I have a confession to make. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this really bad habit. I first recall doing it when I was around 12 or 13. But before I knew it, I was indulging myself at least three or four times a day.

The funny thing is, I had no idea that what I was doing even had a name. I just stumbled upon it one day and I found it quite enjoyable. Of course, I’m referring to mental masturbation.

For a few months, I would only stimulate my brain in the privacy of my own bedroom. But after a while, I became braver and started doing it out in public. That’s right. Right in front of everybody. Sure, I’d occasionally get these horrified looks. But for the most part, people would just smirk at me and shake their heads in slow motion.

These days, I still enjoy a good mental masturbation session. Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes when I’m watching TV. But mostly, I do it when I’m online chatting with my friends.

If you haven’t tried it yet, I highly recommend it. It’s easy. it’s fun. And it’s highly addictive. What’s more, you can do it just about anywhere, at pretty much anytime. In fact, I’m mentally masturbating right now.

On occasion, when I’m not sure what I should write about, I just sit down at the keyboard and start typing. Sometimes, the end result is pure magic. Most of the time, it’s unintelligible drivel. What follows, is the result of one of these writing exercises. Before you start reading, please allow me to apologize in advance. Sorry . . . OK, might as well get on with it.

Melody lived, worked and played in a small village called Los Angeles. Her occupation? Professional dancer.

Now don’t get the wrong impression. Melody wasn’t some kind of two-bit floozy who humped a pole for a living. On the contrary, she was a classically trained artist who specialized in the art of giving men chubbies. When she was up on that stage, she’d grind her pelvis into that pole. Slither her way up it, hang upside down from it, and then slowly slide back down to Earth, all without using her hands or arms. Yeah, she was a true natural.

Of course, by “natural,” I’m not referring to her breasts. They were far from natural. As cold and as round as basketballs, some might say, which was not an exaggeration. Using a very unsafe technique, Melody’s surgeon used actual basketballs in place of the usual, somewhat-safer silicone implants. They didn’t look as good as real fake breasts. But unlike those fancy boob bags, she could inflate or deflate them by simply slipping an everyday air hose over her nipple.

So in any case, that’s Melody, the classically trained stripper who had actual basketball breasts . . .

I’m not exactly sure where this story is supposed to go. I mean, there are a lot of places it could go, but then this wouldn’t remain a PG-13 blog. It would be PG-14. And that would suck. Because then all these kids who just turned 13 would be pissed off at me because they thought that once they turned 13, they’d be able to check out my blog without any parental supervision.

So next thing I’d know, the kids would unite in some kind of kid cult and they’d elect the creepiest looking kid to be their leader, and they’d plaster this huge picture of me on the wall. But then one of the kids would say something about how it’s not just Smivey, but all adults who are mean. And then the leader would declare that the earth must be cleansed of all adults. And then all the kids would look at their leader like he was fucking insane. And then he’d tell them that if they didn’t want to be part of the solution that they should leave now.

So then the kids would all start getting up and walking out, all while the creepy kid was shouting at them. And they’d all give him the finger, until that creepy kid was left alone with a giant picture of me plastered against his wall. And then he’d look at that picture and he’d vow revenge. And the next thing I’d know, I’d have some creepy kid waiting outside my building, with a bag of rocks and a six pack of Mountain Dew.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t let that happen. I mean, I can handle a good pummeling with a sack of rocks, but I just can’t bear to see a child — even a creepy one — drown himself in a six pack of Mountain Dew. For this reason, I must end this story, hoping that all of you will understand and not get too pissed off that you took the time to read it all the way through.

And just in case you do find yourself a little steamed after reading this story, and it makes you want to pelt me with rocks or other heavy objects, by all means, take your best shot. Just please, for godsakes, stay away from the fucking Mountain Dew. It’s just not worth it. Nothing is. I thank you.

OK, OK, before you start tearing into me, hear me out. It’s not like I just decided one day that every woman on the face of the planet is a complete moron. I assure you, this is based on years and years of field research. Let me elaborate:

First there was Candice.

Candice, honey, how can you be so stupid? Remember what a great time we had at the club that night? You were in that hot little mini skirt and I walked up to you and fed you the most awesome pick-up line ever:

“I’d really love to get into your panties, but I’m afraid they’d be too small.”

Man, that was a good one. The moment you heard it, you melted. I mean, sure, you had this look of disgust on your face, but I could sense that inside, your heart was all a flutter. Anyhow, after I wiped your drink off of my face, I sat there and chatted with you for what seemed like hours. It was cute how you played hard-to-get, turning to talk to that other guy who was sitting next to you.

Yeah, we had this little game going: I’d tap you on the shoulder. You’d tell me to get lost. I’d tap you on the shoulder again. You’d tell me to fuck off. I’d tap you on the shoulder again and you’d get up and leave.

That went on for a while. Then, finally, after you found me waiting for you outside of the ladies’ restroom, you were so happy to see me, you were almost in tears. You said, “Please leave me alone,” but your eyes said, “don’t go.” So I didn’t. Unfortunately, it was getting late, so I thought I’d end the charade and ask for your phone number.

It was so cute how you yelled at me while you wrote down your digits: “You want my fucking phone number? Fine! Have a fucking field day!” Heh. That still makes me chuckle.

Anyhow, long story short, I tried calling you and I ended up talking to some guy at Dominos pizza. Do you work at Dominos pizza? They said they don’t know anyone named Candice. There’s a Connie there, but no Candice. In any case, I hung out at that Dominos all day, hoping to see you. No such luck. Maybe it was your day off. Or maybe you’re just a fucking idiot who doesn’t know her own phone number! I can’t believe I wasted that awesome pick-up line on you. But don’t worry. You’re not alone. It seems that every woman I meet has no clue who they are or where they live.

One idiot, April, couldn’t even remember her own e-mail address. I spent all this time writing a poem about how we met at Victoria’s Secret and how she thought it would be funny to call the mall security on me. Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to find something that rhymes with “secret”? It’s damn near impossible, let me tell you. I ended up resorting to using a Pakistani word that I think refers to the texture of a camel’s hump.

But April will never know, because she gave me the wrong fucking e-mail address! Guess what, April, I did some research. There isn’t even a fuckoffanddie.com domain in existence. I mean, some guy is squatting on it, but it doesn’t point to anywhere. And while we’re at it, there’s no fuckoffanddie.net. No fuckoffanddie.org, either. Believe me, I tried them all. What the hell were you thinking? Who am I supposed to send this goddamn poem to now? Huh?

Anyhow, that’s just a couple examples of how stupid women are. Of course, I have an entire notebook filled with these sad cases. But I won’t bore you with them all. Oddly enough, they’re very much alike. At first, these women seem pretty intelligent. But for some reason, none of them have any idea who they are, where they live or how to reach them. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re even able to feed themselves. Really. Is it just me or what?