*too cool....

*the last 20 seconds

*Mark loses faith

*every day-no problem

*what his career has become

*What happens

*Jenkins is The Man

*When did I drink the Kool-Aid?

*i no this is well in advance

*My mailman is

1. I ask you to do one effing thing
2. Did you?
3. The socks betray him
4. There will be none of that
5. Leave notes in his shirt pocket
6. Trained in the gentle art
7. Put me in coach
8. Our species may, in fact, survive
9.Swarm Swarm
10.During the wooing
11.BUT not private enough
12.The bottomless appetite
13.The first time we forget
14.This is a nice litmus test
15.To get the ball rolling
16.She invited you back to her place for coffee
17.Mary Magdalene or Eva Braun
18.It will only smell and make you queasy

April 2005

May 2005

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   Tuesday, May 31, 2005

They must have a bug problem

Your ever artful and jocose blogmaniac is back home in South Florida after a long weekend with the ever effectually breathtaking A*.

We did a whole lot of nothing (with a smidge of somethings here and there). A perfect "no plans" weekend of doing whatever whim flew to our fancy.

I was introduced to (read:auditioned for) one of her closest friends, Dan. I've been a fan of his blog for months and it was really first-rate to finally meet this clever 'non compos'.

They took me to Therapy (the bar, not the remedial treatment). A* was so proud that I had no issue having a drink in a gay bar.

So I sit here, right now, and wonder... what 'issue' with a bar like Therapy might I coulda woulda had? After some brainstorming I can only come up with ten potential issues I coulda woulda had:

1) Hmmm, too much like the Ale House back home - a goddamn sausage factory... where are the chicks!?!

2) The bar snacks were all tiny diamond shaped blue pills and they tasted like chalk

3) How can anyone expect to get drunk with all of this CPR training going on? Sheesh looks like everyone is having trouble breathing....

4) If I had KNOWN daisy-dukes were back in style I would of packed my pair (he said, "packed")

5) How am I supposed to know champagne and cosmos are on special if there is no sign?

6) How much do you tip a bathroom attendant that is THAT friendly? I felt foolish thinking the two-tap rule should always be followed.

7) The gum in foil square packs taste like ass

8) How am I supposed to know you get a discount if you have a shaved head or wear just an undershirt? NO ONE tells me ANYTHING.

9) They must have a bug problem. I looked around and everyone was swatting the air when they talked.

10) "But, sir, it doesn't taste like a popsicle..."

Firefox friendly (finally)

I was getting reports from very trusted sources that my new template was not showing up well in non-internet exporer browsers.

I finally got home and downloaded firefox and saw the reported problems.

After hours (ok, minutes) of digging through the ugliness that is HTML code, I believe I've fixed the problems... please let me know how things are looking in non IE browsers...

I should have a new post up for everyone to consume sometime today.

Who loves you? Uncle HOF loves you!

-Love ya, mean it.

   Monday, May 30, 2005

Cyberversion of Chlamydia


The sweet, sweet miss sandra blogtagged me. I've stated before that I do not believe in this cyberversion of Chlamydia passed off as "bog tagging". A* tagged me once and I protested (then participated). My love for sandra runs deep and I will accept the STD but refuse to pass it on.... gimme a second to put on a condom.

What a man does for his readers... boggles the mind.

Total number of films I own on DVD/video: DVDs (40+) VHS (hundreds - wanna buy some?)
The last film I bought: The Professional (the movie that started my love affair with Natalie Portman. Of course, she does not return my calls anymore. Effing restraining order ruins another perfect relationship)
The last film I watched: The Professional (with A*)
Five films that I watch a lot or that mean a lot to me (in no particular order):
1. Raiders of the Lost Ark (I need to blog out my theory on Dr. Jones being the perfect model for men to emulate)
2. Star Wars Empire Strikes Back (the best of the entire 6-movie series)
3. Casablanca (the only perfect movie ever made)
4. The Searchers (greatest western ever made)
5. Seinfeld Seasons 1,2+3 (greatest television series ever)
Total volume of music files on my computer: Volume of music? My files all play at eleven. ("The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and..."
"Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?"
"Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?"
"Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You're on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you're on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?"
"I don't know."
"Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?"
"Put it up to eleven."
"Eleven. Exactly. One louder."
"Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?"
"These go to eleven.")
The last CD I bought was: Whiskeytown's Pneumonia
Song playing right now: "Lazy Bird" by Coltrane. There are times in our life that only The Jazz can be the soundrack.
Six songs I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me: Six? Why not just ask a parent which child they love the most. I abstain.
Five albums I can listen to over and over from start to finish - Greatest Hits dont count:
FIVE? Are you kidding me? Why not ask ask a heroine addict which needle is their favorite. I abstain here as well. Here is a short list of the 25 greatest artists of all time (no particular order)... [ed note: not MY top 25, THE top 25 and I can prove it, mathmatically or empirically (you choose)]
1. Beatles
2. Tool
3. Led Zep
4. Pink Floyd
5. Hendrix
6. Coltrane
7. Miles Davis
8. Charlie Parker
9. Thelonious Monk
10. Bob Dylan
11. Tom Waits
12. Ani DiFranco
13. Ray Charles
14. Neil Young
15. Prince
16. Billy Joel
17. Johnny Cash
18. Public Enemy
19. Willie Nelson
20. Four Tops
21. Robert Johnson
22. David Bowie
23. Smashing Pumpkins
24. Radiohead
25. Cake

   Sunday, May 29, 2005

What Would Hofzinser Do?

I set up an email address for anyone to use to contact your world famous (and all-time favorite) blogger. If you have a question you would like answered as a post, feel free to email it in!

I will continue working from the comments on the "Why Do Men...?" post but expand beyond questions about the mind of men.

Starting today you can ask Uncle Hofzinser anything. The "WWHD?" column is now taking questions...

Are you in a predicament and wonder what I, your ever insightful blogging superhero would do? Email and ask.

The email-chumming-bot-proof version of the email address:

   Saturday, May 28, 2005

Our species may, in fact, survive

Last night they fought and broke a golden rule by going to bed angry.
The next morning she stretches and opens one eye. At the foot of the bed is her husband covered in grease and sweat.
"What the hell have you been doing all morning?"
"Got up early, babe and changed your oil, replaced your spark plugs and detailed your dash"

This is the eighth installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post. Technically I, your favorite Blog author (ever!), am on vacation playing house with his future wife. I am weak and cannot resist the demands of my readers and my writer instinct. This installment is brought to you from a Starbucks in Hoboken using stolen bandwidth from somone upstairs that failed to secure their wireless network (God bless them).

WordWhiz asked: Why do men fail to realize that a sincere compliment or a sappy card will earn him far more brownie points than a $50 bouquet of flowers?

It is a language barrier, my dearest WordWhiz. Cards are written in Sappynese and flowers are in Showyouian.

Language (lang'gwij) n.
Communication of thoughts and feelings through a system of arbitrary signals, such as voice sounds, gestures, or written symbols.

Men and women sometimes speak the same language (like English). Technically persons from backwater Kentucky and hardboiled Brooklyn both speak English. Put them both in a room together and see how well they understand each other (if you work for MTV and I see this idea in your lineup next year, I will sue.) Backwater and hardboiled both speak English but also have their own languages.

Men and women have their own languages. For the first time EVER the gender-specific languages are being labled and defined. Today, fair reader, is your lucky day.

A language of "voice sounds" or "written symbols" that communicates thoughts and feelings. Sappynese is the verbal/written language of feelings. Women are taught this language early in life. Verbal or written English, by itself, is not designed to translate concepts as fuzzy and smazy as feelings. You can often find women "just talking". "Just Talking" is when Sappynese is most often heard and used. Women gather over a glass of wine by the kitchen island and converse in fluent Sappynese while the boys watch the game. They explain their feelings about their husbands, their careers and what was on Oprah yesterday. Greeting cards and long-distance phone service ads are written in Sappynese.

Showyouian is not a verbal or written language. It is "a system of arbitrary signals or gestures" that communicates thoughts and feelings. Showyouian is the non-verbal language of feelings. Men don't talk about their feelings (this would require fluency in Sappynese). Men reveal their feelings through their actions. Men speak fluent Showyouian and show their love through what they do.

You tell us of your love, we show you our love. At times Showyouian can seem very hard for you to understand and traslate. Trust me, Sappynese is just as hard for us.

