Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates

by Mike Stangle

  Quit judging other chicks, too. It’s a competitive world out there. I know guys who do the cheesiest stuff to get laid. They do stuff I’d never do, but there’s still no comeback to someone looking at you and pointing at the scoreboard. Consider this: Most guys like me. They just do. I’m typically pretty popular around my fellow man. My personality allows me to hang in the upper echelon of male friendships. I’m often invited to popular social events. I’m nice, never have problems with fellow fellas, and I’m not that exclusive. Asian people find me hilarious, black people find me goofy, German people often say, “You’re kinda what we were going for, back then.” As far as I know (or think), when guys think of me, they generally don’t say, “Fuck that guy.”

  What if I was a girl, though? What if I had the same exact personality, same exact lifestyle, but I was a gal? I’d still be a cute brunette, I’ll tell ya that much. Don’t worry about that. What I would be worried about is how other gals thought of me. Every other gal would have a major, major problem with me. I do so many things in my everyday life as a guy that gals just plain hate about other gals. I’d have no friends. I’d be included in nothing. You know when you hear a bunch of gals just trashing some slut? I’d be that slut. I’d be sleeping around so much. I can barely control my sex drive as is; my only blessing is that it’s super-hard to get laid when you’re a giant dufus. Imagine if I were a gal, and the only thing I needed to do to get laid was be slutty? Dave as a gal equals game over. I’d be showing off my tits way too much. I would own several high-waisted bikini bottoms. I would shave intricate and creative shapes and patterns into my pubic hair. I bet some jock that I sleep with would tell the entire school after he banged me, then whatever theme I had going above my slow cooker (that’s what I’d call my vagina if I was a gal) would somehow become incorporated in my high school nickname. Later on in life, I would become the chick who causes wives to elbow their head-cocked husbands in the ribs when they check me out as I roller-skate by on the boardwalk. Heyyy (wink). Nailed it!

  Whoa, how did we get this lost? Still, key takeaways: boobs and butts, don’t be “that girl,” and for Pete’s sake, don’t shoot the messenger! Unless you’re shooting us a nudie pic.

  Breaking Up

  Man, This Stinks

  (Dave)

  Mike and I are not the face of single men in America. We might be soon, after publication of this book, since we’re both currently single and no woman will ever speak to us again. That doesn’t change the past, though; we’ve both had girlfriends aplenty. We’ve had long-term and short-term girlfriends. We’ve had some fun-while-it-lasted girlfriends and some I-must-have-been-on-dirty-Sprite girlfriends. Me specifically? I’ve had a few really intense long-term girlfriends. I had one in high school, a total babe named Nikki. We lost our virginity to each other when we were fifteen years old. It was classic high school sex, too. House party, keg of beer, full bush, not a rubber within ten square miles. Those were the days. She was a super-religious gal and came from a really devout family. I remember her mother wouldn’t let her younger sister (who I imagine also grew up to be a babe) read Harry Potter books, because they were “blasphemy.” Nikki eventually dumped me for the guy she would end up marrying, I think. Maybe there was one guy in between us. Facebook didn’t exist then, so I couldn’t properly stalk her. Whoever it was, it didn’t matter, I was so sad. It was the first time I got dumped, my first overall breakup.

  Don’t feel bad for me, I deserved to get dumped. I cheated on her all the time. It was high school! Everyone was following their dicks! I deserved to get dumped a thousand times over. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t devastated. It was actually worse, because I got dumped and I deserved it. I don’t think I truly got over it until she emailed me years later to let me know she was engaged to be wed and that she told the guy she was engaged to that he was her first and only. Whaaaaaaaat? Up until that point, she was always lingering in the back of my head, fucking around and causing a psychological ruckus. When she told me she was a born-again virgin, it was like ripping off the Band-Aid. I just didn’t care anymore. Somewhere out there, for the rest of Nikki’s life, Dave Stangle would be her little secret. I felt so bad for her husband that I started to feel better about myself. Boom, over it! I would be hesitant to write this all this down and blow her cover, but if Harry Potter is blasphemy, then what is this book? Pure. Evil. I’m in the clear. They won’t even sell this book at the Christian stores she shops at, anyway.

