Sunday, November 5, 2017

Farmer's Gastropub: D+

Farmer’s Gastropub is just what Springfield needs for it’s changing demographics, but it's not very approachable. The immersion is easily shattered, the menu bounces around, and the most fundamental part of a pub is hidden away, just out of sight.

Ambiance: C-
-Dark stain on every wood surface creates a pub like atmosphere
-Beautiful inlays in the woodwork brings out antique and seasoned feeling, like sitting in comfortable history
-A huge bright TV lights up the entire bar area, casts bright light off the insanely glossed tables
-Locked shadow boxes with posters of famous British songwriters, actors, persons, tacked to the wall
-Tables aren’t screwed or weighted down to floor; they move and shake with the slightest adjustment (see experience)
-Close seating means you listen to ALL the conversations happening near you, regardless of volume

Experience with Ambiance:
As soon as you walk in, you’re greeted with a warmly lit hostess podium. I chose a booth, and was taken to the bar area, which was barely lit except for a huge flat screen television mounted above a fireplace (?) in the corner. The deep stained woods made the entire area seem darker, but not seedy. We were seated at a booth and I knocked the table into my co-diner without any real effort on my side, nearly racking him. He slid the table back towards me, again with no real effort, and knocked me in the chest. We decided to put our feet on the table stand underneath us to keep it in place for the rest of our time there. It didn’t stop us from knocking our server in the hips with it trying to adjust in our seats.  
I looked around to see more of the deco and wasn’t impressed. The shadow boxes were pretty neat, although it’s cliche to hang a picture of John Lennon in a pub. Especially since it was a paper poster of John Lennon, locked behind glass, but visibly tacked to the wall. A metal “Abbey Road” sign was hung above the box itself. If I had a dollar for every time a British themed restaurant in America hung a photo of John Lennon or made reference to The Beatles, I wouldn’t be writing these reviews for free.

Menu: B+
-Easy to read with agreeably legible font & size
-Pricing is more than fair for product, although two items on the dinner menu are “payday plates”
-One sheet, printed both sides with accompanied wine & cocktail slip, doesn’t overcrowd your table with needless text, doesn’t overwhelm  
-Plate descriptions range from depthy and descriptive to blurbs (see experience)
-Food ranges from typical pub fare to Thai, Indian and Spanish which leaves the diner confused to the target ambiance
-Long descriptive background on the restaurant's origin and list of local farmers that takes up most of one side of the menu
-No “bread and butter” beer list for diners wanting to ignore seasonal tastes and have a pint

Experience with Menu:
I was surprised by the amount of tasty selections, and excited to try some things I had never seen before. Having flipped the menu over and read the pub background with the list of farmers they get their ingredients from, I was floored by how many incredibly fresh options I could choose from!
Descriptions of some of the menu items were so enticing and had me geared up to stick it in my face, while others, such as the description of the Buffalo Pig Ear Taco, left me guessing. On the “Pub Snacks” section alone, you get detail ranges from “Scotch Egg” with “heritage ground pork, soft yolk, piccalilli, wholegrain mustard..” to “Buffalo Pig Ear Taco” with “blue cheese slaw”. I already had curiosity with the idea of pig’s ear, being as Spanish as I can remember, but the description didn’t tell me how it was prepared, what type of buffalo sauce, and where that slaw was going to be (on top? On the side?). I ordered it specifically to satisfy the questions, but that shouldn’t be a reason to order a menu item alone.  

Food: C-
-Freshness you can taste
-Well thought out combinations on complementary flavors and textures on some items
-Appetizing plating with inviting portions
-House crafted condiments (except ketchup and mustard) that dazzle
-Fish n’ Chips were delicious
-Scotch Egg was delicious  
-Lack of description on Buffalo Pig Ear Taco ended up being an exploration into misery (see experience)
-The tartar sauce was sulfuric, stunk up the table and carried the taste in anything else we bit into
-The ketchup was just tomato paste with sugar in it
-All the fried menu items we ordered came to us greasy, dripping in peanut oil
-The feta cheese on our salads and blue cheese that came with my taco were skunky with no balance of skunk to savory, leaving a stomach bile taste and gritty mouth feel

Experience with the Food:
While I did not have an entirely miserable time eating the food, I left Farmer’s Gastropub with no inclination to suggest it to friends or want to come back. My co-diner ordered the large ($18) portion of Fish n’ Chips and the Scotch Egg, while I ordered a Pig’s Ear Taco. I didn’t taste the Scotch Egg due to my egg intolerance, but I was told it was delicious and I believe him. I did have an opportunity to taste the mustard, which I liked very much, although it was not made in house. I could see it pairing well with the richness of the soft yolk. Good call there.
My Pig’s Ear Taco was another story entirely. It came to the table looking delicious, but that sentiment wasn’t meant to really stay. The tortilla was soggy from steam, picking it up was a nightmare. The slaw was piled high on the pig's ear, which was dripping with oil and buffalo sauce. I bit into it anyway. Big mistake. The putrid smell of the intense blue cheese wasn’t offset by the sour, salty taste of oil laden fibrous ear. I actually set it down and picked it apart to find out what I actually found disgusting and what actually was disgusting.