Solution: Men and women must learn enough of each other's language to get the gist of the messages. When women speak to us in Sappynese we need to understand enough of the language to get the general message. To learn Spanish, one should watch kids shows on Univision on Saturday mornings. To learn Sappynese, one should watch Oprah, movies produced by the Hallmark or WE channels or any episode of the Gilmore Girls. We men also need to express our feelings more in Sappynese.

Here are a few Sappynese phrases (with their English translations) for my male readers:

Sappynese: "Have you lost wieght?"
English translation: "You are more beautiful now than when I first fell in love you with you. Everyday I thank the powers at be for bringing you into my life. Your body is everything I desire and my passion for you only grows with time. You are aging with elegance and grace and I love you more today than yesterday and half as much as tomorrow."

Sappynese: "Go ahead, that's fine"
English translation: "I dare you to do it. Go ahead you inconsiderate ass. I cannot believe you would even ask me to do that, let alone actually go through with it. Do I mean nothing to you? Is everything we've been through been a lie?"

Sappynese: "She seems nice"
English translation: "What a fucking ugly cunty cow. I saw how you looked at her. Is that how you want me to look in public? Is that what turns you on? Do you want me to tramp around with my tits hanging out in ugly-ass shoes looking like a crack whore having a bad hair day?"

My male readers will note that what Sappynese lacks in clarity it more than makes up for in effeciency and tact. Small seemingly innocent phrases replace verbose vulgarity and rhetorical questions.

Here are a few Showyouian phrases (with their English translations) for my female readers:

Showyouian: Unrequested taking out of the trash
English translation: "I am always thinking about you and try everyday to be better. Sometimes I forget to do things but it is not because I don't love you. You didn't ask me to take this trash out so I will because I love you."

Showyouian: Morning "wood"
English translation: "Just laying next to you makes me want you. You don't need makeup or fancy clothes for me to desire you. Just your scent, your skin, your presence excites me. I love you"

Showyouian: Slap on the ass
English translation: "Jesus H. Christ you are looking especially beautiful today. I look at you like I look at the women on the cover of Maxim. You are a hottie and I love you."

If we men become better listeners and you women become a bit more observant our species may, in fact, survive.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

   Thursday, May 26, 2005

I'm out

Your favorite witty yet insightful editor will be back posting like a blogger should upon his return.

-love you, mean it.

Prepare me for her consumption

Many people were spared the dreaded, feared, seldom unleashed Hofzinser twister punch.

It was only a few months ago that I was ready to unleash this misdoubted apparatus of agony on the next sage wise-acre who told me:

"You will find her when you least expect it" or "When you stop looking she will appear in your life" or "You will know she is the one when you meet her" or "have faith, she's out there..."

Now I am in a place seldom visited. I am in the wrong camp. Yes, you read it correctly. Here is comes.

You were all right... and I was wrong.

Because I did find her when I least expected it and when I stopped looking she appeared in my life and I know she is the one and she was out there...

I had almost conceded that my standards were too high... then she comes into my life and exceeds them.

I began to think I would end up the crazy bachelor Uncle that always had gum and made coins appear behind ears.... and now, someday, I will be making my brothers Uncles and my sister an Aunt.

I believe much of my life unfolded to prepare me for her consumption. I became who I am today to certify I would be exactly what SHE was looking for. I am humbled by her love.

Now I have to find a new target for my twister punches...

Most recent potential candidates? The lovely people sending crazed emails to Mr. Underhill.

G2G... need to pack. Getting on a plane to spend the holiday weekend with my favorite writer (who is also one helluva kisser.)

   Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Put me in, coach!

Despite the rain they cower under the overhang outside the office and share one of her cigarettes.
"Finally slept with him last night..."
"Are you serious? How was it?"
"Amazing. He's not packing a bazooka but he's a hell of a shot."

This is the seventh installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post.

WordWhiz asked: Why do men understand that it's not all about the size of his... uh... muscles?

I am not even sure where to start on this one. The entire penis size issue has been so clouded over the years. One minute us men hear it means nothing (something about oceans and motions) then we come across your copy of Cosmo and flip to the inner-coven secrets page and read that it means everything (obviously as part of some contrived 10 Secrets feature).

Then you have posts like this by sandra and it gets even more confusing.

What you end up with is a bunch of guys with large bayonets thinking size matters and a bunch of guys with small boybrushes hoping it doesn't matter. Those of us with normal sized chicksicles are left to hope we are closer to one group than the other.

Now top it off with all of the porn we've watched. Only one group of guys with mind-blowing dirk digglers get cast in these wonderful works of art and expression. Our reality of "normal" becomes slightly distorted over time...

Wrapped around all of this craziness is the fact we men are socialized to believe our executive staff members are ugly, undesirable and dangerous. Is our obsession starting to make sense now?

The simple answer to your question is we men are getting mixed signal after mixed signal. Everything in the world says that women and their naughty bits are beautiful and mysterious. In contrast, everything in the world says men's naughty bits are intrusive, accessories in crime, simplistic, obvious, crude, controlling, driving and ugly. When we discover Mr. Winky as babies we are scolded for touching it. Your naughties are given the pronoun "her" ours are "it" (pull IT out, whip IT out, etc).

Much of our shame is thanks to the fallopian fiddler being objectified as the source of evil by the feminist movement. We are trained to be ashamed of our giving tree. Now imagine the pour souls out there with below average amplitude. These boys are now ashamed of what they are ashamed of. Bad for a man's psyche but good for Corvette sales.

The whole damn issue is as clear as a Seattle sky. Our rapt focus on the issue is from a lack of lucidity. Not lucid means we are made loony. Here is a nice secret from the back pages of the Brotherhood's Holy Book... want to know why we love blow jobs so much?

Men love BJs. Love 'em. Some think it is a power thing, others think it is a taboo-thing. We all know BJs do not feel better than sex. Men love BJs because they are the ultimate form of acceptance of our javelin. When you ladies are down there kissing and tasting it is one of the rare momements our hampton is being loved for just being him. It is intimate and accepting and in the face of everything we are led to believe about him. I bet you didn't know THAT!

Solution: You are not going to clear up and organized the crazy messages coming from all sides and sources. You CAN clarify your feelings about your own man's jolly green giant. Regardless of your man's girth, make every effort to show that you like it. Talk about it, talk TO it, look at it, hold it and, whenever possible, give it some one-on-one attention. If you can convince us you like him you will find his owner will become a better lover. We can erase our fears of what you think of him from our minds and focus on making love to you.

After you get that message across, teach us what you like and how you like it. Mentor us! We are quick learners and just want to be in the game (put me in, coach!). You have to undo all the terrible messages us boys have absorbed over the years. Help us to love our kojack again and you shall reap the rewards.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

   Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Trained in the gentle art

"So then my boss sends me an email that actually dared ask me to..."
"Why don't you meet with him?", he interrupts
She continues, "...dared to ask me to make sure everyone uses the cover sheets on the TPS reports. Can you believe he actually..."
"Why not forward his email to everyone so they know?"
She pauses and gives him 'the look' then continues, "...he actually sent that to me after what happened last week?"
"You talked to Corporate about that shit from last week, right?"
"Never mind."
She storms off to the kitchen.

This is the sixth installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post. This is a very special installment; I will (drum roll) answer two questions at once!

WordWhiz asked: Why do men never want to LISTEN...they just want to tell you what you "NEED" to do?
A* asked: Why Do Men feel the need to "fix" shit [ed note: do you kiss your mama with that mouth?] for everyone but mostly women?

You two lovely ladies are referring to the same phenomenon. You ask the same question but in your own unique (and ever-so eloquent) way. As a general rule, men are very practical. We gauge and appraise based on utility. Everything is marked by its efficacy.

Unlike women, conversation for men is for one thing, and one thing only, to disseminate information. If we take the time, energy and valuable brain horsepower to talk about a problem it is in the hopes of getting the problem solved. Shh... there are two men over there about to engage in conversation... let's sneak over and eavesdrop.

Dude A:"Wassup?"
Dude B:"Same shit."
A: "How's the old lady?"
B: "Pissing me off. She won't get off my nuts. Every minute it's 'where is this going' and 'where do you see us in a year'"
A: "In a YEAR?"
B: "Yup"
A: "She's a whack-job, Bro. Cut your losses while you still can."
B: "True."

