Tag Archives: Romance

A Man and His Hey Girl Tweets

For the past several months I’ve been doing a series of daily tweets. First tacos, then monkeys, then daily affirmations, then daily etiquette tips, then incorrect quotes, then fake TV shows, horoscopes, horror, writing tips, holiday tweets, resolution tweets, and now Hey Girl Tweets! Enjoy!

You can also follow me on Twitter to enjoy March’s series of Urban Myth tweets!

Day One – Hey girl you must be a global energy crisis because I’m worried about you. 🙁

Day Two – Hey girl are you the Super Bowl ’cause lots of bros are eating Doritos & having strong yet uniformed opinions about you.

Day Three – Hey girl you must be cheese, napping, or Benedict Cumberbatch because I can’t stop thinking about you.

Day Four – Hey girl are you a desk set from Ikea because I can’t pronounce your name and I feel stupid about that.

Day Five – Hey girl you must be a blockbuster video because I can never go back to you and I still have some of your DVDs.

Day Six – Hey girl you must be Tom Petty because you have nice blonde hair and seem like you would be fun to have a beer with.

Day Seven – Hey girl you must be a dairy product because I want you but I can’t have you I am lactose intolerant. 🙁


Day Nine – Hey girl you must be LinkedIn because you keep sending me emails about stuff I don’t give a shit about.

Day Ten – Hey girl you must be The Hobbit: Part Two: The Desolation of Smaug because I’m not interested in seeing you. Sorry.

Day Eleven – Hey girl you must be poutine because you’re from Canada and a lot of people like you.

Day Twelve – Hey girl you must be an Oxford comma because you help me understand, process, and clarify things.

Day Thirteen – Hey girl you must be a horcrux because you have my soul but I also have six other girlfriends. I am a horrible person.

Day Fourteen – Hey girl you must be a gift card to Radio Shack because I have absolutely no idea what to do with you tonight. 🙁

Day Fifteen – Hey girl you must be Google Plus because I can’t convince any of my friends to hang out with you. 🙁

Day Sixteen – Hey girl you must be the red wedding episode of Game of Thrones because I can’t think about you without crying.

Day Seventeen – Hey girl you must be former United States President Theodore Roosevelt because I named a stuffed bear after you.

Day Eighteen – Hey girl you must be one of those blankets with arms because you make me feel warm and safe and you have arms.

Day Nineteen – Hey girl you must be an Upworthy article because I honestly don’t believe anything you say.

Day Twenty – Hey girl you must be a nice long nap because I want you every afternoon.

Day Twenty-One – Hey girl you must be x where x equals beautiful times the square root of smart divided by awesome I am very bad at math

Day Twenty-Two – Hey gorilla you must be autocorrect because I didn’t mean to call you a gorilla.

Day Twenty-Three – Hey girl you must be a fruity rum drink because you’re very sweet but I know you’re hiding something.

Day Twenty-Four – Hey girl you must be the norovirus because I can’t get away from you.

Day Twenty-Five – Hey girl you must be Harrison Ford because I like you even when you’re grumpy and don’t want to talk about Star Wars.

Day Twenty-Six – Hey girl you must be the iTunes user agreement because I agree with whatever you say so we can just move the hell on.

Day Twenty-Seven – Hey girl you must be. Cognizance of our own existence is a defining trait of humanity. I have a liberal arts degree.

Day Twenty-Eight – Hey girl you must be this joke structure because I really like you but I think we need a little time apart.

Your Hey Girl friend,


If you enjoy my work, you can check out all the comedy words and things I’m making via Patreon.


Filed under Daily Tweet Collection


For the lovers out there, I’ve crafted a piece of extremely erotic slam poetry. If at all possible you should read it to yourself while sipping whiskey and listening to sultry jazz spin on your turntable. This poem is about passion. ADULT passion. TIRED, ADULT passion. Enjoy.

