Sex Is Like Pizza

...someone once said, "Sex is like pizza - even when it's bad, it's still pretty good."

Then someone else put that on a bumper sticker, and people have been saying it for years.  But I think today we need to take a closer look at that analogy, shall we?

If sex is like pizza, then what else?
Given the root of the saying, "sex is like pizza", then you could also suggest the following:

• Sex is like pizza - it's not quite as good when you have to make it yourself
• Sex is like pizza - if you're not greedy with it, you can have some more in the morning
• Sex is like pizza - you shouldn't take it from someone without asking 
• Sex is like pizza - the longer you wait for it, the faster you finish it
• Sex is like pizza - sure, 2 for the price of 1 sounds great, but it never really lives up to your expectations.

What if you don't like pizza?

...and having it with your mom is gross.

Does this mean you do you not like sex?  I've often found myself saying things like, "how can you not like pizza?"  But I've never taken it to this next level.  When defending pizza, we tell people that it's got all four of the major food groups, it's quick and easy, it comes in a box, and it's great when you're drunk.  Don't all of these statements apply to sex too?
You know who doesn't like pizza?  My dad.  At least he says he doesn't.  When he was a younger man, he ate some pizza after too many drinks and puked up a storm.  Hasn't eaten pizza since.  But this was before I was born, so unless my real father is the milkman, then I'm pretty sure my dad likes pizza after all.
Then there's my wife, who also claims she doesn't like pizza.  I'm not even going to figure out what that suggests.  Well, she doesn't like pizza that I order out for.  She likes the pizza that's covered with things like zucchini and goat's cheese.  And really, that's hardly pizza.  And also, she likes making it herself.
(which brings us to...)

Delivery or Delissio?
Those of you who have seen my pizza rules know I'm very strict about the pizza I eat.  (Read the rules here: http://www.ryanfanclub.com/archive/guide/goodpizza.html )
Does that make me strict about sex?  Is ordering out for pizza kinda like ordering in a hooker?  If she takes longer than thirty minutes to orgasm does that mean it should be free?  Hmmm...
Some producers of frozen pizza claim their product is just as good as delivery.  Nope.  However, having sex after being out in the cold is a great way to warm up.

So, they say sex is like pizza.  And I guess for the most part it really is.  It can be gooey, hot n' spicy, or if you're a little more daring, you can stuff the crust with hot dogs.
It comes in different sizes, with different variations from all around the world, and just because you're a meat lover doesn't necessarily mean you're gay.
It can be enjoyed while watching TV, or at a party, and sometimes you sneak it in but don't want to tell anyone after.

So there.  Sex really is like pizza.

The bottom line though - neither should ever include pineapple.

There Isn't Enough Time In A Day

ooooh, it's artsy.

...there isn't enough time in a day.

Fuck that.  And fuck the people who insist on saying it.

There just isn't enough time in the day!

To do what?  What could you possibly need more than twenty-four hours to do each day?  Is your day really so packed full of going to work, raising your kids, cooking a meal, and taking a shower?  Heaven forbid you miss that newest episode of Glee!

We, as human beings, have our priorities so incredibly messed up and have put ourselves on such a high pedestal that we are actually blaming our problems now on the perceived lack of minutes and seconds magically floating around on a calendar day.

What the flippity fuck?

As far back as I can remember, an entire day has been twenty-four hours.  I'm about 99% sure that it's been that way for a few centuries now.  Something about how the sun rises and sets.  I'm not a scientist, just an observer.

Society and doctors within our society tell us that we need a good, full, eight hours of sleep each day to live a healthy, productive, and happy lifestyle.  That's great if you buy into that theory, but I personally don't know anyone who actually sleeps for eight hours on a regular basis.  Sure, you can buy a fancy new bed with all kinds of memory foam that molds to your well-fed buttocks, and will continue to mold as your fat ass keeps ingesting all those Big Macs and frozen TV dinners.  If that fancy bed doesn't work then you could always take your doctor up on that prescription to help you sleep better at night.  That's all the doctors really want from you anyway.

