Life with TSB — I’m a Survivor

Occurred October-November 2009; Written January 2010.  Part 2 of 2.

If you read my previous post, you’re aware that my father has an uncanny ability at medical diagnosis.  He informed me I was afflicted with TSB; Toxic Sperm Buildup.  It occurs when a male has no girlfriend, no dates, and no prospects.  It results in no sex; hence the sperm buildup.  The disease’s side effects include, but are not limited to, a general sense of unease, self-loathing, and a trash can filled with violated fruit.

A week or two later, I was able to look back and chuckle at my dad’s email.  Perhaps he had a valid point.  If I’m ever going to get out of this funk, I have to make things happen for myself.  I can’t sit at home masturbating to internet porn and call it companionship.

I need to dust myself off and get back in the game.  It had been 2 years since I asked a girl on a date now was the time to change.  I went out for drinks with the guys that night, but was always thinking about my TSB and how to cure it.  After 13 or 14 beers and arriving home, I decided NOW was the moment to do something about it.  I wasn’t going to ask friends to introduce me to their single lady friends.  No, I needed something now.  I was motivated (and alcohol handicapped) and needed to act.  Like so many other desperate men my age, I sent out some emails to a few lucky ladies on MySpace.

The ladies were chosen for very good reasons, things you can really build a relationship on.  In other words, all of their profile pictures were them sitting around in their bras, bikinis, or low cut shirts.

I felt great as I tucked myself in and gave a little snuggle time to my favorite friend.  I imagined waking up in the morning with a full Inbox and dates lined up for every night of the week.  Cindy, the beautiful girl from Arizona and living in Seoul, seemed the most likely candidate for marriage and carrying my offspring.  I slept soundly and I’m pretty sure with a smile on my face.

16 hours later, I awoke.  My pain could only be compared to childbirth.  I could feel my pulse thumping through the veins in my head.  I didn’t have a single thought for Cindy or any other lady.  I tried to go back to sleep, but had to run to the bathroom in order to expel my entire body weight in diarrhea.  It was at this point I realized it was 8pm and the sun had set.

I swallowed 6 Ibuprofens and plopped myself down on my bed.  Perhaps sleep would have helped, but apparently my body thought 16 hours in one night was plenty.  I stared at the ceiling, massaging my temples.  My thoughts drifted from topic to topic:  cantaloupes, what if my body held the natural cures to every major disease in the world and how much would I charge the pharmaceutical companies for access to these cures, how cool would it be if I had a magic skateboard that allowed me to fly, and…Cindy!  OMG!  How could I forget you, my sweet, sweet darling?

I turned on my computer and my monitor blazed to life.  Despite the relative low light, I had to put on sunglasses to protect my eyes.  In addition to crooked aviators, I was wearing my v-neck undershirt from last night that reeked of tobacco and my plaid pajama pants from Wal-Mart.  Luckily, Cindy wasn’t there to see me.  What the future Mrs. Powers doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her.

I logged in and checked my Inbox.  No new messages.  Not even a friend request?  Impossible!  I checked my Sent mail folder.  All 5 of my messages had been read by their recipients, even the one by Cindy.  I didn’t get it.  What’s wrong with me that make all women hate and reject me?

I had no recollection of what any of my messages said, but I was confident they were charming and articulate just like me.  I clicked on one after another and felt my eyeballs bulging further and further out of my head.

I could spank you.

I wanna motorboat your boobies.

Ding-a-ling.  I bet you love that word.  I bet you’ll love mine.

I wanted to email Cindy to apologize, to tell her that wasn’t the real me.  My heart was racing.  Would she forgive me?  Would she even believe me?  I felt my heart palpitating.  I clicked on Cindy’s profile and was instantly alarmed by her profile photo.  I clicked on the additional photos to confirm my suspicion.  I’m pretty sure Cindy was a pre-op tranny.

Dear Lord, what have I done?

I had obviously been wearing something much stronger than beer goggles; perhaps some kind of beer welding helmet or perhaps a beer facial apparatus designed to block nuclear blasts. Cindy did love ding-a-lings, maybe even mine, just not her own.

