Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Misc. Humor (page 3 of 4)

Battle of the Races

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For the first portion of the 13th edition of “Survivor,” which premieres Sept. 14, the contestants competing for the $1-million prize while stranded on the Cook Islands in the South Pacific will be divided into four teams — blacks, Asians, Latinos and whites.

It was announced today that General Motors has ended its sponsorship of CBS’s hit series “Survivor.” Some are wondering if this has anything to do with Survivor’s decision this year to divide the contestants by race and ethnicity, rather than the usual cheap gimmicks of gender and age.

Honestly, do these divisions even matter to the show, considering how the producers always seem to “keep around” the young girls in the bikinis for as long as possible, while kicking the old, demographically-wrong broads off as fast as the next promo break?

GM says the new gimmick has nothing to do with their decision to leave the show. Others continue speaking out about the show’s lack of good taste. For instance, a group of New York City officials has criticized the new format, saying it promotes divisiveness. They have asked CBS to reconsider its plans.

“How could anybody be so desperate for ratings?” City Councilman John Liu asked last week.

Show creator Mark Burnett pooh-poohs the criticism.

“By putting people in tribes, they clearly have to get rid of people of their own ethnicity,” Burnett, who also created NBC hit “The Apprentice”, told a group of reporters on Tuesday, Variety reports. “So it’s not racial at all.”

The big question is — will this be a fascinating sociological study or does this mean that Survivor, after 12 seasons on the air, has finally “jumped the shark.”

But excitement for the show runs big on the Vegas strip, as the professional gambling community debates the odds of which ethnic group will win.

“I put my money on the Asians” said Murray “The Greek” Solipikis. “They are smart and wise, like Mr. Miyagi.”

The following are the current odds, according to Las Vegas Reality Show Oddsmaker (LVRSO). (as always, remember to gamble responsibly!

African-Americans

Pros

  • Good in athletics
  • Have “street smarts”
  • Can use “rapping” as a secret code between tribe members
  • Tribal Camp will have the best music
  • Can bring out “race card” if too many tribal members are eliminated

Cons

  • Men cannot swim
  • Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a “Survivor bandana”
  • Can’t understand why “crazy white folk” ENJOY camping outside
  • “Eat bugs — are you out of your motherf***ing mind?!”

THE ODDS 20-1

Asians

Pros

  • Others will be afraid that they might know “martial arts”
  • Math geeks will be good at solving “puzzle challenge”
  • Can make anything taste good by stir-frying it in a wok
  • Have actually eaten bugs as a delicacy
  • Japanese women thin enough to slide under obstacle courses
  • Asian cultural “group dynamics”

Cons

  • Too polite, let others go first
  • Mediocre at sports
  • Can build a microprocessor, but cannot set up a tent
  • Infighting between Japanese and Koreans
  • Sleepless nights as Japanese men rub against women while reading “Manga” pornographic comic books

THE ODDS 30-1

Latinos

Pros

  • Espanol has the best curses!
  • Women have nice big asses so fat deposits will help them survive longer
  • Men learned effective team management in Latin gangs such as 18th Street, MS13, and Pacatrece
  • When food gets low, have no problem sneaking into other camps as “illegal immigrant” tribesmembers
  • Women can distract men of other tribes by shaking “Shakira-style” during competitions

Cons

  • Have never actually watched this dumb show — Jeff who?
  • Churros not included in “food competition”
  • It is difficult to dance salsa in the dirt
  • No siestas allowed during the game
  • Can actually make MORE than a million dollars by selling vegetables on the freeway

THE ODDS 3-1

Caucasians

Pros

  • Stupid enough to enjoy camping and “proving” oneself by eating live bugs
  • The network wants them to win
  • Were the only competitors invited over to Jeff Probst’s home for dinner
  • Have actually watched all previous 12 seasons of Survivor because that is what “white people” do on Thursday night

Cons

  • Zero street smarts
  • Boring as hell
  • Women anorexic before the game even begins
  • They take the game WAY too seriously

THE ODDS 12-1

Which group are you rooting for?