So if we all had a good eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, that would leave us with sixteen hours of time each day to get shit done.  Let's also knock another eight hours off of that for work.  If you only work part-time and are constantly bitching about how poor you are, then still knock off eight hours and assume five of that is for working and then actually use that extra three hours to find a job you'll be more happy with.  But you probably don't use that three hours wisely, because let's face it - you're still on the third mission of the new Call Of Duty game.  Here's a thought: join the army and GET PAID to play soldier.  Or become a professional pimp/car thief and put the GTA disc back in it's case.  It might be a great way to meet women too.

So there we have it - we have eight hours in a day to get shit done and enjoy our lives as human beings.

No, wait, we didn't take in account your commute to and from work.  And the time you eat dinner with your family.  And going to the bank.  And making love to your significant other.  And buying groceries.  And taking a big shit each day.  And actually cleaning your house. Filling up the gas tank in your car.  Reading a story to your child before bed.  Shoveling the driveway.  Mowing the lawn.  Shoveling AND mowing at the same time.  Brushing your teeth. Walking your dog.  Calling your mother.  Filing your taxes.  Taking another big shit because you eat too much fast food.

You get the point.

I know, I know... but all I wanna do when I get home is sit around and play my guitar.  I CAN'T miss the new episode of (*insert shitty reality show here*)!  I have to get my hair done.  I need to spend 90 minutes in the kitchen each day producing a well-crafted imitation of some gourmet recipe I saw on some cooking show on some stupid cooking channel because IT'S MY PASSION.  If I don't text this person right now and that person next and then text him and her and post this and tweet that and like this and favorite that I just won't be able to function!

It's called priorities, people.

Pri-fucking-orities.

I think it comes from the latin, which means "to get shit done."

And that's just it - we have lost all concept of what we need and somehow mixed in what we want and actually believe it's important to us and anyone else.

any lane.  any time.  do you have enough time for that?

And really, that's what the fast food companies want - they want us to feel like we don't have enough time in a day so we have to stop by their little "restaurants" to get a few extra value meals to fill our ever-expanding bellies.  And if you don't have enough time in your day for that, well there's also a goddam drive-thru.  Hell, you don't even need to leave your car.  Just eat it in there and toss your trash into one of the garbage cans on your route back home.  After all, you don't have enough time in the day to take out the trash.  Survivor's on tonight and you shan't miss it!

I don't even fucking drive a car and you don't hear me complaining about how much time I don't have.  This blog?  It's taken me about three days to write, off and on, because I'd rather sit on the floor with my two-year old daughter and spend thirty minutes doing some ridiculous Donald Duck jigsaw puzzle with her while the pork chops cook on the stove and I have a load of laundry in the dryer.

Priorities.

You know who really doesn't have enough time in a day?  That single mother who probably lives in your neighborhood.

I'm not talking about the stupid girl who got knocked up by her loser boyfriend that checked out before the kid's first birthday, but she keeps going back to him because she *loves* him so much even though he drinks and snorts coke and gives other girls other babies to take care of too.

No, no, I'm talking about the single mother who lost her husband tragically and now she's stuck working full-time with a part-time job on the side just to make ends meet and she barely gets to see her own kid throughout the day.  That woman would probably kill for an extra thirty minutes in a day.  She'd sell her goddam soul for one more hour added to her clock.  She's only getting five hours of sleep as it is, and she's functioning just fine.  Do you think she'd use that extra hour to watch the season finale of Dancing With The Stars?  No fucking way.  Bring out the Donald Duck puzzle for her.

There's not enough time in the day.  Jesus Christ.  You know how to fix it?  You can't just fly backwards around the world like at the end of the first Superman movie.  You don't have a DeLorean either.  Nope.  There's no easy way out, folks.  You want more time in a day?  You need to MAKE more time in a day.  And I'm not talking about creating a twenty-five o'clock here.

So go do it now, unless you think there's plenty of time for that later.

- ryan

Potty Training

playing chess is like using the potty.  or is it?

...no, no, this isn't about me teaching myself new swear words.

One of the most rewarding aspects of being a parent of a beautiful two-year old is when they start potty training.  You pretty much look at them and give them a thumbs up, as if to say, "Hey my sweet little angel, thanks for not pissing in your pants anymore."

