For those of you that missed this over at Super Badass, here it is. I don't see any archive section there, and I'm obsessive about preserving my output. So here it is, for my benefit.

I haven't written anything this week. New content soon, I imagine.

"We gotta get you a girlfriend, Steve. How long has it been?"

"Too long."

"Right. Years, I hear. So here's what I'm thinking. We'll spread some rumors. Say nice things about you. Imply you have a dick like a baseball bat. I'll have Jenny say something to Miranda. Miranda never stops talking."

"The best rumors are based in reality, so that's a good start."

"Shut up. Just shut up. If you ever, I repeat ever, say anything like that to a woman, then our efforts will be useless."

"Well, I guess we can leave out the great sense of humor part, unless that was your fault for failing to laugh at my half-hearted attempt at self inflation. That's not my kind of joke anyways. I'll stick to my usual eloquent broadsides of self-deprecation and sarcastic wit."

"Stop sounding so goddamn clinical, too. Your vocabulary is a disease that radiates off you like a cloud of gnats. It screams 'hifalutin intellectual' and that is a bad, bad thing. Women like smart, funny guys, but not if you sound like you're using Latin denomination."

"Hifalutin? Denomination? Not bad. I'm gonna start calling you Roget."

"Fuck you."

"Look, I don't need your help. You'd likely find me some diseased whorebag and pay her twenty bucks behind my back to suck me off in the bathroom of an all-night diner. Then you'll pat me on the back, all the while sniggering herpes jokes when I'm out of range. I'll do this on my own. I just gotta hit the town on Valentine's Day. You know, look for some depressed teary eyed cute little thing who's had one too many margaritas. I'll take her home, sleep with her, then takes things slowly after that."

"Wrong wrong wrong. A one-night stand is not the answer. Yes, you need to get laid, but the goal here is to find you a relationship with a longer lifespan than a quick tryst. I'm thinking three months sounds good. She'll get sick of you by then, but it's a good start. And besides, you flirt like a flopping fish stuck in mud. You couldn't land a one nighter if you tried. The one time you did, it didn't go too well. Don't try to deny it."

"It wasn't that bad."

"Oh yeah? Want me to recap the details, Romeo?"

"No. I don't wanna argue that one."

"Good. I'll skip past the broken bathroom scale and the tooth marks. Let's get back on track here."

"I'm listening, but I ain't heard anything useful yet. And since when are you a love guru? You loathe your girlfriend. You always whine that you never get laid, and the rare times she gets drunk enough to mount you, she usually passes out after ten good thrusts. You might as well be a corpsefucker."

"This is not about me. Don't try to change the subject. I'm trying to help you, asshole."

"I already told you I don't want any help. I'll just keep on going and one day some wonderful girl will happen along and life will be peachy keen. I'm an optimist, remember?"

"No, you're fucking clueless is what you are. I know where to start. Those awful clothes. You look like you do all your shopping at rock concerts and sports arenas. You need some style, not that generic slacker shit. What is that, a mustard stain?"

"It was soy sauce, but it faded. You can barely see it."

"I can see it just fine. You know what that says to a woman? It says you don't give a shit. It says you're not trying."

"Well, I'm not."

"You need a haircut, too. Shorten that mop. You look like Rob Thomas, and it doesn't work for you."

"Who?"

"That emo douchebag who sings for Matchbox Twenty. Nevermind. You're testing my patience here. If you keep reacting with such hostility we're never gonna sort you out and get you matched up."

"Really? In that case, go piss up a rope."

"Don't you care? At all?"

"Sure I do. But I'm not ready to undergo an extreme makeover here. I am not gonna to morph into some cookie cutter fashionable fuckface lathered in cologne and Ambercrombie just to score some emptyheaded Trixie overdosed on hairspray fumes and Cosmopolitan magazine. I'm perfectly content to masturbate alone and spend my life free from obligation. Unlike you, I don't have to negotiate before I watch football."

"Fine, fine. Remain a laughing stock. Even George, with his neverending parade of low self esteem fat girls, and his funky odor, even George! for Christ's sake, will have somebody to look down upon! Be a mockery. I'm done trying to help you out."

"Hey, you know what?"

"What?"

"I could teach you something about love. Wanna hear it?"

"This oughta be good."

"I know you hate all that Valentine's Day crap. Tell Jenny this next February. Back during the Roman Empire, Claudius the Cruel banned all marriage and engagements. He thought love and domestic bullshit were fucking up his recruitment of legionnaires. A Roman priest named Valentine started performing secret marriages. That's the origin of the holiday. But here's the kicker: when Claudius found out, he had Valentine beaten to death with clubs and decapitated. Pretty romantic, huh? When she asks for her present, offer to let her beat you to death and chop of your head."

"I'm sorry, but how is that supposed to be useful?"

"I don't need help finding a girlfriend. You need help losing one. I'm only trying to help you."

"I've had enough of you today, Steve. I'm going home to fuck my girlfriend."

"Better bring a lot of vodka." 2:11 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm