Have you heard the news?

It's the kind of news that would make someone like me do a cartwheel. If I knew how to do a cartwheel.

For me, it's more than just news you stand around the water cooler and talk about.

This isn't just, "Hey, did you hear what Tim Tebow did now?"

Or, "Hey, did you hear what the President said last night?"

Or, "Hey, did you hear what Jim in accounting was doing with that banana in his office?"

This is big.

Big, big news.

Finally, this...this is news I can use.

It's news I've been praying for.

Have you heard?




What Older Women Want, Men Can't Deliver -- Sex Study

(Chicago) Many older women still want to have sex, but they might find their men cannot oblige.

So says a global survey of 27,780 adults aged 40 to 80 from 30 countries that found aging women become sexually dysfunctional at about half the rate of men.

"To the extent that women are (sexually active), they may be facing men who have problems," said lead researcher Edward Laumann, a University of Chicago sociologist due to present some of his findings at a Vancouver, British Columbia, conference on Thursday.

The survey found that 31% of middle-aged and older women lacked interest in sex, 22% were unable to achieve orgasm, 21% did not find sex pleasurable, 20% had trouble lubricating, and 14% experienced pain with sex.

Among men, about 20% suffered from erectile dysfunction, which increased to nearly half by age 80, according to the survey, which was funded by Pfizer, Inc., the maker of the impotence treatment Viagra.

Among the health problems common to older people associated with sexual dysfunction were diabetes and hypertension, especially in men. But psychological factors, especially depression, diminished interest in sex after 40.

In the United States, two-thirds of men aged 70 or older have a companion who is a potential sex partner, while less than one-third of women do because of women's longer life spans and divorce patterns.





Do you know what this means, friends?

Well, okay. Other than the fact it means your mother's a dirty little whore, do you know what this means…for me?

It means suddenly, redemption is at my doorstep.

Suddenly, 48 years of pain and degradation are about to be replaced by a smoking jacket, a pipe and Lawrence Welk in digital surround-sound.

Suddenly, a golden opportunity has been laid before me.

And by golden, I don't mean "Fort Knox" golden.

I mean "AARP" golden.

Yes friends, it seems that God -- bless His little heart -- has given me another chance. Another chance to be a great lover of women.

But not just any women, mind you. Mature women.

Women who are helped across the street by Boy Scouts. Women who love to sip hot tea. Women who wear thick, white panties.

Do you understand what this means, friends?

Well, okay. Other than the fact it means your mother is probably on top of the mailman right now, do you know what this means…for me?

It means that soon, I am so gonna get some granny ***.

Yes, after hearing this wonderful news about the thousands of depraved senior women in this country, I've come to realize that my physical incompetence hasn't been the problem. The problem's been my taste in women.

Well, not so much my taste in women as it is the age of my women.

The thing is, I've wasted all this time pursuing young, beautiful girls when the reality is, there are horny old women who would die for someone like me.

As opposed to just, y'know, regular falling over and dying.

Yup. All these years I've been after the hot chicks when I should've been chasing the ice-cold chickens.

I've been underputting with the younger set for far too long. It's time to move on to the bigger, the better, the saggier.

This is gonna be great for me. So great.

No longer will I hear, "You're kidding, right?"

Soon I'll look into those bifocals and hear, "Y'know, you look a lot like my grandson. Hop on, sonny."

The thing is, over the past 30 years as I've continued to disappoint my wife time and again, I've often wondered if there was someone out there who would appreciate what little I have to offer.

And while I figured that woman would be plastic and require an air pump, never in my wildest dreams did I think there'd be thousands of women happy to simply find a man with a semi-productive weasel.

"Me! Over here! Pick me!"

Yes suddenly, armed with this fabulous news, my life has taken a turn in a positive direction.

Ladies, your Boy Toy is here.

Soon, I will be a Stud Muffin. And that muffin will be bran.

Soon, I'm going to put the "grrr" back in girdles.

I'll be the Don Juan of Depends.

The Casanova of Creamed Corn.

The Emperor of the Early Bird.

All my insecurities will be pushed aside.

Finally, my dream has come true:

Women won't care at all about my love-making lack of ability. Instead, the mere fact that I'm actually capable of maintaining an erection for more than five seconds will make women squeal with glee.

Okay, four seconds.

My senior sluts won't care how big it is or how long it lasts. In fact, chances are it's been so long since they've seen one, they might just want to look at it for awhile.

Which has happened to me before. Followed quickly by a "Are you serious? Hey, could you hand me my vibrator?"

Not anymore, my friends.

Finally, I'm the one in the driver's seat. And that seat has one of those little metal bars next to it to help you get up.

Many older women still want to have sex, but they might find their men cannot oblige.

My god, there are so many benefits to this for me, I don't even know where to begin.

Starting now, my relationships with these old women will be strictly about sex. Sex sex sex. No longer will I have to worry about dating and birthdays and anniversaries and showing compassion and all that crap that we men have to put up with so we can get what we really want.

From now on, it's sex sex sex. Hard-core, flapping old flesh sex.

Starting now, this is going to be a Saturday night for me:

I'll drive to the Beachwood Home for the Aged.

I'll walk into the lobby. I'll take off my pants and I'll say, "One at a time, ladies. One at a time."