(note:  thank you, Laurie, the phattest Southern belle knitting blogger in LA, for telling me that I was totally off-base with previously using the Crips and Bloods as Latino gangs. I am SO WHITE!)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Dude Thinks Like a Lady

The Negative Effect of my Vons Club Card on my Sex Life

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I lied to you on my last blog post — the one about that Forbes article, “Don’t Marry Career Women.”  I made it sound as if I’m a super-cool feminist guy, the type of evolved man who doesn’t mind one bit that Sophia “wears the pants in the family.” 

I lied.  I wanted you to like me.  I wanted you to respect me.  I wanted you to say, “Neilochka is so much more of a feminist than macho bloggers like PaulyD and Kapgar.  I’m only going to read his blog from now on.”

The truth is, yes — I do get insecure.  There is a lot to be insecure about with Sophia.  She makes more money than I do.  She is smarter than I am.  She has a better sense of humor than me.  She can easily beat me in Ms. Pac-Man.  And she looks better in her underwear than I do.

But these items are not what really bother me.  I’m cool with her inherent superiority.   They don’t make me feel any “less” of a man.  My Achilles heel, if we can call it that, revolves around something else entirely — the use of my Vons Club Card in the supermarket.

Let me give you some history:

As an innocent young boy in Queens, New York, I remember the supermarket as an unpleasant place, a world of chaos and anger.  The aisles were too small and customers were always smacking their shopping carts into each other — sometimes on purpose, as if we were in the middle of some sadistic urban demolition derby where people actually enjoyed seeing boxes of Cheerios flying onto the filthy supermarket floor.  Many New Yorkers did not have cars, so this is where all aggression was released.  They had “shopping cart rage.”  Back in the old days, no one ever said, “excuse me.”  If your cart was in the way, someone would rudely push it aside.  It was a Hobbesian world of shopper eat shopper.  No employee would ever help you.  Once, an old woman died on Aisle Seven of my local Waldbaum’s and the employees closed the store later, just leaving her there.  The underpaid checkout girls hated their jobs and never let you forget it.

When I moved to California, I was not impressed with the weather or the girls in bikinis.  I had already seen that in the movies.  What shocked me were the supermarkets. 

They were enormous.  They were clean.  Three shopping carts could fit side by side in each aisle.  Kids happily sat and played in their shopping carts while their mommies bought dinner.  Some of these carts were bigger than the playpen I used to have as a child. 

Customers were kind to each other.  They actually went to the “Ten and Under Checkout line” with the ACTUAL correct number of items!  They didn’t argue, like Mary Riccio’s mother used to do — that milk, eggs, yogurt, and ice cream was just one item — “dairy product.” 

Life was like a dream in a California supermarket.  Music by “Air Supply” was piped in on the loudspeakers.  Some supermarkets were so large, you could also buy pots, pans, concert tickets, and even Samsonite luggage right there!

And the employees were always so polite.  Where did they find these people?  They acted less as if they had a low-paying job and more like they just won the lottery.

“Hi there, sir, can help you find the best fresh vegetables?”

“Are you looking for something that I could help you with?”

“Have you see our sale on Bounty paper towels?”

“Do you need any help carrying out that 1/2 pound bag of raisins?”

Now I knew why all these illegal immigrants were moving to California.  For the supermarkets!  

California supermarkets were like heaven to me — until Sophia signed up for a Vons Club Card.

Even though Sophia and I are legally married, Sophia decided to keep her last name –Lansky (what a typical career women!).    She wanted to remain Sophia Lansky, not become Sophia Kramer.  At first, it didn’t bother me a whole lot. 

But then was the turning point.  

One day, as I left my local Vons Supermarket, having just used our “joint” Vons Club Card, the overbearingly-friendly salesgirl shouted out joyfully, “You saved $10.55 today… MR. LANSKY!”

Ugh.  What a strike to the male ego!  And it didn’t happen just once.  Every time I left the store, having used my Vons Club Card, it was the same —

…Mr. Lansky…  Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky…! 

