The Luv Doc

The Luv Doc’s advice column appears every Thursday in the Austin Chronicle

Cat Poo Pom

The Luv Doc

Who is the animal in this scenario?

June 22, 2012

LuvDoc,
Got married recently and with the wife came a cute Pomeranian dog and a neurotic declawed cat, both indoor pets. At issue is that the pom loves to eat cat poo and is constantly digging out those Baby Ruths from the cat box whenever we’re not around. We live in a pretty small house and we don’t have space to separate the two pets. How do I curb this dog’s insatiable appetite for his furry friend’s No. 2?
Appreciate ya,
Ernesto

So let me get this straight, Ernesto: You are against your new wife’s Pomeranian’s attempt to keep your house free of cat shit? Who is the animal in this scenario Ernesto? This is, of course, assuming the Pom doesn’t poo in the kitty litter himself. Then it would pretty much be a zero sum game. However, if the Pom is dropping his deuces in the neighbor’s sand box – or better yet, if he has for some bizarre reason been toilet trained like a genius Tonight Show circus dog, then what you have is a nonproblem. Unless.

Unless your new bride likes to give the Pomeranian doggie kisses. Then you have a real coprophagial complaint. Every time you engage in tonsil hockey with your betrothed you’re essentially swapping cat-shit spit, at least by proxy. I’m just going to say this on behalf of everyone reading this: Ew. It’s one thing for her to overdo the garlic or still have Copenhagen grains in her teeth when you’re kissing, but the knowledge that your wife’s saliva is a conduit for cat poo is nearly impossible to overcome. You can’t Altoids that away. You need at least a toothbrush, a Waterpik, a stomach pump, a pressure washer with a whirligig attachment, and a couple of shots of Everclear to make that mouth right again.

I know I don’t even need to say this, but cat shit is disgusting – not to dogs, however. Dogs will eat anything. They’re scavengers. They will literally eat the ass out of a dead elephant. Don’t Google that. Point is, you need to set some boundaries. If it were me, I would find another location for the cat litter box – maybe Pomerania or the Bikini Atoll – something exotic to spice things up. However, it’s my guess as the cat is yours. Therefore, you might have to spice things up differently. Try sprinkling a healthy portion of cayenne pepper on the “Baby Ruths” before you leave the house. Your Pomeranian, whose lineage began in Northern Poland where the indigenous cuisine consists mainly of boiled fish, beets and potatoes, is unlikely to take a liking to spicy poo. If he does, at least your wife won’t like giving him doggie kisses … or at least you’ll know for sure if she does.

Shave Everything

The Luv Doc

You’re more than just a collection of productive hair follicles.

June 15, 2012

Luvdoc,
Summer is almost here and I am thinking of shaving off my beard. My girlfriend has never seen me without it and I’m worried she might freak out and break up with me if I shave. Should I go gradual and ease her into my hairless face or go radical and shave everything?
– Juan

Juan … shave everything. Top to bottom, kibbles to bits. I don’t know you but I have a feeling you’re more than just a collection of productive hair follicles. You probably have hopes and dreams. You probably have ambitions that extend beyond being a lumberjack, a hermit, or the guitar player for ZZ Top. Wait a minute, scratch that last one. Billy G. rocks his beard so women won’t throw panties at his face everywhere he goes. Why? He has magic fingers, duh.

Face panties might sound awesome, but a quick survey of the hygiene habits of the average female will remind you that being incessantly pelted with doffed undies isn’t nearly as nice as it sounds – certainly not from ZZ Top’s demographic. The beard makes total sense now, doesn’t it? For all we know, Billy looks like Brad Pitt under that varmint, but I digress.

Here’s the thing: Radical change almost always meets resistance. That’s why I am going to suggest a gradual approach. Yes, it’s slower and fraught with infinitely more anxiety and drama, but you don’t want to freak out your girlfriend, do you? That’s why you should start by shaving your crotch. That will totally throw her off balance. When she sees you bald as a baby down there she’ll know you mean business … about something. Little tip: You may be tempted to get waxed – after all, who wouldn’t want to experience the exquisite pleasure of having their pubes ripped out all at once – but don’t do it. You don’t want your girlfriend to have to erase the mental image of somebody else – male or female – touching your junk, even if it’s just to get a better grip on the wax tape. Plus, shaving yourself shows that you have confidence in your abilities with a razor. If you do a good job on your scroat hair, there’s no reason to think you can’t handle your throat hair as well.

One caveat: Shaving your pubes – however bang-up a job you do – might totally freak her out. She might, in fact, break up with you because she thinks you’re a sexual deviant, or worse, that shaving body hair is unnatural. That’s ridiculous. Not taking a dump in your front yard is unnatural, not randomly humping ovulating females is unnatural … so is brushing your teeth and washing your hair, but guess what? We’ve evolved. The Schick Hydro has five blades, an ergonomic design, and lubrication. How is she going to argue against that? How is she going to argue against evolution? And if she does, why are you dating her?

Not Getting Used

The Luv Doc

Sex lasts maybe 15 minutes, but crazy lasts all fucking day … and night

June 8, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
Whenever my ex was not in jail, hospital or rehab, she lived with me the past two years. Our last three months of cohabitation came with my insistence that she contribute to the household financially and with housework. I had never insisted on this before as strongly as I did this time. She’d always been helpful in the past but this time, the final three months were different. She promised each month to come through in some way but failed each month to even make an effort to fulfill my request. It seems as though she really thought having sex with me was sufficient. Could a woman seriously believe that? I finally told her she’d have to move out, and after two weeks she did. She directly moved in with another man and that ended our relationship without any discussion. She left clothing here at my place and continues to delay picking it up week after week. 1) How long should I wait before tossing her clothes to the trash? 2) How can I prevent this in the future? 3) What psychological or behavioral characteristics should I look for in a woman before she moves in? I don’t want this experience again.
Naively yours, Tony
PS: I would love to see this printed in the Chronicle because your answers will help a lot of other men not get used.

Dude. Seriously. Dude. Jail? Hospital? Rehab? Really the only thing missing here is weeping meth scabs and a persistently itchy crotch. Did her head occasionally spin around 360 degrees and spew green vomit? Did it feel like you answered your own questions when you put this in writing? OK, enough with the incredulity. I’ll roll up my sleeves and get to the task at hand.

Question one: Call her and tell her to pick up her clothes by a specific date and time or you will take them to Goodwill where she can purchase them back at a slight markup.

Question two: Fucking somebody isn’t a good reason to have them move in with you. Do the math. Sex lasts maybe 15 minutes, but crazy lasts all fucking day … and night. You shouldn’t let somebody move in with you until they have proven they have skills off the mattress … or table … or chair … or bearskin rug … or Vietnamese spin fuck harness. You get my meaning?