-The pig's ear was deep fried, which isn’t a horrible thing I guess, but it is when it’s leaking pools of sauce and oil all over the plate.
-Cabbage in a slaw is required; blunt, roughly chopped, bitter tasting chunks are not.
-Add to the bitterness of the slaw, and you get an even more bitter cheese. So bitter that the finish leaves the taste of vomit bile in your mouth and a grit on your tongue.

The only saving grace of the entire taco were the peppers. They were beautiful and flavorful. They are the only reason I didn’t send the taco back. When I say taco, I mean a greasy but somehow rubbery nip of a barnyard pig’s ear swimming in an abyss of sour salt that swathes your tongue in a confusing ballet of oily crunchy mucus. I could taste the barnyard. I could taste the bitter cabbage and putrid cheese. It was fighting like 300 spartans with my teeth and it was a fucking mess. The entire taco felt like a slap directly in the face of Spaniards, like it was conceptualized by someone’s brother who doesn’t know the difference between Mexico and Spain, while simultaneously proving that Americans are monkey-see type people. This taco made me check my own pride as a food lover and historian. I thought to myself, “Am I actually good at this, or am I just applying my vague knowledge of cultures to what i know of temperature and calling it ‘young determined genius?’” It was misery and if I DARE ever go back to taste the rest of the menu, I’m going to avoid that part of it like it abandoned me at school to go buy baggies of meth.

Service: F
-Server came to our table
-Did not answer questions about the menu
-Did not offer to explain beers, wines, cocktails or specials
-Did not offer pricing
-Visited our table three times, once to pour us water, once to get our order, once to hand us a check without asking if it was together or separate
-Came off hostile, stressed, like we were annoying and shouldn’t be there
-Acted on her own/made decisions for the table without asking
-Handed us the check in the same breath she asked us if we wanted desert
-Became aggressive when I made a joke pertaining to beer and her level of customer service

Experience of Service:
While I was willing to completely ignore the taco misery, I couldn’t bring myself to really enjoy myself. Our server came to our table 2 minutes after we sat down. She swooped in, poured us water, and asked if we were ready. I said we weren’t. She moved along. I wanted to ask about the beer prices, or maybe what was on tap. Nothing. I looked around the table and at the menu a couple more times. Written very tiny, on the table, was a display that said “DOWNLOAD THE UNTAPPD APP TO SEE BEER LIST!!!!!!” Okay, so, I have to download the app, then? Alright. The menu states, “CHECK OUT OUR CHALKBOARD” which I look everywhere for and eventually find it placed on a back wall, over the heads of a loud party of 8, who saw me looking at them and rolled their eyes. I said, “No sorry, I’m trying to read the board.” and they rolled their eyes some more. Okay, not the best reception, but at least there’s something I can READ, right? No. The chalk was smeared illegibly on a dark board in fluorescent shades. If I COULD read it, I missed several letters from the sheen.

When our server came back I knew what beer I wanted, after looking at the app for 10 entire minutes. She took our order and asked if we wanted the apps out before the food. I said, “I’d like the beer first please.” with a smile, which I guess pissed her off? Because she rolled her eyes and said, “Obviously.”
Well I didn’t know it was fucking obvious princess, sorry; we’ve been sitting here with water for 10 minutes I wasn’t even sure you served beer here much less food at this point so settle down your little 5’2” server body.  

So she bounds off. She comes back six minutes later will all of our food and beer. My co-diner ordered the “large” portion of Fish n’ Chips, which she took the initiative to split on two plates; while nice of her, she didn’t ask us if it was okay, so we spent the entire meal trying to flag her down and ask if we were charged twice as well. It took me a few minutes before I felt comfortable digging in, as I didn’t know if I was charged for it. We were both really uncomfortable eating while not knowing if we were charged twice or if there was going to be an issue.     

We got our bill.

I really wish I would have known they were $8 a PINT before I ordered them. I would have got a flight to taste a few at that price. Then again, no one explained shit to me.

