…to which I’ll add a man’s perspective [because there's nothing worse than articles about "What men want" and "What women find sexy" written by the opposite sex].

1. Men Don’t Hear the Clock Ticking aka your eggs expire but our milk never goes bad.

“Men often do not realize the extent of this fertility timetable, and even if they do, they might not feel the same pressure to settle down.”

Excuse me? When I drive by Golden Corral aka Wal-Mart Plus, I see plenty of twentysomethings who should have been castrated - for no other reason than preventing the replenishment of the future workforce AT Golden Corral. Men don’t hear the clock ticking? Our dicks are like pocket watches. They work when you wind them, stop when you don’t, and completely break when they become heirlooms. Besides, I can set my dick to the sun. You could follow my dick to Bethlehem like the North Star; I’m good at pointing North when you’re looking. What can I say? I’m an exhibitionist.

Bottom line, we’re animals. Our base instinct is to perpetuate the species - even if some of it gets on the pillowcase. We know the clock’s ticking. Bullshit answer.

2. Men Dread the Big Day aka we don’t give a rolling fuck about gazebos and tiger lilies. I’ll admit, if we’re willing to sit and finish the fourth quarter despite underestimating a fart and shitting our pants, do you think we’re really gonna care about seating arrangements and table cloths? No.

BUT, more than being bored by the idea of picking out chartreuse napkins, we just don’t want to be nagged when we actually have an opinion.

“…they can’t wait to be princess for a day!”

Really? Well, you can’t marry yourself, you self-centered twats. If you get everything else your way, let us at least have Lee Majors balloons at the reception.

3. Men Want to Be Prepared
“Figure out if your life plans are on the same track by casually mentioning your own future goals, whether it is to own a business, buy a house, or have a baby.”

My goal is to be a homeowner with 3 kids and a Qdoba franchise. Let’s fuck.

Most relationships are relationships of convenience. You have money and she just so happens to be into money. You’re The Night Stalker and she just so happens to be a hooker with no eyeballs. But seriously, people date, mate, and marry within very small circles. And they literally settle for the best option in that circle. They don’t, for one second, consider that the world is full of billions of possibilities - most of which are probably better than the fuck ugly closet Hoobastank fan you share a bed with. A quick aside…why do girls from Oklahoma date guys who either look like fat Tim McGraws or the lead singer of Staind minus the money but with Eddie Money hair?

4. Men Fear the Proposal Moment
We don’t fear the proposal moment. We fear asking then having you run and tell your girlfriends that the ring we bought you sucks. Yeah bitch, I saw that episode of Sex in the City. It ruins our chances of fucking your best friends when your Bruno Kirby look-a-like boss is shaft deep in your ass during a “business trip” to Montana.

.done.
Shabaas

Your name and mine inside
A heart on a wall
Still finds a way to haunt me
Though they’re so small

Comedy and tragedy exist in the same space. Heartache, like laughter, is a form of hysteria. I get the best ideas when I listen to melancholy music and set it to ridiculous scenarios in my head. For example, two bikers fucking to “The Pretender” by Jackson Browne while Boz Scaggs is in the bathroom shaving. Don’t judge.

I’m also growing the most EPIC fucking hair ever. I want it to touch God - so He can help me condition it. And He better use TRESemme.

What’s up with my E.T. hand?

“I got a helluva deal - what with the $3500 cash back and the $2.99 gas for a year.”

NO YOU DIDN’T. You get to buy $5 dollar a gallon diesel every 17 goddamn feet. Fucking asshole. Thanks for driving up demand.

Also, anyone who plans an evening out with your friends…

Leave your goddamn cell phones at home. You don’t need to fucking text every 36 seconds. In fact, the next person to do that shit to me…we’re not friends anymore. What the fuck happened to fellowship? Quit hanging out just to get a good myspace picture and quit texting like you’re actually gonna get laid. Nobody likes your stank ass right now. Otherwise, you’d be out with them. Either stay home and fuck or hang out with your friends. We’re not on a gay Nordic cruise. Quit mixing the possibilities. So help me God, brother of Kurt Russell, son of Chris Elliott, I’ll shove that goddamn Sidekick so far up your cunts and assholes that you’ll be shitting scenes from Lawnmower Man for a week.

Lastly, I’d like to give a shout out to the lowest common denominator in the Information Age - the people who deliver bad news via email and/or text message. How hard is it to pick up a phone and tell someone to fuck off? Shit, even writing a letter shows an inkling of effort and human decency. Emailing bad news is like a fat sorority girl riding a Rascal to her front door to sign for her Omaha steaks and giant black dildo (because daddy would never approve). Quit being a lazy faggot. Get up in somebody’s grill. Tell them they suck to their faces. It’s more fulfilling. Plus, you’ll work off the taquitos.

Well, I just realized I had one more thing to say. So, fuck the last “lastly”. We need a word for “last lastly” when dumbasses like me fuck up and need to ramble more. “Rick Astley”. That’s the word I’m using.

So, Rick Astley…

“Pundit” implies expertise and sharing opinions based on that expertise. Not nay saying and being a prick because you’re a goddamn attention whore who aspires to Ann Coulter-like fame. Stop accusing Obama supporters of believing in the “hype of hope”. It’s not raining perfect candidates. And it hasn’t since JFK stopped cumming on White House guests.*

So what if I pick the one that doesn’t piss me off. McCain is like a flaky Catholic girl who lets you bust one in her ass one night and gets all preachy and cautious the next. Remember when you weren’t pandering to G.W.’s base? I do. I actually would have voted for you then.

And Hillary is the fucking worst. I’d rather vote for someone with ZERO track record than someone with her’s. And that’s what I’m doing. That’s how bad our country has gotten. Unpredictability is hope.

Again, welcome to the Information Age. Now, text me your number so I can call you and tell you to fuck off.

*Fuck you, grassy knoll.

I’m a hot waitress who made shitty life decisions - hence being a waitress. I date truckers and small town cocksuckers and they treat me like shit but I can’t seem to break this vicious cycle. So, this is my empowering song about what I wish were true but isn’t. It’s meant to inspire at karaoke bars and in ‘91 Toyota Previas that I got in the divorce. And yes, I have more than one because there were like seven on blocks in my yard because I’m a goddamn hillbilly.

Good for you. Fuck off.