Twas the Night Before Christmas in the Hood

By Hottywood Helps

Twas the night before Christmas, all was said and done

Not a creature stirred, not a roach, rat or bum.

The stockings were hung on the radiator with fear

That St. Nicholas would knock it over like he did last year.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

High from the weed that had gone to their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our skins from a long booty clap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a noise,

Someone’s car was being jacked by some random masked boys.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

To make sure it wasn’t my car or I’d have to kick someone’s ass.

The moonlight bounced off the oil stained snow

Which pissed off the property manager and the neighborhood ho.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a pimped out sleigh and mutts dressed as reindeer.

With a little old driver shifting gears on the stick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his curse words came,

He whistled, and slurred, and called the bitches by name!

“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the hood and over that wall!

Don’t piss on the roof or else I’ll slip and fall!

The bare naked trees that stood tall in the sky

Were blocking the vision of my already bad eyes.

To the roof of the projects the pimped ride flew,

With a bag of IOU’s and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

St. Nicholas falling into a pile of dog poop.

He was wiping his butt when I turned around.

St. Nick wasn’t as jolly as you’d expect him to sound.

He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his feet,

He gave me a head nod instead of using words to speak.

He carried with him a bundle of toys

That he’d stolen from other little girls and boys.

His eyes were red from the liquor he drank.

His breath was all stinky.  Santa was tanked!

He was mad from the poop that was smeared on his clothes,

Either that or from when he accidentally rubbed his nose.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

The same as the crackhead’s from down the street.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

I think he had the munchies because he asked for some jelly.

Stoned or drunk, he was a giant old midget

That was stealing, not giving, and couldn’t control his fidget.

A wink of his eye cloaked with Christmas care

Made me think I should probably be scared.

He spoke not a word, he made not a sound,

But as I predicted knocked the radiator to the ground.

When the children woke up, out of the window he flew,

Santa had done what he’d come to do.

He left us with nothing but a note under the tree

That read, “Next year Christmas is on me.”

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas next year ’cause tonight is my night!”



The Booty Call Agreement

So this morning you woke up to a warm body next to you and was served breakfast in bed with the groceries you purchased with your hard earned money.  Did you miss something?  Somewhere during the night of your wild, scandalous and sadistic booty call, your FWB (friend with benefits) got the impression that your good wet-wet was an open invitation to a monogamous relationship.  News flash, moron: IT WAS JUST SEX!

More times than often one of your bed pals can get the wrong impression with just one twist of the body, one bounce of the rod or one moment too long of cuddle time and suddenly think tomorrow is the day you two set aside to go ring shopping.  This is what happens when one person gets a little too ancy about falling in love.  We’ve discussed this before in our Sex Ed 101 class.  Bumping pelvises is not the same thing as the pretentious promise, “I do.”

You should not have any regrets for wetting your whistle with someone else’s body spit.  It’s one of the many joys of life; one of the rewards for being single.  Some may argue it’s one of the rewards for being a lying, dastardly, cheating bastard (for those who are already committed).  The sex may have been great last night.  It may have been even greater this  morning, because there’s nothing like a ‘morning after’.  However you must be clear to the person you’re boning that it’s nothing more than sex – a desperate, yearning need to be filled with the pleasures of someone else’s sexual and willing desire.   After it’s all said and done, it’s more than likely that you’ll want them to dissipate into the sheets as if they were never there (once you’ve experienced the big “O” and washed their scent off your body of course).

Booty calls are good but they’re also misleading.  So the next time you invite someone over to your place to quench your horny thirst, be sure to have a visible stack of “booty call agreements” sitting on your nightstand.

A)  You want your partner to know they’re not the only one you’re screwing.  That way there’s no reason for them to get their hopes up of an oncoming relationship, no matter how good the f*ck is.

B)  They’ll know what to expect from the night, and

C)  What you expect from them.

See sample booty call agreement below:

If they are still blinded by your juicy va-jay-jay or steel power jack, feed them the same old clichés you’ve fed to all the other losers who misinterpreted your late night romper room calls:

Sometimes all a person needs is a good ol’ ego boost, a $20 bill or a scathing threat to get the message that you got what you needed from them and that’s all there is to it.  It doesn’t take much effort to give anyone the boot once they’ve signed that agreement.  It’s a binding contract.  It takes more effort to let them stay and lead them on than it does to be honest and kick them out.  They’ll be back.  They’ve already shown you how horny and delusional they are.  At this point, you have the upper hand.

Quote of the week:    “It is not uncommon for slight acquaintances to get married, but a couple really have to know each other to get divorced.”

