher said hello. Didn’t God once say, “You shall have no other gods before me,” right? For all the god fearing individuals out there, shouldn’t you know not to put people on a pedestal?  I am just as guilty, at times, and it won’t be for people like Tom Cruise, but nonetheless, what the fuck is with Celebrity culture? Why can’t anyone let what they do be art? I know, I am asking too much. Celebrity is an industry. I just wish that we as a society, or specifically us here in the U.S., could stop caring so much about which actress is getting married, which actor is dying of cancer or which director cheated on his wife. We should all just enjoy seeing movies and watching television shows. Who cares what they do in their free time. They are regular people. They eat, have sex, go shopping, fight with their friends and family, and so on. Who gives a fuck? Or why do people give a fuck? Maybe if we all cared a little less, I wouldn’t mind having the same last name as Adam Sandler. Or at least, maybe I wouldn’t have lied that I was related to him.

Reel Radio, Episode 1

Click on this text to get to a radio-movie talk show I co-created/wrote with a couple of talented young ladies, Jonna Shallbetter and Y Mae Sussman. I felt like sharing them with those that are interested. Unfortunately it aired on a college radio station and thus is pretty clean….nonetheless I hope you enjoy. I will be posting a total of 10 episodes from our first season.

Be forewarned that there tends to be around 30 seconds at the start that is the show before mine. 

Euthanasia: So you want to off yourself

Dictionary.com defines Euthanasia as: the act of putting to death painlessly or allowing to die, as by withholding extreme medical measures to a person or animal suffering from an incurable, esp. a painful, disease or condition. Euthanasia has long been a controversial subject, one that has strong support both for and against it. Why do so many people care? Why is it a big deal? And if you were me in ninth grade, why are “youth-in-asia” so often talked about?

I personally do not think anyone should try to impose their personal beliefs on an individual that wishes to be killed painlessly. Now, I am not saying that everyone should have the freedom to decide they want to die one day because their life “sucks,” go to the doctor and be put to sleep. When it comes to healthy people, there shouldn’t be a good enough reason to put them to death. Obviously life can be complete shit, but there has to be something worth living for, or at least a better solution to one’s problems than prematurely committing oneself to eternity. Of course I may come off as ignorant because I have faced few hardships personally, rather my knowledge of tough living is derived secondhand from books, newspapers, movies, etc. I only possess a minimal understanding of issues that push people to pull the trigger.

Old people though, I mean who gives a fuck? In America, we’ve come accustomed to dropping our senior members of society off at a local nursing home, and forgetting about them save for three to four times a year when people decide to visit [enter generic family member title] for their birthday or to tell him/her that someone in the family died/had a child/got married/got a new job or so on. If thats the way many of us are destined to live out our final days (well most of us probably won’t ever get a chance to be old because 2012 is so soon), why would it be such a bad thing to at least have an option of committing assisted suicide? 

Let me paint you a very nasty picture. Imagine you’re 80 years old. Okay, so you are old, your body feels like shit on the reg, and you can’t seem to remember that you need to poop in a toilet and not in your pants. If that isn’t enough, you haven’t been outside for months, you’ve been bed ridden for three weeks, and the most exciting thing in your life is listening to some shmuck play piano while he poorly sings along. Oh yeah, and you hate the piano, always have and always will. To me, the quality of life just described for you as an “80 year old” is so awful that assisted suicide may be a good idea. Or what if you are terminally ill? Let’s say someone has lung cancer, emphysema has set in, and simple tasks begin to seem impossible for them. Would it not be humane to allow that person to die in a respectable and painless manner? Isn’t that more ethically sound than forcing someone to experience constant agony and discomfort? 

I understand that religion plays a significant role in many people’s lives, and they are told that only G-d can determine when someone dies. But, why is it at times these same people are willing to contradict that notion. For example, when Americans support a war, they are knowingly condoning and calling for the deaths of thousands of people. Asking healthy, capable teenagers that have long lives ahead of them to lay their lives down for America is somehow more ethical than allowing a 75 year old battling cancer to be laid to rest by a medical physician? It makes no sense to me. The religious argument against the legalization of Euthanasia would be valid if it were consistently upheld in other areas of political and social issues, but it isn’t, and there is no reason we don’t allow people to have more control over themselves. Our bodies are temples, but when the temple is poisoned, isn’t it acceptable to let it crumble? Some people are stronger than others, both mentally and physically, and therefore can handle prolonged treatment. Chemotherapy, dialysis, radiation and other remedies can be painful, time consuming, and costly. Hospital bills can stack up quickly, leaving less money for one’s family to inherit. Nursing homes are often depressing and smell rancid, literally like peeling flesh. It is important that people have options. 

I will ask one more thing. Would you rather leave this life comfortably or miserably? Wouldn’t it be better to depart at a time in which you harbor positive feelings toward life? When my time comes I hope that I am not fervently hoping for it because I am suffering, rather that it come at a bittersweet moment. Many of us won’t have control over our departures, which in a way I think is fortunate. So much better to let it just happen than it is to have to make a decision.  