Oh, I'm sure there'll be a couple of public indecency arrests here and there at first. But once the police realize what wonderful service I'm providing to the elderly, they'll leave me alone.

Heck, they might even give me their mothers' phone numbers.

On occasion, I'll have a little fun with my new lady friends, too. Maybe even flirt with them a bit.

In fact, I've been working on some pick-up lines that I think should serve me pretty well.

"Excuse me, miss. I couldn't help but notice your nipples hanging out of the bottom of your shirt."

"Hey, howya doin? Would you like to see my wooden cane?"

"Lady, you look so hot pushing that walker, I can't even begin to tell you."

"I SAID, DO YOU WANT TO HAVE SEX?!"

The other thing is, as much physical pleasure as I'll get out of this, I'll also have the unique opportunity to learn from their experiences. Hopefully, they'll be able to teach me a few things to make me an even better lover.

With any luck, I'll be able to pick up some tips on things like:

*The most seductive way to take off orthopedic shoes.

*What to do if the oxygen tank gets knocked over while she's pressed against the wall.

*How to take out a set of dentures with your tongue.

Aging women become sexually dysfunctional at about half the rate of men.

After 48 years, women will be appreciative of having sex with me. Me? Even my hand doesn't appreciate having sex with me.

Which is why this is so perfect for me: I have such a low standard to live up to, I can't possibly fail.

I don't think.

Of course, I realize that most of the old men in the world will be angry with me. Really angry.

But is it my fault that I was blessed with a 78-year-old penis on a 48-year-old's body?

Besides, it's not like I want to steal their women.

Believe me, this is just about casual sex. I'm certainly not looking for any type of long-term commitment.

One, I don't want a long-term commitment. And two, for these women, long term is probably six months, tops.

The other great thing about this is that I'll never have to worry about any of these ladies calling my wife and telling her.

If they even think about it, I'll just threaten to hide their bingo stampers.

The survey found that 31% of middle-aged and older women lacked interest in sex, 22% were unable to achieve orgasm, 21% did not find sex pleasurable, 20% had trouble lubricating, and 14% experienced pain with sex.

Note to the 14% of you: trust me, there will be no pain issues. Not with what I've got. You've got nothing to worry about.

I'm telling you, this old-ladies-needing-sex thing is the greatest news ever.

This news has turned me into a new man. I'm gonna be an Elderly American Gigolo.

I'm gonna be like Richard Gere. Without a gerbil in my butt.

The trick, of course, is to maintain my current level of pathetic sexual prowess and I'll be in business for the next 30 years.

Frankly, I can't possibly see how it's going to get any worse than it already is. And even if it gets a little worse than it is right now, hell, I'll just have sex with 80-year-old women with Alzheimer's. Then she won't even remember what she had for dinner two hours before, let alone what happened in the last 10 seconds.

Okay, eight seconds.

How great is this? Are you happy for me?

I can't wait to get started.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to write a goodbye letter to my wife.

Dear Honey:

Sweetheart, I'm so sorry things haven't worked out for us. I apologize for letting you down over the last few decades.

Call me in, like, 30 years and I promise I'll make it up to you.

Love,

Me.

P.S. Do you know how I can get in touch with your grandma?

THERE'S A TWENTYISH-YEAR-OLD GIRL WITH A SHAVED HEAD, THREE EARRINGS IN HER LEFT EAR, TWO IN HER RIGHT AND A SILVER BALL PIERCED THROUGH THE MIDDLE OF HER TONGUE STANDING BEHIND THE COUNTER:

TONGUE GIRL:

Next in line, please.

ME:

Hi.

TONGUE GIRL:

Welcome to Starbucks. How may I help you?

ME:

I'd like a cup of coffee, please.

TONGUE GIRL:

What size, sir?

ME:

I'll take a large, I guess.

TONGUE GIRL:

We don't have a large, sir.

ME:

Whatever. A medium is fine.

TONGUE GIRL:

We don't have a medium, sir.

ME:

Does your coffee come in a cup?

TONGUE GIRL:

Yes sir. Would you like a tall, a grande or a venti?

ME:

Vini, vidi, vici?

TONGUE GIRL:

Tall, grande or venti?

ME:

You're looking at me like I'm supposed to know what you're saying.

TONGUE GIRL:

Here at Starbucks, a tall is a small.

ME:

I do not want green eggs and ham.

TONGUE:

The grande is our medium-sized drink. And the venti is our large, 20-ounce drink.

ME:

So the tall -- which sounds big -- is actually small. The grande -- which sounds grand -- is bigger than the tall but not quite the biggest. And the venti, which doesn't sound tall or grand, is actually the tallest and grandest of them all. Do I have that right?

TONGUE GIRL:

That's correct. Venti is our largest cup of coffee, sir.

ME:

You have to admit this is a little confusing.

TONGUE GIRL:

Not at all, sir. Tall, grande, venti.

ME:

If I walked into McDonald's and asked for a grande cup of coffee, would they know what I was talking about?

TONGUE GIRL:

No sir.

ME:

Burger King?

TONGUE GIRL:

No sir.


ME:

Denny's?

TONGUE GIRL:

No sir.

ME:

Boston Market?

TONGUE GIRL:

Do they serve coffee at Boston Market?

ME:

I have no idea.

