Repeat Thursday: Big Feet: Big Stuff or Big Bluff?

In the history of the universe, ever since Nothing turned into Something, since planets formed from cosmic dust and little green salamanders evolved into Homo Erectus, there have been exactly four studies to determine whether Big Feet mean Big Meat.

Scientists have examined virtually everything: why the sky is blue, why birds sing, why toast always lands butter side down (Svenska Joornal der Breakfaast, 1997, pp. 162-217). Why the penis ennui? When I'm hanging around some bar, trying to choose between the reasonably-attractive tall guy and the drop-dead gorgeous short guy, the last thing on my mind is dirty bread.

Gay people blame homophobia for all kinds of stuff, but I'm thinking it's involved here as well. This is the most frequently asked question of all time, surpassing even "Who killed JFK?" and "Why is Audrina Partridge famous?" A million times a day somebody asks if there's a connection, and that's just the folks who catch me in clothes.

Scientists, I'm guessing, don't want to be tarred by that "gay" feather. It's okay to grow a spare ear on the back of a mouse, or genetically merge chickens with Miracle Whip so they'll start laying egg salad. But get another man excited? That's just plain weird. What are the other scientists going to think? "That Günther, he likes the penis a little too much," they'd tell their assistants. "Now go sew these lips on that dog." And how's his wife going to feel when he comes home and recounts his day? "Honey!" he calls, setting his briefcase on the hall table, "I saw a real whopper this morning!" She might feign enthusiasm to his face, but you know she's going to tell her family he's unemployed.

Even these four studies seem a little skittish, since they all have serious flaws. The first declares there's no significant correlation between penis length and shoe size, though somehow they've avoided handling erect penises. They "gently stretch" them, like they're tight socks, and measure them that way. Because, you know, who's got the energy to get a guy hard?

I want to tell these researchers that nobody cares how stretchy penises are. I have friends who have sex with rubber plants, and friends who have sex with balloons, but I don't know anybody who wants to get screwed by taffy. Then I notice their disclaimer: they don't need to measure erections, because an earlier study showed a strong correlation between stretched length and erect length.

This sounds a little farfetched to me, so I check it out. I'll just say two things about that study: one, math is boring even with big dicks involved; and two, while the correlation between stretched and hard length was 0.793, the correlation between soft and hard length was 0.678.

Translated into English, it means guessing how much bigger a stretched penis will get is just slightly more reliable than guessing how much bigger a soft, dangly penis will get. And if that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't have cried myself to sleep three times last week.

A few months later a second group of scientists comes along, and they decide they can do better. "To hell with stretching dicks!" they proclaim. "We'll have guys measure their own!"

I'll pause here as we all laugh. Mature men with advanced degrees, wearing white coats and stethoscopes, based a study on the assumption that men wouldn't lie about their endowments. Maybe they phoned the guys and asked how long their dicks were, or maybe they shoved them into little cubicles while they waited squeamishly outside. Either way seems pretty silly to me, and I buy my cologne from Rite Aid. Doctors can remove your spleen or transplant your gallbladder or even smear a woman's pap, but getting a guy visibly excited, well . . . that's not somewhere anyone wants to go.

Anybody who's ever answered a personal ad knows how that study turned out. They didn't find any correlation between shoe size and penis length -- maybe because regardless of shoe size, everybody reported nineteen inches. Guys lie about everything, even when they know they'll get caught. "That's in dog years," they admit when you question their age. "That's on the moon," they say when you doubt their weight. As for endowment, cold weather is a popular excuse. Except I lived with one of these guys for nearly a year, and two weeks in Death Valley wouldn't have nudged him up to small.

Eventually a third research group steps into the breach. "That second study was nonsense," they decree, "so we're going to reenact the first." They stretch, they measure, and there's no correlation.

The veil is lifted slightly by our fourth and final group, though they're stretchers as well. "We think we found something in index fingers," they announce, "but we just didn't see enough penises." You can criticize these guys if you want -- they should get better funding, or try to sign up volunteers -- but I just want to buy them a beer and say, buddy, you and me both.

And so here I sit, a ridiculously tall man who gets asked three hundred times a day if big feet mean big meat. I don't like sharing my own personal data, at least until somebody's bought me a drink, so I've always said nobody knows. Now I can add a well-informed postscript: that nobody's done a study comparing erect penis length to shoe size, or finger length, or height. That the geniuses in our prestigious research institutes have more pressing things to do, like calculating the force required to shoot a sheep to the moon (Applied Ovine Ergonomics, Nov. 2002, pp. 523-81). That maybe it's time gay scientists stepped up to the plate.

Heck, I'll volunteer, if that'll help. Because when my time comes, I'd be pretty damned proud to have this on my tombstone:

Here lies RomanHans.

He wasn't a doctor, or a scientist, or even particularly smart.

But he sure wasn't afraid to get a guy hard.

Repeat Wednesday: To Serve Mankind

It took a couple days for me to piece it all together.

The first part of the puzzle showed up at breakfast. At nine o'clock on the dot, somebody knocked on the bedroom door, then without waiting for an answer blithely barged in. It was a grizzled, grey-haired woman in a maid's uniform, bearing a tray full of food.

