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So I’m alone with a magical box containing two hundred and thirty-five thousand hours of pornography from across the globe and throughout time. I could spend the rest of my life looking at it, and believe me I’m trying, and still not see it all. It’s a wonderwall of debauchery — anal, interracial, vintage, German-stump porn — whatever you’re into, it’s there for you.

Sorry, fellas, for outing us, but ladies, if you ever get this call on your cell phone, you know your guy is ready to have at himself. “Hey, honey, just checking in. Where are you?” We usually don’t give a shit. But now we want the GPS coordinates and approximate travel speed. We’re triangulating your position to maximize beat-off time. “At the mall? Huh. Nearby mall or the faraway mall? Just curious. Just curious… oh, you just got there? Good. Take your time. Relax. Try out that massaging chair at the Brookstone. You deserve it. Don’t rush home. But when you do leave, just give me a call… so I know you’re safe. In fact, just let it ring once and then hang up. And then as you’re pulling up the driveway just give a toot-toot on the horn so I know you’re home.” We actually want to know when you’re pulling in the driveway so we can finish pulling on our penis and pull up our pants.

So alone with the porn-u-copia, you start having at yourself and god does the time fly. Seasons are changing outside the window. Fall turns to winter, like in a movie where calendar pages are flying away. Your pubes go gray.

When I finish with this spirited session, I’m immediately disgusted with myself. I’m in my refractory period, thinking, “Never again. What’s wrong with you? You could have invented something in that two hours! You’ll never get that time back! And that girl is probably a runaway. That’s somebody’s daughter. You sicken me.” So I angrily grab the mouse, click the browser closed and pow!

This is my computer. My desktop background picture used to be one of my cars, but when I wasn’t paying attention my wife swapped it for a picture of the kids.

Believe me, she knew what she was doing. I’m sure this shot was staged. I can hear Lynette coaching them, “Natalia, could you look a little more disgusted? And, So

Let me try to end on a more positive note. This one involves another bathroom interruption but, this time, there was a nice ending. I had gotten up early one morning to do a bunch of radio interviews. In between, I sipped on my coffee and munched on a fiber bar. Well, of course, the bowels got moving, so I plopped down on the toilet. I didn’t bother to close the door, as it was just me and the kids at home, no na

The bathroom I’m referring to is small and windowless. Thinking I was alone, and just popping in for a quickie, I left the door ajar about a foot and a half. Partway through my deuce dropping, boom-boom, out goes the light. (Bonus points to anyone who got the Pat Travers reference there.)

Someone had walked past the bathroom, flipped off the light and kept walking, wordless. I quickly did the math and yelled out, “So

CHAPTER 3

Don’t Be This Guy