Although there were no more pre-ops, the list of potential mates was horrific.  What were these women thinking posting such scandalous photos of them selves?  What kind of man did they hope to attract?  These were not the sexy librarian type that I’ve always been attracted to, but women who put exotic dancers and adult entertainers to shame.

Internet dating was out and I needed a fresh idea; a bold approach for this new age of dating.  Perhaps I could join a book club, take tango lessons, or learn pottery.  These classes were sure to attract the kind of woman I desired; academic but social and attractive.

The week came and went and so did another.  I had yet to learn the tango or fire up a kiln.  I did read a book that involved dragons, elves, and the chosen one who is the only person capable of beating the evil darkness encompassing the world.  The dark being of dark evil things obviously lived in a volcano and had killer trolls do his dirty work.  I don’t think I’m going to meet my kind of woman at that particular book club.

As so many of us to who try to shake off old behaviors and patterns, my desire for a new style of dating died a tragic death due to laziness and the simple truth that I didn’t give a fuck.  So I decided to get drunk at a bar, talk to drunk women, and hope they were the one.

After having a few courage enhancement beverages, I approached the first lady of the evening.  Her name was Kellie.  She was a professional dancer turned English teacher.  She looked more like a competitive eater than a dancer.  She was a nice enough girl, but there wasn’t any real chemistry.  When she went to the ladies’ room, I made a sneaky, but very graceful, exit.

As I was dancing through the crowd surrounding the bar, attempting to meet up with my friend, I was waved over by Sarah, the half black, half Jewish girl.  Emboldened by booze, I made a fantastic joke, “You’re half black and half Jewish; so that means you’re Blewish.”  She laughed hysterically, grabbing my arm to keep herself from falling over.  It seemed odd she had never heard it before.  Either she was lying or all of her friends are humor-deprived (or perhaps more politically correct than I am).

Sarah and I continued cracking jokes and, in general, having a really good time.  “I’m so glad I met you tonight,” I told her with my best Tom Cruise smile, which is just showing as much as your teeth as possible while staring directly at their eyeballs.

“That’s sweet.  Give me your phone.”  I handed over my phone and she called herself.  “Now I have your number and we can call each other whenever.”


“You’re gonna take me out to dinner.”

“Really?”  Not coffee?  Not a drink, but dinner?  She seemed to be moving a little fast.

“You are SOOOOOO perfect for me.  We’re gonna be such a cute couple.”  She said this without a hint of sarcasm or humor; she believed it.

“Umm…,” and then I left.  I met Sarah at a club recently and she told me that I missed an opportunity to be truly happy.  I’m sure I did.  Like most people, I despise happiness.  Unlike most people, I admit it.  What would I complain about?  I couldn’t verbally accost, hate, and ridicule strangers if I was happy and secure with myself.  Sorry, Sarah, but it’s going to take more than that to get this neurotic hypochondriac to settle down for something as ridiculous as happiness.  No thanks.

A competitive eater and a chronic committer, the night wasn’t boding well for my penis and TSB.  I found my friend talking to a very attractive woman and I selfishly interrupted, proceeded to scare her off with my talk of toxic sperm, and told my friend it was hopeless.  The sentence had barely escaped my lips when I made eye contact with Viviana.  She was of Mexican descent, with long curly brown hair, and large bouncy breasts.  I smiled, she smiled back.  I didn’t even finish my sentence to my friend, but walked over to Viviana and started dancing with her.  We were french kissing like a couple of middle schoolers within 30 seconds.

I sent my dad an email the next day, short and sweet as always, “I’m cured.”



Filed under Dating, Humour

3 responses to “Life with TSB — I’m a Survivor

  1. Moral of the story: There is no I in Team.

    In order to leave an appropriate comment, allow me to quote one of your earlier posts: “You are hilarious!” Until the next story, I am

    Yours Truly,

    Dorian Wacquez

    • P. Festie


      For some reason, this story reminds me of Barney Stinson and I don’t know why…

      You MAY be a “womanizer” (lol) but you are so hilarious!!! “Oh, how I love you.” (Ted)


  2. Leah

    Haha, I agree with previous comment- Barney Stinson! I am so glad you have a blog now my rude, crass, hilarious friend

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