Final Thoughts: D+
If that is the type of consistent service customers are used to, they must have low standards. I would love to taste more of the menu, but based on servers like that, there’s no way I’d go back in there. You get a D+ for introducing me to my limits and having a shitty server.

If you’re interested in visiting Farmer’s Gastropub, take a look at their menu here:

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Springfield Is Why I Drink

Before I get going on this subject with any actual intensity, I’m going to correct the few of you who I’ve made the agreeable mistake of calling friends: read this entire god damn thing before you start crying. I’m telling you this now because you’re a sensitive sort, at least in some respect, which is why you’re my friend to start with. I have a deficit you fill that isn’t my vagina.

Springfield, Missouri, for all of its places to be (few, actually) and people to meet (you get the point after you’ve met a few) is a kind place to live. It’s where you want you raise your kids, or if you’re not a fan of the torrential humidity of Florida, it’s place where you choose to die.
Springfield has four seasons and bipolar disorder, so in any given week, you get the year's worth of changes in weather. There’s no real danger in having your kids walk to school in any part of town, because the hardest gangsters represent a road on the south side, called Ingram Mill, which boasts a Price Cutter, IMAX movie theatre, and dental offices geared towards kids.

In terms to the worst of the worst, you will have to stand quietly in a line at the Kum & Go gas station behind or infront of, someone actively on meth. They will be attempting to do the same thing as you, which is buy cigarettes, or a soda, they just won’t be as good at it.
Sure, there are seedy parts of town, namely the north side, where I live. The neighbor to my right plays Dungeon’s and Dragon’s; to my left is a woman who claims to be a nurse with one of two of her dogs being particularly violent towards anyone at anytime. Across the street, I’ve got constant entertainment from a couple who can never seem to complete the simplest of tasks without arguing over that one time the woman sold all the copper wiring out of her boyfriends HVAC van. Meth, obviously. Next to them and the final house worth mentioning belongs to a senile Vietnam veteran who occasionally offers me moonshine, and other times harasses me for coming off gay. In both situations he assumes I served with him, and asks about my knee.

Without going into too much detail, I’m not from here. I’m not from anywhere specifically; but I live here and have lived here long enough to gripe and praise. I’ve learned a bunch about the types of people who live here with me, and after awhile, I realized they can be categorized much like anyone can. But Springfield’s people have one unique quality that I haven’t seen in my time around the country.

Springfield natives are naive, big-hearted*, family oriented**, religious, and dopey.

Imaging a mix of Homer Simpson and Clark Kent, sometimes sober, sometimes on meth. That's a native.
Boy, can they get defensive about it. Just recently, a tattoo shop run entirely by women that’s a block away from my house received a bit too much attention from TLC and decided to use it as a means to bring in more customers. Unfortunately, they aren’t all native Springfieldians and thusly by making statements similar to the one I just made, painted a target on themselves.

See the video here.

Locals lashed back in the typical Springfield way, not by harassing phone calls or spray paint or threats of death, but by simply going on Facebook and leaving a lake of 1-star reviews. Some of them even made up stories about how dirty the tattoo needles are. I had my fun reading through them, although I have to say, the only thing they really did wrong as present the truth in a bad way. You see, the people here are religious, but no, you're not considered a "nerd" if you go to college here. The real truth is if you're a woman in Springfield going to college, you're going to be in the medical field in some respect, and if you're a man, you're going for business, general education, or if they broke the mold, an English degree. I've literally never met a woman or man that's going to college in Springfield for another reason. Anyway, people who saw the promotion were pissed and I spent the same amount of time harassing friends on Facebook for being so buttmad.

The truth is, advertising and marketing that comes from Springfield embosses the fact that natives are a bit Clark Kent without the direction, and without ever becoming Superman. What makes this town safe for families is also what makes those families, and perpetuates Springfield's "if it ain't broke" mentalities. Coincidentally, it's also what gets me into nearly all my arguments.

Mexican Villa is a local restaurant that I've been to once. I didn't want to eat there, but a well-connected friend of mine told me they were craving for it. By well-connected, I mean she knows everyone in a very literal sense, and in my mind that has typically always meant that they also know the hot spots for outings or events. Having lived in Arizona for a number of years, I'm wary about eating Mexican food in areas noticeably absent of Mexicans.
We sat down at a table covered in that industrial plastic table covering, shaded sort of yellow but not white on purpose, and handed a basket of chips with accompanied salsa. Standard Mexican restaurant fare. Except the chips were machine-salted because they were out of a god damn bag, and the salsa, if you can call it that, had waterlogged chunks of long-dead tomato floating in a pinkish water, with flecks of some green vegetable, I hope. As a natural fatalist, there was no judgement on my behalf about if I should eat it or not, so I did. The room temperature salt chips did a nice job of replacing the flavor of what you could actually taste of the salsa, since it was so ice cold nothing in the flask had taste to it anyway. And of course it was so watery, you had to let your chips soak in the salsa before eating them, or you'd just be eating wet salt, which if I'm being honest, wasn't much different from the truth of it anyway.

