Fucking Bitter, Angry Guy

Fucking Mainstream Porn

Am I the only person in the world who has lost interest in mainstream pornography?

Maybe I’ve become jaded after watching, conservatively, 500 to 600 porn films in the past couple years. At least. That’s just DVD and VHS rentals and purchases.

If I’m in the mood to recreate my early teens, I’ll pick up a magazine once in a while to change things up. And I’m not talking about Playboy or Penthouse. I’m talking about niche categories.

And, of course, there’s the Internet. Somehow I manage to find myself burning a good hour perched in front of my keyboard every God damned day.

Like pizza, there’s no such thing as bad porn. At least I used to think so.

But lately, I’ve noticed that I spend a good 45 minutes to an hour wandering the massive Adult section at my local rental place in a desperate search for something new, something that won’t put me to sleep.

Something that, once I push play, won’t merely serve as background noise while I close my eyes and create or re-create “scenarios” involving the stranger I saw at Starbuck’s this morning or, all too often, my best friend’s wife.

I’m done with the “professional” porno actresses. Fucking done. I’m tired of the piercings, the tattoos, the painfully phony orgasms. I’m annoyed by what they say and how they say it. I just want them to shut the fuck up. It’s like they all went to the same porno acting school, the same waxing salon, the same plastic surgeon.

There are a handful of exceptions, mainly pornos made in places like

Uzbekistan

and

Croatia

where the women haven’t been exposed to the cookie-cutter crap their counterparts in the States watch for inspiration.

Anyway, I turned to the so-called “amateur” titles a while back, hoping to snap myself out of this sloppy-poon-induced stupor. You know the ones. Dirty Debutantes. Hustler’s Barely Legal series. Screw My Wife, Please. Etc. Alleged housewives and girls “new” to the industry. It was a step in the right direction for a while, but then I started seeing the same girls showing up in other “newbie” titles, ruining the whole fantasy for me.

It goes without saying that any title that includes the words “amateurs” or “real amateurs” or “housewives” is bullshit.

I think what really turns me off about most mainstream porn is that the women are just too good looking. Sure, there are plenty of skanks, but most of them have really good bodies. That’s not what I’m looking for.

The sad truth is I’m a freak for flaws and imperfections.

I don’t want to see one more hot, 21-year-old blonde who obviously works out, prancing around with a set of implants and a bald box. I’m looking for women who are a little chunky, haven’t shaved for a couple months and have an obvious overbite.

Even better, a lazy eye.

I don’t know what it says about me, but I’d be the first in line to buy a porno featuring women who survived third-degree burns over 80 percent of their bodies.

If I could, I’d shoot my own flick and call it “Deaf, Dumb and Blind.” How hot would it be to watch a blind woman get seduced by a deaf one missing a limb? Sometimes you don’t need words to express your feelings.

While we’re at it, let’s get some older actresses into the mix. I’ve got no problem with movies featuring women in their 60s or 70s. That’s what I need these days. Shoot a porno in a nursing home. Have some guy go from room to room, giving massages and much, much more to these lonely, old women.

I want to see more porno actresses with bad haircuts and dye jobs. Maybe even a fucked up perm. I’m fucking bored with the typical lingerie these actresses wear. Bust out the granny panties, girdles and straight-jacket bras. Would it kill these directors to work a camisole or a sanitary belt into a shoot?

I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got a problem.

Fucking Death Penalty

I can only laugh when I hear Death Penalty advocates mindlessly suggest that the deterrence factor is the prime reason the government should continue to execute murders, terrorists and other hardcore, capital offenders.

That’s bullshit.

The current system provides these pieces of shit a series of mandatory appeals that cost taxpayers millions of dollars every year. During this process, these guys spend a good 10 to 15 or maybe even 25 years living in relative isolation in a separate wing of a state prison, eating food, reading books, watching TV and, most important, not working a single minute of the rest of their lives.

Every effort is made to keep these fucking animals safe and separated from the general prison population. A guy doing 50 months for tax evasion in the general population at any state prison has it much, much worse than a guy who rapes and murders little kids. Constantly looking over his shoulder, wondering who’s going to try to rape or shank him next. The guys on Death Row rarely if ever have to live with this constant fear.

This makes no fucking sense.

And maybe, eventually, the end does finally come. But these days, the actual execution itself is about as terrifying as a trip to the dentist. A quick stab in the wrist to start an IV and, a few minutes later, they basically go to sleep just as millions of people do everyday when they’re anesthetized before undergoing a medical procedure.

No pain. No suffering. No fucking drama. Just lights out and that’s it. There’s your justice.

Anyone who argues that this scenario DETERS would-be murders from committing their crimes is a fucking moron. So don’t waste your breath or my time with that bullshit argument.