"Thanks, Peaches," Clive yawned without looking, sitting up and arranging a mountain of pillows behind his back.

Totally naked and barely covered with the corner of a sheet, I was more than a little embarrassed. Peaches, though, couldn't have cared less about her boss's bedmate, wondering only where to leave the coffee and croissants.

In that same bed the next morning came the second puzzle piece. I woke up even earlier to a strange sensation below the waist. Dampness. Pressure. Heavy breathing. Pretty much adding up to foreplay in my book. "Clive," I muttered, "it's a little early for -- "

I opened my eyes and saw him scanning the newspaper over on his side of the bed. "Something is sucking on my toes," I announced.

"It's Peaches," he declared. "She likes you. Take it as a compliment: she doesn't like a lot of guys."

Needless to say I sprang out of bed. I mean, it's nice when maids appreciate you, but I'd rather their feelings be expressed by ironed shirts or freshly-dusted furniture than tongues exploring obscure erogenous zones. I've been woken up by thousands of things over the years, from alarm clocks to angry boyfriends to annoyed street sweepers who just had to clean the spot I was laying on. But a stern-looking woman in orthopedic shoes set a new record in maneuvering me upright.

I leapt out of bed like it was electrified, then glanced over to see a very startled dog. "Hey!" Clive snapped. "You scared Peaches!"

"Wait," I said, before resuming my position in the mattress dent. "I'm confused. I thought Peaches was the maid."

Clive sipped from his mug of French Roast and shrugged. "She's another Peaches," he said nonchalantly. "But I don't think she likes you that way."

I grabbed a section of the paper and selected a raspberry danish from the tray. I ate until I got it sufficiently pieced together in my head. "Your maid and your dog have the same name? Who got named after who?"

"It's just a coincidence. First the maid showed up, then the dog. They both already had names when I got them."

I didn't want to argue so early into our relationship, having met the previous Thursday at driving school. He'd probably already pegged me as a loose cannon after hearing I'd followed a school bus for eight miles. But nobody, I repeat nobody, flips me off, even if they're wearing braces and a Hello Kitty smock. Still, I couldn't help myself. "Then change the dog's name!" I insisted. "It's not fair to the maid to have another Peaches around."

"You should never change a dog's name," he said, emanating seriousness. "It can turn them schizophrenic."

"They already spend half their lives licking their genitals," I announced, "so how much worse can it get? C'mon, it's freakin' rude. What happens when you yell 'Peaches'? They both come running?"

Clive took on an embarrassed look. "Maybe," he said. "What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with bringing the maid running when you want the dog? Nothing a Human Rights Tribunal couldn't straighten out."

We didn't speak again for a few hours and eventually I stormed off home. That night Clive called and announced that he'd given in. "You're right," he admitted. "It just isn't fair. From here on in, Peaches will be known as 'Socrates.'"

"Really?" I asked.

"I was already planning on doing something about it. When I can't find her, I hate wandering the neighborhood yelling 'PEACHES!' at the top of my lungs."

I hung up the phone with a contented smile on my face. I'd righted a wrong in the world. I'd fixed an injustice, made somebody's life a little better, just by getting Clive to rename --

Who?

That night I tossed and turned in my bed. He must have meant the dog, right? I mean, nobody in their right mind would think about renaming a woman who had enough wrinkles for four. But rich people live by different rules, as demonstrated by Leona Helmsley and Donald Trump. It's a fact of life that huge piles of money buy huge piles of crazy, so it could easily have gone the other way. Right now, in Manhattan, there could be a maid named "Socrates."

I thought about calling Clive back, but I couldn't figure out what to say. I mean, I couldn't exactly ask which Peaches he was talking about. The only reasonable scenario was that he changed the dog's name, and anybody with a brain in their head would be insulted if I asked them if they'd renamed a maid.

I'd learned my lesson more than once: I made a small misstep that unleashed years of bottled-up pique. "You don't know me at all!" Walter snapped when I gave him an autographed photo of Katie Couric for his birthday. "Who do you think I am?" Steve screamed when I asked if he'd put Men Without Hats on my iPod. "Have you met me?" Butch yelled when I politely inquired whether he'd borrowed my purple thong.

So I let the whole thing drop.

The next time I woke up, a different tongue was lapping at my foot. This one was practiced: it went from forceful to playful to passionate all in the course of one lick. I slowly pried my eyes open and gazed over at Clive. He was in his usual position: propped up on pillows, reading the Times and spreading an almond croissant with orange marmalade. "Is it Socrates?" I asked warily. He nodded.

I couldn't look. Elderly maid? Schizophrenic dog? And in the great scheme of things, did it make any difference? "I saw her rubbing her ass on the carpet yesterday," I offered, but Clive just said "Mm" and passed me a brioche.

Repeat Tuesday: Sugar Frosted Flake

I met Trevor bar-hopping one night. He was a few years older than me -- heck, a few hundred years older -- so I tried to lose him, but he was incredibly persistent.

"Come home with me," he said.

"I couldn't," I replied.

"It's just a small penthouse. Ten thousand square feet in Chelsea, overlooking the Hudson."

