Sing The One About Bitches & Hoes, Nana!

I find that my most favorite part of going to the gym is running on the treadmill. Not because I enjoy running. Far from it. In fact, if it were acceptable, I would bring rollerblades or a bike to the gym so the time on the death wheel would be easier.

No, I enjoy the treadmill because it gives me at least a solid 10 minutes to watch people. The past time of people watching never wears thin with me, and dependant upon the context of the situation, I can expect a wide array of interesting and intriguing individuals. While there were much fewer people at the gym this morning than during the afternoon hours, I was still able to have a few subjects to study. Including one, Mr. Really Old Athletic Man.

I have to say, I admire those individuals who don’t let the ravages of time [including high blood pressure, bad cholesterol, failing organs, loss of eyesight, hearing, and hair, as well as a multitude of other undesirable tolls] take hold of them so easily. Here was a man, obviously well into his 60’s who was probably in better shape than I, moving from one machine to another and lifting weight after weight. And I thought He is in as good a shape as someone more than half his age!

But then it hit me. He’s still old. Wicked wicked old. His mind thinks differently than mine does. He has totally different experiences, likes, dislikes, preferences, and beliefs than I do. Now, I know I could find an equally opposite person from myself within my own peer group. But the thing that makes me noticably different from that of the old man is just that; he’s old.

I began to think about age and such, and thought to myself something that actually made me laugh while running [thereby almost causing me to fall and smash my face open on the handles that register my heart rate, only to be immediately flung off the treadmill and onto the floor]. What will our generation be like 30, 40 or even 50 years from now? Can you picture it?

Let me help you, then.

Imagine, if you will, a group of elderly men and women, sitting around a living room in a retirement home, TV muted on the other side of the room. They are enjoying a game of cards [large print version] while taking sips out of a coffee mug or cup. Music is playing lightly in the background, and an old man and woman croon along softly with the lyrics.

Doesn’t that seem sweet?

But remember, this is us, decades from now. So let me reset the scene for you.

A group of elderly men and women are sitting around a living room in their retirement home, with the 57th season of Real World on [this season, a girl gives birth to her roommates baby]. They are finishing up a game of asshole, soon to be followed by fuck the dealer, while drinking Long Islands and Captain and Cokes. Two of them start singing along with the stereo…

I’ll take you to the candy shop
I’ll let you lick the lollypop
Go ‘head girl, don’t you stop
Keep going till you hit the spot

I’ll take you to the candy shop
Boy one taste of what I got
I’ll have you spending all you got
Keep going till you hit the spot

Seems a little different now, huh?

It makes you think, though. Once our generation reaches the ripe old age of social security worthiness, we won’t just stop enjoying the things we do. We’ll be nostalgic for music like Missy Elliott, Coldplay, The Killers and [my favorite, anyways] Rilo Kiley. When we’re bored, we’ll pop in some of our favorite movies, ranging from Requiem for a Dream to Old School to Kill Bill. And when we tell a joke that the younger generation will just roll their eyes at, it will be something along the lines of Just the way your mother likes it, Trebek!

Everything we listen to, everything we watch, everything we say and everything we do. It will all be considered old. We could be walking down the hall, accidentaly stub a toe or break a hip, and yelp Fuck! That shit hurt! and no one will question the langauge we use, yet we will be criticized for trying to rockaway or thunderclap at our delicate and frail age.

It seems that age is always to be accompanied with ridicule, regardless of how in the know you feel yourself to be. No longer are the old considered wise and someone to revere. They are but a financial burden, viewed as feeble and senile [personally, the only thing I believe the old and young to have in common is that they think they are always right...which is impossible, because I'm always right]. And while it is true that age does not always come with wisdom [sometimes it just comes with wrinkles], it always arrives with the sudden realization that things are changing. This realization more than likely comes through many different catalysts; not understanding what a younger person is saying, critiquing and comparing their music and yours, and finally…the dreaded words…

I remember, when I was your age…

Even at the tender age of 21, I can tell I’m beginning to show some signs. Too many times have I said reminisced about how things were when I was a child, and looked at the current children of today with a feeling of disgust.

For example, remember when you could play for hours with toys that didn’t light up, shoot things, explode, or use batteries? My favorite toy as a kid was the Ghostbuster’s Firehouse, which is nothing compared to some of the toys found in the stores today.

Or McDonald’s. Remember when you would get a Happy Meal, which was the best put together meal ever?! A fun box with puzzles and games, an amazing toy. Not like today, where you get a paper bag, food just dropped in like it were trash [well...], and a choking hazard. Thrilling.