The problem with enforcing the Death Penalty is that there’s not enough of a deterrence factor built into the process.

If we as a country are serious about making the Death Penalty work, here’s what needs to happen:

SPEED UP THE PROCESS. I don’t care what it takes in terms of money or scheduling, but people convicted of capital crimes and sentenced to death need to be fast-tracked through the appeals process.

We can reschedule the garden-variety felony trials, push them back a couple months. Move these fuckers to the front of the line. Get these death-penalty appeals going and make it mandatory that all appeals are argued and adjudicated within 365 days of the death sentence. In the interim, the convict can sit in solitary confinement.

As it is, it takes a good year, two years maybe even three years to try and convict these fuckers. Fine. I’m all for giving both the defense and prosecution enough time to make their cases. That’s a given. It takes too long, but I can live with this being a lengthy process. We’re talking about someone’s life. Take your time with this part of the process.

One more important caveat: In those rare cases (and they do exist), when the person convicted and sentenced to death wants to forego his or her appeal, honor the wish. By this point in the game, this person’s mental state has long been established. If he’s ready to move on to the execution portion of the program, who has the right to argue with him? Let’s get moving.

EMPOWER THE VICTIMS. One of the things I hate most about these horrible crimes, accompanying media gangbangs and never-ending appeals is how insignificant the family and friends of the victims become in the process. First you have to deal with the unfathomable pain of losing a brother, a mother, a daughter, a wife or a best friend, then you have to suffer through the trial and then, usually 15 to 20 years later, you have to relive it all again when the execution date finally rolls around.

That’s bullshit.

Speeding up the process provides closure, whatever that’s worth, to the family and friends in a much more reasonable time period.

More important, fuck the whole lethal injection method. That will never be any kind of deterrent to people inclined to kill other human beings.

Once the asshole is convicted and his appeal is rejected within the allotted 365 days, the family of the victim takes center stage and gets to select the method by which the condemned will die.

Call it a final tribute to the loved one who was killed. Maybe you’re a big fan of the electric chair. The gas chamber is a fine option as well. Firing squad? Hanging? Douse them in gasoline and toss a match? Want to dust off a guillotine? Knock yourself out. This is your day.

It would be my hope that most families would opt for an execution method that mirrors the way in which their loved one was taken from them. If the murderer strangled your 12-year-old daughter with his own hands, you have the option of returning the favor. Can’t or don’t want to do it yourself? We’ll find many willing volunteers to grant your wish.

USE THE POWER OF THE MEDIA. The deterrence argument loses much of its steam because only a handful of family members and media who win a “lottery” actually get to see the execution unfold. The people who really need to see the agony of the electric chair or the utter terror in the eyes of a man as he’s being soaked in gasoline never get the opportunity.

The Death Penalty for most of us, including potential murderers, is an abstract concept. We need to fix that.

You want a deterrent? Broadcast the entire execution as if it were the fucking Super Bowl. Make it a pay-per-view event. Charge $19.99 and make it available to satellite, cable and Internet customers. People will fucking pay for it, this much I know. Take the proceeds and give them all to the immediate family of the victim(s).

Go behind the scenes. Show the guy getting shaved down. Show him ordering and eating his last meal. Show him getting his diaper put on. Show him getting his last rites. Show him walking his last, lonely walk to the execution chamber. And, yes, show him suffering whatever type of death the victim’s family has selected. Let’s remove the filters and show everyone what really happens when you take another person’s life.

Most important, broadcast the entire production to every state, federal and county jail in the country. Make it mandatory viewing. Since this is where most of the current and future murderers reside, they’re the target audience. Might even be worthwhile to loop it for a week or two. No more Judge Judy or Weather Channel in the clink. It’s Execution of the Week for all prisoners fortunate enough to be within viewing distance of a television in any correctional facility.

I know some people will argue that my Death Penalty revamp would constitute “cruel and unusual” punishment. Fuck that. Let me remind you that people are arguing that lethal injection is cruel and unusual. Folks, if you take someone’s life and are convicted and sentenced to death, it’s going to be a “cruel” ending no matter how it happens.

The important thing is do these executions quickly and with the amendments I’ve suggested. Start putting some teeth into the Death Penalty or else eliminate it altogether.

If we do it right, there won’t be anything unusual about it at all.

Fucking Hyphenated Last Names

I can’t fucking stand hyphenated last names.

I don’t know who started this plague on society or what was supposed to be accomplished by this selfish act, but it needs to be eradicated immediately.

My best guess is that some woman somewhere in recent history decided that she wasn’t willing to forego her family name and some man who married her didn’t have the balls to set her straight. That’s usually how these stupid fucking ideas take flight.

And now we all have to live with the repercussions of this one selfish woman and her gutless, pussy-whipped man.

