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The philosophers tell us that everyone has, at some point in their life, given or received a handjob*. Science bears this out. Thing is, though, that handjobs just aren’t that great. Nobody really likes giving them, and, save for a pretty good half-second towards the end, nobody really likes receiving them. If you think otherwise, you are fooling yourself. At their core, they are fundamentally flawed: Someone else is just never going to be able to do you as well as you can do yourself**.

So thank your partner kindly, zip up your fly, and say no to handjobs. Here’s why:

• Handjobs are juvenile, fumbling, and furtive. They are the sex act that people use to make fun of middle schoolers. If your spouse catches you having sex with someone else, he or she will be horrified. If your spouse catches you getting a handjob from someone else, he or she will humiliate you relentlessly, and rightfully so: It is barely one notch above being caught having sex dressed as Mr. Met. Just say no.

• Handjobs require no skill or finesse beyond the most basic motor skills. They are what you do when you’ve got no idea what’s going on down there. You could probably get a perfectly adequate one from a dolphin, an animal with no hands to speak of. Handjobs are like when your friend comes over to play Street Fighter even though he has no idea how to play Street Fighter, so he just mashes on the buttons and does uppercuts over and over. More often than not, he’ll actually end up winning, but neither of you will feel very good about it. Just say no.

• Handjobs are non-committal. There is nothing intimate or engaging about them. Someone could be giving you a handjob at the same time that they’re reading a book, doing one-handed push-ups, or choking a someone to death. If that someone is you, please, know your limits, make sure your partner is CPR certified, and have a spotter on hand, preferably a trained EMT. Asphyxiation during sex acts is very dangerous if improperly done, even with a partner present. Just say no.

Whoa, take it easy, guy. I didn’t mean to spill that shot one of those free drink broads handed out to me on your gray ribbed tank top. That’s not to say I didn’t do it intentionally, I did. I just didn’t plan for it to be interpreted as mean. You see, my buddy—whose girlfriend’s abortion we are currently out celebrating—mentioned in passing how wicked hilarious it would be if I, in my black ribbed tank top, poured that promotional shit all over your beater.

Yeah, that’s right, pal. He did think it was funny. And no, he wouldn’t be laughing if this happened to him, because he’s wearing a white ribbed tank top and the accumulation of moisture wouldn’t be nearly as noticeable. It’s entertaining when bad things happen to people that aren’t you. Haven’t you seen that SVU show? Even my buddy knows that, and he doesn’t even realize how played out white is.

Hey, hold on there, boss. I know you just said CSI is where it’s at and that we need to “throw down,” but I don’t put up my dukes for nobody. Unless you’re talking about Ma Dukes or Pa Dukes. I put them up in my basement apartment whenever they’re in town. There’s not a lot of space, but my sister, God love her, has her hands full with the kids and her fiance—to be frank—is a real piece of work. Sure, it gets a little awkward. Especially when they bring up Trial by Jury, but I make do—because I love them. So you can take your demands that I “bring it” elsewhere. Maybe to Miami. At least until your time of the month is over.

Last month I had to finally make the switch from my childhood pediatrician to a new physician. I’m twenty-two; it probably should have happened a while ago, but I was always apprehensive about changing, and now I realize I was right. Adult doctors suck. Here’s some reasons my pediatrician was better:

Waiting Room: Dr. Fomalante’s waiting room was awesome. It had a fish tank, a pinball machine, posters of Sesame Street characters, a literal chest full of toys, and the past ten years’ back issues of Highlights for Kids. You know what my new doctor’s waiting room has? Old people. I mean, there are some AARP magazines on a coffee table, but mostly what you notice is the long couch filled with a revolving cast of decrepit senior citizens. The way they sit there, hearing aids turned up and eager for their names to be called, it looks like they’re waiting on line to go die.

Receptionists: Dr. Fomalante’s receptionists gave out “Hello my name is:” stickers and lollipops. At my new doctor’s office, the only thing the ladies behind the desk give out is the bill, and then they go back to chatting in Spanish. I’m pretty sure they’re making fun of me.

Clientele: Back at the pediatrician’s office, when Dr. Fomalante was examining me, we’d listen to the crying babies down the hall and the little kids screaming about getting a shot, and we’d look back and forth at each other and smile and it would be like “Dr. Fomalante, me? I’m no pussy. I’m not gonna bitch, just gimme the shot.” He always looked impressed when he stuck the needle in my arm and I just smiled. Also, since most of his patients were pre-teen, I could be almost positive that my dick was the biggest he’d seen all day.

Doctor-Patient Relationship: Every time I went to Dr. Fomalante, he had some jokes up his sleeve. He’d ask me if everything was all right and I’d say yes. Then he’d go, “Oh! But what happened to your nose?” What happened to my nose, Dr. Fomalante? He’d pull away his hand from my face, squeezing his thumb between his index and middle fingers and say, “Why, it’s fallen off! I’ve got your nose!” Granted, it had gotten old by the time I turned fifteen. But all my new doctor says is “Kick!” and “Drop your pants.”

