Anonymous said: How come every girlfriend I've had (including my current one) always make me go down on them. But when I want the favor returned they always have an excuse like they're not in the mood right now. Or they just flat out says its gross and they don't do that. Wtf I give you head all the time but when I ask it's gross!!!! Sincerely- fuckmylife

It seems like you’re still pretty young and you’re worried about something that’s not worth worrying about. But here’s two cents.

First of all. Stop thinking about going down on them as a favour. If a girl trusts you enough to let you put the same box-of-filth that you shove food into near her vagina, it’s a goddamn blessing. Strap on the feed bag and do the best goddamn job you can and mean it. That’s what you should be concerned about. Not whether or not you’re going to get a blowjob afterwards.

Is anyone really making you do anything. If you didn’t want to do it, you wouldn’t do it… right? Obviously these girls don’t want to do it. So they don’t. That’s how it is. There’s a fundamental attitude problem here (which a lot of young people suffer from) where you’re seeing sex as a game of Eye For an Eye. Girls are going to pick up on that pretty quickly and I’ll tell you now, it’s an unattractive quality.

If you want to have really great sex, you’ve got to learn to give really great sex. By that I don’t mean reading either. Talk to your partner, find out what they like, tell them what you like, and then do it together. A lot.

Practice makes perfect.

The Nine Types Of Girls You’re Going To See At DOC This Weekend

The Club Girl
Beyonce! Rihanna! Miley! Madonna! Robin! Thicke! Such an ironic dick! It’s nice to have arrived at the age of society where you can like a pop song and not have to say ‘it’s a really well constructed pop song’. You can just say you like it, it’s fine. These gals, who hate being called gals, will be missing the pinball machine (which we just found out has returned “to its maker”, Ian Sega, perhaps?) but they’ll dance on your face just the same.

The FuckMeRight?
Let’s face it. You’re going to try and get a lay this weekend. You think that DOC is going to put out for you. You’re wrong. You’re still a dweeb with no game, and there’s no such thing as vulnerable bar-mourning pussy. So when this girl is having some fun on the dance floor, that’s not an invitation for you to lift the lower veil and brush her hair out of the way… as it were.

The Brighton Warehouse Rave From Back To The Future
Since it’s become fashionable for people in their early 20s to dress ‘provocatively’ (see: like 18 year olds in late ’70s Manchester) and give the ‘Elam Nod’ to music that while not all bad, often borders on the willfully unlistenable, this girl is going to get a fair bit of attention from seemingly unlikely sources. That’s kind of the point of wearing a costume to a bar though, right?

The Grammer Girl
She’s going to be taking photos all night. With any luck, #DOC will be trending. You’ll end up looking for photos of yourself on her Instagram, on her Facebook and on her Tumblr. You’re not going to be in any of the photos. Why? Because you take horrible pictures and you’re ugly. Sorry you had to hear it like this.

The Bar-Curious
She’s actually got no idea DOC is closing down. She’s just walking along K’ Road, looking for a good time, and she’s stumbled across a super busy bar. It’s not going to be for her, because no matter what colour of skin you’re born with, large crowds of white people chanting is way scarier when you don’t know the choir.

The Smoker
She pretends she’s smoking, but really she’s just hidden a bottle of wine outside. Does she even actually smoke? Not during the week, no. And she’ll tell you about that. She’ll ask you if she can scab a cigarette once she runs out. You might think she’s into you. In reality she’s just not into being cramped next to sweaty bodies at midnight. She’s going to have a good chat to the bouncer. The new bouncer, that is. On that note, what ever happened to Huw?

The Diplomatriarch
There’s always someone up from Wellington. The Diplomatriach knows DOC as well as the rest of us, except now her vibe is more finely tuned to that of Puppies. She’s Mighty Mighty, not Cassette. She’s the Beehive, not the SkyTower. She’s Cuba Mall, not K’ Road. She’s Totems, not Caroles. You probably know her from her Twitter and her blog. She doesn’t know you from either.