Question three: Refer to answer two. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that jail, hospital, and rehab are red flags. The same could be said for meth scabs and crotch scratching. Really, I could spend a few thousand words on this question alone, but you might have your own list that doesn’t include dirty fingernails, rotten teeth, and eyes that never blink. Point is, sex or no sex, you should expect/demand any potential cohabitant to behave like a respectful, responsible human being. If you don’t know what that is, I can’t help you.

The Friend of Your Friend’s Enemy

The Luv Doc

If you’re the friend of your friend’s enemy, doesn’t that make you the enemy of your friend?

June 1, 2012

Luv Doc,
One of my oldest friends (from grade school) recently broke up with his girlfriend. She and I have become really good friends in the last few years and she keeps calling me to hang out/go shopping, etc. I would like to hang out with her too, but I don’t want to take sides. Any suggestions?
– Marie

Marie, that is some seriously twisted shit. It sounds like their split was not amicable, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re insinuating that this girl is trying to drive a wedge between you and one of your oldest friends just to get back at him. What a bitch! There’s really no solution here other than to tell her you’re onto her nefarious scheme. She will probably deny it, but just consider that further evidence of her underhandedness. Back in Puritan times this woman would probably be accused of being a witch – sort of an old timey version of “bitch”…back before such things were bedazzled on the back of pink terrycloth short shorts.

Witches, like bitches in bedazzled short shorts, were easy to identify. All you had to do with a witch was bind her hands and feet and throw her in some water. If she drowned, she was innocent. If she floated, she was stoned to death or burned at the stake. Not much incentive to hold her breath, eh? The thing with accusing someone of being a witch was that you really couldn’t go wrong. Either you were sending her to eternal heavenly bliss or condemning her to eternal damnation and hell fire, either of which she clearly deserved.

These days it’s a bit more difficult to get a woman stoned to death based on a mere accusation (well, unless you’re a woman in Pakistan). Since the Middle Ages, justice systems in the Western world have been leaning more and more towards physical evidence, scientific method, and causality rather than public consensus or individual caprice. By and large, most people consider this to be good thing, but it doesn’t help your situation.

It’s not easy to prove someone has malicious intent when there is a complete absence of empirical evidence. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut. Besides, how could the enemy of your friend not be your enemy too? Or conversely, if you’re the friend of your friend’s enemy, doesn’t that make you the enemy of your friend? You certainly don’t want to be that. Then again, sometimes guts are dead wrong, so maybe you should talk to your old friend and explain that their situation doesn’t have anything to do with you, nor should it. Surely, being one of your oldest friends, he will understand.

Abortion is a Sticky Wicket

The Luv Doc

Nature doesn’t provide any clear cues for difficult moral questions.

May 25, 1012

Luvdoc,
My boyfriend’s sister is a fundamentalist pro-life nutjob and I can’t stand to be around her. She always drags me into an argument and then I end up fighting with my boyfriend. What’s the best way to tell him I don’t want to be around her?
– Uptohere

Damn, abortion is a sticky wicket to be sure, so it’s best to just yank that bastard out of the ground entirely. Your BF’s S wants you to believe what she believes. That way she’ll be convinced her belief is right. You, on the other hand, probably think she is a retard who should have been aborted herself. Here’s the truth: You’re both right…or wrong. She might think that abortion is an abomination in the eyes of God – the same God who ironically aborted his only son 33 years after his last trimester (maybe if he had seen the ultrasound?) or she might just personally feel that killing babies is wrong, even in utero – especially the way it’s depicted on those baby-in-a-blender anti-abortion picket posters. Hard to argue against that, eh? Or, she might even be one of those every-sperm-is-sacred Catholics who portray masturbation and birth control as mini-holocausts.

Regardless, she believes it strongly – just as strongly as you might believe that a woman has the right to control her own body – maybe even up to the point that if she wants to strangle her newly born infant to death shortly after childbirth, it’s OK as long as the umbilical cord hasn’t been cut. Unfortunately nature doesn’t provide any clear cues for difficult moral questions. Infanticide is not unknown in the Animal Kingdom…barbaric violence is fairly commonplace – as is nudity, gender discrimination, and bestiality (though really, being beasts, our furry friends should get a pass on this one). Anyone who has seen a house cat engaged in a shameless display of prolonged analingus in front of the TV set knows that nature is, if anything, completely apathetic to our attempts to impose a moral framework on it.

Nonetheless, being somewhat sentient beings we have taken it upon ourselves to do exactly that, and by and large, we’ve done a decent job, but not without an impressive list of casualties. Morality continues to evolve, as should you. That means allowing for the possibility that you’re not absolutely right. Here’s the deal: Abortion will always be a hotly contested issue as long as unwanted pregnancies are an issue. Maybe you can both agree that the best way to end unwanted pregnancies is to do it before they get started. At least then you can focus on the how rather than the why. As for your boyfriend, if you don’t want to be around his sister, break up with him.

That Extra Syllable is a Huuuge Time-Waster

The Luv Doc

The patient gentility of the anagram ASAP

May 18, 2012


Luv Doc, Sir,
Why do Americans always say “ASAP” when they really mean “RFN?”
– Marcus

Because, kind sir, Americans aren’t filthy-mouthed motherfuckers like you Europeans. We’re politer than shit, in fact, which is why we choose to use an anagram that means “as soon as possible.” ASAP recognizes that people oftentimes have other things on their plate that might delay your request. For instance, if you’re calling 911 to report that you’ve been stabbed and are bleeding to death, saying “send an ambulance ASAP” implies that you’re OK with the 911 operator finishing up her Facebook post about bedazzled cat sweaters before she rings up dispatch.

If instead you use the term “RFN,” she will be angered at your inflated sense of self-importance and your egregious use of anagrammed profanity. She might not even send an ambulance at all. Hey, it’s not all about you. Other people have lives, too – although maybe not as short as yours. If you really want her to send an ambulance, you may instead want to say, “Send an ambulance, stat.” That lets her know you know what the fuck is going on. For all she knows, you might be the surgeon in charge of her upcoming hip replacement. In other words, you have some leverage. Stat means “right fucking now,” and even though it sounds like an anagram (which, of course, implies that you don’t even have time to spit the words out … CriManSqua?), it’s really an abbreviation of the Latin word “statim.”

As you can imagine, even in the clumsy, arcane language of the one true church, that extra syllable is a huuuge time-waster. In fact, I can’t even believe I typed it out (there’s .03 seconds of my life I’ll never get back). Being named Marcus, you clearly grew up in a Latin-speaking household and should be comfortable with the term. In fact, your name is how I deduced that you are European, possibly from the Vatican City itself, where Latin is still the mother (or is it father?) tongue.

Whatever; the point is that when you say “stat,” you have the force of nearly 2000 years of Christian authority and oppression behind you, and people tend to shake a leg if only because of some innate, evolutionary fear of being drawn and quartered by a bunch of dudes wearing crosses. My suggestion is that if you’re frustrated with the patient gentility of the anagram ASAP, you should drop that crass Eurotrash RFN right fucking now and adopt the urgency word of your native tongue, stat. Capisce? It’s un-American of course, but you should be true to yourself. After all, in the words of Seneca: Veritas odit moras.

