That's "V" for Victory... Or Maybe "Valedickwhoreian"

I've been nominated.

But before we go getting all excited here, it's ever so worse than simply being nominated for being a stupid blog. I've been nominated in the category of:

Most Likely to Suck Dick for Money.

Wow. I feel so... more than average. At long last I've been nominated for something. I don't know who did it, but I'm willing to say thanks by either pony'ing up a little free sex or punching him/her in the mouth, depending on how the voting goes.

Still, it is a "really fucking stupid blog award" so how orgasmic should I be, really? I mean, does winning mean you have the best stupid fucking blog, or the worst stupid fucking blog? And is it somehow better to know that you're blog is best among the really fucking stupid ones? What the hell; I say yes, yes it is.

This is the first time I've been nominated for anything in the blog world and while my easily distracted brain can conju... hey, did you know the the underside of the bottle cap on my SoBe GreenTea is printed with the words "Stiffler's Mom?" What the fuck's up with that? I personally didn't find Stiffler's mom to be all that hot. Hot enough to nail, I suppose, if I'd consumed a lot of alcohol or was 18, but either way I'm not sure that's a good indication of anything because in either state you'd pretty much nail anyone. Anyway, where was I?

Yes, the blog awards. Now I could find all manner of reasons why I'm so honored and touched and all that blah blah blah crap that makes you think of Sally Field's acceptance speach, but I won't. Why? Because I took the time to read much of the blog of each and every one of my co-monimees in this category and I have to say, I have no chance in hell of winning this thing. There are seven other people vying for the prestigious title of "Most Likely to Suck Dick for Money" and frankly I'm thinking at least four of them already do, so that kind of destroys the curve don't you think? I feel like that Central American teenager whose country sends him to the Winter Olympics as a PR move, but he's just so stoked to be going it doesn't cross his mind that he's going to get his ass kicked. My cluelessness was evident even in my announcement to BuddhaWife:

Me: Hey! I've been nominated for a blog award!

BW: Good for you. What's it for?

Me: "Most likely to suck dick for money."

BW: Um...

Me: It's the first time I've ever been noticed!

BW: But... "suck dick for money?" Didn't you say you only did that once and you were going

through your "who am I?" crap in college?

Me: yeah, but that was for FREE; this is about being paid!

BW: So you're looking for a career change?

Me: I dunno, perhaps. I can't say it would be bad to be paid to have all the sex I can handle.

BW [laughing]: You're such a slut.

Me: Not if I win this. Then I can graduate to whore!

BW: Good. Maybe I'll get a full night's rest for a change.

Me: So win/win then.

BW: Yeah.

Not that I'd want to necessarily win anyway, it's just that knowing I don't have a snowball's chance in hell relieves the pressure of having to pimp myself out for votes. God knows I already do enough of that for The Man (pimping myself, that is), so I don't really care to have to do it here; not when winning means I'm more likely than the next guy to learn to play the skin flute professionally. To do that and still be a guy who finds the male body rather gross, you must fall into at least one of the following categories:

• Be really desperate
• Be blackmailed
• Be Tom Cruise

I'm a lot of things, but thankfully I'm none of these. So the question becomes, under what circumstances would I suck dick for money?

Well, first I think it's important to keep an open mind. I mean there was a time when I thought sushi was disgusting and George Bush capable. Today I think sushi rocks and King George has done more to harm this country than disco music. So while my initial response to smoking pole is "eewwww, god no" I have to admit that I rather enjoy that BuddhaWife's attitude is somewhat lower on the ick meter. Clearly, there's something to it if you have the right frame of mind.

How to get into the right frame of mind is key then, right? I suppose I could watch a whole shitload of Queer as Folk, but that seems risky and might, in fact, cement my desire to scrub my mouth out with a wire brush and battery acid afterwards. It would also hinge heavily on whose dick we're talking. Just cuz I'm getting paid doesn't mean I'll blow just anyone who has my price in hand. And exactly how much money are we talking here? I mean, I may be a whore if I win, but I'd be a high priced whore for chrissake!

