Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Mr.Charm’s Charming First Date Tips (Part One)

(a piece retrieved from approximately ten years ago)

Mr.Charm’s Charming First Date Tips (Part One)

Because the first date can often be a time of confusion, anxiety and general free-floating weirdness I am hereby presenting Part One of Mr.Charm’s Charming First Date Tips to help all the Menfolk out there in their time of need. 
NOTE: the reason these tips are only for the MEN is that, after all, we ALL know women don’t require First Date Tips, being that the only real decision a woman deals with on a first date is whether or not she’s gonna wear the ‘GOOD’ underwear...

Tip #1: Don’t ask her if she is wearing the Good Underwear: if she is chances are you’ll find out later, and if she isn’t, well, you’ll figure that out too, soon enough...

Tip#2: Dinner at a nice restaurant is always a good plan. On the other hand, Strip clubs are dicey, depending, and – let’s face it – if you can confidently pull off a First Date to a strip club then you really don’t NEED Mr.Charm’s tips now, do you? 
Meanwhile, going to a movie is, surprisingly, a definite NO: the First Date is to learn about the other person through free-spirited conversation and eye contact, not to spend two hours silently staring at a screen in parallel. Plus, you spend the entire damned time uncomfortably trying to figure out just what the heck to do with your hands, and it just ain’t worth it...

Tip #3: Opening doors for her shows a Gentleman’s attention to Respect and etiquette, plus you can discreetly check out her ass as she passes by; Etiquette has its Pluses...

Tip #4: Make sure you know her Name. Now this might seem obvious, yet it can become quite the predicament if this Tip is not adhered to strictly. Let’s say, hypothetically of course, that you met Ms. First Date at a bar, after some alcohol may-or-may-not have been involved, and in large quantities, quite possibly. And perhaps she only wrote her number on the cocktail napkin, or scrawled her name in a manner indecipherable save for a large happy circle above what is, presumably, an ‘I’. And then maybe the message on her answering machine is of the decidedly unhelpful ‘number-only/leave a message’ kind. 

Now, under such hypothetical circumstances one CAN make it comfortably through a First Date without actually ever having to call your date by her first name, but this will, in the end, only make matters worse: say – again, hypothetically –that you progress to the 2nd or 3rd date, and you realize you are still unsure of her name, and you further realize that there is no smooth way to casually extricate said information. Now say that you are on that 2nd or 3rd date when you happen across someone you know, and introductions are unavoidably in order: you are obviously not at the point of employing endearments such as ‘baby’, ‘honey’ or ‘my girl’, and as such you are screwed, and not in the good way. Again, this is strictly hypothetical, and has never happened to Mr. Charm, nope...

Tip #5: After dinner TIP THE SERVER GENEROUSLY. It’s the right thing to do, and Chicks notice these things.

Tip #5B: Plan ahead when planning ahead: God put pockets in your pants for a reason. When paying for the meal don’t have a condom conspicuously in your wallet next to your credit card – Chicks notice these things, too...

Tip #5C: You CAN ignore Tip #5B if you are at a strip club, but – again – if you’re there on a date, then you don’t need MY help...

Tip #6: Again, the First Date is to learn meaningful, deep things about the other person through free-spirited conversation: with that in mind let her talk, even if it’s occasionally boring. Hell – ESPECIALLY if it’s boring: careful attention approximates caring, and if she IS that boring she’s probably sadly used to people not really listening to her, which means YOUR attention makes you seem all the more Special, and Special = the GOOD Underwear..

Tip #7: Just Be Yourself, minus the Bad Stuff, and do everything Mr.Charm says...

I am Laslo.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

I wake up from these dreams paranoid and disoriented.

I have this reoccurring sequential dream where I have killed somebody (the details in the dream are sketchy on how and why), but no one has found the body yet. There may or may not have been a car accident.

I have almost forgotten that it even happened, but now the police are somehow on to me, and keep asking me questions, insinuating that they are getting closer to the truth. I can't remember the truth.

In the later dreams they have begun exploring the field where I had buried the body, and keep getting closer to the tree where the body is. There are dogs, and shovels.