"I'll get my coat."

Almost instantly we became an item. My usual boring life vanished as I got swept up in a whirlwind of fast cars, expensive restaurants, and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. My mom always said it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, but I thought it was easier to fall for a wealthy guy. He was cultured. He was refined. He didn't wear underwear twice. How could anybody resist?

A determined, confident lawyer, Trevor leapt into commitment headfirst. Waking up the morning after our first date I found myself alone in a bedroom the size of a football field, walls of glass on three sides. "Had to go to work," a note on the Noguchi table read. "Make yourself at home. See you tonight. P. S. The alarm is on so you can't leave."

Naturally, I was horribly annoyed. I felt like a goldfish in a bowl, a bird in a cage, a Fabergé egg, though I'd only pleased a couple members of the Russian royal family. But as I wandered the endless hallways dotted with tasteful Italian statues, passing room after room stuffed with armoires, wet bars, and Renoirs, I felt my anger fade. By the time I counted bathroom number eight I never wanted to see real life again.

The kitchen was vast and industrial, with more chrome than a Cadillac dealership, and the fridge was stocked like Balducci's. I smeared some brie with caviar and headed to the rec room, where a flat-screen TV covered the one non-glass wall. I'd never let myself be "kept," I decided as I watched a King Kong-sized Julia Child chop garlic larger than my head. But I could be cute and appreciative until chickens colonized Mars.

That first date lasted eight days, with just a quick pause for breath before the second: Trevor whisked me away to his home in the Hamptons. When he hosted a pool party, though, so I could meet his friends, it spiraled straight down the toilet. There were 50 of us: Trevor, me, and 48 other folks who, one by one, either congratulated me on my "catch" or suggested innovative ways to suck the poor sap dry.

"You know what you should do," one attractive man suggested, "is have an early birthday. That way you'll get a present whether or not he lasts until the real thing."

"Make up a sick aunt in Brooklyn," a thin young guy in Speedos advised, "so you can get out occasionally and sleep with someone attractive."

"Two words," a Leona Helmsley-type whispered. "Hot chocolate. It masks the taste of everything from Rohypnol to Beano."

I figured another intergenerational couple would understand, but once December wandered out of earshot May cut to the chase: "Getting him into bed was the easy part," he disclosed. "Now you've got to get into the will."

Eventually Trevor's sister sidled over and took my arm. "I can't believe the hateful things people are saying," she said. I felt like kissing her, but then she glanced over at Trevor, who was flipping burgers in his tiny swim trunks, and guffawed. "I mean, look at that eyesore. You'll earn every penny you get!"

I broke free of her grip and stormed into the house, Trevor toddling close behind. "I'm sick of these people," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "Every one of them thinks I'm after your money. It's like I have to be a gold digger just because I wear ugly clothes, cut my own hair, and buy my cologne from Rite Aid."

That last one froze Trevor in his tracks, so I continued to the bedroom alone. I changed into street clothes, threw my stuff in my suitcase, then cleared my toiletries out of the bathroom. I stumbled outside and got in the limo, but before I could tell the driver where to go Trevor had jumped in beside me, fully clothed.

"I hoped we could ignore the differences between us," I said, "but your friends don't seem willing to try. Why are they so suspicious? Why can't they see us as a couple, as two men in love, instead of old and rich paired with young and for sale?"

"Roman," he said, taking my hand in his, "it's nothing personal. Everybody makes assumptions, rich and poor alike. It's just the way people are."

"That's where you're wrong," I said. "It's the greedy who think we're all after money. It's the conniving who suspect us of plots. It's the backstabbers who think everyone's after them. I'll go hang out with poor, stupid, lazy people if that'll stop me from being insulted."

I don't know why this made me think of McDonald's, but it did. My stomach started growling, so I told the driver to head there, and we rode in silence until the golden arches appeared. "If you set one foot in there," Trevor warned, "it's over between us."

"I know," I said, nodding gravely, "but that's how it's got to be. This is my world. Here, I know I won't be judged."

Trevor followed me inside, resigned to my decision. "At least let me pay for you," he said, "as my farewell gift." I gave him a hug, for the last time inhaling the woodsy cologne that cost more than my education. When I let go, he stepped up to a register and bravely faced the geeky clerk. "I don't want anything, but I'd like to pay for him." The clerk looked to me for my order, punched it in, and read the total aloud, his pubescent voice cracking.

Trevor and I exchanged one final glance. I'd miss him, as strong feelings intermingled with my love of his wealth. But I knew what I was doing was right. Maybe these people weren't rich or fun or creative or smart, and maybe they had to move their fingers in the air to read the menu, but they wouldn't damn someone based on appearance. We were below pride, with our farts and flab and turquoise fannypacks. This Dorothy was back in his Kansas.

As Trevor fished the bills from his wallet the clerk looked at the two of us -- him in his tailored finery, me in my humble attire. His mouth twisted into a scabby pink smile and he scratched the top off a zit. "I love it when folks buy food for the homeless!" he said.