It’s Friday night and I’m all alone
Got work to do ‘til the wife comes home
Sitting in my office, planning and writing
sending emails and blind carbon copying

Then keys jangle, bags rustle, I know the score
It’s my wife coming in through our back door

She’s carrying groceries, she’s tired, and she’s huffing
She says, “What you up to tonight, husband?
You got a show, a meeting, or something?”
And I say, “No, baby, I ain’t got nothing.”

So we slip into something more comfortable
Sweatpants so big a dog could get lost in ‘em
Throw our bodies on the couch and land with a flop
Flip up our hoodies so no body heat is lost out our tops

“We should talk about dinner,” says the wife with a sigh
“Maybe we can try to use the food processor again?”
“Fuck that shit,” I say, “let’s order in.”

What you want, baby?
Pizza, Chinese, a bagel with lox?
Doesn’t matter to me
I’ll eat anything that’s hot and comes in a box

We order pizza online with a quick click clack
Cleverly avoiding all human contact
And before you know it we’re all settled in
The pizza’s steaming and the motherfucking netflix is streaming

We’re watching some show we both like a lot
Starring good actors who are quirky but hot

We’re in the middle of Episode Two, Season Four
And the plot has more twists
Than our complimentary cinnamon stix
A telemarketer calls the wife on her phone so she sets it to silent
She’s all like, “Bitch, stop calling before I get violent.”
Wife doesn’t swear much, so it’s a funny joke
I laugh, spit up my whiskey, and almost choke
She’s knitting, I’m drinking, we’re watching, it’s heaven
Then we realize, shit, we just finished Season Seven

We’re getting tired, our legs are cramping, our asses are sore
I say, “Baby, I don’t know if I can take much more.”

And my wife says those three little words
Just one more
Just one more
Just one more

Just five more later, we go to bed and strip off our clothes
Throw ‘em in a pile of dirty shirts and panty hose
Finally it’s time for the main event
We burrow under the covers like we’re pitching a tent

We can feel the tension rising
Our excitement is super-sizing

We’re going to do this long and hard
We’re going to use all our power
And as god is our witness
We’re going to sleep for eight fucking hours

Come morning we’re cuddled in each other’s arms
There’s a noise, shit, we forgot to turn off the alarm

I thrust my hand over all of a sudden
To smack that little snooze button

“Yes,” my wife cries, “Hit it, hit that little button!”

And I pound and I pound away
My hand springing up like a jack in the box
To hit that ringing alarm clock
That electronic crowing cock
My arm gets stiff and strong like an ox
And I spend all morning
Slamming that tight little box

Sometime around eleven thirty eight
My wife says, “Damn. It’s getting pretty late,
We got stuff to do that just can’t wait.”

And I say, “Goddamn right, we got things that need doing
Let’s put on our hoodies and get the coffee brewing,
‘Cause today, baby, we got another hot date
We’re watching all of motherfucking Season Eight.”

This comedy blog post was made possible by the words “Oh” and “Yeah!” More importantly, it was made possible by kind pledges on Patreon. If you enjoyed the piece, you can help me post more by pledging as little as $1 per comedy blog post. Thank you very much for your time, support, and tired adult passion.


Filed under Comedy Real Life

LOVE ACTUALLY: Obsessed Ep 40

The new four seasons: Spring, Summer, Fall, and Fighting About the Romantic Comedy Love Actually. Joseph and his guests, comedian Jim Robinson (who hates Love Actually) and librarian Jody Wurl (who loves Love Actually), gently dissect the film with a chainsaw. We address such thorny questions as: Is the film sexist? What’s the deal with the turtlenecks? Isn’t Bill Nighy awesome? Why do the girls from Wisconsin dress like cowboy hookers? What music would you play to annoy your family at your own funeral? Is Love Actually a cracked, dirty mirror through which we see ourselves? Should the film be called Ambiguous Actually? This episode was recorded live in Joseph’s home so there isn’t a live audience but we did get really upset and bump the mic a few times so please enjoy those ambient noises.

AWOOGA! Obsessed is now a part of Feral Audio! Go to Feral now to listen to this episode and subscribe for new ones!

Listen, rate, review, and subscribe to OBSESSED on iTunes.

