The Pina Colada Song.

The Pina Colada song is an awful song. Have you actually listened to the lyrics? It's about two people who are together, but have never taken the time to actually learn about each other. It's tragic, for example, that they're together, unhappy, and that he doesn't even know that she loves pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, and that she's not into yoga and likes the taste champagne. Has she never told him? Has he never asked? Why are they even together? Moreover, why are they not upset when they run into each other after both have tried to cheat on each other? This is not a song about second chances. This is a reflection of most marriages there days -- short on communication, and heavy on resentment.

This is a song I do not relate to. I make sure that my partner knows exactly what I'm thinking, nearly all the time. Sometimes to my detriment.

Semen.

I hate semen.

Seriously. When I'm done with sex, I do this awesome gravity-defying thing to avoid getting it on my sheets. I mean, who wants to sleep on the wet spot? It's uncomfortable. Despite my avoidance, it always squishes out and runs down the inside of my thigh by the time I've darted to the bathroom after my amazing post-coital acrobatic feats of agility and grace. Sometimes it even makes an awesome not-quite-queef-but-definitely-fart-like noise as it seeps out. This is why I like being on top. When I'm done, I take the penis out of me and let the semen drip into Mr. Vixen (who is none-too-pleased, but puts up with it), at which point he grabs the cum towel from beside the bedside table. Unless he's left it next to his computer.

Life is much easier this way.

Pithy sayings.

Anyone who knows me knows that I cannot stand pithy sayings. This is why I would do horribly with any sort of 12-step programs. "It works if you work it" makes me want to stick ice picks into my pupils. "One day at a time" makes my stomach turn. "If you don't master your fear, your fear will master you" makes me want to invade a small town with a machine gun. And I'm a pacifist.

More importantly, though, is that most of these pithy sayings are blatantly false. Let's examine a few, shall we?

Treat others the way you would want to be treated.
I want people to be straight up and honest with me. If I ask, "Do these pants make me look fat?" and they actually do, in fact, make me look fat, I damned well wanna know about it. I want people to treat me respectfully, sure, but I don't want them to pussyfoot around like a bunch of waffling douchebags. I'd rather someone be bitchy than be superficially sweet and friendly -- at least those who are bitchy have a little edge, a little depth. If I treated people the way I want to be treated, I would have no friends. I'm more abrasive than most folks; an acquired taste. I understand that, which is why I treat people the way they want to be treated, not the way I might want to be treated if in the same situation.

If someone else jumped off a bridge, you wouldn't do the same, would you?
Hell yes I would. Jumping off a bridge is a fucking good time. A rollicking good time, even. Fun for the whole family. I mean, it would depend on the bridge, or course, and the water beneath it, the tides, how fast it was moving, and all sorts of other factors. But I certainly wouldn't foreclose the possibility of jumping off a bridge. I've seen others jump off a bridge before, and you know what I did? I did it, too. Then I swam to the shore and did it two more times. If I had the chance, I'd do it again.

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
Yes it does. Bacon. Bacon tastes as good as thin feels. The next person who tells me that nothing tastes as good as thin feels is getting my foot shoved up his or her ass. Seriously.

Things that annoy me.

In no particular order:

(1) Dunkin' Donuts' doughnuts. They always look better than they actually taste. Even if I have but a Munchkin, I am left thinking, "I wasted my time on this???" Once upon a time, they were made on premises. It seems those days are long gone, with little to show by way of quality doughnuts. Shame on you, Dunkin'. I shall be forced to purchase my confections elsewhere. (In fairness, I can't remember the last time I purchased a doughnut; someone brought some into work today, so I tried one. Meh.)

(2) Judges who don't understand the rules of evidence. It's one thing to put your thumb on the scale in order to favor the prosecution. I get that. I'm used to that. It's irritating, but not so bothersome as to cause fits of spavins and heaves. However, I had a judge actually say, sitting as tryer-of-fact, "If you're going to enter this in not for the truth of the matter asserted, you may as well be entering in a blank piece of paper, as I'm not going to read it." The evidence in question was a written statement, entered only to show that the statement was made and available to a certain individual. It was relevant to show how the individual responded upon receiving it. Surely, one would think reading it would be necessary. But not this judge. He just decided to create an appellate issue. For fun!