But did I ever scream?  Did I ever say, “I’m goddamn Mr. Kramer, not goddamn Mr. Lansky — you stupid Stepford checkout girl!?”   No.  I kept it bottled up inside. 

I thought of not using the Vons Club Card at all  — but I would feel like an asshole for paying an extra $10.55.  It was a lose-lose situation.

The stress affected me physically.  The symptoms started small.  I began losing interest in sex after shopping at the supermarket.  It didn’t matter if it was for bananas or milk.  Just walking into Vons was a blow to my male ego.   The “Mr. Lansky” line would be pounding in my brain over and over.  What type of wimpy man is known by his wife’s name?

Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky… 

I started shopping at the over-priced Whole Foods for one good reason:  they didn’t have a “club card.”  Unfortunately, the mere passing of the Vons Supermarket across the street would give me the inability to have an erection for 24 hours. 

I became desperate.  I drove to Santa Anita racetrack and bought myself a pair of horse-blinders, to prevent me from seeing any Vons Supermarkets as I drove down the street.  But I always knew the supermarkets were there, close by, mocking me — especially since Sophia’s new GPS system was constantly telling me so.

However, with Sophia away, I was desperate for some love and affection.  I decided to fight my fear.  On Friday night, I went out with my mother-in-law’s chiropractor’s unemployed sister, Andrea.   After a nice dinner at Chicago for Ribs,  we ended back at her place.  We drank some wine and watched some TV.  Soon, we were in her bed.  It felt good to be with a woman again.  I was proud of myself for moving beyond my problem.  We made love for an hour.  Andrea was passionate, screaming things like, “Neilochka, you are amazing!” and “I’ve never been f***ed so good!” 

(note:  This unemployed woman should have said, “I’ve never been f***ed so well!” — another reason to always marry a “career woman,” who usually have a better command of the English language).

The lovemaking grew even more intense.  It felt as if the bed was levitating off the carpet.  Her face grew red, her breathing irregular.  Andrea was nearing the orgasm of her life, when I noticed that the TV in the living room was still on.  It was the end of Conan O’Brien.   There was a cut to a commercial — an advertisement for a certain local supermarket chain:

“This week at Vons:  use your Vons Club Card and get two packages of fresh strawberries for only four dollars!”

“Don’t stop!” yelled the hyperventilating Andrea.  But it was too late.   The Vons Club Card took its toll, and the toll was on me.

I have not heard back from Andrea since then.   And I don’t expect to.

But this tale does not end sadly.   Every psychological problem has a solution, if you are willing to work on yourself. 

Today, I walked into Vons like a REAL MAN and signed up for my very own Vons Club Card. 

Problem solved.

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month138th Post About Sophia
 

A Year Later, Older and Wiser

The years teach much which the days never knew.  — Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m sure you’re noticed that at the end of each post, I now link to the post written “a year ago today.”  I do it more for myself than for you, because it amuses me to see where my mind was at this time last year. 

A year ago, I was thinking about Changing Goals Throughout the Years.  In honor of my growth and maturity throughout the year, I’ve updated the post for 2006.  (link)

Goats Around the World

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I have no idea whether anyone is interested in this other than me, but I found it fascinating that different cultures “hear” animal sounds in completely different ways. 

And it’s my blog, so I’ll post about it anyway.

This is how goats sound around the world:

    Afrikaans: mê-mê
    Albanian: me-e me-e
    Arabic (Algeria): maa maa
    Arabic (Morocco): maaaazz
    Catalan: bée
    Croatian: meee-heee
    Danish: mæh
    Dutch: mèèh
    English: baaah
    French: bêêê
    German: mähh, mähh
    Hebrew: meeee meeee
    Hindi: me:-me:
    Indonesian: mbek
    Korean: um-meeeee
    Norwegian: mæ
    Polish: meee, meee
    Russian: mee
    Spanish (Spain): bee bee
    Swedish: bää
    Thai: bae bae (with high tone)
    Turkish: be-e-e-eh be-e-e-eh
    Ukrainian: me-me

I found the information at this terrific site.

Did you know that Hebrew speakers hear dogs go “Hav Hav?”

