Did you all see Dancing with the Stars on Monday night? What did you think? The show just gets better and better.  (note:  read with sarcasm)

Here’s my weekly recap:

Tonight on Dancing with the Stars, Marlee Matlin’s Samba was only so-so. The music was too fast, and Matlin, who is deaf and counts the steps in her head, was falling behind.

Last year, the gimmick contestant was Heather Mills, who has an artificial leg. This year, it is a deaf actress.

“Who will it be next year?” I asked Sophia during the commercial. “How can they outdo themselves after a contestant with an artificial leg and then someone deaf?”

“Maybe someone who is blind.” she answered.

“I think it is probably harder to dance being deaf than blind.” I said.

“You’re probably right. Being blind doesn’t really “up the stakes” for the show next year.”

“Maybe someone deaf AND blind.”

“Someone in a wheelchair.”

“That would be cool.”

“Someone not very bright.”

“They’ve had plenty of those before.”

“Someone with even more plastic surgery than Priscilla Presley.”

A promo came on for this ABC comedy, “Samantha Who” about a woman with amnesia.

“Someone with amnesia!”

“That’s good. Someone with recurring amnesia who forgets the dance routine minutes before the performance…!”

“…and also has a wooden leg!”

“But really… is it that much better than someone who is deaf?”

“Maybe not. A midget?”

“Eh… it’s been done.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“I got it. A transvestite!”

“That’s stupid. A transvestite can still dance.”

“What if the transvestite is also deaf… and not very attractive.”

“Ok, I buy that. Let’s see if ABC does.”

Tomorrow: The “elimination” show.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Married Couples

Jill Landow moved herself to the edge of the bed. Simon was kneeling on the carpet, in front of her. Jill liked it when he went down on her. The windows of the penthouse were wide open. Jill didn’t care. Let all of Chicago see her being worshipped. Simon was a risk-taker, unlike her husband. Just the thought of her husband made her tense. She must get her husband out of her mind and relax. And Simon was perfect for getting her mind off of life, and just plain getting her off. She knew Simon was special from the moment she met in in the Oak Bar, and he bought her a martini, dry.

“Oh, yes,” said Jill, leaning back in the bed.

“You taste like the finest Merlot,” said Simon.

This turned her on tremendously.

Jill looked down at Simon, his head bowed. In another context, it would look as if he was praying. She laughed to herself. Jill had fond memories of when she prayed as a child, of the musty odor of the old St. Agnes Church and her dear ol’ grandmama. But that was so many years ago, before she learned about the pleasures of sin.

Downstairs, in the lobby, Carl Favela was daydreaming. He was lucky to have gotten such a cushy job as doorman at the Lakeshore Apartments. Opening the doors for Chicago’s movers and shakers meant one thing — good tips. Perry Landow approached the Lakeshore, wearing his usual tailored blue suit. Carl found it odd to see the busy executive home at lunchtime. He never came home before 9PM. Never.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Landow,” said Carl.

Perry Landow didn’t answer. His eyes were focused straight ahead, filled with an anger that made Carl shudder.

The police arrived at midnight. It was Carl who had called him, screaming like a mad man. “There’s blood. There’s blood!” was all he could say, over and over.

Carl led the police into the Landow penthouse. Perry Landow lay flat on his back in his large bed. He was naked, bloody from the multiple gun shots to his body and head. His wife was nowhere to be found.

Jill reached her second orgasm of the night in the backseat of Simon’s car. Simon zipped up his fly, whistling. Jill looked out at the waterfront. It was so calm. It was as if time had stopped. Jill looked down at her pubic hair and saw a gray hair. She plucked it out.

“I hate getting old.”

“You ain’t getting old, baby,” said Simon. “You f**k like a wildcat!”

Jill laughed. She was a wildcat. In fact, when she was in high school, she literally was a Wildcat, a Tucson High School Wildcat cheerleader. It was on graduation night at Tucson High where she first met Perry Landow. Her friends thought he was way too old for her, being that he was her father’s business partner, and 30 years her senior. But she knew if that she was going to lose her virginity, she might as well profit from it. And profit she did.

