The Doctor is IN
I’m not sure when I became a relationship Guru. As far as I can tell, I’ve only had a handful of relationships, and most of them went very badly. But, then again, I suppose that qualifies me as an expert on women. Anyone that has figured out how to piss off every woman he comes into contact with must, by now, know everything you should avoid doing if you want the relationship to last.
You find the same phenomena with River-Boat Captains. I have a friend that wanted to hire a captain to run his vessel up the Mississippi from New Orleans to the Great Lakes. He interviewed several potential candidates, and at the end of each interview asked “Has anything bad ever happened to you while aboard ship?” to which the first several candidates said “No, Sir.” and were dismissed. Finally, a little old man came in for the interview. “Has anything bad ever happened to you while aboard ship?” “Every time.” said the old man. “You’re hired,” said my friend. He figured that anyone who said they never had a problem was lying, but anyone who had a problem every time he went out and was still alive to tell about it must be able to handle himself in an emergency.
How the fuck did I start talking about that?
So, a brief history of the KOTWF’s relationships.
First, there was High School (I won’t go into middle school or elementary school, because the relationships I had then mostly consisted of asking a girl to be my girlfriend, then avoiding her). In High School, I actually found a few girls willing to date me, but after going out a couple times, they usually developed terminal cancer and died (I suspect they changed their names and moved, because how could EVERY GIRL I date die of cancer exactly 3 weeks into the relationship). By the end of High School, I was known as the “Black Widower.”
My attempts to change my luck were thwarted when I was not accepted by that All-Girls School, and I had to settle for a regular college. Just before school started, however, I met a girl who was perfect for me. What made her perfect? She lived 1,000 miles away. That’s right, for the next four years, I would have the ultimate relationship in which I only saw my girlfriend when I wanted to, and when we were both in a good mood. The rest of the time I was FREE!!!! Anyway, college came and went, and suddenly she expected me to move in with her! I said “Why ruin a good thing” and found myself back in the meat market.
That’s when I started dating “the bane of my existence.” She was the “friend” I had known for years, but had never had feelings for. Then, suddenly I’m single, she’s single, we’re bored, and nine months later (quit thinking like that, you dirty-dirty-birdie, that’s not what happened. Sheesh!) She begins the 6 month long break-up process. SIX MONTHS! (The fact that I put up with a 6 month long break up should prove that I am NOT qualified to give relationship advice, but I digress). So how did I, mature, relationship-savvy man-among-men handle this? I drank a lot of gin and watched porn. And I would, to put it into medical terms, “Throw my P in anything that moved.” Some of my adventures during this rather craggy period of my life involved 1) A sort of woman/beast thing and massive quantities of alcohol. 2) A sort of beast/woman thing and massive quantities of alcohol. And 3) an old sweat sock, a weed eater, a live chicken, and massive quantities of alcohol.
Finally, I slowed down My Wicked Wicked Ways (Good book, read it now) and started to become a normal human again. I didn’t drool anymore. I didn’t drag my knuckles when I walked. And I was ready to move on with my life. It is at this point that The Blondage arrived and took off her clothes in my uncle’s pool. The gods were tempting me, and I was all over it like Ron Jeremy on white trash. The last year has been the happiest of my life (Except for that year in Saigon. And the time I spent in Cuba. And those three months I was helping Jenna Jameson learn her lines). Thank you, Blondage, for being as patient as you have been. I love you.
As I was saying, all of my friends now come to me with relationship advice. Like I’m supposed to be Mr. Suave. Like I’m supposed to have all the answers. Like I’m supposed to understand women. And here’s the funny thing: even though I could get myself dumped by a sasquatch in heat, and even though I have been told on numerous occasions that the best thing about having sex with me is that it doesn’t take long, I don’t think I’ve ever steered one of them wrong.
Email me with your relationship questions, and I’ll post your advice to this site. Don’t worry, I’ll assign you an assumed name. Like if your name is Tom, I might call you Thom. Or if it’s TJ, I’ll call you JT. Or if it’s Layla I’ll call you in the middle of the night and breath heavy. You know. I don’t promise that the advice will be good, in fact, I don’t promise anything. If following my advice results in a break-up, your hair being set on fire, or genital mutilation, I will not be held accountable.
Step closer, Ladies, the KOTWF is here to help.