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Weekend Eve: “Kiss My Ass,” Never Sounded So Good

Guys and Gals, the week is almost over and we have officially arrived to the sweet symphony of Thursday, better known as WEEKEND EVE!  Yesterday you reaped the benefits of Hump Day, now is the time to start fixing your lips to tell all your haters, bosses and bill collectors to, “Kiss my ass!”  You’ve dealt with pissy attitudes, impossible demands and the screeching cry of your alarm clock all for this one day to say, “Tomorrow is “Fuq ‘em Friday and the weekend is history in the making!”

Sure, you have one more day to slave over paperwork in an office that doesn’t appreciate you.  You have another day to practice your road rage as you sit in traffic.  You even have one more day to pull some old wrinkled garment out of the dirty clothes hamper because you were too lazy or too trifling to do laundry.  But this day – this grand ole Thursday is the one day out of the week where the butterflies in your stomach are from pure genuine excitement and not from the booze of last evening, after having dealt with the agony of Monday thru Wednesday.

This is your day to close one final project and sweep all the rest under the carpet until next Monday, where all the bullshytters, complainers and back stabbers line up to piss you off all over again.  The best part of this day however, is that you couldn’t give a shyt less because you know in your heart and soul that doing anything responsible on Fridays goes against everything you believe in and stand for.  So although you may have a disturbingly shytty job as an armpit sniffer or a soda pop taste tester who has been plagued with eternal pimples from a heavy ingestion of sugar, you know that Friday, Saturday and Sunday holds nothing but mischief, mayhem and an illegal count of alcohol consumption.  This is what you’ve worked all week for!

To the mean old cafeteria lady who works in the school with adolescent demons that point and snicker at her hair net; to the little old lady who’s forced to play bingo with a bunch of old bitties that can’t watch anything on TV except ‘The Price is Right’; and to the office geek who’s greatest talent is to get beat up in the parking lot every day at the sound of the 5 o’clock whistle; it’s time to pull yourself up by the boot straps and get a little crazy!

Dear Ms. Lunch Lady, remind those bad ass kids that Hansel and Gretel was cooked in the witch’s oven for being naughty little bastards.

Dear Old Grandma, tell your senior citizen stick-in-the-muds to stick their dentures where the sun doesn’t shine!

…and Dear Little Office Geek, your best bet is to hop on the internet and find some bored schmuck to terrorize in a chat room because your ass is getting whooped for a reason, so you’d better not take any chances going out in public.

To all others – young, old, working or not, grab your best pals [or anyone gullible enough to pay your way] and paint the town red!  For in four more days, you will remember what it’s like to live in hell on Earth in a bottomless pit called Monday.

Get off your ass and plan your celebration on this here weekend eve.  C’mon. Make Hottywood proud.

Quote of the week:    “Weekends don’t count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.”

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How To End a Bad Date Disgracefully

Are you tired of going on one bad date after another?  Has your best friend set you up with someone who’s below your standards?  Did you finally get the telephone number of the hot chick in your church who turns out to be dumber than a door knob…or worse, a hot chick with bushy underarms? Well now’s your chance to rest easy, because you’re not alone.

It’s time to stand up for your rights and fight back with a few easy quick steps to sabotage a bad date disgracefully!   This list is very short, but also very fun!  The look on your date’s face when you purposely act like a moron [to make them uninterested in you] is priceless!

Listen carefully.  These tips take careful planning and coordination, but are worth every effort.

Conveniently leave home without any money.

Just be prepared to wash an ass-load of dishes, or make a break for it!  If you really want to make a bad impression, make a scene that you’re cheap and put the blame on your date.

Speak only in rhyme like a rap star.

Be sure to use animated sound effects and boisterous hand gestures.  Offensive language and stereotypes are a must!  This routine will be most effective if you are in a family-oriented establishment.  End each verse with, “You know what I’m sayin’ Gee?” and grab your crotch obsessively.  Make your stage-left exit before the cops arrive.

When speaking to your date, never use any direct eye contact.

In fact, just cover your eyes completely while screaming, “Medusa!”  If you really want to stir things up, toss your drink in her face.  Oh what the heck, toss everyone’s drink in her face! Then run like the wind because there’s no doubt that she’s going to fuq you up!

Each time your date attempts to speak, interrupt them with useless facts about cheese.

Be as annoying and rude as possible.  But beware, your date may just like cheese.  If so, fart loudly and fan the smell with your restaurant menu.  Do not smile when doing so.

Have your wife call during dessert. 

This will raise more questions than a little bit.  To be a top-notch jack ass, invite her along and compare your wife to your date.  Don’t compliment either your wife or your date and refer to yourself only in third person.  Once your date finishes pinching herself in disbelief, insist that she owes you money for her half of the meal and a partial payment for your wife’s meal.