And finally, does anyone ever remember swearing or being as much of a piece a shit as kids are nowadays? Because when I was in 3rd grade, I didn’t know half of the stuff these degenerates know. If you agree with this, then you have indeed started to get old.

The one thing I must always keep in mind to stave off the feelings of decrepidness and growing wrinkles is Mr. Really Old Athletic Man. It seems that, in his pure denial of aging and sagging, he has faught off the negative repercussions of gaining more birthday candles and still lives life. In still managing to stay in shape, it gives me hope that he has found other ways to remain happy in his age and lifestyle.

I probably hate his music, movie, television and recreation preferences, though. But that can’t be helped. I’m going to be a cool old man.

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

Everyday seems to be a day in which new discoveries and ingenious inventions are brought into existence by those who possess the required abilities and nurse the necessary desire. In the advent of such creations [1, 2, and 3], our world has changed a countless number of times, usually for the better, though not always.

Recently, my friend Kevin has made me aware of a very interesting piece of technology that could possibly revolutionize the world. Asimo [which stands for Advanced Step in Innovative Mobility] has been a project operated by, of all people, Honda, and is almost a 20 year journey. Starting in 1986, the first robot was EO, whose purposed seemed to be nothing more than a big experiment. The art of walking was tested with this robot, thereby being able to nail down some harder facts for future models.

As time continued, so did technology and ingenuity. By the time 2000 rolled on by, Honda [which still perplexes me] had come up with Asimo, leaving past models in the dust. Since then Asimo has been growing in popularity and talent since. They boast that he is now able to walk much more realistically, has much more of a range of movement with his arms, and can even work along with humans. Honda claims that there will be a time in the not-too-distant future where Asimo will be able to aid humans around the house [did I mention it can walk upstairs?] with everyday chores.

Asimo is also equipped with some very high tech, top of the line camera equipment, which comprises his eyes. With this technology, Asimo is actually able to recognize a select few faces, as well as ascertain what is a stationary object and what is a pedestrian. The height of Asimo’s achievement lie in the fact that it has been hired to work at a few different high tech companies in Japan as a greeter, including the head office of Honda in Japan. Believe it or not, Asimo is a receptionist for visitors here. It is even a tour guide at some museums. With such abilities available right now, one can only wonder what Asimo will be able to do in the future.

The amazing thing is what it has accomplished in its short 5-year existence. It is a world traveler, having visited much of Europe, Asia, and Australia on what was mostly educational tours. It has also met a range of important political figures. Back in January, Asimo was introduced to and shook hands with Guy Verhofstadt, the Prime Minister of Belgium.

My father went to college with Ed Harris. Wicked comparable.

Way back in 2002, Asimo even got to ring the bell at the New York Stock Exchange. This was arranged in celebration of Honda being listed with the NYSC for 25 years. It has walked the red carpet at the movie premiere of Robots [with Amanda Bynes, no less. I bet she's never felt more idiotic...well...]. And most recently, Asimo has taken up a job at Disney Land, working in the Honda Asimo Theatre, where it greets people and gives demonstrations of its abilities.

Meanwhile, at the age of 5, I believe I was still sucking my thumb and possibly putting things in my mouth when I don’t know where they’ve been.

Honda is now putting Asimo in their global ad campaign, which you can see here. It is this film [among some others] that forces me to raise a wary eyebrow. In the global ad campaign, we see an older man board a moving sidewalk, presumably in an airport. He soon comes upon Asimo, strolling along in all his robot weirdness. Now, this is the kicker for me. When the old man gets nervous, he tries to speed up.

Asimo runs past him.

The old man runs past him.

It continues this way until the old man comes to an impasse in the form of a wall of luggage, and he watches with a defeated eye as Asimo takes the lead. Thankfully, a tiny tourist, complete with flash photography, surprises Asimo, letting the old man take the lead.

See, this is what I’m worried about. Have we learned nothing about robots from Will Smith? What I think the commercial neglects to tell us is why the old man and robot are racing. I believe it is because the old man was running for his life. If Asimo reached the end of the walkway before the old man, then a brutal death would soon follow. The old man knew this.

Hell, we all should know this. Did you not hear the creepy children singing their death dirge in the background? If I were walking down the street, heard that song, and then saw a robot chasing me, I may actually mess myself.

And it’s hard to run from a murdering machine when you pooped your pantalones.