“I better get driving.” said Simon. “It’s a long way to Mexico. Maybe we’ll stop in an hour or two and we’ll f**k again. You’d like that sugar, right?”

Jill reached into her purse for some Kleenex, but instead her fingers starting fondling the cold metal of her 45 caliber gun.

Carl returned to his studio apartment that night. His neighbors were fighting again, cursing in Ukranian. When he turned the lights on, the roaches scattered, mocking Carl, as if saying to him, “You just try to stop us, loser.”

Carl opened a bottle of Bud and sat on the couch. The TV was on the fritz, again. Maybe next month, he’ll actually pay for the cable, rather than trying to steal it from the neighbors. Carl downed the beer, trying to drown out his pain. When are things ever going to go his way? When was he ever going to get a woman like Jill Landow to love him? He started to fantasize about her, the feel of her hard nipples between her fingers.

Captain Ed Johansson was counting the days until his retirement. He already put a down payment on a nice little place near San Diego, where he would live out his time drinking margaritas, and buying Mexican hookers with his pension money. The last thing on his mind was the Perry Landow case, no matter how high-profile it was to the asshole DA.

Carl was still imagining making love to Jill, the bulge rising in his pants, when there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he asked nervously.

“Carl, it’s me. Jill. Jill Landow. From the Lakeshore.”

Jill Landow? Carl ran to the front door, looking through the keyhole. Jill Landow was standing there, holding a gun, fresh, brightly-red blood stains covering the designer dress.  He loved that dress.  He had seen her wear it so many times during the summer when she sauntered through the lobby like a runway model, her breasts visible through the thin fabric.  Jill Landow was coming her?  To him?  Why?  Of course… she’s in trouble!  Should he let her in?  Should he call the police?

He put his hand on the door knob, ready to open it, knowing that this action would change his life forever.

Note: This is not a page from anything I’m working on.  This is a page from the film classic “Chinatown.”   But imagine something just as well-written and influential.  Only it is about getting laid.   And there is one crazy car chase in downtown Los Angeles.  Wait, I think there is car chase in downtown Los Angeles in Chinatown, too!  Woo-hoo!  Oscar time.

When Sophia came home and saw my last post, the first thing she said was, “you chose the wrong photos!” We had taken a few different photos earlier, and I had obviously chosen the worst of the bunch.

“Of course this Whoorl wasn’t impressed with the haircut. You’re grimacing like a villain from a bad movie.”

I know I shouldn’t care about how I look to any of you, because sexiness comes from within, from self-confidence, from being comfortable in your own skin and not caring…

Eh… screw that.

So, for all those readers who stopped by earlier and saw those photos of us, please burn them from your memory.  I realize that those photos are still embedded in that post, and also exist in the vast basement of the Google archives, but just play along.  Make believe they don’t exist.  From now on, please ALWAYS think of the two of us as looking like the photos in THIS post, since we are much more glamorous in these than in the other ones.  You’ll probably not even notice the difference, but WE DO –

In this one, Sophia put some spit in my hair and made me look more like one of the guys on American Idol.

I am publishing this one of Sophia looking sultry, just to win some brownie points with her.

Isn’t this one better than before? Progressive babes (who usually put out on the first date) — please note the peace sign on the shirt.  Although, to be honest, it’s not really mine.  I  accidentally took home someone else’s shirt from the laundromat.

Sophia also wanted me to come clean about another matter.  She thinks that I always make her be the heavy. In the last post, I quoted her as saying “no,” when I asked her if I could photograph the toilet seat in order to show it to you.

She never said anything about the seat, because we never had this conversation.   I made that up.

In my defense, I still believe that if I had asked her, she would have said “no.”  She insists that that she has no problem with me taking a photo of any toilet seat in the house and posting it on my blog.  I love her, but I take that statement with a grain of salt.   Please tune into next Tuesday’s Dr. Phil Show, as Phil McGraw helps us be more honest with each other about what we can and what we can’t photograph in the house.