The Joy of 666

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Today is June 6, 2006 or 6/6/06 or 666.  Whichever way you read it, today is clearly the scariest day EVER.  It is the day of the Beast.  The Apocalypse.  It is also the perfect day to sit around the blogging campfire and tell terrifying stories about the Devil.  So, grab the edge of your seat — all of you with hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia (fear of the number 666) — and let’s begin this devilish tale:

The Devil and Neilochka  by Neil Kramer

I was feeling depressed, and even Wellbutrin didn’t help.  My marriage was in shambles.  My career was going nowhere.  Suddenly, Satan appeared in a pillar of smoke, like Bon Jovi at a rock concert from 1990.

“Neilochka,” he said.  “How would you like to have all your dreams fulfilled?   Love, success, everything?

“Sounds great,” I said.

“But there’s one hitch.  You have to sell me your soul.”

“OK.”

Satan handed me a contract.  I looked at it and quickly signed it.

Years passed.  My marriage with Sophia flourished.  The top five best-selling novels were all written by me.   The top single in America was my song, “Sophia.”  Dooce quit blogging to become my typist and foot masseuse.   Life was perfect.

One day, there was a knock on the door.  It was Satan.

“Hello, Neilochka,” he said.

“Oh, hi, Satan.   I’m sorry.  You surprised me.   I’m having a little dinner party tonight and I was expecting Gore Vidal, Scarlett Johannson, or Mikhail Gorbachev.”

“I’m here for my payment.  You owe me your soul.”

“Oh, right.  Sure.  I’ll be right back.”

I left Satan at the door.  In a few minutes, I returned carrying a large platter of Fillet of Sole Florentine, one of Sophia’s best dishes.

“But you know, Satan, you’re really putting me in a jam.  What is Sophia going to serve for dinner now?”

 “Neilochka, you must be confused.  I don’t want this sole. I want your soul.”

“Oh yeah?”

I took out Satan’s contract and unrolled the scroll. 

“Look here, Satan — it says here:  ‘When I return in 5 years time, ewe must give me your sole.’  So, do you want it or not?”

Satan pounded his fist against his leg.

“Darn it!  My bad spelling foiled me again!”

Satan looked pretty down on himself.

“It’s your own fault” I said.  “Maybe if you had spent more time studying in school rather than doing evil deeds, you would have become a better speller.”

“This is not the only time I’ve screwed up.  Just last week I couldn’t collect on a contract with this guy, because it said that June 4-th will be the last “sundae” of his life.  And then I signed it “Prints of Darkness.”

I could tell his self-esteem was shot.   I quietly thanked Mrs. Goldfarb, my first grade teacher, for teaching me about the importance of spelling.  I looked over at Satan and felt pity.  Sure he was evil, but he was only doing his job.

“You know.  We have plenty of food for another guest tonight.  Sophia is an excellent cook. Oh, and I also have last week’s Scripps National Spelling Bee on Tivo.  I think you might enjoy it.”

Satan was surprised by the offer.  I guess he doesn’t get invited over too much because of his really bad breath.

“Is Scarlett Johannson really coming to dinner?  She has great knockers!”

“Tell me about it, you devil!”

We both laughed.  It was good to see some color coming back into his face.  I showed Satan into the living room. 

“Hey, Sophia,” I yelled into the kitchen.  “Add another setting.  Satan’s in the house!”

Seven Reasons to Abolish Mother’s Day

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History is filled with frauds: the Trojan Horse, Rasputin’s psychic act, Chris Daughtry being voted off American Idol — but nothing compares to the biggest fraud of them all — Mother’s Day!

What are we celebrating with this made-up holiday? And do mothers really deserve a holiday?

Yeah, I know these are dangerous questions. I know all about the “Mommy Bloggers” and how they pretty much run the Blogosphere. Listen, if you don’t hear from me after tomorrow, it’s because my computer and I are buried beneath some Babies-R-Us in Culver City, CA. Good luck getting any information from Jimmy “Dooce” Hoffa.