Just remember that there is no standard in which to compare our experiences here on Earth. In a way, it is possible to look at all of them as positive, no matter how much pain is caused. The sun still sets, the world still turns, and people still know how to smile. It all depends on how strong you are as a person and how willing you are to see the good. I just hope that if someone isn’t strong enough to keep going, that they’ll have the option to end it. No reason for any of us to judge one way or another, but thats just my peace. See you all at the finish line.

Eat Shit, Suck My Dick: Do we really mean these things that we say?

I would like to apologize for my vulgarity, however it is necessary in order to truly tackle this subject. As many know, people often use phrases such as “Eat Shit,” “Suck my Dick,” “Eat my Ass,” “Go suck a Dick,” or “Eat my C**t,” during a fight or argument. Not only are these graphic commands, but are also somewhat contradictory to the point. 

And not only are the phrases contradictory, but they also rarely make sense. If two guys are in a fight, and one tells the other to suck his dick, what kind of fucking message does that send? By no means do I want to sound homophobic, but do people not realize how ridiculous that sounds, “Suck my dick,” I mean what the fuck?  Seems to me that anyone would be better off letting their fists do the talking, otherwise they might end up with their penis in someone’s mouth.

Or what if a girl tells a guy during a verbal argument to eat her c**t? Wouldn’t that inflict pleasure? Does that mean that the fight just goes away, and if so, pay attention guys, apparently that might be all you have to do. No battles have ever been truly lost when they’ve ended in the bedroom. 

The most ridiculous of the aforementioned phrases however is “Eat my shit.” Whenever I have said it, I have never been able to keep myself from cracking up. I mean, do people really expect someone to eat their shit? Where is the shit coming from? Is it really smelly? Because if it is, then you have to find a secluded outdoor location where no one will call the cops because someone is eating human shit in plain sight. 

I know, I know, people don’t literally mean these things when they are fighting with someone, rather they are effective phrases for their ability to demean one’s opponent. And in all graphic honesty, all of those phrases have been said in an appropriate manner during sexual activity. “Suck my dick” is a popular one in the bedroom, as is “Eat my c**t.” They help in cutting right to the point, and have a pretty high success rate. That or maybe just porno stars use them. 

Aside from the absurd elements of these phrases, it’s funny how much the english language can be twisted. Many people incorporate slang into their every day conversations, and often words are taken out of context. This is perhaps a downfall in some respects because some words are used that offend others, even when used out of context (i.e. all derogatory terms, I don’t need to go into detail). In any case, I think it might be a wise idea to reconsider the use of phrases such as “eat my shit” or “suck my dick” when fighting with someone, for they may send a message that says, “Hey, I am actually into you, I don’t want to fight anymore, so let’s dim the lights. And, oh yeah, do  you have any chapstick?”

Keep Shakin’ It Baby: Can I bag a Cougar please?

According to one definition on urbandictionary.com, a Cougar is: “An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man. The cougar can be anyone from an overly surgically altered wind tunnel victim, to an absolute sad and bloated old horn-meister, to a real hottie or milf. Cougars are gaining in popularity — particularly the true hotties — as young men find not only a sexual high, but many times a chick with her shit together.”

I would’ve written my own definition, but that one seemed too accurate not to use. And I can tell you that I most definitely want me a cougar. I mean, why the fuck not? I have no qualms about being taken care of by an older woman in exchange for my dick. Being with a cougar is like selling yourself for sex, but while also maintaing your dignity. Instead of working the streets and sleeping with random, toothless, drunk fiend bitches, why not seek refuge in a mcmansion somewhere with a cougar?

Cougars often are divorcees that have fucked over their prior husband(s) by taking him (them) for all he’s (they’re) worth. And that means money is present, which also means that if you’re in a relationship with a cougar, that they will have the dough to spoil you. Lately, I have been trying to figure out what I am going to do with my life post-college. The best idea I’ve had so far is to go to Florida, meet a Cougar, and move in with her for at least the next year. That way, I can get my freak on while also having everything provided for me. With this financial climate, it wouldn’t be so bad to have some security….if you can’t find a job, screw a cougar; disposable income should be their middle name. 

Young penis has such a big market value that middle aged woman actively seek it out. Typically it is the guy that has to do all the work in the pursuit for romance, but that is not the case with ‘dem Cougs. When I was in Naples over spring break, my friends and I went out every night. And sure enough, there was always a wide assortment of cougars present…all of which gladly talked to us. Some woman pine for an anti-aging cream, while others just want to get fucked by someone more than half their age. I will gladly be that guy, as I am sure many others will too. Ashton Kutcher, as far as I am concerned is the king of Cougar recipients. Demi Moore is an attractive and successful woman—one that any man should be proud to call his own. But, what makes Kutcher king is that he has even been able to develop a friendly relationship with Moore’s ex, Bruce Willis. For Cougar seekers, the scariest thing could be a confrontation with an ex-husband, but Ashton has conquered that, and in the process has become friends with one of Hollywood’s biggest badasses. 

There should be a school dedicated to proper Cougar relations, i.e. how to get one’s attention, how to rock their world in the bedroom, how to balance young living with old loving, etc. I don’t know who should write the curriculum, but surely it should be someone with some cougar experience. 

