If one more of my friends asks me that about their new girlfriends, I may actually have to tell them the truth. I've had three friends ask me to tell them how attractive their girlfriends are in the last 10 days, not to mention the countless times it's happened over the years. They've shown me their pictures on their iPhones, blackberries, or some other device I don't own because they didn't give it away for free when I signed up for the service. I know I should just smile, lie, and enthusiastically say, "Yeah, dude, she's cu-u-u-ute! Good going," and then smack them on the back as the final seal of approval. Instead I look at the picture and say something like, "Yeah, um...she's cute," and then I try and change the subject with something like, "Did she go to school with us? She looks familiar." The bright ones get that I'm uncomfortable with the subject matter and drop it, but the more insecure friends need the validation. "But you think she's cute, right?," they'll persist, not recognizing when a person is trying desperately to spare their fragile egos.
Maybe they're just showing me bad pictures, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to lie when a friend thinks he's dating Alyssa Milano when the only thing Milano-esque about her is the fact that she's clearly been eating too many Pepperidge Farm cookies.
Women don't seem to need that type of validation. If they're into a guy, they're usually into him regardless of what their friends may think. The validation they seek is of their own value to the guys they're currently dating. The female equivalent of "You think she's cute, right?" is "Does my ass look fat in these jeans?" And I'm way more comfortable lying about the ass of a girl I'm dating than I am about the face of a friend's girlfriend.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Grandma's Got The Clap
No, not mine. But someone's does.
The Huffington Post reports that STDs are on the rise for the older generation, and from the picture they posted (see below), this grandma is none too pleased about it. The guy she apparently got it from doesn't seem too upset, though. Kinda looks like he's just chilling, watching the Met game - unfazed by the prospect of painful urination and unsightly discharges from places where discharges should not be unsightly. And this guy looks like he's already got enough unsightliness going on under those JC Penney boxer shorts without the gonorrhea.
I'm guessing from the looks of things that these two may not work this out, so if you're out there on Elderdate.com, or SeniorMatch, or GeritolConnection, steer clear of this diseased duo unless you see a test result, or an empty bottle of antibiotics in their medicine cabinets.
The Huffington Post reports that STDs are on the rise for the older generation, and from the picture they posted (see below), this grandma is none too pleased about it. The guy she apparently got it from doesn't seem too upset, though. Kinda looks like he's just chilling, watching the Met game - unfazed by the prospect of painful urination and unsightly discharges from places where discharges should not be unsightly. And this guy looks like he's already got enough unsightliness going on under those JC Penney boxer shorts without the gonorrhea.
I'm guessing from the looks of things that these two may not work this out, so if you're out there on Elderdate.com, or SeniorMatch, or GeritolConnection, steer clear of this diseased duo unless you see a test result, or an empty bottle of antibiotics in their medicine cabinets.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Saving Schwartz
"Why did King Solomon have a thousand wives? So when he came home from work he'd at least find one in a good mood."
- Isaac Bashevis Singer
There are cool wives and not so cool wives. I have friends with the former and others with the latter. The former I really like. The latter make me want to sneak up on their husbands, knock them out with chloroform, and drive them to a divorce lawyer in Mexico. It's painful watching a friend get berated by his wife at a 4th of July barbecue in front of an audience of twenty because he forgot the hot dog buns. I so wanted to save Silverman, or in this case, Schwartz.
"Who the hell did this broad think she was?," I thought, as she scowled at my friend, gritted her teeth, and commanded him to "Go to the store NOW, and get those goddamn buns!" He wasn't pleased either, but he isn't the kind of guy who makes a scene. He simply made a face that expressed frustration and extreme humiliation, and said, "Fine!" like a 6 year old who just got sent to his room - and I got sent with him.
"Take Marc with you," she yelled. "Make yourselves useful."
The 20 minute roundtrip drive to Shoprite was quiet, but my friend preferred it that way. We could've driven two minutes away to a nearby bagel store, but he needed the time to cool down. My heart went out to him. I wanted to ask him why he lets his wife talk to him like that. Why didn't he just get in her face and tell her to shut the fuck up once and for all? I said nothing, though. It's not my job to break up marriages...but it is my job to help out a friend. It took us a little while to get back to the barbecue after we got the buns. If I didn't have the balls to tell him his marriage was a mess, then I could at least be a friend indeed by being a friend with weed. We found a safe place to park around the corner from his house so Schwartz could unwind a bit. Of course, his cell phone rang like 40 times during our 15 minute session, his wife wanting to know "what the hell is taking so long to get freakin' buns?!"