Still, I think my chances fall between slim and none. First, several of the people in my category are already, hopefully, cock suckers so the only real question is "would they do it for money?" I think if you'd be willing to lube the tube steak normally, getting paid would be a bonus, so I'd think throwing some cash into the mix actually ups their desire.

Furthermore, all have been nominated for awards on many other sites in may other categories, although all are sure to lose to that pied piper of the bovine herd. Poor, pathetic Effortlessly Average hasn't been nominated for anything ever and the only reason the hit counter continues to climb is because I enter to view the new posts I throw out there. Just being nominated feels a little like a pitty fuck.

EA also contains no fancy graphics, ads, or photoshoped images of me doing anything. It's a testament to the boring, the easily dismissed, the principle that in mediocrity we can all excel. Yeah, I know the template is uninspiring, but c'mon, would it be Effortlessly Average if it had a flashy site? I know the sunflowery part looks like something you'd see in a sleezy hotel from 1910. My competitors all demonstrate a far superior html skill or at the very least a willingness to pay someone to design a site for them.

Let's consider them in turn.

There's Karen. A quick look at her blog tells me she does this for a lot more than just to annoy other people with her insipid opinions. Which is good, since that's my job most days and I don't handle competition very well. Scrolling down the page, trying to read as much as I can to get a flair for "who she is," but not reading so much as to feel as if I'm wasting too much time (I'm a busy man, after all), I noticed that she's already been nominated for about a bazillion other awards, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before I see her on the Viewer's Choice Awards. What really struck me is two things: one, she's been nominated in the "Hottest Mommy Blogger" category and two, prominently displays a link to a site dedicated to the struggle, and ultimate loss, against cancer from a man named Eric. Now I ask you, how do I compete with that? The only thing that would make me lose worse to a woman like this is if she posted pictures of her boobs on a regular basis.

Then there's Annie. Within five seconds I knew I was going to lose to this woman because as her blog so prominently states, her site's now got more "bitchiness," and "a gaggle of whiny whores." Now how can a guy like me compete with that? Oh, and there's that Blogger's Choice Awards gif, too.

Next, we have Miss Britt. As with the others, hers is couched in overt sexual inuendo. Or just plain, come right out and say it, sex. And while mine's much the same way, she's got nicer boobs than I do, so again, I'm odd man out.

No Good Daddy trumps EA because, as his blog so proudly proclaims, it's his "dick in a box."

As for Avitable, who wouldn't vote for a guy who shared ice cream with Hitler and has such mad dance skills?

Karla is my odds on favorite in this category. After all, she already said she'd not only suck dick for money, but also drugs and illegal weapons. I think if push came to shove, we could also add black market babies and stolen Air Force radio parts to that list. Besides, she's a master baker and desires to have Carmen Electra's boobs pressed to her face. There's no way I can compete with that whole boob thing.

Finally, there's Pointless Drivel. Here's a guy who can give Dooce a run for her money on the best humor blog popularity contest and quotes Edie Brickell in his profile. No chance there.

I have little to offer when standing next to such obvious examples of the worste the blogosphere has to offer. But before you count me out, read this, then go here and throw down.

A Visual of Me

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Not as corny as a using a billboard to solicit dates, but close

Hey Karla, aka the chick who loves puffy men in wrestling unitards, if you read this, could you click that little link in the upper left there that reads "Talk to Me?" I have a question for you if you wouldn't mind. As incentive I promise to send you a death threat immediately after.

Complications of A Mastermind

My office is into conserving energy, read “saving money,” wherever it can. So they’ve installed lights that will automatically shut off if the sensors don’t detect movement for a certain period of time. Aside from the cost savings, it eliminates the need to remind people that the last one leaving should turn off the lights. It also means that since I arrive first in our group each morning, I’m usually the one walking through our particular wing of the building setting off all the light sensors. In furtherance of my goal of turning every aspect of my life into a game, including the simple act of walking to my desk, I’ll sometimes see how fast I can move through the room without activating the lights. So far I’ve made it to within six feet of my desk, but I’m hoping to best this as my stamina increases.