The ‘Babe’
Not as in she’s a babe. She might be. But more along the lines that she’ll be saying ‘babe’ a lot. Like, a real lot. By the end of the night, other girls will become the ‘babe’. It’s contagious. Like that movie. You know the one. Taken. Where everyone keeps stealing Liam Neeson’s things. It’s going to become a pandemic.

Shift Manager Of The Lock Inn
Someone’s going to suggest Whammy at 5am.

The Nine Types Of Guys You’re Going To See At DOC This Weekend

DOC is leaving us. The funny joke to make is ‘where are all the hipsters going to drink Coopers now?’ except it’s not funny because apart from Golden Dawn and Whammy, there’s really nowhere else. Sure, that means this summer there will be more house parties, more Karaoke bars and people saying ‘it’s kind of the new DOC’ but we’re sad to see it go, it only seems fitting to write some kind of threnody for the little hallway that could.

Even in our sadness we’re looking forward to is the send-off this weekend. If you’re looking forward to it too, you should be prepared. Do you think David Attenborough went to Madagascar without a Pocket Guide to Lemurs? No is the right answer. So we’ve put together a field guide for you. Here are The Types of Guys You’re Going to See at DOC This Weekend:

The Hail Murray
This guy is going to try and score that girl he sees at DOC every weekend, though up until now he has never had the nerve to go for her. There’s few things in life that are as exciting to watch as a Hail Mary in the dying seconds of a game. 

The Goodbye Pinball Pie
One last dance on the pinball machine, a sultry, gyrating goodbye to the chosen platform of attention seekers. The last lampshade on the head of a man not afraid to, quite literally, stand out from the crowd.

The Barstool Tender
This guy is going to hang at the bar the entire time. There are going to be way too many people there for him, and even though he’s keen to dance, there are far too many people with the limb-flailing confidence of a drunk listening to pop un-ironically. He’s going to intermittently talk to the bartender who’s way to busy. In an act of wisdom, he’s going to have a seat the whole night.

The Not DJ DJ
‘I’ve DJ’d here before’ he’s going to say, and he’s going to try and steal the other DJ’s songs. He’s going to hang out at the table asking you if you’re going to play the new Ty record. Of course you’re not, it’s DOC’s last hurrah. You’re going to play old Ty. Maybe then he’ll shut up. 

The Diplomat
Some dude, probably a civil servant, who ‘coincidentally’ happens to be up from Wellington. There’s pretty much one goal for The Diplomat: try to see as many fannies as he can. 

The Meddle Head
Remember when those dudes who acted like they were having a bachelor party dressed up as glam rockers started flirting with the wrong group of girls? Just because you’re wearing a pink fluffy scarf doesn’t make you not homophobic. Think about the way you’re codifying homosexuality, it probably means you’re more homophobic. Just because you’re dressed like someone in a pantomime does not mean you get a backstage pass issued by the Department of Liberal Women.

Scott ‘I Can’t Wait For’ Summers
Mr. Myopic is going to spend his night looking at one very specific thing: women in general. No matter who he’s talking to, especially when it’s another guy, he’s going to be looking at ladies. Do expect the conversation to turn to Summer soon after a girl in a short dress walks past. Don’t expect eye contact.

Praise The Lorde
Yeah, so, he’s going to use his appreciation of a 16 year old girl hitting number one to try and get laid. Sure he might genuinely like the song, but a lot of guys genuinely like Ryan Gosling and look at how willing they are to wield him like a weapon.

The ‘This Is My First Time at DOC’ Guy

Haikus For the Modern Lover: Winter Edition

I said ‘I love you’.
Then you said ‘I love you too.’
Ha. I psyched you out.

Eyes dense with sadness,
I see your hands trembling.
Show us ya tits love.

I feel alone but
that doesn’t make lonely.
I have internet.

We roll between sheets.
Become a single being.
It’s pretty gross dude.

Your hand is in mine.
I’m not used to this feeling.
You’re really clammy.

You called me dumpling.
And I called you McDonald’s.