Repeat Monday: A Lousy Trick

I ran into an old boyfriend at the grocery store. I cluelessly got behind Gary in the checkout line, and by the time I recognized him it was too late to scurry away. It wasn't easy pretending I was happy to see him again: we slept together exactly once, and we spent most of that time trying to decide who would do what to whom.

Luckily he had something else to talk about. "I'm opening a bar," he announced. "How'd you like to be a bartender?" No questions, no resumés, no interviews. Which got me wondering: was he looking for employees with no experience, or just Abraham Lincoln lookalikes?

One question he should have asked was how old I was, because the answer was "Not old enough." I was six foot six with a thick black beard, so I guess it didn't occur to him. In fact, I'd never even been in a bar before, and everything I knew about them I learned from "Cheers." I pictured a place overrun with alcoholic, sex-addict jocks.

"I'd love to," I said, pulling him into a hug.

At the grand opening I decided I'd died and gone to heaven. Being a math major at UCLA I wasn't exactly surrounded by attractive gay guys. I figured even if I got extraordinarily lucky -- that is, if I eventually encountered another male homosexual -- he'd still have a slide rule and a clip-on tie. At the bar, all I had to do was pour alcohol into glasses and an endless line of hot men waited to talk to me. They'd buy us both drinks, and we'd chat and flirt until another hot man called me away.

If there was any problem, it was Gary's boyfriend Bob. From the moment he set eyes on me it was obvious he wanted to get into my pants. He spent the whole evening clamped onto the bar, staring at me, and when I got within reach he grabbed with both hands. "You're so hot," he drunkenly growled. "I'd love to rip those clothes off you and fuck you until the cows come home."

As Gary fumed quietly in the corner, a couple of questions formed in my mind. First, what's with all those cows staying out so late? And second, when Gary finally exploded, would he go after Bob or me?

Subsequent nights proved more relaxing, because the bar was an immediate bomb. The decor could have been the problem: a gay bar with wood paneling, brass details, and hanging ferns is like a Christian Science Reading Room with black lights and a leather swing. Still, it was fine with me. I did my homework, watched TV, or just sat and drank. That's what I'd have done if I hadn't been working, so minimum wage was icing on the cake.

Stuart was an old friend of Gary's, and he quickly became a regular, turning up to keep me company. I wasn't exactly attracted to him, preferring Burt Reynolds to Joel Grey, but an offhand comment from Gary convinced me to reconsider. "Stuart had the perfect boyfriend," Gary announced. "He made a fortune creating one of the most popular shows on TV. Then he died and left all his money to Stuart."

Suddenly I realized how much I liked Stuart, and the more we talked, the more we forged a common bond. Unfortunately, every time he opened his mouth, words like "church" came out. To teenagers, there are several thousand more interesting words, including "Jaegermeister," "hopscotch" and "dirndl." "I've got to leave early tonight," he declared. "Church tomorrow!" "That guy looks familiar," he said. "I'm pretty sure he goes to my church."

It wasn't enough to discourage me. In fact, if there was a Higher Power, he was clearly on our side, because Stuart confused my refusal to sleep with him with some kind of morality. Apparently he didn't know bartenders and morality go together like hot tubs and hairdryers.

Our chaste relationship was almost a month old when I noticed a change in Stuart. He went from confident and self-assured to timid, nervous, apprehensive. He started talking about "we" and "us," planning events in the years to come, and all of a sudden it hit me: he was going to propose. I spent hours blissfully daydreaming -- not about love or romance, but writing up menus for the cook, checking the maid's dusting with a white glove, ordering the chauffeur around. How wonderful my new life would be.

Unfortunately, the business was sinking fast, and Gary had to resort to desperate measures. "We're going to have a contest," he announced one night while I read the Journal of Applied Mathematics in an empty bar. "We're going to put up pictures of all the employees' dicks, and whoever recognizes the most wins a hundred-dollar tab."

Now, this didn't sound like such a bad idea. I'd made two hundred bucks in tips on opening night, and hadn't made twenty dollars since. In fact, being the naturally gregarious sort, I stood a good chance of winning that prize. But with a rich boyfriend seconds away from asking for my hand, exposing myself to a roomful of drunks wasn't the first thing on my mind. "Count me out," I told Gary. "I prefer to entertain men two or three at a time."

Bob threw himself between us like he was shielding us from a grenade. "I can take the photo!" he offered. "Heck, I could even be the fluffer, too!"

If angry glares were blowtorches, that bar would be burning like Tara now. I repeated my denial while reassuring Gary that Bob would never get close to my genitalia, then they left to fight it out. The stunt proved spectacular: almost from the minute Gary tacked up the photos, there were thirsty crowds debating who was who.

Me, I stayed behind the bar, amassing jars full of singles and daydreaming about my future hubby. Slowly, though, I noticed another odd phenomenon. Half the eyes in the bar were pointed at me, chattering mouths hidden behind hands. Whispering. Laughing. Nodding towards the photo wall. One by one they wandered over. "A little bird tells me you're the one on the right," Guy #1 said with the expression that usually accompanies food poisoning. "I'd never have believed it," Guy #2 offered. "I mean, you've got enormous hands." "A big penis isn't everything," claimed Guy #3. "At least, that's what people tell me."