I have the dooming sense that time is running out: there are undercover police cars across the street in case I attempt to flee. The waiting is excruciating. I do not want to go to prison. Somehow I want it to be a misunderstanding yet I know that I am wrong.

I am wondering if I am going to get caught in a dream to come.

I wake up from these dreams paranoid and disoriented.

I am Laslo.

"How 'Laslo' are you?"

"How 'Laslo' are you?"

1. When you see a lone female pedestrian at night do you stop for her to cross the street, or do you attempt to put her in your trunk?

2. Do you smoke cigarettes out of habit, or do you smoke cigarettes to stay alert and hyper-vigilant for those that could try to attack you at any time?

2. If the police are at your door do you open the door, or do you execute your get-away plan?

3. If you are drunk do you tell people how you REALLY feel, or do you do that anyway?

4. If you see a female stranger crying do you feel empathy, or do you recognize weakness that can be used to get her into the basement?

5. Do you use saws for cutting wood, or have you found 'other' uses for them?

6. Do you believe people are basically good, or do you understand that they would be more useful under your total and utter command?

7. If you left a twenty-dollar bill on the table would you feel disappointed in humanity if someone took it, or would you lie in wait and smash their hand with a hammer?

8. Do you love soft cuddly animals, or are you some kind of cold-hearted freak?

9. If you had the chance, just once, would you eat a human being, or does it depend on the person to be eaten?

10. Do you read Althouse, or do you read Althouse relentlessly?

I am Laslo.


Saturday, December 27, 2014

John Travolta Parks his Car.

It was a few months after that unfortunate Halloween evening when I again ran into John Travolta. I was parking cars at a fancy Los Angeles restaurant, and he pulled up in a Mercedes with what I assumed was an agent or some sort.

"I remember you!" he exclaimed, handing me his keys. "You were that dolphin!"

"Yeah, I was..."

"I STILL think of that night: oh man, what could have been..."

"Yeah, it was a nice party..."

"I'll tell you a little secret..."

"That isn't necessary..."

"I still masturbate about you in that dolphin suit..."

For a brief moment I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere far, far away, but John Travolta kept speaking.

"You know -- jerked off?"

"I'm familiar with what 'masturbate' means, sir..."

"You know, I can hire almost anyone in this town to wear a dolphin suit for me, but you: you were something special."

"I'm glad you remember the party fondly, sir."

"Maybe after my dinner we can get some time together, just you and me, and we can reminisce....

"Sir, I better move your car: Steve Guttenberg is behind you, and he is getting mad."

"Screw Steve Guttenberg! Steve Guttenberg is a freak! You know what that freak is into?"

"I don't need to know, sir..."

"Water sports! Golden showers! And I mean, there's not even someone dressed like a dolphin pissing on him: a dolphin pissing on you -- that's natural, you know what I mean?"

"I understand your words, Mr. Travolta..."

"There isn't even a guy dressed up like a dolphin, it's just young girls..."

"Yes sir..."

"I mean, these young girls come to Hollywood with stars in their eyes, and the next thing they know they are peeing on Steve Guttenberg in some Beverly Hills hotel room, it's wrong, you know?"

"I think so, too, sir..."

"And then he is peeing on THEM, all the while promising them that they'll be in a "Police Academy" sequel with Bobcat Goldthwait, that's fucked up..."

"That is fucked up, sir..."

"You know, he tried to get people in Hollywood to call the act of having two fingers and a thumb inserted into your anus a 'Guttenberg,' can you believe that?"

"Unfortunately I can, sir..."

"Like that never happened in Hollywood before. I was doing that very thing with Gabe Kaplan's thumb way back on the set of 'Welcome Back, Kotter', but did I expect people to call it a 'Travolta'? Or a 'Barbarino', for that matter?"

"I would imagine the answer is 'no,' sir."

"You have to EARN it."

"That would seem to be fair, sir..."

"I've had Dustin Hoffman's Academy Award put up my ass, do I call that a 'Hoffman'?"