TONGUE GIRL:

Tall, grande, venti. It's not that hard, sir.

ME:

For a zillion years, a large cup of coffee has been called "a large cup of coffee." Why does it have to change now? Why is this the only place on earth where a large cup of coffee isn't called a large cup of coffee, but instead it's called a venti cup of coffee?

TONGUE GIRL:

Because here at Starbucks, it's called a venti cup of coffee.

ME:

I see. Well then, I'll have a venti cup of coffee.

MEANWHILE…

A GUY WITH A PURPLE MOWHAWK AND A NOSE RING IS ALSO STANDING BEHIND THE COUNTER NEXT TO THE GIRL WITH THE SHAVED HEAD, THREE EARRINGS IN HER LEFT EAR, TWO IN HER RIGHT AND A SILVER BALL PIERCED THROUGH THE MIDDLE OF HER TONGUE. HE'S HELPING PEOPLE IN THE LINE NEXT TO ME.

MOWHAWK GUY:

May I help the next person in line?

THE GIRL IN THE LINE NEXT TO ME STEPS UP.

GIRL:

Yes, I'd like a nonfat decaf tall Macchiato, double shot of espresso, extra whip in a venti cup, please.

THE MOWHAWK GUY TURNS AND SHOUTS TO THE ASIAN GIRL WITH THE PIERCED EYELID WHO'S RUNNING ALL THE MACHINERY.

MOWHAWK GUY:

I need a non-D Mach, espresso squared, twin whip in a venti!

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

Coming up!

I TURN TO THE GIRL IN THE LINE NEXT TO ME.

ME:

What did you order?

GIRL:

A nonfat decaf tall Macchiato, double shot of espresso, extra whip in a venti cup.

ME:

I know. I mean, what is that?

GIRL:

It's a nonfat decaf tall Macchiato, double shot of espresso, extra whip in a venti cup.

I GET THE "YOU ARE SO RETARDED" LOOK.

ME:

E pluribus unum?

GIRL:

What?

MEANWHILE…

TONGUE GIRL:

So what kind of coffee would you like, sir?

ME:

Oh, just a regular coffee is fine.

THE TONGUE GIRL STARES AT ME.

ME:

There's no such thing as regular coffee at Starbucks, is there?

TONGUE GIRL:

Well, what kind of coffee do you like?

ME:

Hot.

TONGUE GIRL:

Mild, smooth or bold?

ME:

Yes.

TONGUE GIRL:

Sir, here at Starbucks, we strive to offer an eclectic taste of coffees to our guests.

ME:

I'm a guest?

TONGUE GIRL:

Yes, sir.

ME:

I know you don't want to hear this, but I just want a large cup of coffee.

TONGUE GIRL:

Sir, all of our coffees are listed on the menu board behind me.

ME:

I've never seen a coffee menu before. Is it like, appetizers: coffee. Main course: coffee. Dessert: coffee. Hey, try our special of the day: coffee.

TONGUE GIRL:

Our menu features all of the coffee and specialty drink options we offer our guests.

ME:

Guests like me.

TONGUE GIRL:

Exactly. For example, we have a mild Colombia Narino Supreme, A Lightnote Blend, our Organic Shade Grown Mexico or Kona. Or, you could try one of our smooth flavors such as Arabian Mocha Java, Espresso Roast and Yukon Blend.

ME:

I had no idea yukon make coffee in Alaska.

TONGUE GIRL:

Excuse me?

ME:

Nothing. I'm just amusing myself.

TONGUE GIRL:

And our bold flavors are Gulf Coast Blend, Komodo Dragon Blend, Sumatra, Sulawesi and Ethiopia Sidamo.

ME:

Do they make a decaf Ethiopian Skinny?

TONGUE GIRL:

Excuse me?

ME:

Nothing. I'm just amusing myself.

TONGUE GIRL:

Also, our flavor of the day is Pumpkin Spice.

ME:

No seeds?

TONGUE GIRL:

No seeds.

ME:

Is there a face carved out of the side of the cup?

TONGUE GIRL:

No.

MEANWHILE….

THE ASIAN GIRL WITH THE PIERCED EYELID HOLDS UP A DRINK SHE JUST MADE.

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

I have a nonfat decaf tall Macchiato, double shot of espresso, extra whip in a venti cup.

THE GIRL WHO WAS IN LINE NEXT TO ME:

That's mine.

I TURN TO THE GIRL.

ME:

Enjoy your drink. And writ of habeus corpus.

SHE LEAVES WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.

MEANWHILE…

I TURN TO THE OLD, NORMAL LOOKING GUY IN THE LINE NEXT TO ME.

ME:

Is it me, or are the people in this place a little crazy?

OLD GUY:

Uh huh.

THE MOWHAWK GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER SPEAKS.

MOWHAWK GUY:

May I help the next person in line, please?

THE OLD, NORMAL LOOKING GUY IN THE LINE NEXT TO ME STEPS UP.

OLD GUY:

Yes, I'll take a short non-fat Caffe Latte with no foam and a shot of Hazelnut.

THE MOWHAWK GUY SHOUTS TO THE ASIAN GIRL WITH THE PIERCED EYELID.

MOWHAWK GUY:

I need a short no fat/foam latte with a nut!

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

Coming up.