  I had a pretty serious girlfriend in college, too. Nancy! Sweet, sweet Nancy. Nancy was probably my favorite out of all the girlfriends I’ve had. We’re still very good friends to this day, sweet Nancy and I. We were a great match and had a fantastic relationship. In the end, the timing just wasn’t right. I was a young whippersnapper fresh out of college; she was light-years ahead of me on the maturity scale. She wanted to get more out of her weekends than heading to the East Village and blacking out at Whiskey Town every Saturday. And Thursday. And Friday. And some Wednesdays, if the weather was nice. When that breakup happened, it was just no fun at all. I was losing someone who I knew was a great fit, but I also knew it wasn’t going to work without one of us sacrificing our priorities before we were ready.

  I went on a real tear of ugly chicks after her. I was knocking them down like bowling pins. That’s the highest compliment you can pay an ex-girlfriend, it means you’re taking the breakup really hard. During those dark days, I realized and started living out a theory that would consume my mid-twenties. If I only made love to women with great bodies and ugly faces, or vice versa, I’d never want to date them seriously! Shallow? Yes. But this selection process was incredibly effective in staving off fruitless relationships after a hard breakup. I was taking it hard. So was every six in midtown Manhattan. Ayo!

  The last true breakup I ever had really turned my life upside down. It was my first adult breakup; you know, when things matter. It also taught me all I need to know about breakups for the rest of my life. That is, I never want to fucking do it again. My last girlfriend was Big Sex. Big Sex was a real wildcard. She was very funny and quirky, pretty crazy, and in hindsight an absolutely terrible match for me. It’s understandable how I missed that last part, though, once you put your eyes on her. She was tall, slender, blond (classic Dave!), and was really, really good-looking. My dad had a legit crush on her. He got all bashful when she came around and he would make these attempts to flirt with her that were so transparent it was kind of adorable. I’d always squeeze her big ol’ butt in front of him, too, just to get him jealous. It was like he was mad at me for dating her, as if I was somehow getting away with something. She had these incredible boobs that I was convinced were fake the first several times I came on them. She was something. She was crazy, but my kind of crazy. I like the crazy ones. Can’t help it, always have and always will.

  For a time, Big Sex just worked for me. She was a smart, driven, successful girl with a nice family. Her craziness was buried deep, deep down inside of her, and for one reason or another, I just found and released it. It was like her body was one of those eighth-grade science fair volcanoes and somehow my penis was made of baking soda. Tupac said it: deadly combinations. It was a deadly combination that worked—for a while, anyway. She was always as drunk as me, always more out of control, always doing something over-the-top. It took me a very, very long time to come to the realization that our entire relationship was built on sex. When I think of her now, the only pleasant thought I have is that she was attractive in ways I had never known before. It was like she was wired specifically for me, like Lisa in Weird Science.

  A relationship built purely on sex can only last so long. People say that as though it means it will 100 percent be short. They don’t mention that it’s a sliding scale. The more solid a sexual foundation it’s built on, the longer it lasts. I dated Big Sex for two years before things started to chip away. Drama followed us everywhere. Maybe I was tit-blind, maybe I was in denial. At the height of our relationship, I would be late to wor
k and early to home, all on the account of getting naked. We used to meet at my old midtown apartment at lunch for sandwiches and coitus. Do you know how great your afternoons are, coming off a turkey BLT and a mutually timed ’gasm that makes your neighbor’s Pomeranian bark hysterically? BS and I were addicted to one another. Sex can be like a drug. It can take over your priorities, your motivations. It can turn you into a junkie. We were junkies. We were backroom, crack-house, belt-around-the-arm sex junkies. I can’t wait for her spiteful rebuttal column to come out in Redbook after this book’s publication. It’ll be all like “Uh it wasn’t that great.” Hey, it was for me!

  Eventually Big Sex and I got ourselves a nice apartment in a nice little neighborhood and had some big sex in it. A year later, it came time to renew our lease. Things were a little rocky with BS at the time. I was feeling a lot of pressure to grow up, put a ring on it, take the next step. I wasn’t remotely ready for any of that shit, especially with someone so emotionally turbulent. I was committed to her, though. I thought re-upping our lease for another year might show her that. Nope. Did I mention we had a dog? Frank the Bulldog! Raising a bulldog with someone else is one off from having a full-blown human child.