Usually being the one to activate the lights is pretty cool, like when I was a kid and automatic doors were first installed at our local grocery store, proving to my adolescent mind that humanity had finally entered the Start Trek era. But other times moving through a dark building, creating a wake of light behind me, reminds me that it's just too fucking early to be starting my day.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m a “morning person” -such as that is- and I usually love being up with the dawn, especially those mornings that begin with BuddhaWife – who is generally NOT a morning person, unless by “morning” you mean before 3am – agreeing to a little morning romance. And of course there’s all that new day, beautiful sunrise, blah blah blah stuff too.

But a few days ago I was a bit out of sorts because for some reason I couldn’t seem to wake my sorry ass up. And it’s never a good sign when you begin the day unable to keep your eyes open if you stand still for more than fifteen consecutive seconds. I’ve often said that the best way to cure a foul mood is by consuming dangerous amounts of sugar, most effectively through the use of chocolate as a delivery vehicle. So when I glanced into the lunchroom on my way to my desk and caught a glimpse of the doughnuts behind the glass, my body made an involuntary "hard to starboard" and set an intercept course for the vending machine. The way I saw it, there weren’t nearly enough calories in that one little sleeve of doughnuts to counter the satisfaction I’d receive from those savory little rings of goodness. I could already imagine me sitting at my desk savoring their baked righteousness over a steaming cup of Joe.

“Why hello my little gaskets of chocolaty heaven.” I said stopping in front of the machine. I patted my stomach as I looked longingly at them. “You look like you could use a good home.”

Their response was more telekinetic than verbal, but that could have also been my brain rationalizing. Either that, or I need to finally accept that there's more than one of me living in here, which would of course also explain the waistline. Like a crack addict about to get a fix, I tendered my dollar, punched two buttons on the keypad, and continued my journey to my desk, my newly acquired treasure in hand.

One side of my brain was all about the glory of the satisfaction that was about to be had with these six little chocolate life preservers. But the other side of my brain was, as freaking usual, being all “logical.” Like I need more logic in my life. Or more reminders that sometimes I make decisions that are counter-intuitive to my overall goals.

“You don’t need these, you know.”

“Shut up. They don’t have that many calories.”

“You know if you eat that, you’re only going to regret it later.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said about that hooker in Vegas, but… wait...”

“Uh-huh, and when you step on the scale again, only to discover that you still weigh as much as Iowa, you’re going to be all pissy about it.”

“Shows how much you know. I can afford these; I’ve been working out!”

“Jerking off doesn’t count as ‘working out’ moron.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“Sorry, tubby; I prefer blondes.”

Clearly my logical brain was in a foul mood that morning, too, but he’d come around once the caffeine and sweet cocoa butter were flowing through my veins.

I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer. While it took its customary 45 days to boot up, I tore open the cellophane on my tasty treat. The aroma hit me in the face like a chocolate kiss. Mmmmmmm…. Come to me lover….

I popped one into my mouth and took a sip of java and I swear I suddenly heard angels singing. The room felt brighter; warmer somehow. Topless virgins with perfect breasts filled the room, all eager to serve me and my every naughty desire. Hunger and poverty ended and Pat Robertson finally, blissfully, shut the hell up.

My impulsive brain continued to rationalize.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. These aren’t that bad. Only what, 200 calories or so. I’ll just skip the cereal bar I brought. That makes them only 100 calories, right? And I’m going to attend two martial arts classes tonight, so heeeyy… I’m actually ahead of the game, aren’t I?! I could have eaten two of these -like I used to- and still be in the black, calorie-wise. That’s a perfectly good compromise.”

As I sat there chewing away on my first baby doughnut, my self-indulgent brain rationalizing away, my logical brain, in one final act of defiance, forced me to glance at the nutritional panel (“nutritional” being figurative in this case it would turn out).

My jaw stopped moving. The warmth I had interpreted as heavenly grace became the scorching heat of hell (or my first marriage, same same). Those gorgeous topless virgins transformed into the many cloned copies of Pat Robertson. Naked. With an erection. With is shriveled beanbag flapping in the breeze. I shivered as my soul died just a little.