Pick your nose a lot.

To ensure that no one misses what you are doing, be sure to announce each time you’ve felt a booger and show it to the disgusted audience.

Stuff all of your food into your mouth at once and whistle the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show.  


Compliment your date’s legs – from underneath the table.  

Be sure to pack a hockey mask as this usually ends with a swift kick to the nose.

Remove the top half of your clothes until your nipples are completely exposed.

It won’t matter if your date walks out on you because nine times out of ten you’re going to leave with someone else anyway.

Sneeze on your date’s food and then ask, “Are you gonna eat that?”

The more moist the sneeze, the better.  Oh, and don’t forget to leave your manners and Kleenex at home!

Getting someone to lose interest in you is not that difficult actually, especially if you’re still on 1st date status; that is unless your date is a psychopath, a total Grade F, or someone so desperate for attention that no matter what you do bad, it’s all good.  Even if you’ve fallen into a trap of dating one of the types listed above, it’s not impossible to come up with a quick crash and burn.  All it takes is a little more effort to be even more annoying.  And 90% of any effort is getting started.

Quote of the week:
   “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then give up.  There’s no sense being a damn fool about it.”

Some BS Smells Fishy, but that’s to be Expected

When we last met, I remember showing the world my backside as I ran away frantically from a job that scared the bajeezies out of me (granted, this could have been a dream I had last night with me quitting theatrically by mooning the president of the company while eating a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich and chugging a beer; but for the sake of argument we’ll just pretend this dream really happened). It wasn’t necessarily the job itself, though I wasn’t particularly a huge fan of working, but rather it was the people. People with issues bigger than my weekend ego after I’ve downed a few thousand Jello shooters and gotten the green light from the baddest bitch in the club to make a move that would seriously add credibility to my manhood; people that pay for extravagant lunches using money they should have reserved for public transportation; people who tell you they care as long as your workload puts them in better lighting; people who sleep with people that sign off on paychecks; people that eat lunches behind trash dumpsters in the back parking lot of the office building, only no actual food is consumed, but rather protein from another fellow human, or a human who’s no less labeled a canine; people who don’t know your name unless you’re wearing a name tag and a hairnet. You get my point.

This post is about people and the shit they bring to the office. People in the workplace that want you to believe you’re family – at least until 5PM anyway. And with that said, it’s those very people that tend to make the day’s potential for productivity and get-alongedness a completely unfunny joke.

Not annoyed

I don’t laugh when someone comes into my office and asks if I’m busy. What the hell did you think I was doing before you blatantly interrupted me? Do you know how long it took me to get this score on this Bejeweled game?

I don’t laugh when someone asks me if I want to have a meeting to discuss anything other than the lunch menu for the next day. Who the hell wants to meet about anything, ever? Do you want to punch yourself in the face for me? Fuq you and your meeting.

I don’t laugh when someone gives me a 30 minute deadline. That’s not totally true. I laugh because whoever has given me the deadline is under the impression that I’m going to finish doing anything in 30 minutes or less. If we aren’t talking about food, forget about it. Thirty minutes to me means “before you leave work for the day” …or “before you quit.” Whichever comes first.

I don’t laugh when my supervisor transfers her phone to mine. Seriously? As if I already don’t have enough people to blatantly send to voicemail.

I don’t laugh when I’m referred to as MR. UM rather than MR. THENAMEMYMOTHERGAVEME. No one generally remembers my name unless they need something. Now that I think about, I guess coworkers are more like family than I thought. I have a few cousins that wholeheartedly believe my first name is CAN I BORROW.

I don’t laugh when I see my laughable paycheck. Really, I don’t laugh. I cry.

I don’t laugh when there’s a disgruntled employee plotting to flatten the Human Resource Director’s tires. Well, maybe I laugh a little bit. That monster deserves to get his tires flattened.

The point is no matter who ignores you at work while wearing a plastic smile and a pinstriped suit, all of those laughable moments that I find so terribly unfunny fall under the category of SHIT HAPPENS. Between the hours of 8AM and 5PM (or whatever your working hours are) shit happens. Any and all working class citizens ought to be prepared for the unexpected bullshit that inevitably happens every day. And you know what? We can blame those “people” for that.