See? Very efficient. In the fewest words subject B brings A up to speed on the relationship with his lady friend - problem established. In fewer words A offers his solution to said problem. In one word B closes without indicating if the advice will be heeded. A is fine with this because he could give a rat's ass about B's relationships with the ladies. Keep in mind that B would have never brought up the trials and tribulations of the relationship if he did not want A's advice. Instead of the "Pissing me off..." response he would say "Fine." and the conversation would then become about sports or the ass on the cocktail waitress.

This is our world and how we work. You women are very different. You have conversations for the sake of conversation. Nothing wrong with it, just very foreign to us boys. When you bring up a situation or a problem we assume it is because you are fishing for solutions. You put problem on the table we want to help solve it. Why the hell else would you bring it up?

There is also an element of our basic nature in play here. Women are genetically programmed as nurtures, we are programmed protectors. We want to protect you from any threats or problems. It is the roles we established at the beginning of time and social evolution has yet to break. Why, even in the face of the women's movement and effemination of men are these basic instincts in place? Simple, they work.

Men find the nurture side of women attractive. We love that you want to take care of us and help us learn to express ourselves. We love that you create safe environments for us to be vulnerable. We are not vulnerable around our own, it makes us the runt in the herd and we will be thinned. Your ability to care is in proportion to our level of attraction.

Women find the protector side of men attractive. You love when we got your back. Regardless of how liberated you are, there is a part of you that wants to be taken care of by a strong man. Our ability to provide security and stability is in proportion to your level of attraction to us. Don't argue about it, accept it. It's OK. It does not make you weak, it does not make you subordinate to us.

We want your life to be as close to problem-free as possible. Our desire to make your life as easy as possible is one way we express our love.

Solution: Here is where training comes in. I was trained in the gentle art of female conversation. Once I understood the rules, I became quite good at it. All men are capable of this; just explain to them the rules. Outside the context of one of these conversations, take a moment and explain to your man that there are times when you just want us to listen to you talk. You don't want our opinion, you don't want our thoughts, you don't want our solutions. You may even appear to ask for some of these things, you still don't want them. Explain to your caveman the rules. We understand rules. Also come up with a key phrase that will alert your man that one of these types of conversations are coming. Let us know what game is about to be played so we can recall the rules you taught us.

"Honey, I need you to just listen right now, OK?"

[man-brain] Recalling past conversation. Loading rules. Load successful. Play.

"Sure sweetie, what's going on."

In this post I mention you can only train us to do four new things (total). This is a good one to go ahead and fill one of the slots with. You will be happy you did.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

I would be lying

Well... I am a few days into this now.

I decided to quit smoking this weekend; more ashtray kisses for A*!

Right now I am nic-ing out bad. I have the Commit lozenges... gonna pop one real quick (BRB)


My lungs do feel better but if I said I didn't miss smoking... I would be lying.

I've quit smoking before and usually replace it by increasing my exercise routines. As luck would have it, I broke my toe last Thursday and cannot go running.


I guess I will just lift more... I lifted yesterday and usually only lift 3-4 times a week. Looks like I will be lifting everyday until my toe heals. Will you all love me if I end up looking like a gym-meat-head?

-love ya, mean it

Drinks are on Uncle Hof

Wow... still only in the second month of the life of this blog-ditty-blog-blog and we broke 1,000 visitors yesterday. Quite a launch!.

My 1,000th visitor logged from the charter.com domain

The feedback and kind words I've gotten from everyone that reads this blog brings me so much happiness. I hope someday I get to meet each of you... if/when I do, the drinks are on Uncle Hof..

I will try and get another "Why Do Men" post out today....

Love ya, mean it

   Monday, May 23, 2005

Leave notes in his shirt pocket

No email. No text messages. Nothing.

She gets home and combs the caller ID over and over again. And then checks it one more time. "Damnit"

She thought the date went so well. Dinner, sweet-talk with a little nookie nightcap. He was so charming, "We so connected"...

Three days later the phone rings and Captain Bedpost's number is on the Caller ID....

This is the fifth installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post.

WordWhiz asked: Why do men fail to understand that it is ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to call the next day - especially if sex was involved?

Had sex with a new man last night? Why didn't he call you today? There are several reasons why men do not call the day after a 'serious' date or a night of romping. I hope for your sake that it is reason #3.

Reason #1: It's called a "One Night Stand" not a "One Night Stand and Next Morning Call"

I know he said all of those sweet things to you. I know he laughed at your jokes and opened the door for you. He has a great job, he's handsome and you've been eyeing him for weeks. You finally got the courage to strike up a conversation over by the pool table last night. He was as charming as you hoped.

Three cosmos and two shots later you are in the corner booth away from the dance floor and holding hands across the table. He's feeding his view on the geo-political balance required for a democratic middle east. "FUCK he's smart too... that's hot"....

You switch to vodka with a splash of Cran and he switches to your side of the booth. As you get into explaining why the last book you read changed how you look at the world. Right when you are about to make your point, he leans in kisses you. Fireworks, shots and more kissing.

He mentions how he's not really a "club" guy and wonders if you want to go somewhere quieter. You know what that means and the vodka gives you the courage to give a coy "sure!". His place is neat and clean and he shows you around. The kitchen. The living room. The study. The bedroom... You're not sure if it was the alcohol (it was) or what but you give in and, as best you can remember, it was grand.

Now you are here waiting for him to call. He cannot seem to find time to dial your number, he's too busy planning dinner with his fiancée and her parents. Yep, you were THAT girl last night.

Solution: Never call him first. You MAY get away with an email/text outside of the 48 hour window BUT only one email/text. If you do not get a response you are NOT to send another. You were the willing participant and he was just plan willing. No harm, no foul... at least you are not his fiancée .

Reason #2: "Dude, it was the WORST"

Of the three reasons for a no call the next day... hope this is not the one. Men have few standards when it comes to women they will sleep with. To quote the sage Chris Rock, "Men are only as faithful as their options." Men have a whole new set of standards when it comes to sleeping with someone a second time.

Once is the test drive, twice is the rent-for-the-weekend. If a man wants to sleep with you a second time you know you did something right. Men are very funny about what they do and do not like in the sack. To keep this column PG-13, let's leave it at that.

If, after your first time, you do not get a call the next day hope it is reason #3. It could be reason #1 but that depends on how long you know him and how tied your circle of friends are. Generally we only One-Night-Stand outside our circle of friends.

You must be open to the possibility he did not enjoy last night. Does this mean you are bad in bed? Maybe. It can also mean you didn't happen to do the crazy-ass shit one of his ex's use to do for him. How were you supposed to know he likes salad tossing?

Solution: Fuck him. If he didn't like your performance than he's a perverted freak. If you are a perverted freak and he did not like your performance, he's an effing PRUDE. You rock, he's an asshole. Case closed.

Reason #3: Must... hold... on... to... any... power... I... have... left.

OK, Wordwiz, this is a biggie. If I had not already met the woman of my dreams, the woman I will spend the rest of my life with, I would not give this one up. I'm set now so if the Brotherhood revokes my membership because of this post they can kiss my hiney.


Women hold all the power in sexual relations. All of it. Every single bit of it. You are the gatekeepers to our key holding. We know this and hope to FRIGGIN God you never fully realize it. We don't call the next day as a hope that you will not realize the truth.

Not only did we want to call you the next day, we wanted to show up at your doorstep with dozens of lillys and chocolates, on our knees with puppy-dog eyes asking, "more, prettyprettypretty please".

We hope that our feigned indifference will help tip the scales ever-so little back to our side. We hope it will make you want US more. I know it may not make much sense to you BUT it is the truth. We want sex with you and then we want to make love and then we want to bang and then we want to have sex again.

Solution: Don't EVER use sex as a bargaining chip or part of any negotiation. It blatantly reveals you know you have the power and we will run in fear. "Um, Sir, I think she has become self-aware - CODE RED CODE RED!" Never withhold sex in hopes of getting something done or in return. Make love to your men when you want to and sometimes when you really don't want to. We will be better men for you as a result.

Also, always be sure you make it clear to us you like having sex too. Never make is sound like a chore or a sacrifice (even if it is a mercyfuck on your part). We already believe all women hate sex and only have it to extract something else from us - DO NOT reinforce this notion. Leave notes in his shirt pocket telling him you want to jump his bones when he gets home. Tell us about every fantasy that flies through your mind when you were at the grocery store.