Mark [hark?] my words. While we may all find it fine and dandy to have a circuited subordinate to help with the day-to-day duties right now, I believe our tune we whistle won’t always be Dixie, as some might say. One day, Asimo will be cleaning up the pee from your dog in the kitchen, and the next day he’ll be removing your fingers one by one before burying you in the basement.

This is the problem with the scientific community, these days. They believe themselves to be the cream of the crop; the tip of the top; the hip of the hop [and so on...]. In the pursuit of pushing the envelope, they will eventually get a paper cut from which all of us will bleed [that was bad, I know]. Asimo is the most humanoid robot to date, and can interact with humans in a wide variety of ways. It even takes instructions.

While the ooo’s and the aah’s may be escaping your mouth now, just you wait till the robot shakes a baby or drops a hair dryer in your full tub.

Paranoid and neurotic as this all may sound, I am giving a fair warning. Let us all be careful, shall we? Let us all keep our eyes peeled for any suspicious behavior [such as headlines reading Asimo Attains Black Belt, or, Asimo joins NRA] on the part of our dear friend.

Or not. Whatever.

I Hate You, Naked Baby

In the hope to inspire change, an opening of minds, and an acceptance of new thoughts and ideas, I am writing what I pray will be the spark that ignites reform. So please, take what I next say sincerely and with a modicum of open-mindedness.

Stop letting children run around naked.

It has come to my attention recently that there is a horrible double standard in our society. One that is matched by very few other injustices in our culture. Nudity is accepted in youth, but not in adolescence and adulthood, which confounds me.

Now, I should probably explain how I had come to this starling discovery of this disgusting discrimination, and veer you away from the thought that I think of naked children. As I was meandering through an outlet store, I happened to glance to my left, viewing a mother, her daughters, and the stroller she was pushing. In the stroller, much to my chagrin, was a man child of about the age of 4.

Naked.

Well, not totally. He was wearing a speedo of sorts. Very European. However, if just glanced upon, you would think his cash and prizes, as it were, had been covered up by the strappings of the stroller.

The point, however, does not lie in however skimpy or miniscule the clothing this child was wearing. No, it lies in the inherent injustices that lay unmoving within our society. Only a child would be able to wander around naked [or close to it], without a discriminating eye being cast upon them. Well, my friends, I say no more!

Mothers, clothe your children! Fathers, dress your kids! Discriminatory nudity is over!

Now, I fully understand the thought process of Mommy Dearest this morning as she got her children ready for a day of outlet shopping. It would be hot and humid, and the walks between one air conditioned store and another would surely be uncomfortable. Best to stock up on water, try and stay cool and not exert a lot of energy…aaand let my baby dress like Tarzan.

I’m sorry, but if it’s not acceptable for me to shop in flip flops and half a two-piece, then it shouldn’t be for little mister would be streaker, either.

In case you haven’t noticed, the flux of naked babies and children is growing exponentially. I’m sure you have seen the commercials. Little naked baby finds joy in finding a diaper that protects against leakage and rashes. Little naked baby finds comfort in the fact her shampoo won’t give her tears yet still cleanse her baby soft hair. And finally, little naked baby takes comfort in the fact that the baby formula used has just as many nutrients in it as the breast milk his dried up mother is too lazy to squirt out.

Maybe the problem lies in this very simple, yet effective, marketing scheme.

People love to buy stuff from naked babies.

And I can tell you, too, where this all started.

That God damn naked Coppertone baby. She’s the one who started this clotheless campaign. She’s the one who began the trend of running around au naturel. And she’s the one who made it acceptable for little babies to go galavanting throughout our commercials, magazines, and newspapers, selling us diapers and canned breast milk, all the meanwhile their little baby penises and their little baby vaginas flapping in the breeze.

She’s also the one that inspired this, which is wrong in so many ways.

I propose a change, however uncomfortable it may seem initially. If you are hot, and don’t want to wear anything to the store but a pair of tighty whities, then go for it. If you want to work your corner store in nothing but some slippers and a smile, then by all means, holler at your naked body. We can not allow little naked babies to rule the roost, as the case may be, on naked antics.

Can’t have it both ways, naked babies. Either you put some pants on, or we’re taking ours off.

This was a weird post.

Hazy, Hot, Humid & Horny

I don’t really know how this subject came to mind [well...yes I do], and I don’t really understand why I have dedicated such an absurd amount of time to researching this topic, but here we go.

