The True Magic Words Guaranteed to Get Any Man To Do Your Bidding

In life, outside assistance is required. In any area of life, it is highly desirable to get other people – men – to do things for you whenever possible. This includes, but is not restricted to, performing all manner of personal services, as in cooking, cleaning, and errand running, and especially rubbing, fawning, worshipping in word and deed, constantly, and of course, paying for things – as in everything, including, naturally, presents of all kinds, especially the sparkly kind. We are very crowlike in our affinity for things that sparkle. Toward this end we have formulated the True Magic Words. These words used correctly just beat the hell out of please. In fact, if you use these words aptly, you can forget that please even exists – except you will be hearing it spoken to you so much, you will come to gag on it. With these simple words you will have the instant ability to persuade any man on earth to willingly, happily, and swiftly do your bidding. This is 100% guaranteed.

Here’s what you do: First, decide what it is that you want or need done, fetched, or purchased. Then select the man you want for this task. Outline for him, in vivid detail, exactly what you will require of him. It is vital that you cover all the bases at this point in the discussion, because once he hears the words, he will be momentarily slack-jawed and breathless, and then his brain will irretrievably lock. He is a man with a mission, and he is going to do whatever you want so fast your head will spin, so get out of the way.

So you’ve followed the steps. You’ve identified your want/need. You’ve selected the designated guy. You’ve shared with him in detail your heart’s desire. You’re ready for the Magic Words. The words have been uttered successfully so many times that they’ve become known as the Promise. What we do is -- One or more of us will visit the guy and make the pitch: “And if you will do this one little old thing for us, we promise that” – and here’s what clinches the deal, the True Magic Words – “we will give you a blow job.”

Then we shut up. A traditional moment of silence always immediately follows the Magic Words. Men are slow regarding women The silence allows for lag time. Men’s brains are migratory & are usually located in their summer home,  south. The silence is palpable. The man is transported. When breathing is restored, it is almost always mouth breathing.

Do not, under any circumstances, utter another word after the True Magic Words have been spoken. Any sales manual will tell you that – once you have made your offer, the next one who speaks loses. And trust me, he will speak. OK, maybe he won’t actually speak. There may not be time. He may have just launched himself out the nearest window in his rush to comply with your wishes. But the result is the same.

And now, let me hasten to explain to you, as you will to him: There is a vast difference between the promise of something and the receipt thereof. What he has received is the Promise. But its no trouble at all to help him see that, even with only the Promise, he is miles ahead of where he was without it. He is actually in the ballpark now. It could happen. It won’t, never has, but it doesn’t matter. Men just love to hear you say the words.

The Five Men You Must Have in Your Life at All Times

There are five men you must endeavor to have in your life at all times in order to have the equivalent of one completely satisfactory man. It is clearly not possible to find all the required attributes in one single man, and you should not expend needles energy by even looking for him. You'd be damn lucky to find the five separate men. Once in a blue moon, you might come across a man who has one and a half or even two. Finding and maintaining convivial relationships with five very different men, all at the same time, in order to have one's basic needs met -- it will not be easy. But it's at least possible. Trying to live one's entire life without, say, dancing just because your man doesn't like to dance -- well, you might be able to manage, but is this really something you want to spend the next fifty years doing, or in this case, not doing?

The Basic Five are these -- 1. a man who can fix things; 2. a man you can dance with; 3. a man who can pay for things; 4. a man you can talk to; and 5. a man to have great sex with. This is the rudimentary team you need to form. Certainly other functions can be added to suit your more refined tastes, but with this starting lineup, you can at least avoid abject misery.

Oh, the allure of a Man Who Can Fix Things. Is there anything more appealing? Well, yes, I suppose there is, but you won't be able to think of it when the toilet is overflowing. When you've got a flat tire, or your bedroom doorknob falls off in your hand, or your new stereo is delivered in its various unconnected parts -- then the Man Who Can Fix Things will be the hottest fellow you've ever seen in your life. You will breathe harder when he gets the toolbox out of his trunk. He is your dream boy. But you know, once the pieces are assembled and the wires are connected and the music is playing on your new stereo and you realize that he claps on one and two, Handy Andy's out. It's time for a Man You Can Dance With. Dancing Jones comes to your side, and the two of you dance a hole in your shoes. But now you're hungry. Twinkle Toes would love to take you out to dinner, but he left his buy-one-get-one-free coupon at home, so you either have to pay or cook. You'll have a lot more choices with the Man Who Can Pay for Things.

There are plenty of compliments we could pay The Man Who Can Pay for Things, but by far and away the best one is that he can pay for things. And he will. Loves to. It's what he lives for; so for Goddess' sake, humor him. Order everything on the menu, and he will smile indulgently. I don't know about you, but being smiled at indulgently is just way up there on my list of favorite stuff. Finding a Man Who Can Pay for Things and who will do so while smiling indulgently might tempt a girl to overlook the other four categories. This could prove to be disastrous.