As I said before, we love to eff women that love to eff us.

A man laid is a man happy.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

   Sunday, May 22, 2005

There will be none of THAT

"Jimmy, I'll take one more"
The bartender puts the freshly poured draft down in front of him. Jimmy is still in shock over what his favorite regular just told him.
"Did she really say that to you, David?"
"That's why I will never get married...", declares Jimmy as he starts to wash David's old glass.
"Funny thing is, Jimmy, I knew she was a bitch before I married her."
"But you married her anyway?"
"Couldn't wait to put the ring on her finger..."
"Jesus, that's fuckin' scary"

This is the fourth installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post.

WordWhiz asked: Why do men constantly fall for bitchy, high-maintenance women, and then complain about what a pain in the ass they are?

Men are very adept at mistaking one thing for another. For example, if you are polite or nice to a man he will conclude you want to sleep with him. We men assume if you are not rude to us you secretly want to ride us. Are you nice to the teenage bagboy who takes your groceries to the car? If so, I guarentee he has several scenerios involving you in his master rolodex and you've been a movie star a few times in his shower.

Women are very adept at mistaking one thing for another too ("I can tell he really cares"), but this column is about men, women are A*s department.

99% of the time, men prefer a relationship that requires a minimum amount of effort. We spend all day at the office trying to out maneuver the competition, power lunch with the client and get the right color and fonts on our business cards (bone, eggshell or off-white). After work we may stop by the bar for a beer with a buddy. There we work even harder trying to one-up his ass and prove:

a. we've slept with more women than him
b. these women were all prettier than any he's slept with
c. we slept with most of the women he slept with. Any we did not were passed up by choice (we have standards, you know)
d. our favorite football team will make the playoffs and his will fall apart around week eight.
e. we've had a threesome (usually in college or a foreign country - always undocumented)
f. his sister tried to sleep with us
g. the first thing his lost love did after she broke his heart was try and sleep with us (if he is not in communication with the ex we will tell him we slept with her. If we actually slept with her we will deny it....)

I could go on and on. Bottom line; beers with the buddy takes a considerable amount of effort. Most of our fathers gave the impression they were on autopilot for most of their marriages. We witnessed our mothers running around keeping the family together while our Pops only made sure the morning paper got read and our ass spanked if we sassed Mom.

We think our relationships with women should take as little effort as possible. Here comes the mistake....

We meet a bitchy, controlling, high-maintenance (BCHMs) women and mistake her for a smart and independent gal who will run the relationship for us. We think, "Perfect! I only need to show up now, she will run it from there..." We think we can put 50% into the relationship because, obviously, she will be putting in 150%.

What we don't realize is she is slowly grinding down any pride and self-esteem we have. It is a slow process... one by one we choose to surrender on issues to avoid "discussing" them. "Honey, I think we should rent Dirty Dancing and You've Got Mail tonight"... "Sure, babe, whatever you want".

We learn quickly that the battle that comes from less than full compliance is much worse than complying. Quickly we become the drones that the BCHMs love so much. "Whatever" is the most common word in our vocabulary (unless we change it up with a "Sure" to be nutty). The grind is so subtle that we don't even realize its happening. We think we are in the perfect relationship... no effort. She makes all of the decisions, she decides on the restaurants, coordinates the social calendar and makes us play-dates with her friends' men. We only need to show up - our favorite thing!

After it is too late we see we are, in fact, trapped. We feel the chafing of the collar and leash too late. You would think at that exact moment we would stand up and run... but the grind destroyed our will a long time before that... we got what we asked for (no effort). We hate ourselves as much as we hate the situation but all less than we hate her. Our ONLY outlet is to bitch about the bitch to any poor soul that will listen.

Why don't we change our situation and get out of the relationship? Come on, that would take effort and we don't mix effort with relationships. It would also entail us admitting we were wrong and there will be none of THAT.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

   Friday, May 20, 2005

The Socks Betray Him

She was not sure if he was home yet. Closing the front door, she looked around the livingroom and kitchen. No sign of her beloved.

"He's been here", she thought approaching the stairs. The sock ball on the fourth step began the trail. The eighth step hosted his tie. The brand new Oxford she bought him for his birthday graced the landing. She opened the door to witness the carnage.

Pants, boxers and wife-beater cover the floor and confirms his presence long before she notices him curled up in the bed lost in a nap.

This is the third installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post.

WordWhiz asked: Why do men insist on dropping their dirty clothes wherever they take them off?

As with most things pertaining to men, the explanation is shockingly simple yet universal.We are able to juggle many things at once. We juggle tasks at work, friends at the pub, games on both ESPN and ESPN2 (without missing a play). Some men even juggle women. This esoteric circus skill makes it appear we can also focus on several items at once. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

As we juggle we flip our attention and focus as each item falls into our hand. We then switch focus before the next item lands. Catch, focus, throw, catch, focus, throw, etc. Notice at no point are we focused on two things at once.

How do men juggle women without a single victim having any idea they are not the only one in the game? There are men maintaining seperate families with their own unique homes, sets of rugrats and circles of friends. When the man is with wife Alpha, she has his complete attention, his complete focus. Not only does she know not of wife Beta, wife Beta is not his mind either. He cannot betray his betrayal because even he, at that moment, is monogamous. She is the only woman in his life.

Of course, once he kisses her goodnight and hops into the car, wife Alpha is wiped from his mind and all focus turns to wife Beta. By the time he gets to her, she is the only one in his life. Wife Alpha is no more real than Britney's hymen. The dirty clothes are a side effect of this singular focus.

When your man comes home from work the first thing he wants to do is get out of his uniform. Work consumes us and we need to shed the trappings of our vocation as soon as possible. When we get upstairs and start removing our monkey suits we are not thinking about where the laundry bin is. We are thinking about the TPS reports and if we remembered to include the cover sheet. FOCUS CHANGE: now we are thinking about what we want for dinner. FOCUS CHANGE: now we are thinking about the spread on the Eagles game. FOCUS CHANGE: a random shot of the barista who made ourcoffee this morning....naked.

If you are having any trouble comprehending this... watch the TV when we have the remote control - it is the personification of how our brain works (flip flip flip).

Of course, we crank through every thought while we thoughtlessly shed our threads. Gravity controls where they end up.

Solutions: There are only two possible choices for the women in our lives - Acceptance or Training.

Acceptance is for you women out there who realize their men are not perfect AND don't have the psychotic notion that they can make them so. If you choose Acceptance then when you get upstairs take a few moments to pick up the garments and toss them in the laundry basket. Laugh at yourself and thank God you can think about more than one thing at a time. Once the duds are in their proper place, find your man and give him a kiss on the cheek. Mention NOT your great act of kindness.

Training is the other option. This is for you ladies that cannot accept the first option. Choosing Training means you understand you can only train a man to do four new things - period (ever, I mean it). Be careful what four things you choose.

How important is this clothes issue? More important than him peeing in the shower, calling when he will be home late, toothbrush in the holder, farting in bed, foreplay? Get the idea?

Let's assume you burn up one of your four slots on the dirty clothes matter. There is only one way to train your man. Punishment/bitching/naggins does not work. You will only train him with praise and reward. When we come home follow us upstairs. Guide our hand, with the slacks, to the basket. Once we drop the pants in, reward us.

The greater the reward, the sooner we are trained. Never forget you always have the most powerful reward at your disposal. If you ever want anything to happen more than once you only need to give us head the first time we do it. You can bet we will do it again and again from that moment forward.

Yes, we are that simple.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

Coffee with 2 sugars and 1 compliment

If Starbucks sells liquid cocaine then Dunkin Donuts sells crack. It is cheaper and better. Starbucks is the Abercrombie to Dunkin Donuts' Carhart. I get an extra large with cream and sugar at least 3 to 4 times a week to kick start my day. Carla is my dealer.

I would guess Carla is in her mid to late 40s. She is there every morning and has an uncanny ability to remember how people take their coffee. While her co-workers are serving java one customer at a time, Carla is taking them down three at a time. Typically she has your coffee made before you get in the place - she saw you pull into the parking lot.

I am usually there between 5 and 5:30am when it is slow. I've had more than a few short but pleasant chats with Miss Carla. She is a single mother of 3 and works her ass off. I can only hope her children appreciate every dime she earns slinging the tar candy.