570 calories!? Holy mother fucking shit, are you kidding me?! For six measly little doughnuts? And if I’d gone with my impulsive brain, I’d have been eating two of these packages! I mean really, that’s not unusual right? The so-called doughnuts are only the size of a half dollar. You know what those are, right? Half dollars? Those are the 50-cent pieces with Kennedy’s profile on them. Most people outside Nevada haven’t seen half dollars; or “Ike’s” for that matter, which are actual silver dollar coins that weigh about as much as a Volkswagen. Anyway, these doughnuts are the size of about a half dollar. At six of them per sleeve, that’s $3 worth of doughnuts for a $1 price, so they’re a bargain really.

At least the “nutritional” panel graciously allows that one serving is all six of the doughnuts packed into one sleeve. Non of that Enron accounting junk here. Unlike the people who make Pop Tarts. I mean really, a box of these frosting-covered cardboard swatches, which by the way are "fortified with essential vitamins and iron" by grinding up a Flintstones chewable into the batter, consists of six “pastries” (as the inside lingo identifies them) all nicely packaged into three, double-pastry cellophane bags. To me, this means each pouch is intended to be eaten in one sitting. But no! One serving is ONE “pastry.” I ask you, who eats one Pop Tart? Especially when they’re packaged in pairs.

Which focuses my tirade toward another thing: bread. According to that nutritional panel, one serving is one slice. Who, after advancing beyond the age of three, eats only one slice of bread? Not the least source of my indignation over this bit of subterfuge is the fact that in order to determine what the calorie count is for the way I’d actually use the product, they’re making me do math while I’m shopping and dammit, math is no place for the grocery store!

Where was I…. Oh, right: 570 calories. No wonder the package seemed overly heavy given its size. It’s got so many calories that gravity pulls on it harder than an object of similar dimensions, placing it on the periodic table between lead and tungsten. It would be little surprise to me if the combined mass of two packages began to pull small objects into orbit around them. So if I finished all six doughnuts in one package, which had already become harder to imagine doing, I’d have to do some serious activity to burn off the additional calories. The problem is, what to do?

Of course life being the cruel joke it has become in reference to my waistline, it would have to be an impossibility that simply chewing would burn enough calories to offset the doughnuts. A person burns 0.3 additional calories per minute while eating. So I’d have to chew a mere celery stalk (at 5 calories) for 17 minutes to have no caloric value. At 570 calories, I’d have to chew these doughnuts for over 31 hours to remain calorie neutral. I don’t know about you, but I have better things to do.

According to this site I could engage in “active, vigorous” sex for close to four hours to burn those 570 calories off. But as much as I like sex (which would rank above breathing if I could figure out how to make that work) I have to admit that four hours is a bit beyond that point where things begin to chafe. Open wounds are not sexy, no. And as they haven’t seen how I engage in “active, vigorous” sex, I’m not sure I buy that it’s worth less than 150 calories an hour. Furthermore, I have to strongly disagree that I’d burn fewer calories at sex than I would at eating in church, riding a snow blower, or bird watching. And the only time I burned more calories juggling than during sex is when I was dating four women at one time (and even those are strangely interconnected).

According to another site about which I didn’t apparently didn't care enough to save the link, I could have 6 ounces of beaver to reduce calories, but only if it’s roasted, which I’m assuming means BuddhaWife would have to nude sunbathe beforehand. I’m not sure how that would work though; there’s probably a lot of science involved.

Exercise has to be something I enjoy doing; an activity that wouldn’t seem like work. If I were to attempt to jog, for example, my self-indulgent, lazy brain would win out long before I saw any benefit and would trot my ass right into the first Starbucks I saw. See, I’d like to be able to be one of those people who workout for, like, 40 hours every time they nibble a radish, but I’m just not cut from that cloth. I’m cut more from the cloth that’s used to wrap really good cheese, only hopefully I don’t smell as bad.

Of course I enjoy living a healthy lifestyle – mostly – and really do take pleasure in physical activity. It just has to be the right physical activity. For me, it’s not so easy as “oh, I’ll just go running” if I should happen to realize someone left a defenseless slice of cheesecake in the fridge. No, the activity has to be something I’d want to do even if I didn’t need to. Unfortunately, that’s a short list as far as my lazy brain is concerned.