Money is fine, but it does not a life make. If you say to this man, for instance, "Here's something!," meaning of course, "Listen to this!" and his initial response is "Where?" -- you've got a problem. If you say to this man in exasperation, "I ain't takin' you to raise!" and he says, "Where's Ray's?" -- he is a dullard of the first order and in grave danger of screwing up sack lunches, should any be in order. You cannot talk to the man, and you must have a Man You Can Talk To. One who will understand things without exhaustive explanations. High dramas cannot be played out with someone who always misses not only his cues but the punch line, too.

The Man You Can Talk To must be able to fully grasp the meaning of loyalty. Here's what is wanted: You call him and tell him you hate Joe, his best friend since the first grade and your lover. The only acceptable response from him is "I hate him too. I hope he dies." He should not ask any questions -- it is not necessary that he know why you hate Joe, only that you do. He should simply fall in line. Any embroidery he adds at this juncture about how much he hates Joe and how long he's hated him, while only pretending to like him for your sake, would be welcomed. If, for reasons best known to yourself, you find that five minutes later in the same conversation, you suddenly decide that Joe is, after all, the apple of your very eye, your darlin sugar lump, he should immediately, without hesitation or questions, say, "Joe is my very best friends, has been since the firs5t grade, I love him like a brother, and seeing the two of you so happy together just tickles me to no end." Now, if you should decide after another brief interval that you were right in your first estima6tion of Joe -- he's a lyin, cheatin, sack of shit -- this man should not even mess a beat. "Hot-damn! I hate that guy!" should be his snappy rejoinder. He should be prepared to do this repeatedly and without end. This is the true test of loyalty. He should acknowledge, willingly and without prompting, that yours is the only dog in this hunt.

Now, let me see -- what do we need now? By and by, I expect we'll be wanting to have sex and plenty of it. And that is something that is surely hard to find -- the "plenty of it" part. A congenial partner for sex is highly desirable, and although many partners may theoretically be available, don't kid yourself, missy. Mr. Congeniality is not likely to be waiting around every corner. No, Ma'am. Finding him will probably involve more looking than finding. But suppose after exhaustive not to mention exhausting research, you do find him -- whose glance starts the smolder, whose touch sets off the towering inferno. Now, what do you reckon the odds are that he's also a plumber, a fabulous dance, or a really rich guy with an uncanny knack for conversation and excellent listening skills?

So as you can see, five is the absolute minimum number of men you can make do with. The great news is that four out of the five can be gay! As a matter of fact, it would be a plus if they were gay. Because then they'll not only carry out the functions of their position extremely well, you can also get fashion and makeup tips. Gary men are fabulous, perfect for us in every  way except one; but you have to be careful not to fall in love with them because there is just no changing their minds on that score. Believe me, if it could be done, I would have done it.

"Bless his (or her) heart" is a remarkable Southern device that enables us to say the very worst things possible about another human being while, at the same time, distancing ourselves from the meanness and leaving the hearer with a final note of our own sweetness. As in: He's just a worthless, deadbeat, lying cheating sock of shit, and he's going bald, too, bless his heart. Heart blessing has another very useful function, according to exhuastive, not to mention exhausting, research. I swear it can be used as a universal response to anything a guy is whining about in which you are totally disinterested -- if you are, in fact, even listening to him whine about it. Whenever he pauses for your sympathetic response, just lean in toward him, pat his arm a little bit, sort of frown in a concerned way, and say, "Bless your heart," and like magic, its all better.  

Never Wear Panties to a Party – This rule evolved quite by accident when I was severely pregnant. My erstwhile husband came in the room where I was struggling to clothe my behemoth body for some festive occasion. I had somehow managed to stuff myself, sausagelike, into a very tight casing of maternity pantyhose. Those and one of those gigantic bras, the cups of which would fit on my head, were all I happened to have on at that moment. What a vision.

The truth was, I had long since outgrown anything resembling what you would normally call panties. What I could fit in at this point looked more like pillowcases. I had to hide them from my husband; whenever he would find a pair of them, he would throw them away. I knew what he was thinking: If he could just get rid of all the big ones, I’d be forced to buy new – and small and sexy – undies.

But anyway, I wasn’t wearing any panties of any kind in order to avoid that pesky visible panty line. Now, why on earth I thought anybody would be looking at my butt – well, pregnant women are not always rational. Anyway, my husband walked in and was surprised I wasn’t wearing anything under my pantyhose: “You’re not wearing any panties?” I didn’t hesitate, nor did I even look up at him. I just said, real offhand, “Oh, you never wear panties to a party,” and kept on doing whatever. He just stood there, slack-jawed, for a full thirty seconds, considering the implications, I suppose. I had moved on, forgotten about it, and he was still standing there, gaping, “You don’t? Nobody does?” “Nobody does what?” I asked him. “Panties to a party – doesn’t anybody wear ‘em?” He was looking sort of dreamy and clearly thought he was being let in on some big secret of all womankind: that every party he’d ever been to or would ever go to – there’s wasn’t a pair of panties in the room – and he was the only guy who knew.