Sadly, Mrs. Schwartz will find herself on the angry end of those types of calls for many years to come. Whether my friend is on the receiving end of those calls, or some other poor schmuck is, may simply be a matter of him finally realizing he doesn't deserve to be treated like shit. Either that, or I finally grow the balls necessary to take that trip to Mexico with him. Where the hell am I gonna find chloroform, though?
- Isaac Bashevis Singer
There are cool wives and not so cool wives. I have friends with the former and others with the latter. The former I really like. The latter make me want to sneak up on their husbands, knock them out with chloroform, and drive them to a divorce lawyer in Mexico. It's painful watching a friend get berated by his wife at a 4th of July barbecue in front of an audience of twenty because he forgot the hot dog buns. I so wanted to save Silverman, or in this case, Schwartz.
"Who the hell did this broad think she was?," I thought, as she scowled at my friend, gritted her teeth, and commanded him to "Go to the store NOW, and get those goddamn buns!" He wasn't pleased either, but he isn't the kind of guy who makes a scene. He simply made a face that expressed frustration and extreme humiliation, and said, "Fine!" like a 6 year old who just got sent to his room - and I got sent with him.
"Take Marc with you," she yelled. "Make yourselves useful."
The 20 minute roundtrip drive to Shoprite was quiet, but my friend preferred it that way. We could've driven two minutes away to a nearby bagel store, but he needed the time to cool down. My heart went out to him. I wanted to ask him why he lets his wife talk to him like that. Why didn't he just get in her face and tell her to shut the fuck up once and for all? I said nothing, though. It's not my job to break up marriages...but it is my job to help out a friend. It took us a little while to get back to the barbecue after we got the buns. If I didn't have the balls to tell him his marriage was a mess, then I could at least be a friend indeed by being a friend with weed. We found a safe place to park around the corner from his house so Schwartz could unwind a bit. Of course, his cell phone rang like 40 times during our 15 minute session, his wife wanting to know "what the hell is taking so long to get freakin' buns?!"
Sadly, Mrs. Schwartz will find herself on the angry end of those types of calls for many years to come. Whether my friend is on the receiving end of those calls, or some other poor schmuck is, may simply be a matter of him finally realizing he doesn't deserve to be treated like shit. Either that, or I finally grow the balls necessary to take that trip to Mexico with him. Where the hell am I gonna find chloroform, though?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Little Voice
I haven't had a date, spoken to a potential date on the phone, or spoken to someone who is trying to set me up in over a week - and the detox is proceeding beautifully. I don't miss the awkward silences on the phone or in person, and the thought of not having to deal with the social ineptitude that pervades our society like the plague in 14th century Europe makes my nipples hard.
My only concern, however, is that this dating hiatus means there's no potential whatsoever of engaging in any form of sexual activity that doesn't involve my computer. It's not that I can't go a couple of months without it. I could do two months of no sex standing on my head. What's got me concerned is the thought that the last time I did it may indeed be the LAST time. I tell myself that I've done it enough times before, and that I can always again convince a woman to take her clothes off for me, but there's still that little voice in my head - the voice of George Costanza telling Jerry that he just doesn't see how it could ever happen again.
I think most guys hear that voice. Some overcompensate by banging anything and everything to drown out the voice. Others stay in unhappy relationships or marriages to rob the voice of its relevance. But I think, like me, most others just find little ways to lower the volume on its insidious message of doubt. All you need is a simple smile from a cute chick on the street, or a memory of having sex with a woman you never thought you could get, and you feel like you still got game.
Then the hot Puerto Rican chick at the bank is obnoxious to you just because you have the audacity to ask her not to hold a check even though every other teller does it for you, and Costanza's back in your head.
My only concern, however, is that this dating hiatus means there's no potential whatsoever of engaging in any form of sexual activity that doesn't involve my computer. It's not that I can't go a couple of months without it. I could do two months of no sex standing on my head. What's got me concerned is the thought that the last time I did it may indeed be the LAST time. I tell myself that I've done it enough times before, and that I can always again convince a woman to take her clothes off for me, but there's still that little voice in my head - the voice of George Costanza telling Jerry that he just doesn't see how it could ever happen again.
