Yes, I am alive.

    Next week is my birthday.  I will be 2 years away from 30 and 7 years away from the age people think I am, It'll be great.  I don't put much weight on my birthdays these cause well I don't need the extra calories.  That was a dumb joke and it will be completely understandable if you stop reading now as a result.  Every year I try to make plans for it with new goals, new problems and new jokes.  The goals part will hopefully be this year's focus.  

   I have been home from work for a few weeks which has really given me time to reflect on the past month, year and 6 seasons of the Roseanne.  I am home because earlier this month I was hit by a car while crossing the street.  Obviously have been writing so things could have been a lot worse.  One could never be as thankful as I am to be okay.  The with mostly minor injuries, I did injure my foot.  This has kept me home, elevating my foot and in a walking cast for a few weeks which sucks.

   After a good 200 episodes of I don't know what I watched, 5 pints of ice cream, 45 cookies, one half-gallon of ice cream, 1 milk-shake, 25 boring pain-killers, 15 pain-killers that worked, 4 PB&Js, 5 comedy specials, 2 gallons of tears, 2 torn pairs of jeans, 8 hours of staring at my computer screen tried to think of what to write, 18 lack-luster poos, 72 eye-rolls and 9 arguments, only at this moment am I am starting to feel better. 

     I am starting to feel like returning to life.  Strange how split seconds change your life.  I would like to say that this accident has changed my life cause it has, but would like to be smooth enough to know in what way.  I have this keen desire to sit, smoke, eat, poop, do nothing all day and feel sorry for myself.  I also have a keen desire to get over myself and do something amazing.  I guess there is something more amazing than dressing up my dog in different outfits and making her walk my couch like it's a runway.  I am going to work on self publishing my blog now.  Been meeting with people who  can help on the topic all week.  Any ideas or suggestions?

     

Learn to be a man. chapter 21

Chapter 21.

I was a quiet, soft-spoken child.  Things like trick-or-treating, would often be a chore for me.  It’s not that I didn’t like the excuse to stuff my face for night with an actual reason, cause that part I still love.  I didn’t speak to strangers, stuffed animals or much to anyone really unless I had to.  If spoken to, my responses would be quiet little mumbles.  Halloween was no different.  I would get to the door, clam up and speak quietly.  As they would open the door, I would start out saying “trick-O” and would fade to a volume frequency only audible to dogs and rodents Miss Cleo.  My father often would be a few feet behind me chain-smoking his Benson Ultra-Lights, cause it was the late 80s and everyone was health conscious then.  He would be glancing at his watch, because he wanted to make it home in time for a Charles Bronson movie which he had seen a million times, that was going to be on tv that night.  He would then try to record the movie off the TV, so that he could improve on the last recording of the same movie.  Since most of the VHS-cassettes in our house were recordings of various movies of the week on T.V., I was 12 before I realized “freak you” was not a part of any of these original scripts.  I was 18 when I realized that there was a scene in “Grease” where they mooned the camera.

On a side note, my father made it his duty to make sure he would show me what it meant to be a man, like other fathers.  Unfortunately he wasn’t sure exactly what it was that men did, so he used TV as an aid.  He would make me watch Bronson, Norris, Eastwood, Stalone and any other machismo bullshit hero crap he could dig up.  He would also make me watch Tyson fights on a constant loop, because that apparently taught a young boy how to be a man.  He also made me watch every Eddie Murphy movie cause my father loved him.  Tyson on a loop just made me want to hang out with Robyn Gibbons.

 Back to the story at hand, while exhaling his Benson Ultra-light, he would come from his cloud of smoke, in his harsh Russian accent, say to me, “speak up, if you don’t they won’t hear you.”  This was his fatherly way or at least the closest to that role I ever knew him.  This would in turn make me blush, grab the candy and walk away with my head low.  Actually, until the age of 12 or 13 that was my father’s response to every sentence that came out of my mouth.

In school I would sit as far to the back of the classroom as possible.  This way I would avoid getting asked questions.  I would sit quietly until called upon or picked on.  Being a little, chubby boy, with a big head, pinkish-white skin so light that you could see my veins, huge eyes and a weird Russian name didn’t help my cause either.  I kind of resembled a caricature until I eventually grew into my huge head years later.  I looked like a real life Charlie Brown without the friends.  My name, Yuri, for some reason only got me associated with stupid nicknames and bodily functions that didn’t help my child-self much either.  To American children my name for some reason sounded like the word “Urine.”  On the first day of school, the torment would always begin once the teacher would take role and attempt to say my name, stumble and then spell it out.  They would then proceed to compliment me on how unique I was at the time.  While as an adult, the sentiment could be understood, to a child, this was anything but a compliment.  To me, the concept of being different was like being telling me that I was an alien and proved what I had knew all along, that I didn’t belong.