Italian Boyfriends and Perky, Bleach-Blonde Updos

The Luv Doc

In the real world of the 99-percenter, however, moral questions are rarely black-and-white

May 11, 2012

Dear Luv Doc, My best friend is getting married next fall to a guy I really hate. She wants me to be the maid of honor and all she ever talks about is her wedding. Should I be honest with her about my feelings or just go along?
– Molly

This one’s easy, Molly, which leads me to believe you may be simple – or worse yet, some sort of drama queen/attention whore – so you’re lucky your friend is even asking you to be her MOH at all. Regardless, your easy answer comes in the form of a question: Where is the wedding? Is it an all-paid destination extravaganza on the beach at Waikiki, or is it a backyard affair being catered out of a grill that was made by cutting a 50-gallon drum in half with a welding torch? I think you have your answer.

Lookit: Do you think Ivana Trump’s MOH didn’t deal with a similar moral quandary? Of course she did, but sometimes you have to look at the bigger picture. Twenty million in alimony buys a lot of hot, young, Italian boyfriends and perky, bleach-blonde updos. In the real world of the 99-percenter, however, moral questions are rarely so black-and-white. You might be looking at the nearly indistinguishable difference between a completely sober mints-and-punch reception in the multipurpose room in the back of the Methodist Church and a barefoot, neo-hippie Mayfield Park lovefest complete with a face-painted, dreadlocked flower girl and awkwardly mushy “write-your-own” wedding vows.

Helpful tip: You might want to incorporate a parasol into your tie-dyed bridesmaid ensemble because sometimes when the doves get released, the doves release something themselves. Just saying. You’ll also have to resist the urge to tell those goddamn peacocks to STFU because unlike a peacock, you’re probably too well behaved to harsh everyone’s mellow. In fact, you should probably think of your best friend as a peacock, too. All she wants right now through her honeymoon is to be the center of attention. You’re going to need to resist the urge to tell her to STFU.

That probably seems like a lot to ask considering your feelings about her fiancé, but chances are that if she hasn’t figured out that he’s a dick by now, a candid expression of your feelings isn’t going to change her mind. Conventional wisdom usually holds that drugs aren’t the answer, but in your case, I am going to recommend a couple of bong hits before spending time with your best friend – just to give you some perspective. Weddings are ridiculously silly for the most part, and you need to get in touch with the part of you that understands and appreciates that.

The Stockholm Syndrome

The Luv Doc

Volleyball: Seriously, it’s like a crowded game of badminton with a huge, unfeathered cock

May 4, 2012

Dear Doc of Luv,
Due to a recent change in fortune, I’m soon leaving Austin and a job I love to pursue my dream of writing the Great American Novel – or at least, hopefully, a pretty decent one that doesn’t get pulped within a year. Anyway, in spite of weekly deadline stress at my job, inevitable weight gain from innumerable breakfast tacos and beers during thrice-weekly post-work volleyball games, and all manner of snarking, pranking, and metaphorical bra-strap snapping at the hands of my co-workers, I’ve come to realize that I truly love these jags and will miss them horribly. How can I stay in touch? Facebook seems too impersonal.
Thanks,
Sarah S.

Bra-strap snapping, metaphorical or not, constitutes sexual harassment and creates a hostile work environment – more hostile in fact, than being force-fed breakfast tacos or coerced and intimidated into playing the most un-American of truly American sports: Volleyball. Seriously, it’s like a crowded game of badminton with a huge, unfeathered cock. Therefore, I recommend you employ legal counsel immediately.

Here’s my short list: Racehorse Haynes (bona fide war hero with a badass nickname), Joe Jamail (Billionaire and notorious pit bull litigator), and Dick DeGuerin (kept Billy Joe Shaver from going to prison after he shot a man in the face). Yes, you read that right: Shot a man in the face. Billy Joe got off scot-free, but you probably won’t. Like any Stockholm Syndrome sufferer, you have formed a bond of affection with your captors – one that may take years of therapy to unravel. Therapy, regardless of how ridiculous it might seem, costs a lot of money.

Therefore, make sure you go for the throat with the lawsuit. Keep in mind these jags – and I’m betting you’re being kind with that assessment – have kept you from pursuing your dream. Although let’s be honest here: Novels are a bit of an anachronism – sort of like phonographic records or pornographic DVDs. In spite of that adversity, you’ve set the bar high by choosing a career that people no longer care about – well, at least beyond 140 characters. Bully for you, Sarah. Quixote didn’t let reality deter him from his pursuit of jousting, did he?

Before you go stabbing windmills, though, you need to put your hands on enough cash to be able to pay an affable, dim-witted peasant to humor you in your folly when no one else will. Otherwise, you’re going to have to rely on friends to do that for you, and that’s risky business. Like stray kittens, friends are always meowing at your screen door, begging for attention. That’s why I am going to suggest you keep them at a safe distance on Facebook, just like your co-workers. Better yet, if you don’t want to interact with your friends at all, try Google+!

The Mind-Numbing Hell of Child-Oriented Places

The Luv Doc

For aeons, child rearing was just a begrudging afterthought, and somehow humanity managed to march forward

Friday, April 27, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
My brother is coming to Austin at the end of the month with his wife and three kids (grade-school age). Any ideas on things we can do/places we can go?
– Tom

Tom, don’t fuck around taking them to Barton Springs or to ride the Zilker choo-choo. Barton Springs is so cold you will feel your balls scamper up to the back of your throat when you dive in, and the Zilker choo-choo is only entertaining until you figure out about 30 seconds into the ride that A) You could get out and walk faster; B) even though the train seems to be moving, there is somehow no breeze and it’s oppressively hot; C) the leg room is about as ample as the backseat of a clown car; and D) you will be stared at for the entire journey by an unsupervised, fat-headed toddler waving around a rapidly melting chocolate ice cream cone who looks like he spent the entire day rolling in dirt – dirt that is exquisitely interwoven in a massive rivulet of snot dripping from his nose – a giant, green glacier of slowly oozing bacteria that miraculously survives his occasional snorting arm swipes, a glistening emblem of gross and perhaps even criminally negligent parental disregard. Why do that to yourself and your guests? Just because your brother decided to use the pull-and-pray method of birth control doesn’t mean you have to suffer through the mind-numbing hell of child-oriented places and activities. For aeons, child rearing was just a begrudging afterthought, and somehow humanity managed to march forward. Remus and Romulus were raised by wolves, for Christ’s sake, and they have a city named after them … well, the one that wasn’t killed does. Therefore, when your bro gets here, take him and his immediately to the Jackalope. Go in the early evening so they get to walk past scary homeless people and drug dealers. The kids will love playing on the huge fiberglass jackalope by the door – at least long enough for you to knock back a few brewskis. Here’s a dirty little secret: In Texas, it’s legal to take your kids into bars. However, it’s not legal to take other people’s kids into bars (and it’s also kind of creepy) so just make sure your brother or his wife are in sight at all times, and get your drizzy on, yo. If they get bored at the Jackalope, the stuffed bear over at Mohawk will scare the shit out of them even if the bear bartenders don’t.