Those sweet little words,
the times we watched the sun rise.
My mum hated you.

How Do You Do: Internet Crushes

There’s one really salient piece of advice in this post. For your sake we’re going to get it out of the way earlier. Do have internet crushes.

Seriously. Do it. Do it lots.

They’re harmless and they’re probably the best crush you’re ever going to have. You can take those pictures of that thing you like they post, weave a personality around it, and have a perfectly satisfying adult relationship in your head. It’s incredible.

There’s no fighting, the sex is great (well it’s technically not sex, but neither is what you do when there IS another person there) and their family adore you. You can see them at their absolute best all the time. After all, they put great care into making sure that twenty-second attempt at today’s selfie is just right. Even better you can bait them into internet-crushing you back. We all know that we’re at our most charming when our witty, off-the-cuff remarks are heavily researched, run through multiple drafts and tested in emails to close friends first. 

Don’t ruin your internet crush by taking it to the IRL level. Disaster. You know all those pictures they post of things you like? Their ex got them into all that shit. The ex they’re still friends with. While nothing is going on between them in real life, in your head they’re slamming their parts together like the cymbals in a high-school concert ensemble. You’re going to realise that, like any normal human being, they’re not stunning from any angle. The sex is like two mannequins bouncing around in the back of a moving truck and their older sibling sees right through you.

Internet crushes are great, because it’s like having a celebrity crush one someone that you think you could get. They might not be as famous, but they are a mystery. And somehow, you’re confident. Hey, you’ve fucked a mystery or two before, right? Or maybe it’s a mystery that you’ve been fucked before. Whatever.

So You’re Going On A Date With: The One Who Might Be The One

This is it buddy. This is the moment. You’re like Rocky Balboa in Rocky X: Taking Palliative Care of Business. Not in peak condition, but full of passion and ready to give it a good college try.

You met her at a party. She’s been part of the same friendship circle as you for like three years, but you’ve never actually been introduced in any meaningful way. Part of that is your mutches shielding her from you (don’t look shocked, we all know what you’re like) and part of it is that she’s been in a long term relationship for most of it. But she’s not anymore. You are still as alone as you were three years ago, but that’s to be expected. She’s the first girl in a while that’s pierced your grim, resigned acceptance to Forever Alone and made you think that maybe death is worth being a tiny bit afraid of.

And now you have the simple task of compressing all those complex feelings into a tiny little ball and hiding them deep inside your soul for the next couple of hours while you try and convince that you’re a normal, functional human person. Good luck.

No, really. Good luck. Because this is the one date you’re going to need it on. We’re not big believers in fate, but for whatever reason this is going to be the unluckiest date you’ve ever been on. You’re going to forego an umbrella because the weather looks like it’s going to hold out. It’s going to rain heavily. You’re going to pick a bar that’s usually quiet, chilled and dimly lit. There’s going to be a function on. You will get a blemish in the middle of your forehead like you’re a unicorn going through puberty. She’s going to get bad news in a text message in the middle of the date.

So what are you going to do? Are you going to be a man and fight for this girl’s affection, considering that she’s into the same music as you, shares a similar ethical and political stance, can take part in a healthy disagreement about the scrambled vs. poached egg debacle and sees through your nervous bumble-fucking and flirts with you like you might actually be mildly fuckable?

Option A: You don’t.
You’re scared. You’re so fucking scared. You find yourself drowning in a drought of confidence. You try to swim, but you’re so out of your mind into this girl that you’re drowning in her pretty. Her pretty is a thick, dense pool of wet sand, and it’s somehow tightening in on your throat. It’s not that you say all the wrong things - it’s that you don’t say anything. Despite all of the good work, hard effort and general lies you told yourself and about yourself, there’s none of that confidence that you managed to fake when you started talking to her. You asked her out, for God’s sake - that was the hard part. Why are you fucking this up now?