But let’s think about this “Mother Issue” calmly and rationally. Hear me out, then you can agree or disagree with my thesis that Moms have caused ALL of society’s woes.

1) Mothers are big nags.

Who can disagree with this? “Wear your hat!” “Wear your gloves!” “Wear your galoshes!” “You’re not going out wearing those jeans!” “You’re not getting a nose ring!” “Did you write that thank you note for that bar mitvah gift?” “Did you call Aunt Betsy and say Happy Birthday?” “Why not go on a second date with her?” “When are you having children?” “Why don’t you call me?”

Had enough?

Mothers say they nag because “they care.” I say, “Take some Prozac and get off our backs!”

2) Mothers prevent their daughters from having a healthy romantic relationship.

Think about your boyfriend or husband. Remind you of anyone? Yeah, that’s right. He’s just like that crazy guy your mother married — your father! For years, she complained about him. And now she’s brainwashed you into marrying the exact same type of man! If that’s not passive-aggressive, I don’t know what is.

3) Mothers prevent their sons from having a healthy romantic relationship.

Men, have you ever seen a photo of your mother when she was twenty-one and vacationing at the beach, and said to yourself, “Holy crap, she’s hot!” and then you look both ways to make sure no one saw you salivating over your own mother?

Admit it, there’s no one like your mother. And you know why? Because that’s the way she WANTS IT.

She’s like a devil woman! She sucks you into her web — well, actually you’re sucking milk from her breast, creating a bond that is unbreakable. When you’re feeling down, like when you dropped the fly ball to right field during the big Little League game and the rest of the team beat you up, she feeds you with your favorite — Kraft macaroni and cheese. When you’re sick, she brings you Spiderman comics and Mad Magazine. All the while, she is “setting you up” so you can never be happy with another woman! Can your wife really cook as well as your mother? Of course not. When you had a hard day at work, would your mother really bug you about fixing the leaky toilet in the upstairs bathroom? No way!

Like it or not, we are ALL Mama’s Boys.

Ladies, here’s a little secret, when your man is making love to you and screaming, “Oh, mama! Oh, mama!” — there’s a reason for that.

4) Mothers poison you.

Yes, Mom, that margarine you used to spread on my toast “instead of butter” is now known as Trans-Fatty Acids. The same with that Entenmann’s “Low-Fat” Chocolate Cake. All stuff that could kill you! Coincidence? And why did I never — EVER — see you once eat those Spaghetti-O’s you used to give me at lunch? Curious, isn’t it? How about next time you come visit me, I feed you some of those “Lucky Charms” cereal for breakfast? Huh?

5) Mothers make their children neurotic.

I used to believe “guilt” was a Jewish trait, but through blogging I have learned that this is a universal problem. Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, everyone feels guilty all the time. And everyone is miserable. And when we go to our therapists, what is the first thing we learn? Who is the real villain? Yes, “sweet” ol’ Mom!

6) Mothers ruin any chance of you having a happy family.

First of all, we all know about mother-in-laws and all the trouble they cause in a marriage. But your own mother is even more dangerous because she hides behind her innocent AARP smile.

Ask her some time, “What exactly is the grandmother’s role?”

“To spoil the grandchild.”

“I see. And why would a grandmother want to do that?”

“Simple. Because I want your kids to turn into annoying brats and make your life a living hell!”

It’s revenge! Revenge for the pains of childbirth. For the terrible twos! For those awful teenage years! For getting caught with that college boy in your bedroom! For you smoking pot! For the eighty thousand dollars she spent on you for college without even getting a thank-you!

It’s no wonder mothers just turn plain nasty!

Now I’m sure there are some new mothers out there saying, “Not me! Never me!”

I know who you are. I’ve seen your blogs. Here’s my one year old Melinda smiling. Here’s Melinda trying to say “DaDa.” Here’s Melinda playing with the dog. Here’s Melinda drooling. Sure, you’re proud of your child now. It’s a novelty. But wait until you’re a grandmother and Melinda has tattoos all over her body and is living with her Republican lesbian lover in Portland.