Bikinis, Banana Hammocks, and Baby Oil

The Luv Doc

You can never be overdressed or overeducated

Man and woman making copies while wearing swimsuits

April 19, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
I just moved to Austin in December and have found that the dress code in my office is much more relaxed than it was in New York. Any suggestions on where I might get some cool, casual office clothes?
– Overdressed

In the words of Oscar Wilde, “You can never be overdressed or overeducated.” Those are decent words to live by in most situations, but there are plenty of examples that prove otherwise: Louis XVI probably wished he had reined in the foppery a bit, and you have to think David Foster Wallace might have been better served if he had watched more Jackass, Geraldo, and Jerry Springer.

In Austin, people tend to dress down a bit for pretty much one reason only: It’s effin’ hot. No one will necessarily call you out for wearing a fancy full-length fur coat or worsted wool knickerbockers (which, I am told, are quite popular in the Empire State), but regardless of what your employee handbook states, Austin’s climatological dress code highly encourages bikinis, banana hammocks, and baby oil. Just call that the bare minimum.

This may seem a bit outrageous and hyperbolic now, but you’ve only been here since December. Wearing anything made of wool in the summer in Austin is like walking around covered in sweaty fiberglass. There is only one true fabric (well, other than the spandex that outlines your junk) in Austin: cotton. Synthetics, regardless of their myriad features, are, in the dead of summer, basically funk sponges. As of yet, no chemist has concocted a detergent strong enough to fully leech the unholy union of crotch stank, pit musk, and body odor from cheap polyester. Cotton, however, with enough detergent and bleach, comes out fresh every time. That’s why it’s the staple of the South – the preferred fabric of Jesus and Gandhi. Those dudes were chill because they weren’t wearing fucking polyester.

So, where to find the best cotton clothing? It’s everywhere, but if you’re looking for cheap, serviceable, cool clothing (and by “cool” I mean that it breathes – the other cool comes from the wearer, not the clothes) the best place to go is Goodwill. I know what you’re thinking: Dead people’s clothes? Yeah, maybe that’s sketch if you’re buying dead people’s polyester because that shit is haunted by dead people’s aromas, but even if the cotton T-shirt you’re buying is riddled with bloody bullet holes, it will still wash up fresh as the morning dew with the right detergent. Jesus would have called that resurrection. The Luv Doc calls that a bargain.


Stop Talking About Your Workout. Forever.

The Luv Doc

A great body doesn’t make you interesting, it just makes your dullness slightly more tolerable

April 13, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
I am still following through on my New Year’s resolution to lose weight (23 pounds so far) but I am still having trouble losing weight in my midsection. Can you recommend any exercises that might help me burn fat in that area?
– Luv Handles

Twenty-three pounds is quite impressive. You may not have lost your spare tire yet, but you’ve already lost a Goodyear RoadHandler’s worth of body weight. Great job! To answer your question, however, the best exercise for someone in your situation is the exercise of self-control. It’s a highly intensive exercise, and it involves a lot of reps. First of all, you’re going to have to exercise self-control about what you eat. To actually get definition in your abs, you’ll probably need to knock your body-fat percentage down to less than 10%. That’s going to take a lot of time and energy that could be expended on a more worthwhile endeavor, but if self-improvement is going to be your contribution to mankind, you might as well walk the walk. You know the drill: energy expended > energy ingested. Exercise/diet, diet/exercise. Yawn. The most important self-control exercise, however, is to stop talking about your workout. Forever. Exercise – at least the narcissistic/selfish pursuit of a better-looking, healthier body – is never interesting to other people. Ever. If it seems like someone is paying rapt attention to your tedious recitation of reps and sets, they’re probably just waiting for you to stop talking so they can ask if you want to go back to their place and bone because you have a hot bod. No, a great body doesn’t make you interesting, it just makes your dullness slightly more tolerable. Incredible as it may sound, it is possible to be physically fit without working out. You can play sports, or if you hated gym class, do “activities” like LARPing, birding, grown-up hide-and-seek, or break dancing. These are things you generally do with other people and then afterward you have a few beers or a huge plate of enchiladas that totally cancel out any health benefits you might have accrued engaging in them. Exercise, on the other hand, is a solitary, shameful, and selfish activity – much like masturbation. As good as it might make you feel, nobody wants to hear you yammer about masturbating for the very same reason they don’t want to hear about your workouts: They’re all pretty much the same. It’s just a matter of how many reps it takes to get the job done.

Parachute Pants and a Kentucky Waterfall

The Luv Doc

A miniature pony is an even awesomer chick magnet than an IROC-Z

Friday, April 6, 2012

Luvdork,
Riddle me this, bitch: I have a 1989 IROC-Z that runs good normally but it sputters when I stomp on the gas. My dad says I should check the fuel system and that it may be a bad fuel pump/filter. What do you think?
– Brad

I could blame it on a deteriorated control arm bushing, Brad, but that would be preposterous. Besides, I’ve never even looked under the hood of an IROC-Z. Why? Because back when I roc’d parachute pants and a Kentucky Waterfall, I couldn’t afford an IROC. These days, I occasionally have a few hundred bucks to throw around, but given the choice, I would probably blow it on one of the miniature horses currently for sale from The Monastery of St. Clare Miniature Horse Farm in Brenham. I’ve had my eye on a 33-inch-tall, two-year-old gray pony named Pepperjack for some time now. Pepperjack stands about crotch high and would be perfect to turn loose on the fairways of my neighborhood golf course (turns out you can’t buy live wolverines over the Internet anyway) or to take for a jog around Ladybird Lake. You may not believe this, but pound for pound, a miniature pony is an even awesomer chick magnet than an IROC-Z. Plus, they’re much, much more reliable. Now I will freely admit, Brad, that life isn’t always as easy as choosing between an adorable miniature pony raised by nuns and the penultimate icon of Eighties douchery (nugget jewelry notwithstanding), but you might want to run a quick cost-benefit analysis and see what you come up with. My guess is that you could sunbathe shirtless wearing neon-green plum smugglers on the hood of your classic IROC for a whole Saturday in the parking lot of Barton Springs Pool and still not get a fraction of the strange that a quick stroll through the park with a miniature nun pony would get you. Your call, Brad. If you want to while away the hours on your back in some dank garage trying to resuscitate your Uncle Rico glory days by cobbling together a rebuild of the car you got your first HJ in, go ahead, but let’s not pretend this is a legitimate attempt at solving your transportational issues; otherwise you would be asking how often you should rotate the tires on your Honda Fit. There is at least hope for you, Brad, because apparently you still talk to your dad, which is uncharacteristic of Camaro owners. Even though there is something less than a half-percent chance your father was OK with your Camaro purchase (and you bought it anyway), you may want to listen to him about the fuel pump/filter thing. Sounds spot on to me. Either that or Pepperjack has an even shorter, cuter buddy named Cimarron who is pretty spicy himself!

