Now, and with a big, obvious sigh of relief, back to me.+PLUS+ My penis for President! +AND+ Shop slowpainfully.

Many of you have been clamoring for more information about me

I mean it. LITTLE SMOOCHING NOISES. Read the EULA, bitch!

as well as a semi-nude, duo-toned selfie that shows off my dreamy eyes, but that you still wouldn’t be afraid to show your Great Aunt Lorna who used to do the trick with the ping-pong ball, professionally.

Well, no, actually that’s a blatant lie, no one has even remotely asked for anything like that. Or anything, to be honest.

Thanks for the “target audience”, Adwords! Like, way to steal my two bucks!

Anyhoo, here’s the dreamy-eyes pic – and please remember to make little smooching noises when you kiss the screen, per the End User Licensing Agreement – and the requisite “fun” facts about me so you can ignore the whole shebang at once.

I figure I can at least save you some time.  You’re welcome!


From the many options currently available, I identify as “probably male but we’d have to check”.  As we’re in saving-precious-time mode, I’ll assume.

Assuming “male” has at least the same, probably better, prediction value than, say:

  • knowing someone’s astrological sign;
  • a Facebook poll targeting only your fellow white supremacists, IF you remember to ask them; or
  • your empirical knowledge, built upon centuries of previous observations and confirmed by you over an entire lifetime, that the sun will unfailingly rise tomorrow—always assuming it’s not the evening before the Jupiter-sized asteroid.

Come to think of it, “male” tells you a heckuva lot, even when extrapolated to I, who never leave the house;  even when considered agnostically as to gay or str8.  So this way, I can do my confessional bit on the generalities, without actually revealing anything about ME that’s differentiating in the specifics.

Which is a whole lotta conniving and sweat of the brow for something that no one’s asked for. Seriously.

But hey. I’m a lapsed Buddhist, which means I take the same zen-like care with everything, lest I show attachment to one thing, which is apparently a bad thing.

For example, I labour day and night over this blog like five Prousts booty-bumping crystal and with the same zen-like care I would give an actual job that supported me well enough – OK, supported me at all – that I could resume opening my bank statements, Canada Revenue demands and those mysterious letters post-marked Manitoba without hiring someone from Craigslist Adult Entertainment to open them for me, sum up the content, then tie me up and verbally abuse me so I’m too distracted to continue crying.

It’s not exactly breathlessly original. I’m sure you’ve all done the same at some point!

So, assuming “male” and moving right along, here’s what you already know about me:

I’m Male, therefore:

I buy expensive electronics and fiddle with them until they break because I’m too retarded to read the manual.

I call women “bitch” if they try to do anything that doesn’t involve
1. being emotionally available and nurturing to me 24/7, or
2. a blender.

Although I’m too retarded to read the manual, I’m still an expert in whatever it was before I broke it. Be sure to pay me total attention while I pontificate, or I’ll become angry, then sulk.


2017-05-07 11.56.31


Moving right along:

I’m impressed by anything as long as it’s excessive and gross—
if I’m straight she uses basketball hoops for a bra,
if I’m gay, he transports it in a wheelbarrow.
Either way, I’ll take a selfie with my bowel movement because it formed a question mark, and will probably not wait until after the main course to show you.
I also really like Mahler.

I fall asleep right after you bang me, especially if I know we both faked it.

Show emotion and I’ll use logic to explain why you can’t actually be feeling that. Don’t show emotion and I’ll fake-diagnose you as Asperger’s (male) or “cold bitch” (see above).

I apologize for telling you to “fuck off and die loser!!!” by waiting a week, then texting you “sup dude” at three A.M.

It’s only OK for me to cheat, not you, because “I’m faithful in my heart”. You, on the other hand, are just an evil tramp.

I can, and do, write my name in the snow. But not in cursive, which would be “faggy”.

By the way, as a male, my penis is more important than Pope Francis and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II combined then promoted to Customer Care Supervisor at Bell Canada. If I’m too long in the bathroom one morning, it’s just possible I’ve dressed it up in little coronation robes and a mitre and am halfway through the service for “Eucharist”.

In fact, come to think of it, I think my penis should be elected, by a clear, unequivocal vote of a minority of the eligible population, President of the United States.

You could do a lot worse.  Ya know??!!


Come buy my wares!

Yes, I’ve opened a shop on Facebook.  There’s only three products there as of today, but oh I think you might just like ’em.