ANYWAY, this morning I got in late (about 9am) because of the poker game running until 2am last night. DD's was packed but, as expected, by the time I got to the front of the line, Carla had my coffee ready and waiting. Carla sent me off with my fix and one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

"Here you go, hon" (she calls everyone Hon)
"You are the best, Carla"
"You know what?"
"I hope all my kids turn out as well as you did."

What a thing to say.

The Friday edition of "Why do Men...?" is forthcoming. Stay tuned!

   Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Did you?

"Oh God... I'm close... are you?"
"Shhhhhhh", she replies
"Jesus... God... Baby, are you close?"
"AAAAARRRRGGGGG", his arms collapse and he falls to her chest. "Did you?"
"That's just great!"

Despite the orgasm, despite the great love making, he hops off and storms into the bathroom.

This is the second installment in the "Why do Men...?"
series inspired from comments on this post.

Miss Tasha asked: Why do men get all upset when the girl doesn't get off before the guy?

Your question reveals a great difference between men and women. Men are goal oriented, women are process oriented. This truth explains many of the misunderstandings between men and women.

Men take action with an objective in mind. We see what we want and then act to get it. The process to obtain is only the ways to the means. Sex for most men is the method to orgasm. We screw to get off and think you do too. Sounds crude but its not. It does not mean we don't have warm-fuzzy feelings during sex. It does not mean we don't enjoy the sex before the grand finale. Men just don't see the point in lighting the fireworks if they are not going to blow up.

Women, on the other hand, are less goal obsessed and have the ability to enjoy the process for the process' sake. Women tell women their problems for the sake of telling them. Men tell men their problems to work out a solution. Women tell men their problems so the woman can be frustrated by the man and storm off because he just doesn't listen. Men don't tell women their problems unless the woman is the problem. Even then, they probably won't say anything.

So if men are so goal obsessed, why do they get pissed if they finish first? The answer to this is both psychological and biological. If we finish first the buzzer rings and the game is over and the carriage turns back into a pumpkin. Our equipment is rendered useless once we make the goal, drop the three pointer and run it in for the touchdown. If we finish first we can't go into overtime unless we make your left leg Christmas, your right leg Thanksgiving and visit you between the holidays. We are out of bullets and it can take some men a few episodes of Friends to reload.

At face value it appears the man's desire to get your ship to sail first is proof your man is selfless in bed. It is not. Ironically, we are not thinking about your desires being fulfilled when we ask the "Did you?" question. We are looking for validation of our performance.

You getting to the top of the cliff and jumping off is us getting a 10 from the butch Russian judge in the Sex Olympics. We know us getting off is no major accomplishment. Hell, many men fire their cannons if some random female-ish hip brushes up against them in the subway. We are fully aware getting you to Olympus is as simple and straight-forward as long division of fractions without a calculator.

If we can get you off then we are great lovers. We love being great lovers. Its a goal we all have and you know how goal obsessed we are.

Solution: Very simple.... lie and say "yes". Honestly, we can't tell if you did or did not. That's why we ask so don't be afraid of getting caught in your little lie. We want to be lied to. We want to be the best lover you've ever had. If we are not, lie and say we are. No harm, no foul. If you liked the sex and want more sooner than later... you must lie. Men like to eff women they think love to eff them.

Our sexual ego is very fragile. We are the Waterford Crystal Vase, you are the sledgehammer. Be very, very careful.

"Did you?"
"God, baby, I sure did. That was AMAZING!"

...and all was right in the world as they faded to sleep.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered
in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

I ask you to do ONE effing thing

Before closing the door she yells back into the house, "I'm heading out, hon, don't forget to turn on the dishwasher for me."

"Will do, sweetie. Have fun at work!"

The odds that he will turn on the dishwasher in the next eight hours are roughly 3 to 1 (for my gambling-impaired readers, that's bad).

This is the first installment in the "Why do Men...?" series inspired from comments on this post.

Paige asked: WHY DO MEN...never do the housework we ask you todo when we are gone? I leave my husband just one thing to do whenI leave the house (we work different shifts), and when I get home,nothing has been done.

Many men will not do the one thing you asked them to do while you're gone. These men can be broken into two categories; Mr. FOB and Mr. DOH. I am not sure, Paige, which one your husband is.

Case #1: Mr. F*-Off Bitch (FOM)

Mr. FOB's inaction is a passive-aggressive statement to you that he is the head of the household and will NOT be told what to do. It is his world and he lets you live in it. Your simple request is seen as the first bullet fired in your hostile takeover.

All men have an Alpha-Male Instinct (AMI) to some degree. The AMI is programmed in us. Most men have it under control and only use it to fight evil, rescue the girl and save the world. FOBs, on the other hand, are controlled by their AMI. They must assert their status as the largest rooster (biggest cock) in all of their relationships and social encounters. FOBs are the guys that always end up in a brawl when they go out drinking.

FOBs are the ones that cut in front of you in line with a "what'cha gonna do about it" look. FOBs hit children, slap women and kick dogs. Unreleased studies show that FOBs tend to have below average sized peters as well.

Some FOBs are born, others are created (nature vs. nurture). It is not clear why some men are born with the need to assert dominance in all of their relationships. They tend to seek out lackey friends and women with
low self esteem. This makes their lives easier.

Normal men, with their AMI well in check, are sometimes transformed into FOBs after prolonged exposure to Naggers. Some women (Naggers) ask you to do something so you can not get it done (or done right). This gives Naggers one more thing to harp you about later. Naggers are only happy when they are belittling the men they love.

Men who love Naggers often become FOBs in a vain attempt at fighting back. I hope, Paige, you husband is not a FOB. I hope he a Mr. DOH.

Case #2: Mr. DOH!

Mr. DOH just plain forgets. Next time you come home after asking him to clean the bathroom be very loud as you unlock the door. As your keys scrape the deadbolt, listen carefully, you can often hear the trademark "DOH" as he remembers your request.

Minutes after you leave, DOHs find something shiny and your task fades into The Void. DOHs are unable to stay focused on anything (other than NFL, NASCAR and Porn) for extended periods of time. Their flaky attention span jumps from one thing to the next. The lowest priority item is usually the first thing they tackle. If the disposal is clogged and seconds from spewing water and bile all over the kitchen, they are in the garage cleaning the golf clubs they never use.

When DOHs make their To-Do list they always have the most important item at the top (usually your request). After making the list and ranking the tasks by priority, they proceed to start at the bottom and work their way up. This appears to be some bizarre "save the best for last" method not fully understood
within the scientific community.

Solutions: If you not a Nagger (be honest with yourself) and decide your man is a FOB you have two options. You can accept his fragile ego and a life of submission or you can get the eff out FAST. FOBs are not to be messed with. Hasn't hit you yet? He will. Does he always say he is sorry when he acts out? He's not. Do you think you can change him and bring the good out? You can't.

If your man is a DOH there are several solutions. Invest in sharpies and post-its. Identify the things in the house that really don't need to get done or anything in the home he likes to do alone (such as paint his scaled replica of Tony Stewart's Daytona car or watch any DVD with "ANAL" in the title).

Once you've pinpointed the likely distractions, strategically place sweet yellow sticky reminders of your request. Writing your task on his hand or backwards on his forehead has also proven effective in independent studies. Consider attaching rewards to your request. If you can't think of something he wants, watch the DVD mentioned above. Praise him if he remembers and be kind if he forgets. DOHs can become FOBs if you are not careful.

Your DOH is still a good man and only needs your love and guidance. Your FOB is a piece of shit.

If you would like your "Why do Men...?" question answered in a future post be sure to leave your question as a comment HERE.

   Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Why Do Men....

Your lovable Uncle Hofzinser is opening the floor to you, his loyal readers.

All the secrets shall be revealed and nothing is shall be hidden. Smoke cleared, mirrors broken, wizard pushed out from behind the curtain. I will explain it all.

In the comment section of this post please ask me a question. It MUST start with:

"Why do Men..."

I will answer each question as a post here, in your favorite place.... and your favorite BLOG.

This is a rare opportunity for you ladies to get the real skinny. Think before you ask!
This is a rare opportunity for you gentlemen to understand yourselves better. Think before you ask!

I am MAN and I am KNOWING. Comment away and you shall KNOW as well.