"No sir..."

"Well, I DO call it a "Hoffman", you know why?"

"Uh, I don't, sir."

"Why? Because Dustin deserves the Respect."

"Understood, sir..."

"I accepted that Oscar in my ass with HONOR."

"Seems like it would indeed be a very special moment..."

"I bet no self-respecting Oscar winner would EVER put their Oscar in Steve Guttenberg's ass. Except Ben Kingsley, maybe."

"I wouldn't have expected that, sir."

"Oh, Ben is known around Hollywood as a 'piss guy', too -- that's why he took the role in 'Gandhi'."


"You know -- Gandhi. Little Indian dude who liked to drink piss."

"Thank you for connecting those dots, sir."

"By the way: do you still have that dolphin costume?"

"No sir: I burned it."

"That's a shame. I'm sure I can get a girl on the set to make you another one."

"That really isn't necessary, sir, and Mr. Guttenberg is honking..."

"Okay, I'll head inside, but please do me a favor..."

"What would that be sir?"

"Tell the girl with Guttenberg to wear a raincoat..."

After which I quit my job on the spot: the word around the valets was that Guttenberg would talk your ear off...

I am Laslo.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Christmas Memoirs of a Foggy Whore

Christmas Memoirs of a Foggy Whore:

It was 1934 or 1939 maybe, I have trouble with dates, and -- where was I? -- oh yes, it was Christmas in Hollywood, I remember it was Hollywood because of the biscuits. Clark Gable really liked biscuits, I remember that. They said Clark Gable could eat a girl's biscuits all day. Or maybe that was Myrna Loy...

Anyway, it was Errol Flynn, or Tyrone Power, I can't remember which -- one of them had a hand-held movie camera. Well, there was a lot of champagne, and the next thing I know I'm tipsy and being filmed giving Wallace Berry a Christmas 'Carole Lombard'; all the men in Hollywood back then wanted to get 'Carole Lombards', it was quite the thing -- of course, you had to have the eyelashes for it...

Did I mention that Errol Flynn shaved his scrotum? Or maybe that was Tyrone Power: anyway, one of them, I learned that when giving a 'Backwards Betty Boop'. Or maybe it was sideways, which wasn't really a 'Betty Boop' by definition, but everyone knew what everyone meant. Wild times, from what I can remember...

I am Laslo.


Memoirs of a Foggy Whore

Memoirs of a Foggy Whore:
It was 1928 or 1931 maybe, I have trouble with dates, and -- where was I? Oh yes, I was giving the gentleman -- his name escapes me -- I was giving him the "Lindy Propeller" when the Police or the Fire department -- I can't remember which -- came through the door. Or the window. For some reason I remember parakeets being part of the story. I like parakeets, especially the yellow ones. Anyway, it was quite the wild time...

I am Laslo.


Christmas Eve with My Emotional Support Negro.

My Emotional Support Negro and I were enjoying a peaceful Christmas Eve  -- I had my Organic Tea with a touch of almond milk and he had a Grape Soda -- when we heard some loud bangs go off outside.

"Do you think those were gunshots?" I asked.

"Sure, ask the Black Guy if those were gunshots. Cause all black men know the sound of gunshots, it's a street thing, right?"

"That's not what I meant..."

"You think that is how blacks celebrate Christmas Eve, Little Bitch? Smoke some chronic, listen to some Lil Weezy and pop off a few shots?"

"It was probably just some fireworks..."

"Or maybe it was some brothers driving around in an Impala, shooting at Plastic Santas and Candy Cane shit on white people's lawns. I mean, Santa is YOUR boy, not ours."

"What do you mean by that? Christmas isn't about race."

"Little Pussy, Christmas is when white people buy other white people shit they don't need. And drink Egg Nog."

"There's more to it then THAT..."

"Little Bitch, ask some black kids in the hood what your fat-ass jolly white boy brought THEM. No Presents, No Peace, understand me?"

Now, I dislike it when my Emotional Support Negro calls me names like "Little Bitch" and "Little Pussy" but I understand that it is a cultural thing, and it does not necessarily mean he views me with disrespect; as such, I sublimate any hurt feelings that I may have incurred and continue our constructive conversation.

