What Her Boyfriend Calls It

What Her Boyfriend Calls It

By: Dave Woehrle

Back in my college days, after over-eating and suffering butt piss at my buddy’s grill-out, I stopped by the local grocery store to pick up some Imodium (anti-diarrhea pills). I also picked up a 12-pack of Old Style beer, too, since I was heading to a party later that night. Two-birds-one-stone-sort-of-thing.

I approached the register with these two items. Upon seeing my shopping choices – my unhealthy dietary choices – the female cashier said, “So…you like Doggy Style, huh?”

I furrowed my brow and thought about the meaning of her question. Was she assuming I was taking Imodium to make anal sex possible for my gay lover, and that the beer would help me make such promiscuous decisions? I wasn’t sure.

Seeing my confused face, she offered the following, “Well, at least that’s what my boyfriend calls it.”

That's. What. My. Boyfriend. Calls. It.

Huh.

“Ah,” I said, smiling and nodding, as if we had reached an understanding about doggy style. Really, I just wanted to get out of there.

To this day, I usually don’t go more than a week without thinking about what that cashier meant.

But to be fair, in hindsight, anyone who buys nothing but Imodium and Old Style at a grocery store deserves whatever is coming his/her way.

Upon Flying Low Over the Great Plains on the Fourth of July

Upon Flying Low Over the Great Plains on the Fourth of July

By: Dave Woehrle

In his window seat next to her, he observes:

fire confetti leap to tickle wings,

each burst reflects Lucky Charms green,

virgin panty pink,

colors on the wing's underbelly,

twisting to turn on the shiny metal tip.

Aliens must saucer over us on Independence Day

with sodas, popcorn, and expectations,

loving the show, the explosions.

They imagine Kansas full of robed alchemists

celebrating summer corn with fuschia flames at night.

So he laughs at these star hiccups,

these lily pads of light

splashing the lithosphere

cupped in his oval window.

She sighs, turns the page of her Vogue. It’s just fireworks, honey.

The Way Things Ought To Be (Vol. 2)

The Way Things Ought To Be (Vol. 2)
by: Dave Woehrle

(Note: these writings are meant to be comedic. As the great German composer Johannes Brahms put it, "If there is anyone here whom I have not insulted, I beg his pardon." Or, as my Grandpa Woehrle used to put it, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

Coffeehouse Open Mic Night

Coffeehouse open mic nights ought to be more accurately renamed "Sad Thin White People With Guitars / Occasional Fat Girl Reading a Poem About Birds."

Females Saying "Nothing"

When a female is angry and distant, and a male boyfriend asks "What's wrong?" the woman will say, "Nothing." However, she does not mean "nothing is wrong." What she ought to say is the following: "I'm upset. However, I will not tell you why I'm upset. You will have to arbitrarily guess as to what is bothering me. This includes not only bad things you have done, but things you have NOT done, things you forgot to do/say/think/feel. I hope you feel real bad for a few days while I remain silently mad. That is all."

Yogurt

You never see men in yogurt commercials. There ought to be men in yogurt commercials. I don't have a vagina, but I do enjoy my morning Yoplait. The dairy marketing feminists have taken things too far.

Fun Size / King Size

Candy companies ought to stop naming small candy bars "Fun Size" and large candy bars "King Size" for it implies being a king isn't fun, and I don't think that's the case. There's a reason people want to be king, to rule the world: it's awesome. You get respect and bling and concubines and jesters and bad ass cheetah-skin robes. Conversely, history has shown the small peons of society had very little fun. The only fun they could have was dictated by the kingdom's rules. In other words, the opposite of "fun" isn't "king." The unit of measure is metaphorically confusing.

Candy bars ought to be named "Peasant Size" and "King Size." That way, during Halloween, you could go to your door and, judging by the child's aroma and costume, decide their socio-economic status snack. Little Jayden, smelling like Trust Fund and Country Club membership, wearing a brand-new Optimus Prime get-up, would get a "King Size." Little Rusty, smelling of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and WWF Raw reruns, wearing a soiled bed sheet with two non-equidistant holes in it, would get the "Peasant Size." It's called reality. And besides, how else are kids going to learn about feudalism nowadays?

Masturbation As Patriotic

Masturbation ought to be considered patriotic. In a country so fiercely proud of its Git-Er-Dun independence, it's odd an activity in which a citizen literally takes matters in his/her own hands is frowned upon. It's just so American to dive down into the trenches and rise gloriously to blissful freedom. And what do you REALLY think about when you hear the words "above the fruited plain" in "America the Beautiful"?

Perhaps our Christian Puritan roots hindered our private-playing pride, but what about the hymn "Come All Ye Faithful?" Besides the great title, the song contains such wink-wink phrases as "Come and Behold Him!" and "Born this happy morning!" and "Now in flesh appearing!"

The French refer to the orgasm as "la petite mort" (the little death). Leave it to the retreat-hungry French to find defeat in something so great.