Insufferable Narcissists

The Luv Doc

Just the act of procreative sex is an undertaking of considerable hubris.

March 30, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
My best friend had a baby two months ago, and now it’s all she ever talks about. At first I tried to be supportive, but now I feel like it’s affecting our friendship. What should I do?
– Ann-oyed

That’s a tough one, Ann. Parents are insufferable narcissists. Just the act of procreative sex is an undertaking of considerable hubris. Yes, God said, “Go forth and multiply,” but he said it to Adam and Eve who, if you trust artist renderings, are pretty fucking hot – even the pudgy Renaissance versions. He also said it to Noah and his sons after he wiped out mankind with a cataclysmic flood. They weren’t all that pretty, but He was in a bind. Regardless, when it comes to multiplying, everyone except Adam, Eve, Noah, Ham, Shem, and Japheth is off the hook and has been for several thousand years. Yay! Pills and condoms for everyone! No more need to look in the mirror and think, “I have to fuck up a whole new generation of that?” Even still, there will be those who stare into the pool of Narcissus and decide that, for instance, the Donald’s hair isn’t too bad or that their daughter will be so pretty they can name her “Rumer.” Whoopsy! It only stands to reason that if you make it to childbearing age without offing yourself, you have a fair amount of self-esteem – either that or you’re too stupid to tie a basic slipknot. What are you going to do? People generally love themselves, and they really love themselves in miniature. Worse yet, they love yammering about the miniature versions of themselves incessantly, even when there’s more important shit to talk about – like whether your forehead is too big or if you should get breast implants. Yes, it’s important to be open and honest with your friends, but in this instance, it’s much, much better to lie. Even if you sincerely try to explain to your friend that there is nothing remarkable about making a baby since obviously billions of people have done it successfully, she is still going to claim it’s a miracle. Yeah, right. So is taking a crap, but that doesn’t mean you have to gush and coo about it. Well, actually you do. You will never convince your friend that her spawn is nothing special. You will just have to let it grow up and prove you right. That, however, is a satisfaction you will have to keep to yourself … unless you want to lose your friend. Besides, your friendship is too strong to let a miracle come between the two of you, right?

Friends

The Luv Doc

March 23, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
Last week, my friend from St. Louis – who I said could come stay with me during South by Southwest – called and asked if he could bring a “friend” that I don’t even know. I said “yes” because I didn’t want to seem like an asshole, but how do I avoid this in the future? – Bill

Bill, there are two scenarios here, and neither is good. The first is that your friend is a dick. The second is that you are a dick. There may be a third scenario, but I think that involves both of you being dicks, which means you deserve each other. That said, I will admit it’s a bit dickish of your friend to ask for the plus-one after the fact – especially if it’s someone you don’t even know. That’s how pushovers like you get murdered in their sleep: An old friend brings some rando to your house for a music festival, and the next thing you know, you wake up with him perched on your chest in the middle of the night wielding a butcher knife and saying he needs to sanctify your dwelling with the “blood of the lamb.” Crazy Christians … what are you going to do? On the other hand, you might want to ask yourself: How good of a friend does someone need to be to stay in your house? If this is just some dude you used to be a fry cook with at McDonald’s, why did you say “yes”? If, on the other hand, this friend is someone who’s truly had your back, someone who carried your drunken ass into the backyard and sprayed the vomit off your clothes after you overdid it with the wine coolers, someone who woke up at five in the morning to take you to the airport, someone who talked you out of going to clown college, someone who knows your left testicle is plastic and who only teases you about it when he’s drunk – if this is that kind of friend, why the fuck are you sweating him about bringing along a stranger? Don’t be a dick. You know he’s good people. It’s not like he’s going to show up with a scabby, toothless meth head or a crab-infested crack whore, and even if he did, you owe him a fucking solid for that clown college deal. Bottom line, Bill, is that this one’s on you. You either need to grow a spine or pull the bug out of your ass – or both.

Texas Film Hall of Fame

The Luv Doc

Friday, March 16, 2012

There is a lot of anxiety among the townies about being properly credentialed during South by Southwest, and rightfully so. No one is more obstinate than a semiretired junior high school history teacher getting all Barney Fife in his SXSW Volunteer shirt (which, rumor has it, are treated with a topical solution of testosterone, methamphetamine, and gorilla adrenaline). Word to the wise: Don’t cross those crazy bastards. That said, it seems that the Luvdoc is a natural-born volunteer whisperer, because I breezed through every security phalanx in the past few days like Jesus himself. This magic run started at the Texas Film Hall of Fame Awards last Thursday when, because of a rather intense pregame session that involved a bottle of mezcal and some amyl nitrate, I arrived 30 minutes late for dinner and didn’t have the time or sobriety to check in at will-call. Instead, I blew through security amidst a posse of sharply dressed socialites who had all the proper documents and, most importantly, a sense of entitlement. Turns out that if you have hair like Anderson Cooper and the rheumy-eyed swagger of Foster Brooks, you don’t need credentials at all, just a serviceable sports coat and a rich San Tropez tan (actually the remnants of a wicked sunburn, but really, what’s the dif?). I truly did have a ticket waiting at will-call (extorted, of course), which contributed to my own sense of entitlement. That, along with my full head of gray hair, was like pixie dust to the door people, who brushed me through with pleasant smiles. For the next few hours, I terrorized the SXSW and Chronicle tables with the obnoxious, boorish behavior of the unsoaped underclasses and tagged celebrity coup whenever I could: Robert Rodriguez in the men’s room (does that hat creep anyone else out?). Angie Dickinson passing by in a fedora (again with the hats), Barry “Badass” Corbin at the bar, and the rest of the folks at the Chronicle table, who mysteriously evaporated just as I was hitting my stride: Chronicle writer Margaret Moser, actor Ed Hattaway, Dale Dudley, and the scintillating Bob Fonseca, who is a younger version of the Most Interesting Man in the World. Just before I blacked out, I gave my camera to Tina Harrison, who snapped this fetching photo of Chron Ad Manager Mark Bartel, ad rep Elizabeth Nitz, chick singer Suzee Brooks, SXSW stud Jacob Stetson, and Boneboys star Johnny Walter ignoring Grupo Fantasma’s energetic closing set.

TechNERDphilia

The Luv Doc

Here’s a quick rundown of dope shit at this year’s South by Southwest Interactive festival. If you ain’t got a badge, you’re broke and you ain’t got no business being up in there anyway.

FRIDAY, MARCH 9
Smokey Bear Tweetup 5pm, Assembly Room, InterContinetal Stephen F. Austin
Expect a rapt roomful of hirsute gay men and furries as the OG furry Smokey (no homo) shares how he keeps young pyros chill with his tight tweets.