"It isn't all about gifts. It is a time for ALL people to contemplate Peace and Good Will, not just whites."

"Peace and Good Will is a white thing, and then you only preach about it one day out of the year."

"Well, people of every race have their hypocrites..."

"So now you are saying black people are hypocritical, too? C'mon, white boy: mention Al Sharpton to my face, just once."

"I just mean that no one is perfect..."

"I love it when white people say that shit, like it lets them off the hook."

"Maybe I'm not making myself clear..."

"Oh, THAT must be it. Can't be that you're wrong, only that you need to dumb it down for us black people to understand: I get it."

"Maybe we need to just respect each other's cultures --"

"--now you're going to bring up Kwanzaa, aren't you Little Bitch? Every time you whites lose on Christmas you have to bring up Kwanzaa to make yourself look all fair and shit."

"Wait --"

"Did you get me a gift, Little Pussy?"

"As a matter of fact, I did..."

"Is it a Christmas gift or a Kwanzaa gift?"

"Umm, I guess it could be either, really..."

"Ahhh, sticking to your Christmas guns I see. You buy me a Christmas gift and now you're afraid to even call it that..."

"It's a Christmas gift. It's a Christmas gift."

"See, I'm cool with that. Is it a big silver luxury car with a big-ass red bow on the roof?"


"Cause I watch your white people Christmas commercials, and it seems you white people like to buy each other fancy new cars with big-ass bows on top."

"How about you just open it tomorrow. I'm going to get myself another cup of tea..."

"While you're at it can you get me an Egg Nog?"

"Egg Nog? Really?"

"What? Black people can't like Egg Nog? What is it with you white people?"

"It's just fine, I'll get you an Egg Nog."

"And pour some Hennessy in it, will you, Little Bitch? Let's light this Christmas UP..."

Merry Christmas, everyone.

I am Laslo.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Something betamax3000 told me at the bar.

Something betamax3000 told me at the bar:

"The 'Old' End Times lasted nearly two thousand years. We are now in the 'New' End Times. If it's going to End we are closer to it than ever before. Sackcloth and ashes, my friend. Sackcloth and ashes."

"The 'Old' End Times were when God wasn't paying any attention to us, a blink of His eye. Now He has glanced our way again, and the Ant Farm is all Red Ants. Too many Red Ants. When you see it this way the End becomes obvious: too many Red Ants."

"Charles Manson was just about fifty years too early, that's all. Today he wouldn't even be noticed as extreme, much less evil, and the 'X' on his forehead would be a Signifier of the Believers, like a Che shirt or a Guy Fawkes mask. What he preached wouldn't be seen as crazy, it'd be Authentic, man: the Church of Red Ants, hanging on his every word..."

I am Laslo.


Friday, December 19, 2014

Naked Stalker at the Nudist Resort.

I secretly watch you from across the resort pavilion. You laugh and smile and then frolic in the pool: oh, how I imagine what you would look like with clothes on. Your naked breasts would look so alluring in a slinky red dress; your ass would be a thing of mystery almost-revealed in yoga pants. As I watch you I feel the sun-warmed plastic chair against my naked scrotum. I am your Naked Stalker.

You kneel by the pool adjusting your towel and I am torn asunder by jealousy: everyone can catch a brief glimpse of your asshole exposed to the skies above -- it is not mine, alone. How I wish you were wearing frilly lace panties, panties that would contain the Mystery and the Wonder: sweat rolls down my back and slips between my naked buttocks. I am your Naked Stalker.

A naked brunette with a tattoo on her hip is applying sunscreen to your back and buttocks. Oh, how I have pictured this sensuous moment before, but with you delightful girls in revealing red and blue bikinis. I see how the other men surreptitiously glimpse this scene and I despair: this should be my moment, alone: I am the one for you. My naked erection is hidden by the picnic table. I am your Naked Stalker.