I stomped over to the board, my heart pounding in my chest. At the end of a long line of knackworst there was one tiny Vienna sausage, nearly lost in a tangle of hair. The reels in my brain clicked and whirred, and when they halted it was perfectly clear.

Gary didn't just get mad: he got even.

"NOW HEAR THIS!" I bellowed, as all eyes spun my way. "I am NOT the dude on the right. My penis is not shriveled, small and splotchy. In fact, should any of you get lucky enough to see my equipment, you'll discover that I am enormous downstairs. I could choke a buffalo. I need a rope and a burro just to drag it out of my pants."

Jaws dropped and eyes grew wide. "GOT THAT?" I barked, and a hundred heads nodded in twitchy agreement. "Now, I don't want to hear another word."

Not two minutes later Stuart wandered in and worked his way through the crowd to the bar. He placed a tiny velvet box in front of me and it seemed like time stood still. "Roman," he declared as the bar went quiet, "since we met here, it's only fitting that I do this here as well. I love you, and I want us to be together for the rest of our lives. I'd like to take you to Massachusetts this weekend, where we'll have a civil ceremony to affirm our love for one another. If you agree to be my husband, you'll make me the happiest man on earth."

Guy #1 wiped away a faceful of happy tears. "He sure will," he sobbed apologetically. "Roman's enormous downstairs."

Guy #2 enveloped the prospective groom in a bearhug. "He could choke a buffalo," he agreed.

A sappy grin spanned #3's face. "He needs a rope and a burro just to drag it out of his pants," he said.

As Stuart stormed out of the bar clutching my ring, I watched my future disappear too. No maid to direct. No chef to insult. No chauffeur to push around. Bob vaulted over the bar, grabbed ahold of my belt, and started to unbuckle. "Now that your boyfriend is out of the picture, why don't you show us what you got?"

I grabbed Bob just slightly lower and squeezed like I was making orange juice. If you're near Studio City and you listen closely, you can still probably hear his scream.

I walked out with my head held high, and I never saw any of those people again. I couldn't complain, even though I was once again single and unemployed. Even if I didn't believe in a Higher Power, it seemed like somebody had tried to give me what I wanted.

They just had me abusing the wrong kind of staff.

Repeat Friday: Stripping Grammar Naked

Once in a while, somebody will ask me where I learned to write. Sometimes I tell them about the year I spent under John Rechy at Princeton. Sometimes I tell them about the short-story classes I took with Edmund White, or the sabbatical at that writer's colony off the woodsy coast of Nantucket.

And sometimes I tell them the truth: that I learned everything I know from sitting naked in front of my computer and reading lots and lots of godawful porn.

Experts know the best way to learn what's good is to study what's bad. For instance, I learned how not to cook Mexican food from Taco Bell, what not to wear from Wal-Mart, and how not to have sex with ex-husbands 1, 2 and 4. Desperate to find the very worst in writing, I cruised the sleaziest internet porn sites, searched Google for every four-letter word, and scrutinized every fan-fiction site where Spock and Sulu ever touched.

To save you time, though, and from discovering your belongings heaped on the doorstep by an intolerant boyfriend who knows about Internet Explorer's "History" file, I've compiled the most miserable writing I've found in many hard years of study. If we take a moment to examine these examples and see what mistakes were made, we can use that knowledge to write up some rules that we can use to improve our own work.

(1) He had nice thick chest hair that covered his entire body.

The first thing we learn is, never eat breakfast while surfing porn sites. Because while chest hair can be reasonably fetching on, say, a chest, when it creeps over to the forehead or the elbows it can make Jim Belushi spew up his Sugar Pops. It doesn't take an expert to realize chest hair is best confined to the upper torso, in much the same manner that toenails should remain in the vicinity of the feet.

(2) Jim grabbed his ass through his tight shorts and said, "I want you bad."

From this awkward construction we learn that if there are two or more males in your story, avoid using the word "his." Your dramatic scene will turn farcical if the reader thinks your hero is grabbing his own body parts and expressing his feelings of desire. Similar examples include the following:

-- The stranger wrapped his hungry mouth around his mushroom head.
-- Standing at the side of the bed, Gustavo grabbed his ankles and lifted them high into the air.
-- Slowly Maury worked his lips down to his stomach.

(3) All night long Carl slept, sprawled naked across the bed, and Max approached with anticipation.

What we learn here is, modifiers in the first half of your sentence also apply to the second. We’ve got a scene that’s probably eight hours long, which means Max moves about as slowly as gay rights.

(4) Brad's endowment was throbbing so hard Joshua thought it'd explode.

The problem here is painfully obvious: Don't frighten your reader with images from Japanese horror movies. You've spent hours conjuring up the perfect picture, then you go and spoil the mood:

-- Chuck's erection grew so hard it could have knocked over Hitler.
-- I'd never seen an ass pounded so relentlessly, and I watch Bill O'Reilly.
-- His equipment, trapped in those thin white shorts, looked like my grandma in her bra.

(5) Max took out Walter's penis and played with it.

Watch out for the words “took out.” While you may assume it’s equivalent to “bared" or "uncovered,” the reader may opt for another meaning, like “to remove from a box.”