You drive the nail in your own coffin then somehow phase yourself through the cheap plywood to lay down and die when you call the date off early. Which is stupid. She’s into you enough, but sadly, you’re not into you. All of this turns out being the go-to point of social interaction for you for the next three years of your life, when she becomes the one that got away.

Option B: You do.
A round of Gossleplause for you. You stuck to it. You embraced the horribleness of the date, and used it as fodder. You laughed at the situation. You pointed at fate’s ugly face and told if to fuck off. You kicked fear right in its dumb balls, turning it into your bitch.

You pointed out that this wasn’t going well in a charming manner. You’re confidence wasn’t handsome, but it was cute. Which is about the best you’ll ever get, because you’re a normal human being who gets scared of other human beings. That’s what people do. But you’ve learned enough lessons about yourself to know that when a good thing falls in your lap, you do your best to keep it there. You tell it a joke and tell it it’s fun. You make the thing want to stay, despite asking yourself why it would want to.

Just think about how easy the next date is going to be now that you’ve had the worst first date you’ve ever had.

Option C: She’s not the one.

New Metrics: How To Measure A Good Joke

Introducing the highest metric of honouring any given joke's success: the Gossleplause.

Example given: “Einstein masturbating is a stroke of genius.”

The Gossleplause.

Short Story Corner: I’m Sorry I Said Your Vagina Looked Like The Predator

I really am. I know it killed the mood and there’s nothing we can do about that now. Well we could go to separate rooms, think of different people and contend with the synchronous warmth, shame, fullness and emptiness that comes with icing your tummy cake or inspecting your silk ruff. But I think it’s important that you let me finish my apology first. Never wank angry. That’s what they say, isn’t it?

I know it’s horrible to equate any of your body parts with a menacing creature from Hollywood history. You know I’d never refer to your tits as The Blob. I know that you’d never call my penis Anaconda. Though one could argue that’s for reasons that have more to do with scale than politeness. It’s especially horrible to equate that part with a vicious, ruthless killer that destroys men at will.

Though now that I say that…

I’m kidding. I’m sorry. Look, all I’m saying is that sometimes mental associations are both hard to break and impossible not to vocalise. If I didn’t say it, I was going to think it and I would have started laughing. Tell me that context-free giggling during face to lower-face moment of intimacy isn’t worse.

I don’t think your vagina is from space. I don’t think your vagina killed Karl Weathers. I certainly don’t think your vagina has different modes of vision or the ability to remain invisible. I don’t think your vagina’s achilles heel is mud. In short. I don’t think your vagina is the Predator.

I just think it looks like one.

But it’s okay. You can say that my penis looks like a half-chewed sausage, or a spring onion in a rain storm or a model U-Boat made by a blind child. It’s fine, I have no insecurities about the formal aspects of my penis. I know what it looks like. But I understand why you’re sensitive. And I am truly deeply sorry. I can’t take back what I said but I can tell you that I didn’t mean it to be malicious or unkind. It just is what it is.


I mean.

Come on.

Have you seen the Predator?

He really does have a face like a cunt.

How To Be A Grown Up

  • Stop wearing comfortable clothes in public. Grown ups are never comfortable.
  • Learn what it means when the NZX drops 30 points.
  • Challenge the political views of your parents (but only if they’re left leaning, right?).
  • Channel some Konami Code confidence. ↑ ↑ ↓ ↓ ← → ← → B A Man.
  • In the wake of any Definition of Marriage Act passing, don’t ruin the moment by acting like a smug idiot.
  • Stop using ‘literally’ wrong.
  • Use less similes and more metaphors.
  • Learn to tie a tie. If you’re a boy or a girl.
  • Start realising that ‘picking up women’ has nothing to do with your upper body strength.
  • Do not be enticed by KFC or PIzza Hut’s gimmick food. Edible memes are not sustenance.
  • Use less nicknames for people. Sure, ‘Gossles’ takes all of the intimidation out of him, but he’s still Ryan Gosling, not a baby kitten.
  • Don’t tell your kids how you met their mother. It’s unbecoming to break down your sexcapades to your children.
  • Learn the difference between ‘flirting at the bar’ and ‘trapping someone in a corner’.
  • Change your sheets. Like, right now.
  • Get a handle on your finances. And that doesn’t mean buy a briefcase.
  • Never say you want to get your vagina murdered.