ALL members of the workforce should expect water cooler rumors; expect to have unseasoned green beans with their flavorless cafeteria-cooked macaroni and cheese; expect documents to be lost or unsigned or peed on.  Okay, maybe no one would expect to receive a document with pee stains on it, but like I said earlier – SHIT HAPPENS. Expect to have a petty office beef (especially with that one chick that thinks she’s fly as hell with her 2 ¾” stilettos that matches nothing she wears and encouragingly builds up the bunions on her feet); expect to have to work through lunch (which is the sole reason for always having a pair of boxing gloves in your briefcase). No lunch/Late lunch/Working lunch = FIGHT!

The moral of the story is SHIT HAPPENS, especially at work. And that shit is caused by those people who can so easily fuq up a good day. But instead of getting mad at the shit that happens in the office and pointing a finger at those responsible for it, the real question is why get upset when you expected all this shit to go down even before you left your house this morning? It’s not rocket science to assume someone in the office is going to unexpectedly piss you off. Truth be told, if no shit happens during any point of the day, well…I don’t think I’d expect that.


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Dear Hottywood,

My girlfriend and I got into a huge argument last night over my attitude. Well apparently to her I had an attitude. To me, I was stressed out, horny and haven’t smoked any Mary Jane in about a week. Now she thinks there’s more to my last night’s mood than I told her. I want to get back in her good graces but I’m fearful that another argument will ensue because of her doubt in my truth. Help!

I Didn’t Mean To

Dear I Didn’t Mean To,

I most certainly can understand your reasons for bitching out on your girl. But I’m a man. Understanding my fellow brutha’s disgust over no ass or weed is in my DNA. It’s in every man’s DNA. Whatever you did, my brutha, I know you didn’t do it.  Continue reading

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Dear Hottywood,

Since a leopard can’t change its spots, can I draw some new ones on it?


Dear Ray,

leopardSince you haven’t given me much to go on here, the answer to this question is simple. If you want to get mauled by a leopard, you can draw spots on it. The adventure wouldn’t be actually drawing the spots or seeing how the leopard will look with new spots, but rather [the adventure would be] staying alive, because there’s no doubt that mofo will rip you to shreds!

I don’t know too many leopards that would let you get that close. Well, let me be honest. And you might find this hard to believe. I don’t know any leopards.  However if I were to die from an attempt to draw on a wild animal – in this case, a leopard – you’d be the first to know, only I wouldn’t be the one to tell you because my ass would be dead somewhere with my remains being picked over by a rogue gang of hungry buzzards.  HA!

If by chance you are referring to an actual person and are using this “leopard” as a metaphor, then the answer to this question is a little different – kind of and kind of not.  If this leopard person has been living with the same spots for all its his/her days, a little ink isn’t going to change anything but the outward appearance. The appearance will remain the same provided the leopard doesn’t get wet. If it does, then those spots will be washed away, leaving you with what you started with.

Make peace with that leopard. Pet it often but be careful. A wild animal will eventually attack you because that’s the environment in which it was raised. Survival of the fittest is all it knows. Sadly, the same can be said about people. Think about it:  Some women call all men dogs and some men call all women bitches. DOGS + BITCHES = WILD ANIMALS.


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Dear Hottywood,

I have been stuck in a dead end job for about 10 years. I make just enough money to pay my bills each month, but that’s about it. Every now and then I moonlight as a personal assistant to a few indie artists, but I am scared to venture out and do it full time. Lately I have been feeling like I am caught between a dream and a job. Any advice for me?

Caught Up,

Dear Caught Up,

dead-end-jobAs a graduate of a school for the arts, I am compelled to tell you to follow your dreams. If you feel as if you have what it takes to do you your own thing or change career paths, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Your current job is what pays the bills. But are you really content living from paycheck to paycheck just to make ends meet at or for a job that’s going nowhere? That’s both boring and exhausting. Why not go into business for yourself as a personal assistant to the stars so you can pay yourself to be your own bitch for hire, and eventually hire other bitches to work for you? Going into business for yourself translates into doing something that you love – by choice – not because some old man in a wrinkled suit and ugly Christmas necktie (who incidentally gets paid three times more than you) told you to. Fuq him and do you! With a little effort, sweat, blood and tears (a small price to pay), you can be that old man in a wrinkled suit and ugly Christmas necktie that makes life difficult for those employees who are too scared to take a chance on themselves. If I’m speaking harshly, it’s only because I want you to be mad enough to go out and make a change for the better. Just don’t come to my doorstep trying to whoop my ass for telling you some real, true shyt!

An important perk of going into business for yourself as a personal assistant to the stars, or whatever else you may choose to do, is you can be late as often as you like because you are sleeping with the boss. Hell. That should be all the reason you need! Shoot. With that said I just may get up and quit my job right now! Of course I’m not saying this out loud. I’m crazy, not stupid. You should also consider the perks of working for indie artists. I have three words for you: FREE CONCERT TICKETS!

