Papa's Basement » online dating

Papa’s Basement 8-12-10-Helping Richie Get His Wang Touched

admin — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 18:02:26 +0000

The work begun at the end of Saturday’s episode of Papa’s Basement continues as we try to fix up Richard’s Match.com profile so that he doesn’t die a born-again virgin. Forgive the sound quality: It’s another one of those mid-week, “Recorded in Osama bin Laden’s cave” specials. He runs a horrible board. (Any thoughts on what Rich can add to his profile to wow the ladies? Leave a comment!)

Papa’s Basement 8-12-10 (To download this file, right-click this link and select “Save Link/Target As.”)

Papa’s Basement 8-8-10-A/S/L Pic?

admin — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 05:36:21 +0000

Really? Girls this cute are online now? Fuck.

There was a day, many years ago, when I was the king of online dating. AOL, MySpace…didn’t matter: I was closing deals left and right. Fast forward to the present, where I’ve completely quit on life and have been reduced to telling tales of scoring ass off of girls with handles like “WetPet69.” Meanwhile, my good friend Rich has taken up the torch of hunting for online scooch via Match.com and OK Cupid and, sweet, merciful Christ have things changed. (Meaning it’s no longer a sea of fat girls posting pictures of themselves from the tits up with their chins stuck out to pull their multiple chins taught.) Rodriguez and I assist him in his quest for deep, meaningful relationships that last roughly 2 hours by editing his profile and showing him how to identify which girls will hop in bed with him five minutes after crying about their fathers and which will leave him waking up in a bathtub full of ice with his kidneys missing. If you’ve ever tried online dating (or just remember gross people trying to bang you on MySpace), this episode is a must-listen.

Papa’s Basement 8-7-10 (To download this file, right-click this link and select “Save Link/Target As.”)

Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide: Part 2

admin — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 18:42:30 +0000

(Note: Part 1 of this series is located here.)

The Baltiwhore

The next episode in the “Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide” saga takes place in Baltimore, which is why I went with a picture of Omar Little of The Wire fame. (The only thing that’d better represent Baltimore than a scary-looking, shotgun-wielding black man would be a video of Cal Ripken drinking a Natty Boh and calling into 98 Rock demanding they “Play some Metallica, hon!” Man I love to hate that city.) The woman I dubbed “Baltiwhore” was a cute, blue-eyed blonde who was intelligent, charming and a few years older than me. She was even in the middle of a messy divorce, which you’d think would make her the ideal girlfriend (there is no woman more afraid of things getting serious than a fresh divorcee), but things never went in that direction. Instead, I’d drive up to Baltimore every few months, drink for free at the dive where she’d bartend, take her to a nearby motel (which she sprung for. Man, I must have a diamond dick), banged her for a few hours and then drove home the instant she fell asleep. In retrospect, it was the most perfect relationship I have ever known. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Here is the story of my final trip to visit the Baltiwhore.

(Before we continue, I’d like to clarify that the term “Baltiwhore” is in no way pejorative: I just like substituting “whore” and its derivatives in wherever I can. I’ve also dated a lovely girl I nicknamed the Ohi-ho, would one day like to visit Whoreonto and root for the Baltimore Whorioles. Got it? Good.)

Just how I remember them. Look at those colors. It was like banging someone with a balloon animal.

The night began like any of my other trips to Charm City: A shower, some cologne, laughing at the unopened box of condoms left idling in my drawer as I slid it shut. Although I typically abhorred driving an hour-and-a-half up I-95, America’s cocaine and herpes corridor, I had scored a copy of the Robert Evans book The Kid Stays in the Picture on tape (solely because Patton Oswalt did this amazing bit about it. Please continue reading only after clicking that link) and was blissfully listening along as I tore up the highway in my mom’s 2000 Ford Taurus. (Ladies, try not to get too moist imagining me picking you up in a late model fleet car as the whiskey-ravaged voice of a ’70s movie producer reading his memoirs poured out of its tinny, baseline package sound system. I know it’s impossible, but try.) 90 minutes of tales of debauched cocaine orgies later, I was at m’lady’s cantina and ready to get my drink on.