  BS dumped me the day before our new lease started. This was the last time I got dumped and the first time I perfected just how to come out of it. I couldn’t do the depression thing again; I couldn’t do “back to the drawing board.” This chapter isn’t about the drawing board. It’s about handling a breakup like a fucking boss. It’s about moving on, like the true sicko you are. You wondering why Mike hasn’t chimed in yet? This little factoid might explain it. Consider Mike and me about even on the number of girlfriends scale. Serious, short-lived, long distance, whatever. For every Nikki, Sweet Nancy, and Big Sex, Mike has a roster of his own. What makes me the “expert” over Mike is that every single girlfriend I’ve ever had has dumped me. I’ve never been the dumper. I always get dumped! I have a 100 percent dump rate. Isn’t that fucked-up? Now you can feel bad for me.

  How do you break the news to your buddies? What about your parents? Where do you sleep in the short term? How do you fill this new void in your life? Your penis: where do you put it?

  After getting dumped more times than I can count, I’d like to think I know a little something-something about navigating my way through the Hurricane Sandy of emotions coming your way, flooding your shore house, and getting Chris Christie in your face with a megaphone. Here’s my play, take it or leave it.

  Step 1: Issue a Press Release

  The world has to know. Address the rumors. Set the story straight. Don’t be embarrassed; don’t hide it, own it. If you’re timid about it, you’ll come off as weak. Even if there is a chance you and your ex might eventually get back together—it isn’t now, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten dumped in the first place. If he/she dumps you just to get you to react, don’t take them back. People who resort to that can’t properly communicate and are also douche bags. You’re single now. Own it. Your friends will all react, one way or another. Women want their friends to feel sorry for them when they get dumped. The best feeling a man can get is his friends being excited for him. When Big Sex gave me the boot back in the day, the rumors didn’t take long to start swirling. We were living together at the time, so this was juicy to the outside world. I’m not a huge fan of always resorting to a sports analogy, but the following email got everyone on the same page pretty quickly:

  Dave Stangle (dave.stangle@xxxxxx.com)

  5/4/12

  My Friends,

  It has come to my attention that I should address some of the off the field issues concerning my playing career as well as my rumored free agency.

  I have been with the Big Club for 2+ years now, some would say through the twilight of my career. I came up as a rookie in 2010 with nothing but my boyish charm and grim determination to win. Already considered a solid clubhouse presence, my first game back-to-back inside the park home runs made a splash with the Big Club immediately. I was on her radar rather quickly, and the rest was history. Since those days, I’ve built a home in the ballpark, taken on a budding protégé in AAA bulldog phenom Frankenstein, and run out every ground ball—no matter how silly or pedantic.

  Sadly, after sitting with upper management and discussing my current contract at length, the Big Club has decided to let me go and to move in a different direction. Perhaps she is looking for a younger, more professional hitter . . . someone who concentrates on their raw footwork rather than making a web gem. Perhaps my lack of plate discipline or high strike out rates on Saturday nights was too much to bear. Maybe having a little too much pine tar on my bat at times rubbed management the wrong way . . . but I’m a ball player, god damn it, and I was born this way. No matter what the issues were, I’ll look back on my time with the Big Club with fond memories. I am glad there is no bad blood, and I even look forward to revisiting the clubhouse in the future (probably in August, when she misses me after a bad date and offers me a one-time, one-night appearance for Dave Stangle Bobble Head night).

  That being said, I am looking forward to my free agency period—projected to last through at least 2016. I plan on taking my training seriously and visiting every ball club in the majors, multiple times. I’ll take it all in. Spring Training . . . the Arizona Fall League . . . Dominican Winter League . . . AAA clubs in Murray Hill . . . hell, AA clubs! Don’t be surprised if you catch me down at NYU poaching in High Single A ball either. There is some real talent down there.

  I also plan on working with the game’s best scouts. I am going to spend countless hours in the batting cage with Howard Freedman, one of the best hitting coaches in the game (as well as Ted Clifton, arguably the best bunter in the game). I’ll be doing the bulk of my training at The Safe House at 41 St. Marks Place—5th floor. I’m confident that within The Safe House I’ll find all the necessary elements for a ball player to succeed. My strength and conditioning coach, Anthony Hubbert, has promised to whip me into shape mentally, physically, and chemically. With hard work and determination, I will emerge as a 2016/2017 prize acquisition.