            

           Aside from being simply an awkward kid, I also had two left feet.  While many boys were inclined to go play soccer ball or basket during recess I would often be found playing house or simply chatting it up with the girls.  Oddly, every game of house would end in divorce and me leaving.  I watched a lot of “Thirty Something” with my mom.  I became ridiculously good at making macramé friendship bracelets and lanyards.  I had few friends besides my cousin Nicole to give them too, who was in the same grade and equally as awkward as myself.  By the end of the third grade, my mom had so many of them she began to re-gift them to other relatives.  The bracelets were so ugly that she had to share in the wealth.

While I didn’t have all that much desire to actually do physical activity, it was more so that I hated being picked last for games.  For a fat kid, being picked last was pretty much the normal routine and always uncomfortable.  Often, while lining up during PE for game like flag football I would wait to see the kids argue over who would be stuck with me on their team.  I would sit there thinking about how much I didn’t understand the reason we were forced to run like barbarians and steal flags off of each other and compete so much.  The goal of this game made no damned sense to me.  Then, each and every time without fail there would be this kid. Always some cocky moot, kid that would see me staring past them and then yell, “hey, stop staring at me.” The truth was that my eyes seemed to take up half my head in those days and it probably looked to a lot of people like I was staring at them even if I wasn’t.   This would escalade to “that fag’s looking at me.”  I never really understood this phenomenon.  If I was or wasn’t looking at them, why would it matter?  I didn’t even know what a fag was I figured it was some sort of bug or something.  That was the ironic thing about growing up with Russian parents, when they got angry, it was in Russian and pretty much never in English.  I had no role model to learn “bad” words from.  I didn’t know that “fuck” could mean more than just the act of penetration and made for a good adjective that would come in handy later. There were a lot of things I didn’t know then.  What made me more odd was that I never had the inclination to fight back, verbally or physically.  I would kind of just stand there.  After a while they would lose interest and drop their stupid vendetta of how my big eyes needed to stay to themselves because I would bore them.

           

             While I was a slightly pudgy little meatball of a boy, I didn’t notice that I was much different from the other boys.  This was until, during recess, at the age of 9 or 10, I lined up with all the other kids to play basketball.  As I got up to see if the kids playing would let me join their group, this little, Monica Tedesco yelled out to me 2 words that I will never forget.  She asked me if I ever though of “thigh master.”  This was when Susanne Sommers was selling that shit like hotcakes.  Then I imagined myself trying to use one of those things and got confused.  Instead of yelling back at the little jerk, I just walked away.  No fighting back, not jokes about her legs resembling 2 lines of rope or being as skinny as extension chords.  No come back.  I just walked away.

            My whole life my father would always ask me, hey been in any good fights lately?  I would always respond the same way. No.  He used to force me to spar with him now and again because as he put it, “you always want to be able to protect yourself and your girlfriend,” assuming that I would have one.  I had no desire to throw punches at anyone.  I saw myself as the Nelson Mandela of the 4^th grade.  He would always be disappointed in my lack of desire for these fights.  Whenever guys would pick fights with me, I would just talk my way out of it or simply make an effort not to react.  This was when I realized that I could talk my way out of many battles.

            

              By the 6^th grade I made it without ever really getting into any major fights.  When guys would pick fights with me, I would change the topic just as I had done in the earlier years.  I figured talking fast and changing topics would simply confuse these macho retards and deflect their desire to pulverizing me.  When I entered junior high I still elected to stay quiet most of the time.  When I would get teased or told I was a fag, I would listen and every once in a while actually talk back.  My comebacks were weak but confusing for the average 12-year old.  While they would simply shout out “fag” or “Yuri, what a fag name.” I would come back a minute later, not understanding the word “what is a fag? You would obviously know. What’s the definition?”  They would look so confused that I didn’t take their shout as an insult often they would walk away in their own bewilderment.  I would answer everything with a question this actually got me out of these messes most of the time.