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Filed under Obsessed, Podcast

The Avengers’ Guide To Girls

Moviefone kicked up some controversy with its alleged satire article “A Girl’s Guide To The Avengers.” I thought the article was sort of masterful in the way it was tone deaf to both comic book fans and people whose perceptions of gender have evolved since 1972. I posted on twitter that I would be more interested in reading “The Avengers’ Guide To Girls.” So I wrote that.


“Look, uh, I like ladies. Kind of a lot. I’ve got this sort of casual, humorous, slightly alcoholic thing going and ladies seem to really like that. I mean, it’s hard to be casual when you wear a giant suit of metal, but I manage to pull it off. I’m a bad boy with a heart of gold that is kept beating by the power of a small arc reactor. So, if you want to have good luck with the ladies, you should follow that age old wisdom: just pretend to be yourself. And pretend yourself is me, Tony Stark. I mean, Iron Man. Whatever. And if anything goes wrong just make a joke. If that doesn’t work, suddenly put on a suit of armor and fly away.”


“Um, my last date was during Word War II. I don’t have a lot of really good advice for dating in modern times. I guess, if you have a lady you’re sweet on and your parents are okay with it, take her down to Walgreen’s and buy her a malted at the soda fountain. Also, you should probably purchase a condom. Tony tells me they sell those in Walgreen’s now. Right out in the open. And if you don’t know what a condom is, well, you know how I use my shield to reflect bullets? I’m uncomfortable now. I guess the point is I would rather have Nazis shooting at me than continue this conversation. Do you still have War Bonds? Go buy those and leave me alone please.”


“I don’t even know why I’m in this article.”


“In my time on the mortal plane, I have learned that it is quite normal for young men to declare, ‘I’m a god.’ I understand these men are part of a sub-species of human males called ‘douche bags’ and sometimes even ‘douche canoes.’ I do not know if there is a difference between the bags and the canoes. Well, I am not one of these douche things. I am a Norse God. Here are a few things that are important to the ladies both in Asgard and here on Earth: Respect. Honor. Large Mystical Hammers. The ability to summon romantic storms and stuff. They also like clear direct communication. I, Thor, son of Odin, master of Mjolnir, have no problem with clearly and repeatedly saying exactly what I mean in a very loud voice. I really mean that. Thank you for your time. My name is Thor and I am a God. Not a Douche God. An actual God.”


“I am a woman. I can’t speak for all women. As a woman, I like to kick people in needlessly complex ways then land in a cool pose. I have to go try to be a spy while hanging out with incredibly loud men who wear bright costumes now.”


“It’s all about the foot rub. I got my technique down and everything.”







There. I hope that helps people in their relationships. If nothing else, I’m super glad to get it out of my system. Thanks for reading.








Filed under Comedy Review

Sense and Seven Minutes in Heaven

I wanted to write a new romantic story for Valentine’s Day. Instead, I just spent some time poking around on the internet. And I found something incredible: an unpublished Jane Austen erotica story called “Sense and Seven Minutes in Heaven.” Really, this was not written by me. It was written by Jane Austen. Which is odd, because there are a ton of f-bombs. Enjoy.



It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man locked in a closet with a single woman must attempt to engage in pre-marital fornication. However little known the feelings or views of such a man on first entering the closet, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of single women, that should the suggestion of wanton ribaldry not be made, a single woman is disposed to consider it an insult.

These truths were not lost on Miss Margaret Lucy Anne Cockingwood of Cockton Manor on Old Cockingham Lane nestled in the quaint village of East Poppingcockshire.

Maggie, as she was known to her closest friends, was currently locked in a rather small closet with a legendarily dour gentleman named Mr. Frith Banbury Fannycock Cardington.

Mr. Cardington had protested greatly when the spinning bottle of port came to a definitive stop while clearly pointing in his direction with all the firmness and rigidity of a scolding Dowager’s jutting digit.

“I am ever so afraid, I must decline,” whined Mr. Cardington. “I do suffer from allergies so.”

But Maggie and the other dinner party guests had forced him into the closet as he bleated like a sheep about the dire risk of an apocalyptic sneezing fit.