On another note, what are you doing in your spare time? Day-dreaming about following your dreams? Be honest. Doesn’t that sound like a waste of time?

If there’s anything you want to do, even if it’s fart in public without worry, make it happen! You’re worth it. Right? …don’t take that farting thing too seriously – I’m just saying.

Don’t continue letting the fate of your future rest in the hands of someone else. Don’t be scared to fall or fail. Not only does falling and failing build character, it teaches you how to be strong and push yourself. It also gives you the strength to punch anyone that gets in your way. And finally, don’t be lazy. Get off your ass and be like Nike – “Just do it.” Complacency is a trap! And you don’t want to be trapped in a position that’s going nowhere.


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Dear Hottywood,

I’ve been seeing this guy for about 5 months or so and as clear as the day is 24 hours, we are not on the same page in terms of what a relationship is and isn’t. We don’t see eye to eye on ANYTHING except sex. When I mention anything about our differences I’m labeled as being “extra” (you know, someone that does too much). Even in private we don’t start off on the same page. I adapted to our communication imbalance, but I think I deserve more. And even though our sex amazing, he’s always the first one “satisfied.” I’ve brought this up numerous times only to receive the following response each time: “It’s all about you, isn’t it? I mean, didn’t you c*m? What’s the problem?”

I keep telling myself – and I keep being told by others – that I need to beat my feet and stop beating this dead horse, but I think there is potential for this relationship…maybe. What do you think?

Selfish in the City

Dear Selfish in the City,

IT IS TIMEBe careful not to settle for the wrong reason(s). If you are only happy or satisfied sexually, then it sounds to me that your relationship is or should be labeled as “bump buddies” or “friends with benefits” or some sort of business arrangement that involves free ass and no money exchange. Personally if you ask me, any hooker on the street would slap your forehead for willingly and continuously being screwed without an emotional connection or money exchange. I’m just saying.

You’re not going to settle comfortably with anyone unless you see eye to eye on [most] things outside of the bedroom, back seat of a car, public bathroom…whatever. Do you want to settle with someone who isn’t meeting your needs or entertaining your non-sexual desires? Or someone who always nuts before you? Really? That’s how you want to spend the rest of your life? Do you want a Mr. Right or are you okay with a Mr. Right Now(?), because the picture you’re painting is a portrait of Mr. Right Now.

Ask yourself:

  1. Is he the only fish in the sea?
  2. Is the sex that good? Damn!
  3. Is he the best you can do?
  4. Do you think you have no more to offer than good booty?

The longer you sell yourself short, the more complacent you’ll continue to be in this half-assed relationship or whatever you want to call it.

You have a choice: (1) Either you get off your bump and find someone that can meet your expectations of the heart and mind or (2) continue to be screwed by dudes that’s only interested in f*cking.

If you look at it from that perspective you don’t need my opinion or anyone else’s for that matter. You know what you need to do. If old boy is being this difficult, Sweetheart, he’s not emotionally invested.

It’s time for you to be selfish about what you need rather than letting someone else be selfish about what they want from you. If it’s the sex that’s keeping you around, that’s an easy problem to fix just by visiting your local Pleasure Palace and picking up a couple of adult toys. It may not be as satisfying as the real thing but it’ll get the job done while you search for what you’re looking for.

“The moment that you start to wonder if you deserve better, you do.”


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Dear Hottywood,

I was hooking up regularly with a lady friend of mine. In order to make our meetings more convenient, I never bothered to get my parking pass back from her (residents and guests must have a parking pass to park on the premises of my complex. Unfortunately the leasing office does not distribute guest parking passes anymore). She hasn’t been quite forthright in returning the pass, and has since made quite a few unannounced visits to my house. Even though I’ve expressed to her that I’m not interested in anything more than a casual hookup, she is rather insistent that we are a couple and that 2015 will be our year to make the magic happen between us. I want to keep f!@%ing her, but I don’t want the commitment and responsibility of being in a relationship. I also want my parking pass back. Please help.

Thank you,


Dear Restricted,

Go AwayThis is one fine pickle you’ve gotten yourself into. Don’t you know that giving someone your residential parking pass is equivalent to giving them a set of keys to your house? You put yourself in a commitment when you gave her free access to your place, coupled with the regular hookups.