This was about the time, after ordering our lunches from a 6-page menu that repeated dishes in different names, that I started to take in the decor. My eyes repeatedly drew towards a phrase stamped on every inch of the walls, and to my surprise an assortment of shirts. It read,

"Top plate is hot!"

I asked my lunch mate why the urgency, if there was a bad accident or maybe a murder that happened and she responded with all candor, "That's the catchphrase of Mexican Villa!" I hurriedly asked a slew of follow-up questions typical to finding another example of Springfield native marketing:

"Is this a local restaurant?"
"Do you know the owners?"
"How long has this place been here?"
"Is it popular?"

She gave me all the positive answers and look pleased about it, I was less so. I quickly asked her if she realized that all Mexican restaurants tell you the top plate is hot when they serve you. Oddly, she said yes, but it didn't seem to recognize what I was implying. The shirts proudly displaying their motto come in the local University colors.

Bear in mind that having an entire company motto like "Top plate is hot!" is like any normal restaurant having a motto that says, "Here's your check!"
Imagine it; you sit down at a diner, not unlike so many diners that dot the country of America. A waitress takes your order of french fries and a Coke, because you know what those should look and taste like. You're familiar with french fries. You're also aware of the taste of Coke. In your mind, there is no real way it can be messed up, except say, if you're in an "American diner" in Japan. You're feeling a little worried that the Japanese don't really know what their doing with your food--and when it arrives, your worries are confirmed. Before you sits a plate the size of a coaster, topped with a half-cup of stringy shoe strings that as you come to find out, are salt-licks swimming in old grease. Some are burnt the color of your Coke, which arrives lukewarm in a gallon jug that has "Coke" scribbled on it in indelible ink. It happens to actually be flat carbonated off-brand called simply "Cola".

This is what I was facing when I learned that Mexican Villa's legitimate business motto was "Top plate is hot!" and it wasn't even so much that there is a ton of pride about it. It's that their food was an imitation of what it was supposed to be. A very bad imitation that tasted like it was born from people who thought to themselves one night, "Hey. Yeah." and that's where it ended. Mexican Villa is a perfect example of native Springfield entrepreneurship, but it's not where I took issue entirely. My problem is that locals who have never tasted genuine Mexican food believe that places like Mexican Villa are representative of the culture's food. And it's perpetuated by other, more legitimate Mexican restaurants because to thrive in Springfield as a business, you must tailor tastes to the locals. It's not even specific to Mexican restaurants---there's an Indian place in Springfield that at one time, sold beef curry. If you don't see where that's wrong, you're part of the problem.

Now, this isn't quite the same as the general populace of America believing that Chinese food is supposed to be fried meats in greasy noodles. American-Chinese food places perpetuate that to the point where it's so tailored to our tastes that most American's can't tell the difference between Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or Thai food. The first time I told one of my co-workers that real Chinese food wasn't just a #7 with extra Sweet & Sour, we ended up almost fighting. Which brings me to my last entry on this whole thing: Cashew Chicken.

Yes, I'm going there.

In 2006, I was sitting in a holding cell in Greene County, Missouri, with my hands cuffed behind my back and blood drying in my nose. I was sixteen, so they weren't going to put me in jail with the big girls. They were however, going to have a stern conversation with my mother. I had been in a fist fight with a 22 year old man, never got his name, downtown in Springfield's square. He was in big boy jail for wrestling with a minor, but worse than that, they waited to put him in with other men because he had very obviously lost the fight. What was it about?

The man said Cashew Chicken was made in Springfield, Missouri, and I said it wasn't. 

Before I go on, remember how I said Mexican Villa makes an imitation of the culture food it's selling? This is the other side of the story. This is the story of how a business man realized the native nature of Springfieldians, and cashed in, creating a myth that will likely always get me into fist fights.
If you ask a local, they will tell you Cashew Chicken was created in Springfield, Missouri, by a "Chinese guy" and it's so popular that they have a festival for it every year. Everyone loves Cashew Chicken in Springfield, and it's even called "Dish of the City".