Cougars are also the best option for people that have commitment issues because more often than not a relationship with a cougar is temporary. Sometimes a woman just needs to regain some self-confidence so she tries to sleep with a young guy. For if one succeeds, then they can be proud of having slept with someone with virility, as opposed to someone who needs an hour notice before sex in order to pop a Viagra. But, whatever the reason an older woman wants to be with a younger guy, typically the relationship won’t last years.

Advice to guys seeking cougars: get all the video games, clothing, gold-plated watches, and alcohol paid for while you can. Let them teach you a thing or two about how to please a girl, because chances are they have had more than their fair share of both good and bad sexual experiences. Being with a cougar can be looked upon as a form of graduate school….only it will yield more valuable information and lessons than a typical class would. Always remember to compliment your cougar, make her feel good about herself, make her feel as though she too is as young as you. It is nice to know that even if we don’t find the fountain of youth that we can always fuck someone younger than us to regain some of that glory.

Though in theory being with a cougar would be sweet, I think the reality is that it would be sort of weird. What if your cougar has kids? Does that make you a step-pepper? Do you have to take the kids to the park and play with them? Also the age discrepancy between you and your cougar can pose problems. Ultimately, there is not a lot a 20 year old and a 55 year old can relate on. And beside, it may be too much like dating your own mother…..I don’t know about you, but I do not suffer from the Oedipus complex. 

But when all is said and done, Milfs and Cougars are still pretty cool, mainly because they are experienced and can shower their lover with gifts, and I like gifts.

Holy Shit, I still have an imagination!

Yesterday I returned to Madison after a weekend in Minneapolis. On the table in my living room were five hot wheels cars, one for each person in my house. They were Easter gifts that my roommate Dan brought back for us—always nice when a Christian holiday can make a Jew happy, or vice versa.

At first I was thankful for the friendly gesture, but after about two minutes of playing with my car, I began to feel like a 5 year old again. For those of you that have seen the movie Knocked Up, there is a scene in which Paul Rudd watches in jealousy as his daughter and other little children find happiness in blowing bubbles. Rudd states, “I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.” This scene has resonated with me since first seeing it. 

Adults do not possess the same carefree, filtered, or pure outlook that little kids do. It is close to impossible for anyone over the age of like thirteen to really indulge in the simplicity of life. As we get older, we have to worry about more and more things. When we were young however, many of us had everything taken care of for us by our parents: they fed, sheltered, clothed, bathed, loved, drove, healed, and worried about us. My job growing up was to fuck around, have a good time, and laugh often. My parents made sure that I enjoyed my childhood—I think in hope that I’d become a well-adjusted individual. Who the fuck knows if that hope came true, but regardless, I did enjoy my childhood, a lot. 

Unfortunately though, I do not feel I have retained enough of the imagination I possessed as a child. Sure, I can still come up with things to write about, and can create characters when need be, but I used to be able to play with inanimate objects for hours on end. The amount of action figures, or hot wheels, that I owned as a child is almost sickening. I mean who the fuck needs hundreds of  toys that look relatively the same? My grandpa always wanted to know why I couldn’t just get two and pretend they were other characters. In retrospect I think he was on to something. I mean, if I could occupy myself with lifeless miniature duplicates of wrestling or Jurassic Park characters, then surely I could’ve pretended that an action figure of Mankind (WWF wrestler) was an action figure of Scott Hall (WCW wrestler). I guess you can’t reason with materialistic, spoiled, eleven year old fucks. 

Though the size of my collection was a bit unnecessary, the entertainment it provided I think was priceless. Getting drunk and getting messed up, or going to bars and watching TV all day nursing a hangover, doesn’t quite bring the same amount of pleasure into my life that exercising my imagination with my toys once did. Thankfully, yesterday I felt a part of that surge back. I made my hot wheels car, a Camaro to be specific, cruise all around my living room. I did jumps with it from couch to couch, landing perfectly every time. I also did some crash scenarios. This may all sound pathetic, but it was a lot of fun. I really like being able to visualize things in my head; my couches became opposite ends of the Grand Canyon, and my car had to clear the middle. 

Not having to resort to force fed entertainment or images, as many of us do with television, movies, and the like, can be liberating. Returning to the thought process we held as children can be soothing. Think about when you were too young to really understand the terrors of the world, before you read the news and heard about murder on a daily basis. Or before you had to do anything for yourself. Life was once almost as simple as being a dog or cat. Weird to compare the lives of household pets to human children, but it’s true, children don’t have much responsibility. And when kids aren’t potty trained, they’re even more helpless than a dog or cat. 

With simplicity comes the ability to experience the world on your own terms, and often in your imagination. Then we get older, and shit hits the fan on a regular basis. Worries flood our frame of reference, and we quickly realize that that’s how it will be for the rest of our lives. Imagination and creativity often suffer in order to work, pay bills, start a family and basically live the status quo, aka the American Dream. It wouldn’t hurt if all of us played with some hot wheels once in a while, it might help to give you a taste of the good life.