And so, Maggie and Mr. Cardington stared at one another’s dimly lit silhouettes as the precious seconds ticked away and Mr. Cardington fumbled about for something interesting to say.

“I say,”  he said redundantly. “This small, tight space is rather damp isn’t it?”

“Not yet,” responded Maggie with an equal mixture of annoyance and lascivious intent.


Mr. Cardington was baffled by this blatant innuendo. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “come again?”

“At this rate, there shan’t be time for that,” grumbled Maggie.

“What?” retorted Mr. Cardington as though he hadn’t just been bashed about the head with a rather obvious reference to multiple orgasms.

“Honestly, Mr. Cardington,” Maggie huffed, “have you no sense of social decorum? We are in this closet for a most singular purpose. Do you know what it is?”

“No!” Mr. Cardington whisper-yelled.

“There are no end of euphemisms for it,” Maggie protested. “Roasting the beef. Ringing for the butler. Braiding the wick. Visiting the stable. Polishing the soup spoon. It works with virtually any verb and noun, for heaven’s sake!”

Mr. Cardington’s ignorance was palpable. Indeed his confusion was as large as the British Empire itself, but ironically it appeared as though the sun would never rise on it.

“Mr. Cardington,” Maggie blurted, “I simply wish to fuck you!”


Sadly for Maggie, the only part of Mr. Cardington that stiffened was his upper lip.

“Miss Cockingwood,” he lectured, “as a gentleman, I’m afraid that I cannot bring myself to even mention aloud, much less agree to, such an illicit act.”

Maggie took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy speech about pride and pagan rituals and the hubris of British culture daring to impede the basic carnal knowledge to which flesh is heir, about sense and bi-sexuality, and the hideous damage sexual repression can do to the psyche of a nation. However, the thesis of her strident and eloquent argument could have easily been communicated with this compelling universal truth:

“There is nothing sadder than a single man who will not put out.”


The next 30 seconds passed in silence.

Time dragged forward with all the speed and warmth of a melting iceberg.

Finally, Mr. Cardington’s defiant posture slumped in defeat as he mumbled, “Oh, bugger me, fine.”

“We shall have to make haste,” Maggie admonished. “We only have three minutes left.”

Mr. Cardington cocked his left eyebrow and said, “That shan’t be a problem.”

Maggie kissed him furiously and the unlikely couple engaged in an awkward ballet of inelegant button popping and lace removing that was as hideous as it was exciting.


They fucked.


They continued fucking. The couple stumbled and wrestled, kicking up dust, causing Mr. Cardington to sneeze repeatedly. The closet became a symphony of bizarre human sounds.

Sneezing, moaning, copulating, perhaps flatulating?

Who could tell?

And who cared?

What with all the fucking.


Still fucking!

Maggie reached for Mr. Cardington’s fob. It was not a euphemism.

She reached into his waistcoat and popped open the watch. She was able to make out the time as Mr. Cardington’s naked white ass was so bright it actually gave off a glow—a dim romantic light like a big, tight kerosene lamp.

“We’re almost of time,” Maggie moaned.

Mr. Cardington, ever the gentlemen, informed Miss Cockingwood he was simply waiting for her.

There was a polite round of offers from both parties to allow the other to climax first.

Mr. Cardington stated rather firmly that he would hear nothing of it. He argued that he had already violated his own sense of gentlemanly conduct by agreeing to fuck Miss Cockingwood in the first place and should he allow himself to climax prematurely he feared he would not be able to live with the shame.

What would they say in London?

Maggie began to rebuke Mr. Cardington for his baroque attitude towards orgasm etiquette when fate intervened.

At the exact same moment, five things happened.

Maggie climaxed.

Mr. Cardington climaxed.

The closet door fell open.

Mr. Cardington sneezed.

The rest of the dinner party guests stared in shock.

Luckily, they were all quiet high on opium. They were also blinded by the sudden brightness of Mr. Cardington’s luminous white ass, so no one was precisely sure of what they saw that night.