            

              By high school I simply didn’t give a shit anymore.  While I was still soft spoken, my quietness turned to talking without words more often.  My actions spoke louder.  Around junior year of high school I already was working a full week with school and my part time job I didn’t care anymore.  The thing is that by this point, the years of not fighting back had caught up with me.  I had this pent up anger against bullies and those who had treated me badly over the years.  Eventually this would turn to an obsessive compulsive eating problem which later lead to and obsessive-compulsive gym addiction.  This was because as I have said many times before, food shall always equal love.  While I would like to blame myself for these issues, it would be easier to keep the blame on those put me down for years as a child.  In return for those years of quietness I became a talker.  I became loud.  I learned to speak for my beliefs and stand up for those who couldn’t.  As much pain as the silence covered up, I am thankful for all that happened to me, both good and bad.  Being unique, fat and different made me a better person at least that is what my mother told me.

The LURKERS... booo!

Chapter 20.  The LURKERS.

In San Francisco, “people watching” becomes sport.  It’s far more entertaining with a drink in hand or maybe that’s just a personal preference.  SF is the perfect place for anyone on a budget just sit, observe and judge.  Actually, the last one is not necessary, but making up stories for the strangers you’re watching is always fun.  There are countless different kinds of people who come into gay bars, all for different reasons.  There are the straight women who come to the bar thinking it’s a safe-haven from creeps.  There are the straight guys who have become aware of the straight-female’s-gay bar patron’s reasoning and use it as a chance to search for tail.  There are the guys who hang out at the bar day in and day out, which begs the question of how the fuck do these guys just hangout all day drinking?  If so, how do they function?  There is one group though that intrigues me almost as much as an entire episode of “Living Single” used to.  Watching this one group in particular never ceases to amaze me.  I like to call this group the “lurkers.”

            We all have seen them, or at times met, or may even be lurkers ourselves, though few will ever admit it.  These men and or women can be observed in their natural habitat, the bar.  Here is where they often live. They hide in the shadows because that’s where they feel comfort.  It doesn’t hurt that these guys are often on the ugly side so the dark is their friend or they look like a nice peach that went off where you can see that they once were attractive but now it’s just a hologram.  There are two types of lurkers.  One is the pure-alcoholic type.  They can bee seen sitting there for 8-10 hours at a time going unnoticed to the untrained bar-going-eye.  They have been known to drink enough to kill any two-for-one special and challenge the human body’s limits with alcohol consumption.  I have personally observed one of these guys, a lurker kill at least 10 cocktails on his own without leaving his perch in the dark corner of the bar. When ordering his last round, he doesn’t even stumble, trip or anything. Aside from the bad breath, one would never know he has been drinking.  The ways of a lurker baffle the mind.

There is a second type of lurker.  This type is the post-rehab type.  They are often accompanied by countless redbulls, which they drink interchangeably with mineral waters and plain non-alcoholic beverages.  They too can drink enough redbull to give the average person a heart attack, but seem un-phased.  I assume that they hearts are still going from the mounds of blow or whatever it was that these guys did back in the day.  The redbull is the kick they need to keep going.  They too are astonishing because they can sit for hours and go unnoticed…  They somehow blend into the wallpaper.  Both types of lurkers have similarities.  Some wear clothing that would be better suited for their children, nieces or nephews, the type of shit someone may buy at the gap or Miller’s OutPost or Mervin’s (I don’t think that those stores are even still in business).  Others dress in the blan, Wal-Mart-type of solids to help camouflage better in the bar shadow terrain. They sit, sip wait, move fast, swift and quietly once they have found their prey.  These wallflowers look for any hint of attention or a warm body to feast upon and presumably suck the youth out of, like the witches in the movie “Hocus Pocus.”  Although, I am sure that the entertainment value is lost without Bette Midler and her semantics.

When I first start working at the bar, I too never notice the lurkers who are sitting in the shadows.  Some of them are even stationary during my whole shift, just watching my every move and observing my every mannerism.  The day comes when I watch this cute little twink get ambushed for the first time.  I’m sure this observation is similar to Jane Goodall’s with the chimps but less safe.  At least chimps can’t have annoying voices that get higher and more annoying with ever shot the way some men I’ve met do.  I watch the interaction in amazement, as I am not really sure what is going on in the interaction with the twink.  This kid is the “barely legal type,” who just turned 21 or at least that is what he says and how he presents himself.  He has the body of a young boy, and is so thin that I just want to feed him a sandwich to give him the strength to run from this trap.  After a few rounds, his friends grow tired of the mid-afternoon ghost town that Monday happy hours often are.  Before I know it, this kid is, more F- up than Courtney love at an open bar.  It’s too late for this kid now.  He has no idea what he is in for.  It’s like watching one of those horror flicks where we all know what Is going to happen and want to yell at the bitch running from the killer to just shoot herself in the leg and get it over with…  Within seconds, like a vampire, this lurker has swooped in to catch his prey, the poor, soft skinned, rail-thin twink.  Within seconds Mr. Lurker, gestures for another energy drink from the bartender.  He then smiles at the child/boy.  To which, the kid respond with an innocent, “hey.”  Again I want to tell him to run, but it’s not my place.