SATURDAY, MARCH 10
Check Yo-Self Before U Wreck Yo-Self: Start-Up Metrics of the Masters 2pm Hilton, Salon C
Reread the name. That’s the real title. Start-up metrics are probably tedious as fuck, but this group of panelists will surely blow the roof off the mother with their fearless use of white Ebonics.

SUNDAY, MARCH 11
Mad CSS3 Skillz 12:30pm, Radisson Town Lake Ballroom
The Lord Almighty has a raging boner for chicks who can whip up a phat UI with CSS3 and HTML5. You will, too.

MONDAY MARCH 12
Race: Know When To Hold It and Know When To Fold It 5pm, Austin Convention Center, Room 9ABC
A panel made up of four black people and a white guy named Scott who “know[s] black hair and can both braid and cornrow” co-opts a Kenny Rogers song title for their panel on diversity. That shit is Country Strong. Bridge = built.

Organic Gardening

The Luv Doc

Friday, March 2, 2012

Dear Luv Doc, A few weeks ago, my husband and I put a small vegetable garden in our backyard – mostly beans, tomatoes, and spinach. We finally have a few seedlings coming up, but they are being torn up by a cat who poops in the garden and then covers his poop by scratching holes in our garden and destroying the seedlings. How can we discourage this cat from pooping in our garden? – Tested in Travis Heights I would suggest a Remington 220 Swift with a night-vision scope and a 60-grain hollow-point shell for maximum accuracy and spread on impact, but judging by the intensity of your anger, I don’t think you’ll be satisfied by anything less than choking that cat out personally. Be forewarned, however, that strangling a Felis domesticus is risky business – something that would require elbow-length Kevlar gloves at the very least – and Kevlar gets pricey. Plus (and I know it sounds like I’m trying to piss in the punch bowl here), Austin is a “no kill” city that prides itself on the compassionate treatment of animals, which, it pains me to say, extends even to cats who crap in your garden. Therefore, you may want to find a surrogate to do your dirty work for you. I know that goes against the whole essence of gardening, but do you really want a bunch of otter-scrubbin’, Sierra Clubbin’, tree-huggin’ neighbors all up in your chili just because you’ve got a revenge boner? Of course not, but if, for instance, the wild coyote you have chained up next to your garden decides to eat some pussy, he’s just acting on his natural instinct. You can facilitate the healing by scheduling some therapy sessions with the coyote and your neighbors so they can work through their issues. The coyote idea can backfire, however – much like a pair of Acme rocket skates – because coyotes really are wily and yours might eventually escape and do something embarrassing like eating your neighbor’s free-range chickens or mauling their toddler. Besides, I’m not entirely sure it’s legal to chain a wild coyote in your backyard. Maybe a pit bull. They’re pretty safe, but if cat meat makes it deranged by blood lust, what are you going to do? Buy a tiger? That’s just ridiculous. Where does it end? Maybe the thing to do is to buy a Havahart trap and bait it with some Friskies and maybe relocate the cat to a shelter where it can find a new home far away from your garden. And if the trap should bounce off the back of your flatbed on the way to the shelter as you’re driving across the South First Street Bridge at 3am … well, at least you tried, didn’t you?

Toftation Island

The Luv Doc

February 24, 2012

Chronicle parties nearly always degenerate into depraved, drug-swilling freak shows that last into the wee hours. On the one hand, it’s goddamned shameful to see grown adults carrying on in such a reckless, irresponsible manner, but it’s also a lot of fun to watch. Besides, when you’re killing brain cells at such an alarming pace, you want to make memories that are monstrous enough to withstand the denudation of a dozen shots of Old Crow or a paper sack full of glue fumes. It would be easy to blame this behavior on the enormous stress Chron employees are under as standard-bearers for a dying industry, but the truth is we have easy access to media-whoring celebrities with bottomless wallets and a neurotic need for attention. That shit makes for some pretty insane throw-downs. Remember Matthew McConaughey’s drum circle? Last Saturday night was no exception as former Luv Doc proofer/current advernatrix Kristine Tofte celebrated her birthday at the Liberty, a popular night spot on East Sixth. The party was originally planned as a backyard blowout at Tofte’s private residence, “Toftation Island,” but was relocated to the Liberty after the weekend’s torrential rains turned it into exactly that. Rumors were buzzing around the bar that KISS-FM morning DJ and social butterfly Bobby Bones bankrolled the move to the Liberty on the condition that partygoers “get Boned” on his signature drink, the Milk Bone – a frothy mixture of whole milk and butterscotch schanpps. Bearded partiers (which ironically made up nearly half of the Liberty’s clientele Saturday) sported white “bonestaches” for most of the evening. Tofte, in true Chronicle form, augmented her Bone Buzz with a baker’s dozen of whiskey shots followed by a monster hit from a Marley-sized spliff shared by Black Pistol Fire drummer Eric Owen and fellow Canadian/black helicopter spotter Alex Jones – or at least his stoned doppleganger. Not surprisingly, Tofte blacked out around midnight. I must have been really baked on secondary smoke because I swear I saw Tour d’ Unamerica winner Lance “Lefty” Armstrong made a grand entrance in a gold-trimmed litter held aloft by a retinue of towering footmen that included Butthole Surfers fronter Gibby Haynes, Nobel juggler Turk Pipkin, country crooner Bruce Robison, KLBJ-FM DJ Dale Dudley, Texas swinger Ray Benson, and former rock god Robert Plant, who looked exhausted but also greatly relieved that he wasn’t trapped in Patty Griffin’s Hyde Park bungalow baking cookies. Mr. Plant livened up the party considerably when he produced a mason jar full of cocaine. Shortly before sunrise, the jar was finally emptied when Chron proofer/poet/author Sarah Smith and Sports Editor Mark Fagan snorted the last of its contents off Armstrong’s bare torso as he screamed, “I’m a one-percenter, bitches! One percent body fat!” Sure, it sounds kind of dickish now, but you really had to be there.

