Dear Christina,

It’s me Adam. Adam Aragon from Fuhnny.com. You probably don’t remember me, and that’s because we’ve never met or spoken. However I remember you. I’ve seen just about every movie you’ve ever done. From your Addam’s family days, to your dark spooky Ice Storm, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Buffalo 66′ days. To your Sleepy Hollows and even wrapped in a pink bubble gum shell in Speed Racer, or dowdy and down on your luck in Bucky Larson.

We’re roughly the same age, you and I. I’m more than a fan, I’m an admirer. Your eyes open all the way past the edges of your irises, giving you a slightly manic look, that I never get tired of. You’re curvy, petite and seem to age beautifully. You’re just as pretty now as you were when you started acting.

Now, I know you’re probably in a relationship, and with full disclosure so am I. However due to your fame I’ve been given the go-ahead to try to sleep with you. I’m not sure if we can have an emotional bond without compromising both of our relationships, nor do I want graceless spin-off sex with you (although I’ll take it if it’s on the table) I’d like to be your friend with benefits. Your friend who makes you laugh and occasionally tosses an orgasm your way. I’m not high maintenance. I’m not the best looking guy in the world, but I’m not bad either. I’m friendly, funny, charming and unafraid to tell you how I feel.

I don’t want any money, or fame, or to ride your coat-tails to greater opportunity. I think you’re awesome, interesting and attractive. I love your movies and what glimpses of your personality I can glean from mainstream media, your IMDB profile and the occasional interview or magazine expose. It’s not my intent to be creepy, I’d just be one of a million (I’m sure) if I just said that I love you and want you and yadda yadda yadda in some half hearted fan mail. So instead, I opt NOT to send this to you, but to hopefully have you find it naturally and come across a well spoken argument for making a new friend, possibly getting naked with him, or least having a hell of an interesting conversation.

Why bother? You have lots of friends, you have Hollywood. You not starving for attention and your current boyfriend is probably richer and more attractive than I am. I say, carpe diem, seize the day. No, I don’t offer a significant improvement in any way. But I’m bold, outgoing, funny, and adventurous. Not in a ‘hang-gliding off the golden gate’ kind of way. But the quirky kind of adventurous that could have us drinking cocktails on the roof of a shed while playing mad-libs using only Nouns. I’m taking a chance, a dare, that you’re that kind of weird, my kind of weird.

We can be friends, we don’t have to sleep together, but I think we should have our ducks in a row, that yes, I’m attracted. I cannot lie. I mean I can, but I wouldn’t lie to you. Unless it was the deciding factor. In which case, I have 18-pack abs and I am the worlds greatest polo player.  I would grow extra abs for you, and do situps for a month if we could hang out, and that’s the truth. (Except the impossible part of the previous statement)

I’m rambling now, you do that to me, even when you’re not here. But really, a phone call. Take a Chance.

Special thanks to Sean “SicSemper” Beering

• My love for you is geometrically greater than my love for math
• My love for you is mainly derived from the essence of domesticated pets
• My heart fills with fluid causing a seizure every time you are near
• You make me as Rational as Pi
• You corrupt my logic Sub-Program
• We will smash together like pornography made inside the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva.
• Our flesh will intertwine like Jeff Goldlums body fused with the DNA of a fly in that fateful movie
• I will take you out on a date so hard your body will suffer the bends from excessive g-forces.
• Our love makes as much sense as a sudoku puzzle done by one of the chimps from that flight simulation movie.
• Every word you speak  is like a butterfly, drinking my soul
• If you were a dinosaur, you’d be a sexysaurus
• If you were a smoothie, you’d be ginseng and wonderful
• If you were a poisonous flower, I would make cakes from your venom and poison anyone who ever looked at you.
• Your face is like a barracuda hunting my heart
• My urge for you is like a blender on Frappe
• Our lust is like a rednecks bonfire, raging into the old barn that missy stuffed with hay after she got mule-kicked.
• Your smell is as intoxicating as 27 republicans on a bender and burying a hooker they killed with a nylon ligat.
• Living a day without you is like Lindsay Lohan being sober, rare and terrible.
• Your voice is like Siren’s superpower from X-Men, but it only works on my willpower.
• My legs open for you like Torsion springs designed to do so.

Write in your own and I’ll add them to the article

Dedicated to Carrie (Who Loves Geeks back)

(Or How I conquered Racism, all by myself)

Dear Readers,

Far be it from me to take time on a simple blog to explain my own convoluted ideas, or preconceptions. But one thing I’ve always hated, as a vague patriot of our unsettled country , is the French. I don’t know where my hatred of them stemmed. It could be when I was young and countless people told me Jerry Lewis was funny and I kept not laughing. It could be other people’s negative opinions and insights about their lack of military victories, personal hygiene, lack of ethics,etc.

I guess I just never gave it much thought that I despised the French on principle. Every traveller I’ve ever talked to said they hate Americans, and I assumed it’s perfectly sane to hate them right back. My only real experience with a french person prior to about a year ago was an effeminate coke-head who was my friends roommate named “Stefan”. Strangely enough he was actually pretty likable. But then again he literally wore horizontal black and white striped shirts and berets. Is that the US equivalent of a “Wolf” t-shirt in France?

So Stefan didn’t strike me as a usable example of the French people. While pleasant enough, he seemed too much of a stereotype to be authentic. My guess is that he bought into US Stereotypes to be funny and fit in, and did coke because it’s fun. So I was left continuing with my general ignorance and random dislike of Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, and anything to do with Quiche.