As an apology for making you read through TWO posts about nothing, here is a little gift –

A photo of our beachy toilet seat.  Enjoy it!

Can you think of anything more self-absorbed than showing people your haircut?   Can you think of an easier blog post to write?  Can you think of a surer way to get Whoorl to comment on this blog? Can you think of a weirder hair salon than one where after the haircut is finished, the stylist unexpectedly massages your shoulder for five minutes with one of those electric gizmos from Sharper Image, scaring the shit out of you (it’s one of their “gimmicks” so they can charge ten bucks more than Supercuts)?  Is there anything more satisfying to a man as watching a nice-smelling woman with really nice breasts washing your hair?  Is there any doubt that I left a 35% tip?  Was it stupid to have spent the whole cut talking about my “wife” and how she hated my messy hair?  Will I ever get laid again?  When am I moving out of this house and getting my life in gear?  Will I ever be done outlining this screenplay?  Should I go to New York for Passover?  Is Obama really experienced enough to be President?  Will there ever be peace in the Middle East?

The before shot (bohemain, but shaggy)  This cut says that I’m irresponsible and poor, but wild in bed.

The after shot (boring, but clean-cut).  Now I am an accountant.  Which is ironic, since I haven’t even touched this year’s taxes.  I was going for a sarcastic, David Sedaris-look, but not sure I got it.  My mouth just looks crooked.

Sophia got a haircut too.   Her haircut is better.  But she spent more on it.  We are looking into the bathroom mirror, standing in front of our toilet.  We have a pretty cool toilet seat in this bathroom, with seashells embedded in the glass and drawings of fish.  The toilet seat makes you think of the beach when you are sitting there.  I asked Sophia if I could take a photo of it so you could see it, but she said “no.” 

Now, was that a POST — or what?!

With blogs and bloggers becoming more important in the media, it’s become common to hear about a blogger interviewed by the New York Times or chatting on the Today show.  I don’t want to sound like I have sour grapes, but my opportunities in the “real” media world have been pretty thin.   That’s why I jumped out of my chair on Friday when I received an email from the The Dr. Phil Show. 

The email began –

“My name is Emily and I work with the Senior Producer at the Dr. Phil Show here at Paramount in LA…”

Emily continued on about some post I had written in 2006 about Sophia’s parents getting ripped off at a local mattress store.   She wanted me to call, so we could discuss this post. 

Woo-hoo!  I imagined fame and fortune and everything that goes with it…

But there was one red flag.  The letter was hastily written, with several spelling errors.  Was it spam or just written by  a very busy individual.  I googled Emily and was she legit.   My success was back on track.

I took a deep breath before calling the show.   I was a little anxious… for a very good reason.  I have made fun of Dr. Phil several times on my blog, even mocking his son’s marriage to a Playboy bunny. 

Then I remembered that he is a forgiving guy. 

“Isn’t that what his show is all about?”  I said to myself.

The past is the past.  Especially, if the Dr, Phil show wanted me as a guest.  I imagined an important show about “Senior Citizen Rip-offs” and Dr. Phil calling me from the audience:

Dr. Phil:  “And now, with more ways for seniors to protect themselves against shady mattress store franchises, I’d like to bring up blogger/consumer expert, Neil “Neilochka” Kramer, who writes the hugely-successful blog, Citizen of the Month.”

The female crowd goes wild.  Many lift  banners and signs, ala American Idol, reading “Take My Bra Off, Neilochka!”

With my mind jam-packed with these vivid images, I called up Emily at her Paramount office.  She quickly answered the phone.  She was waiting for my call. 

For me?!   My ego rose to heights never seen before.

“Thank you, thank you for calling back!” she said, somewhat frantically.

Wow!  Was the show that desperate to have me as a guest?   She seemed almost in awe of me, as if she was on the phone with Tom Cruise, begging him to come on the show for an exclusive interview.

“How can I help you?” I asked, speaking in a deeper than usual voice, trying to hide my New York accent.