(3) Taylor Swift.

Married and dating.

I miss dating.

Every time I hear a single friend of mine going on and on about the flutters and fabulousness of new lust, I find myself envious. Thus, I set out to get back to dating.

I find, however, that it is hard to date while married. Every now and then I'll try platonic dating. Ya know, meeting new people, making new friends, getting out more. I need to get out more and I love people, so it always seems like a good idea. Because I find that most women are whiny, co-dependent wretches, I tend to gravitate towards hanging out with men. They appreciate my rape jokes more anyway.

I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that men do not understand what "platonic" means. The single ones want to fuck. The married ones want to fuck. The gay ones, not so much, but there's only so much Lady Gaga a girl can listen to in one sitting. And one of my gay guy friends actually did ask me to have sex with him, just to "try it out" with someone he trusted. Frankly, with my track record for monogamy being what it is (i.e, I completely suck at it), it's likely better not to tempt fate anyway.

So after discussing the issue with Mr. Vixen, we decided to start dating together. Having long since been involved in the swingers community starting at the tender age of 22, it wasn't difficult to convince him to jump in. Okay, so it was extremely difficult. Damned scruples. But I digress.

Our standards were high. We are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals. We sought the same. That was our first problem. Following that, we refused to deal with other people's crazy. In case you were unsure, swingers are fucking insane. They're usually trying to fix their marriages, and swinging is the step taken to do so before the more permanent "solution" of procreating.

Due to our high standards, our online swingers profile read thusly:

Turn-ons: polysyllaby, creativity, good grammar, musical and artistic talent, proper spelling, dry wit, emotional stability, sense of humor, curiosity, politesse and general etiquette, a love of good food, aptitude with tongue and fingers, extended foreplay.

Turn-offs (you will be ignored if you display the following traits): ppl who rite txtspk, tipe porely or mispel comon werds, rabid demands for sex now Now NOW!, cheating on a significant other (with or without sound rationalization), those looking to fill the void of their banal existence, those who in ANY way involve their children in the lifestyle (again, with or without sound rationalization).

Polyamorous? We're not. Nor are we interested. Ever. Why? We're still trapped in the conformist monogamist mindset and prone to jealousy because instead of spending several hours discussing the minutiae of our relationship and our "feelings" we watch true-crime documentaries on MSNBC. And really, teenage vampire-cult killings interest us far more than justifying our inability to commit to another person.

Our ideal people would not send us photos of their gaping orifices. Neither of us find gynecological and/or rectal exams terribly sexy, and though intellectually fascinating in an isn't-the-human-body-cool sort of way, we tend to reserve such musing for less lusty moments.

And as a perhaps-surprising addendum to the above, photos of your penises, gentlemen, are not likely to convince us that what we've really been missing all along in our sex-lives is a second protuberance, and that yours would make the perfect addition.

Be aware that single-sentence requests for face pics or to set up a meeting do not merit the dignity of a reply: not even one of our trademark devastating, witty, and clever retorts (ie, "you're a poopstick.") Sorry, but if you want a glimpse of our faces or a chance to meet in person, you'll have to introduce yourself and get to know us first. We know, the suspense is terrifying; I mean, we might be ugly, and then you'll have had an email conversation that didn't lead to sex. Really, we're selfish to demand you type more than "got pics?", but hey... we're evil. We're the reason you can't have nice things.

Bi-Curious? Ask yourself: if my boyfriend/husband/man were not watching me go down on this chick, would I still be interested in doing it? If yes, then perhaps you are genuinely questioning your sexual orientation at this time.

If no, please ask your man to smoke another guy's pole for your viewing enjoyment. After all, fair is fair.

We were in! Because, as I previously stated, we are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals, we got a pretty steady amount of inquires coming in. Most, we didn't bother responding to. Nope, not even our trademark and witty retort, "You are a poopstick." Many were written in text speak. Many reeked of crazy. Many were by people who were, well, really unattractive.