First, let’s get the sexist thing out of the way. I’m sure some women will immediately want to play the sexist-pig card now that I’ve made this declaration. I don’t give a shit.

Let’s talk about marriage for a second. It’s a tradition that most women the world over have obsessed and dreamt about since the beginning of time. Traditionally, the man proposes to the woman, presents her with an overpriced diamond ring and then she spends the next year or so planning and organizing this social extravaganza down to the most minute detail.

Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that the wedding is “her” day. That’s the tradition. And it’s a good one.

When you get right down to it, in marriage, there’s not much “in it” for the guy, especially the wedding itself. Most men get a plain wedding band, agree to all the bullshit requirements of the church, the vendors, the in-laws, in order to make our future wife happy. Invariably, it takes an enormous toll on both our wallets and our patience.

When it’s all done, we’re legally obligated to only fuck our wives for the rest of our lives and, well, that’s about it. There’s no real benefit from where I’m standing.

All of this in the name of tradition.

And though we may bitch about it from time to time, most of us are gamers in the face of such a pain-in-the-ass process just to fulfill the social obligations of this tradition. We do it for you women because we love you and want to make you happy.

But some of you women aren’t happy enough with this one-sided tradition. Nope. You want it all. You want to enjoy all the traditional benefits of a wedding and marriage but some of you are unwilling to make one small consolation to your new husband.

I don’t care if you’re a doctor, a movie star or a fucking bus driver, there’s no good reason for any of you women to retain your maiden name after marriage. But if it’s THAT important to you, fine, keep your fucking last name. While you’re at it, why not keep your single status, too? Just keep living together, you with your name and he with his, and fuck all the pomp and circumstances of the wedding and marriage altogether?

No, you want THAT part of the tradition, don’t you? You just also want to maintain “your identity” after the marriage is consummated. Worse, some of you want to maintain your precious maiden name AND affix your husband’s last name, creating a fucking awkward juxtaposition of last names that sound like some kind of horrible fucking disease.

“Hi, I’m Leslie DeCourcey-Villanueva.”

Yeah, fuck you.

If your maiden name is SO important to you, just fucking keep it. Don’t fucking annoy every co-worker, restaurant hostess and DMV clerk with your petty issue. No one cares that you’re the last whatever your last name is in the family tree. No one gives a half a fuck about how successful you are at your job and how EVERYONE knows you by that name and could NEVER learn your new last name.

You dumb bitch. Now they just have to learn your new hyphenated name. Good call.

“Is it DeCourcey-Villanueva or is it Villanueva-DeCourcey? Ah, fuck it, it’s just Leslie, the fat chick in accounting.”

Hyphenated names always sound uppity and pretentious. They create problems when space is at a premium on documents and other printed materials. It’s a fucking mouthful to say your name and the net result is no one wants to call you by your last name because it’s just such a pain in the ass to say, much less write.

More important, thanks to our online society, it definitely makes it easier for people to find you and do harm. It’s a lot easier to find a hyphenated ex-girlfriend for stalking purposes online than one who has simply adopted a new sir name. Take my word for this.

Had you just stuck with your maiden name or, better, complied with tradition, everyone would be happily calling you by your last name, relishing every syllable.

Don’t even get me started on the women who have the fucking audacity to not only hyphenate their last name, but then ask their husband to adopt the new hyphenated, bastardization of both names. That’s a fucking embarrassment that deserves no further discussion.

Now, let’s think big picture here. Let’s say this hyphenated last name thing catches on and becomes more and more common in our fucked up society. Imagine thousands and millions of men and women walking around with hyphenated last names.

I know. It’s a fucking mess. But it gets worse.

Now suppose that these fucking idiots manage to become pregnant. And, because this name issue was SO important to one of the parents, it’s logical to assume that their children will be stuck with the fucking hyphenated last name for the rest of their inauspicious lives.

Eventually, the law of averages suggest that it’s just a matter of time before little Sally DeCourcey-Villanueva falls in love with little Jimmy Shriver-Schwarzenegger. Now what happens when they have kids? Where do you draw the fucking line? At quads? At octs? At 16s?

At one point does practicality trump a woman’s desire to “keep” her maiden name?

Don’t ask the woman because she’s not thinking about anyone but herself. And that’s fine.

Just stay single.

Fucking Mark McGwire

I’m no fan of Barry Bonds.

He was an asshole to teammates, fans and the media long before steroids and human growth hormones became such a hot-button issue. There’s no doubt in my mind that a fucking jerk of this pedigree was surely an asshole to his wife(s), friends and other family members as well.

Now the federal government, thwarted in its exhaustive efforts to nail his ass to the wall for juicing, is trying to make a tax evasion charge stick, alleging he forked over tens of thousands in undeclared memorabilia profits to one of his mistresses.

