My last blog covered my initial discoveries of the porn universe, and I hinted in the comments section that I have a story about 1-900 numbers which I will now impart to you.

As a boy, I lived, for all practical purposes, on the edge of the earth. Looking north from my back yard a couple of miles, you could actually see the sign that said “Here there be monsters”, right there to the left of that last wheat field, just a touch past the ramshackle, suspect building with the flickering neon sign out front proclaiming “The Doll Ho se”. My street was the last in my neighborhood that had any occupants, the next street back had two model homes, and after a few more streets with nothing at all built on them, suburbia abruptly gave way to miles of fallow farm fields and undeveloped land. I could walk out the back of my house with a Daisy 880 pellet rifle and a box of pellets and spend twelve hours a day shooting trash birds like sparrows and starlings and never see another living soul. The first summer was a nirvana of exploration and dead birds.

The next summer, when they started to build houses on the streets behind me, I began to hunt something else among the sand piles, slabs and lumber. Porn. Sweet, sweet porn. If you are in construction, how else are you going to while away the hours pretending to frame a house? I quickly discovered that construction sites were a treasure trove of discarded magazines. My first find was a Playboy discovered in the bare dirt front yard of a house whose slab had just been poured. It was lying there on the cracked black earth, pristine and shiny, beckoning like a double-breasted boy beacon. I pounced on it, cackling wildly at my great good fortune. The magazine went between my mattress and box spring, because surely my mother, who changed my sheets with OCD frequency, would never think to look there.

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It begins with a toothbrush. Fighter of plaque and tooth decay, whitener of teeth, freshener of breath, the toothbrush appears harmlessly in the bathroom drawer sometime after the new girl has begun staying the night. Harmless because who but an Englishman could find horror in this most benign of objects? The toothbrush is just a scout, however. Like a Navy SEAL HALO’ing in a hundred miles behind enemy lines, the toothbrush lands silently in your bathroom drawer, dons its nightvision goggles and sets up a geurilla campaign that is a harbinger of impending onslaught. You can fight it, but the mere presence of the SEAL toothbrush means you’re already fucked.

More toiletry items take up residence as the relationship blossoms. You allow her a drawer, medicine cabinet space, perhaps a cabinet all her own. A bottle of shampoo that costs half of your monthly beer budget pops up like magic in the shower. One, then a handful, then many garments find hanger space in the closet. Eventually, the discussion will be had about moving in together as though the act were not a foregone conclusion. Hell, it’s better than having to buy a ring and you’ll have more beer money every month.

Moving day arrives. Your place is now our place. Which means significant portions of it are her place. Portions like the bathroom.

The following morning, it’s there. Right there. In the corner of the shower. Rising three tiers is a basket thingy whose purpose is the organization of the myriad bath products that now threaten to exceed the tub surround’s weight limit. In that rack, you find all of the following:

Matrix Essentials So Silver Shampoo
Body by Bed Head Papaya Body Wash
Cinnamon Roll Heaven All-Over Wash (All the Lovin’ Without the Oven says the bottle)
Pureology Anti-Fade Complex
Pantene Pro-V Color Revival Conditioner
Garnier Fructis Fortifying Shampoo
Biore Shine Control Clay Mask
Garnier Nutritioniste Nutri-Pure Detoxifying Creme Cleanser
Clean & Clear Advantage Facial Cleanser
Neutrogena Daily Scrub
St. Ives Apricot Scrub
Mary Kay Microdermabrasion Step 1: Refine
Neutrogena Clarifying Facial Cleanser
True Blue Spa Fine and Sandy Beach Pedicure Sudsing Foot Scrub

Son of a bitch, it’s World War III in the shower.

Boxes with Pottery Barn logos arrive almost daily by UPS. Z Gallerie bags peek from the trashcan. Your position is being overrun. Sporting art gets moved around. Stemware racks and buffets go in their place. Wall sconces occupy a bedroom filled with furniture that isn’t yours.

Lamentations are made on your part about hunting season being closed. Were it not so, you’d have more taxidermy in the works. The billfish are in around Cabo, though. Perhaps a sailfish or striped marlin right there over the couch. Something, anything to inject new testosterone into the decorating, even if it means a picture of dogs playing poker or a velvet Elvis. Or dogs playing poker with Elvis… on velvet… with John Wayne.

And all this, of course, because you didn’t want to buy the ring. The massive horror and indignity of getting fucked in a divorce has given way to the small indignations of cohabitation. Granted, these are the same small affrights of marriage, but you justify it as being the middle ground, the doublestuff center of life’s Oreo. You can’t just stay a bachelor all your life, right? Right? So, this cohabitation thing, it’s not that bad, and at least there’s not a prison-style ass fuck at the end with your own tears for lube.