This launches my brand AuntieMeme™.  This is a clever portmanteau of “opposite of a meme” and “Auntie Mame”, which is both pretty fuckin’ gay and a fair bit of joke explaining, but I desperately want you to “get it”.

CONTEST UPDATE:  Enter my contest, with still a week before closing, and, should you win, with all the attendant brouhaha, you’ll ADDITIONALLY receive one of the posters signed by yours truly.  Now I ask you.  Could there be a greater incentive.  This is what former marketers such as myself call a “value add”.  But you can’t enjoy a “value add”  without a “contest enter.”  OK?

Have a look by following this link, and please support my vast and far-reaching efforts to Give The Gift of Polite, Strained Laughter™.

Shop on Facebook.


I’m flippant, now take me seriously.

Just to make sure your heads keep spinning slowly like the restaurant in the CN Tower, I occasionally change tack and go all serious on you.  If my suspicions are correct, and they are at least once a decade, this probably happens just at the moment you’ve finally decided never to expect anything from me except sophomoric toilet humor at a level that would make Benny Hill sound like Roland Barthes.

Deal with it, sister.

So what’s on your mind?  you sigh.   (And please, do continue texting while I explain! That’s awesome!)

Male identity is the name of the game.  Since you asked.

This is not a picture of a nuclear warhead.
This is NOT a picture of a nuclear warhead.

Oh, my fur and whiskers… So many situations in my life are, and have been, the result of men and their – our – lizard brains, and I speak only partly anatomically.

Male identity is a very fragile thing – just ask any woman, especially Camille Paglia. There’s a reason why nuclear warheads are shaped the way they are… or, to paraphrase Freud,

“sometimes a W-40 IS just a phallic substitute devised by a group of Pentagon meth-heads who can barely squeeze into existence one sponge-y, fleeting hard-on between them.”

(FYI, when I’m on form I like to say the above bit in Austrian-inflected German. Kills them in Des Moines.)

A man who doubts his masculinity or who has poor self-esteem has to be handled carefully, because he is potentially dangerous. He is threatened to the very core of his soul and he will inevitably try to assert his territory, or destroy “the enemy”, or even himself.

All because he is, or thinks he is, less than a man or weak.  A pussy.  And most men have zero insight into themselves and their feelings, partly because we’re relentlessly, from the moment we’re born, taught this as an essential strategy, so ain’t that handy. Thanks, society!

A W-40 warhead: The spongey, fleeting hard-on of male identity.  Since you asked.
A W-40 warhead: The spongey, fleeting hard-on of male identity. Since you asked.

As a gay man, I dealt with this issue starting way back, cause I was automatically called “effeminate”, queer, faggot, a big girl’s blouse; and mostly was excluded and shunned by other guys who were my peers. Although I hate like hell to admit any benefit to this, it made me stronger, because I had to make my peace with this isolation — which I accomplished by employing various combinations of sitting by myself in a corner, hysterical crying, and the obsessive reading and re-reading of “Jane Eyre”.

So many times did I crack open the covers of that incomparable pot-boiler, with its plot-by-numbers cautionary tale of lust punished and sanctimony triumphant, that within six months I identified totally with its prim heroine; if my sister hadn’t called me a “sissy” for wanting to sew, I probably would have run up an historically accurate nineteenth-century governess’s uniform, complete with rustling petticoats and crisp, cambric bib, for “Show and Tell”.

So it was, in the end, bizarrely, little Janet herself who took me firmly by the hand and led me into self-confidence and “manhood” –

– in my own mind, which is all that matters, though that pain of being excluded and shunned, the pain that only children can inflict on other children, still lives inside me.

(Think John Hurt in “Alien”, except the hideous creature that bursts forth has been hand-sewn with sequins and edged with piping in a contrasting shade.  It’s just, I dunno – what I do.)

So, when the men in your life are acting like assholes, realize for a moment that they are scared little boys and in psychic pain. It may or may not be worthwhile figuring out a way forward – if you’re being abused, verbally, physically or emotionally, do not tolerate this one more second – and you may not give a damn, but if you do need a way forward this might just give you an inkling.

But you know some people.  Give them an inkling and they’ll take a mile.

This whole sorry affair of creeping male flaccidity can best be summed up by my dyke friend Dominique, who, in exasperation at some business deal or other, is wont to exclaim:

“Men!  Men and zair leettle preecks…!”

She’s from Paris.