When I told this guy (and several people) through the years that cashew chicken was NOT invented in Springfield, he got super defensive and started pushing my buttons. The reason I say that is because before coming to Springfield, I had eaten cashew chicken and loved it. I'm not implying that the dish I ate wasn't a dish that had made its way west, I just knew that it was from immigrants on the East coast, and not an immigrant from the Midwest. So I always figured they were talking about something else.
Finally in 2017, I googled it, and after 11 years I can finally tell you people to go fuck yourself.

This is the Wikipedia official statement on Cashew Chicken:

"Cashew chicken (Chinese腰果雞丁) is a simple Chinese-American dish that combines chicken (usually stir-fried but occasionally deep-fried, depending on the variation), with cashews and either a light brown garlic sauce or a thick sauce made from chicken stocksoy sauce and oyster sauce." 

"The traditional version of cashew chicken is stir-fried in a wok. Tender chunks of chicken are combined with crispy roasted cashews, vegetables and are tossed in a light sauce made from garlic, soy sauce and hoisin sauce, thinned with water.[1]"

Now here is SPRINGFIELD Cashew Chicken: 

"Borrowing from the local love of fried chicken, Leong came up with a variation of the preexisting dish. Instead of stir-frying the chicken, as is normally done, he deep-fried the chicken chunks. He then covered them with the typical sauce made from chicken stock, soy sauce and oyster sauce, and added the handful of cashews. He also included chopped green onions as a twist and it became an immediate hit with the local crowd. As word spread about the dish, so did the recipe. Leong's Tea House closed its doors in 1997, but Springfield-style cashew chicken is still being served at over 70 Chinese restaurants, as well as many non-Chinese restaurants, in and around the Springfield metropolitan area, and elsewhere in Missouri and other states."

Yes, that's right. That's fucking right, you cunts. Smell that? That's vindication. Leong didn't invent Cashew Chicken. He did the right thing by Springfield business standards--by any business standard really--and tailored a pre-existing dish to the locals. Leong did what Mexican Villa didn't, and adapted a popular dish to the natives, in an extremely Springfield way. He deep fried the chicken and skipped thinning the sauce so it retained a gravy like texture and boldness. By tailoring this dish to the natives, Leong created a mythology that locals aggressively protect. If that isn't the most Springfield god damn thing you've read. Much like Clark Kent will keep his mythos and virtues, so do Springfield natives to their Cashew Chicken. 

But from here on out, it's Springfield Cashew Chicken, or Springfield Chicken, and I'll fight the next fucker who wants to test me on it. 

You people are the reason I drink. 

Thursday, January 7, 2016

What It's Like Being In Lesbos

So you think you’re a faggot.
That’s nice.
Good job getting to this point. Now what do you expect when you’re expecting? There’s a lot to know about being a homo in the 21st century. With the politically correct atmosphere getting thicker and centering around sexuality and gender, it’s nice to just be talking about simple homosexuality these days. I never thought I’d have to say that, honestly, because I used to think that was as complicated as things needed to be. You’re a guy, and like men? You’re gay as fuck. You’re a woman, and find yourself attracted to women? You’re queer, lady. As insensitive as this will be to anyone who subscribes to absolute horseshit on the internet, the worst it ever got with that level of complexity was fag bashing. Someone didn’t like what you liked and they killed you for it. Hello, 12th century.
These tumultuous days, you’re lucky if you can make it through a grocery store without some androgynous looking half horse man slapping your hand away from a loaf of Wonderbread. If I hear one more god damn asshole telling me some shit about how gluten causes my cisgender to oppress the growth of their organic erection of whatever, I’m going to start phase one of my genocide. Wait, people are doing that all across America. Where’s my AK? I’m frustrated and oppressing people’s merge lanes or some shit, I can’t take it anymore.
That got dark so fast, god damn.
“Be thankful you’re just gay.” I mean that to end this paragraph but I put it in quotes so you can get used to hearing it too.

So being a lesbian has a bunch of perks. Not as many as being born white does, but I mean, it’s got some ups. For one, going to prison isn’t so bad. Assuming you’re a totally shit human and get sent to prison after discovering you’re queer. I hear it’s like high school with more drugs and the fights have more clear winner and losers. I guess getting shanked is pretty black and white.
Bear in mind that finding your snatchlegs in this bumpy ocean of human bodies can be a bit tricky, and there’s a difference between expectation and reality. I’ll help you, mortal.

Firstly, there’s categories of lesbian. Simple stuff really. You’ve got your bulls, your femmes, your sporties, your dungeon crawlers, and your uglies. Before I keep going, I’m talking about real lesbians, not cam whores or gay4pay. Any subcategory of what I’ve already mentioned is just a branch off a named tree; i.e. a Latina who wears Timberlands and sweatpants with her hair plastered to her skull counts as a bull, not sporty.
I've dated all the Spice Girls, so I’ll break it down for you because I’m a saint.