How Do You Do: Moving Back In With The Parents

You tried your hardest, but you’re just not a grown up. You decided to follow your dreams, but your dreams don’t pay well. You said it was just going to be for a few weeks. Just until you get back up on your feet. Maybe you moved home just before you went travelling, saying to yourself “After my OE I’ll move right out and get that job I know I can get”.

Grow up. No wonder you’re living back with your folks. You’re clearly still an idiot.

Luckily, your parents don’t know how much of an idiot you are. They’re naturally programmed to want to look after you and love you. Plus they don’t know how much of a creep you are at bars, how much you hit on your friends girlfriends/boyfriends, how many drugs you’ve been taking and they don’t know about that STI that you still (stupidly) haven’t got checked out. Good news – it’s not herpes. Bad news – it’s all the other ones.

Now you’re back at home. You’ve already lived out of home, so you know what freedom is. You long for it once again. But when you live in their house, you follow their rules. That’s not just a cliché. It’s a fact of life. If you were living with me, you’d follow my rules too. But you’re not, because I’m one of the friends you’ve pissed off when you’ve been skeeving off my booze, my smokes and my generosity.

Just kidding, I’d never do that. I’d never give you shit. I know how much of a fucktard you are. But that’s my point - your parents don’t.

Unfortunately you’re not grown up enough to realise that perhaps you shouldn’t take advantage of that fact. You’re going to steal the small change you see floating around the house. You’re going to go up and “get the milk”, but you’re also going to keep the change. You’re going to bitch and moan that your parents are telling you that you need to do something with your life and that your dreams might have to go on hold. You tell them that you’re an artist/writer and that you won’t sell out. Here’s a question: When was the last time you wrote something? Was it when you thought of a good idea, put a note in your iPhone (which your parents bought you) and then completely forgot about? Sound familiar?

You’re young. You’re under 25, probably. It’s okay to be back with your folks. What they don’t understand is that it’s not actually all that easy to go and get a job, even at a cafe. What you should be doing is volunteering. You love puppies and kittens? Go work at the SPCA. Oh, that’s too far away? Okay, how about you go volunteer at a radio station. They’re full up, not taking any more vollies? Maybe try asking them again next week. Show how you actually want to do that sort of thing. Oh, turns out you don’t? Maybe go work on a student film set for free. Network and learn about things. Oh, you don’t like working collaboratively? Here’s what I’ve got from you:

·         You like puppies and kittens as long as they’re on the internet and you can play with them but not actually help them / you’re selfish

·         You want to work in radio because you’re really “into music” except you’re not willing to put the hard yards in / you’re lazy

·         Your dreams of working on a film will never come to fruition because you say that you don’t like working with others who don’t know what they’re doing and don’t take your constructive ideas to heart / you just realised you don’t know a thing about film

Thank God you’ve moved back in with your parents. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, young man/lady.

But it’s not all bad. Home cooked meals are great. Since you’ve got nothing to do, eventually you’ll stop watching television and decide to start exercising. You’ll start to experiment with cooking and baking. After your parents really give you that grilling you so sorely need, you’ll realise that the world doesn’t owe you shit.

Do you think your grandparents had dreams? They worked jobs that suck so much now robots have been invented to do it because those jobs caused cancer. They didn’t moan. They just did it. You lack work ethic, and you’ve watched far too many indie coming of age flicks where the protagonist got that job interview.

At best, you’re a supporting character in someone else’s film. It’s far more likely that you’re an extra, or not even in the film at all. Really, you’re just an audience member for life.

So be thankful you’ve got your parents to look after you, make you a hot chocolate and a Sunday roast, because if anyone’s watching the straight-to-dvd film you call your life, it’s them. And they’ll give you rave reviews.