The Cynical Side Of Committed Bliss

Side Effects May Occur

You ever watch TV and see those ads for the new super-drug that will INSTANTLY cure you of whatever ails you?  You know the one I’m talking about.  But did you ever notice how the side effects are sometimes WAY worse than the condidtion you already have.  You know, this product will clear up all the mucus that is blocking your sinuses — BUT it will cause massive anal bleeding.  Dude, I’ll keep every frickin’ ounce of mucus in my body before I’ll allow my ass to become a bidet of blood.  And the best part of these commercials is how fast they zip through all the possible side effects.  As if we are not going to hear about the massive anal bleeding.  There’s no missing that.

     I saw an ad for Nuva Ring, which is a dissolving birth control ring that you stick in your cooter (or the cooter of the one you love).  Along with the usual schpiel about not smoking while using it, and the whole ‘ask your doctor before trying Nuva Ring’ diatribe, there was one warning that caught me off guard.  It said “Do not use Nuva Ring if you are pregnant”.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Are there people out there that are SO dumb that they need to be told NOT to use a birth control device while the are already knocked up?  Sweet muscular Jesus… It’s not like a cork that you can just bottle up the cooter with — stopping the baby from popping on out.  Maybe they made that warning for those white trash couples or teenagers… which again is another sad commentary on society.

School’s In Session…

 

Now, my partner in crime “Hardcore” Mike Walken could not contribute at this very moment, but I am sure that he will add his two cents later.  Please enjoy.

You ever see a fat guy or a dorky dude with a hot girlfriend, and you immediately think “How the hell did that guy land that chick”? There are two emotions that run through your head — #1. That tinge of jealousy. You know, why can’t that be me? Or #2. You feel proud that some schmuck got that lucky. I tend to lean towards the first one. After all, how the fuck did that dude David Copperfield his way into her cooter? I truly believe that at this moment, without training, that I can pull a rabbit out of a fucking hat before I can figure out what a girl wants.

I believe that confusion stems from childhood. And it’s not how we were raised, it’s who really raised us — TV. From the earliest days of The Honeymooners, to the Flintstones, King Of Queens, and Family Guy, there is always that image of the fat, dumb guy with the hot, loyal woman. We accept that this is the norm — after all, we don’t know any better. But as we get older and somewhat wiser to the ways of the world, we begin to question.

Let’s take Fred Flintstone as an example. He is basically a total fuck-up who is borderline retarded. His boss is constantly mad at him, he’s always looking for that get-rich-quick scheme, and in that pursuit he always embarrasses his wife and kids — and that’s WITH the help of The Great Gazoo! Shit, if I had a wish granting alien thing, I’d be home free. Forget an anniversary, Gazoo’s got my back. Screw up on Valentine’s Day, best believe Gazoo’s gonna fix it. Red Sox in a slump? Gazoo hates the Yankees! Erectile Dysfunction? Fuck Viagra, Gazoo will get it up!

And despite all the mishaps Fred Flintstone causes, that walking calamity has a disproportionately hot wife who understands him. I mean, that fuck can wreck the car by dropping a Bronto bone on it, but Wilma forgives him. Then again, Fred Flintstone had better writers. Which brings me to my point. What’s my point? Hold the fuck on, I’m getting to the point. They should create a school.

A SCHOOL FOR THE VAGINALLY CHALLENGED

Can you imagine? A school where any geek off the street with a beer gut and a low yearly income can get help understanding the core of a woman. What are they thinking? What makes them happy? Where do babies come from? Do they really want two in the pink and one in the stink? These are mysteries to all men, let alone guys who guys who can’t name one actress on Sex In The City, or find the feminine hygiene section in the store, but can name every bounty hunter in the Star Wars saga by name and designation.

I can imagine it now. A class where strong, definitive statements about what women want us to do are pumped in subliminally over Battlestar Galactica episodes and the Monday Night Football game, so we will actually pay attention and learn something. Football-style drills developing techniques to avoid cockblocking and the dreaded “It’s Not You, It’s Me” defense. It would be so fucking awesome.