Mom, I know this column has my name on the top, but this isn't one of my normal sports columns, so please stop reading. Seriously.

With that out of the way I'd like to use the rest of my one-time gig as the "Sex on Tuesday" columnist to at once empower men and educate all of the ladies out there. I thought it would be a lot easier to type out these next words, but I'm having trouble doing it. Who knows­-I could be changing the course of history if I write the wron-HAND JOBS SUCK! There, I said it. I just took one for the team saying the three words that have been pent up inside mankind ever since Eve started doing the dirty with Adam.

Allow me to write about a personal hand job experience. I made eye contact with a girl-fast forward-she grasps my member and starts giving it a rub down. After wincing in pain, I miraculously find a Costco-size tub of Vaseline next to my bed that she uses to get some slip 'n slide action going. Three minutes later, I'm all dry and she needs to lube me up again. Four minutes go by with some more wincing and she says "finish it off," because well, unlike men, women don't give hand jobs several times a week. It would be like Shaun Livingston pumping out a superset of squats-some things just can't happen.

Right now you're probably thinking, "Whoa, Mustafa just blew my mind, I've had that same exact experience … who is Shaun Livingston?"

I'm going to clue you in on a secret: That's how 98 percent of hand jobs have gone since the invention of butter-before butter, I can't even imagine the amount of chafing guys used to experience (think Goldmember).

I had a conversation concerning this issue with a buddy of mine-a.k.a. the Commandator-and we came to the conclusion that we would have to be paid to receive a hand job. Heck, personally I would consider accepting a job as a fluffer on a porno starring Jonah Falcon over taking a wank (definitely worthy of an uncensored Google image search). Now don't get me wrong here, I'm down with a hand job being the opening number before moving on to the meat of the performance, but a la carte? Thanks, but no thanks.

(In case you're wondering, yes, I have actually turned down a hand job. I said politely that it feels like my cheese is being grated and I would love a blow job, the entire pie or even just sticking with lip-action and a side of motorboating.)

Now all of this banter is helpful to the one-night stand crew, but what about my brothers who are locked down with girlfriends who are just not ready to move beyond "the-sexual-act-that-must-not-be-named?" Well, this next part is dedicated to all of those

guys.

Imagine a NFL team with a solid veteran quarterback-your hand-who has led his team to multiple winning seasons with a few playoff appearances. Next year's draft rolls around and the team decides to take a hotshot college QB fresh off a Heisman campaign-your girlfriend. By week seven, the rookie QB is named the starter and after winning his first game in overtime, he starts to stink up the place-shitty hand jobs.

And now this is where the important decision arises. You have the option to a) stick through the rough patches with the rookie or b) bring back the veteran until the rookie is ready to take the next step-blow jobs or, hopefully, going all the way.

My advice: Put the rookie on the bench for a while until he's fully ready to lead his team to the promised land. Eight years from now people might look back at this article and view it as some constipated way of writing about the projected career arc of Vince Young.

At the end of the day, the only hand that can do the trick is one's own-for whatever reason, a man's hand is perfectly crafted to fit his penis. The Cher to the Sonny. The waffles to the syrup to the fried chicken. The Harry Potter to the holly and phoenix feather wand.

In fact, prior to thinking about how perfectly matched up these two body parts are, I was a devout atheist. Now at the very least I'll entertain the existence of a higher being-how else would you explain the coincidence? I'm amazed that some creationist hasn't picked up on this argument.

(On a scale of one to 10 how funny would it be if this column was my subconscious reaching out in a desperate attempt to talk girls into giving me hand jobs. A nine? Come on, an eight at the very least.)

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