“I’m so glad I found you,” she continued.  “You see, my boss is in the hospital.  A few days ago, she asked me to buy her a new mattress for her home, so I went to Ortho-mattress, and they ended up ripping me off on the price, not promising what they said, and then charging me too much for shipping.  The mattress cost hundreds of dollars more than she allocated and now I don’t know what to do.  I haven’t told her yet — and I’m afraid of getting fired.  So, I googled mattress rip-offs in Los Angeles and found your blog, and I ‘m hoping that you can give me some advice!”

Advice on mattress rip-offs?!  So you won’t get fired?  This is what the email was all about?!   You mean, Dr. Phil didn’t want me ON the show?!

I had this tight feeling in my stomach.  I remember the first time I felt it.   During grad school, I went out with this cute girl, thinking she wanted to take off my clothes, but all she wanted was to “pick my brain” to learn how she and her boyfriend could find a agent for some sci-fi screenplay they wrote together about a war with some crazed robots.

Luckily, Emily was quite nice, despite her reason for calling me.  We talked for fifteen minutes.  Well, mostly she talked.  She just moved to a new apartment and she couldn’t get fired because she has all these debts, and it wasn’t fair that she got ripped off by the mattress store, and now she has to face the producer, and she is very very nervous…etc.  We chatted like old friends, which was odd considering that she just found my blog on a Google search.  But maybe Dr. Phil only hires very friendly staff members.

I told Emily that mattress stores are the last refuge of sleazy salesmen.  For instance, when you buy a car nowadays, you usually know how much the sticker price is from looking it up on the internet.  Sealy and Serta intentionally name the same mattresses different names depending on the store, so it is difficult for the consumer to do a price check.  I advised Emily to call the Better Business Bureau, the store’s corporate office, and lastly, to contest the charges with her credit card. 

After I hung up the phone, it occurred to me that I actually WAS helpful.  Google DID bring her to the right person to speak to about mattresses.  The internet worked.

Dr. Phil, I’m ready for my close-up!

From the archives:  An even earlier mattress store story.

What is your worth?

I saw this intriguing “quiz” on Miriam’s site – ”I’m Worth $ in Bed?”   Normally I ignore these nonsensical quizzes, but since Miriam is such a brainy blogger, I assumed that this test was totally legitimate and scientifically accurate, despite being sponsored by a “lesbian” sex toy company.  

Besides, who isn’t curious about how much one can get for his sexual services?  During the Eliot Spitzer scandal, there was much talk about the fees paid to his high-priced hooker.   Naturally, many in the blogosphere starting thinking about their own careers.   Would it be more lucrative being a hooker than, for instance,  running an Esty shop selling knitted socks?  Now is your chance to find out.  The quiz has separate questions for both men and women.   Most of the questions in the gigolo-meter are pretty standard for the men — age, height, penis size, but then there are  tricky questions like, “How kinky are you?”  or “What do you like to do after sex — party, spoon, or go to sleep?” 

Bad news.  I’m only worth a lousy $918 in bed.  How humiliating.  I’m pretty sure my downfall is this — I’m not dangerous enough.  Women want a sense of danger in their male hooker.  My kinky rating wasn’t very high, and I had to answer “no,” when I was asked if I had any tattoos.  I was actually surprised that there was a question about tattoos.  Would I be worth more in bed if I had a well-placed tattoo?  Do women want a man with a tattoo?

Desperate to up my bed-ability scores, I’ve been thinking about my lack of tattoos all day.

By Jewish law, I’m not supposed to get a tattoo, but many Jews have them anyway.  My main reason for avoiding tattoos all my life is fear.  I used to faint when I received allergy shots.  Uh-oh, by revealing that, I think by worth as a male prostitue just dropped another five bucks.

I actually do find tattoos on a woman as sexy.

Right, men? 

But are tattoos as interesting as they used to be?  Tattoos are so common in Los Angeles, that they hardly seem special anymore.  I’m more unique by NOT having a tattoo.