The Jaw-Dropping Hammer of Thor

The Luv Doc

February 17, 2012

Dear Luv Doc, A few nights ago, I had a dream that I was getting coffee at Spider House, and when I reached for my wallet, I wasn’t wearing pants or underwear. Nobody seemed to notice. What does that mean? – Commando

Maybe it means you were wearing a kilt or a miniskirt, neither of which are particularly uncommon at Spider House. If, on the other hand, you were wearing camo coveralls, a Ducks Unlimited cap, and a pair of Wolverines, then you might raise a few eyebrows. Folks at Spider House are reasonably open-minded, but there are limits. As far as your dream, however, there are a couple of things going on. First, you are apparently buck naked from the waist down. Traditional dream interpretation would suggest that missing such an important article of clothing indicates a fear of being unprepared. You may actually be an ex-Boy Scout, but let’s not rule out the possibility that you have a subconscious desire to expose yourself to apathetic people – or at the very least, disaffected, jaded hipsters who have witnessed everything from Saran Wrap-smashed lesbian breasts and black hole spandex camel toe to the sun-wizened glutes of a cross-dressing homeless man in a leopard-print thong (snap into a Slim Jim!). Don’t take this as criticism, but as far as dreams go, you’re not really stretching yourself much creatively. Why not an adult Bible-study group at Riverbend or contestants in a toddler beauty pageant? Just saying – your plot could use a little punching up. Work on that. In the meantime, consider the possibility that you subconsciously need reassurance that your fun stick, while perhaps not the jaw-dropping hammer of Thor, is nonetheless adequate enough that it doesn’t inspire open mockery and derision. Don’t get smug, Commando. That’s just one possibility. The other factor in your dream is that your wallet is missing. Most dream interpreters would say losing your wallet indicates a need to be cautious about your finances or that you are losing touch with your true identity. Identity loss is some heavy shit, but I wouldn’t dwell on that too much. Losing your wallet might simply mean that you’re broke. No shame in that game. There are plenty of broke dudes with uninspiringly adequate packages – many of whom are reasonably well-known musicians – and they seem to do just fine. Not everyone in the world is a gold digger or a size queen. In fact, just like in your dream, most people are completely uninterested in your situation, regardless of how you stress about it. Let that knowledge be your strength, Commando. You probably have nothing to worry about – at least not in your dreams.

Teenage Drifters and Truck Stop Prostitutes

The Luv Doc

February 10, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
Whenever I buy Neapolitan ice cream, my roommate eats the chocolate and leaves the vanilla and strawberry. What kind of person does that?
– Sarah

Sarah, your roommate is a sociopath. I don’t mean that in a hyperbolic, drama-queen kind of way. I mean it in a get-out-of-the-house-now kind of way. I could be wrong, but you may want to poke around down in the crawl space just to be sure. Wait a minute … hold off on that idea. Nothing good ever comes from poking around in a crawl space. Trust me. I’ve been there. Your crawl space may not be a catacomb full of rotting teenage drifters and truck stop prostitutes, but rest assured, there’s some scary shit down there: cobwebs, rat turds, mold, rust, roly-polies, and things that drop on your bare neck that feel exactly like a brown recluse and cause you to freak out and start thrashing around like an epileptic. Really, nobody in their right mind willingly goes into a crawl space unless there is some serious pay involved (like the kind of sick cheese plumbers make) or unless their immigration status is questionable. That’s why crawl spaces are popular for stashing corpses. Now admittedly, just because your roommate is a sociopath doesn’t necessarily mean he or she is also a serial-killing psychopath, but really, do you want to roll the dice on that one? Of course not. So before you resort to a drastic measure like inspecting your crawl space, you might want to check something a bit less dangerous, like your roommate’s car. Is it a windowless van with curtains behind the driver’s seat? Are there clowns and balloons and candy painted on the side? Are there Beanie Babies all over the dashboard, bloody handprints on the inside of the windows? If you answered “yes” to any of the preceding, you might want to consider making your roommate selection process a little more rigorous. In fact, if a potential roommate drives a windowless van and isn’t a superhot touring musician, you should politely move on to the next applicant. Same deal for anyone who drives a Hummer or a Camaro, but that goes without saying, doesn’t it? Actually there is a whole laundry list of signs someone might be a bad roommate: Does he/she never blink? Track marks? Rotten teeth? Twitchiness? Extra-long pinkie nail? Pierced tongue? World of Warcraft tattoo? Vibram Fivefingers? Regardless, as far as roommates go, your goose is already cooked. At least you know what you’re dealing with. Your best bet now is to buy a handgun and hire a bodyguard and a food taster.

A Resurgence of Quality Programming

The Luv Doc

February 3, 2012

Dear Doc: In these exciting times, I often wonder: Why haven’t we seen a resurgence of quality programming like Battle of the Network Stars. Wouldn’t that be just great? (Your attention to this matter should include a clear addressing of the most up-to-date whereabouts of one Miss Joyce DeWitt.) – Kris

In the words of Thomas Wolfe, “You can’t go home again.” Touché, Tommy. Really, who wouldn’t want to see a reanimated Howard Cosell hosting a star-studded physical competition featuring swarthy, athletic folks like Gary Burghoff, Gabe Kaplan, Dick Van Patten, Loretta Swit, Vicki Lawrence, and Delta Burke? In fact, you may want to pleasure yourself just envisioning that pasty B-list ménage 20-plus years after they reached their physical prime. Ideally you find liver spots, stretch marks, and dense, abrasive tufts of gray back hair a turn-on because you know you’re going to have to do Loretta Swit first. She’s a wildcat! I would wish that for you Kris, but sadly, the future happened. Sometime back in the Nineties, the major networks were challenged by hundreds of tiny upstart cable channels that barely had two dimes to rub together. Lacking the production funds to even come up with shows as embarrassingly fatuous as Harry and the Hendersons and Alf, the smaller cable channels mined a previously underdeveloped vein of stupidity: reality television. Turns out all you really need to create fascinating television is to strap a camcorder to a cocker spaniel’s head and turn it loose in a double-wide full of toothless, meth-snorting hillbillies – or the East Coast equivalent, a rooftop hot tub in Seaside Heights, N.J. That’s it: no high-priced actors, sound stages, lighting, costumes, or craft services, just poorly shot video of knuckle-dragging half-wits on the prowl for unprotected sex. That’s all you need to sell boatloads of pimple cream, tampons, Hot Pockets, and Axe body spray. Plus, 30 minutes watching Snooki wet-hump a Jacuzzi full of mooks and you’ll forget Joyce DeWitt ever existed. However, if you still want to rub up against some Wood (as in Janet Wood, aka the brunette/the smart one/the real pants-wearer of the cutely implied threesome on Three’s Company) she’s busy as a one-legged woman in an ass-kicking contest. Most recently, she starred in the film The Great Fight with superstars Robert Loggia and Charles Durning, and in 2011, she also starred in the off-Broadway hit Miss Abigail’s Guide To Dating, Mating, and Marriage – yet another threesome that probably leads frustratingly to nowhere. You may want to check out Jersey Shore instead.