(6) I really wanted to have sex with him. After I finished my french toast, I slid over next to him and brought it up.

Here we've got a confusing pronoun -- in this case, the word "it." The writer is hoping he can refer all the way back to his previous sentence, but instead the reader stops at the closest noun, which just happens to be "french toast."

Other regrettable examples are:

-- My wife and I made love on the deck of our pristine white yacht, then I tied her to the pier and went home.

-- Cooper and I took the dog for a walk. I couldn't resist the way his ass swayed back and forth, so I dragged him behind a bush and took him from behind.

(7) He grabbed hold of his meat and pulled out a condom.

This sentence shows that sometimes there's a weird synergy between different parts of your sentence. Either half of this line is fine by itself, but put the two together and it sounds like a magic trick.

Similar missteps include:

-- I squeezed the bartender's nipple and he refilled my empty glass.
-- Wayne rubbed Raoul's butt until Barbara Eden appeared.

(8) On my knees, Stephen grabbed my head and guided it toward his groin.

This is what's called a "dangling modifier," because the writer has misplaced a clause. Rather than being turned on, the reader pictures a Cirque du Soleil-style attraction. Re-read your articles searching for sentences like:

-- Covered with mayonnaise, Roger took a bite of his sandwich.
-- Engrossed in the newspaper, his penis lay there quietly.
-- Nearly at orgasm, Puddles the dog trotted in.

Well, we've just barely scratched the surface, but today's lesson has to come to an end. Remember, there are serious side effects to reading too much porn. You start to feel inadequate by constantly comparing yourself to these perfect, unreal images, and your self esteem can suffer as a result.

Honestly, though, I swear to you: usually I can go on for hours.

Repeat Thursday: Seven Days to a Larger Penis

DAY 1. Sitting happily on my couch I scan the newspaper, not thinking for a moment about my penis. In the top right corner of one page there’s a tiny ad headlined “FOR MEN ONLY! Penile Expansion Procedure.” I wonder if the “FOR MEN ONLY!” part is really necessary, since I know very few women with tiny penises. The ad has no specifics, but is dotted with phrases like “Confidentiality Assured”, “Same Day Results”, and “Mastercard/Visa” that could just as easily describe a dry cleaner. I wonder if I’ll ever be curious enough to call and I jot down the number.

TEN MINUTES LATER: I call. Genial but caring “Stan” tells me that penile expansion is a simple and safe outpatient procedure. One afternoon I go to a doctor’s office where fat cells are extracted from my abdomen and injected into my circumcision scar, if I’ve got one. There’s a pregnant pause, and I wonder if I am supposed to fill it with my own pertinent penis facts. Just as I decide I’ll tell “Stan” about mine if he tells me about his, he jumps back in. The procedure is strictly decorative, he says, conjuring up in my mind a surgical Bob Mackie, and I make a mental note to tell him I’m allergic to sequins.

In no way will the operation affect any of my average daily penis activities, “Stan” says. Daily penis activities? I ask. My typical schedule consists entirely of hanging, interrupted by brief periods of indecision. I’m wondering if “Stan”’s has sporting events or birthday parties to attend that mine hasn’t been invited to. The width increases, not the length, and the head of the penis isn’t enlarged, just the shaft. I’m picturing my penis looking like a skinny bald man in a puffy jacket.

“Stan” says my penis will increase up to an inch and a half in circumference, and I try to remember the mathematical formula that’ll give me the diameter. I can’t. I blame my old math teacher: if he’d taught these equations using sex organs instead of pies I’d be Stephen J. Hawking today. “Stan” says he’ll mail further information and he says goodbye in that way people do when they know you’ve got a small penis.

I dig out my old algebra book and find the equation: the circumference of a circle is two pi times the radius. Pointing my solar-powered calculator toward a lamp I discover that adding an inch and a half to the circumference increases the diameter 0.4774637 of an inch. Hmm. I’m more impressed by my mathematical ability than by the thought of adding less than half an inch to my penis width.

DAY 2: I get a brochure in the mail from “Stan” that looks like a cardboard walk-in closet with “For Men Only” written across it. Behind the first door is a patient’s testimonial: “I now have a new life and I am fine.” I wonder why in every advertisement I’ve ever seen for tummy tucks or nose jobs there are patient photos printed but in this brochure there are no BEFORE and AFTER penises. There’s a letter enclosed, though, that says a video is available, “for viewing in the privacy of your home”. I wonder why they add this line: are they afraid of accidentally sending it to someone with Jumbotron access? Would some unscrupulous Broadway producer use this footage to mount some sort of penis revue? I send in a check to cover the deposit.

DAY 3: The video arrives in the mail. The good news is, nowhere on the package are the words HERE’S THE PENIS ENLARGEMENT VIDEO YOU SENT FOR. The bad news is, there are still no before or after shots.