Years ago, tattoos were mostly for sailors and bikers, done by Thai “masseuses”  in seedy port cities too ugly even for the prostitutes.  Tattoos then became hip, and like Wall Street traders moving into the old drug warehouses of the Lower East Side, every upper-middle class white person wanted to be seen as faux- dangerous, at least on weekends.   So, the tattoo became a commodity.

I like tattoos that are visual and colorful.  I hate when the simplicity of body art become pretentious.  Wherever I go to a coffeehouse in Los Angeles, I always bump into someone with a tattoo that requires me to take out my reading glasses.  When did tattoos become so literary?  

Is it the influence of celebrities?  (via US Magazine)

Here’s Meagan Fox, star of Transformers, that thought-provoking piece of bot cinema, with a quote from Shakespeare’s King Lear on her left shoulder, “We all laugh at gilded butterflies.”   This is clearly an actress who want to prove that she isn’t just pretty, but a wordsmith — akin to Pamela Anderson putting on a pair of fake librarian glasses to prove that she has an IQ as large as her fake boobs.

Angelina Jolie commemorates the birth of her children with, of course, Roman numerals on her arm.  Do I really have to remember what the roman symbols M and L stand for just to read the dates?!  Why not make it easy for us?

Lindsay Lohan writes “La Bella Vita” on her ass.  For some reason, I don’t believe this is true.

Victroria Posh Beckham, a Kabbalah nut, has a Hebrew psalm on her back, translated as “I am my love’s and my love is mine,” which just happens to be the exact same phrase Sophia and I used on the front of our wedding invitations years ago.  Maybe Sophia and I wouldn’t have as many problems today in our marriage if we had just tattooed our wedding vows on our backs instead. 

I’ve thought about getting a tattoo for a long.  I’d like for women to see me as a little more dangerous, because I know that while most women want to marry the “nice guy,” they want to f**k the “bad boy” on the kitchen counter.  It’s time to become the bad boy. 

 ”I’m Worth $ in Bed?” has hit me where it hurts — my ego.   I should at least be worth $1000 as a male hooker.  The solution — only a tattoo can help monetize my sex life.

Today, that all changed.  I went down to Venice Beach and got a tattoo of one of my blog posts written on my back.   

(uh… body double for back)

Surprisingly, when I retook the gigolo-meter test, my worth dropped to $850. 

(Note: I’ve always had a thing for librarians, especially when they take off their glasses and let their hair down, transforming themselves into the hottest chicks on the planet. And they like to read. Although, they usually have to put their glasses back on to do that. Nancypearl Wannabe blogs at Musings of a Semi-Coherent Mind. She is also a librarian. I had no choice but to say “yes, ma’am,” when she came up with this idea to create an online “Choose Your Own Adventure” book. The adventure story starts at her blog Friday morning at 10AM– start HERE – and then it is up to YOU to create your own unique version of the tale, depending on the choices you make, and which option you click. You’ll figure it out. There are 26 bloggers working on this story, none knows where the story is heading. Will it be coherent? Will it be a mess? That’s part of the adventure.)

Previous Section of the Story (You came here because you think Emma should ignore the zombie-like figure and continue to the Store 24)

continued –

Emma entered the brightly-colored Store 24 convenience store, grabbed a package of orange Hostess cupcakes, and went to pay the $1.25, all in quarters, tightly gripped in her right hand, just like she always did when she came in to buy her favorite treat. But where was Henri, the smiling French-Canadian owner of this franchise, the happy-go-lucky gentleman with the graying hair, the quick wit, and the polite manners, who would always say to Emma as she walked in, “A beautiful day, isn’t it?” in both English and French, and sometimes, when he was in a extra special good mood, in Ukrainian as well? It wasn’t like the proud and conservative-minded Henri, a man who kept a gun at his side at all times, to leave his store unguarded. Was he in any danger?

Just then, Henri rushed out of the stock room. He was not in any trouble. He was fine. In fact, he appeared quite dapper. He was dressed in a top hat and polished black tap shoes. He was also wheeling a large red Samsonite suitcase.