I think most guys hear that voice. Some overcompensate by banging anything and everything to drown out the voice. Others stay in unhappy relationships or marriages to rob the voice of its relevance. But I think, like me, most others just find little ways to lower the volume on its insidious message of doubt. All you need is a simple smile from a cute chick on the street, or a memory of having sex with a woman you never thought you could get, and you feel like you still got game.
Then the hot Puerto Rican chick at the bank is obnoxious to you just because you have the audacity to ask her not to hold a check even though every other teller does it for you, and Costanza's back in your head.
Monday, June 23, 2008
My Best Date All Year
It took place in a small room that smelled like old people, stewed vegetables, and Ben-Gay. We sat for about an hour drinking vanilla milkshakes together, and although her roommate sat within a few feet of us the whole time, it was probably the most productive interaction I've had with a woman in a while. There was a genuine and intelligent exchange of ideas, and there's no doubt that I love this woman. Truth be told, it wasn't a date per se. It was more like me visiting my grandmother in the hospital, and the milkshakes were a couple of cans of "Ensure" - which are delicious, by the way, and an excellent source of Omega 3 something or other, according to the label.
My grandmother had developed a case of bronchitis, and was diagnosed with emphysema - a result of 60 plus years of a 2 pack a day habit. Luckily, the dingleberry from the post below hasn't been appointed to any positions of governmental authority, so my grandma wound up at Maimonedes Hospital in Brooklyn, and not in a holding facility upstate.
As I walked in and saw her, her eyes lit up. I don't visit her nearly as often as I should, but when I do, it gives her a special thrill. When you're the oldest grandchild, there's just something special about you to them. The announcement of your impending birth, and the way they felt knowing they'd be grandparents for the first time is something they'll always hold dear to their hearts - that and the memory of your penile scalping performed under the guise of religious ceremony. So it was totally appropriate that the 85 year old woman with whom my grandmother was sharing a room said "Congratulations" to her when she introduced me as her grandson. Yes, I thought. That makes total sense. My grandma should be congratulated on the birth of her 37 year old grandson.
After a while of discussion about the family and her condition, the topic of conversation turned to me.
"So how are you? How's work?," she asked.
"Good. Good. Everything's good," I said, fully aware that she knew I'd never tell her things weren't good.
"You're seeing somebody?"
"No."
"Your father tells me you go on a lot of dates. Nobody interests you?"
In the past, I would've told her there were some prospects just to make an old lady happy, but I felt guilty feeding her the usual bullshit that she knew was bullshit anyway.
"Nah, no one lately," I told her.
"So why go on all the dates, if you're not meeting someone? Maybe it's enough with the dates for a while, no?"
It was a line I'd heard from plenty of people before, only this time it was delivered with an Eastern European accent, and a smoker's cough that for some reason made it make perfect sense. She could've toed the stereotypical Jewish grandmother party line and tried to convince me to "stop being so picky, and settle down already," but my grandmother didn't go there. She's cool like that. Our "date" ended with a hug and a kiss, and me saying goodbye to her roommate. It was perfect timing because had I stayed five minutes longer, I'd have had the pleasure of seeing the roommate sitting on one of those toilet on wheels - something my brother did have the honor of experiencing when he showed up shortly after I left. I think he's still hiding under his bed, hitting himself in the head, screaming, "Make it go away! I don't wanna see it anymore!"
I thought long and hard about my grandmother's advice on the train ride home, and by the time I stepped out of the subway a few blocks from my apartment, I'd made my decision. I wasn't going to date for a while. But then as this really cute chick walked by me on Lexington, I had a change of heart. My heart changed yet again, as I turned on to my street and saw a couple arguing. Maybe they were married, maybe they were boyfriend and girlfriend, or maybe it was a really bad first date. I wasn't entirely convinced to impose a moratorium on dating, though, until I walked past them, and heard the woman screaming in tears from behind me, "I fuckin' hate you!," followed by the guy's response of "Feeling's mutual!" Though my dates never got quite that ugly (even though some were close), I realized I was bringing that type of energy to my dating life, and it had to stop.
I started to think that maybe I'd gone on all those dates for all the wrong reasons: boredom, blog material, the voice of my mother in my head telling me she doesn't want me to wind up alone and miserable like her Uncle Barry who never got married or had kids - though he did always have a smile on his face, and the occasional broad on his arm that he'd he met at Bingo, or at a Meals On Wheels Mixer, or wherever people in their eighties go to hook up. Either way, I decided my grandma's words were to become my new mantra: "It's enough with the dates for a while."