Unless, that is, she’s got a good enough lawyer…

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Everyone knows that chick. Aggressively malcontent with her love life, it becomes her only topic of conversation, as though she were some kind of demented Rainbow Bitch doll who complains about men, or her own personal lack thereof, when you pull her string. “I’m never going to find someone,” she whines on one pull, then bounces to “Men are just immature assholes,” on another. Pissed and depressed, and probably crippled by either natural shyness or a deep, acquired anti-social streak, she sits at home watching The Notebook night after night after night, waiting for the man of her dreams to fall into her lap, presumably from outer space.

I’ve got a tip for this chick: Step one would be to leave the house.

The perpetually single woman’s instant answer to this will be to shoot back, “What, should I start hanging out in bars like you? Like I’m going to meet anyone worthwhile in a place like that!” Her little face twisted with rage, you can watch the iron bars come down in her mind, separating her from any and all thoughts of developing a nightlife. In her head, she has made the determination that the man of her dreams would never haunt such places, that no one with any substance would dare (the horror!) enjoy themselves on the weekend. She mistakenly thinks that going out with her bitchy, man-hating friends counts as a social life, but it does not. That environment doesn’t foster new relationships with men, it repels them like photographs of Rosie O’Donnell masturbating. Men see these packs of snotty, bitchy faux socialites and avoid them like syphillitic Guatemalan hookers. They’re not fun to be around and no one wants to catch what they have.

Where the hell does this delusion come from? How do women get it in their heads that men with social lives are immature, shallow, abnormal? Newsflash, ladies - if you are an under-socialized couch-surfer who holds this belief about men, no man worth his God-given right to command the remote is going to have anything to do with you. This point bears repeating. An absence of a social life and deep-seated contempt for those who do have one will keep you single in perpetuity, exactly as nature intended.

Coupled with an aversion to sociability, we often find another idiotic and peculiarly female notion that serial dating is bad, slutty, unacceptable. Just so I have this straight, you expect to find your One True Love completely at random and through no effort whatsoever on your part? That makes perfect sense… if your brain has been surgically removed. By the way, while I’m at it, stop believing there’s only one person for you. There are, in point of fact, thousands.

Statistically speaking, you are not going to back into the man of your dreams at the grocery store. You are not going to find the man of your dreams when you both reach for the last copy of Legally Blonde at Blockbuster. He goddamned sure isn’t going to magically appear on your doorstep. And I absolutely promise you there will be no white horse involved. So, how is it you intend to find Dream Man through any other means than a systematic search that entails interviewing lots and lots of unviable candidates (a process normal people refer to as “dating”)?

All this under-socialization and aversion to dating can lead straight to one of the dumbest phenomena known to modern man - the long distance relationship. It goes likes this. Girl with poor socialization meets boy 1,500 miles away and with testes of indeterminate presence even when viewed under scanning electron microscope. Girl and boy have hot, hot online exchanges which both mistake for actual bonding. Girl and boy eventually, and stupidly, agree to meet. Someone gets on an airplane. They meet and declare twue wuv.

Hang on a minute. I have to fight down the bile.

Anyway, allow me to make a few points about this most retarded of all dating scenarios. First, you just drove past more eligible ass on your way to the airport than you could work through in a lifetime. Among the ass you drove by were half a dozen or more men with whom you could have a lovely relationship. Let’s get something else out in the open right this instant - your “relationship” is doomed to painful, agonizing failure. You cannot build a relationship with someone when there is a multi-state buffer between you. It’s not possible. Long distance relationships do not work anywhere but in movies, and I hate to be the one to break this to you, but your life isn’t a movie. It’s not going to work. Ever. Oh, you sure as hell think it will, that your “relationship” is somehow the exception. “Our love will unite us!” you cry, but nobody’s listening. We’re all just waiting for you to fall on your face; your friends so they can pick you up and dust you off and me so I can point and laugh and very likely blog about it.

If you’re serious about being not-single, get your Ben & Jerry’s shoveling ass off the couch, get dressed and leave the house with one or two friends who aren’t haughty whores who will wreck your game. Find a place that has the kind of people you want to meet. For every dive bar with two dollar pitchers, there’s one with ten dollar martinis so packed full of young lawyers, doctors and businessmen you won’t know where to start. Then, do something that’s against your nature. Have fun. Meet people. Lots of ‘em. Most of all, leave your expectations, that laundry list of “a man has to…” bullshit, at the house. You will meet a lot of complete idiots, but you will also make new friends and maybe something more, because the only thing you retarded broads believe about relationships that’s actually true is that it will happen when you very least expect it.

So long as you’re not expecting it sitting on your ass at home alone.

In a move that startled gay rights activists across the globe, actress Scarlett Johansson was recently mauled by a pack of transgender actors at Harvard. Believing she was up for acting troupe Harvard Hasty Pudding’s woman of the year award, she was instead severely injured when she was attacked by several drag queens.

“We are stunned by this turn of events,” said Bob Hopperton, a spokesman for Harvard. “The queens were apparently hopped up on champagne cocktails and Judy Garland movies.”

Miss Johansson’s injuries were classified as slight by emergency medical personnel at the scene, while one of the “gender illusionists” responsible for the assault was rushed to a nearby hospital for treatment of a broken nail.