Given I was about 22 when this took place, the fact I was good friends with a hot bartender who would let me run up $75 tabs and then pay her back by the inch later that night blew my mind. Actually, as I type this, I’m still pretty baffled I ever managed such an arrangement. Just goes to show that Amazon isn’t the only source of bargains on the Internet. (Badabing!) I entered the establishment and immediately greeted the Baltiwhore with a hug and a kiss, which drew a raised eyebrow from every other guy in the place who had been eying her up the entire night. The next few hours were spent pounding Natty Bohs and pouring down whatever shots were shoved in front of me and sneaking a kiss across the bar whenever I could. Before I knew it (because liquor makes you time travel), BW’s shift was over and it was time for us to hit the motel for premarital intercourse, as the kids call it.

I make more Scarface references than Raekwon.

Words cannot convey how seedy the motel that BW and I used for our games of mommy-daddy wrestling was, but I’m certain on at least one occasion I heard Hector the Toad put a chainsaw through Angel Fernández’s head as Tony Montana spat curses en espanol at him from the next room. I couldn’t care less, though: I was drunk, happy and about to undress a girl I’d been staring for hours at harder than Gabourey Sidibe would a Red Lobster commercial. We ran up to the room, I ripped off her clothes, threw her down on the bed, tossed her legs over my shoulders and, right as I was about to plunge in…she farted on it.

We’re not talking a brief fart, either: It was like my dick was hot soup and she was blowing on it to cool it down. My first reaction was to scream like Jack Nicholson in that bathtub scene from The Shining, which scared the holy hell out of BW. As soon as she figured out I was panicking about the fart, however, she immediately grew angry and told me to shrug it off and stop being a baby. At that point I knew my choices were to either grab my clothes and leave with my pride and a shred of my urge to ever have sex again, or, like so many before me, take my lumps and put out because it was “the right thing to do.” Not wanting word to get around school that I was a cocktease, lest none of the boys ask me to prom, I gritted my teeth gave it up with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old Thai girl mounted by a German octogenarian on a sex tour of her homeland.

I say without hyperbole that my innocence died that day. Before The Fart, nothing really gross had ever happened to me during sex. It had all been so porno film sterile and nice. Afterward, though, my entire belief system lay shattered. It took countless readings of The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank to slowly restore my faith in humanity, countless viewings of the earnest work churned out by those good, Christian boys over at Bang Bros. to resuscitate my crushed libido. People say they’ll never forget where they were when JFK was shot, where they were on 9/11. Well, I’ll never forget where I was the day the Baltiwhore farted on me.

Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide: Part 1

admin — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 20:57:34 +0000

Before MySpace, people could be deceptive online regarding their looks...

There isn’t much I ask to be given credit for in this world, but any time anyone logs on to Match.com or picks up a friend of a friend on Facebook, they should bow down and kiss my feet like I’m Christ on the cross. All of their online romantic success can be traced back to progenitors like me, socially-inept guys who were flirting with girls on AOL instant messenger, enduring endless streams of “A/S/L? Pic? Want to cyber?” from our fellow online predators as we sought women who even vaguely resembled the mildly attractive denizens of the scanned, blurry photos they sent us. I’ll say it: I’m the Christopher Columbus of online ass.

Though I’ve since moved on from my online dating ways (believe it or not, I’m in a happy, committed relationship…with a Japanese body pillow), I felt it time to share two of the particularly troubling tales of my former digital conquests. Just think of them as hilarious reminders of a long-passed chapter in our country’s history, like Negro leagues or the middle class.

Horsie

Before I begin, may I just say that it is literally impossible to search “fat girl with horse” on Google Images and find a non-pornographic result. What the hell is wrong with this world? This story involves a fat girl and a horse. It would have been nice to have both in the picture. Instead, because people must love to watch fat chicks fellate equines, you just get a morbidly obese horse. Thanks, democracy.

My tale starts with a meeting off of a now-defunct site called the Dilly. The Dilly, as I’ve previously mentioned on this page, was a MySpace precursor that was peppered with insecure women (the very best kind). The Dilly’s profiles consisted of the usual: Contact information, a list of crappy music the user liked to listen to, a mention of the fact that Dodgeball made them “lol” and few deceptively-angled or cropped images that could make Nell Carter look like Tyra Banks. (God help me if I ever see one more picture of a girl with a decent face and big boobs snapped from directly above, only her lid and cleavage showing. We all know you’re shooting at that angle to conceal a gut like King Hippo‘s, you gorgon!)