The “pants”, but not always the dominant one. Typically short cropped hair or pulled to a tight bun. Dressed mostly like a young boy, not typically like a man, i.e. polo shirt and faded jeans. The same way you’d dress your son for church or to go to Thanksgiving. Usually I’m the first one to confuse them for a guy in public, despite having nailed females ¾ of my life. I never remember to look for the Adam’s Apple, and to be honest, some of these creatures have them anyway. But I’m also the first to say, “if you don’t want me to call you sir when I say thank you, then don’t dress like one.” You can at least take my gratitude if you aren’t going to take my dick.

The reason people say, “You eat with your eyes first.” Again, just because she likes the way her ass looks in those jeans as much as you do, it doesn’t mean she’s a pillow queen. From my experience, femmes are the ones that try to top you. It’s cute, sort of like when a girl is riding you from the top? All clunky and someone is going to giggle through their ball-gag. They used to be called “lipstick lesbians” but no one really wears lipstick anymore. Ironically, I can spot a femme like a wounded doe in the woods. I’ve never been wrong. 
I mean, I don’t really try to nail gay girls in the first place, so maybe I’m just more than okay at getting straight girls to let me smush than I am anyone else.

I fall in this category and it bugs me more than I think it should. What can I say? We’re a little bull and a little femme. Sweatpants and t-shirts all day, if we can help it. Sneakers of some sort and our hair either down and unkempt or up in a loose bun/ponytail. We look like someone who either coaches or plays softball for high school. I actually like soccer and rugby, but not all of us give a shit about sports. We just like to live “comfortably”, which is ample code for “we like to eat and skinny jeans cut off circulation to our legs”. She has more close male friends than female ones because she can talk sports, drink beer, and she can’t easily be confused for a man. Except when they get older they turn into that PE teacher.

Dungeon Crawler
These ones sound cool and all, but they’re not dungeon crawlers in the sense that they roll dice in your mom’s basement. They live and breathe S&M. They have more shiny leather than all of that awkward fashion moment in 1998. Whips, chains, cuffs, chokers, leather, uh, nipple clamps? Are they into that too? I don’t know. I’ve never been satan.

Have you ever heard your grandmother say, “I don’t know why she’s gay, she’s such a pretty girl.” This is what happens when that isn’t true. Oh sure, they had a boyfriend here or there, maybe when they were younger before they grew into their face. Either way, they didn’t win the genetic lottery. They didn’t even get to play. Now they awkwardly make nothing but female friends and feel better knowing they belong somewhere as someone's token queermo. Until, of course, they “get too drunk” one night and try to kiss one. Then it either happens or it doesn’t, but both situations make things awkward later.

Okay, so you’ve got your hyper-generalized basics down. Which are you? Do you have a penis? Oh, god, speaking of which. Ignore that last question.
Here lies this awesome debate that I love to take on every time I accidently find myself among people who can’t wrap their heads around a noose properly, much less the concept of two people of the same gender “fucking”. The question of dicks. Hold on, I’ll get to that.
The conversation, not like, a dick. Nevermind.

So you’ve got yourself a girl. You picked one, you two like each other. Things are going well. She’s moved in, which is cool I guess. I mean, your space was alright when it was just yours, but now her smell and hair and underwear is literally everywhere. She came with things. She came with her things and they’re intermingling with your things. They’re making things with each other. You two have a great connection. It’s like having a great sister you can share everything with, except you two get to smush. Unless that doesn’t bother you, in which case, at least you can’t make babies.

For all the benefits of having a good connection, there’s a few hiccups. It’s a woman, after all. And for all her beauty and sensuality, there’s also that gross level of shit mixed in. Real life gross.
You're going to do some things you wouldn't normally do with anyone, much less someone who knows what your junk looks like from the inside.






It starts out like fire and spreads. You'll be hard-pressed to find time to do anything else. Nothing is more terrifying to me than a woman who understands how much she loves genuine orgasms, and knows how to draw them off your mouth at alarming speeds. Don't get me wrong, I'm here to please. "How can I help you?" is more than my life motto. It's so much of what comes out of my mouth. Confident women don't give two fucks about telling you exactly what they want when they want it, and eventually they don't have to tell you anything. You learn what she likes, and she'll never leave you the hell alone. I'm actually typing this from my bed. Don't send help. Slide water under the door. 