I TURN TO THE OLD GUY.

ME:

You're one of them, aren't you?

THE OLD GUY LOOKS STRAIGHT AHEAD.

MEANWHILE….

I TURN BACK TO THE TONGUE GIRL.

ME:

Oh, I don't know. I guess I'll try that Sumatra thing you talked about. A large.

TONGUE GIRL:

You mean venti.

ME:

Venti, por favor. That's Spanish for please.

TONGUE GIRL:

I'm aware of that, sir.

ME:

I just wanted to let you know you Starbucks people aren't the only one who have different words for things.

TONGUE GIRL:

Merci.

ME:

What?

TONGUE GIRL:

So then you'd definitely like a venti Sumatra?

ME:

Exactly. What you said.

THE TONGUE GIRL TURNS TO POUR MY COFFEE. I POINT AT THE ASIAN GIRL WITH THE PIERCED EYELID.

ME:

Hey, why don't you shout my drink order out to her like he does?

TONGUE GIRL:

Because for a regular coffee drink, we pour our own coffee, sir.

ME:

I'm feeling a little left out. And I am a guest.

TONGUE GIRL:

Fine.

THE TONGUE GIRL SHOUTS TO THE ASIAN GIRL WITH PIERCED-EYELID.

TONGUE GIRL:

I need a venti Sumatra!

THE PIERCED-TONGUE ASIAN GIRL SHOUTS BACK.

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

It's brewing. And get your own.

THE TONGUE GIRL LOOKS AT ME.

TONGUE GIRL:

Are you happy?

ME:

Kinda.

MEANWHILE…

THE PIERCED EYELID ASIAN GIRL HOLDS UP A DRINK.

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

I've got a short non-fat Caffe Latte with no foam and a shot of Hazelnut.

OLD GUY:

Right here.

THE PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL HANDS THE OLD GUY HIS DRINK. HE GOES OVER TO THE COUNTER AND POURS HALF THE DRINK OUT. THEN HE POURS COFFEE CREAM IN, TWO SWEET 'N LOWS AND LEAVES. HE ALSO DOESN'T SAY GOODBYE TO ME.

MEANWHILE…

THE MOWHAWK GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER SPEAKS.

MOWHAWK GUY:

May I help the next person in line, please.

UP STEPS A HOT BLONDE IN TIGHT JEANS IN THE LINE NEXT TO ME.

HOT BLONDE:

Yes, I'd like a half decaf skinny grande Mocha Valencia, doppio espresso foamless with wings.

THE MOWHAWK GUY SHOUTS TO THE ASIAN GIRL WITH THE PIERCED-EYELID.

MOWHAWK GUY:

I need a number 2!

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

Got it. Number 2 coming up!

I TURN TO THE HOT BLONDE IN THE TIGHT JEANS.

ME:

Good choice. That's one of my favorite drinks. I usually get that when I come here.

BLONDE:

I love this place.

I STICK MY HAND IN POCKET. THE HAND WITH THE WEDDING RING.

ME:

Me, too.

HOT BLONDE:

I've never seen you here before.

ME:

Oh, y'know. I'm a busy, jet-setting kind of guy. I pop in. I get my Starbucks. I go.

HOT BLONDE:

So what did you order?

ME:

Oh, I got my other favorite here. That Kama Sutra coffee drinky-thing.

THE HOT BLONDE TURNS AND STARES STRAIGHT AHEAD. SHE SHAKES HER HEAD IN DISGUST.

HOT BLONDE:

Pervert.

ME:

I mean, the Sumatra.

IN SILENCE, I TAKE MY HAND OUT OF MY POCKET. THE HAND WITH THE WEDDING RING.

MEANWHILE…

TONGUE GIRL:

It'll just be a minute, sir.

ME:

Not a problemo. That means...

TONGUE GIRL:

...problem?

ME:

Correctamundo. So, did that hurt?

TONGUE GIRL:

Did what hurt?

ME:

That tongue thing.

TONGUE GIRL:

No, not really. It was important for me to do it, though.

ME:

Why?

TONGUE GIRL:

I needed to celebrate my individuality and distance myself from the mainstream population.

ME:

I understand. Hey, where did you get those pants?

TONGUE GIRL:

The Gap at the mall. Why?

ME:

No reason.

TONGUE GIRL:

Here's your coffee, sir.

ME:

Thanks. Hey, what's that white thing?

TONGUE GIRL:

That white thing right there?

ME:

Yes. What is that?

TONGUE GIRL:

That would be a coffee lid, sir.

ME:

Well, I know it's a lid outside of Starbucks. What do you guys call it?

TONGUE GIRL:

We call it a lid.

ME:

A lid. That's it?

TONGUE GIRL:

That's it.

ME:

Not a liddio? Or El Topico? Or Le White Plasticia Thingio on de Cuppia?

TONGUE GIRL:

No sir. It's a lid.

ME:

So if I asked you for a Cap for my cappuccino, you wouldn't know what I was talking about, would you?

TONGUE GIRL:

No, sir.

ME:

If I said, "Give me a double mocha grande latte with a hat," you wouldn't have any idea what I was saying, would you?

TONGUE GIRL:

Do you wish to speak to management about your new word suggestions for a coffee lid, sir?

ME:

Are you saying I could have a face-to-face interaction with the Starbuckular Chieftan?