“Henri! What’s going on?” asked Emma. “Where are you going?”

“I’m done with the convenience store business,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I want to follow my dream – to be a Broadway hoofer! I’m leaving this podunk town and moving to the Big Apple.”

Henri jumped onto the front counter and started to do a little tap dance, right in the empty space near the cash register, between the beef jerky and the TV Guides.

“Gotta dance! Gotta dance!” he sang with gusto.

“But what about the store?” cried Emma, trying to reason with him. “How will it survive?”

“Why don’t YOU take it over,” he said, pointing right at her. “You know more about the products at Store 24 than anyone.”

Emma paused, her head spinning. Had Henri gone crazy from breathing in the fumes from the Orange Slush machine?

“Hey, I have a better idea!” shouted Henri, jumping down from the counter. “Why don’t you come with me to New York, where we can become lovers? We both know that you coming here all the time has nothing to do with orange Hostess cupcakes. You love me! Admit it!”

If you think Emma should go to New York with Henri, click here.

If you think Emma should take over the Store 24 franchise from Henri, click here.

Note: The other participants have terrific “pieces” of the story on their blog. There are so many good writers online. Check them out:

RA from Definitely RA
Chris from Brick Window
Aaron from Funky Carter
Neil from Citizen of the Month

Stefanie from Stefanie Says
Lara David from Life: The Ongoing Education
Srah from Srah Blah Blah
Mickey from The Prettiest Denny’s Waitress
Dutchess of Kickball from Average 20 Something
Jess from Du Wax Loolu

3Carnations from Thinking Some More
Erikka from The_Extra_Ordinary
Elisabeth from Elisabeth Writes
Noelle from The Daily Tannenbaum
Courtney from Malfeasance
Chloe from Groove Is Life

Kirsten from In A Western Place
Michelle from Michelle In The City
Vanessa from Crazy Says What
Jack from Box of Jack
Abbersnail from Bright Yellow World
Lara B. from Red Red Whine

Andrea from Fretting the Small Stuff
Beej from Neuteronomy
Sarah from Constantly Arriving

(OK pre-post information — just so there isn’t confusion with readers. The LA Times article about the cheerleaders is real, as are the quotes in italics.  Everything else is made up, including the stuff about the mother and cheerleader daughter at the end.  I was inspired by my blogging friend Erin (Queen of Spain), who wrote an interesting post about mommybloggers and how they should think of themselves as businesses. It made me wonder… why is this story about corporations using cheerleaders for marketing purposes any different? I only recently became interested in this subject of marketing and blogging because I’ve been reading all these discussions on Twitter. I didn’t realize that so many mommybloggers get freebies and invited to these corporate weekends.  I think it is great that bloggers get any type of opportunities, especially those who never had the chance before.   I just think this is a bad for blogging in general to go so corporate, as we’ll then begin to distrust what everyone says (is it marketing or not?).  Call me old-fashioned.

The post –

We always hear such bad news about today’s teenagers — low test scores, teen pregnancy, drug use, etc. — that it is nice to hear some positive news about our youth.

In today’s LA Times, there is an inspiring article about teenage girls who are true leaders, and using their skills to empower themselves.

For decades, cheerleaders have been the most popular girls in school. Their influence is unmatched. Other girls want to look like them, befriend them, and get the same type of attention from the boys. Cheerleaders, acknowledging their important role as influencers, are getting smart — joining with major firms in exciting strategic marketing alliances. After all, if a manufacturer wants to sell a new type of “teen” hairspray, why not go directly to those “who matter the most” — the prettiest girls — the cheerleaders.

“Forces are making it very difficult for advertisers to connect with young people,” said Samantha Skey, executive vice president of strategic marketing at Alloy Media & Marketing, a youth marketing agency. “So advertisers are going into schools, forging new platforms for youth connection.”

“My whole bathroom is full of stuff they give us,” said a freshman on the Rock Star Athletics cheerleading team.

