Thursday, July 2, 2015

"you comedy asshole."

can you tell me the proper etiquette for a man to clip his fingernails?

because i don't know shit about keeping testicles clean or folding pocket squares, i emailed/texted the least stupid of my old sex partners and asked each of them, "what is the proper etiquette when it comes to a man clipping his fingernails?" the responses were as follows:

1 "what kind of gay shit is this, samantha irby?"
2 "DON'T EVER EMAIL ME BITCH YOU TOLD A BAR FULL OF PEOPLE THAT I HAVE HERPES THAT SHIT AINT FUNNY YOU COMEDY ASSHOLE."
3 "Who the hell is this from?"
4 "I get manicures every other Saturday. In general, though, a man should trim his nails at least once a week. Why do you need to know?"
5 "I file my shit twice a week. i'm sure youre like "that's moist." What R U doing later?"
6 "BITCH I'M SERIOUS YOU OWE ME AN APOLOGY. WE NEVER EVEN HAD SEX. THAT BOGUS ASS SHIT HURT MY FEELINGS. I DONT CARE ABOUT ETIQUETTE, SAM. YOU SHOULD'VE HAD SOME FUCKING ETIQUETTE WHEN YOU TALKED ABOUT MY DICK IN PUBLIC."

here's the takeaway from that little experiment: a the sexual interstate i'm driving down is littered with idiots and jagbags, and b I AM A COMEDY ASSHOLE. on the off chance what you really were looking for was a technical manual: were you raised by wolves?! i was parented by the joint efforts of a barely-functioning television and our local DARE police. and even i know how to take care of my gross-ass hands. just in case, tho: clip your nails in the shower, let them dry, then file the jagged edges down so you don't look like goddamned wolverine. welcome to puberty.

ps please never do this in public. motherfuckers who clip their nails within earshot of other humans should be dragged.
pps don't be a jackass to someone who writes comedy about dicks.

why won't my girlfriend let me go down on her? women are supposed to love that. is something wrong with her?

two reasons, homie: 1 we live in a country that hates women so goddamned much that you might actually hear a "stinky fish pussy" joke on the evening news. and that's, of course, right after your eyes have been assaulted by no fewer than 137 feminine hygiene and maintenance advertisements that, while purporting to be pro-lady and supportive of our reproductive health, actually do little more than to reinforce the idea that our vaginas are wrong. they look wrong, they smell wrong, and without every single one of these waxes and wipes and depilatories and creams, no man worth any salt at all is going to want to put his handsome and clean-shaven face near that smelly jungle. because keeping your vagina squeaky clean isn't about a dude's penis, IT'S ABOUT HIS FUCKING FACE. men will stick their dicks in anything: corpses, livestock, fleshlights, apple pies. but it's where this motherfucker is willing to put his mouth that presents the real challenge, as some ladies have allowed lazy, selfish assholes to use "icky hair" and "funny smell" to get out of spending any quality time with their heads buried in our sand.

and 2 YOU'RE PROBABLY DOING IT WRONG. i have met every cunnilingus expert and orgasm specialist in the goddamned city of chicago. maybe it's this new "men wearing skinny jeans" sensitive era in which we currently live, but apropos of nothing dudes always want to tell you on the first goddamned date how good they are at mouth-to-lips resuscitation. and i'm all about getting naked with a progressive and forward-thinking stallion, but i went out with a dude once who simulated oral sex at the motherfucking dinner table, and what part of the game is THAT? because sure, it's nice to know that you have a tongue in your head, sir, and your ability to lick the outside of a wine glass really knocked my goddamned socks off, but my labia majora looks more like a medium rare roast beef sandwich with no mustard on rye bread. so if you're going to effectively simulate, we're going to need to close this bar tab and holler at a deli.

have you ever watched a dude eat a goddamned sandwich? meat chomping lettuce shoveling mayonnaise slurping crumbs in his beard revolting mastication? THAT SHIT IS DISGUSTING. if you saw me attacking a banana or an ice cream cone like a wild goddamned animal, teeth gnashing and grating and sending little bits of slimy chewed banana spewing every which way, would you invite me to have a go at a blowjob? no, you would not. you would muzzle me and insist on a handjob. that's the real reason i would try to get menfolk to go on food dates, because i could watch how dude handled an oozing, drippy taco and decide whether or not he could take a bite of mine.

getting eaten out is kind of boring. what's the worst thing about getting your dick sucked, fellas? inconsistency and pace interruption? WE HAVE THE SAME PROBLEM. just think of our machinery as an inside-out penis. if i tell you exactly what to do, and i will because i am bossy, just keep doing it. right there, the same way i just told you. wait, why are you getting creative? right there, that same motherfucking spot, over and over at that same pace until i'm finished. don't take a break, don't improvise, if you JUST KEEP DOING THAT I'LL BE DONE IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES TOPS, I SWEAR TO GOD.