As you lay naked in the sun I see you have a mole on your right breast: In my mind's eye I have never pictured that. Indeed, I would never have seen that until you undressed before me, your clothes falling to the floor in my bedroom. I can't stop looking at the mole. I am naked on a plastic chair, sweating, and I can't stop looking at the mole. I wish I had not seen this so soon. I am your Naked Stalker.

From a distance I follow you into the cafeteria. You choose a salad and I can't help but picture that Ranch Dressing dripping onto your delightful breasts. Your delightful naked breasts with a mole. Ranch Dressing on the mole. A mole that would've been covered by a slinky red dress, a mole that would've been hidden as you went brazenly bra-less under a fitted white shirt. I leave the cafeteria before my groin betrays me. I am your Naked Stalker.

Oh, if but once you were to look my way, me, naked, looking at you: you would feel the electricity that connects us; you would see that I have trimmed my pubic hair for you. I am your Naked Stalker.

I had expected that you trimmed your pubic hair, but I did not imagine you would be completely shorn. I miss the City, and its stealthy peeks up the demure skirts of the women commuting on the bus. I am your Naked Stalker.

I am Laslo.


Thursday, December 18, 2014

'Dark Cherry Taint.'

New scents for Febreze, specifically for nudist resorts: 

'Soft Backside Breeze.'

'Passion Fruit Butt Mango.'

'Deep Mocha Mudslide.'

'Hazelnut Scrotum.'

'Fresh=Pressed Vaginal Lemon and Vinegar.'

'Dark Cherry Taint.'

'Tropic Ass.'

and, of course,

'Wiggle Berry.'

I am Laslo.


How could I forget "That-Time-Of-The-Month Raspberry'?

Consider it unforgotten.

I am Laslo.


Wednesday, December 17, 2014

To Comment or Not to Comment.


I've now had several deletions. Went back to the Althouse Post's comments: a lot of Talking Points going back-and-forth, interspersed with some good insights.

Perhaps a post of mine on "The Unbearable Lightness of Deletion" will come...

I am Laslo.

The Word is 'Grapefruit'.

The problem of the nuances of 'no': I submit that all of America has a safe-word, and that word is 'grapefruit.' 

as in:

Prosecutor: "Did the accuser ever say the word 'no'?"

Defendant: "Well, she said 'no', then she said 'yes', then she said 'no', then she said 'suck my toes', so it got pretty confusing..."

Prosecutor: "Did the accuser ever say the word 'grapefruit'?

Defendant: (long pause) "Yes... she said 'grapefruit'."

Prosecutor: "I rest my case."

Those who happen to incorporate grapefruit in their sexual activities will need to refer to the grapefruit by another word. Not every system is perfect.

I am Laslo.


ADDED: Althouse has deleted this comment.

Frankly, I don't get it. In her post she quotes Professor Suk:

"When I teach rape law... I focus on cases that test the limits of the rules.... We ask questions like: How should consent or non-consent be communicated?"

I am assuming Althouse felt this was off-target, or riffing. I believe she gave it a perfunctory reading, and did not look deeper -- what she often accuses her readers of doing with her writing.

 Note: number one, I did not make any obvious jokes about 'Professor Suk's name in relation to rape, or any sexual activity. The urge was there, but THAT would be riffing. Anyway.

I honestly thought this comment was a valid take on the subject at hand, and poked at the sanctimonious word games that grow more convoluted every day in regards to this issue.

I was responding, in satire, to the "How should consent or non-consent be communicated?" statement, and the overall issue of what constitutes consent, or the lack thereof. The idea that saying 'no' may be too much for a person, or somehow misconstrued,  led me to 'what alternative' can there be, realistically?

The idea that the 'S&M World' might hold the clue was intentional, being that it is a highly structured format of sexuality with understood rules. Althouse could probably do something with that, if she had made the connection.

I am Laslo.

ADDED: In response to my comment (before it was deleted) was:

Bob Boyd said...
Laslo, you put the rape in grapefruit.

I am assuming this comment will be removed, too, since it is in response to a deleted comment. Thought I would attach it here.

I am Laslo.

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