(if you have not figured it out yet, I cannot come up with something to blog about today and I am desperate for some ideas. HELP!)

   Friday, May 13, 2005

Cracked the 450 mark

It is a city of excess. Exorbitance is part of what I cherish about Vegas. You can get what you want, when you want and it will likely be the best you've had. Of course, if you order the $49 two-"strippers"-straight-to-your-room special expect to get what you procure - FREAK.

Every casino has a buffet. Each one is award winning.

Sidenote: You learn quickly that everything in Vegas has won an award ("The No
Stress, I Got Another One Review" - Voted Best Afternoon Topless Leper Variety
Show by the readers of One Armed Bandit Weekly).

I don't buffet.

I never get my money's worth. I am not a big eater so the All You Can Keep Down buffet is, for me, not fiscally sound.

My implicitly small appetite is even dinkier at a buffet because...

1. When I go out to eat I want to be served. I can get my ass out of the chair to peruse the fridge and pantry for grub at home and put the $19.99 towards plane tickets to NYC. If more and more buffets open where will all the actors find work?

2. Two words.... Warm Salad.

3. I prefer food that has not been picked through. The food left in the hot pan once you make it there has the same quality as the DVDs in the "Movies Under $10" bin at Walmart. I don't need a copy of Barb Wire for the house and I will never eat the chicken breast that was behind.

4. Food is my bitch. Dinner is made because I came and I ordered. My dinner does not exist until I command it so.

In the beginning Hofzinser felt hunger. And Hof said, "Let their be Dinner. Let the plate populate with fish, flesh, foul and greens, and let the chef combine it with might and panache". And there was dinner and Hof saw that it was good.

Food is made because I came. I do not come because the food is already made.

5. Large spoons for slopping food from metal bins floating in boiling water are regulated to cafeterias and prison mess halls. I left primary school long ago and The Fuzz is not smart to my little black market Koosh Ball knock-offs. Until I forget to read or you report me, large spoons are reserved for spanking.

The main reason I cannot eat at a buffet?

Nothing ruins my appetite like seeing Bubba, who just cracked the 450lbs mark, waddling back from the food runway with a plate in each hand and one balanced on his gut sporting egg rolls, alfredo sauce, green beens, tacos and various other chum.

Let us take a moment to review The Seven:

1. Pride: You rock and everyone else (The Others) do not. It is pride that ensures you excel at everything you try so The Others are reassured and secure in their runner-up status.

2. Greed: Because of great deeds born of your pride you are to aquire what you deserve. You are the best so you deserve everything, all of it, and that one too.

3. Envy: This is the one thing you can let The Others have. Without it, they have nothing. Your pride got you everything else.

4. Wrath: There are times when The Others get the silly conception they should have something. To have something they will need to take it from you - you have everything. Wrath is yours to give to them. It, like everything you do, reassures The Others and makes them secure in the saftey of their mediocrity.

5. Lust: You must have lust. Without it, you would never lower yourself to mix with The Others. Without it, you would never let The Others mistake your desire to BAG them with you being friendly.

6. Sloth: Without some degree of sloth you would always act on your lust. This would become excessive time spent with The Others and not enough time doing greatness, aquiring everything, dishing out wrath for their envy and being proud of it.

7. Gluttony is just fucking gross.

   Thursday, May 12, 2005

Middle Chapters

I taught my last seminar of the conference today.

The conference is over, the booths are packed up and the woman who I cannot stop thinking about has never been farther away.

Little Miss A* is sick. I am here in Vegas and she is home in Hoboken. I will go to the electronics store and buy some crazy wires, boards and components. Tonight I will invent the first fax machine that sends and receives soup.

Irk, she doesn't have a G.D. fax number....

Being apart from her now is supposed to be harder. Spending a weekend with her in my arms was suppose to be the tease that made me hurt more. I expected this past weekend to spoil us and make being apart again unbearable.

Don't get me wrong, I miss her. I wish she was here now. I closed my eyes for the 2+ hours that we talked tonight and imagined she was laying next to me while we chatted.

Crazy truth of it all - I don't miss her more now than before the weekend. Somehow I feel peaceful about the miles between us. Somehow this weekend gave me the greatest gift....

I believe.

I have faith.

Our being apart is now only a small technicality, not the major feature of our relationship.

We will be together.

How? I have no idea...

I don't know the details, I only know the big picture. I've only read the first chapter of our book but this weekend I peeked to the middle chapters and glanced at a few paragraphs.

I cannot explain why, but I know, deep down inside, what is coming in the chapters in our book. The chapters not yet read. The chapters not yet written.

No mother-effing shit, this is a great feeling.

(I have some other posts in drafts that I cannot get right. Funny crazy non-A* things about Vegas. I will get them up when they are ready)

...gotta go take care of a problem. There are too many stragers at poker tables in this town suffering from too many chips in front of them.

   Wednesday, May 11, 2005

every effort

Miss A* left yesterday morning. I am still here until Friday night. I have to scoot and teach a seminar but will make every effort to post tonight.

   Sunday, May 08, 2005

a pre-dinner princess

Sent A* off to the Spa for a massage, facial, pedi/mani (as she calls it - she so trendy). I played poker while she enjoyed a pre-dinner princess treatment. Lost $80 but I am still very happy with my play. I should end the week in the black with much poker to still be played this week.

She is napping now... I think her muscles are on vacation now after the massage. As you can see from the last few posts (here and on her Blog), we are having a story-book time. I must of saved a family of kittens in a previous life (Moocow should have a field day with that set-up).

She leaves Tuesday morning (we are not thinking about that). I have to teach seminars on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday... LORDY, I am not looking forward to that. I am far to use to her being around.

I did get a ticket to NYC for the weekend of my B-day in June. We will be staying at the Rihga Royal for the weekend (right off of Times Square). Knowing we will be together again in a few weeks almost makes things OK (LIES!)

Miss A* took this outside Wynn. As pretty as the picture is, it does not capture the beauty of the falls in front of the casino.

flying colors

Good morning, friends. A* and had such a nice day/night yesterday. I've been to this town at least 20 times. Seeing this place with A* is like seeing it for the first time. We explored Wynn, Caesar's, Paris (our home away from homes), Bally's and The Venetian.

She passed the Sushi (for lunch) test with flying colors... we ate noodles for dinner. Today is looking like a pool day. Tonight is our Big Date at Delmonico's which is my favorite restaurant in the world. I cannot wait for her to try one of my favorite wines.

Some pretty lady got a new camera and some pretty lady took this fab pic on the bridge from Bally's to Bellagio.

hofzinser "the lucky Bastard" signing off... for now.

   Saturday, May 07, 2005

Unfounded and Exceeded

All of you placing your money on the kiss... be sure to call your bookies so you can collect.

She's taking a nap right now. The Suite is amazing (it has more bathrooms than her apartment... teehee). We got sushi at Ichiban under Bally's and came back up here so she could rest.

All of my fears about our feelings not translating: unfounded
All of my concerns about feeling strange at first: unfounded
My hope that we would immediately feel as lost as we do when we talk on the phone: exceeded.

I would now like to extend a personal thank you to all the dumb-asses that let her slip through your fingers. Without your inability to see her and appreciate her, she might not be taking a nap in the bed next to my desk right now... I am one lucky bastard.

Good Morning

5:17am and I am off to the airport.

Wish us luck... everyone (even MooCow) has been a great support.

   Friday, May 06, 2005

you look like

Last night I played poker in a friend's league down here in Ft Lauderdale. It was a tourney and I placed 1st! Won about $800 (just in time for Vegas, baby!).

One of the guys who plays in the league runs a software company that puts out computer games for kids. He has the Sponge Bob license and the rights to games from the Scooby-Doo movies. We played in his office and I happened to be standing next to a Scooby-Doo 2 poster before the game started.

"Holy SHIT you look like Freddy Prinze, Jr."

The guy freaked out. I've heard this from other people as well. Others I get include Tom Cruise (love it!) and Ethan Hawke (love this one too).

I am not real sure what I think of FPjr.

Should I be offended?

is it hofzinser or Freddy? You get to guess!

   Thursday, May 05, 2005

I've saved you a seat

I bought a bus.

Not a VW hippie bus and not a nice new bus with the automatic STOP sign and wire front bumper flippy thing. No, I bought a big-ass bus with yellow paint that has turned orange from rust and oxidation.