TONGUE GIRL:

Whatever you say, sir.

ME:

I like this whole new language thing.

TONGUE GIRL:

I can tell.

MEANWHILE...

THE PIERCED EYELID ASIAN GIRL HOLDS UP A DRINK.

PIERCED-EYELID ASIAN GIRL:

I've got a half decaf skinny grande Mocha Valencia, doppio espresso foamless with wings.

THE HOT BLONDE IT THE TIGHT JEANS STEPS UP.

HOT BLONDE:

That's mine.

THE HOT BLONDE TAKES HER DRINK. SHE THEN TAKES A SIP, AND LICKS A DRIP FROM THE SIDE OF HER CUP. SHE THEN LOOKS AT ME AND EITHER MOUTHS THE WORDS "I'D LIKE TO SHARE MY HALF DECAF SKINNY GRANDE MOCHA VALENCIA WITH YOU, HOT MARRIED GUY", OR "YOU SUCK." I CAN'T BE SURE. SHE ALSO LEAVES WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.

MEANWHILE...

THE TONGUE GIRL IS RINGING UP MY ORDER:

That's $4.73, sir.

ME:

That's a lot of money for a cup of coffee.

TONGUE GIRL:

It's a venti Sumatra, sir. It's not just coffee. It's a special Starbucks blend.

ME:

So are you.

TONGUE GIRL:

That's $4.73, sir.

ME:

Thanks for your help. This has been a most interesting and educational experience here for me at Starbucks. I never knew getting a cup of coffee could be so educational.

TONGUE GIRL:

I'm glad you enjoyed the Starbucks experience, sir. I hope to see you again some time.

ME:

I doubt it.

TONGUE GIRL:

I know.

ME:

When you call Domino's, do you ask for a venti pizza?

TONGUE GIRL:

I don't eat pizza, sir.

ME:

That whole pepperoni stuck in the metal-ball-in-the-tongue-thing, huh?

TONGUE GIRL:

May I help the next person in line, please?

I have so much to be thankful for in life.

I have a good job.

I have a nice house.

I have caller ID so I know that I shouldn't answer the phone because I can see it's the guy who's calling for like the tenth time about my unpaid Visa bill.

Like I'm the only one, for chrissakes.

But of all the things I have in my life, the one thing I thank God for everyday is my family.

I thank God everyday for my kids.

Mostly though, I thank God everyday for my wife.



Dear God,

Thank you for my wife.

Sincerely,

Nate

P.S. When can I expect those lottery numbers? Just wondering.



My wife is my hope, my love, my inspiration. Without her, my life wouldn't be complete.

She's brought so much happiness and understanding to me, I don't know if I can ever repay her.

I'm so lucky to have her.

Which is why today, I'd like to shout to the whole wide world:

Thank God for my wife! Thank God for my wife!

Thank God for my wife!

I mean, if I didn't have her, there's so much I would've missed out on. So much would be lost to me.

If I didn't have my wife, how would I have ever known that my wet towel belongs on the bathroom hook, and not on the bathroom floor?

How would I have ever known that without her? How, I ask. How?

"I'm sick and tired of picking up your freaking towel," she said. "Is it so freaking hard to pick up a freaking towel and freaking hang it up? You make me freaking sick, do you know that?"

As you might imagine, I was astounded when I heard this.

I have to admit, this picking-up-the-towel thing was a stunning revelation to me.

All that time…my youth…my teenage years…my life as a single man…all that time, I'd left my wet towels on the floor, never once thinking about the ramifications of my actions.

Thankfully, my wife set me straight.

Thank God for my wife.

Because what I'd never thought about -- until now -- was that when I did leave my towel on the bathroom floor, someone would have to pick it up.

And more often than not, that someone was her.

How could I be so blindly insensitive? This poor woman doesn't have time every single day to pick up my towel that I used to dry my body.

She has people to talk to with her unlimited calling plan on her cell phone. She's got TV shows to watch. She's got nails to polish.

Just who in the hell do I think I am expecting so much from someone who brings no money into our house but can spend it all within minutes?

Thank God she set me straight.

Thank God for my wife.

Thank God.

If I didn't have my wife, I would've never known that I was supposed to call my mother and tell her what a pain-in-the-*** she is and why couldn't she be more considerate of our feelings?

I mean, my feelings.

And while I didn't necessarily remember feeling angry toward my mother or feeling like she wasn't very considerate of my feelings, I thank God for my wife for helping me realize that I did have those feelings and that I needed to act upon them immediately by calling "your pain-in-the-*** mother."

I mean, my pain-in-the-*** mother.

Thank God for my wife.

If I didn't have her, I wouldn't know how to dress for my business meeting last week. And I wouldn't have known how I should act in my meeting. And I wouldn't have known that I shouldn't say anything really stupid in my meeting.

Thank God for my wife, y'know?

I have to tell you, I was this close to pulling out the clown suit with the big red fuzzy hair and oversized shoes and then starting my presentation like this:

"I think all of us from the ad agency are very excited to be given the opportunity to make this presentation to the Gonzalez Corporation. So anyway, these two Puerto Rican guys walk into a bar…."

Thank God she set me straight.

Thank God for my wife. Thank God.

Without her, I wouldn't have known that they were "my kids, too."

