The Real Man's Guide to Romance, Part 2: Burnin' Love

If you're anything like me, you care for your woman just as much as you care about the environment. Since you're still trying to figure out if that's a compliment or an insult, let me clear things up for you: yes, it is.

One thing that is not ambiguous is my love of pussy or my disdain for holidays that make me pay a price for my aforementioned love. But much like when Biggie went home with that broad that got dick from a player off the New York Knicks, I know how to make the best of a bad situation. I take lemons and make babies. Just not directly. So when the Holidays strike, I strike back like any Real Man would.

Such is the case with Styrofoam. It can't be easily recycled. It doesn't biodegrade. But it does make a very lovely fire. The same type of lovely fire that one might use to get some St. Valentine's Day ass. The type of fire that burns with passion, that burns white-hot, that burns with the aid of excellerants. That's right, Real Men. Nothing says "Bitch, take your clothes off NOW!!!" like a little homemade Napalm.

Now you may ask yourself "Why in the fuck would I want to make Napalm, especially for Valentine's Day?" If you have to ask, then this is not for you and you shouldn't read any further, Girlie Man. For the rest of you, it goes without saying that nothing sucks more than having to tend to a fire and a woman at the same time. Thus the genius in using a hot-burning long lasting firestarter like Napalm to kill one bird with an incendiary bomb is not only in it's Real Man Appeal, but it's practicality. You can save time and the planet all while getting laid. It's a can't miss proposition.

Unless you blow yourself up. Now, would a Real Man hesitate to post instructions on how to make Napalm out of styrofoam on his blog? No way. But a Real Man also would know how to make Napalm out of Styrofoam already, meaning if you don't know by now you're not a Real Man. If you're interesting in becoming a Real Man however, I am willing to do you a solid and point you in the right direction. Click here to take your first step in finding out how to make fire like a Real Man.

And that's will do it for Part II. If you're still alive for Part III, We'll take a look at how a Real Man pulls off a Romantic Dinner for two.

Bonfire Appetit!

The Real Man's Guide to Romance, Part 1: The Nameless Drink

***WARNING!!!***

The following is for Real Men only. If you are less than a Real Man, read no further.

Liar.

But since you're clearly determined to read on, know that I will not be held accountable for what happens when your eyes set upon the Truth contained in this passage.

Don't Say You Weren't Warned.

*** END WARNING!!!***

If you're anything like me, you ain't no punk bitch. No my friend, you're a man's man. In the tradition of Eastwood (Unforgiven, not Bridges of Madison County), Swayze (Roadhouse, not Dirty Dancing and for damn sure not Ghost) and Batman (the one without a Robin, not the one who kicked it with teen boys in spandex), you kick ass and leave the name-taking for those far more pussy than you're even capable of pretending to be. Your man-stank makes women ovulate. The sound of your voice gets broads so hot you violate the Kyoto Protocol every time you bother to speak to these hos. Women want to be with you and men want to be women so they can be with you, too. You're a Gangsta of Love'em and Leave'em.

But all that doesn't mean your ass won't be sleeping on the sofa if you don't make with the romance when your woman expects it. If you think the way Russia cut off gas to the Ukraine was fucked up, try skipping out on doing right by your lady friend on Valentine's Day. The pussy will freeze up faster than the credit market.

But just because you're more Rick Ross than Ross and Rachel doesn't mean you can't moisturize her situation and maintain your manly. You just have to know how to go about pulling that shit off.

That's where I come in. As the guy your girl most often thinks about while she's with you, I'm here you give you the upper hand you need to get her mind back to where it belongs: bouncing uncomfortably off of your headboard. Or your belly button. Or, if you're anything like me, her younger sister. So grab your composition books and sharpen your Sharpie, because if you follow my advice I promise you your relationship will be the same again. Ever.

The first step in improving your love life in getting her drunk. This is an Absolut must and can never under any circumstances be considered optional. To this end I am breaking my silence and offering you, noble reader a recipe that has been kept secret for thousands of days. But no longer. You make thank me properly when no one is looking.

The Nameless Drink

one part Vodka
one part Peach Schnapps
one part Blue Raspberry Martini Mix
one part Wildberry Pucker
Cranberry Juice

Shake first four ingredients over ice, pour into chilled glass and fill with cranberry juice.

Now let be clear about two things:

1. The quality of the vodka in question will have a direct bearing on the panty peeling effects of this soft drink. If you're serving this to get served, don't pinch pennies.
2. I've never actually tasted this concoction before, so I have now idea what it taste like. From what I've been (frequently) told, it taste like Kool-Aid. Take that for what it's worth.

So there you have it, Part I of the Real Man's Guide to Romance. What's Part II? I don't want to give anything away, but Here's a Hint: it involves Napalm. Seriously.

Spinal Crap

If you're anything like me, you were really looking forward to me being able to Twitter a running diary during the birth of my third and final daughter. I was ready. I had my iPod blasting the Launch theme from Armageddeon, my UMA BlackBerry was connected to the Hospital Wi-Fi, and I was still not completely sober from the wine pairings I enjoyed with my seven course meal the night before. It was on.

Unfortunately for all of us I was denied that opportunity when Pregatron proved to be impervious to painkillers. No amount of spinal blocks, anesthetic or Bullfrogs (which is a Raspberry Stoli and Lemonade for the uninitiated) could numb her up. So she had to be put under, which meant I couldn't watch the blessed event in the OR. The whole thing really upset Pregatron, which was made worse by the fact that I couldn't talk to her to calm her down. Stupid Modern Medicine.

But in it's own way it was cool. It was kinda old school. I was left to pace back and forth and wonder what was going on. It would have been nice if I could have had a pack of cigarettes and some scotch, too. And then just like in the movies I hear a baby cry and out the nurse comes with my little bundle of outrageous tuition and expensive ass wedding. It was cool. I might head across the river into Canada and bring back some Cubans for complete the deal.

I wonder if Pregatron's Doctor smokes?

Here We Go Again

Some of you may have wondered I haven't been posting anything to the blog lately, and for those curious few I have an answer: I've been busy. You see, today is Pregatron's big day. The Daughters of Destruction will be adding a third and final member to their ranks today, in about two hours or so. So for the past two weeks I've been preoccupied with putting the finishing touches on everything around the house in order to make room for one more reason I'll never be able to get out of debt.

Nonetheless, I'm here in the D getting ready for Episode III and I'll be making up for lost time and blog post all weekend.

Don't say you haven't been warned.