I’m also a big believer that you can’t wait for inspiration; you have to chase it down and club it over the head. So rather than wait for someone with a university grant to decode it, I've decided to help those of you humans out there who are like me and present the first ever sex workout calorie chart.

This guide is arranged by activity and resulting caloric use; that is, the calories burned by engaging in that particular action. Simply scroll through the appropriate categories and add the calories expended. Ok ok, you’re welcome.

Let's begin.

Insertion:
If you’re ready to go: 0.5 calories
If your partner is not: 274 calories

Female Satisfaction, i.e., penis size:
Normal: 22 calories
Large: 15 calories
Extra Large: 8 calories
Teensy-weensy: 163 calories
(Note: I understand the trend seems counter intuitive, but most experts agree that size means nothing; it’s the shape that counts. The man with a well-shaped organ can write his own ticket. In those instances where a man has a small member, he may have to compensate by working harder (hence the higher calorie count). A man with a really large organ, on the other hand, doesn't have to work as hard once inside, although he may very likely exhaust himself just trying to convince his partner to let him use it on her.)

Positions used:
Man on top facing woman: 20 calories
Woman on top, facing away from man: 25 calories (Note: Many women find that in addition to its inherent sexual possibilities, this position also affords the best view of the clock.)
From Behind, her: 22 calories
From Behind, him: 40 calories
Standing, both partners equal height: 18 calories each.
Standing, woman 1 foot taller: 90 calories
Bull-rider: 224 calories (Note: This position is identical to From Behind, however after her first sign of pleasure, he leans forward and whispers “yeah, your sister likes this position too.” Then he attempts to hang on for another 8 seconds.)

Location:
Bed: 12 calories
Kitchen table: 20 calories
Back seat of a 1992 Honda Civic: 38 calories
In a phone booth, standing: 14 calories
In a phone booth, lying down: 271 calories
On an airliner, aisle seat: 24 calories
On an airliner, middle seat: 42 calories
On an airliner, in the lavatory 100 calories

Extra Activities:
Bouncing: 7 calories
Sliding around: 9 calories
Serious skidding: 12 calories
Full cartwheel: 20 calories (usually performed by the male immediately realizing he’s about to get laid)
Knee Burn: 6 calories
Rug burn on lower back: 8 calories
Chafed elbows: 5 calories
Chafed nose: 11 calories
Sore tongue: 33 calories

Sex-Related Noises:
Short gasps: 3 calories per
Wheezing: 5 calories
Squeals: 4 calories
Ecstatic moaning, him: 11 calories
Ecstatic moaning, her: 114 calories
Grunting: 3 calories (usually resulting from laughter)
Screaming partner's name: 18 calories
Screaming celebrity's name: 9 calories
Screaming parent’s/sibling’s name: 0 calories, unless you count the ones used to run far away.
Urgent begging, him: 22 calories
Urgent begging, her: 42 calories
Giving Directions ("Don't stop," "Faster," "Harder" etc.): 25 calories

Dirty Talk:
“Fuck me” from him, her on top: 22 calories
“Fuck me” from her, any position: 62 calories
“Who the fuck are you?!” from angry spouse: 352 calories and a sudden urge to pee yourself.

Approaching Orgasm:
Letting go: 8 calories
Controlling yourself because the kids might hear: 79 calories
Controlling yourself because the parents might hear: 101 calories
Controlling yourself because the spouse might hear: 199 calories
Digging nails into your partner's back: 11 calories
Digging heels into your partner’s shoulders: 162 calories
Trembling: 15 calories
Shuddering: 25 calories
Trying to keep eyes open: 33 calories

Orgasm:
Real: 27 calories
Faked: 60 calories
Real, toes curled, loss of consciousness: 140 calories

Orgasmic Intensity:
Partner’s Expression Didn't Change: 0.5 calories
Orchestra swelled: 6 calories
Teeth gritted: 10 calories
Blazing Sheets, or anything caught fire: 25 calories
Earth moved: 30 calories
Vesuvius erupted: 47 calories
You begin moaning in a language you don’t speak: 60 calories

