Bill Dawes - October 12, 2006

My long-time girlfriend recently moved out (see "Sex and Stretch").

Although I've been fantasizing about being single with an empty apartment for a couple of years now, I find that I'm sort of sucking-chest-wound miserable sitting here by myself.

I feel like a drained testicle.

You know how after you have sex a few times in a short period, you tend to cum air because there's nothing left in your balls? You either turn the condom into a balloon animal or blow dry your girl's hair or give her the hiccups (true story)? Just me?

Anycum, those are the effects of "post-drained ball syndrome." It may sound like loads of fun, at least as a novelty, but "PDBS" makes me feel like an empty, soulless vortex of a black hole.

That's how I feel now, alone in my apartment.

I'm walking around with a void where I thought my soul was. My family members are trying to get me to read "self-help" books, but I refuse to read anything that has the word "God" or a number in the title. I would do what the majority of unhappy Americans do and watch more TV, but most of it sucks, and "Meerkat Manor" is only on once a week. I know I have to find a more permanent substitute for my utter lack of substance.

To fill the yawning chasm where my "inner fortitude" and shit should be, I've taken up smoking. And not just social smoking - full on addicted, tracheotomy hole in my neck, chain smoking.

I can't say I like it very much, but it is serving well as a soul-spackle. My friends are already trying to get me to quit and asking me why I would take up such a filthy habit. To hide my empty depression and my all-encompassing addiction, I tell them I'm doing it to get a deeper, raspier voice in order to land more non-gay roles. That's really only 50% a lie, since I actually would like to act in a film where I don't end up with cock in my mouth. And, hopefully, a by-product of those new roles will be women throwing their vaginas at me until I look like Bill Murray at the end of "Ghostbusters." I could use the positive reinforcement after being dumped.

Besides, chicks love dudes with deeper voices. You could ask Barry White - if he wasn't a corpse. But that's the type of vocal power I want - the type of voice that makes white women wet and white men cross the street. When I am behind a group of people and trying to get by, I want them to duck and cower like a dish was just thrown at them when I say "excuse me, crackas!"

To date, the smoking hasn't unlocked any sort of irresistable, Axe-deodoarant-body spray animal magnetism. I act like a tough womanizer while I chain smoke after my set at the comedy club, but then I go home to watch "The Notebook" and have a good cry. That being said, the cigs have definitely cultivated my hatred of the human race, and hate kicks self-pity's ass!

For example, I've come to happily despise those people who say "Oh, I don't smoke. I would never be a Smoker - I'm just a social smoker, I only smoke when I drink."

FUCK THOSE ARROGANT FUCKS!

First of all, what does that even mean?! If you piggy back it with another vice, it doesn't count, is that it!? I suppose you can just willy-nilly apply that paradigm to any combination of vices, huh:

"Oh, I don't murder. I would never be a murderer! I only murder when I rape. Really, that's pretty much the only time. Except, sometimes when I'm stressed out from work, I murder then too. But that's rare and it's always someone else's fault."

Worse still are those people who, when you ask them for a LIGHT, offer a quick condescending jab like, "No, sorry, I don't smoke."

FUCK THOSE FUCKS EVEN HARDER!

Because that wasn't my QUESTION, was it? The ANSWER is a simple "yes" or "no," Chatty McHighHorse.

Okay, fine! I get it! They don't smoke. I can handle that. But GOD FORBID you ask some pretentious non-smoker like that for a "CIGARETTE!"

You are assured of getting any one of the following insufferably obnoxious responses:

1. No, sorry, I don't smoke. Never have! Never will!
2. I have never smoked a day in my life!
3. Sorry, I used to smoke, but I quit 3 years ago. And I feel great! Come do a walk-a-thon for charity with me!
4. Ugh, that stuff'll kill you! I run 6 miles a day, drink wheatgrass, and shit perfect vegan meatloaf with which I feed the homeless every Thanksgiving. Plus, I cum skittles!

The answer to both the "light" and the "cigarette" query is either yes or no! That's it!

I didn't ask for the director's commentary on the DVD of your stupid life, asshole! This isn't a doctoral dissertation. I didn't say: 'Can I have a cigarette? If not, why? Please present a complete oral defense of your thesis. Use the overhead projector if necessary and help prove your theory with the use of pie graphs.'

FUCK THOSE FUCKS THE HARDEST!

Listen: smoking is cool.

It just is.

Period.

The harder the government tries to show you how uncool it is, the cooler it gets. You ever see a celebrity do an "anti-smoking" campaign? I don't care if you smoke or don't -- you see that celebrity doing an anti-smoking PSA and you immediately think, "Oh, man, I thought that guy was a stud. I guess I was wrong. Next thing you know he'll be working with kids and stuff, like Eddie Murphy. What an asshole!"

Despite the benefits of the coolness factor, I still have to deal with the fact that my voice hasn't changed one gay bit. Even in my most gravelly, early morning just-woke-up timbre, my vocal frequency doesn't get much deeper than Ellen DeGeneres with a chest cold.

On top of that, I can no longer walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded and I am now the laughingstock of my father's family thanks to my propensity for getting "puff drunk" -- a strange phenomenon that affects Irishmen who can normally drink 8 scotches without flinching, but, when combined with only 2 puffs of a cigarette, get sloppy-fall-over-puke-on-their-pants shit hammered.

My Dead Barfly Uncle

I don't care, though. I'm still going to keep smoking unfiltered Marlboros until I get that sexy, grainy, homeless guy voice. Or, better yet, that dolby stereo movie trailer voice. If I had that voice, I wouldn't have to worry about getting non-gay movie roles because I would be too busy back at my apartment talking dirty to hot chicks during sex. I would definitely say more than I say now, which is usually limited to a squeaky: "Uaghah...sorry!"

I might even narrate the foreplay like a movie trailer:

"In a world where you cradle my balls, ONLY ONE MAN is going to get some head. One man, one mouth, one burning desire! Bill Dawes in "Swallow my Junk! Part 2: The Messy Mouth" Coming soon!"

My biggest fear is that I'll never be able to shake the voice of a lipstick lesbian. It's kind of sad, which makes my emotional hole gape wider, which makes me wanna drink and smoke more, which will hopefully make my voice a little deeper.

It's a merry go-round I wanna ride until I have either filled up the hole in my heart or honkeys run across the street at the sound of my bellow.

Posted by Bill Dawes at 9:24 PM