Cheer up, guys. Indeed, those resolutions you made only a few weeks ago are, of course, already shattered; nonetheless, not all is lost. You’re in good company. As any proud representative of The Lone Star State will attest, there are always a few resolutions that no self-respecting Texan would ever allow himself make in the first place:
For starters, no Texan will ever give up sweet tea. Never! It’s nutritionally impossible for abstinence to triumph over a dozen Luzianne tea bags steeped in a kettle’s worth of boiling water and a cup of granulated Domino sugar poured over a pitcher of crushed ice.
Similarly, no Texan will ever replace their generationally-inherited, black cast iron skillets primed of bacon grease for air fryers; moreover, no Texan — even at the expense of missing Maw Maw’s funeral — will forsake a nationally-televised Texas college football game. Nor will you ever catch a Texan swearing off Bluebell ice cream, Little Debbie or Dickey’s barbecue.
And, lastly, no Texan ever moves up north willingly.
There now, folks. Feeling better? Alrighty, then. Let’s just get all sleazy rider and puppies piddling on the floor right to it, shall we?
Dear Howard: I think I’ve fallen way behind the times regarding what’s considered ‘de rigueur’ in the sack these days. I’ve only just begun dating again — following the loss of my longtime partner a year ago. Back in our prehistoric era (the ’90s), casual pickups only mandated a bought draft and a smile from an improper stranger. But with these gonzo dudes today — jeez! It’s like you don’t even dare head out your door without a fully stocked dungeon in a duffle!
Howard, what are the most popular adult novelties trending for 2026? — ScrewU12
Dear Foot-Long Phucker: As I noted in my September column, Creature Cocks are every fashionista-dungeon’s latest lure in the name of de rigueur. Jules Verne himself could never have imagined such lustfully grotesque sea monsters as today’s innovative mythology on the common dildo.
Phthalate-free. Premium silicone. Strong suction base. Firm and flexible. Tapered for easier insertion: “Rising from the dark sea, right out of your fantasies, this long tentacle is ready to go deep inside your hole. Let Tenta-Dick penetrate your depths.”
Exploding onto the scene seemingly overnight, alien-esque phalluses — formerly occupying all the showcase space of some niche-market, fetish curiosity buried in the bottom bin at your local smut emporium — have suddenly rocketed to the top-seller pinnacle of the feel-good pile: If it wriggles, thrusts, trembles or rotates, stick it in . . . deep! Harder! Dial it up — I want juice!
We’re talking about a market that generates more pure profit than Exxon. How much overhead, after all, actually goes into producing a silicone schlong over, say, a gallon of gasoline? Both are waste products gleaned from 300 million-year-old pumped gunk, courtesy of compressed vegetation from the Carboniferous Era.
The latest craze in bedroom gizmos is anything that requires batteries, a handy electrical outlet, or cell phone charger — from motorized perineum stimulation with speed settings (slow wave to earthquake) to prostrate massagers, electrified anal wands, textured masturbation sleeves and ribbed strokers with temperature settings.
People, if your hoochie-coochie G-spot ain’t pulsating with near grand mal convulsions, then I hear the Carter administration calling your name: They want their Spanish Fly back.
Dear Howard: This past summer, my husband and I purchased a condo in a Turtle Creek high rise. On one of our first elevator rides, we met a dazzlingly fashionable and charismatic man who, within moments, swept us into his stunning, art-filled home for an impromptu tour. It was one of those generous, spontaneous acts of neighborly kindness that made us think, “We’re going to love it here.”
During our brief visit, to our absolute horror, one of our dogs decided to express his appreciation to the man’s hospitality by peeing on his living room floor. We were mortified.
Our host didn’t so much as flinch. He was calm, gracious, even a little fabulous about it.
Now, months later, we still haven’t run into him again. Every time I walk into the lobby, or step onto the elevator, I wonder if today will be the day, and if he’ll clutch his gorgeous throw pillows in fear of another visit. Do I bring it up if I see him? Do I let it go, since he seemed to do so? Do I send a bottle of wine with an apology note at this late date? A candle labeled “Eau de Chihuahua”? Or do I just pretend it never happened and pray my frantic cleanup was good enough? — Mortified (and Possibly Banned) Dog Mom Neighbor
Dear Neighborly Mortified: A caveat to keep in mind, when experiencing a sudden encounter with tunnel vision, is that myopia tends to lend itself (in my judgment) toward being a double-edged sword: On the one hand, during emergency or crisis situations, constricted blinders permit laser-beam focus on matters requiring of such exigency; on the other hand, much ado about nothing can easily become monomania’s Achilles’ heel.
You describe your neighbor as being charismatic, spontaneously generous and gracious.
Perhaps he didn’t flinch over your chihuahua’s booboo simply because he, too, is a fellow pet owner and knows these things just happen when in the presence of the living? Never worry yourself into a dither over nonexistent problems. When, eventually, you run into the man again, simply say hello. From his POV, I’m sure your pet’s nervous bladder is a matter he’s never given a second thought.
For the fabulous, one should simply take heart in knowing that anything involving just day-to-day living merely rolls off their shoulders, with mirth. You’re going to love it here!
Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Elbow grease, anybody?
— Howard Lewis Russell
February, bleak & dreary, is just around the snowbank, kidz. Send your sunniest dispositions to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.