The first testimonial comes from a sweaty, shaky man who looks like Nixon when he resigned. His conversation veers inexplicably and repeatedly to his penis. Whereas the milestones in most people’s lives are birth, marriage, children and death, his are all penis-this and penis-that. There’s the day he realized he was short-changed, the embarrassing showers in gym class, distracting the women he slept with using dim lighting and sleight-of-hand, and, finally, that wonderful day when trained technicians relocated his abdominal fat. He beams and boasts that he grew from 3 1/4” to 5” in circumference. I get out the calculator again: this guy’s gained 0.5570409 inch increase in diameter, and he’s smiling like Ed McMahon’s running towards him with a giant check.

The second interviewee is wearing big sunglasses and a fake beard but curiously his wife sits undisguised at his side. Both smile. He says, now that I’ve had the operation I’m as happy as a lark. A lark with an enormous penis, his smile says.

Next, a cartoon drawing of a person appears. One arrow points to where the fat will be sucked out, and another points to where the fat will be stuffed in. A line-drawing of a penis appears, resembling a 50’s style kidney-shaped coffee table, but it is too thin to hold many drinks. It doubles in size to show the expected effect of the redistributed fat, and now it’s big enough to hold the lunch buffet at Caesar’s Palace. The video ends without credits for make-up, costuming, or grip.

The letter enclosed with the video instructs me to return it at my convenience to a nearby clinic.

DAY 4: I go to the clinic. The receptionist tells me that the only person who can refund my deposit is out, but will return soon. I take a seat and read a copy of “Travel & Leisure” from 1989. Glancing around the southwestern-style room I wonder if all the visitors think the pink wall sconces look like ceramic vaginas or if it’s just me.

Another customer enters with a World-Class bulge, trousers-wise. I’m about to tell him he’s in the wrong damn place when the receptionist greets him and says the doctor will be with him in a moment. He sits next to me and reads an old “National Geographic,” oblivious to the pink wall vaginas. I sneak a surreptitious glance at his puffy pants, searching for clues. Is he embarrassed and over-stuffing, or is he apres-surgery and swollen? Just as I gather the courage to inquire, the receptionist says they can mail me the deposit refund. I agree and exit, hearing someone on the phone promising the caller “IN BY 10, OUT BY 2”. Hah! If they’re anything like my drycleaner he’ll see Pat Boone in “Naked Boys Singing!” before he gets his dick back.

DAY 5: I scan newspaper ads again, and the male cosmetic surgery advertisements have multiplied like rabbits. One ad is headlined “MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH” and promises an increase in penis length. I call, and “John” explains the process. The suspensory ligament holds the penis aloft and stable, he says, and for $3000 they’ll slice mine clean in two. As a result my penis, no longer held back, will plop down and out. I could gain two inches, he says, but he also casually mentions the drawbacks: since my penis won’t be held in place it’ll bounce around a bit, and since it won’t be held up it’ll usually point down. This scares me. I wonder if I’ll have to jump and down to get a blowjob.

Other ads leave me more confused than informed. One advertises “injections for erections,” which sounds like bad Cole Porter while being short on details: I mean, does the shot cause erections or cure them? When I’m excited, jabbing a needle in my bits is one of the last things I’d do, right before “Phone Tyne Daly.” Another offers “scrotum enhancement.” Now, Webster’s says “enhancement” is “to make greater in value or attractiveness”. I hear the word a lot when I go to Home Depot or Lumber City, but I can’t think of anything I could do that’d make my balls better looking or increase their resale value.

I spot one ad that offers something called “The Circle Device” that lengthens the penis non-surgically for just $89. I write away.

DAY 6: I receive the information about “The Circle Device”. Though it’s vaguely described, it’s still scary enough to make the Pope cross his legs. “... [A]fter five minutes you will not realize your [sic] wearing it”, and “... their [sic] is virtually no limit to the length you can stretch your penis.” What happens if I forget I’m wearing it and I leave it on too long? Will I have to get a bigger car? “The CIRCLE DEVICE has a unique circular design with a hinge to allow for expansion ... “, “... weighs approximately 10 oz.”, “... will not be noticeable under normal pants.” Pardon me? Something weighing 10 ounces that’s hinged around my penis will not be noticeable? I look around my apartment for something weighing 10 ounces and find only Stouffer’s Frozen Lasagna.

As I stand there trying not to imagine noodles in meat sauce dangling from my penis I wonder why nobody’s offering before-and-after photos. I picture my penis looking like a bald man in a big coat, bouncing around like one of those plastic dogs on the back dashboards of Chevys while I’m in the throes of desire. I wonder if, though “... after five minutes you will not realize your [sic] wearing” the CIRCLE DEVICE, you’ll spend four minutes and fifty-nine seconds stuffing your mouth with everything pill-shaped in your medicine chest.

When I come to, the refrigerator door is still open and lasagna juice is coagulating around my feet.

DAY 7: I remember that tight t-shirts and horizontal stripes make French sailors look big and muscular, so I go to the store to find the tightest striped condoms that money can buy.

Europeans have it all figured out. We Americans fly over, buy all sorts of things, and return home with pockets stuffed with bizarre foreign bills. "I'll save them for my next visit," we tell ourselves, but then a year or two later we fly back and encounter the following:

CLERK: I am sorry, but we only accept zee cash here.

ME: Um, this is cash. This is French cash.

CLERK (looking at them closely): No, eet eez not. Are you sure you deed not get zeese from le Chuck E. Cheese?

