I had a conversation with one of my more favorite cohorts the other day about a particular business with which we are both familiar. We are both incredulous at how many bad decisions are made on a daily basis and how no consequence ever seems to come of it. At one point, he dubbed it insanity per the definition of “doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

Maybe it’s masochism, but I am sometimes compelled to pore over the shit that is purveyed to women about men. Insipid, shallow, stereotypical drivel like: 5 Types of Guys to Avoid at all Costs and 10 Things he’s Thinking when he Sees you Naked.

Now, do I agree that Bluetooth- and popped-collar multi-polo shirt-wearing douchenozzle cuntbags aren’t worth a woman’s time? Yes. Absolutely. But this article doesn’t share anything insightful at all … and it doesn’t call women out for their habitually stupid behavior of going for exactly the guys they complain about. All the while these insane — per definition above — women decry the lack of good men out there, while intentionally overlooking the ones that fit the criteria they condemn the dipshits for lacking.

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I’ve been on a movie watching kick lately, since my girl is out of town. She and I were watching ‘the Shield’ and ‘Deadwood’ religiously, so there was no room in the queue for anything else. When ‘Deadwood’ started sucking, we just switched over to non-stop ‘Shield’ … that show is amazing.

On the agenda for today was, effectively, a pornographic movie called ‘Shortbus’ … which was so awful I turned it off after less than ten minutes. It’s a bad sign when a movie consists entirely of fucking (and hokey changes of character that involve panning through a pastel drawing of New York), complete with ejaculations, and it’s not even remotely erotic. Plus, I don’t even like white people, let alone watching them fuck … and the token Asian woman doesn’t count, fill in your own aspersion. If there’s an option on Netflix to give a movie no stars, this one’s got it coming… hardy, hardy har.

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I work in “the business.” Yes, I know that means nothing without context because there are tons of “the businesses” just like “the city” is relative to whichever metropolis is closest to your non-metropolitan locale.

But, come on people, the only “the business” is Journalism and the only “the city” is New York. And I hate them both, but I love them, too, damn it. Well, I tolerate them both … kind of like a wife and a child.

In “the business” we have something called “the wood” and, well folks, my wood was on the front page of the paper today. Now, before you get excited that I’m talking about my cock again, by wood I of course mean “the headline of our top story.”

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It exists. I’m serious.

On Saturday, my lady friend  and I went to the butcher in my ‘hood, which has been there since 1931 and — judging by the people spilling out the door — is the place to be on Saturday morning.

Old Haitian ladies and other folks from the West Indies stood around waiting for their numbers to be called so they could order 20 pounds of lamb, 50 pigs feet, a ton of beef bones and a kiloton of tripe. I’m exaggerating about those last two, but some woman really did order 20 pounds of lamb. One of the men behind the counter came out of the walk-in with the ass end of a lamb in his hands. It still had feet and everything.

All we wanted was a pound of ground beef to make some tacos, but we drew number 96 upon walking in and the board behind the counter read 59. I tried my damndest to make our ticket say 69, but it didn’t work. Goddamned reciprocal numbers.

When the board got up to 74, we’d been waiting about 20 minutes and I was done with it. I was either going to leave or get my pound of beef. It was right then that the lady ordered enough lamb to feed all of Brooklyn that I saw one of the guys come around to a scale right by where I stood.

“Hey,” I said as he weighed a bag of chicken feet. “Should I have called in my order? Would that have made a difference?”

“Naw, man.” He answered. “Why, what do you want?”

“Just a pound of ground beef…”

“That’s it? Man. Let me get that for you.”

So, we got our pound of ground beef right then and, in a little display case behind the counter there are all of these soups — chicken, fish … and cock, so I asked for a packet of cock and we paid and went home.

Funniest thing about the soup to me is not that it’s cock-flavored soup but that I can’t eat it because it contains wheat ingredients, so I truly did only buy it for the comic value. I guess cock must only mean rooster to West Indian people, but the male chicken isn’t the first thing that pops into my mind, hence my childish amusement.

Wow. To think my dick would be the subject of the most commented upon item in this blog’s young life. It just goes to show that crying and complaining really is how to get what you want.

Actually, I should have followed up that post much sooner with one singing Babeland’s praises. I went back to their Brooklyn store the next day, on the advice of the woman working there, and got precisely what I’d gone to get on Election Day. So, all my pissing and moaning was for naught.

One of the comments in the Babeland to Beatdown: Go Fuck Yourself entry is from a Babeland staffer, who made me the generous offer of sending my package a package (loved the way she worded that), since I’d been so disappointed to miss out on the promotion. It’s very refreshing to see that they’d be willing to accommodate me considering I took the tone of a total prick in my post and that they’d clearly disclaimed that the promotion was only available as long as supplies lasted.

Get this, they went out of their way to be accommodating even despite their disclaimer. The supplies didn’t last, but the Brooklyn store ordered more. That’s how I got mine. Add to it, now, that I’d been offered a freebie for being a baby, and their stock just keeps going up.

So, I felt the need to explain that I’ve got no enmity for the store. I never did, actually. I really just threw a binary fit for the sake of complaining about something. It’s only fair that I give them their dues for going above and beyond the call. They aim to please, it seems. Good thing, since their business is pleasure.

Babeland was offering free vibrators for chicks and free penis sleeves for dudes, to honor Election Day yesterday. My special lady got herself a sliver bullet and I got … bupkus. Why? No more sleeves. Why? The demand was too high. Or maybe the supply was too low. Maybe the sex toy shop run by women for women didn’t really consider that there would be as much male interest in the free shit they’d put aside for us. Or, maybe, as my lady friend put it: “I’m sure all the gay men came out in droves … and there are a lot of them in New York, sweetie.”

Suck it, Babeland.

Allow me the indulgence of being histrionic, for a moment. Oh, wait, this is my blog! I can say whatever I want. I get so used to being told what I can and can’t say in my gestapo-run commercial life that I forget about free speech. But, I do want to preemptively apologize for ranting about something as unimportant as a sleeve for my cock.

Still, I feel discriminated against. The ladies at the toy store don’t value my dick as much as their nonnies (perhaps why they’re so fond of toys, but that’s merely a hypothesis), else they’d be more accommodating than “guys can use vibrators, too.” It’s a bit like the conservative rhetoric of “civil unions are just as good as marriage!” If America is all about freedom and that bullshit, shouldn’t our national motto be “Give the people what they want?”

Well, it isn’t. Not at Babeland, anyway.

Did Ben & Jerry’s run out of ice cream? Or is that different because ice cream (like vibrators, apparently) is unisex?

Essentially, this all boils down to don’t offer what you can’t deliver. I don’t like being misled, and I don’t like getting somewhere to see that the dole for the ladies is still doling out, but the one for the guys has all dried up. But I’m going to let go of my disappointment, now; I finally voted for a presidential winner. Third time’s a charm, I guess.

Yes, “cock” will be a keyword in this entry.