It’s Called Priapism

The Luv Doc

January 27, 2012

What does the doctor do to you if you have a hard-on for more than four hours after taking Viagra? And why is a four-hour hard-on a bad thing? – Chuck

It’s called priapism, named after Priapus, the Greek god of fertility who had an absurdly large and permanently erect penis. As exciting as it sounds, priapism doesn’t make your dick absurdly large. Bummer, right? Seriously – how awesome would it be to have someone look at your johnson and say, “Dude, that thing is absurdly large. You may need to consult a physician.” That is the point at which you say “Right?” and then bump knuckles and blow it up (the knuckles, not your penis). You’ll be feeling swell all right … well, until you develop gangrene and your pecker falls off. OK, here’s an important disclaimer: Even though I am a fake doctor, I have to admit I have never seen a gangrenous dick fall off. That was hyperbole. In fact, I have never even seen a gangrenous dick. Color me blessed. To answer your question, however, if I were a real doctor and I were treating someone for priapism, I might give them and ice pack and a pep talk, or perhaps I would inject the affected corpus cavernosum with alpha-agonists … or, if necessary, surgically insert a shunt, which sounds really nasty (did the doctor just say the “sh” word?) but it’s really just an artificial plastic hole to keep your fluids flowing. Yep, that still sounds pretty nasty. If things took a really desperate turn, I might aspirate the penis. Though it sounds pleasant, “aspirate” is actually a tricky doctor term for the process of sucking fluid out with a bigass syringe. If you’ve ever had a tennis elbow or a trick knee aspirated by a doctor, you know enough to first request a tea glass full of strong whiskey and a leather strap to bite down on. Sounds bad, eh? Well, Chuck, it is. Even if you’re having trouble putting together a mental image, rest assured nothing positive comes from any association of the words “needle” and “dick,” even and especially if it’s what your partner is muttering during sex. Truth is, most people outside the porn industry hadn’t even dreamed of a four-hour erection until they heard the disclaimer at the end of erectile dysfunction commercials. They probably hadn’t heard the term “anal leakage” either – at least until the advent of fat-free potato chips. The modern world is a scary place, Chuck. Try to keep your dick in your pants.

What Next: Truck Taint?

The Luv Doc

January 20, 2012

Dear Luvdoc,
My husband recently got himself a pair of metallic truck nuts and hung them on the back of his Silverado.
I have to say a line’s been crossed.
How do I break it to him gently, Luvdoc, that I don’t want to be driving around in any vehicle that’s got a pair of chrome-plated faux bull testicles attached to it?

Sincerely yours,
Teabagged in Tarrytown

Two words, Teabagged: truck twat. The time has come. It’s what Fox News would call “fair and balanced” (which, by the way, are the names of Rupert Murdoch’s testicles). If your husband has the temerity to tool around River City (or even Buda, for that matter) with a bovine scrote swinging from his hitch, there’s a good chance that whining about his insensitivity won’t put the kibosh on his freeballing. You need to hit him where he’s sensitive … and believe me … people with big cajones are more sensitive than you might think. Once he sees your bitch hitch has wizard sleeves, he might just castrate his Silverado without even being asked. Remember, just like balls: the bigger the better. Make sure your truck twat is massive enough to intimidate even the most confident bull. That should to the trick, but be prepared to up the ante. With a couple of quarts of pig blood, some polyethylene tubing, an IV bag, and a modified fuel pump, you can design a truck twat that hits all phases of the menstrual cycle. Don’t cut him any slack. If you do it right, he will be out there at least three days of every month scrubbing the red stains off the driveway. You might also want to drive a little crazier during those times as well: Cut people off; stop short and get rear-ended; run some reds. He may not get the brilliant symbolism, but rest assured that after a few months’ worth of dealing with a bovine-sized red tide, he’ll be looking for a way to compensate for his small penis that doesn’t involve chrome-plated mountain oysters.

A Mind-Boggling Variety of Sensory Input

The Luv Doc

January 13, 2012

Dear Luvdoc, Why is the sky blue? – Gerald.

Wow Gerald. Maybe you should instead ask yourself why you don’t have access to Google. Whatevs, Google is for chumps anyway. Sure, you can find answers on Google, but if you’re looking for the real truth, you’re going to have to search a little deeper than the collected knowledge of mankind. Besides, you probably already know that the sky is blue because of Rayleigh scattering, a process in which shorter wavelength light (the blue part of the spectrum, which is represented nicely on the cover of Pink Floyd’s 1973 classic Dark Side of the Moon) is absorbed by atmospheric gases – principally nitrogen and oxygen. Fun fact: Lord Rayleigh and the members of Pink Floyd are both from Britain … where light is much scarcer than it is in Texas. In fact, their sky is mostly gray – like their teeth. It’s a total Debbie Downer of a sky. Really, by asking why the sky is blue, you’re asking why the color blue even exists. That’s a tough one. Why does blue even appear on the cosmic design palette? And, even if it does, why isn’t the higher end of the spectrum represented by reds or greens or perhaps some more spectacular colors our eyes are too low-tech to register? More importantly, who or what is in charge of doing the decorating around here, and why can’t we see a completely different set of color swatches … well … without dropping acid? Of course, nobody wants to seem ungrateful for the mind-boggling variety of sensory input the universe already offers, but wouldn’t it be cool if we had some other options? That’s where we drop down the wormhole. We actually do have other options. Those options exist in our imagination. Think Wizard of Oz … Avatar … Willy Wonka (Oompa Loompas, seriously, who did the color swatches on those dudes? Timothy Leary?). We may be hopelessly mired in the physical world, but we are able to invent concepts that exist outside it – or so it seems. Our mental wheels keep spinning long after our train of thought leaves the tracks. Maybe that’s why we can’t easily accept that this color palette is the only one available, pretty as it may be. So why is the sky blue? Perhaps it’s blue simply to imply that there may be a sky that isn’t.

Carpool Etiquette

The Luv Doc

January 5, 2012

Luvdoc,
Ever since my boss learned we live on the same side of town, he keeps asking to ride home with me. How do I tell him no without getting fired? Help!

Uneasy Rider

This is a tough-love approach, but desperate times call for desperate measures: Vomit in your car. Trust me. You can live with the smell of your vomit far longer than someone else can. It’s a fact of nature. However, here’s one important point: Even if you’re one of those people who absolutely detests the idea of blowing beads, make sure you do it yourself. Having a friend or a pet vomit in your car to save yourself the trouble will only cause you to suffer worse in the long run. If you’ve ever had a ferret regurgitate a dead hamster in your backseat, you would totally know what I mean. Plus, if you do the ralphing yourself, you can vividly describe the incident so he’ll associate you with the (ideally) nauseating olfactory sensation. For instance, “I should have known that the layer of fur on my egg salad probably meant that it had gone bad, but I ate it anyway, and then later I puked so hard on your seat that I could feel my anus in the back of my throat.” Yeah, something like that. It also doesn’t hurt if whatever you ingest makes a nice stain … chili is good, spaghetti has some decent staying power, but nothing endures like mustard. Mustard stains linger long after the smell is gone. Maybe knock back a glass of mustard and then tickle the back of your tongue with a toothbrush and see what comes up. If you have the time, let it bake in full sun over the weekend before you make any attempt at cleaning up. Here’s the most important tip: When your boss gets in the car, insist that you can’t smell anything. Keep the windows rolled up and the air on “recirculate.” Not too cool though. You want the car to feel stuffy. If you really want to put a flourish on it, try to let out a long, wet fart sometime during the ride. You can excuse it with a statement like, “I’ve been shitting a river for days.” I know this all seems horrifyingly drastic, but it sure beats being honest with your boss and telling him it makes you uncomfortable to spend so much time with him outside of the office. That would be fucking crazy.