See, they've got a great scam going. Every year they discontinue their old bills, like they're ostrich-skin boots at Barneys. The residents all scurry to the bank, swap their old currency for new, and immediately cease to recognize the old. "Cash?" says the woman at the boulangerie. "No, zat's not cash. Deed you deeg them up with zee metal detector?"

It's happened to me twice in France -- once when they converted to Euros -- and once in England. And every time I got a look like, "Will Sir be trying to pay his bill in cole slaw next?"

I toss the useless paper into the nearest river and it hits me: why don't we give these guys a taste of their own medicine? We could probably pay off the federal deficit if we switched from dollars to, say, ObamaBux. And personally, I'd love to be at the counter when some of them foreigners pull out the old currency.

ME: Dollars? You want to spend dollars? Ha! If you're very lucky, perhaps you could sell them at an antique shop.

Anyway, against my better judgment, I'm going on vacation again. Until November 8 I'll be wandering England, the Greek islands, and Turkey, while reposting daily repeats here. Somehow, I know it's going to happen again. I'm hoping somebody still takes Euros, or I'm coming home with a pocketful of useless --

Oh. On second thought, forget everything I said about ObamaBux. We'll talk about it when I get back.

When Nacho The Chihuahua Passed Away, Marcie Realized She Just Couldn't Let Him Go

You and up to 3 guests are invited to an exclusive event where you will learn culinary secrets from one of the top chefs in the country. You will also enjoy products crafted by local artisans, discover an insider's look into American travel and taste custom cocktails paired to gourmet cuisine. Your discovery will continue with a test drive of the all-new, sport-injected 2011 Buick Regal.

Well, okay, but better have some coffee on hand or make it a car with huge bumpers.

"They wear these little Speedos and they grind against each other and it's just a terrible thing," said Carl Paladino describing the Gay Pride Parade.

"Wait: he's just talking about the gay guys, right?" said every single person in the West Indian Day Parade.

Luke Geissbühler and his son Max tied a video camera to a weather balloon and sent both more than 100,000 feet into the stratosphere. Ninety minutes later the camera floated back to earth with the help of a small parachute.

A spectacular seven-minute video of the voyage, posted on Vimeo, has become a viral success, garnering more than one million views since it was uploaded on Sept. 19.

Captured on their video? The curvature of the earth, the blackness of the upper atmosphere, and Amy Winehouse.

These are the stars of The Deep Throat Sex Scandal, now playing off-off-Broadway.

I'm really upset by this. I mean, all women look alike, so chick is fine as Linda Loveless. But that guy is supposed to be Harry Reems? Did fifty million gay men really buy tickets to Deep Throat to see their brother-in-law naked? If we wanted to see more of this dude, we'd hang around the changing rooms at J. C. Penneys. And news flash to producers: Harry Reems was not famous for his enormous forehead.

Well, the bad news is, people really didn't want to see Obama streaker Juan Rodriguez naked.

The good news is, apparently it took both hands to block the view.

In the back of my mind I've always wanted to weave a rug. Finally a couple months ago I spotted this big old loom at a flea market. It's a clumsy old thing and it took me forever to figure out how to use it, but I just finished my first weaving and I had to show it off.

Chile's trapped miners cheered Saturday as a drill punched into their underground chamber, opening a way out with a spray of rock and dust from the collapsed mine where they have been stuck for an agonizing 66 days.

Video taken by a tiny camera showed the shirtless men jubilantly hugging, singing and dancing.

Moments later, passing thugs beat them all up.

TEA BAGGER CANDIDATE FOR CONGRESS, THIRD FROM LEFT: There is absolutely nothing wrong with dressing up like a Nazi for fun historical recreations of wartime periods.

GUY ON LEFT: Yeah, it's just harmless fun. PLEASE IGNORE MY TATTOOS.

Today Gawker has a photo that's supposedly Mickey Mantle nude. Needless to say, it's getting a lot of attention.


"In my defense, I'd only seen like one in my entire life," said Michelangelo.

On Sunday New York's Republican candidate for governor Carl Paladino said that homosexuals are scary, that a sentient God would never have created homosexuals, and that children have to be “brainwashed” into thinking that homosexuality is acceptable.

No, nothing offensive about that at all. He's Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and we're all fuckin' spinach.

When the gay male bottom finds a top he'd like to attract, he exhibits standardized mating behavior. He opens his eyes widely to show the top he's awake and alert. He tilts his head slightly in a show of submission that's common in the animal kingdom. And he smiles broadly, showing a swath of white teeth, proving to the top that he poses no threat to his dominance and, to a lesser extent, that he keeps himself clean.

Dear Right-Wing Movie Critics:

On the surface, you probably think the above comparison is okay. Both are small family films. Both are low budget. Both are fueled by good intentions.

Then we wade in further. In both, a decisive white woman follows her instincts, and the underdog wins big.

When we take that next step, though, and realize you're comparing Quinton Aaron to a brainless, easily-trained black animal, we think maybe you should change your question to "Could 'Secretariat' Win Big At The Box Office?" and hope nobody bombs your church.

Hope this helps,
RomanHans