Most of the seats are either missing or ripped to shreds exposing the useless foam. None of the windows open and the emergency exits in the back and on the roof are welded shut. The breakaway escape windows on the sides have been replaced with wire mesh and razor wire.

All of the windows are covered in black tarp sheets with blacker duct tape. The inside smells like an abandoned Lunchable.

I am going to tour the country and pick up all of you out there that have hijacked my loves and vices and made them trendy. Consider this your one, and only, warning.

"I love Dave Mathews! Crash is such a great song."
I was a Dave Mathews fan when he was still an obscure opening act for Phish. If you think listening to Crash on your Powder Puff Girls comforter while you flip to the back of Teen Beat to tackle the word search makes you a DMB fan - GET ON THE BUS.

"I love wine. I will have a glass of the pink stuff."
The only thing worse than someone that considers White Zin wine are the pussers that take wine too seriously. Wine is wonderful and simple. The more it costs, the better it is. Wine always tastes better with food. Find a cab, shiraz or a throat-coating chard that makes you hard or wet (as the case may be) and share it with someone you love. Sip it, let it sit in your mouth a moment before you swollow it and love it. Never say it is Earthy, Buttery or has hints of anything. Take a sip, swirl, swallow and say, "Fuck, that's nice". A wine should make you close your eyes when you drink it. If you put ice in your wine - GET ON THE BUS.

"I love sushi! California Rolls are super yummy."
Rolls are the Vanilla Ice of sushi. Never had Uni? Do you say "Ewwww" when you see a plate of sashimi delicatly chosen and presented by a true artist? If you spend less time eating and more time pointing and asking, "What is THAT?" with a curled nose - GET ON THE BUS.

"I love Martinis! I'll have a Jolly Rancher Sour Appletini please."
A glass does not a martini make. Do you go to TGI McApplebeeChilis and ask for the drink menu and order based on the tint of the glass and which fruit is floating on top? A martini is gin and as little dry vermouth as possible (I can barely tolerate you vodka martini drinkers so behave). The first martini should taste like juniper flavored gasoline and burn all the way down. The second martini then tastes like sex with an olive garnish. The third will taste like water, as will the fourth, and the fifth... etc. Martinis do not have their picture taken for a menu. If you have to put words before or after "martini" when you order - GET ON THE BUS.

"I will take two fingers of the 10 year Glenmorangie neat"
When I am too tired, friend, you get to drive the bus.

Love ya.... mean it.

   Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Somehow I misplaced the key

If you missed this post you may want to read it first.

What you are about to read will show you not only am I everything describe in that post... I am also, likely, a mental patient.

For most of my life I've kept a secret special room in my mind. It is a simple room with a series of shelves that occupy one wall. Everytime I see something and think, "My wife will be like that" or "My relationship with my wife will be like that" or even "When she is in my life, I will be capable of that" I unlock the room and put that element in a small jar and put it on a shelf.

Over the years I've collected an impressive amount of jars. Each contains a trait that I believe my future partner and I will have. These elements have come from many, many sources. Let me offer a quick two-cent tour because it would take a lifetime to show you everything and, frankly, only one person will ever get the full tour.

This shelf is dedicated to things I've seen first hand around me....

The adoration my father had (and still has) for my mother who died almost a decade ago. She was his everything. She taught him to love. Before her, my father only knew abuse, mental sickness and apathy. She was his yang and balanced him, gave him purpose.

The adoration my mother had for my father. He was her lover, her best friend, her knight, her bruised little boy. He was her hero, the smartest person in the world, the sexiest man alive, the kindest soul on earth and the one person that she could always count on.

The adoration my parents have for their childred. We are the proof of their love, the manifistation of their bond. We are each parts of them combined like a greatest hits album. We all hold their personalities and passions. We are the most important thing in their reality second only to the importance they are to each other.

There are many, many other jars but come over here to another shelf. It has things that I've stolen from fiction. Movies, stories, books, music and poetry.

The look in Ingrid Bergman's eyes when she realized she loved Humphry Bogart enough to leave everything and stay in Casablanca.

The look in Bogart's eyes when he realized he loved her enough to make her get on the plane.

The love-laced witty passionate exchanges of Bacall/Bogart (in To Have and Have Not), Tracey/Hepburn (in Adam's Rib), Ford/Allen (in Raiders of the Lost Ark), Ford/Fisher (in Empire Strikes Back), Crystal/Ryan (in When Harry Met Sally). I love how each of them kept the other in check while loving them more than themselves.

The passion of Cyrano De Bergerac for Roxane. He loved her imperfection as much as her perfection and at the end of the book would rather die an imaginary hero than be suffer a moment more without her love.

The words of Lennon and McCartney. In the decades they wrote songs (both together and apart) they captured every aspect of love. The best and hard parts that are love. "Something in the way she knows, And all I have to do is think of her, Something in the things she shows me."

That should give you an idea of what is in this room. There are many more jars and many more shelves.

Do you have an idea how crazy it is that this room even exits? Do you think that it is the answer to the question, "Why are you still single?" Being an optimist is one thing, being a romantic is one thing, being a completely unrealistic visionary who creates a relationship with someone he has not (and may never) meet is something completely different.

Yet the room exists and I add more jars to the shelves on a regular basis.

I am frantic. Somehow I misplaced the key. Somehow someone found it and unlocked the door without me realizing it.

I turn around and find her walking into the room. I run and stop outside the door and listen to her as she looks around.

Do you know what I think I just heard her say?

"Wow, I knew I left this stuff somewhere..."

Five Things (or does this look infected?)

I am a BlogNoob and have received my first Blog Tag. A* over at 9th Circle hit me with this:

Name five things that people with whom you generally associate think are really annoying, but that you like.

If it was anyone but her I would not do this. Frankly, this Tag Shite (the "e" is for my UK reader STEVE) seems like nothing but a virtual case of chain-letter herpes. You get it, you suffer then pass it on to the ones you love and admire.

I am out of virtual Pennicilin so here we go:

1. Reaonably Sized Real Breasts

Now don't be mistaken, hofzinser is all about the boobies. I like to look at them, touch them, admire them, stare at them and, well, give me breasts. Finding my father's Playboy stash at age 10 insured I would forever be a fan of the orbs. Unlike my friends, not a fan of fake breasts. They seem so, um, fake. I've dated a few women with them and they look good under a shirt but the illusion crashes and burns as soon as they are exposed and the host lays down on her back. TELL YOUR BREASTS TO STOP STARING AT MY EYES. No anatomy should defy gravity.

Give me natural breasts (that is a request so if you have some, let me know). I love anything near or a bit more than a handfull. Any natural breasts under a D are ideal. Hell, for some body types, size A are perfect. When I touch them they should feel like breasts not jello-filled ziplocks.

2. Neil Diamond

I pride myself and receive accolades for my diverse and keen taste in music. My secret love will always be the maligned Neil. I love his songs, his voice and his persona. Favorite song: Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon. Embrace the Diamond, you will feel better about yourself. Bring crackers because he is the cheese.

3. Picking Whiskers

This is a nasty habit I picked up somewhere after my first shave. I believe when you take the time to shave with blades that cost more than a car payment you should have a clean face when you are done. No whisker should be left standing.

I will run my hand over my face while sitting at my computer and find a rebel whisker. He stands in defiance of the time and money spent shaving. I then obsessivly use my fingers to tweeze and pluck the bastard. It can take some time to yank the nonconformist and it drives anyone near me crazy. My face is a facist state, not a damned democracy. Resistance is futile!

The sickest part is the sense of acomplishment I feel when I finally extricate the hair from my face. I actually feel like I've done a great deed. Finding these stray whiskers is now a nervous habit of mine. I don't even realize that I am doing it until someone slaps my hand and yells, "Leave it THE FUCK alone!"

I then sneak away to a dark closet and lock the door and go back to my bizarre ritual.

4. Smoking

It is gross. It makes me smell bad, decreases my taste buds, makes my teeth not-so-white and, rumour has it, may be bad for my health. Despite all of these great reasons to toss the habit there will always be great cigarettes. Nothing matches a smoke after a good meal or great sex. A cigarette after a mediocre meal and decent sex is also wonderful.

I sort out the day to come with a cup of coffee and my morning cigarette. I solve all the problems of the world over a glass of scotch and a cigarette with friends.

Who's Smoking?

