Article: 20110501049

Title: THE EX FACTOR

20110501049
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THE EX FACTOR
0032-1478
Playboy
HMH Publishing Co., Inc.
Article
Women
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article
Lisa Lampanelli
26

O

n my very first telephone call with Jimmy, I couldn't believe how much we had in common.

1 like water.

"Me too!"

"How do you like yours?"

"Wet."

"So do I!"

My head was spinning! H,,Oh my God! How could two people who

had been alive and living miles apart for 48 years feel exactly the same way about so many things?

Before I knew it, I was so caught up in our Mutual Agreement So­ciety that I found myself saying, "You think it's normal to be friends with everyone you've dated since the eighth grade? / do loo!"

I swear to God I meant it at the time.

A month later I was scream­ing at Jimmy, "You tell those | fucking cunts you're never " talking to them again!"

Well, at least we still agreed on the water.

Allow me to explain. My husband, Jimmy, was—and still is—the nicest guy on the planet. Seriously, he makes Gandhi look like Muammar el-Qaddafi. Compared with him, Dr. Oz is a real dick. Most of his breakups have been civilized, and he used to maintain platonic friendships with people he'd dated. My breakups, on the other hand, have had all the subtlety of a rape whis­tle and the affability and grace of a UFC cage match. Each angry, tearful break­up has been punctuated with shouts of "stretched-out whore" and "worthless

piece of shit." And the things my exes called me were even worse. I had a strict no-contact rule, though I always found it fun to leave a note on a former beau's car alluding to the fact that his brakes might not work.

When Jimmy had pleasant, innocent conversations with women he used to be involved with, I would seethe, and it was only a matter of time before the inevitable explosion. I simply couldn't believe Jimmy thought it was cool for people to have friends who used to be in each others' low places.

Now, I've been lucky. Back in the 1990s it was easy to cut off someone whose only means of contact was a beeper. These days, with more options in technology, it's almost impossible to get rid of your ex. For example, if your ex happens to be a bitter, angry, alcoholic anti-Semite, he can leave dozens of disturbing voice-mail messages, threatening to have you killed and planted in a rose garden before hanging up to go film a scene for Lethal Weapon 12. But years ago, once I cut someone out of my life, I was harder to find than a good Jennifer Aniston movie.

In my experience most people—and by "people" I mean insecure, easily threatened types like me—think it's inappro­priate to keep in touch with an ex. Once the relationship is over, former lovers should be cut off and never seen again—

like James Franco's arm or Andy Dick's dignity.

I say that once the

dust has settled, get

all your stuff back—

and be gone. Gather

every item you leu at her place, especially the really embarrassing shit. I'm talking about the truly humiliating stuff, like your skid-marked leopard-print bikini briefs, your Chili's Employee of the Month badge and your autographed copy of the Situation's rap CD. When you have a new hottie over, there's

nothing worse than your ex stopping by to drop off the industrial-size jug of lube you left at her place.

Some people hem and haw over the decision to

^ stay friends. They say it

depends on how long you dated, how traumatic the break­up was and how many STDs she jave you. Some call these people well-jalanced and reasonable individuals.

l call tnem idiots, simply put, Keep­ing in touch with exes—much like marrying Joe Francis—is a bad idea. If you hang out post-relationship, you need to find an activity you enjoy together that doesn't involve jizz—• like the Yankees or the opera—and that just takes too much effort. Plus, I don't want to hang around anyone my current lover has banged. It feels creepy—though you can save a for­tune by sharing herpes medication. And I certainly don't want to be in the same room with a new beau and some­one else who's slept with me, mostly

because I'm afraid they'll start a support group and try to quit. That's all I need: a bunch of losers sitting in a circle, drinking coffee and telling stories about the last time they bruised my uterus. Hell, I won't keep in touch with anyone who's witnessed me fart, much less someone who's splat­tered his grandkids on me.

Seriously, why would you possibly want to see your ex? Either the two of you didn't get along or she dumped you for someone who was better looking or richer or both. If that's the case, why should you hang out with the shallow bitch? That would be like eating at a restaurant that fired you. Why give them the extra business when it would be much more fun to spread rumors that they masturbate in the soup?

Lucky for me, Jimmy understands my feelings and doesn't talk to anyone who has seen his penis, except for me, his mom and Ryan Seacrest (long story). And we're a better couple be­cause of it. I feel secure that he's not waxing nostalgic with some whore he fingered in a planetarium in the sixth grade, and he's got more free time to focus on the important things in life, like massaging my feet and making sure the DVR is set for The Real Housewives of Miami.

Oh, and just so you know, housewives, he's not allowed to make friends with you bitches either.

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