The thing was, until she told me this, I would spend a lot of time walking around the house looking at our kids, saying, "Hey, whose kids are you? And why are you in my house? Do your parents know you're here all the time? Shouldn't you go home?"

Now that I know they're mine, I feel so much better every time I see them in the house. Also, I don't feel so guilty giving them our food.

Thank God for my wife.

Without her, I wouldn't know how to properly shut a kitchen cupboard. "Not halfway, like a lazy son of a *****," she would say.

Which, as usual, she was right about.

Because until she said something, I was a lazy son of a ***** when it came to properly shutting the kitchen cupboards. I never knew nor fully realized the importance of exerting enough force to properly shut a kitchen cupboard.

Thank God for my wife for explaining to me that "there's a right way to do things and a wrong way. And my way is the right way."

Thank God a kitchen cabinet will never be subjected to my half-assed-son-of-a-bitchedness again.

Thank God I know now.

Thank God for my wife.

Without her, I wouldn't know that I'm totally disgusting when I make that sound.

To think, all this time, I thought it was perfectly acceptable to make that sound that I make. Frankly, I had no idea how disgusting it was. And now that she's told me, I'm as disgusted by it as she was.

Thank God I know now.

Also, thank God she didn't smell it.

Thank God for my wife.

Without her, I wouldn't have known that her friend Mary Anne is a total *****. And that her other friend Emma had an entire Mr. Hero sandwich for lunch. With chips. And that the woman across the street is cutting her hedges with curlers in her hair. And that the phone won't stop ringing. And that she's sick and tired of doing laundry.

Phew. What a relief.

Because on the way to work today, I was thinking, "Y'know, I wonder if Mary Anne is *****. I wonder what Emma will have for lunch. I wonder if the woman across the street will cut her hedges with curlers in her hair. I wonder if the phone won't stop ringing today. And wonder if my wife will be sick and tired of doing laundry."

I was so worried about all of those things. I no longer have to worry about any of them.

Thank God for my wife.

If I didn't have her, I wouldn't know that all the hangers need to face the same way in the closet, as opposed to the horribly random and haphazard way I used to place them in there.

What was I thinking? How could I ever let that happen? Clearly, the symmetry of all the hangers facing the same direction does make an important statement about how we care about our home to anyone who happens to look in our closets and see the way our hangers are hanging.

And even though that's never happened, it might.

Thank God for my wife.

Without her, I wouldn't have known that the receipt I was looking for wasn't in the third drawer like she said it was.

In fact, when I searched the third drawer and couldn't find the receipt she said was in there, I thanked God for my wife again when she said to me, "Dammit, do I have to do everything for you? Can't you find anything?"

Because when my wife said that, she really made me realize that more often than not, I do rely on her cunning senses to find things when I should try to take my own responsibility.

And yet, even after I continued to look and couldn't find the receipt, and then she walked over and found the receipt not in the drawer like she said, but in the box behind her book next to the mail, I thanked God for my wife again.

Because even though she said the receipt was in the third drawer and I had spent 20 minutes looking for the receipt in the third drawer even though it was actually in the box behind her book next to the mail, I now understood that I shouldn't always take things she says so literally.

Thank God for my wife.

Thank God.

Without her, I wouldn't have known Alyssa Milano was pretty.

Until she said to me, "Gosh, that Alyssa Milano is pretty, isn't she?" I never really saw the difference between Alyssa Milano and Ethel Mertz.

But when she said that, I realized….my goodness, she's right. Alyssa Milano is an attractive woman.

Thank God for my wife.

Without her, I wouldn't have known that my hair looks like crap and my armpits smell and my teeth are too yellow.

Without her, I wouldn't know that if I don't shut the door to the garage, bugs will get in the house.

Without her, I wouldn't know that if I put my toothbrush in the drawer while it's still wet, the drawer will get wet, too.

Without her, I wouldn't know how to drive. Or when I should slow down. Or when the radio is too freaking loud.

Without her, I wouldn't know that I'm supposed to wipe the sink when I'm done.

Without her, I wouldn't know that watching sports on TV is a total waste of time.

Without her, I wouldn't know that I should clean my feet before I walk in the house.

Without her, I wouldn't know that while I make the money, she does everything else.

Without her, I wouldn't have known that I need to make more money.

Without her, I wouldn't know that every woman needs a new pair of black shoes.

Without her, I wouldn't know that I was lucky to be married to her.

Without her, I'd be nothing.

Without my wife, there's so much I wouldn't know.

It's a miracle that somehow, I managed to survive all those years without her.

Her broad range of understanding on a variety of topics never ceases to astound me.

Day in and day out, I continue to be amazed at the knowledge this woman possesses. And how much of it she's willing to share with me.

For that, I'm forever grateful.

Frankly, I still don't know how she does it. How she can instantly assess a situation and in a nanosecond, inform anyone -- mainly me -- as to the proper way to handle it.

What's even more remarkable is that she's always right, too.

And if you don't believe me, just ask her.

I feel so thankful to be witness to her higher level of comprehension. I've learned so much from her over the years.

Thank God for my wife.

She's changed my life. She's helped me see things in ways I never did.

Through her eyes.

All those years I spent doing whatever the hell I damn well felt like, with no regard or comprehension as to the right way to do them.