He was so highly entertained at the prospect, my friends tried it on some other husbands and fiancés with comparable results. So we made it a rule: Never wear panties to a party. But there’s no point in not wearing panties if nobody knows you’re not wearing panties, so be sure to tell someone. You will know instinctively with whom to share this information.

Good Vibrations – The vibrator was invented in the nineteenth century – in America, of course – by doctors who were treating “female disorders.” Genital massage was standard medical practice at the time, to induce what they called “hysterical paroxysm.” We like to call it “orgasm” today. The vibrator was invented to be a labor saving device for doctors! And quite the little time saver, too, I suspect. You got twenty women in the waiting room who want to get off before you can play golf – you gotta come up with a better way. We were not in the least surprised to hear that men were in too big a hurry to fool with us, even in that slower era. That one of the greatest boons to womankind was actually invented to make life easier for men is OK by us. It didn’t take long for this handy-dandy new apparatus to show up for sale in women’s mags and mail-order catalogs. It was touted as a cure-all for headaches, asthma, fading beauty, and tuberculosis. We would like to offer our personal testimony as to the efficacy of these happy little machines. Our headaches are gone, our asthma cleared up, our beauty actually needs to fade a bit 6to make if safer for us to go out in public, and not one of us has ever had TB.

On Barbie’s Dream House:  All men want Barbie. It’s easy to see why – I mean, her feet won’t even go flat. She wears spike heels, more commonly known as fuck-me-pumps, all the time. Even if she has on tennis shoes, Barbie’s feet are standing on tiptoes inside the tennis shoes. Show me the man who claims to be unmoved by the sight of a woman in high heeled shoes and I’ll how you a liar – and a fool, too, if he thinks anybody believes him.

Look at Barbie’s body. No, really look at it. Notice that impossibly fabulous shape. Then become aware that it is only a shape – she has no actual body parts that could possibly require outside attention. She cannot hear, see, feel, or, best of all, speak. Another big plus is that permanent pleasant expression on her face. Alas, even Barbie has a drawback. You’ll notice that Barbie, perfect as she is, could not perform a blow job on a bet.

And so here is the universal men’s fantasy: He is sitting – make that lying – on the couch, watching sports on the biggest big screen TV ever made. You are in the kitchen, wearing an outfit that barely covers you and high heels, while cooking obscene amounts of extremely fattening food for him. You serve this food, along with buckets of beer, in the TV room. You bend over a lot in your little outfit. When all the food and all the beer is gone, you give him a blow job. He falls asleep, and while he is sleeping, you clean up the house and iron all his clothes, including his underwear, and then you leave. You have performed all of this without ever uttering a word. You appear, unbidden, as if by sorcery, on a regular basis to perform this little ritual. His level of participation is strictly that of happy, passive recipient. This is what is known as Barbie’s Dream House 

Men get all pissed off if you accuse them of wanting Barbie. This is only because they can tell from your tone of voice that you perceive this to be a negative character trait in them. They haven’t the foggiest idea why this would be a negative character trait – I mean, we’re talking Barbie here, what’s not to like? Right? But you are frowning when you say it and looking at him like he just crawled out from under a rock, so he instinctively knows that this is a bad thing, and his knee-jerk reaction is to deny, deny, deny.

Food Manners in the South -- In the South, we're big feeders. People come to your house, and you trot out more food just for lunch than they and all their kind can possibly eat in a month -- all in the name of hospitality. The guest is expected to rave endlesly about the quantity and, of course, the quality of this feast. The hostess is expected to disparage the whole thing as absolutely pitiful: It was all she had time to prepare, and not even close to what all she would have prepared if she'd had an ounce of human decency and another thirty minutes or so. This little dance should be repeated frequently throughout the duration of the visit.

My grandfather was once the guest of the most acclaimed hostess in the South. You could drop by her house at any hour of the day or night with a bus full of people, with no notice whatsoever, and she would lay out a spread that would feed and significantly raise the cholesterol level of the entire county. The table groand with the sheer weight of all the food she ahd prepared for my grandfather, and so as to be polite and not hurt her feelings, he dutifully sampled all of it, in no small way. He at eand he ate and he ate. She waited graciously for him to begin the praise cycle. He never did. He just kept on eating. She waited as patiently as she could, and still he said nothing. The whole rhythm of the meal was being thrown off.