Statistically speaking, I am receiving far too little sex for my categorized position in society compared to everyone else. In the world. Ever.

In my research, I have come across many interesting statistics. Not surprisingly [yet very irksome] were the google results for my searches. I won’t go into it, but the amount of people who have STDs, like chlamydia and syphilus [on the rise, ps] is ridiculous. Slap on a rubber and call it cozy, kiddos, because the other way ain’t working.

Anyways, I am now going to statistically show you how abstinent I am. Let’s go.

Let’s start off with ethnicity. Now, I’ll break it up into two groups for you. The first being just the average United States citizen, and the second being the mean of my ethnic backgrounds [Polish, Irish, and German...and maybe some other stuff...I don't know, my ancestors had sex with a lot of Europe, and I didn't inherit that gene]. According to Durex, who I feel is a trusted source for who has sex and how often they have it, the average US citizen has sex approximately 111 times a year. Shockingly low, isn’t it? But when you consider the math [365 days per year divided by 111 coitus cases], that turns out to be about once every 3 days, which I suppose is decent.

Sidenote. Americans do not have a lot of sex, comparatively speaking. There are 14 countries ahead of us. From bottom to top [innuendo intended, thank you] they are Slovenia, South Africa, New Zealand, Slovakia, Iceland, United Kingdom, Croatia, Czech Republic, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Hungary, Serbia & Montenegro, Greece, and at the top of the list is France.

If you take the mean of my ethnicities [Poland-110, Ireland-105, Germany-98], then I should be having sex 104.33 times per year. This is slightly above the global average of 103 spanks per year.

I have sex approximately 0.00 times per year. I am below average. Which also means, in order for the balance to stay in effect, someone needs to be doubled the mean. Impressive, ma’am or sir. Impressive.

Or maybe not. How the hell should I know, at this point.

Couple the average amount of intercourse per year the average person has with the list of countries that outranks the US [the Slovenians and Macedonians out rank us], and I am beginning to feel a little low.

Let us move on to some other depressing statistics. According to a sexuality website, the amount of sex had within certain age groups decreases as time and libido wane. Apparently, 18-29 year olds have sex approximately 112 times a year, while 30-39 year olds have sex 86 times a year. They give no reason for this drop in genital gymnastics, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Careers, children, sexual problems and growing ugly are all issues that people within this age group can begin to face, which can impede the act of sex. So sad.

At least the 30-39 year olds aren’t in the 40-49 year old age group [?]. They manage to get it up [or strapped on if there is no one within your relationship to get it plump] a paltry, but ironic, 69 times per year. This is where the kids are old enough to know what’s going on, the job is boring enough to drain your lust for life, the perscription for Viagra has run out, and you’ve gotten the crap beaten out of you with an ugly stick too many times to count. Too bad.

The site doesn’t give specific numbers for those under 18, but it gives a rough idea in the form of percentages. Apparently, in 1998, 87% of high school students reported doing the uncoordinated and kind of clumsy nasty, which is ridiculously high, if you ask me. Imagine the amount of pre-ejaculated men and sexually unsatisfied women there were in home room. No wonder high school was a bitch. Everyone was getting some, but the some was spoiled and didn’t last too long.

There’s no information given for people at or above the age of 50, because that’s just gross.

Again, let us compare and contrast, shall we? I am beat out in every age group. 49 year olds have more sex than I do. Try and wrap your mind around that piece of information. A 49 year old is having more sex than me.

I’ll give you time to comprehend this insanity provoking piece of information.

…

Okay. Moving on.

It would seem that there are only a few options available to me to bring life to the barren waste lands that is my groin. I am considering all very thoroughly. They include…

*Waiting. Who knows? Maybe the right person will come along tomorrow, and I will flourish. However, the only negative aspect to this option is that it is as probable as monkies flying out of my butt and setting up a colony is East Syracuse, soon to become known region wide for their well woven rugs and delicious personal sized pies.

*Prostitution. I feel I would be able to turn a decent buck. So not only would I be watering the lawn, so to speak, but I’ll be getting some cash to pay for the STD and HIV tests I’ll want to have afterwards.

*Personal ads. We’ve all seen them. And we’ve all had a good laugh at them and wonder who would post this or respond to this. Well, they wouldn’t always be in the paper if they didn’t work. Now I just need to figure out how the initials work.

*Go Bi. In opening myself up to every gender, sex, and person on the planet, I am vastly increasing my chances of success. Think about it. Playing the dating game with only one sex is like riding a unicycle. Sure, you can still have fun, but its a lot easier when using two wheels.