Pulling Out:
After orgasm: 1 calorie
A few moments before orgasm: 500 calories

Multiple Orgasms:
For women
2: 14 calories
5: 30 calories
8: 47 calories
(Note: Depending her rate of recovery a woman can enjoy 8 orgasms within an hour without losing consciousness or messing up her hair. As the number increases, however, she may begin to experience a form of "reduced sanity" that will temporarily interfere with her ability to cook, clean, or ride a Moped.)
For men
2: 21 calories
3: 39 calories
4: 57 calories
(Note: Multiple orgasms are less likely for men, due to physiological and biological reasons. However, many men can enjoy up to four orgasms in an hour with little discomfort except for the slight ringing in the ears. Warning: a man who attempts to achieve more than five orgasms within that hour is flirting with irreversible brain damage.)

Orgasm Catalyst:
Clitoral: 15 calories
Vaginal: 21 calories
Penile: 21 calories
Scrotal: 15 calories
Rectal: 25 calories
Oral: 30 calories (expended for him, ingested for her)

Premature Ejaculation:
During insertion: 2 calories
During intercourse (2 seconds or 3 thrusts after insertion, whichever comes first): 5 calories
Immature ejaculation (When the male acts childish and throws a tantrum): 4 calories

Consequences of Premature Ejaculation:
For women
Frustration: 8 calories
Anger: 15 calories
Suppressing Anger: 25 calories
For men
Cursing: 10 calories
Apologizing: 3 calories
Sniveling: 5 calories
Insisting it never happens: 8 calories
Begging for another chance: 15 calories
(Note: Even if you have a good heart, it takes much understanding not to feel like a victim when your partner climaxes after 3 seconds of intensive sex, especially if he immediately sits up to watch TV. Also note the inconsistency: Men never seem to mind if a woman has an orgasm after 3 seconds of sex.)

Possible Side Effects of Good Sex:
Swooning: 6 calories
Palpitations: 10 calories
Shortness of breath: 5 calories
Perspiring: 8 calories
Making promises you have no intention of keeping: 14 calories
(Note: The first indication that a sexual experience was positive will be a tingling in the pelvic area and a clear complexion. You might also feel pleasantly light, as though you were dozing in a vat of cream cheese. For men, if sex was really terrific, you feel dangerously drained, as though your body has been connected to a large milking machine for several days.)

Masturbation:
For pleasure only: 6 calories
For exercise, too: 10 calories
For relief from tension: 12 calories
To pass the time: 7 calories
To avoid insanity: 24 calories
While your partner watches: 45 calories
Using your hand(s): 11 calories
Using your partner(s): 21 calories
Using tweezers: 2 calories
Using an inflatable doll: 24 calories
Using any fruit or vegetable (Except watermelon or a sprig of parsley): 19 calories
Using a sex toy, hand-operated: 12 calories
Using a vibrator, windup: 9 calories and a gift certificate to adameve.com so you can join the 21st century, you cheapskate.
Using a vibrator, electric: 5 calories
Using anything not mentioned here: 50 calories

Typical Sex-Related Fears:
Partner hates me for what I did: 4 calories
Partner hates me for what I didn't do: 8 calories
Forgetting the instructions in the sex manual: 10 calories
Partner thinks of me as a sex object: 9 calories
Partner doesn't think of me as a sex object: 47 calories
Cellulite that shakes and ripples during orgasm: 6 calories
Stretch marks that look like a plowed field: 8 calories
Penis envy: 72 calories
Body odor of a yak: 25 calories

And finally:

Almost Getting Caught:
Trying to remain calm: 100 calories
Fright (includes trembling): 66 calories
Leaping out of bed: 25 calories
Getting dressed in one fluid motion: 300 calories
Thanking partner quickly: 2 calories
Jumping out of window: 15 calories (add 5 calories if window wasn't open)
Hitting the ground running: 5 calories
Running very fast: 50 calories

--------------

-epilogue-

I threw the remaining five doughnuts away.

Stupid logical brain.