Believe it or not, there are people out there that are far more terrible than significant others, co-workers and customers. They're called friends. The worst of which feel the need to offer advice on and about the relationship that you're trying to cultivate with your significant other. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently awful about reminding your friend that bros obviously come before hoes. The real problem stems from individuals who dispense gems like my pickup basketball pals frequently do. Honestly, when I hear these testosterone laden lowlifes speak, I'm often left in awe that women enjoy the company of men at all. For example, one guy I played basketball with heard me talk about an upcoming date I planned out that involved going to SeaWorld. His honest response was to pull me aside in between games and let me know man to man that, "You might as well walk around town with a dildo in your ass, it'd be the same thing as going to SeaWorld." He then further enlightened me on what I'm guessing is a new form of progressive dating by saying, "You should just stay home and fuck. Seriously, girls dig that." This was his honest and serious opinion on how to best secure a long term partner. Not to hit him with a straw man argument or anything, but this guy did play pickup hoops bare foot and drunk. To be fair, the only reason he was ever drunk on the court is because he would usually be exiled from the local golf course for being smashed and belligerent. The scary part about his clear case of alcoholism is that he was still one of the top ten or 15 guys I ever played hoops against. Even in that condition he could still ball out, so he does deserve some credit for his athleticism and the superb condition of his always affected equilibrium. His relationship advice, however, falls somewhere below Dr. Phil and slightly above Jared from Subway on the scale of sensibility. I mean, sure his advice was sensible if you're, as he routinely put it, "Trying to get your dick wet," but when it comes to practical advice that you can implement everyday, it sort of missed the mark.
These self-professed gurus act and express themselves in a way that would suggest that they're on the verge of penning the next version of The Game. Never mind the fact that they're conquests amount to a couple of super high fat chicks at Popeye's Chicken. Despite that little fact, they never stop philosophizing about their poon related advice long enough to ruminate on the notion that they've never had a relationship that's lasted longer than the length of an average Padres game (I don't know baseball, but I'm pretty sure that's like seven weeks and 42 innings, or maybe it just feels like that every time I watch baseball. Seriously, the activity you're participating in can't be called entertaining or a sport if you can take part in it with a lip full of chew, a beer gut and a cheek full of sunflower seeds. Can you imagine Kevin Durant pounding a six-pack of Bud with a mouth full of Snuff while he's dropping 360 tomahawk dunks? No, because that's what you call a real fucking sport. Not a million dollar hobby that diabetic middle-age illegals play to avoid being deported). It also doesn't help that these philandering armchair psychiatrists' ability to score usually involves a heavy reliance on juicing up under age drinkers with handles of Fireball. Scamming for juniors in high school and bribing them with booze that they can't physically tolerate or legally buy is not relationship advice. It's a recipe for landing on Megan's List or winding up with an illegitimate kid because you landed a covert bible thumper that thinks Plan B is the device of the devil. So next time you think it's your place to insert advice into your friends' lives, feel free to insert a dildo into your own ass and just play pickup hoops. Please, just pass on expressing your expertise on how you romance your imaginary conquests. Your experience sodomizing drunken teens doesn't give you the proper credentials to dispense council. Just like me watching 'Gravity' doesn't give me the right to start bloviating on the ins-and-outs of astrophysics. I'm not being mean, it's just called fucking reality.
I'm not saying don't ever dole out advice. I'm just saying that if you can't make it through the front nine of a golf course that costs less than an Andrew Jackson to play, save some of that valuable wisdom for yourself.