Fair or not, Bonds has become the de facto villain of the Steroids Era. And everyone wants to see this guy punished. They want the 73 home runs he hit in 2001 erased from the record books. They want to see him rot in jail.

Yet, another cocksucker who is at least as guilty and, in my mind, even more duplicitous has somehow managed to dodge both the long arm of the law and the undistilled venom of the sporting public.

Say what you want about Bonds, at least he’s still here taking his shots and facing the music.

You can’t say the same about Mark McGwire, the biggest pussy that ever walked the planet. Mr. Fucking “Morality” who went into the stands to bear hug Roger Maris’ relatives after hitting his 70th home run in 1998 and cried like a little girl when announcing the creation of the Mark McGwire Foundation for Children.

While I’m sure there are some legitimate medical reasons for it, I find it ironic that this coward’s foundation is primarily focused on helping children overcome chronic bed-wetting.

The last time most of the world saw Mark McGwire was when some stranger weighing at least 80 pounds less than the one who hit those 70 home runs showed up to testify before Congress on St. Patrick’s Day 2005.

With his fancy-boy reading glasses and his cliché green tie, he tried really hard to portray himself as a “regular” guy who just wanted to help Congress get to the bottom of the steroid issue. He famously said, again and again, that he “wasn’t here to talk about the past” and that he couldn’t answer any of the questions that would have “helped” Congress because “my lawyers have advised me that I cannot answer these questions without jeopardizing my friends, my family and myself.”

No shit.

You acne-riddled, constantly-injured, teary-eyed fraud, it was your friends, family and yourself who most benefited from the salary you earned while taking steroids throughout much of your career. You fucking cheated. You’re a fucking cheater. You were the guy who broke Roger Maris’ single-season home run record and you knew that you were juiced throughout the whole fantastic ride.

When you were hugging Maris’ relatives and bumping chests with Sammy Sosa and soaking in the thunderous applause at Busch Stadium that night, you had to know deep down inside that it was all a lie.

Fuck your fucking phony pleas on behalf of children you’ve never met. What about all the kids who looked up to you throughout your career only to learn that you cheated and, WORSE, never fessed up to it? You’re a fucking pussy of the highest order and a complete fraud.

During your testimony you said “I’m here to make a positive influence on this.”

Well, Mark, if you really wanted to make a positive influence you should have admitted to using performance-enhancing drugs, apologized and then committed yourself to a lifetime of public service. Instead of dodging the issue, you could have committed yourself to a lifetime of public service dedicated to educating kids about the severe physical and psychology damage steroids and HGH inflict on the human body.

But you “lawyered up” and made an embarrassing spectacle of yourself, erasing all the goodwill you managed to artificially engender during your career.

The truth is you deserve to be locked up in jail just as much as Barry Bonds or Rafael Palmeiro or any of the other cheaters who destroyed the integrity of the game for more than a decade.

But what do you care? You made close to $100 million in your bullshit career. You won a World Series ring, albeit one that was tainted by a mid-series interruption courtesy of the Loma Prieta earthquake. You lived and continue to live a life of privilege and luxury for playing a game that you felt compelled to cheat at in order to maintain your competitive edge.

It would be fascinating to see you explain that to your own son, much less the millions of other kids who idolized you throughout your bogus career.

Speaking of kids, if forced to choose between your sorry ass and Pete Rose as a role model for my kids, I’d take Rose in a heartbeat. He never cheated on the field. Flawed as he is and was, Pete Rose busted his ass and never took a shortcut to accomplish what he did on the field. Eventually, he took responsibility for his transgressions. You’re too much of a fucking coward to ever do that.

You’re a great case study for kids who want to learn how to get everything they want in life without really earning it.

Well, almost everything.

Next year, your name will come up for nomination into baseball’s Hall of Fame for the first time. There’s no doubt you WERE a slam-dunk, first-ballot Hall of Famer before you went and shit all over yourself during your congressional testimony. Those 583 home runs don’t inspire much awe these days. However, your career .263 batting average jumps off the page, especially to baseball writers who watched you add muscle mass at an incredulous rate throughout your entire career.

Today, there’s almost no chance you’ll be elected in your first year of eligibility. That’s bad news for you because as more and more of this scandal is exposed, the less likely it is that writers or current Hall of Famers will forgive your cheating ways.

You’re fucking out.

Fucking Double Standards

Don’t ask me why, but I watched not one, not two, but three of those “Access Hollywood-type” shows last night and all of them had extensive (meaning the repeat of the same interview done by a local TV station in NYC) coverage of the scandal that’s “destroyed” Christie Brinkley’s marriage to some semi-famous architect named Peter Cook.