I thank all of you who've left comments and sent emails of praise and encouragement throughout the last year. Your kindness is most appreciated. To that guy in that forum who called me an "unfunny douchebag," (thanks, Shmegs for sending me that link), and to the chick who posted a link to this blog on another blog, encouraging people to read about how pathetic I am, you can both stop reading now. I know it's been torturous for you, but you can tell the guy who's been holding a gun to your head forcing you to read my blog to put his weapon down. There will be no more bad dates to read about - only the occasional post about various subjects for those who remain interested.
The disillusionment and the dating must come to an end...for now.
My grandmother had developed a case of bronchitis, and was diagnosed with emphysema - a result of 60 plus years of a 2 pack a day habit. Luckily, the dingleberry from the post below hasn't been appointed to any positions of governmental authority, so my grandma wound up at Maimonedes Hospital in Brooklyn, and not in a holding facility upstate.
As I walked in and saw her, her eyes lit up. I don't visit her nearly as often as I should, but when I do, it gives her a special thrill. When you're the oldest grandchild, there's just something special about you to them. The announcement of your impending birth, and the way they felt knowing they'd be grandparents for the first time is something they'll always hold dear to their hearts - that and the memory of your penile scalping performed under the guise of religious ceremony. So it was totally appropriate that the 85 year old woman with whom my grandmother was sharing a room said "Congratulations" to her when she introduced me as her grandson. Yes, I thought. That makes total sense. My grandma should be congratulated on the birth of her 37 year old grandson.
After a while of discussion about the family and her condition, the topic of conversation turned to me.
"So how are you? How's work?," she asked.
"Good. Good. Everything's good," I said, fully aware that she knew I'd never tell her things weren't good.
"You're seeing somebody?"
"No."
"Your father tells me you go on a lot of dates. Nobody interests you?"
In the past, I would've told her there were some prospects just to make an old lady happy, but I felt guilty feeding her the usual bullshit that she knew was bullshit anyway.
"Nah, no one lately," I told her.
"So why go on all the dates, if you're not meeting someone? Maybe it's enough with the dates for a while, no?"
It was a line I'd heard from plenty of people before, only this time it was delivered with an Eastern European accent, and a smoker's cough that for some reason made it make perfect sense. She could've toed the stereotypical Jewish grandmother party line and tried to convince me to "stop being so picky, and settle down already," but my grandmother didn't go there. She's cool like that. Our "date" ended with a hug and a kiss, and me saying goodbye to her roommate. It was perfect timing because had I stayed five minutes longer, I'd have had the pleasure of seeing the roommate sitting on one of those toilet on wheels - something my brother did have the honor of experiencing when he showed up shortly after I left. I think he's still hiding under his bed, hitting himself in the head, screaming, "Make it go away! I don't wanna see it anymore!"
I thought long and hard about my grandmother's advice on the train ride home, and by the time I stepped out of the subway a few blocks from my apartment, I'd made my decision. I wasn't going to date for a while. But then as this really cute chick walked by me on Lexington, I had a change of heart. My heart changed yet again, as I turned on to my street and saw a couple arguing. Maybe they were married, maybe they were boyfriend and girlfriend, or maybe it was a really bad first date. I wasn't entirely convinced to impose a moratorium on dating, though, until I walked past them, and heard the woman screaming in tears from behind me, "I fuckin' hate you!," followed by the guy's response of "Feeling's mutual!" Though my dates never got quite that ugly (even though some were close), I realized I was bringing that type of energy to my dating life, and it had to stop.
I started to think that maybe I'd gone on all those dates for all the wrong reasons: boredom, blog material, the voice of my mother in my head telling me she doesn't want me to wind up alone and miserable like her Uncle Barry who never got married or had kids - though he did always have a smile on his face, and the occasional broad on his arm that he'd he met at Bingo, or at a Meals On Wheels Mixer, or wherever people in their eighties go to hook up. Either way, I decided my grandma's words were to become my new mantra: "It's enough with the dates for a while."
I thank all of you who've left comments and sent emails of praise and encouragement throughout the last year. Your kindness is most appreciated. To that guy in that forum who called me an "unfunny douchebag," (thanks, Shmegs for sending me that link), and to the chick who posted a link to this blog on another blog, encouraging people to read about how pathetic I am, you can both stop reading now. I know it's been torturous for you, but you can tell the guy who's been holding a gun to your head forcing you to read my blog to put his weapon down. There will be no more bad dates to read about - only the occasional post about various subjects for those who remain interested.
