The Great Mistletoe Catastrophe

This is the story of the Great Mistletoe Catastrophe.

Do you know what a catastrophe is? Well, you need to look up some of the more obscure meanings of the word "catastrophe." Because this didn't happen with a roar or a bang. It didn't even happen with a whimper. It happened even more quietly than snuffing a candle. But it was still a catastrophe.

When our children were very little, my wife and I were decorating the house for Christmas. For the kids, it was a fun and exciting event. For me, well, I was trying to make it fun and exciting for them - and for all of us. But for my wife, it was just one more chore, one more checkbox on her list of things to do.

In the middle of it all, I realized that we didn't have any mistletoe. I said, "We should go buy some mistletoe, and hang it somewhere!"

She replied, "Why?"

The tone of that "Why" was exactly the same tone she would have used if she had said "No." Not just any "No," but a "this is final, no more discussion, and I don't want to hear another word about it," one-word sentence, "No."

Try it. Practice saying "No" like that a few times. Now, use exactly the same inflection, and say "Why" instead. That was her reply.

I paused in my response, trying to come up with an answer. I looked at her. I said, "I thought ...," and then I stopped. I never completed the sentence. There were no words for an adequate response to her question.

Since that moment, thirty years ago, I have never uttered the word "mistletoe" - not in her presence, and not in anyone else's presence, either - and we have never had mistletoe anywhere in our house. And that, my beloved grandchildren, is the catastrophe.

I'm tired of women

I'm tired of women.

No, I'm not tired of sex. And I'm not tired of love or affection.

I'm tired of dealing with women and all of their crap.

I've got a wife who is turning meaner as she gets older. She's mean to me, to house guests, to relatives, and to anybody who doesn't match her way of thinking. She's kind to her children and their spouses, but that's about it. She's getting more like her mother every day.

I've got a 20-year-old close relative who thinks only of herself. It's as if her life is the only life in the world that matters. That's the way she was raised, and she can't understand why it should be any other way. I've tried to lovingly explain it to her, but she. Just. Doesn't. Get. It.

I've got a female friend who has horrendous mood swings. I can't tell from one day to the next how to act around her. I get it wrong every time, and I get in trouble because of it. And she won't go see a doctor or therapist about it.

And I've got another female friend whom I really care about, whom I worry about all the time, even though she hasn't really, truly communicated with me for months. I wish I could stop worrying about her.

Life would be simpler if I could just get rid of all the women in my life. I wouldn't be gay, either. That's a whole nuther set of problems. And I wouldn't get a dog. I'd just be by myself. Solitary man.

Life would be so much easier if I didn't care about all of these women. Or women in general. I wish God would take away this caring heart and replace it with a heart of stone.

YES, it makes your ass look big!

For all the centuries that women have been asking men, "Does this dress make my ass look big?" I finally have a chance to say "yes."

To scream it at the top of my lungs, even.

Except that it's not the dress. Or the pants. Or the booty shorts. It's not the yoga pants (although yes, yoga pants do make any woman's ass look big, even an ass so small that a man can hold both cheeks in one hand). No, it's something more, um, fundamental than that:

The thong.

I'm going to sidestep the whole issue about whether a thong is comfortable or sexy, or whether its ability to eliminate panty lines justifies its existence (although a whale tail is infinitely uglier than panty lines will ever be). I can spend another whole article talking about all of the reasons why I hate thongs. But today I want to focus on this one thing.

See, my lady and I just went out shopping for party dresses. She doesn't want to dress skanky, like all those college girls you see down at the club trying to impress the fratboys. So we were looking at classy party dresses. But after seeing her model a few dozen of them, and hearing this question from OVER and OVER, I finally have an answer.

Whether your thong is an undergarment, or the bottom half of a two-piece swimsuit, the simple fact is that YOUR THONG MAKES YOUR ASS LOOK LIKE TWO, TEN-POUND BAGS OF RAW SAUSAGE FILLING, PURCHASED IN BULK FROM THE LOCAL DELI AND HUNG IN YOUR FRONT WINDOW (okay, rear window) FOR DISPLAY.

That's not sexy. It's not even attractive. And it's about a thousand miles from "cute."

Granny panties (or "classic briefs," in the illustration above) make your ass look big. High-cut panties distract the attention from your ass and focus it on your hips instead. Still not a good thing.

But a thong makes your sweet little ass look FUCKING HUGE. Why don't you just do yourself a favor, live with the panty lines, and wear bikini briefs or boyshorts?

 Bikini briefs and boyshorts minimize your ass, no matter what its original size. And even if they don't minimize it, at least they don't draw attention to it.

And if you insist on wearing that thong, and you model a hot little party dress for your boy, and you ask him that immortal question, don't be surprised if he says:

"No, that dress doesn't make your ass look big. Your THONG makes your ass look big!"

An afterthought: And if you are going to wear that dress to a party, don't even think about going commando. Doing so shows enormous disrespect for the man in your life. And if you think your vajayjay is so pretty that you want to show it off to the world, well baby, I've only seen two pretty pussies in my life. Yours isn't one of them. You ain't gonna score any points by showing it to me.