You're a woman, after all. Now here me out on this. Diving head first into her, erm, "monthly subscription" isn't for the squeamish or faint of heart. Our gender didn't evolve with the same hunter/killer instincts that men did. We evolved with the gift of gab, mothering, and picking different colored berries. Women are more social and more intuitive naturally. So it's not a huge stretch to poke your interests in her direction. You know how horny you get when you're bleeding. Don't lie to me. You feel beautiful, you're putting off pheromones, and the way you hold yourself demands attention. Of course you want to smush. But the smell of blood isn't your thing? Well, lucky for you, menstrual blood doesn't smell anything like say, the blood from your wrist that you slit waiting for a person who cares. It doesn't taste the same either. Honestly, you can break the seriousness that often comes with doing something embarrassing by making it fun. I used to paint smiley faces on their inner thighs so when they went to the bathroom to wash up, they giggled. Nowadays I just smear it all over my face and do the Warriors thing. You know the thing. 


I shouldn't have to mention the obvious dangers of fucking around in someones blood. And I'm not your doctor so you if you grow an extra hand out of your face or suddenly notice parasites in your eyes, don't come crying to me. Don't eat things you find on the street, stupid. 


When you find a break between nailing each other and laying in bed staring at each other for days on end, you'll start living your lives again. Funny thing about that, because the moment you're conscious enough to remember how to spell your name, something always happens. It's an odd natural occurrence that gives little goals to meet throughout the day. Sometimes it's drama, sometimes it's deciding who is going to shower first or if you should shower together. 

You spend so much time near one another, you're starting to become a four-eyed monster that only speaks in moans and pilfers the fridge for cheese&olives at odd hours of the night.  

Think of it like this: There have been controlled studies orchestrated by fancy people in white coats, the kind of people who tap their pens on clipboards, on what happens when you put two people or more in the same environment for long periods of time with no outside influences. You can see it on shows like Naked and Afraid or any prison show on daytime TV. The outcome isn't usually too great, even if the pair were together or intimate before the study started. But sometimes you get two assholes who compliment each other's level of crazy, and somehow they've figured out what works for them. You two have spent so much time together, you've essentially started to twinsies. 
She has anxiety over time, and I can't grab cans of food off metal grocer shelves. I set all my clocks forward so she's pleasantly surprised and she doesn't ask me to hand her corn while we shop. She likes to take baths, and I rock my legs when I sleep. I get to wash her and she doesn't mind the rocking that puts her to sleep. 

Eventually you make other people sick with your twinning shit, so you two will eventually go back to being hermits. There's a healthy level of being one mind, I just haven't found it in any relationship I've ever been in. The "Lesbian Urge to Merge" is strong in more than just finding a U-Haul filled with her shit show up on your lawn after your second date.  


My favorite part of being a woman and charming is that there's always at least one little bitch who tries to get under my skin, by pissing off my girlfriend. It's incredibly childish because here-say isn't even admissible in court, which determines a man's freedom or not, but for some reason my happiness is fair game. Now, if you find yourself a good woman whose head isn't made of fetal alcohol syndrome, then chances are she'll see every shitty gossip against you as a lie. When The Hater can't get to you, they try for what can get to the people you actually sort of like. It manifests all sorts of ways. Sometimes they say you're a cheater. Sometimes they say you're a shit human and abusive, and sometimes they just flat out try to get all your friends to believe whatever green noodly horse shit they can spurt. 

Sadly, the "good" haters are fantastic at this, and use as much truth to lie as they can. Which makes telling the truth make you look like a liar. It's super shitty, so hopefully dear reader, you use your powers for good instead of evil. I pick women who are cultishly loyal to me to start with, so this shit doesn't happen and The Hater looks like a stupid asshole. 

They're pricks because they feel wronged somehow and want you to be wronged too. The Hater thinks your gravy train isn't salty enough, and typically stops at nothing to see it crash. 


Trouble with talking as much as we do is that we share personal things we'd never share with our male counterparts. This is really good when you need to get things off your chest, or if you're having a quiet night in and suddenly remember that time you read a book in the dark using the light from your joint to read it one sentence at a time. Sharing your life story is a choice; no one pries it out of you, but when you tell anyone in this world, much less someone you trust with your secrets and feelings, be prepared to hear it again and have it leave a bad taste in your mouth. 

Women are emotional, and it's gross. They can cut you deep, especially with all your sensitive issues to use against you. Obviously if you found yourself a woman who's perfect in all areas except she flies off the handle, it's time to assess your life. What kind of fly off the handle is she? Does she get mad at petty shit and yell a bunch or does she lose her mind over something a hater said and remind you how much your family hates you and how alone you really are in the world? One is normal woman bullshit that everyone on this earth has to deal with and the other is any Monday of the week in any relationship I've ever been in. How frequent does it happen? Usually someone who cuts deep over petty things are people who are angry with themselves, and it has nothing to do with you. 