  I look forward to meeting you in competition on the field!

  Step 2: Okay, Now Get Out There and Get Weird

  I’ve got a buddy named Tim. Today he is a ruthless titan of industry, a reckless socialite, and owns several custom-tailored pairs of pajama pants. Back when we all moved to New York City, though? Tim was an animal. He was the first person I ever heard say “Let’s get weird!” with regularity, before everyone else started saying it. He would say “Let’s get weird!” so often at Whiskey Town that the bar eventually had it printed on the back of their shirts. One could argue that was the original source of the entire phrase. Do you know how big that is? It’s like starting the Macarena craze back in the nineties. No wonder Tim made it big. The writing was on the wall from day one. He had a point back then, too. Get weird. Hey, why the fuck not? No one is judging you.

  Post-breakup is the biggest judgment-free zone one is ever allowed. No one will look twice. And if they do, it’s because they aren’t having enough fun in your newfound singleness. Mix it up. Don’t say no. Sleep on a stranger’s floor. Sleep on couches. Wake up across the border. Watch the sun come up. Black out before it goes down. If you’re looking for inspiration, watch Mike for a night (fucking lunatic). You’ve got a perfectly legitimate excuse to act a fool. You’ve got nothing to lose. I’m not endorsing completely reckless behavior, but don’t be shy. You have no commitments, no expectations, no limits. Hey, here’s something you can do now that you couldn’t do before—have sex with some different people. Actually, be reckless! Look at you, you’re a catch! This is one of the few times in your life you can mow down everything in your path and all you’ll ever hear is “good for you” followed by a firm pat on the back. The world is your oyster and that oyster has a vagina. Or a peener. Or maybe both! You need to get back out there. You need to make mistakes. You need to make a lot of mistakes. You need to sleep with people you don
’t actually feel anything for.

  The accepted philosophy for so long has been that it’s shameful to have sex with someone you don’t care about. What about how nerve-racking it is to have sex with someone you do care about? You have to show up, be fair, bring your A-game, all of your cards are already on the table. You already know your borders and hers, the stuff she will and won’t do. And guess what? There are no surprises! Fuck that, I love surprises! Not “surprise! I have herpes!” surprises, but cool and interesting ones where you think things like Is she a squirter? or, How did she just make me pee a little? One of the first completely random women I tricked into going to bed with me post-BS was this super-cute black chick. Yup! I had never been with a black chick before. When she took off her shirt and I had these awesome black chick boobies in front of me, I didn’t even know where to start. I love boobs, and this was like having two really different and dark ones with Hershey kisses on them. The Hershey kisses were her nipples. Did you put that together? Oh, and as an added bonus, she looked like Hillary from Fresh Prince. Do you know how many times I beat off to Hillary as a kid? This was like beating off to Hillary . . . while inside Hillary! Total mind blower.

  Don’t be afraid to mix it up in a weird way, too. Lord knows I did. As long as you walk away clean and with a good story, then you’ll be left in a better place than you were before. I once got mixed up with an older gal up in Saratoga Lake. I’m not even sure she qualified as a gal anymore; she was forty-five years old. Was she hot? Nope. Not remotely. Maybe in 1988, but probably not since 1995. She was a heavy smoker, pretty skanky. It doesn’t take much to hook a guy so soon after a breakup, and it didn’t take much to hook me. I’ll never forget how just-attractive-enough for me she looked in her “JUICY” velour jumpsuit over her middle-aged-but-still-trying bikini. It’s all right, Miss Lady, I’m picking up what you’re putting down. You’re a divorcee and I’ve had twenty-five Twisted Teas on my dad’s pontoon boat today. Let’s hop into your Sebring convertible, head back to the raised ranch you mentioned you were awarded in the divorce, and juuuuuust figure it out. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to find that she shaved her forty-five-year-old vagina. I know that wasn’t a thing with her generation, so I didn’t expect it, but if she’s reading this right now, I’d like her to know I appreciated the effort. To this day, she represents the biggest age gap in who I’ve been with.