I just hope I live to see a bumper sticker on a pick-up truck that reads "These colors don't run. They come hard."

Listening

Listening
by: Dave Woehrle

I said, "There's an odd, liberating feeling about playing music for an audience that's not really listening. "

He said, "I feel the same way about praying."

The Way Things Ought To Be (Vol. 1)

The Way Things Ought To Be (Vol. 1)

By: Dave Woehrle

The following are some suggestions I have to make our society a better place.

Nap Snack Officers

Remember when you got cranky as a child, and your mother correctly prescribed either a nap or a snack? At what age did this stop being a cure-all remedy? Seriously. As adults, we like to think our problems are inherently complicated, that our crappy moods are somehow rationalized by adult responsibilities. Truth to be told, most of us are just hungry or tired.

So I propose the American government – as long as they’re wasting money just for yuks anyway – hire officers to hand out homemade quilts and boxes of Animal Crackers to struggling, cranky citizens. These officials will have purple capes with the yellow letters “NSO” on them (“Nap Snack Officers”).

Can you imagine business meetings for multi-billion dollar corporations, CEOs arguing over a huge marble table, hell about to break loose? Then a NSO arrives and suddenly the rich bastards are chewing Animal Crackers, saying things like, “I like the giraffes the best. I swear they taste better somehow.” Then snack-induced naps occur under crumb-ridden quilts. They all wake up at peace with themselves and the world.

Calling In Horny

I propose American workers should be given twelve days off a year off for the sole purpose of making love. Think of them as “personal” days, but the good kind.

How great would it be to call your boss in the morning, and, instead of trying to sound like you have a cold, you could just say, “Hey. It’s me. Yeah, I don’t think I can make it in today. Why? Because, well, me and lady are just gonna fuck like bunnies all day. Just being honest. I mean, we had our usual morning session, and it went real well. I think we have a few more pre-shower rounds in us. Then we’ll have some dank-ass omelets, another round of bumping uglies, and then we’ll settle down can catch up on Netflix. Frankly, sir, I just can’t seem to find a good reason to put on clothes today. So I’m using one of my Horny days. But I’ll be in tomorrow. Thanks for your understanding.”

PS: I chose twelve days for the sake of ovulation.

Calling In Confused

This is, admittedly, not as fun as Calling In Horny, but equally important. Some days you wake up and you just don’t know. You actually wake up and say, “I just don’t know.” You know that feeling? The “Christ-Almighty-What-The-Hell-Am-I-Doing-With-My-Time-Here-On-Earth” feeling? Yeah. We should be given at least four days a year to deal with those existentially crushing feelings.

You could call your boss and say, “Hey. It’s me. Yeah. I’m Calling In Confused. I’m just going to sit inside and sigh. Just sigh. Real loud angry sighs. Meaningful sighs. Then maybe read Robert Frost, listen to about three Elliot Smith albums, and then stare out the window for six hours with tears in my eyes. That’s where I’m at today. But my forlorn ass will be back on the job tomorrow, sir.”

The Great American Novel

The Great American Novel
by: Dave Woehrle

1: "My dad told me I should write. And I was like, 'Dad, that sounds, like, it sounds like such a chore."

2: "That's funny."

1: "Yeah, it's so much time."

2: "I know. I took Creative Writing in college. I liked it. It was fun."

1: "It IS fun. I like writing. I like it, too, but..."

2: "Yeah."

Pause. Silence. Number 1 picks up a book from the Self-Help section.

1: "So I asked my husband to go to Daddy Boot Camp and he said No."

2: "That's funny." (said in the same meaningless deadpan tone of the first "That's funny")

------Conversation overheard between two blonde pregnant women at a bookstore.

Sophistication

Sophistication

By: Dave Woehrle

When I was 20, I fell for a woman with eyes like the back of burnt CDs, a green containing melodies. She wore cardigans, enjoyed wine, swing sets in the rain, and collecting rubber chickens. She was 23. A journalist. A tea-drinker. Sophisticated. Smarter than me. I think she liked me because I played an instrument and knew who Simone de Beauvoir was.

Over dinner in a Thai restaurant one night early in our courting period, there was a lull in the conversation. She’d been explaining why Aimee Mann albums were important and I’d been nodding. It was quiet, so I asked her if she had to have sex with an animal, which animal would it be. She said nothing and stared. More silence. I said I’d chose pandas, nature’s cuddlers.

She was grossed out. Put her chopsticks down. She asked what kind of question was that. I said it was theoretical, you know, it’s not as if we’d have to go to the zoo after she answered. She said it was different for girls. I said I’m sure it was, that’s why I ask. What’s the female perspective here sorta thing.

She wasn’t speaking then, so I tried to laugh it off, Just kidding, sweet pea. After awhile, she faked a laugh too and said, “You’re cute,” which means, as I’ve learned over the years, “You’re still 16.”

A month later, she concluded I was too immature for her, said she wanted something “more serious.”

She should have just said “Komodo Dragon” and then we’d be married today.