Later, Maggie and Mr. Cardington would agree that three out of the seven minutes they spent in that tight, damp closet in Cockton Manor on Old Cockingham Lane nestled in the quaint village of East Poppingcockshire were, indeed, heaven.


A version of this story is also available in my book COMEDY OF DOOM.
Thanks for reading.

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Filed under Comedy Story


Before I lived in Los Angeles, I lived in Minnesota for many years. As the difficulty of winter increased for me I struggled to describe to friends how I felt about snow. I realized the best analogy for my relationship with snow was this: It’s like dating a crazy person. The following is my attempt to  break up with snow. It will probably get ugly.


You and I have to talk.

We’ve been seeing each other on and off for more years than I like to think about and—no, no—Snow—I don’t want to play. No, I don’t want to throw you at my friends or roll you into balls and make you a man. That’s just weird.

Snow. This is serious.

It’s not you, it’s me, but I think we need to break up.

No, no, Snow, don’t lose your shit. I don’t deny we’ve had some really good times together. Usually in December.

You’ve been away for a while and when you first come back I’m excited to see you. You look fresh and pretty. And, honestly, it’s really nice to have you around for the holidays. I sit by a warm fire and I could just stare at you all night.

But then January 1st hits and I am so fucking done with you.

Why? Because I know you’re going to spend months making ridiculous demands of me.

How many times have I made plans with friends that I have had to cancel because of your bullshit?

I’m sick of the embarrassment of calling my friends and family and saying, “Sorry, I can’t make it to dinner or the show or the family reunion because Snow showed up in the middle of the night and fucked up my car.”

You don’t care what’s going on in my life. You show up whenever you want with all your needs and your issues. Shovel me! Scrape me! Blow me!

Not to mention my favorite passive aggressive game—pour kitty litter on me or I will knock you on your ass. That’s just deviant.

And then you try to play it off  like it’s cute. You’re all like, “Oh, come on, stay home from work, lie down inside me, and let’s make an angel together.”

It’s cute in December, Snow, but by February, it’s just pathetic.

And that’s another thing. By February, you’re not exactly pretty anymore. Thousands of different people and machines have trampled through you, you’re full of mud and filth, you keep melting and refreezing, melting and refreezing. By March we finally start to see the truth: you are a messy, dangerous bi-polar pile of crazy mush.

No, no, I am not being overly harsh. Remember when I said it wasn’t you, it was me? I was lying.

It is totally you. You’re insane. You dictate where I can park my car!

By the end of March, you are downright sociopathic. I’m not playing with you enough, so you start a big melt to try to get my attention back. The second I start to feel a little sad that you’re leaving, you pound me with another ten inches.

That’s it.  That’s the end of the story. Can we just be friendly about it?

Can I have my stuff back?

What stuff?  All the stuff I’ve lost inside you over the years. Hats, mittens, keys, glasses.

No, you do not give them back every year. I wait while you slowly melt to find the stuff I dropped. Somehow, my class ring never reappears but you manage to retain every single piece of dog shit you’ve collected for the last six months.

See? I can’t do this anymore. You drive me into a frenzy of anger and whining. I can’t even complain about you to my friends because they’re sick of hearing it.

All they say is, “If you hate this relationship so much, why don’t you just move on?”

And the answer is: I don’t know.

Maybe I  like to complain. Maybe it is me. Maybe I’m afraid to try a different relationship.

What the hell is out there for me, anyway? I don’t want to date fog. I don’t want to build a life with dry heat. I know you’ll just follow me to the mountains.

I need to be strong. I need to break the cycle. I need to do something crazy like hook up with a fault line.

Until then, you and I are stuck with one another, Snow.

But from now on, we are just friends. And barely that. I’m sure I’ll see you at parties. Whether you’re invited or not.

I’ll do my best to be civil and if I can’t look at you without screaming, I’ll just hide in my house. But if you pile up on my roof and try to break into my house—I will get a restraining order.

Have a good life, Snow, have a good life.

This story is now available in audio format as part of my comedy album A VERY HOLIDAY THING. The album and the blog post were made possible by funding from Patreon. Thanks, patrons!


Filed under Comedy Story, Uncategorized