In this lady’s mind, you told her that she’s the only one you’re banging and that she can come over any time she wants because she now has unrestricted access to your community. Certainly (again, in her mind) she’s the only person you’re f!@%ing because no man would be stupid enough to give out his keys parking pass to more than one female at a time if he didn’t think things were serious. When you gave her the pass, she no doubt called all her friends and family and told them to expect wedding bells soon. I can almost bet you $1.00 that you let her keep the pass because you didn’t feel like walking out to her car in the cold to get it back after y’all banged late one night. I could be wrong, but every man has done this dumb shit at least once in his life. I’ve done it three times, personally. This valuable lesson that I wasn’t smart enough to learn the first time cost me $75.00 x 3.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve told her you’re not interested in anything more than a casual f@!k-fest. Your words are irrelevant now. All that matters is that you gave her a parking pass of her very own and pretty much permanently invited her into your personal space, which clearly means the opposite of what you said. Also, it’s not uncommon for a woman to equate sex with love. And if you’re sexing her regularly, you must love her a lot according to the natural order of a woman’s thinking who’s been single for far too long.

If you tried to explain to her your disinterest in a monogamous relationship and she’s ignored your plea, the only things left for you to do is to be mean and snatch the pass out of her car while she’s watching or be slick and do it behind her back. Your final option after retrieving your shit is to bone her one last time, ensuring that she stays over long after the gates have locked and the tow trucks have made their rounds. When she finally leaves your place only to discover that her car has been towed, she’ll be pissed enough never to risk coming back to your house with no parking pass to protect her vehicle, especially if you’ve locked the door after she’s left and immediately sent all her calls to voicemail. It’s a low-blow option with no morals or consideration, but at this point it seems that lack of morals and consideration are the only things that will get through to her since honesty isn’t working.

Just to be sure you got your message across, after you’ve gotten your pass back, banged one last time real good, put her out and became profusely unavailable after her car’s been towed, immediately post a sign on your door that reads something like (and just to be clear, one sign never works. If I were you I’d post a bunch of signs all at once):

BEWARE OF DOG (This is especially effective if you have no dog)










Good luck, my friend. I and every man on the planet who has ever gone through this ordeal is pulling for ya. And I’m praying that this chick isn’t a psycho stalker who is now planning your quick and silent demise. If I never hear from you again, I’ll know why.



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Dear Hottywood,

I hate to bring another relationship issue to Ask Hottywood, but I’m a bit at a standstill. My girlfriend has been missing in action for the last three weeks. In that time I’ve probably seen her three times (once per week), but the pattern is so abrupt. It has me worried that she’s seeing someone else. I just don’t have proof. I can’t shake this worried feeling that our relationship is over. I’ve been trying to be faithful and wait for things to get back to normal, but I’m not seeing any signs of normalcy and am beginning to care less about the demise of what we had that I once thought was so good. What should I do? Is it time to let go and move on?

~Wits End

Dear Wits End,

Don’t worry about what issues you bring to Ask Hottywood. What does Hottywood do? Hottywood Helps, no matter what the issue is.

Trust me when I tell you I’ve been where you are. I’ve been where you are at least five times in my life (five times meaning five hundred), the last being the hardest to deal with. I say that to say I understand that it’s not quite so simple to let go of someone because your heart (and your mind) doesn’t want to allow giving up to be an option. Think about it though. If your girl has been MIA for three weeks, but has graced you with her presence three times in twenty one days, she’s left you no choice but to assume something is up [enter worry and frustration here]. That ol’ heifer.

I don’t want to put any more thoughts in your mind than what you’ve already concocted yourself, but three weeks is a long time to leave someone hanging. Do you deserve that? Is that what you wanted or expected? NO! I don’t necessarily want to tell you to let go however it is time to move on with yourself. And I’m not talking about the right palm…yet. If your relationship with her is meant to be then it shall be. Don’t be a dummy in the process though. While you’re waiting around for her, who knows what she’s doing. Good or bad, the problem is that you don’t know. If you don’t know, that means she’s stumped the communication, which is a problem because if there’s one thing females like to do, it’s talk. So if she’s not talking to you…well, again, you’ve probably already thought about what I’m thinking so I won’t say it for fear of making matters worse. I know how dudes get when their girl or their favorite piece of ass goes ghost (I feel your pain my brutha. Stay strong. New booty is on the way soon if the old broad can’t get her shit together). …don’t jump to conclusions, though, until you’ve given her a fair chance to explain where the hell she’s been. If she chooses not to explain, chances are she’s hiding something. THEN you worry.

Meanwhile, revel in the time you had with her at one point. Hope for the best and be prepared for the worst, or at least, or most – whatever you decide – prepare yourself for a new chapter in life. There’s no point in you waiting around for someone who is avoiding you. You can’t read her mind and begging (in my opinion) is not an option. Man up and focus on you. Once all of your attention is back on yourself, either she’ll come around or you will find someone else to hold your attention. Rent some porn; whack off a bit; go lay someone else. Exercise. Chop wood. Who cares? Do whatever you need to do to stop thinking about the one person who can’t or won’t find the time to think about you.