One word with these lurkers and one is stuck.  They it becomes hard to walk or even talk away.  Then they start to spin their rhetorical web around the guys they meet and make their prey. 

Now, Mr. Lurker unbuttons the top of his Abercrombie shirt, to show his freshly wax, tann, liver-spott chest, complimented by a pookah-shelled necklace from Miller’s Outpost.  He offers the boy a birthday shot.  Within seconds of the shot, Mr. Lurker has the boy gathering his stuff as he offers this child a ride home. Hand in hand, and they are off.

This companionship can start out with a shot, an ear to talk to, or a hand to hold.  The reasons for needing this type of companionship very I suppose.  Within the time that it takes for a martini to be made, the lurkers can get a hold of their prey.  Often their prey for the evening are so drunk or lonesome by this point, they are easy to hypnotize.  They are ready to leave the bar with anyone who gives them the slightest bit of attention.  Soon, the lurkers are gone with their new pet/flavor/toy/friends of the evening.

            There is another lurker, who I on occasion have the privilege of watching work on many occasions.  Once in a while, he will parch himself at the very end corner of the bar.  He is a rather large, depressingly unattractive fellow.  To paint the picture a bit better, the man looks like a male version of Nell Carter as a man, with a mustache.  He somehow always finds ways to sit there for hours going unseen.  He also, will always come alone and then find a way to leave with enough boys to make Tonka jealous. 

            This lurker in particular will drink couvoisier, or a “beautifuls” (couvoisier, with a touch of Grand Marnier) seemingly by the gallon.  Often this type of drink is ordered by they type of fellow who idolizes Puff Daddy and others who may be found on a yacht pouring champagne on bitches.  This man is not a one of cheap taste, in that regard, but cheap clothing.  This one will catch dudes from all walks, young jocks, twinks, average handsome joes, right before the drink to blackout.  He always tries to hold my hand when I am whipping the counter near him, as I move away, he then tells me that he can buy me a bar… I respond and say, I will buy my own.  He then smiles and responds “precious,” you’re just too smart and beautiful for me.”

After numerous drinks, he will take out a few $100 dollar bills, set it on the bar.  He then proceeds to offer the guy and or his friends a round of top-shelf shots.  I watch this gravy-train unfold each and every time into a plain old shit-show.  These poor saps will soon be off with Mr. Lurker.  Like the Hamburgler with a sack of burgers, Mr. Lurker’ too will leave with a car full of blacked out, hot, dumb, young faggy boys, fill with enough alcohol, that they could probably start a fire with as little as a burp.

bit im working?

     A few weeks ago I was babysitting my nephew.  He is almost 2 years-old.  I love how honest he is. Kids are so honest before they learn to lie.  He runs around and says exactly what he is thinking.

When he's mad he runs around with his arms in the air saying, "Mikie mad."

When he does that, you know to stay the fuck out of his way.  It's brilliant.  I wish adults did that.  Get to work and your office mate passes you in the hall, "john over talking about the weather, and your fucking kids."

Or when guy's are horny instead of playing a mental game they just walk around saying, "horny".  This way wives know when to avoid their husbands.

I love and respect honesty because I don't know how to do it.  None of us do.  Whoever said, "honesty is the best policy" was a putz.  We can't say that when Botox is a muli-million dollar business.

We are taught to lie from a young age.  Go for dinner with your parents and have to lie about your age to get the kids-meal until your 15. I did it.

Go to an interview, we are expected to lie.  At an interview when asked, "where do you see yourself in 10 years," what do we say?

Never do we say, "hopefully suicide won't take" or "high up enough in a company to fire your ass." You know, the truth.

Never has anyone gotten laid by telling the truth!  Women have though bought the "I'm allergic to latex" bullshit for generations.

I think that is why straight men are jealous of gay men.  Cause when we look at your girlfriends we can tell them what they really look like in their jeans.

Lets be honest with ourselves about the face that we love to lie and even more to get lied to.  So the next time a kid tells you, "honesty is the best policy" tell them to mind their own business and punch 'em.