You know what the best part about going to my pediatrician was, though? He never would say things like, “I’m afraid you have chlamydia.”

Football season is great: it brings friends together, television commercials get better, the games give you an excuse to get your day-drunk on. Best of all, though, is that it provides you with perfect small-talk in instances when you have no desire or time for real conversation. Football talk transcends gender, race, class and age.

Saying something like “How ‘bout the Giants?” can break the awkward silence in an elevator or help you avoid discussing your future with dad. It’s a short enough phrase that you can yell it repeatedly at your deaf grandfather, but it’s meaningful enough that it doesn’t even demand a response. It’s not even a question, is it? It’s like saying “What’s up?” when someone passes you in the hall.

So what the hell do you do now that the Super Bowl has passed? Here are some ideas:

Weather: It’s such an obvious last resort for conversation, that sometimes people forget it. Unlike football, weather doesn’t have an off-season. It’s always there. Rain or shine, it’s always fodder for small talk. Try these: if it’s stormy, go “Ugh, can you believe this weather?” If it’s beautiful out, smile big and go “Ooh, can you believe this weather?” Sometimes, you can just point outside and make a face. It gets the point across.

The Weekend: Brief conversation about the weekend can be a great way to fill the air while also keeping your co-workers or classmates emotionally at bay. You know why? Because when you say to an acquaintance, “Any big plans for the weekend?” or “How was your weekend?” you’re making it clear to them that you are not friendly enough to already be in the know. Just be careful about your tone – you don’t want to give the impression that you’re genuinely interested! And here’s a little bonus tip on how to decipher responses about the weekend: when someone enthusiastically responds, “It was really good!” it means they got laid. If they say something like, “It was nice… relaxing…” it means they stayed inside and ate a lot of ramen noodles.

Movies: Even if you don’t go to the movies, this one is great because you see the trailers on T.V. You know the gist. So just lie. After all, you’re not looking for an intellectual discussion on the cinematic value of Ashton Kutcher’s latest film. If you’re stretching for a minute + of conversation, try pairing this one up with “The Weekend.”

We asked and you voted. Here are the top 25 sitcom couples of all time…

25.
 Doug Funnie and Patty Mayonaise – “Doug”

Doug and Patty’s love clearly doesn’t extend towards their future children, who, one way or the other, are screwed in the last-name department.

24.
 Ben Wyatt and Leslie Knope – “Parks and Recreation”


It’s not every day a guy who isn’t Bill Clinton can survive a political blow like sleeping with someone you shouldn’t. Ben’s love for Leslie prevented a scandal, and also his goals for the future, minus the one about being in love. So it’s all fine.




23.
 Frank and Marie Barone – “Everybody Loves Raymond” 



Frank and Marie’s undying devotion can probably be entirely attributed to the fact they can spy on their son 24/7. Nothing unites two people quite like meddling in their immediate family’s affairs.


1. Gums

   He’s not gonna do it.

2. Teeth

   Oh, he’ll do it. What did it say on the calendar?

3. Gums

   I don’t know.

4. Teeth

   Denial doesn’t make things go away, gums. You’re old enough to know that.

5. Gums

   No, I seriously don’t know. I can’t see, remember?

6. Teeth

   Oh, right. Eyes, what did it say?

7. Eyes

   “Dentist appointment, 3 PM.” Also, “Return The Blind Side.”

8. Ears

   Wait, why did we watch that again?

9. Brain

   Shut up. It was touching.

10. Teeth

    Guys, I like our three-hour discussions about The Blind Side as much as the next body part, but now isn’t the time. We’ve got an appointment with the dentist in five hours, and what does he do every morning this happens?

11. Gums

    …

12. Teeth

    He tries to make up for six months of forgetting that gums are a part of his body in one morning, exactly. And what does that mean he’s going to do?

Dear Ex Girlfriend Michelle,

I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I’m applying to fornicate with a new girl and she’s requested a letter of recommendation. I’ve already taken the time to write it, you just need to sign. It would mean a lot to me.

Thanks,
Dan

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing on behalf of Daniel’s penis. I first met Daniel and his penis in the janitor’s closet freshman year, and I’ve known them for four years since. However, it was only during this past semester, when I had the pleasure of having Daniel’s penis in my Monday afternoon free period, that I really got to know them both well.

Throughout high school, other students and some faculty would often remark that Daniel’s penis was blessed with incredible talent. What many of them overlooked, and what I came to appreciate, is how hard Daniel and his penis worked to develop and refine said talent. The late nights, the early mornings, the countless hours poring over books in the library—they all contributed to making Daniel’s penis the penis it is today.

In my over twelve years of lovemaking, I have known only a few other penises with skill sets comparable to Daniel’s. However, most of these lacked its strong work ethic and attention to detail, and even fewer demonstrated an equal level of maturity. In particular, it knows when best to take charge and when it should instead defer to others’ judgment. I’ve never encountered another penis that works so flawlessly in both an individual and group setting.