It really dawned on me the other day when I was getting all the garbage ready to go out.  I opened up the Diaper Genie to empty the bag out.  If you aren't a parent, you may not know what a Diaper Genie is.  It's an over-price garbage can designed specifically to put dirty diapers in.  And heaven forbid if you buy the wrong bags for it.  There are Diaper Genie and Diaper Genie II bags.  Mixing it up is like trying to jam a Sonic The Hedgehog cartridge into a Super Nintendo.

If I need to explain that analogy to you, then you're reading the wrong blog.

So there I was, emptying the Diaper Genie II (yeah, that's right, I've got the modern model with built-in iPod docking station) and I noticed that there were barely any dirty diapers in it.  Maybe three or four.  "Jesus Christ!" I shouted to nobody as I realized just how much money I'd be saving in diapers this month.  Imagine dropping $58 for a box of 142 things that you were just going to pee and poo in.  Now, stop with the over-active imagination and quit imagining that Tijuana hooker that came to mind.

We're really fortunate that the wonderful people at my daughter's daycare help out with the potty training.  It's really helped in progressing it along.  Sure, the trade-off is they teach her songs about Jesus, but I can forgive that. She listens to enough Prince around the house anyway to know what good music is.  But anyway, if it weren't for the ladies at daycare, my daughter wouldn't be nearly as far along with this whole potty training thing.

So then I started reminiscing about my own potty training experiences.  My memory only goes back so far, but I do know this - I was taught how to use the potty in the living room while watching shows like Today's Special and Bowling For Dollars.  My parents got this nifty little wooden chair with a big ol' hole in the seat and they'd just sit me on it with no pants on.  I wasn't allowed to get up from that spot until I dropped a big ol' deuce into the bowl-thing that was underneath.

That might explain why whenever I go number two today I think about mannequins and mice.

If I succeeded in doing my potty business, I'd be allowed to go play with toys or continue to live.  Like I said, my memory is pretty foggy.  I actually still have that little chair.  It's about fifteen feet away from where I'm writing this in the Fan-Cave.  I guess it's just a piece of my childhood I haven't been able to part with.  I took some good shits on that chair.  Oh, the memories.

my old shittin' hole

When my daughter uses the potty she is rewarded with a Scooby-Doo sticker.  Talk about motivation!  I wish I could get a prize every time I took a good healthy crap.  Imagine if every time you went to the bathroom you got a stamp on some kind of toilet card.  Every ten stamps and you're allowed to shit in your pants and run around the neighborhood like a crazy person.

Or even better, if you were given better rewards based on your quality of excrement.

Let's supposed you had a little poo.  Bam! Sticker.  Just one measly little Scooby-Doo sticker.  Seems fair and appropriate.

But what if you had one of those really awesome bowel movements that only comes along once every couple of months?  You know the kind - it's the length of your forearm, all one piece, and contains little corn remnants in it.  That should definitely be rewarded with a strawberry milkshake or dinner for two at Beefsteak Charlies.

Messy, wet, stinky diarrhea?  You get someone's shitty leftover Hallowe'en candy.  That's right.  Your prize is one of those little toffee-like candies that all the old ladies refer to as "kisses".  Those things alone will make you eat a bit healthier so you don't squeeze out a fountain again.

The Potty Master and Myself

Wow, I kinda rambled there.

So when I went to daycare to pick up my awesome daughter - The Potty Master as she shall henceforth be known - I gave her a great big hug.  For a few reasons:
1. She's getting good at using the potty
2. Doing so is saving me money on diapers
3. I can buy more beer with the money I'm saving on diapers
4. The empties from the beer I bought with the money I'm saving on diapers is like a third income to my household

I mean, let's not kid ourselves. There's going to be some bumps along the way.  She's going to pee the bed.  It's going to happen.  Even as an adult.  Fuck, we've all done it.  We've all had that moment where we woke up all warm and wet and made a mad dash to the bathroom while holding our junk in hopes that not too much would get on the walls.

We all have, right?

...right?

And on that note, I'm outta here!  Flush me away!