Let me leave you with this thought: “The higher up on the food chain you go, the admiration isn’t just for the hungry, but for the ones that go the extra mile to take a bite.” Chew on that.


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Hang Out MORE and Hangover LESS: Professional Drunkism

Are you some poor lush who can’t help but to get wasted every now and then, and by “every now and then” I mean all the damn time?  Do you make a complete ass out of yourself when you’ve been filled with the libation of your choice?  Do you dance on table tops, strip in front of crowds, or consistently leak fumes of alcohol through your pores?  Then your butt needs to be glued to a seat with your eyelids scotch-taped to your eyebrows so you can read the following message:


There is no denying that there’s pure greatness in losing all your inhibitions when alcohol comes into play.  Who are we kidding?  It’s the best feeling on the planet — next to sex, of course.  Think about it; not caring or worrying about anything or anyone – no reservations, hesitations or anything that ends in “ations.”  But with great joy also comes great pain.  That which we call the “hangover.”

Hangovers are the enemy.  They remind us how much of a great time we’ve had the night before – true, but they also remind us that we are not above the overwhelming headaches, stomach aches and barf bags.  So to all you alchies who can’t function without a drink in your hand as well as to the novice victims of inebriation, below are a few tips to help your joyful pathetic soul avoid the dreaded hangover, as much as possible.

Tip #1:  Though it goes without saying that dark drinks gets your goose loose in no time flat, they also bring on the worse hangovers and dries your mouth out like salt to a slug.  So pump yourself with water while you are drinking.  If you don’t want to be the only health-conscious lush at the party, try drinking a glass of water after every 3rd drink.  You want to prevent dehydration as much as possible.   And since drinking heavily causes you to pee-pee often, it only makes sense that you drink enough water to cover what you lose in urination, right?  In addition to the dehydration making you feel as if the room is spinning and you can pass out at any moment, it also makes your breath stink.  And no one wants that!


Tip #2:   Keep some ibuprofen handy.  It’ll be your best friend when the morning after is laughing at you hysterically for A) tongue-kissing that total stranger in the middle of the dance floor or B) forgetting where the hell you left your underwear, provided your hot ass wore some to begin with.  Either way, it’s best to pop the pill just before you pass out and hit your head on the coffee table…I mean pillow.


Tip #3:   Squirt some lemon juice on your tongue prior to drinking like a fish.  Something in the juice causes you not to get quite so sick, leaving you more precious time to practice your best interpretation of a wino!   Lemon juice also adds zest to the drink of your choice, so you’d be killing two birds with one stone.


Tip #4:  The absorption of ethyl alcohol is dependent on the rate of gastric emptying.  For all you jocks and floozies who never paid attention in science, biology or chemistry class – don’t drink on an empty stomach.  The more slow-digesting foods you eat before drinking, the slower you will absorb alcohol.  Fatty and protein-rich foods digest slower, so they work best.  Think steak n’ cheese & burgers!  Mmmm.


Tip #5:  Since NOT drinking isn’t an option to avoid or prevent a hangover, make sure you have nothing to do the next day and sleep like a lazy bum!   Just be aware that that’ll be the time when everyone will want to visit or call you.  After all, isn’t that life’s funny little way?  Sending people to look you in your baggy eyes when you look and feel your absolute worst?   Life can be a real bitch sometimes.   And so can the people who are busy laughing at your hungover ass.


These tips are not all guaranteed to keep you partying all night long.  We’ll leave that to the rock stars.  But they will help you party longer with less of a throbbing afterwards.  And if even if you choose to ignore all these useful words of wisdom, there’s one thing I implore you never to forget: 90% of any effort is getting started.


Quote of the week:   “Not all chemicals are bad. Without chemicals such as hydrogen and oxygen, for example, there would be no way to make water, a vital ingredient in beer.”

Cheers to the Weekend: The Grand-daddy of Regret

Once upon a time an innocent boy, low on the popularity totem pole, decided to ignore his good-boy conscious and opted for once to live life to the fullest.

His adventures began with one little glass of alcohol…

As a result, the boy who otherwise would not have been taken seriously by any woman in a romantic arena got laid for the first time by a woman who would be considered by some to be as large as the arena itself.

He closed his eyes as he experienced his first romantic encounter – or so he thought – until he realized his eyes weren’t closed at all. Instead he was buried and suffocated by the weight of the woman’s massive house-like body.