She tentatively began to make brief unsolicited sallies into the denial/disparage/denigrate cycle of the thing. "The beans were a little mush, I thought. And the biscuits were hard, weren't they? I just dried that chicken out. I'm always so afraid it'll be red at the bone, I just overdo it. I never could fry chicken like my mama." He would dutifully refute all her unwarranted and untrue statements as just that, but he would not follow up with the culturally appropriate and desperately sought hymns of praise for her food. She grew more distraught by the minute until finally she could stand it no more and she broke the cardinal rule of Southern hospitality: She just flat out asked him if he liked the food. Being entirely cognizant the whole time of her horrendous discomfiture, he leaned back -- back being the only direction he could lean, so engorged was his belly -- gazed about the table at the ruins of the feast, and said, "Well, yes, it was pretty good -- (long dramatic pause) -- what there was of it." Knowing at last that she'd been had, she began beating him about the head and body with a wooden sppon.

This saying, "It was pretty good -- what there was of it," because the accepted code in the South for the highest possible praise for a meal.

Boyfriends and Fiances

Definitions:

Boyfriend -- any and all heterosexual male persons who buy you dinner, take you to movies and plays and museums and sports events. We do not have physical contact of any kind with a "boyfriend."

Fiance -- any and all hetersexual male persons with whom you are currently having sex. Fiance status does not have any bearing, real or implied, on the ultimate future, if any, of the relationship. Fiances must be in constant complaince with both the Four Hour Rule and the Twenty-Four Hour Rule.

Never -- does not really mean "not ever." It doesn't even mean "hardly ever." What it actually means is "whenever you feel like it, for whatever reason." The man of your choice should never be able to predict when the tide will turn in his favor.

So let's just say, for the sake of discussion, you have been particular and selected a guy. And let's just say that, for reasons best known to yourself, you have decided at this particular time and space to have sex with him, or at least to allow him to have sex with you. He's your fiance. Two rules apply.

Four Hour Rule -- This means that before you make him the happiest man in the world and cause the earth to move beneath him and the blood to drain from his ears, he must spend at least four hours demonstrating to you exactly how overwhelmed he is at the prospect. This should include rafts of compliments about everything from your eyes/face/hair/outfit and legs to the unbearable sweetness of your disposition. There should also be gifts and refreshments.

Twenty-four Hour Rule -- Assuming that he has complied suitably with the Four Hour Rule and you did, in fact, participate on some level -- any level at all -- in some sexual act with him, then it is absolutely mandatory that he be in full complaince with the Twenty-Four Hour Rule. This Rule state flatly that within (WELL within if he has any sense and/or any hope for the future) 24 hours following said act of sex, he must telephone to repeat all of the pre-sex compliments that he paid you regarding everything from your eyes/face/hair/outfit and legs to the unbearable sweetness of your disposition. Plus, he should have thought up at least 15 minutes' worth of new and additional compliments about the act itself. These compliments should contain glowing references to the smallest efforts you might have made on his behalf. Graphic compliments regarding specific body parts not included in the previous listing are also mnice. As a general rule, he should keep in mind that women prefer that some body parts be praised for their amplitude, while others should be lauded for being the tiniest thing he ever saw.

The Four Hour Rule can certainly be waived at your complete discretion. I f you've decided that he deserves a random acto of kindness from the universe -- or more important, that you do -- and you greet him at the door wearing nothing but your biggest smile, that is certainly acceptable. But it does not exempt him from the Twenty-Four Hour Rule. There are virtually no exemptions from this momentous decree. Only death or prolonged coma are even condisered. Failure to comply must result in his being cast into outer darkness for an extended period to time. Should you eventually decide, in your boundless mercy, to allow him to emerge from darkness and resume his place in your life, he should find that the Four-Hour Rule has been extended somewhat so he has ample opprotunity to reassert his worthiness.

Just remember, as women, we are just like ice -- they ain't no substitute, honey.

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Funeral Food -- the Brighter Side of Death

When someone dies in the South, it's not altogether tragic. We always like to think that death has its advantages for the departed on -- journey's end, sweet chariots, unbroken circles, and all that. For everyone left behind after the untimely passing, there's the unmistakable comfort of funeral food. When there's a death in a Southern town, everybody who has ever known anybody in the family has to take food to the home of the bereaved. It is practically a law.

Even the most anguished, devoted family member can find some shred of consolation in funeral food. If there's a balm in Gilead, I'd be willing to bet it's made with cream of mushroom soup, Velveeta, or Cool Whip. Nearly all funeral food contains at least one of these staples. I don't care how fancy a gourmet cook you might think you are -- you may not even allow Velveeta in your own personal kitchen -- but I've yet to meet the palate too sophisticated for funeral food. In fact, I've observed that the snootier they are, the higher they pile those plates up. Everybody loves funeral food; its a universal truth, and this is easy to explain. There's hardly anything quite as soothing as a warm casserole -- especially a warm casserole that someone else made. That is, after all, one of the primary qualifications for good food: Someone else prepared it.