Chapter 19, 15lb later

 These days I’m going out pretty often.  I've been seen out at gay bars more often than Margaret Cho.  If I’m not in school pretending to get educated, I am at work. If I’m not at either of those, I am generally out and about meeting people.  I seem to be making up for lost time.  I was never a social butterfly growing up.  I was more of a caterpillar that loved staying home and eating hot pockets, while watching crap TV and living vicariously through various sitcoms and after-school specials.  My true entrance into adult-hood, bars, really the essence of growing up, has been much different than others I know.  Instead of putting a toe in the water, I dived straight into this social pool. A word of advice to those in my place: when jumping into a gay pool, bring lots of hand sanitizer.  This may come in handy later.   Also, word to the wise, wait 30 minutes after eating before diving into any gay social circles, you’ll look leaner.  Actually, my action here can best be described as a belly flop, one of those ones that while funny to watch, but sounds painful and makes all the water jump out of the pool and soak all around. Most people seem to get inducted into this scene slowly, via a fake ID and years of fermenting one’s young liver in cheap rubbing alcohol. For me, being the late bloomer that I am, I have developed that nurturing relationship with the scene a little later and much faster. I have this odd feeling like I have a lot of catching up to do.

I feel like the kid that got Mono in high school and missed a semester as a result and stayed out of the loop until graduation, but I was just a loner instead. One day, out of nowhere I am just there working right in the middle of a huge gay bar, in the middle of everything. While my post-teen counterparts get their pick of nights to go out Thursday-Sunday, these are when I generally have to work. I have never done the whole lets meet up and go out every Saturday night thing. My times to go out are the opposite of the norm for kids my age. Every week I do though end up going out, just not on that particular schedule. Actually, I go out pretty much any time I am not at work, school or sleeping. My days off are different every single week. My nights out are always different. Now when I do have a weekend night off, I have no idea what to do because I am so out of touch with the land of the living.

The Leo in me loves the attention that I get when going out and being seen. It makes me feel like a star, when I have lived my life as a shadow. Being noticed is so surreal that it makes me feel not necessarily attractive, but more so that it makes me feel like a different person, a character much cooler than the guy I am. I have never been known for being the attractive guy.  I have never felt like him although I have imagined feeling him, but that’s for another book.  I am also comfortable with the reality that I don’t have to be that guy.  People that rely too much on their looks seem to be crazy as old people and not in the fun-fart all the time and telling pull my finger jokes way.  They seem to have a tough time learning how everyone else does things, working, using our brains and not getting free drinks for being beautiful.  In life there are often two types of people, we all have met them, the pretty peeps who rely on their looks to get by and the brains.  Sometimes, a brains type can become the pretty type, but they work for it hard, they work to get noticed and acknowledged. The strategy as to how they live their lives is much different. People admire the brains for their character, their charisma and more so their words are taken more seriously because we all understand their struggle.

Now, when I go out for some reason I am getting noticed for working at the bars. I assume it’s because I have no shame, I will talk to anyone and not censor what I am thinking. I can pretend that I get noticed for me, but it’s more because they recognize me from the bar. There are complete strangers who treat me as though they know me and it’s odd. It’s a mixed bag of feeling adored and being skeptical of these stranger’s motives. The question remains, is it me or something else they are looking for? It’s like all of a sudden this all is happening and I don’t get what’s changed. My character hasn’t changed, just my outside has and my confidence level is higher.