LOL IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH HER. um, yeah? her boyfriend is absolutely terrible.

how do i get out of spending thanksgiving with my girlfriend's family?

i'm sure there are some women reading this who just became instantly enraged upon reading this question, thinking about all of the times they've had to drag some kicking and screaming boyfriend to little joey's third birthday party or uncle jack's retirement celebration or gram and grampy's 700th anniversary dinner. women who have screamed, cried, yelled, begged, pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and otherwise worked themselves into a lather trying to get some asshole to drive six hours to aunt brenda's for turkey day, only to find that jerk sulking drunk on the couch with his jeans unzipped twenty minutes after dinner is served, texting some trashy girl who is less demanding.

here is the sweet shit about being a goddamned orphan: i really don't ever have to do anything i don't want to do, especially around the holidays. i killed my parents so i wouldn't have to deal with having to referee family arguments and pretending to have fun with people i sort of hate whom i happen to be related to IN THE SPIRIT OF THE HOLIDAY SEASON. my sisters and i were raised by the kind of people who didn't make construction paper hand turkeys or hang flint corn on the front door or LOVE US, OBVIOUSLY. we instead were subjected to my father's lengthy monologues about pilgrims and grave robbers and wampanoags; who wants to eat a dry-ass turkey leg after that?! i would just sit in my room and listen to lou rawls "merry christmas ho ho ho!" on cassette thanksgiving night, hoping the four-day weekend would hurry up and get over with so i could go back to school, a place where people actually cared about having fun and enjoying things. way to ruin my childhood, assholes.

anyway, i like to make my own frozen single-serving individual meal and stay home in my pajamas fading in and out of sleep while watching football on thanksgiving, not put on clothes with buttons and zippers and shoes i have to actually tie to sit in some stranger's living room eating food that will probably definitely land me in the emergency room. thanksgiving is a day to reflect on all the reasons i hate my life and all the things i would be thankful for if the universe would stop shitting down my goddamned throat. i like to spend thanksgiving musing over my failures and compiling a list of enemies and assholes that i'm going to try my best to totally fucking destroy in the oncoming year. what good health? what happy family?! i raise my glass to the many defeats that have befallen me and vow to rise from the ashes stronger and filled with more galvanizing hatred. I HATE EVERYTHING AND NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS TO ME, and the last thing i would like to do on the last thursday of november is sit in someone else's lovely home and marvel at all of the proof that if there even is a god he loves them and hates me.

and since i will never have the joy of subjecting any future partner to the withering scrutiny of my mean-ass, joy-killing, holiday-ruining parents, i am totally never going to let anyone do that shit to me. so, gentle sir, tell your girlfriend your parents are dead. and that being in the midst of a happy family celebration when you don't have one of your own is unbearable for you. she should eat it right up. people love the idea that their bickering siblings and lumpy brown gravy are a source of pain and jealousy for you. seriously, bitches are fueled by the knowledge that someone envies what we have. IT'S THE ONLY REASON I'M ON GODDAMNED INSTAGRAM. so shed a few tears as she's mixing grapes into the jell-o mold (vomit) then enjoy your quiet afternoon on your own couch. and if you cave and find yourself sticking to a plastic-covered couch, squashed between her brother who lives at home and her aunt who won't stop hitting on you, i'll be at home awaiting your text.

today at school, someone came up to me after social studies and asked me why i said mean things about her on facebook. then i found out that my best friend got into a fight online, and to fix things she hacked into my account and backed herself up. it got me into trouble with my friends, plus she lied to my face about it. should i forgive her or not?