What really made the turn was this little cafe right downstairs from my work. For the sake of not naming names let’s call it “Le Cafe” because the name was similarly unoriginal. It is owned and operated by extremely french people. The owner, the waiters/waitresses, the host, everyone except some of the Mexican bussers were all fluent in French and favored it above English. Most of the time the only words I’d hear from them in English (or American, as my retarded fellow patriots call it). Were “what would you like” or “more coffee?”.

Then as the restaurant was by my work I’d go every couple weeks and after the fourth or fifth time I put in an appearance there was a world of difference. Suddenly I was greeted by name, given priority to tables, comp’d free coffee etc. At first I put it up to just being a ‘regular’ but finally I managed to engage some employees in conversation and they explained that they treated strangers like strangers and friends like friends. Since I’d been there, met them, joked with them a little they switched to ‘friend’ mode. After that, there was no warmer or more friendly people on the planet.

In retrospect, they were rather distant and cold when I first started going there. Making the transition more dramatic in comparison. No one wore a beret, or stripes. They all DID have a knowledge of fine wines, but I think we can give a stereotypical pass since they serve it at the restaurant. Now, just becoming a regular at a French restaurant didn’t make me a convert to gay old Paris. I’m sure I’d still be treated like shit in France. It did make me realize that a lot of stereotypes that I would outspokenly debase in public are pretty rampant in my mind.

My history in life didn’t include an Anti-Frenchman, Dad didn’t hate the French, at least not outspokenly. He was sort of generically racist and never made any attempt to convert me to a particular way of thinking…

(To Be Continued….)

A lot of people probably say they fall in love with strippers. After all, any single guy wandering into the smoky den of the strippers gets undue attention, surrounded by beautiful women and treated probably nicer than any girl has ever treated them.

But I don’t fall for them, I realize their amazing and random interest in me is totally based in their need for my dirty wad of cash. I simply have a strange and backwards reaction to strippers in general. I empathize with them. Some would theorize this would result from my treatment of women in general. I basically act like I’m constantly at a strip club when I’m everywhere but a strip club. I hug girls and objectify them and generally make a lovable asshole of myself.

Somehow this trips the reverse reaction in me when I’m confronted with women that objectify themselves, hit on me, and go out of their way to sit on my lap and show me their tits. I feel bad for them. I want to buy them coffee and learn about their lives. I want to give them a jacket and believe the best about their situation. To be honest I don’t fully understand it. Maybe it’s because I can sense their fake sales attitude and realize that each one of them is struggling to make money by lying.

They aren’t really interested in me, or the 200 other guys that blow through there in a night. I guess I feel more pity for a girl who has to pretend to like a guy than a girl who pretends not to like a guy, which is so often the case. Sometimes the worst is when they are bad at it. In fact I usually avoid strippers that are good at their job. If they seem very at ease and quick on the draw I’m usually turned off instantly, because I know I’m about to get hustled, and that it will probably work if I relax for a minute.

No it’s the girls who seem to not know quite what to do, or why they are there. They are probably worried that I’ll be creepy and overly drunk or forward. My heart immediately reaches out to them and makes me want to just give them 20 dollars to take a break and understand that all men aren’t evil.

It’s probably a little patronizing, to assume that a lot of strippers are people to pity or feel sorry for. Some would probably hate me for what I’ve written so far. It’s some combination of being sexist, sensitive, misogynistic and inherently kind. I just find myself conflicted and strippers to be fascinating. Because they’re real people, almost universally beautiful, acting as fake as they possibly can. They are basically paid to be nude retail actors. Selling a product, convincing you it’s worth it and overcharging like hell.

It’s also been theorized that people that go to strip clubs fall into very few categories. Lonely and degenerate men who cannot see a girl naked any other way. Lonely men who are celebrating degrading women, or lonely men who have too much money and are travelling. While I think that the majority of these are true, I find myself trying to categorize myself. I’m not particularly lonely, I have a girlfriend. She doesn’t particularly mind me going to see naked women, understanding that this is, for men,  basically a fashion show, makeup sale and disturbing gossip all rolled into one.

I’m not trying to sleep with them, I’m not willing to spend ridiculous amounts of money, and I’m probably the last person that they actually want to talk to, since I’m cheap and sensitive to being hustled. Yet I go and actually do engage them in conversation, which they are happy to do because they think it will lead to them getting me to pay them. Most find out in 30 seconds or less that I’m not really going to give them hundreds of dollars to prance in front of me for 5-10 minutes. But a few actually relax and engage me in conversation with a fervor that’s surprising. Once the sales pitch is over and if there’s nothing else going on, a lot of strippers are happy to start talking about their day or problems. Which are often varied and complex.

This evokes in me a sense of empathy, interest and a genuine urge to improve their day. This is probably a side effect of them being beautiful and right in front of my face. So the question remains, am I just victim to a pretty face, and tight with my money. Or do I somehow relate to the plight of people who force themselves to be fake and appear attractive to get by in life? I’m not pretty enough to be a stripper and there’s not much call for male strippers in the same context, but I get the feeling that, if I could, I would be a stripper. Maybe if I were female.

I have to admit, this is all more of a train of thought than a clear direction. The only conclusion I can draw from this is that I secretly want to be a stripper, a woman, beautiful and objectified. Since I remain unable to do so and painfully heterosexual, I guess I will lock this deep into my psyche along with my conflicted feelings about my family and embarrasing sexual episodes during my teenage years (and beyond). Then I’ll go home and kiss my girlfriend, high-five my best male buddy, crack open a corona and think about video games.

The difference between men and women, is that this kind of stuff probably lingers with women. I’m such a fucker.