We met a handful of couples during our year-long experiment, and the dating was, indeed, fun. We had but one rule: No fucking on the first date. Other than that, it was a free-for-all of our combined personalities. Me, the coarse, brash, over-the-top and often inappropriate instigator. (I am "somewhat of an acquired taste," Mr. Vixen tells me, albeit "a bit more subdued" than usual.) Him, the shy, cynical, dry, quick-witted intellectual elitist. (Mr. Vixen insists that he is cynical in the "classical sense," but not in the way our society now understand the word. Reasonable people may disagree on this sentiment.)

We scared people off. One couple actually downshifted into small talk and asked me about my favorite books, which sent me into a discourse upon how John Irving films are crap as compared to his books, and how I've never forgiven John Grisham since reading The Painted House.

Sometimes, people scared us off. Like the loquacious librarian who drunkenly confessed she would sleep with anyone, and then began describing an unsavory scenario involving a first-time meeting with someone else's husband and a bout of vaginal discharge. Contrary to popular belief, I do think there are certain things people ought to keep to themselves.

A few couples were fun and we got along swimmingly with them. However, trying to navigate schedules when it came to other people's children (we don't have any ourselves, nor do we plan to) was tiresome. And so, despite many invitations for more scintillating activities, Mr. Vixen and I spent most of our time at home, watching MSNBC documentaries about teenage vampire cults.

As for me, I began to realize that maybe there's something to be said for not having to date people after all.

True confessions of a Snot Eater.

I eat my own snot.

There. I said it. And it's true. I suppose it's something I should be ashamed of, but I maintain that if we weren't supposed to eat our own snot, then the body would not produce something so delicious. It's also quite amazing that we've found a way to survive on our own substances. It's not cannibalism. Not quite. It's more like drinking milk from a cow. Stranded on a desert island, would you rather die or subsist on your own mucousy goodness? Sorry, but if given that choice, I'm gonna go for the snot every time.

Not only do I eat my own snot, but I bite my nails. After I get those wonderful little half-moons off, I chew on them. For hours. I twist them around in my mouth, I chase them with my tongue, and eventually, I bite them into tiny, tiny, microscopic bits. Sometimes, I run out of finger nails to chew on. This, of course, is not a problem. When there are no fingernails left, I move on to my toenails. Before you "eeew" at me, consider how sexy it is that I can get my foot into my mouth. Yeah. I'm that good.

I do draw the line, of course. I do not eat other people's snot, nor do I bite other people's nails. Upon reflection, I don't suppose it would be all that awful. I mean, I've swallowed semen. I've had other people's tongues in my mouth. Feet aren't my thing, but if I met someone who was really into it, I don't suppose I'd be beyond suckling someone's big toe.

So I don't understand why people get grossed out by, say, sweat. At the gym. Or sitting down someplace in a skirt after some guy sat there before you. Have you never traced your lover's neck or bicep or chest with your tongue? There's all sorts of sweat there. And don't even get me started on the musky aromatic scents of male in the testicle region.

I am left with a simple conclusion: Women who freak out about germs and are easily grossed out are prudes. I am unashamed of my snot-eating. Nay, I embrace my snot-eating. After all, if a chick puts snot in her mouth, you can't even begin to imagine all the other kinky shit she'll do for you.

A note on politics.

Canada is everything the U.S. aspires to be.

Joys of lemon.

Many moons ago, I told you about Citrus Dude, who used and abused citrus fruit. He, for some odd reason, also put a hair clip on his balls. Why? Some questions are best left unanswered. I did not share the photo before, but I feel compelled to now. And so, without any further ado, I bring you, the Lemon Penis.

I never thought I would see a more embarrassed lemon than the one on Citrus Dude's manly protuberance. Look at it. So sad. So alone. So, so violated.

And then I discovered this old Weight Watchers recipe card from the 1970s, back when folks were encouraged to eat liver and make their own ketchup.

Salmon mousse. With lemons.

The citrus humiliation begins anew.