The long and the short of it is that some 19 year-old tramp named Diana Bianchi was lured away from her promising career as a clerk at a kid’s toy store in South Hampton to become Cook’s “assistant” and, eventually, fuck buddy.

Cook is 47 years old and Brinkley’s 52, so I guess this age disparity and the fact that Brinkley used to be a supermodel makes for great tabloid fodder. Personally, I couldn’t care less.

However, the interview and subsequent print and online coverage casts this little whore Bianchi as the “victim” in this love triangle even though the girl got thousands of dollars in cash gifts, a down payment on a car of some type and a job that reportedly paid her around $50 an hour.

One benefit that wasn’t reported is the highly likely possibility that she also enjoyed some really good sex.

The story goes on to report that Cook began his courtship, such as it was, when Bianchi was 18 years old.

I’ve got a real problem with this prevailing notion that young women (meaning at least 18 years and older) are so naïve and vulnerable that they’re not to be held accountable for their behavior in these sexual trysts with older and, usually, married men. That, by virtue of their age, they’re not capable of discerning right from wrong or that because the man is 10, 20 or 30 years older, they are somehow absolved of all responsibility.

There’s an ever-expanding list of “young” women who have allegedly fallen “prey” to these middle-aged male “predators.” Monica Lewinski is perhaps the most famous “victim” of all time.

While she was flashing her thong at Bill Clinton, or saving her cum-stained blue dress or shoving a cigar up her box, she was merely putty in the hands of an older, powerful man who only wanted to exploit her for his deviant sexual purposes.

What a bunch of bullshit.

Maybe I’m a fucking moron, but last time I checked 18 was the age of majority. It’s the age at which men and women can serve in the military, vote, marry and, if they’re convicted of a capital offense, be sentenced to death.

This means that when an 18 year-old woman takes off her panties, spreads her legs and gives her willing, enthusiastic consent for a middle-aged pig fucking, she’s on her own. It also means that when the shit hits the fan and marriages, careers and reputations are tossed asunder, she is and should be held exactly 50 percent accountable for any and all fallout.

Today’s 18 or 19 year-old woman doesn’t look, sound or act anything like an 18 or 19 year-old woman from 1976, 1986 or even 1996. These women know exactly what they’re doing, why they’re doing it and what they expect to get out of these relationships with older men. Nine times out of 10, it’s money either in the form of a promotion, a straight cash payment, assorted gifts or, best of all, a marriage proposal.

Anna Nicole Smith, victim.

I’m fucking sick and tired of these young sluts getting a free pass in the court of public opinion just because their fuck buddies are usually spotting them a generation or two. No shit an older, married guy is going to want to bang a young broad. What a shocker.

I got some more news for you, Sunshine, today’s young, innocent “victim” is tomorrow’s former supermodel. Do you hear me? I mean do you REALLY hear me?

Though the examples are admittedly fewer and much farther between, men don’t hold the patent on better-dealing their spouses for younger lovers. I suppose we all should take a moment now to reflect on the emotional damage Demi Moore has inflicted on poor Ashton Kutcher all these years. Madonna? Cradle robber. Courtney Cox? Preyed on Master Arquette, seven years her junior.

Again, I’m talking about sex between consenting adults who are both at least 18 years of age.

Saying that, let’s take a look at how society views criminal sexual activity between men and girls or women and boys.

If you’re a hot 34 year-old female teacher who takes to fucking and sucking an eighth-grade boy, you get probation. You get counseling. You get a lot of embarrassing publicity but almost never get any hard time in prison. Unless, of course, you violate your parole and seek out that same underage boy for more lovin’ in the backseat of a car.

Now, let’s say you’re a good-looking 34 year-old male teacher who takes to fucking and sucking an eighth-grade girl. Well, dude, better start doing some sphincter exercises because you’re going away for at least three years no matter what. Counseling is something you’ll get from your cellmate thrice daily unless, of course, you decide to kill yourself first.

The prevailing theory is that a 13 year-old boy would “relish” the opportunity and that whatever emotional or psychological damage he incurs while balling his teacher is short-term and largely insignificant. I agree.

However, the world takes a decidedly different view when the genders are reversed. The 13 year-old girl was victimized, has lost her innocence and will likely need years of therapy to eventually, if ever, recover from this monstrous crime. I think I agree but it’s not as black and white as most people seem to believe.

Let me be clear: I think both scenarios are equally wrong. I just want equality. If that means jail time for both men and women or if it means probation and counseling for both, that’s fine too.

Women deserve equality in all aspects of life. It’s only fair.

So be a man, step up and admit that you weren’t a victim in your lengthy sexual relationship with an older, married man.

If you had any ovaries at all, you’d also admit that—besides the wife and married guy’s family—the real “victim” in all of this is the guy who pissed it all away just to ejaculate with you a couple times.