Payback time. That’s why they call it “the Golden Years.”

7) Mothers destroy your free will.

How many times are you doing something — fighting with your spouse or scolding your child — and you suddenly realize that you are acting just like your mother?

Have you ever seen The Manchurian Candidate?  Brainwashing!

There is no hope for you. You are the puppet and your mother is the puppetmaster.

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Of course, my Mom has a good sense of humor and makes a damn good brisket. She’s kind-hearted and doesn’t get too mad at me when I forget to mail her a Mother’s Day card. As mothers go, I could have done worse. So, I guess I will forgive her for serving me those Spaghetti-Os.

And she’s still as hot as when she was twenty-one and at Coney Island!

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Ask the Amateur Sexologist (NSFW)

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(my bed at home)

Every morning, after a few rounds of morning sex with one of my always-satisfied lovers, I turn on my computer and read my email.  My in-box is always stuffed with questions from men seeking advice about problems they are having in the bedroom.

Here’s a typical email:

Dear Neilochka,

I’ve heard so many stories of how you’re able to give a woman multiple orgasms simply by looking into her eyes.   What is the secret to becoming such a sexual legend?   Please help!

Sexless in Seattle

Many of these emails are from married men.  Although they are still very much in love with their spouses, much of the sexual spark has dwindled as married life (children, work, and taxes)  has taken a negative effect on their stamina and libido.

I’m often finding myself repeating the famous “Neilochka Rules for Pleasuring a Woman Each and Every Time”:

1)  Commitment
2)  Concentration
3)  Caring
4)  Excellent Singing Voice

Of course, it would take years for the typical man to reach the “Super Lover” status of someone like myself.  But let me be honest with you — my advanced techniques and superior hand to eye coordination don’t always work out for my own benefit.  

Recently, I had brought a lady friend back to my apartment with the aim of seducing her.  But one look in her eyes as I sang the chorus from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and she was having several orgasms.   And what about me?  By the time I was undressed, she was blissfully asleep.

Despite the drawbacks, I am proud of my utter confidence in the bedroom.  And I’m always willing to give tips to other men who need help.  Sometimes, when I hear about a couple having severe sexual problems, I request that they both meet me in my office (the IHOP on Wilshire Blvd.)

Last week, I met with Matt and Alice Weinberger, a successful and friendly married couple living in Encino, California.   Matt runs a popular blog titled “Married but Horny.”  Alice writes about her yo-yo dieting and her unhappy marriage in her blog “Overweight and Underf*****d.”

After we ordered our pancakes, we started our session.

It was clear from the body language of the couple that Matt and Alice’s lovemaking had gone stale. 

Alice, a sweet-faced schoolteacher at Anaïs Nin Junior High, said:

 “Fucking Matt is as dull as teaching a first period geography class.” 

Matt, an executive with the Mrs. Paul’s Corporation retorted that:

 “Alice is as frigid in bed as a frozen fish stick.”

“At least one of us is always hard,” blasted Alice, attacking Matt in one of his sensitive areas. 

I knew this was going to be a challenge, but I saw that underneath all the hostility in their words was a couple that truly loved each other.   And when I looked into Alice’s eyes and saw her turn beet red, I knew that achieving multiple orgasms was not a problem for this devoted schoolteacher.   All she needed was for Matt to step up to the bat, so to speak.  But how was I going to give Matt the secret key to unleash the passion of his own wife?

I asked them to both to close their eyes and meditate.  Luckily, “Afternoon Delight” by the Starland Vocal Band was on the IHOP sound system, putting everyone into a contemplative mood.  I asked both Matt and Alice to think back to their earlier, more carefree days.  Before they got married.  Back when they were dating.  Back when passion was still in the air.  Back to the summer of 1999.

Matt started telling me about how they first met:

“I had just started working at the Mrs. Paul’s company when they had a big Fourth of July company picnic.  I didn’t know too many people, so I started talking to this pretty girl who was on line with me, waiting for the salmon burgers to be grilled.  She said her name was Alice.  She was studying to be a teacher.  She said she came with a friend as “a goof.”  But I have a feeling that she was really there checking out the guys.”

