The Letter D
Insensitive, Inconsiderate, and Emotionally Unavailable

  • If You Happen to Still Be Out There
    Still alive, still doing stand-up. If you're in the Midwest, there's a fairly decent chance that I'll be performing in your state soon. "Friend" me here on Facebook to get more information.

  • Just In Case You've Wondered What I've Been Up To

  • Do You Know What A Dashiki Is?
    Damn, this is funny:

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  • Solo
    My gym sells various things such as "power" drinks, t-shirts, earphones, and feather boas.

    Yes, feather boas.

    I though this was strange and asked the counter clerk what the feather boas were for. It turns out that my gym offers a "cardio strip" class and the boas are used for props. This class reportedly offers a fun way for women to sweat off the pounds. Of course, the women in the class were either north of their 50's or pushing two bills. So the class is full of aged, portly women pretending to be in a burlesque show.

    Having seen a bit of this class, words cannot express the disappointment suffered by the men in these women's lives if they apply those moves at home.

    Clearly, no one who participates in or runs this class knows anything about strip clubs, at least not those that have been in existence since prohibition was repealed. I've been to my fair share of Gentleman's Clubs, purely for sociological purposes of course, and while I've seen many things in these clubs, feather boas are not one of them.

    Whatever you want to call them, these clubs emphasize the "strip" and minimize the "tease." You generally won't see feather boas, peacock fans, or any type of choreographed routine.

    The women in the class must think that the stripper experience is exotic. It isn't. They probably think that dancers are beautiful or in good shape. Not always. In fact, the only thing that makes a woman qualified to be a stripper is the willingness to take off her clothes in public.

    These are the things that you are far more likely to see on a stripper than a feather boa:
    1. Caesarian scars.
    2. Razor bumps.
    3. Six inch stiletto heels.
    4. Exit wounds.
    5. 7 to 12 tattoos.
    My college roommate eventually became a police officer. As an undocumented perk, he could get in clubs for free because, while police couldn't moonlight as security, the owners encouraged the presence of off-duty cops. So when we hung out, it was either there or the donut shop. Basically, we went so often that I think I'm only I about four credits short of getting my M.D. in Gynecology

    It eventually got old. But I had my "scared straight" moment about seven years ago. I was in Brownsville, TX for work and across the highway was the best gentleman's establishment that I'd ever been to. Beautiful women, not too smoky, nicely decorated, no cover, and inexpensive lap dances.

    Everything was going well until one dancer approached for a dance. I agreed. She started the dance and top off her top revealing one breast. I don't mean that she only showed one breast, I mean she only had one breast. On the other side was something that resembled a deployed airbag with scar tissue.

    Needless to say, I wasn't expecting this. Her top must have been padded. But what was I to do? I didn't want to offend her, but it was freaking me out. Every time, she leaned in, I flinched. I couldn't look at her. I just wanted the song to be over before I started crying. I blame the Americans with Disabilities Act.

    Someone should have warned me. She could have least taken "Solo" as her stage name. Or I should have at least got half of my money back.

    I don't ask for much but an even number of breasts should be a given.

  • Heavy Petting And The City
    Harper-Collins is planning a line of books, aimed at "young adults", based on the teenage lives of the characters in Sex and the City.

    Strangely enough, I've already been working on this idea. To throw my hat in the ring, I offer the following:

    Carrie, jotting in her diary: Boy, I wish there was some way that I could type my thoughts in a device that I could use while I'm sitting on my bed in my underwear. I tried this with my Apple II but I almost set my Duran Duran comforter on fire.

    Anyway, it's not easy being a teen that wants to have it all. Things with Big are going okay. He's pretty busy with being the president of Student Council and of the Future Tycoons of America Club. But whenever we're together, he totally pushes me to a stage in the relationship that I'm not sure that I'm ready for.

    Is it okay for me to mind "it", when "it" is the only thing on his mind?

    Fortunately, I have my friends to support me:

    Fade to lunchroom:

    Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda are having their daily lunch in the gym/cafeteria.

    Carrie: Big has been pushing me to do "it."

    Miranda: (gasps) Are we talking the big "it"?

    Carrie: Not the big "it", it's more like a little "it."

    Samantha: Big has a little "it"?

    Carrie: No, I mean his "it" is fine. I mean, I don't know if it's little or not, it's not like I've seen a lot of them.

    Samantha: Well I have. For example, Mr. Derringer has an absolutely enormous "it."

    Miranda: You've seen the guidance counselor's "it?"

    Samantha: What? I needed a good letter of recommendation for college. So we did the big "it."

    Charlotte: Ewww. I'm never going to do the big "it." Well, at least not after I marry Craig, the team quarterback, and we have a big wedding with announcements in the New York Times, and I have a beautiful wedding dress designed by either Camp Beverly Hills or Izod.

    Carrie: No, it's not the big "it," it's the other "it."

    Samantha: What other "it" are we talking about? There's like a hundred other "its" Believe me, I 've done them all.

    Miranda: She's done a hundred "its." I can't find any time to do any "it" with AP Calculus, Debate Club, the Chess Team, the Pre-Law Society and the Curious About My True Sexual Orientation Club. Oh my God, did I just say that last one out loud?

    The girls ignore Miranda.

    Carrie: No, he wants me to do the "hand it."

    Charlotte: Ewwww! (pause) What is the "hand it"?

    Carrie: He wants me to touch his (pause) "it" and rub it.

    Samantha: Oh, so he wants Handus Strokus?

    Miranda: I've never heard of Handus Strokus.

    Charlotte: Ewwww!

    Carrie: Why does he want me to do that? What if I do it wrong? Will he still respect me if I do it? What if he tells all his friends? I don't want people to go around thinking I'm the type of girl who does Handus Strokus. offense, Samantha.

    Samantha: None taken. Listen Honey, guys are going to ask for a lot of things. And on the scale of "its," Handus Strokus is like a three out of ten.

    Carrie: How do I know if I'm doing it right?

    Samantha: Well, if you're doing it right, you'll know. Just bring a lot of Kleenex.

    Carrie: For what?

    Samantha: You'll see.

    Charlotte: Ewwww!