5. Over Analyzing

I cannot seem to take things as is. I must look at it from every angle, use the slightest clue as a pathway to understanding it all. I will put things in context, relate them to other things, poke it, prod it, ask it about its mother and its relationship with its father. I will take a step back and look at it from the side then lift its skirt and examine its naughty bits.

After all of the analysis is done, I will share my conclusions and found truths with anyone whether they asked for the results or not.

Now I am supposed to TAG someone else. I am putting a virtual condom on and stopping the insanity.

NOBODY'S "it", friends don't let friends BlogTag.

   Tuesday, May 03, 2005

The Youngest is all growns-ups

In my family it is not the holiday season unless, at some point, you are on the floor crying after laughing so hard beer shot through your nose. Its our version of the family heirloom being hung on the tree to mark the beginning of the season.

Three years ago my father remarried. All four of us kids welcomed his new wife into the family. Mother passed away six years before and we loved seeing Dad in love again. Drinking and playing cards (for money) is what my family does for the holidays. My parents had four kids, partially, so there would always be enough people to play cards with. Having four of us meant we could easily pair up as partners for a game of pitch or skat.

My father's new wife is a pleasant woman. She is not the sharpest knife in the drawer and lacks the signature vermouth-dry humor that was programmed into our genes. Being a tad slow on the take, she is the last to get the joke (if she gets it at all). Being naive she often opens the door for our merciless brand of humor without realizing we are always on the rocks above the mesa ready to pounce.

It was Christmas eve and my father, his new wife, and his four kids (ages 19 to 30 at the time) were at the dining room table drinking and playing cards. Fierce competition trimmed with well-timed jokes and digs made it a familiar Christmas Eve. Somehow the subject of funneling and chugging beer came up (as it does for any normal family the day before Christ was born). The second oldest (Mr. Craftsman) boasted of his mad skilllz in chugging arena. Sister immediately interupted her older brother and pointed to the youngest son, "I bet you can't beat him".

There is nothing more entertaining for Sister than seeing two or three of her brothers engage in a caveman pissing contest. She relishes being the only rational sibling free from the testosterone shackles. I was familiar with Craftsman consuming talent but had no idea if this great family trait had been passed to the youngest child. My money was on Craftsman (yes, we all placed our bet on either Youngest or Craftsman... call it our version of tithing.)

The challenge was now on the table and a new Christmas tradition was born. Immediately I went to the fridge and got out two cans of High Life and plopped one in front of both Youngest and Craftsman ("Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum").

I clarified the rules and started the countdown. On "Three" they both opened a can and slamed tin to their face. What I saw can only be described as a holiday miracle. Craftsman showed all that his ten semesters in a frat did not go to waste. Within a second or two he was half-way to the finish line.


Youngest punched and crushed the can to the table.

Are you kidding me?

Mid-gulp, without removing the can from his lips, Craftsman turned to his little brother. He froze... the kid not only beat him, he just experienced the beer-chugging equivalent of being lapped.

Dad, Sister and I were all shocked and proud. The Youngest is all growns-ups.

"Get two more, that was bullshit" was all Craftsman could say. As the beer bitch in our little Passion Play, I ran to the fridge.

Two new cans in the ready, I clarified the rules and began the countdown again. On "Three".

Craftsman wasted no time. Can opened, can to mouth, chug. Youngest did not move. Once Craftsman was well on his way, Youngest finally opened his beer.

Gulp, SLAM, done.

Despite the cocky delayed start, Youngest decimated his older brother.

Sullen, Craftsman did not bother calling for another rematch.

It is one thing to open the door for one of us, it is another thing to knock out the entire wall so we cannot resist.

The new wife finally spoke, "Wow, Youngest, how can you just open your throat like that?"

Only Youngest was not stunned by the unbelievable set-up.

Without missing a beat, he turned (with an unfazed straight face) and informed his new step-mother on the holiest of holy nights, "Well, Mom, at school I suck a lot of dick..."

"Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy, do you hear what I hear?"

...and to all a good night.

   Monday, May 02, 2005

Now she is in trouble

Cancelled the Match.com subscription I reactived awhile back. Never answered an email... too busy tumbling over A*(Miss Lookatme). What shall I do with the extra money I save? Suggestions?

   Sunday, May 01, 2005

Sometimes courage

Sometimes courage is made from hops and barley and comes in a pint glass. Sometimes courage is made from character and conviction and comes in an unexpected moment of bravery. Sometimes courage is just a big brother vaulting through a window in the nick of time.

I am the oldest of four. Loyal readers know of Sister but there are also two younger brothers; Mr. Craftsman and Mr. Youngest.

They live in Charlotte and this is one of many of their adventures.

Craftsman and Youngest arrived with their girlfriends to the crowded club and finally worked through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd to the bar. After several minutes they established a small island in the sea of people and toasted with overpriced domestic beers in hand.

Most people navigate through a crowded club like a waiter during the dinner rush. A polite "behind you" and a hand on the shoulder of the next human obstacle makes getting from A to B civil and painless. Apparently LittleMan was napping when this PSA aired. He made his way to the otherside of the club silently parting the crowd with his momentum. Keep in mind that CraftsMan stands with ample muscles on a solid 6ft frame. He always looks like he just finished working out.

LittleMan bowled past Craftsman with enough kinetic energy to turn my brother around and spill his beer. Youngest immediatly stepped in the path of LittleMan and served up a fresh "What the FUCK" with a side of shove. The source of LittleMan's disregard for everyone in his path became evident when his friends, the bouncers, appeared out of nowhere and callapsed on Youngest and began to "escort" him out.

Craftsman was finally able to get oriented as Youngestest pushed LittleMan. With the club muscle busy, Craftsman planted his fist into LittleMan's jaw. LittleMan's ass planted itslelf on the sticky floor. Craftsman herded the ladies away from the scuffle as LittleMan tried to get up without knowing the number of the bus that just hit him.

The bouncers tossed Youngest out onto the deck that wrapped around the club. Pissed, he brushed off his clothes (because that is what you do when you are tossed out of a bar), straightened his collar and walked to the deck railing. He pulled the phone out from his cargo shorts and dailed Craftsman with no awareness of the punch thrown just moments before. Five rings and he was greeted with Craftsman's voicemail message.

Inside, Craftsman was trying to get the tab paid and the girls out before word of his handywork made it up the vine and he got more than thrown out. Youngest tried the number again as LittleMan and three of his friends emerged from the front door and poured onto the deck. Only then did Youngest realize he was leaning in a corner and, with the deck being a good 10ft above the street, without a clear path of escape. His hand with the ringing phone fell to his side as he backed up even further into the corner in the face of the advancing threat.

This time Craftsman heard his phone and patted his pockets trying to find it....

"Come here, fucker..."

LittleMan knew he was punched and in the confusion assumed it was Youngest who delivered the blow. Armed with his wingman he quickly closed the distance between himself and Youngest. Shattering Youngest's personal space he began the traditional testosterone induced script as a prelude to a new four-on-one fisticuff.

Craftsman found the ringing phone and flipped it open only to hear the threats and Youngest trying a verbally escape from a physical situation. The words translated immediately in Craftsman's mind. Scanning the club for the closest exit he spotted Youngest surrounded through a window in the back of the club. Phone closed he cut the shortest path between him and the ass kicking about to unfold. Luckily for the club owner, the window was open to the deck.

"I didn't hit you man", said Youngest truthfully as his mind rushed with things to say to de-escalate the situation. Reciting a line, LittleMan yelped, "No bouncer's now, shithead, want a piece of me?"

Youngest was running out of words to slow down what was likley to be the wrong end of four sets of fists.

As he repeated himself, "I didn't hit you, man" as he caught a glimpse over LittleMan's shoulder of Craftsman vaulting out of the window Matrix-style onto the deck. The would-be attackers were none-the-wiser.

A fresh shot of courage vaulted out of a window.

Craftsman was almost on LittleMan and his little friends when, without blinking, Youngest went from "Dude, I don't want to fight you" to a dry:

"Fuck you - Let's go".

Taken back by the change in Youngest's tone and demeanor, the four punks never saw Craftsman as he pounced on them from behind. My two little brothers then proceded to sand the wood deck with them.

Courage comes in many forms and having an older brother fly through a window to your rescue never hurts either.

That's the end... go archiving you blogging FOOL!



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