 

Fucking Bad Tippers

I'm incapable of understanding, sympathizing with or condoning people who leave bullshit tips.

This is coming from a guy who has NEVER worked in the service industry. I know that a lot of former or current bartenders, waiters, waitresses, etc. often say they "overtip" because they "know" what it's like to depend on gratuities for their income.

Whatever.

Here's the deal with tipping: If you can afford to go out to dinner or out for drinks, you can afford to tip the people serving you, cleaning up after you and, generally, doing everything you didn't want to do when you made your way to the restaurant or bar in question.

People say 15 percent is the appropriate amount to tip. They even have little "tipping" calculators built into cell phones for people who can't do the math. Many people I know simply "double" the tax on their meal to determine the appropriate amount for the tip.

Whatever. That 15 percent figure should be the starting point for any tip, not the entirety of it.

Nothing more embarrassing than going out to dinner with someone who insists on picking up the check and then proceeds to leave a paltry tip. That reflects poorly on everyone at the table, Jackass. These people have memories. They will remember you and, worse, they'll remember me. And if I ever go there again, eventually that person will serve me and will remember me as the guy who came with the guy who left a shit tip.

There are some people who hold firm to the bullshit notion that tipping is "optional" and should really only be done when the service is especially good. If you fall into this camp, you can go fuck yourself. Most of the people who really believe this shit are either very old or have been brainwashed by someone who's really old. That, or you're just a cheap fuck.

There's nothing wrong with being cheap. Just do it at home. If you really need to withhold the $5 or $10 it would take to make an appropriate-sized tip, then you really should have been at home eating the same meal with food you bought and prepared and cleaned up at a much lower cost.

For every overtipper like me (meaning I leave a tip of 25 percent or more just about everytime) there are 6 right-sized tippers (15 percent to 20 percent) and at least 3 undertippers (10 percent or less). I know because I see it all the fucking time. A fucking $36.75 bill arrives and you throw two 20s at it. Or you try to be clever and deduct the liquor portion of the bill from the dinner tab, leaving $15 on a $122 bill that included a $42 bottle of wine. You fucking piker!

Why do I give a shit what you tip? Because your lack of mathematics or proper social graces or just plain human decency directly affects the quality of service I will receive in the future. Tipping is really about trust. The server trusts that you're going to do the right thing and, therefore, provides the service. Sure, sometimes the service is shit. But 98 percent of the time it's at least good and, often, really good to outstanding.

How many times can you honestly expect a waiter or waitress to suck it up after getting 10 and 12 and 8 percent tips on his or her great service before finally deciding, "Fuck it" and offering either the bare minimum of service or, perhaps, shit service? It's human nature. You get burned over and over again, sooner or later it's going to affect your performance and attitude.

Anyone who makes the "budget" argument when defending a 10 percent tip is a fucking loser. Anyone who is serious about their "budget" needs to start buying groceries in bulk and preparing them at home. Dining out should never be part of any "budget." And if it is, you should "budget" in the fucking 15 to 20 percent tip. If that means Applebee's instead of Ruth's Chris, then that's what it means.

You don't want to cook and you don't want to tip, go to fucking McDonald's. Do you fucking hear me?

Final note: Every once in a while, I end up in a fucked up scenario where there's a large group of people dining out together. We're talking six to 10 or more people. And the fucking bill comes. And everyone makes the obligatory scan of the bill before tossing their cash onto the table or inside the little folder holding the bill.

First of all, if you have to look at the bill to "remember" what your fair share is, you're a fucking shithead. You saw the price on the menu. This isn't your first trip to a restaurant. You know there's tax. You know there's a tip. You know that your beverage isn't free. Fucking step up and do it right.

That means, for example, if you order a $15.99 entree and a get a $1.99 soda, your total "share" of the bill isn't just $17.98. The $20 bill you begrudgingly threw into the pile doesn't cover your "fair share" of the total bill. Not even close.

If every asshole (and usually every asshole DOES do this) did that, then whomever ends up with the bill last is going to be fucking furious when he or she has to either A) make up the difference themselves B) fucking degrade themselves by asking everyone to reassess their contribution to fulfill the real cost of the bill or C) fuck over the waiter or waitress who just busted his or her ass for the last hour and a half meeting all the fucking silly-ass demands of your inordinantly large party.

That adults need to be taught this lesson sums up why I avoid any "group" lunches or dinners at all costs. People take leave of their senses and decency in large groups on the theory, I guess, that somehow "everyone" else will figure it out and make it right.

Back to you, the asshole who just forked over a $20 bill to cover your $15.99 pasta dish and your $1.99 iced tea. That's a total of $17.98. We're not going to talk about any "group" appetizers that are usually ordered. We're going to keep it simple.