I am not someone who ever did the spin the bottle or the experimental teen phase.  At least not with anyone else. While many other kids were learning social and sexual education during teen years, I just sat and seemed to let that phase pass me by. I watched a lot of TV. By a lot, I mean that I know way too much about television from 1986-1997 than one should. This in part lead to my obsession with Rider Strong and his floppy hair. I loved him and wanted to have long, grungy hair that flopped all over like his. My jewfro just bounces....        TV was my date often and depression was my friend. At one point in my teenhood I defected to be and just hide amongst theater loving, “Rent” mimicking, school paper, down low nerds. While I had a long-term girlfriend in high school, the relationship was that of a different nature. It was that of a high school “Will and Grace” type. We connected on every level, she was even a Jewish girl that made the family happy. The only difference with us was, that we had no sex. When I say no sex, I mean NONE. It may have been because at that time, I didn’t understand things.  I thought that boobs were the sexual equivalent to slinkies, fun to play with, but after a while I would wonder what else there was to do with them.  At best, I could use them as pillows. They are called “fun bags” for a reason aren’t they? Then, when heading south of the Rockies I would realize that I barely liked oysters, let alone anything vaginas had to offer me. The smell alone made me wonder how babies could make it in there for so long. The only taco I wanted then were ones that came from a taco shop, covered in sour cream and not hair of any kind. I even went through a period of time from 17-20 years old, before I knew I was a gay. During this period I was pretty much A-sexual. No sex, no guys, girls or even potential anything. At the time, I had forgotten that I was intended to be a sexual being like everyone else. It would take me years to remember that I too was born human.       When go out to bars, I feel this a wave of liberation coming over me. It’s as though I am one of those kids who had never was allowed candy as a kid. Then, the one day, they try that first piece of chocolate or other gem of goodness, they then proceed to go ape shit. I am metaphorically that kid. I am ready to go nuts in a candy store, with pent up energy from years of all sorts of frustrations, mentally and sexually. It is now, at this point and for this reason the art of flirting comes in. This is where the bar comes in handy. All night I watch people flirt, some do it well and some strike out every time. This is my place to learn how to play this game. My coworkers, the bartenders are masters at this and truly prove that there is an art to flirting. I am coming to figure out that it really isn’t as much of a game, but at least for me, it’s a venue to show just how clever I am and that I am not an idiot.      I start going out alone. Oddly, being the lone man out is working to my favor. If I’m not alone, I go out with Michael, or other friends of the scene. Other times I can be found out at lesbian events with Gina or I would settle for guys I meet while at the bars over time. Most of the guys I meet at bars don’t even end up in as a hook up, generally it’s more of just playing the game of seeing how interested we can get the other into us. Since much of my income is cash, it seems perfectly logical that I spend it freely on the alcohol I consume, often of the people I meet throughout these nights and other miscellaneous crap. I always meet an interesting mix of the most interesting and strange people on these nights. The question I always ask myself when out is, what are these people doing out during the week? Don’t any of them work? My mother, being the voice of reason, tells me that the people I will meet while out during the week are just losers. She claims that they are not worth my time because they don’t have conventional jobs, which they hate to get up early for. From my point of view this is only half true. Some gay men simply enjoy going out, the booze, getting up early isn’t an issue for them or they just rely on the energizing help of a powdery friend.        Because I know every bartender in the area, often the night is met by drinks compliments of the bar or restaurant we are drinking. This also leads to an inflated ego. Coincidentally sex does become easier to find and get. It’s the admiration more than the sex it self that I got off on since sex with me is still too tangled in trust issues. To go out and be admired by an attractive man makes me feel special. While everywhere I go, I am either out with friends or in a crowd of sutto-friends, I should have feel so loved. I should feel amazing. In that crowd all I feel is numb and oddly alone as the nights soon start to get blended together and crushes become conquests that leads to disappointments. Like every gay boy that comes to San Francisco, I am looking for a love, but end up settling for trick treat or 3 to pass the time. I don’t fear being alone though, I fear turning into a drunken lurker day in and out.

Honesty isn't the best policy. Okay?

    Whoever said that honesty was the best policy was a putz.  We were raised to lie.  Think about it.  We lie about everything.  I mean it, everything.  When a kid's pet bird dies what do we tell kids?  "Um sweetie, Mr. Tail-feather flew to Florida cause he couldn't handle another East Coast winter."

    It's hard for our faces to even be honest.  How can we say that honesty is the best policy when Botox is a multi-million dollar enterprise?

    When was the last time honesty got someone laid?  Never, but for generations women have been buying the "I'm allergic to latex" bit.  Why you may ask?  Because we LOVE to get lied to.

    When someone shows you a photo of their child with the unborn, gills and webbed feet, what do you say?  "He/it's adorable."  You don't say, "leave George Lucas does it again."

     The truth is why straight men are jealous of gay men.  When we look at your girlfriends we can tell them what they really look like in their jeans!

     We say honesty is the best policy but when we go to interviews and get that bullshit question, "where do you see yourself in 10 years," what do we say?

Never do I say "hopefully at a high enough position where I can fire your ass."  Or, "rich off of penny-slots."  No we feed them back some bullshit.

   Lying is the way the world works!  Ladies if the wolf guy from "True Blood" told you he wanted you now you sure as hell wouldn't be giving him the same headache routine you give your husbands.  How do you get ahead in life these days?  Lie through your god damned teeth.  Next time you hear a cute little kid interrupt a lie by saying "honesty is the best policy," hit 'em.