The disillusionment and the dating must come to an end...for now.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
DON'T LET A DOUCHEBAG SET YOU UP
As we sat across from each other at a window table in a cafe downtown, last night's date noticed a man standing outside smoking a cigarette. She nearly grew fangs, and declared in a venomous tone, "I hate people who smoke!"
"Well," I responded, "I have friends who smoke so I can't say I hate smokers, but I'm not a fan of smoking."
"It's absolutely reprehensible," she continued. "They should all be put away."
"Put away?," I said, taken aback. "What, like in interment camps?"
"It just pisses me off so much."
"Why such hatred toward people who smoke cigarettes?"
"It's not just cigarettes. It's EVERYTHING!"
"What, pipes, cigars, hookas? Should we intern people who smokes those too?"
"I mean EVERYTHING," she insisted.
All of a sudden, it hit me. She wasn't just the self appointed anti-smoking czar, she was a wannabe DEA agent too. I knew immediately that the douchebag who set us up told her of my affection for the cannabis plant, and I was about to get lectured about its evils like I was a gay guy applying for a marriage license, and she was Jerry Fallwell.
I knew said douchebag was semi-forced into the setup by his wife - a friend who's set me up a bunch of times, but ran out of her own single friends for me a while ago. The douchebag and I never really hit it off, but we were always civil to each other for the sake of his wife. I never thought he'd try and sabotage a date before it even happened, though. Why even bother with the set up, if he knew this chick didn't like tokers?, I thought, as I sat there listening to this chick scold me about the dangers of dead brain cells and lower sperm counts - as if the number of my sperm would ever be an issue between the two of us. He could have just told his wife he didn't want to set me up. I suppose what annoyed me most was the irony of it all. The douchebag is pushing 40, is as dense as could be, and has never had a real job in his life, but I'M the one who's the lazy, brain dead hippie.
I let the "Just Say No" girl finish her lecture, and I politely asked her why she agreed to the date, if she knew of my recreational habit beforehand.
"I don't like to judge people," was her utterly ingenious response.
The date ended soon afterwards with the standard "Nice to meet you. We'll never see each other again" routine, and I felt it almost obligatory to pack a bowl when I got home given the evening's events. I refrained from calling my friend, though, and telling her what her douchebag of a husband had done. Sadly, for her, she already knows what she's married to, and I don't need to rub her face in it. HER intentions were pure, even if the douchebag's weren't. He'll get his, though. We play basketball together once a week, and if I show up next time all hopped up on some of that wacky tabbacy, I may just lose control and knee him in the nuts going up to grab a rebound - then the friend he set me up with will actually have a brain and sperm cell challenged person not to judge.
"Well," I responded, "I have friends who smoke so I can't say I hate smokers, but I'm not a fan of smoking."
"It's absolutely reprehensible," she continued. "They should all be put away."
"Put away?," I said, taken aback. "What, like in interment camps?"
"It just pisses me off so much."
"Why such hatred toward people who smoke cigarettes?"
"It's not just cigarettes. It's EVERYTHING!"
"What, pipes, cigars, hookas? Should we intern people who smokes those too?"
"I mean EVERYTHING," she insisted.
All of a sudden, it hit me. She wasn't just the self appointed anti-smoking czar, she was a wannabe DEA agent too. I knew immediately that the douchebag who set us up told her of my affection for the cannabis plant, and I was about to get lectured about its evils like I was a gay guy applying for a marriage license, and she was Jerry Fallwell.
I knew said douchebag was semi-forced into the setup by his wife - a friend who's set me up a bunch of times, but ran out of her own single friends for me a while ago. The douchebag and I never really hit it off, but we were always civil to each other for the sake of his wife. I never thought he'd try and sabotage a date before it even happened, though. Why even bother with the set up, if he knew this chick didn't like tokers?, I thought, as I sat there listening to this chick scold me about the dangers of dead brain cells and lower sperm counts - as if the number of my sperm would ever be an issue between the two of us. He could have just told his wife he didn't want to set me up. I suppose what annoyed me most was the irony of it all. The douchebag is pushing 40, is as dense as could be, and has never had a real job in his life, but I'M the one who's the lazy, brain dead hippie.