So, you're on the hook for $17.98 worth of food and drink. Now let's add the tax at 8.25 percent, another $1.48. Now you're responsible for $19.46 in "hard" costs. Now, let's talk about the tip. For groups of a certain size, it's common for the restaurant to affix a set gratuity rate at 15 percent. Sometimes more. Regardless, if you're a fucking decent human being, you as a member of this large group should leave AT LEAST a 15 percent tip. So, 15 percent of $19.46 is $2.92. bringing your total responsibility to $22.38. Not $20. Not $21.

Now, let's take a look at what happens if the first 9 of 10 people in your party were to follow your shit-ass accounting practices. If all nine are $2.38 shy of their real obligation, the last fucking person to assess the bill has a problem. For the sake of simplicity, let's say all 10 people ordered the exact fucking same meal. $15.99 seafood alfredo and $1.99 iced tea. That's it.

The 10th person sees the subtotal for food and drink is $179.80. Tax, at 8.25 percent, is another $14.83, bringing the pre-tip total to $194.63. After everyone else has taken their turn eyeing the tab and putting their $20 bill inside the folder, there's a total of $180 in there awaiting the last person's contribution. If he or she throws in $20 also, that will leave $5.47 for the server, a whopping tip of 2.8 percent. That or the last person has to either hassle everyone else to chip in more cash or make up the difference his or herself.

Maybe you fuckers can live with that.

Fucking Unwanted Golf Partners

Few things in the universe piss me off more than showing up at the local golf course, either alone or with a friend, only to be saddled with a couple of ass fucks who invariably ruin the entire experience for me.

Anyone who golfs knows exactly what I’m talking about. Like it or not, you have to spend an entire morning or afternoon with complete strangers who seem to always say or do exactly the wrong thing(s) to stir the rage and utter contempt I usually try to hide from the world.

The problems start immediately as we all hover around the tee box in those awkward moments before the round begins. Eventually, someone will make a move to initiate the pre-tee shot introductions.

“Hey, how ya doin? I’m Mark.”

“Steve.”

“James. Nice to meet ya.”

“Connor.”

“What?”

“Connor.”

Hand shakes all around.

Yeah, yeah. Fucking “hi” and “good luck” to you, too. Connor.

By this point, I’ve got a pretty good idea of which of the two, if not both, is going to drive me fucking crazy for the next five hours. It might be the name, or the way they say their name, or the limp-ass handshake or the stupid fucking visor they’re wearing. It’s all the same. Only the names change.

Even after playing hundreds of rounds of golf, I can’t really say with any certainty how it’s decided who will hit first. But someone eventually steps into the tee box, plants a tee, places the ball and then steps back for a practice swing or two.

Here’s where it all starts. Always, ALWAYS, the first guy spends a good 20 seconds telling everyone else how long it’s been since he played. Or about the new driver he’s not sure he can control. Or how tight his fucking back is. Whatever. Just hit the fucking ball.

Four or five practice swings later, the ball is (usually) struck. I don’t give a shit about the quality of your play. If you’re out here at a municipal course on a weekend, chances are you’re not just getting in a practice round or two before heading out for Augusta. Me neither.

From time to time, I’ll hit a good shot. Maybe even string together a couple decent holes. But for the most part, I’m just happy to score in the 90s. I’m here to have fun, hit some balls around, drink some beer and tease the shit out of my friend. That’s it.

Despite these relatively modest aspirations, I almost never seem to achieve my goal because of all the fucking morons randomly assigned to my foursome. After years of watching these fucks in action, I’ve learned that most fall into one or more of the following categories:

THE INSTRUCTOR: These are the guys, usually in their 50s and 60s, who can’t play a round of golf without offering unsolicited and painfully obvious advice to everyone in the group. It usually comes immediately after the first tee shot of the day. Sadly, these cocksuckers are also incapable of recognizing subtle and non-subtle social cues from recipients who clearly don’t want nor care for their fucking shit-ass advice.

With rare exception, the summation of The Instructor’s vast wisdom always boils down to: 1)You’re not keeping your head down or 1A) You’re rushing your swing/swinging too hard.

Really? Here’s a bit of unsolicited advice for you, Grandpa: Shut your fucking mouth before I wheel around, take a measured back swing, keep my head down all the way through and release the business end of this titanium driver into the sorry-ass sack of fucking hanging meat that you call a torso. You hear me, old man? I’m not fucking around. One more “tip from a pro” out of you and the only advice you’ll be dispensing in the near future is how to properly attach a colostomy bag.

Playtime is over. You get one free “get out of the emergency room” card per round. You’ll know your card’s been redeemed when, after my errant shot and your fucking pedestrian analysis, I look you right in the eye and say ‘No shit, Tiger’ while simultaneously lighting a cigarette.