Her way.

Thank God for my wife.

When I think of her, I want to sing in the sunshine, smell the roses and talk to the animals.

If it wasn't for her, there's so much I wouldn't know.

She's made me the man I am today.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go ask her if it's okay that I'm done typing.

My god this is a dead thread. Is everyone from AL asleep?

The thing is, I have this superpower.

My superpower doesn't give me the ability to analyze data like a supercomputer.

Or the ability to carve a 22-pound turkey just by looking at it.

Or the ability to ejaculate super-fast.

Well actually, I do have that superpower. But this one's even better.

And while my superpower can't solve world peace or stop a meteor from crashing into the earth or prevent the family dog from getting Lyme disease. . .still, it's a pretty good superpower.

You see, I have a superpower that lets me notice women's boobs.

At any time. With anybody. In any location.

Thanks to my superpower, I'm like a boob-looking-at savant.

I can be walking in the mall and spot one to my left.

There, lo and behold, a woman's boob.

I can be talking to a friend and without losing eye contact, notice one passing over his right shoulder in the distance.

There, glory be his name, a woman's boob.

I can even be watching a movie like Sinderella, and as soon as a woman with a nice butt walks into a scene, I know instinctively that I'll be seeing boobs sooner or later.

Usually sooner.

That, friends, is my gift.

The superpower of boob-looking-at.

I can spot boobs in a pair a t-shirt.

I can spot boobs in a sweater.

I can spot boobs in a long dress. A short dress. A hula dress.

I can spot boobs wearing a pink bra. A sports bra. Or no bra at all.

Gosh darn it, I wish I spotted more of those boobs.

I can look at a woman in a winter parka and think, "There's boobs in there and I'm going to look at them."

That, friends, is my gift.

The superpower of boob-looking-at.

On a surface level, I know it sounds like I'm just some sort of perverted boob-freak who's trying to justify looking at boobs.

But it's not like that at all.

I mean, I can't help it if I have a superpower. I didn't ask for this.

Christ, I don't head out the door every morning in search of boobs.

I don't wake up and think, "Boobs. If I don't see any women's boobs today, it's going to be a bad day."

"Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs. I really need to see some boobs."

Having said that, however, I certainly would never turn my back to boobs.

Unless of course, there were boobs behind me.

In which case, my superpower would enable me to turn around and look at the boobs.

That, friends, is my gift.

The superpower of boob-looking-at.

One of the nice things about my superpower is that I can use it many times every single day. And you can't say the same about other superpowers.

I mean, you don't always need to leap tall buildings in a single bound, y'know?

Yes, with each passing moment, I continue to be amazed how there always seems to be boobs directly in front of me.

Or, boobs off to the side of me. Or boobs about fifteen feet to the left of me.

Sometimes my superpower of boob-looking-at enables me to perform acts of skill and daring that are truly astounding.

For example, if I'm walking somewhere and a woman with nice boobs is walking in front of me, my superpower enables me to maintain a perfect pace behind her, allowing me watch her boobs, and still walk. Accident free.

Or if I'm walking through the upper level of a mall and my superpower has made me aware of a woman's boobs on the lower level of the mall and I can see that she's heading toward the escalator, I instinctively know that I should bend down and tie my shoe and wait until she reaches the top floor of the mall so I can use my superpower of boob-looking-at to look at her boobs.

You don't learn things like that, gentlemen.

That, friends, is my gift.

The superpower of boob-looking-at.

At any time. With anybody. In any location.

And while I admit that my superpower is a great, great power, I caution you: please don't be jealous.

For while the greatness of my superpower enables me to notice women's boobs, the curse of my superpower is that I notice ALL women's boobs.

Alas, much to my chagrin, my superpower enables me to see the good boobs. The bad boobs. And the ugly boobs.

Unfortunately, as horrific as it sounds, my superpower is incapable of distinguishing between Sofia Vergara's boobs and Melissa McCarthy's boobs.

Q. What's the difference between Sofia Vergara's boobs and Melissa McCarthy's boobs?

A. About two hundred pounds.

Kryptonite. The Riddler's deadly puzzles. Melissa McCarthy's big fat boobs.

We all have our downfalls, y'know?

Tell me friends, do you feel my pain?

And while it's a spectacularly wonderful thing when my superpower enables me to discover perfectly tight boobs in a perfectly tight t-shirt, it must always be balanced against the agony of having to suffer through the fat old hag in the babushka that gets me every day.

Welcome to my tortured existence, gentlemen.

Oh, I try not to look at the bad ones. But the strength of my superpower is far too great.

My eyes just go to the boobs. Every time.

Frankly, I've given up fighting. I now accept my superpower for all its glory. And for all its flaws.

And so, I look. Sometimes not for long, but I always look. I guess that's what you do when you have the superpower of boob-looking-at, right?

Do you know why Superman looks through women's clothes with his X-Ray vision?

Because he can, that's why.

The goddamn lucky son of a *****.

The other thing that no one thinks about when they think about having a superpower is the responsibility of having a superpower.

For a superpower must be treated with dignity and respect. With honor and valor.

And above all else, with a boatload of secrecy.

Not for privacy, mind you.

No no no no no.

A superpower must be kept secret for the safety of others.