It took all of 15 minutes before the large woman determined the noises coming from the frail boy wasn’t moans of pleasure, but rather yelps for mercy. Soon after, she freed him from her relentless grip. He ran in terror with a shred of dignity and even more shredded underwear. Sadly his equilibrium was about as note worthy as his judgment in alcohol and women.

As he sped away from the quiet street of the unfamiliar neighborhood of his plump love bucket, his car swerving from one side of the street to the other, he was tailed and pulled over by the cops for suspicion of drinking while under the influence.

Just when he thought things could get no worse…


Quote of the Week:  “I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”

Man Jumped for Not Sharing His Weed to Celebrate Vatican’s White Smoke Announcement

Church FightKILLEM COURT, Connecticut – Rodney McSausagefoot was beaten senseless in a parking lot of a Catholic church in Connecticut’s Killem Court Projects for sparking up a joint filled with marijuana after hearing of the Vatican’s announcement of a new Pope.

“Firing up a jay is how we celebrate good news in the hood. Actually firing up a jay is how we celebrate bad news in the hood.” McSausagefoot said before undergoing evaluation for the concussion he suffered from the assault.

Neighbors were outraged at the Catholic’s harsh reaction to the victim’s unwillingness to share his weed at the time of one of the most historical moments in Catholic history.

When police asked McSausagefoot why he didn’t offer any of his smoke to the attackers before being attacked he responded, “…because they didn’t put in on this.”

McSausagefoot could face a steep fine or a sentence in a county jail for being stingy with his weed.

Fake Eyelashes are a Woman’s Equivalence to Men’s Skinny Jeans

“Excuse me ma’am, there’s a spider crawling on your face. Oh wait, those are  your eyelashes.”  


It isn’t uncommon for women to hear this kind of phrase from the majority of the population of men on the planet. Okay, maybe not the entire planet.  More so in cities saturated with pop culture phenomenon.

Overly long – or as I like to call them – FAKE eyelashes are a woman’s version of men’s skinny jeans. And just like skinny jeans and the men that wear them, over animated eyelashes should be set on fire, particularly while still attached to the woman who is wearing them, unless of course it’s Kim Kardashian. She may be a money hog and unable to keep a man for whatever reason but the girl is undeniably beautiful. Even with her faux lashes she can do wrong, except maybe marry a moron for 72 days and expect the general public to believe she didn’t expect a backlash. But hey, I didn’t say she was the brightest apple in the bunch…just the prettiest. Anyway we aren’t here to discuss Kimmy Kakes. Instead we are here to throw stones at women that wish they could gussy up like Mrs. Ms. Mizz Kardashian, sadly and unfortunately to no avail. 

What is it about long eyelashes that push boundaries? It’s not the lashes itself but rather the women that wear them incorrectly (over excessively) and in the most inappropriate places (i.e., work, church, school, laundromat). 

One shouldn’t be surprised to see the lash craze on models, actresses, female musical entertainers or drag queens. If I had to give an opinion I’d say they were perfect for stage play at long distance range. But if one just so happens to not attend a theatre, concert or skim through the pages of a glamour magazine, but instead make a midnight run to a local McDonalds or 24 hour CVS, the shock of eye ropes hanging from the counter clerks’ face could stop the heart like a baby locomotive hitting a deer on a railroad track.  

Today’s modern woman turns the spotlight on her – aiming that spotlight on the spectacle of her eyes. Ladies, especially in the urban community, dive head first overboard when attempting to vamp up the glam. They are seemingly more rich in eye makeup than they are in bank account dividends. Aside from the mascara caked up on the ridiculously long eye strands, women have the audacity to pair the lashes with wigs and weaves. As if having a pair of tarantulas hovering over the eyeballs isn’t enough, the nerve it must take to go the extra mile to throw a shiny tail of zebra on top of the crown. 

I have but one word for you fashion faux pas victims – “STOP!” Leave the lashes to the Kardashians, “please,” and “thank you.” 

Despite what you may think, unless you are posing for Tyra Banks’ America’s Next Top Model or somebody’s Esquire Magazine, just be happy with the natural eye visors God gave you. Men don’t like the extra amenities anyway. In fact we won’t even notice or often times care what you look like until the lights go out. So while you think you’re getting dolled up Barbie style, we’re looking at you more in the likeness of Garbage Pail Kids.  The only exception to this rule is if you have attempted to turn your stove top flame up to a maximum level like the chefs at every corner Chinese carry out and incidentally burned off your eyebrows and lashes. Otherwise you will only continue to look as if your face is being possessed by an alien race of arachnids. And believe me when I tell you it doesn’t take super Spiderman senses to sense something wrong with that look.