Now, for all of those who are going to be taking pleasure in another person[s] company tonight, I leave you with a few words.

*By 24, 1 in 3 sexually active people would have contracted an STD.

*About 15 million new cases of STDs are diagnosed each year in the US alone.

*53% of pregnancies happen with women who are using contraception.

*The rate of failure for contraception is much higher than you would expect. Implants and injectables are 2-4%, oral contraceptives are 9%, diaphragm and cervical caps are 13%, male condoms are 15%, periodic abstinence is 22%, withdrawal is 26%, and spermicides are 28%

*In New York State alone, there are 54,794 people living with HIV/AIDS, 503 of them being under the age of 13. Some people who have HIV/AIDS do not even know it.

And finally…

*75% of men and 29% of women always have orgasms with their partner.

Ha. I’ve got you beat there. I always orgasm with myself.

Big is Beautiful?

Before I continue with today’s entry, I would like to apologize to all those I have inconvenienced by not writing more often. I am sorry I threw a wrench in your day to day routine. How I could have done this, I have no idea.

Anyways, on to the subject at hand.

So as some of you may know, I have [tried to] become an avid gym bug, or whatever the hell they are called, during the course of the summer. I have been eating in a moderately healthy manner [the world has too many delicacies to just ignore them], exercising on a daily basis, and have been even taking protein in order to get the process moving along at a more acceptable rate. I am on my way to healthy living.

So far, I have noticed a few small differences in my body, ranging from a slight increase in muscle to running a better mile. Hopefully, I will be able to continue this pattern throughout the school year, thereby maintaining my new level of health [and maybe being super prepared for spring break?].

Last night, during a lapse in my healthy living lifestyle, I ordered a pizza from Franco’s Pizzeria & Deli [some of the best food, you really must try it] and sat down to watch Spirited Away, a Hayao Miyazaki film [in case you didn't know, he is basically a god to all artists and animated movie folk]. It was amazing. Simply amazing.

But I digress.

As I was eating my pizza and drinking my Arizona Green Tea [healthy and high in anti-oxidants], I began to wonder. Why can’t I be fat? Now, I don’t mean fat in the way ‘Oh my God, this dress makes me look so fat!’ [I don't wear dresses, just bear with me...]. I mean fat fat. Like, using chocolate syrup as a condiment fat. Like, when I walk by the TV, you miss both episodes of Friends fat. When I sit around the house…well, you know. Fat.

At one point in history, being fat was considered healthy, a sign of wealth, and even sexy. Back in the Victorian era, the people who were fat were the ones who would lay on a couch and get fed grapes by the bunch. These were the rich boys and girls. They were the ones who owned the castles and the mansions and the land. And because they didn’t have to work at all, other than maybe struggling to step up onto the curb, they just sat around their mansion and ate. Or sat around the theatre and ate. Or sat around anywhere that had furniture strong enough to support their weight, and ate.

And amidst their double chins, back fat, belly rolls and man breasts, there was sex appeal. Glorious, steamy, let me sink into your stomach sex appeal.

It wasn’t the chiseled men with flat stomachs and rock hard arms who were drooled over. It wasn’t the svelte women with the tiny waists and firm buttocks who were ogled. Oh no. They were the working class. They were the ones who couldn’t afford to live any other way but working in the fields. Simply stated, they were a bunch of fuglies. It was the obese that were yearned for. It was the pudgy that were dreamed about. It was the picture of two large people having a roll in the hay that sexually set off an entire empire.

Why the hell did that have to stop?

Can you imagine what the world today would be like if we could eat as we wanted, drink as we wanted, and not worry about going to the gym to stay trim? Now, think about it just for a moment. How much time have you spent going over the menu in a restaurant, looking for those carb free meals, all the meanwhile imagining eating that 15 layer lasagna? How much time have you spent reading the labels on each and every product you pick up at the grocery store, making sure you are staying within your limits? And finally, how much time have you spent at the gym, doing crunch after crunch, curl after curl, and lap after lap?

The answer? More than likely a grossly absurd amount of time.

In today’s world, however, it is the rock hard bodies and the fine and firm frames that are considered to be the ideal. I question if there is one of us who hasn’t felt insecure about our bodies in some form or another after looking at a picture of this or this, and critiquing what we don’t have that they do.

And what can this arguably cause? Bulimia, anorexia, self image problems, obsessive compulsive disorders, and drug addictions just to name a few. Is a six-pack worth that?