That's why I've spent years training myself to use my superpower of boob-looking-at without anyone else noticing that I'm looking at boobs.

Especially my wife.

Believe it or not, not even my wife knows that I have the superpower of boob-looking-at. And I do that strictly for her safety.

That's why when I'm with my wife and my superpower senses another woman's boobs, I look at them with a simple turn of my head. Or a quick dart of my eyes. Because I can't let her know.

She can't ever know.

Other times I'll be walking with my wife and she'll point to a woman and say to me, "Now she's got nice boobs."

Clearly, thanks to my superpower of boob-looking-at, I noticed those nice boobs like, two hours earlier. But I can't let on that I was aware of her discovery prior to her discovery. Because then I'd be discovered.

MY WIFE: Now she's got nice boobs.

ME: Huh? Who? Where? What are you talking about? Who cares? I love you, honey. Let's hold hands.

I shield my wife from my superpower not for my own selfish reasons, but for her own good. Because if she ever discovered my superpower, the ramifications could be severe.

Or severed, if you know what I mean.

Listen, you've all read comic books.

You know that when someone has a superpower, the superhero can't really let anyone find out about it, right?

Because when bad guys know stuff like that, Jesus Christ, that's the kind of crap those guys live for.

If bad guys ever discover the secret identity of a man possessing a superpower, you know what happens.

The first thing they always do is hurt him where it can hurt him the most: they go after his chick.

And I would never, ever put my wife at risk like that.

Hell, I don't know who's out there. I don't know who hates me. I don't know who's jealous of my superpower of boob-looking-at.

You've read comic books. You know what I'm talking about.

I can just see it now.

If my enemies ever found out about my superpower, they'd probably kidnap my wife. Then they'd torture her.

They'd take her away, leaving me alone. . .in nothing more than the silence of my own world.

Alone with nothing more than the emptiness of my lonely fortress.

Alone with no one telling me what to do. Or what to fix. Or to complain that I don't make enough money.

Alone with nothing more than a couch, the television and the remote control.

Hey, um, listen, if you wanna tell anybody about my superpower, it's OK.

Really, I'm fine with it.

The thing is, I really don't care that much if anybody finds out. Swear to God.

What am I gonna do if people find out about my superpower, hide?

Listen, if some guy hears that I have the superpower of boob-looking-at and he hates me that much for it, what am I supposed to do? Put my wife in seclusion?

I mean, it's not like he'll know that I live at One Maple Street and that my wife is usually home by herself between noon and 2 PM and our alarm system is broken or anything.

How could he know stuff like that, y'know?

So anyway, it's really all right to spread the word. In fact, tell everyone you know about my superpower. Seriously.

Today, if you could.

And while you're doing that, I'll be out in the world, roaming the streets, using my superpower to the best of my ability.

Of course, if I see anything good, you can bet that I'll then be using my other superpower.

You see, I also have the ability to bend steel with my bare hands.

Well, I like to think it's steel.

Thanks for letting me join the Mingle family (at least until you read some of my stories, then you may want to boot me out).

Some time life gets a little hectic so I like to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) as a little stress relief.

Nobody is forcing you to read these, but I hope to just make someone smile at least once.

Hopefully I do not get smacked by the censors. I’ve always had a hard time finding that fine line between PG-13 and R.

None of you have ever heard of Nate Bassi before. But that's OK. My wife never heard of me before we met.

Now she's seen me naked.

I swear to God, this'll be far less revolting. Swear to God.

You see, from time to time, I'm going to be sharing my thoughts, my hopes, my dreams and my aspirations with you.

And that's just the thoughts from the past 5 minutes.

Before I got started, though, I thought now might be a good time to set the ground rules for my stories. So here's the deal:

I'm going to be writing about a lot of different things. I'm also not going to be writing about a lot of different things.

I'm not going to be writing about cuddling, gardening, ballet, stationery, skin cleansers, decaf coffee, the color pink, wedding planners, rhythm gymnastics, Women's World Cup soccer, baby showers, Chicken Soup for the Whatever, streusel recipes, really good shower cleaners, veggie burgers and how much I love The Lifetime Channel.

I'm not going to be writing a story while I'm sipping piña coladas and taking walks in the rain, while she's having my baby, while the wind is beneath my wings, and while I'm torn between two lovers. Even though you don't bring me flowers. Anymore.

I will not write a story titled:

"This Week's Top New Age CD Releases."

"The Hottest Debate in the NBA: Shorts or Culottes?"

"Ten Things to Look Out For at the Opera House."

"The Absolute Best Way to Change a Diaper."

"The Lost Art of Sipping Tea."

I will not write anything making reference to sexual positions such as the Kama Sutra, the Tantra, Zenno JoJido, Saundanese Arab, Jelq, Super Jelq, Modified Spooning, the Eighth Position of the Perfumed Garden, and the Kneeling Pretzel. Because I have no friggin' idea what they are.

The following people will not appear in anything I write: Martha Stewart, Rosie O'Donnell, Billie Jean King, Barbra Streisand, Liza Minelli, Bea Arthur, Yanni, Richard Simmons, Mr. Brady, the old lady who lives down the street from me with the really loud dog, that fat model on MTV, the guy who plays the pan flute and Mrs. Howell.

Other than that, everything is fair game. So let's get started, shall we?