THE PRO: These motherfuckers crop up from time to time, usually with the wrap-around shades and freshly pressed khakis, the fucking Polo shirt tucked in just so. He’s the one who lines up every putt as if his Tour card was on the line.

He’ll shoot in the high 70s but all you’ll hear is him bitching about stuff like his “fade” or how “they” need to re-sand the bunkers and aerate the greens more often. What’s most frustrating about this breed of cat is that The Pro has little tolerance for the wayward shots and general indifference that afflict the rest of the foursome. And he won’t hide it.

He’s the kind of fuck-o that makes you feel uncomfortable taking yet another mulligan after your tee shot ends up in the woods, lake or, more likely, in the middle of fairway about 50 feet from the tee box.

Hey, Arnie, would you prefer to wait around as we hack-hack-hack-hack our way up and across the fairway for the next 10 minutes or just sit tight for another 10 seconds so we can hit a playable ball? Fuckhead.

He’s the guy who wants everyone to patiently wait the good two minutes he takes to survey the undulations and breaks of every green before his 20-foot putt (which he always leaves short because he’s such a pussy) but strides off to the next tee while me and my buddy three-putt our way to another set of 8s.

On those rare occasions when one of us actually plays well and musters a par or birdie, this fucking asshole doesn’t say shit despite the fact that we’ve lauded his pars, birdies and screaming drives all afternoon long. Fuck you. And, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? We saw your two-putt. I’ve got honors.

Go back to your cart, put another clump of fucking Copenhagen in your mouth, check your fucking Blackberry and watch as we take a couple mulligans to celebrate our lone par of the day.

THE SOCIALIZER: Hate this species with a passion. More often than not, this guy sneaks up on you. He’ll wait a hole or two and then it all starts with something as innocuous as ‘So, where do you guys live?’ or ‘What do you do for a living?’

I’ve taken to inventing different personalities, hometowns, professions, even sexual preferences to ward off the endless small talk that accompanies The Socializer. I’m not a dick. I’ll answer the first five or six questions and reply in kind.

But more often than not, his little Q&A is nothing more than a precursor to tell us all how important he thinks he is and how little this round of golf means to him in the grand scheme of things.

“So, you’re a stockbroker, huh?” he’ll say two holes after the information was disseminated. “Yeah, I’ve got an online account with Schwab. Doing really well. Got Altria at 48 and National Semi at 16. But in the past year I’ve mostly been in gold and copper.”

Bullshit. You mean you read the Journal this morning while you were shitting out yesterday’s tuna salad on focaccia and, worse, only skimmed the headlines. Fucknut.

This shit was especially obvious and pathetic back in about 1999 when every golfer forced upon me was holding several thousand shares of AOL, Cisco and fucking JDS Uniphase. Amazing the portfolios held by some of the guys I played golf with who always drove off in their Accords and 626s.

Look, you perineum-soup drinking, fucking Johnny Come Lately, constantly interrupting, small-time piker, I come out here to play golf with my friend in an attempt to forget about everything else that constitutes the reality of my life. I don’t want to hear you recite your CV and gush about the “best” sushi place in Toronto.

I don’t fucking eat sushi. It tastes like shit. And fuck Canada. Fucking freeloaders.

Go home and tell your wife about your great investment strategies, your real estate coups and your sexual conquests. I’m sure this will all be news to her.

THE SCOREKEEPER: Yeah, you know who you are. You’re the fucking annoying little parrot cunt that asks COMPLETE FUCKING STRANGERS their score after every fucking putt out. “What’d you get?” “So was that 5 or a 6?” “How’d you do?”

First of all, we haven’t made any wagers. We’re not competing in any fucking tournament. I sure as hell don’t ask nor give a shit about whatever score you’re inventing for yourself, so why are you asking me for mine? Dickhead.

Just take your little fucking pencil and write what you want for us just as you are for your own score. Make it interesting. Keep it close. Build some drama. Whatever you do, don’t fucking ask me again.

If you’re a purist, interested only for the purpose of determining who should tee off first at the next hole, let me save you some time: You’re up!

Don’t want to go first? Fine, get the fuck out of the way. Whatever. Just stop pestering me like a 4 year-old, you fucking passive aggressive jackass.

You want to use MY score as a measuring stick for your play. Fine. Keep it to yourself. If you’re so fucking interested, just count my strokes. If you can’t pull that off, guesstimate. I don’t give a shit. I’m not interested in “convincing” you of my score, good or bad.

As a matter of fact, the same rule applies to my handicap, the manufacturer of my clubs, the particular club I will/did use and anything else you think is important enough to open your cum-gurgling mouth about. For kicks, sometimes I’ll indulge this asshole for my own sadistic pleasure.

“So what was that for you?”

“What’d you get?”

“Five.”

“Four.”