I’ll spare you all the rhetoric of the girl with the self esteem problem or the boy with the image complex [more popular than you'd think], as we have all heard about it at some point or another. But keep that in mind the next time you are eating 1500 calories a day and spending 2-3 hours at the gym.

We’re all gonna get old and saggy anyways, so just deal with it.

I leave you with an idea. A proposition. If we all start to get fat, maybe we can create a movement. Maybe we can redefine beauty. Maybe it will reach this or this or this level. Who knows?

But let me know when you start. Until then I’ll be at the gym. I’m not gonna be the only person getting huge.

Just Shhh, Abby

As an employee of the University for the summer, I can say that I have an immense amount of time to do absolutely nothing. Other than the gymnasium and catching up on Judging Amy, Law & Order, and Charmed on TNT (they know drama), I peruse the wonderful world wide web.

[Random sidenote: One of my favorite literary tools is alliteration, and you will find it scattered throughout my entries in great abundance. I love it.]

In being able to stay on the internet for most of the day, I’m made privy to some awesome sites. I’m also made aware of some disturbing and odd sites, but that’s another entry. One of the sites that I have come across is one of society’s gems. All of us know about it, and with the marvel of the internet, we can now all have access to it.

Dear Fucking Abby.

Very possibly the Nostradamus of our day, Abby, previously known as Jeanne Phillips before the serial murders, has been giving sub par advice to a nation for years. Just like mommy dearest. And the nation couldn’t care less.

However, she has figured out to some way a) not die, and b) still get herself published in a variety of newspapers. So you have to admire her grit and determination. Or hate her knack for not taking a hint.

So, in an attempt to aid a poor, sad, old, saggy woman (and fill up blog space) I have taken it upon myself to help dear ol’ Abby with one of her letters in the hopes that someone will be better off for it.

DEAR ABBY: We had a houseguest recently who asked to use my computer to check on his airline flights. After he left, I went into the history to check out a previous site I had used and found my computer full of adult porn sites. These sites were surrounded by his airline reservations, so it could not have been anyone else using my computer.

I erased the sites and then cleared out the cookies, but now I’m getting reports from friends that they are getting adult porn pop-ups when I send an attachment. I will contact my Internet service provider, but I will probably need to get a new e-mail address.

My husband and I are not sure how to handle this. Should we tell him we know what he did on my computer, or do we just avoid him when he makes contact with us again? If I never see this person again it won’t be a hardship. I feel violated. Any suggestions? — PIQUED IN PALO ALTO

DEAR PIQUED: Your houseguest should be made aware of the problems his little surfing adventure have caused you. If it were me, I’d pick up the phone and give him holy heck for taking advantage of my hospitality in that way. If you want to avoid him in the future, it’s certainly your privilege, but he owes you an apology, and you should collect it.

DEAR PIQUED AND ABBY: Are you for real? Are you actually blaming a houseguest for looking at porn on your computer. And would you really end a relationship over that?! I want to pose to you a few facts that you maybe perhaps neglected to consider.

*You have a husband. As a man, he should be fully equipped with a penis and testicles, which is scientifically proven to lead a man to the nearest free porn site. Now, is it at all possible your husband (man with penis and balls) looked at porn before and after your houseguest checked his travel arrangements.

*Your friends look at porn too. That’s why they are getting pop ups. Not because your email is ‘infecting’ them with this or that. Don’t be naive. Or stupid.

*Pay no attention to Abby. She’s old and most likely forgot to take her Metamucil the morning she read your idiotic letter. You do not need to call your guest and give him holy heck. You do not need to avoid him in the future. If it was indeed this guest who looked at porn on your computer, I say build a bridge and get over it. Hell, if it helps, I’ll say I did it. Yes, I was in Palo Alto, and yes, I rubbed one out 2ge+her style at your computer. Just stop making a mountain out of a naked person. Do you realize that there are people in this world who deal with much more important problems than you? There are children in this world with no homes, and you are writing a complete stranger to tell you how to help you with a porn problem? God help you if you get a venereal disease.

Worst case scenario, PIQUED, is your houseguest did look at porn. By the tone of your letter, at least they are leading a more eventful life than you are. So why don’t you and your husband go back to your respective twin beds and read or something, as I’m sure this is all you do.

If you yourself have a question, please write Dear John, and I will do my best to bestow my knowledge and wisdom upon you.

And remember kiddos…everytime you masturbate, God kills a kitten.