I came across the profile of the woman I’ll refer to henceforth as “Horsie” one night in between compulsive viewings of Casino and Conan the Barbarian (there’s a reason I was meeting girls online). She seemed cute in pictures (oh John…will you ever heed your own wisdom?), was bright enough to understand half of my prosaic dick jokes and was located only 30 miles away. Typically, after meeting someone through the Dilly, I would instant message them for a while, working up the nerve to ask them to see their goodies after a few weeks. Meetings would be requested months, if not years after the fact. But no, not with Horsie. After about 20 minutes of talk, she conveyed an interest in hanging out that night.

I had never had a one-nighter before, and I figured this might be my shot at the geek’s version of just that. Plus, she was part Native American and part Latina. I don’t know if it’s because my dad was a sailor and banged every people under God’s sun, but I’ve always been down with the idea of having a United Nations of sexual partners (at this point, all that’s left on the checklist is an Eskimo, and I’m not sure it’s worth the frostbitten taint from igloo sex), so I was definitely intrigued. In spite of my desire to quote Pesci’s “you Jew motherfucker” scene back to the tv for the hundredth time, I thought it might be nice for me to get out for once and decided to make my way to the home of Horsie.

For those of you that aren’t my real-life friends who are reading this (all four of you), I live in a rather developed suburb of Washington, D.C. That said, it doesn’t take too many miles before you’re surrounded by Confederate flags, Skoal cans and stickers of #3 with angel wings on it. Horsie lived out in these boonies, and, having just seen House of 1,000 Corpses a few weeks earlier, I’m not embarrassed to admit I was scared shitless driving around the country at night, especially in those days before GPS. I finally arrived at her parents’ house (more of a farm, honestly) and, while definitely disappointed with how she looked in person, I was just relieved she wasn’t wearing a dead-skin mask and burying a chainsaw in my crotch. We quickly retreated to her back yard to “talk.”

For those of you curious, the nickame “Horsie” isn’t derived from the girl’s appearance (she would be more of a “head of a lemur on the body of an overfed baby circus bear” if that were the case), but the fact that she had a horse in her backyard. And the horse fucking hated me. It wasn’t long before Horsie and I were hooking up on lawn furniture in a gazebo located about 20 feet from the horse’s boarding pen (I’m all class). I swear to god, the horse must have wanted to make a centaur with this broad, because every time things moved toward sex, it would go apeshit, making enough noise to wake up her parents. After my fifth attempt at doing the mommy-daddy dance getting cockblocked by a horse, I decided to cut my losses and bid Horsie adieu, leaving enough time in the night for at least one viewing of Casino.

The coda to this story is a good one. I woke up the next day relieved that I wasn’t in a tub of ice with my kidneys missing. As I began to drink a glass of milk with breakfast, I thought, “Wow, this milk reeks, it must be spoiled” and threw out the glass. I sniffed the carton itself, but it was not the offender. A few moments later, while eating a sandwich, I thought, “Wow, this sandwich reeks, the meat must be spoiled,” though, now curious about the odor I was encountering, I didn’t throw it out. It took me a few moments before I had my Dr. House “ah ha” moment and realized the common denominator between these two foods was my right hand…which had been used between Horsie’s haunches in the quest for amour the night before.

I’m not one of those asses who will maintain that women smell bad down there (nine out of ten times, everything is perfect, and I’ll go to town like the Snuggle bear in a blanket). But this was, without a doubt, the most potent, lingering stench I had ever encountered. It failed to come off after repeated washings. I felt like a bank robber who had an ink pack blow up on them. I finally resorted to using Palmolive, reasoning that if it could cut through steak grease, it could get the job done. It did, but only after I resorted to making a mock vagina with my left hand, filling it with the soap and repeatedly fingering it with my right hand’s besmirched digits. (Palmolive, if you ever use this story as the centerpiece of a new ad campaign, I’m coming for you.)

In part two of “Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide” I will bring you the tale of…THE BALTI-WHORE!