But sometimes you're a real prick too, you fucking asshole. Work your shit out. Talk about what your problems are and be honest about what the hell you're feeling before you shoot up a school or sell your ass for spent lotto tickets. 

One of the things I've never been able to shake about nailing women is that if you're messing with lesbians, they've all messed with each other already. You can be in the largest city in America, but you'll still stumble across someone who you're snatch-sisters with. I've avoided this as long as I think I should have at this point, but I chock that up to chasing straight tail and not pre-determined muff divers. Before you assume that I've got so much game I'm God's gift to women, remind yourself that nailing straight girls doesn't make for a solid relationship. As quick as the come, is as quick as they leave. The snatch-sisters issue is a real one, and sometimes The Hater will put a bug in your girl's ear. "She banged her, you know." The good news is, if you two communicate and remember how twinsies as fuck you two get when there aren't any negative people, you'll be alright for the most part. You'll cry and she'll cry. You two bitches will trade apologies and return to recess. But those fights will hurt. Prepare your cunt. 

Girls are stupid. Jesus if it weren't for titties and sweet warm asscheeks slathered in coca butter, I'd date a bag of skittles. 


Back to that thing I mentioned earlier about dick. The standard question I still get today is, "If you're going to fuck cock, why don't you just date dudes?" So I'll simplify what I normally say to that as much as I can. 
Using toys when you smush is something you and your girl decided, to make things more fun and give you more range of where and how you can do things to each other's body. My personal preference is to not have the thing anywhere inside of me. I've never liked it, and nothing is going to change my mind about that. But wearing one is an entirely different story. Do you have any idea how funny it is to walk around with a boner in your pants when your girl is cooking? I've used mine, named Mario, outside of the bedroom. I've cock-slapped my friends or I've made my squeamish friends wear it because they spilled my drink. 

Little boys tug on their junk the moment they discover it, and I totally get why. I like going through the drive-thru dick first just incase they want to get sassy with me. 

But this isn't sex-ed. This is an introductory course on not being a totally shitty lesbian. It's not about the dick, it's about the person your dicking. If you're a male reading this, and you have the same question burning at you, let me break it down for you. Whores take dick for cash. The guy balling a whore isn't in love with her, and she certainly doesn't give a shit about him. It's a business exchange. The person taking every inch on the other end of Mario doesn't give a shit about the fact there's a wang inside of her, she gives a shit that I've got full range of my hands so I can use them. She cares that I'm looking her in the face and that I'm not going to have to stop pumping so I don't cum inside of her. We can play all kinds of games in all sorts of places and I don't have to get lock-jaw trying to have fun. 
So those nipple clamps you like to stick to your wife frees up your hands to hold her legs up. That blindfold makes it so you don't have to play peek-a-boo while you try to use your other arm to slap that ass. The foam triangle holds her ass in the air so she can be face-down in comfort while you rail her from the back makes it so you don't have to lift all 120lbs of her body with your palms for better rhythm.
If you can tell me that your wife or girlfriend "craves" or "needs" the triangle, clamps, or fold, then I'll back off my soapbox and say, "Yeah you're right. Silly me. She's just cock-hungry." but I doubt your wife has developed a deep, horny desire to feel the soft fabric of the triangle holding her up while you destroy her vaginal lining. 

In a nutshell, we don't care for your equipment. It's not attached to someone we like. Gay is weird like that. 


Be sure to let who ever you want to smush what you want to do with that, or it could be an unpleasant surprise in the dark. That sounds so soft compared to the horror of enjoying yourself until you feel a warm piece of plastic try to wiggle it's way to your stomach through your crotch. Some Alien level scary, right there. Trust me, I know. I'll be teaching a class on dicking techniques soon. If you give her some goodness gracious, you might accidentally fuck the housewife into her. Which is not bad at all, as long as you're okay with sustaining her 50's valium and white wine habit. 

Okay, so it's not complicated. Stop making it complicated. Why do you make me do this? Why do you make me hurt you? 
Any relationship is as mature and playful as you make it. Find a good balance and don't watch too many TV dramas. Stop facilitating dyke drama. Start fucking more. Fuck everyone, all the time. Or find one person you really like fucking and fuck them more often if not all the time. Don't lie. If you want to fuck someone else, stop what you're doing and tell the person you're currently fucking so they can make their own whore plans. Don't be stupid. 

Welcome to the fantastic world of glittery cunt and ways to hide the smell of your shit until she poos first.