I like dogs, but it’s hard to respect them. They’re the insecure sluts of the animal kingdom.

Dogs have zero dignity, always shamelessly flaunting their furry little bodies in the hopes of receiving even an ounce of physical attention. Give a dog a shred of affection and he’ll love you forever. Abuse him, he’ll come back for more. It would be endearing if only it weren’t so sad. Also, dogs are dirty.

Cats, on the other hand, are like those abstinance-touting promise-ring girls from high school. They’re meticulously groomed, they won’t stand for any heavy petting unless they feel like you’ve earned it, and they have to be in the mood.

What we need is a hybrid: a Dat, or maybe a Cog. An animal that will surrender the lovin’ when you need it, but doesn’t go whoring himself out to every guy with a milkbone.

I don’t think this is too much to ask. I want a pet that has a sense of self respect, but isn’t too cool to sit on command. One that will play a mean game of fetch but won’t chase his tail in circles like a retard.

Once again, biotech industry, you need to get on that. I’m offering these ideas free of charge…you could be raking it in by now.

Dats and Cogs: the ultimate holiday stocking stuffers.

Married people always get fat. It’s the majestic cycle of life: meet that special someone, exchange vows, swell up like a big sweaty blowfish.

You can determine how long two people have been married by comparing their current waistlines to the waistlines they sported in their wedding photos. Each five pounds is like a tree ring, marking another year of TV dinners, Hamburger Helper, and Chinese takeout.

Not that I blame them. What’s the incentive to stay skinny once you’re married? Who are you trying to impress?

Staying in shape is a single person’s game. And I’ll admit, it’s a legitimate pain in the ass. Maintaining a six pack is basically a full-time job…one that I intend to quit immediately if I ever submit to a ring. I’m the ultimate bait and switch. Do you really think I’ll be rocking washboard abs after a year of marriage, future wife? Please. Why bother? The moment you say “I do” you’re legally obligated to stay with me or I’ll take half your stuff. Now meet me at Mickey Dees.

Except…not so fast. Now that I think of it, divorce is a consideration. Dammit. What’s worse than being a fat married person? Being a fat divorcee. No bueno.

Foiled again.

Fine. I’ll stay in shape after marriage, but only out of spite and distrust.

Listen up, dentist. Quit with the guilt trips. Do you not understand basic economics?

I brush twice daily and floss at night, but if I didn’t have a weakness for Sour Skittles, you’d be out of a job. My sugar addiction is bankrolling your practice. If you were smart you’d be sending me home with hard candy and lemons instead of that cheap disposable toothbrush.

Now shut the hell up and commence with drilling.

Karma is like God—I want to believe it exists, but there’s just too much evidence to the contrary.

Exhibit A: good people. I surround myself with folk who are sweet and friendly and kind, because hanging out with bastards gets old. And these amazing friends of mine have, almost without exception, shitty luck.

I’ve never witnessed a verifiable example of karma. Instead, I’ve watched assholes like Steve Jobs get rich and survive cancer. Whatever the opposite of karma is, that’s what I’ve seen. Anti-karma.

Michael Vick. Kim Jong il. Paris Hilton. OJ Simpson. Near as I can tell, there’s often a directly proportional relationship between how awful someone is inside and how generously they’re rewarded in life. The opposite, unfortunately, does not seem to hold true.

My roommate is a perfect example. Despite being a genuinely well-meaning person, the guy has rotten luck. I get nervous every time he steps outdoors. He’s like Wile E. Coyote, without the homicidal roadrunner-obsession. If anyone is ever going to die via airborne piano, my roommate is that guy.

When I first considered moving in with him, I wondered whether I was setting myself up for disaster. Could bad luck be contagious? As it turns out, nope. Which brings me to…

Exhibit B: me.

I don’t deserve approximately 90% of the good stuff in my life. (This is an optimistic figure. It may be that I actually deserve zero percent of the good stuff, but I’m generous enough to give myself the benefit of the doubt. Wait—generosity is a positive quality. See? I’m not all bad.)

Even though I have a tendency to be a right bastard, my life is peachy. I’m actually beginning to wonder if, via some horrible cosmic mixup, my bad karma is being inflicted on my roommate. Could it be that as I go bumbling through life, leaving a path of destruction in my wake, my roommate plays whipping boy to my spoiled rich kid?

Every time the universe kicks my roommate’s metaphorical ass, I think back on the last year of my life and wince. With each new car accident, broken heart, twisted ankle, pulled muscle, and unexplained medical condition he suffers, I can pinpoint a correspondingly stupid and/or terrible thing I’ve done that potentially resulted in his misplaced physical or mental anguish.

Maybe it’s just a matter of time. It could be the case that the universe achieves equilibrium only in the long term. If there’s an afterlife, I’m supremely fucked. But until then, it seems to be my destiny to keep riding this swell of undeserved luck.

And my roommate will just have to stay on the lookout for falling anvils.

Most people are annoyed by emoticons. Not me. I find them fascinating.

Emoticons are shortcuts for language, and as a self-acknowledged lazy bastard, I’m all about the shortcuts. I love that it’s possible to express complex ideas with what’s essentially a notepad-doodle. Communication via cartoon. Brilliant.

But let’s be honest: the smiley-face is played. The world is ready to move above and beyond the standard cutesy emoticon set.

I want an emoticon that implies threats of violence and contains undercurrents of impotent rage. I want the ability to express seething sexual frustration with a couple strategic keystrokes. I want to send conflicting messages via emoticon. I don’t just want to send an Angry Face, I want to send a face that says, “I’m angry, but I’m also perplexed by your behavior and not entirely sure my anger is justified.”

Why aren’t the combined resources of corporate America dedicated to this cause? Come on, Google. Hook me up with an emoticon that will break up with a girlfriend for me. One that says, “I’m sorry I suck at commitment but you’ll be better off without me.” There must be a rudimentary stick figure that can convey this message.