“Oh, Matt,” said Alice, embarrassed.  “You’re awful!”

“But it was the truth, wasn’t it?”  asked Matt, laughing.  “All of a sudden, my boss made an announcement that they were going to start playing games, so I asked Alice if she wanted to be my partner in the potato sack race.”

“That was so much fun,” said a smiling Alice, reminiscing.  “We did the potato sack race, then we did the egg in spoon race, and then we did the wheelbarrow race.  Remember that, Matt?  Remember how we won the wheelbarrow race!”

“Perfect!” I yelled, standing.  “I’ve found your solution!”

“You have?” asked Matt.

“Absolutely,” I replied, as I opened up my sex manual.  “You just need to get back in touch with those feeling you had when you first met.  The excitement.  The rush to the head.  I have the solution that will solve all your sex problems and make your marriage blossom again!” 

“How?!” they both asked, excitedly.

“Viva La Wheelbarrow!” I shouted, as I showed them the photo.

Yes, indeed.  A week later, I received a letter from Matt and Alice, saying their sex life is better than ever — back the way it was before they got married.

Another happy couple thanks to Neilochka, Amateur Sexologist!

Moving on: Scots are the New Trendy Ones

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For my first HNT (Half-Nekkid Thursday) photo, I decided to wear what is the hottest new rage in menswear, Scottish-wear.   I had so much fun modeling this for a fashion-designer friend of mine,  Aiden Donnachaidh, that I just had to show you the results.

Those Scots are brilliant!

Forget John Stewart, Sarah Silverman, Krukoff, Spielberg, Citizen of the Month, and all those other trendy Jews.  

The Scots are up next!  

Enjoy my photo!   I’m a little shy doing this, so be gentle with the comments.

(thanks JJ)

Today on Blogebrity:  The Religious Hate Dave  (let the non-Jews get a little tsuris for once, sorry Dave at Blogography)

Sex and the Male Blogger

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Recently, I’ve been receiving many emails that go something like this:

"I’m a female blogger that loves your blog, "Citizen of the Month."  At night, I fantasize about you making love to me and you always bring me to an intense orgasm.  How do you do it?"

Male bloggers are known to be excellent imaginary lovers.  In fact, I’m currently working on an article for Cosmo magazine titled "Sex and the Male Blogger."

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From the article:

Citizen of the Month:  "Hello, men."

Male Bloggers:  "Hello, Neilochka dude!"

Citizen of the Month:  "Male bloggers have a well-deserved reputation for their excellent oral sex techniques online.   Can you tell Cosmo readers what you do to give women such amazing orgasms in the imaginary world of the blogosphere?"

Pauly D:  "Well, Neilochka, you’re clearly the expert here.  Why don’t you tell us?"

THIS BLOG HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED BY SOPHIA:

Sophia says:  I’m sorry, regular readers of this blog.  As Neil’s editor, I must wrestle editorial control away from Neil and hijack this post.  For the sake of Neil’s future literary career, the remainder must be censored. Not because of any sexual content.  In fact, the sex jokes are pretty lame, and I’m sure most women are rolling their eyes at the idea of him being any "sex expert."  Believe me, I know the truth first hand.  No, the biggest problem with this post is that it is incredibly stupid.  You see, Neil is a little sexually frustrated, if you haven’t figured that out already.  It’s gotten to the point where I might even take pity on him, just so he can start writing some decent posts again.  Remember back in September when he actually wrote something meaningful?  Anyway, I apologize for the interruption, but clearly you see how necessary it is.

BACK TO THE REGULAR POST:

Neil:  "…so that’s how I do it.  With some patience and practice, all of you male bloggers can be as amazing as I am in the sack.  So, let’s go, men, let’s bring those women to multiple orgasms!"

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Today on Blogebrity:  The Amazing Tale of Ashbloem and Bono

The Fucking Family Circus

Many thanks to King Feature’s "The Family Circus" — a favorite for generations.  (proving to Sophia once and for all that I can curse like the rest of ’em)

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