facebook is a fucking life-ruiner. stupid assholes insistent upon tagging the most awful and wretchedly disgusting open-mouthed pictures of your flabby arms and sweaty skin beard; your nonstop stalking convincing you that that one dude you're obsessed with is banging all 37 girls that constantly comment on his statuses (EVEN THE DUMB ONES) and post pictures of their butt cleavage on his wall, forcing you to sit up all goddamned night trying to discern the nature of his online relationships from a stream of suggestive comments with zero fucking context or background; misinterpreted messages from your friends that read as bitchy or dismissive and you have no idea whether or not that jerk is mad at you for real, so just in case she is you respond with an equally terse, vague message for her to try to translate; spoiled attention whores littering your newsfeed with pictures of their labia all day long (or bombarding you with links to their stupid fucking blogs, i'm sorry); bitches you hated in high school flaunting their happy lives and handsome husbands and adorable children in your face every goddamned day while you post about tv shows and what the cat is doing: I'M SURPRISED WE HAVEN'T ALL COLLECTIVELY HEAVED OUR COMPUTERS OFF THE NEAREST CLIFF.

but then how would we know what restaurant you just checked into?!

i wish i never had to meet anyone in real life. I AM SO MUCH BETTER ON THE INTERNET. i'm so much smarter, so much funnier, and the cropped parts of my face and upper body are so much better looking in the thumbnails on my profile. it's amazing to have that level of control over how people you will never meet perceive you. on the internet no one has to know how much you don't have your shit together unless you want them to, and what kind of idiot would ever do that?! my real life is pretty stupid, but my internet life is fun and hilarious.

i love facebook. how else would i know so much about people without having to spend even a minute in their company?! i can decide, based on your religious and political beliefs and your taste in youtubes, whether or not you're the kind of person i could possibly tolerate in real life. i can determine, based on the kind of shit you post, whether or not you are an idiot. do you have awful friends? do you unironically post fake news articles that you actually believe are true? all these things are right there for me to click through and i never have to hear your voice or smell your breath or discover that you're a bad tipper. that's some magical shit right there.

but omg, i cannot even imagine what my life would have been like if facebook had been around when i was in school. it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. seriously, i got stress diarrhea just reading this question. i'm not kidding, I AM IN PHYSICAL PAIN imagining what a nightmare my life would have been if the jerks i grew up with could add facebook to the arsenal of tools with which they tormented me. good luck being the ugly kid in these modern times. to go from school, which is a microcosm of everything that fucking sucks about real life, home to get on facebook, which is an even smaller distillation of everything that fucking sucks about school, must be ridiculous. it's like bullying, concentrated. the thought of even having had a cell phone when i was in high school gives me the meat sweats, all that texting nasty rumors about people and spreading camera phone pictures all over school. just think about it: awkward health class conversations, your jibs on display during swim class, exposed underpants in the locker room?! all opportunities to take a grainy cell phone video or picture likely to make some kid drop right the fuck out.

i'm too old for internet bickering. and even when i was a kid i was pretty docile and harmless, the least likely person to instigate a fight. i just wanted to read books and stay out of everyone's way. don't believe me? FAT KID MARCHING BAND. pretty much sums up everything you need to know about my high school experience. next time you see me, be sure to pull my underwear out of my pants or knock all my science textbooks out of my hands. i'll tape my glasses for the occasion. anyway, my fertile imagination is coming up with all sorts of sordid reasons your girl got into a comment war with some mean girl on the jv cheerleading squad. did they show up at homecoming wearing the same dress? choose the same project for physics class? develop crushes on the same soccer forward?! it is destroying mr not to know.

you kids need to learn how to junk punch a person the minute she picks up your laptop. i'd set this bitch on fire for messing up my e-lationships. but you probably shouldn't go searching for your dad's blowtorch just because i would. I HAVE NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. but you on the other hand are still young, this too shall pass, blah blah trite platitudes blah. also they put kids in real jail now so you probably shouldn't risk it. i feel like after a certain age you shouldn't be doing a whole lot you have to apologize for, and that most times someone offers an apology it's not really for the intent of that action (because people usually mean the fucked-up, horrible shit they do to you). it's mostly to make themselves feel better and to try to convince you to keep them around so they can cut your fucking throat and shit down your neck again. but you guys haven't even learned sine and cosine yet, have you? maybe you can let it go, before your bitter and unlovable years set in. (read: as soon as you have to worry about shit like some dick you hate on the job eating your lunch in the breakroom.) so yeah, forgive her. and change your fucking password.