Companies are smart to target cheerleaders, said Marlene Cota, vice president of corporate alliances at Varsity Brands Inc., the Memphis, Tenn., company that ran the competition in Anaheim, because they are often the girls others look up to.

At recent cheerleading camps across the country, Propel, a unit of Gatorade Co., sponsored “hydration breaks,” handing out “fitness water” after participants exercised; CoverGirl conducted a makeover tour, showing how to apply lip gloss and other cosmetic products; and Skintimate, a unit of S.C. Johnson & Son. Inc., sponsored an in-camp cheerleading competition to anoint a “Smooth Moves” champion.

“The girls literally screamed at each camp when they learned they would get free CoverGirl makeovers and samples,” company spokeswoman Anitra Marsh said.

Sarah Schneider, a 35 year old mother from Santa Monica, is proud of her fourteen year old daughter, Kristy, one of the “popular girls” at school, and a cheerleader.

“It took me 35 years and two therapists to figure out my personal “branding,” said Sarah, a popular mommyblogger also known as AOKMomma. “Kristy is lucky to have become an early adopter at her young age. All her friends look up to her, so it is only natural for her to promote products to them, especially to those who aren’t very popular or pretty. By using the product that she is promoting, the other girls can make believe that are as wonderful as Kristy. It’s exactly what I do on my blog with MY FRIENDS! I’m so proud that Kristy is following in my footsteps! The two of us have really bonded, mother and daughter, helping each better monetize our brands.”

Of course, a pair of influencers in one household can also have humorous side effects. Recently, Sarah published a series of blog posts promoting Degree anti-perspirant, after receiving several freebies in the mail. A week later, another package came with more samples of Degree. Was she supposed to be writing another post? Then, she noticed that the package was addressed to… her daughter!

“Kristy was throwing a Degree anti-perspirant Party with her cheerleader friends. We laughed so hard. We were both marketing the same product to our friends! But Kristy is so much more clever than I am. She came up with her own slogan for the party — and we wrote it on a big sign that read, “Be as Cool and Pretty as the Cheerleaders. Use Degree anti-perspirant.” All the less-attractive girls were buying the Degree samples from her, so much so that she made enough money to buy her own Guitar Hero 3 for the freebie Wii she got from Nintendo for promoting that to her friends at church. ! I have a feeling that one day, she’s going to have a blog that is even more popular than mine!”

Every day, I receive an email from a different male blogger, always with the same complaint, “No women ever read my blog.  How do you get so many hot chicks to read Citizen of the Month?”

Men, take note.  This is the most important post that you will ever read.  My female readership is no accident.  It took years of experimentation and market research.  Most men make one major mistake when wooing a woman online:  they act as if they are wooing themselves. 

Here are three common ways that men act online, thinking they are impressing women.  Contrast these loser techniques with the NEILOCKA METHOD of successfully wooing a female blogger.

BAD TECHNIQUE 1

Write a post about how many “followers” you have on Twitter.

C’mon.  Seriously.  Who gives a sh*t?  Think about what women REALLY want –

NEILOCHKA’S SUCCESSFUL TECHNIQUE 1

Write a post about exotic sandwiches at an imaginary deli where no one gains any weight.

BAD TECHNIQUE 2

Message a cute mommyblogger, telling her that despite having three children, she still has amazing tits.

Women today do not like to be thought of as “a pair of tits.”   They are educated individuals who work hard on their careers and raising their children.

NEILOCHKA’S SUCCESSFUL TECHNIQUE 2

Message a cute mommyblogger, asking about her work and her three children, remembering each child’s name, and then telling her that despite having three adorable children — Aaron Jr., Millie, and Martha — she still has amazing tits.

BAD TECHNIQUE 3

E-mail a photo of your penis, making sure it is shot from a low angle to make it seem the size of one of the Transformers.

Believe it or not, women hate this.  It sends the message  that in any relationship, you will always be more in love with your penis than her.

NEILOCHKA’S SUCCESSFUL TECHNIQUE 2

Show her what you can do for HER with your fingers based on your nerdy skill of Japanese Pen Twirling.  Geeks rule!