I let the "Just Say No" girl finish her lecture, and I politely asked her why she agreed to the date, if she knew of my recreational habit beforehand.
"I don't like to judge people," was her utterly ingenious response.
The date ended soon afterwards with the standard "Nice to meet you. We'll never see each other again" routine, and I felt it almost obligatory to pack a bowl when I got home given the evening's events. I refrained from calling my friend, though, and telling her what her douchebag of a husband had done. Sadly, for her, she already knows what she's married to, and I don't need to rub her face in it. HER intentions were pure, even if the douchebag's weren't. He'll get his, though. We play basketball together once a week, and if I show up next time all hopped up on some of that wacky tabbacy, I may just lose control and knee him in the nuts going up to grab a rebound - then the friend he set me up with will actually have a brain and sperm cell challenged person not to judge.
Friday, June 13, 2008
My Balls
I met a woman last night who told me her ex-boyfriend was really into yoga, and she thought he wasn't manly, as a result. Apparently that's why they broke up, she explained in detail.
Great, I thought. Ex-boyfriend talk less than twenty minutes into the date. That usually takes at least 25. And from someone seemingly so enlightened. This would be fun.
"He also shaved his balls, and wore cologne," she continued. "Isn't that gay?"
I was right. This WAS gonna be fun.
"You're talking to the wrong person," I said. "I do two out of those three things."
She began to look me over to see which one of the things on her list of gayness she could eliminate.
"You're thin so I could believe you do Yoga," she said, sniffing. "And I'm not smelling any cologne....Do you shave your balls?, " she asked, trying not to laugh.
"Not regularly. But if I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I jump in the shower, and I'm looking a little rabbinical down there, I'll bust out the mini-buzzer and do some landscaping." - Ask a completely inappropriate question on a first date, get a completely inappropriate answer.
"Dude, why are you on a date with me? You should be out with a guy," she said, sort of jokingly, but in a way that made me feel I was living a lie. "You want my ex's number?"
"We know we have at least two things in common."
"Yeah, and you could do them together," she responded, unable to control her laughter any longer.
Now she'd stepped over the line. What she was implying was completely unacceptable. I don't mind shaving another guy's balls, but doing Yoga with him is out of the question. That's just beyond gay.
I believe somewhere beneath the baggage she's drowning under because of her ex, there's actually a cool, sarcastic, funny chick. But I won't be around to find out because her ex just called me back, and we're spending the weekend at Fire Island shopping for Mach3s.
Great, I thought. Ex-boyfriend talk less than twenty minutes into the date. That usually takes at least 25. And from someone seemingly so enlightened. This would be fun.
"He also shaved his balls, and wore cologne," she continued. "Isn't that gay?"
I was right. This WAS gonna be fun.
"You're talking to the wrong person," I said. "I do two out of those three things."
She began to look me over to see which one of the things on her list of gayness she could eliminate.
"You're thin so I could believe you do Yoga," she said, sniffing. "And I'm not smelling any cologne....Do you shave your balls?, " she asked, trying not to laugh.
"Not regularly. But if I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I jump in the shower, and I'm looking a little rabbinical down there, I'll bust out the mini-buzzer and do some landscaping." - Ask a completely inappropriate question on a first date, get a completely inappropriate answer.
"Dude, why are you on a date with me? You should be out with a guy," she said, sort of jokingly, but in a way that made me feel I was living a lie. "You want my ex's number?"
"We know we have at least two things in common."
"Yeah, and you could do them together," she responded, unable to control her laughter any longer.
Now she'd stepped over the line. What she was implying was completely unacceptable. I don't mind shaving another guy's balls, but doing Yoga with him is out of the question. That's just beyond gay.
I believe somewhere beneath the baggage she's drowning under because of her ex, there's actually a cool, sarcastic, funny chick. But I won't be around to find out because her ex just called me back, and we're spending the weekend at Fire Island shopping for Mach3s.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
The Bikini Pic
I've always felt that bikini pictures on dating sites are the female equivalent of pictures of guys without shirts. They're cheesy, sort of classless, and they reek of desperation. Though not latently homosexual like their male counterparts, women who post only bikini pictures are essentially saying, "Hey, click on me, and look at my tits because I have nothing else to offer." Of course, I've always clicked because I'm not one of those no shirt guys, but during my now defunct career as an online dater, I never emailed one of those women. Desperation isn't a quality I look for in a mate, and besides, I figured these chicks were probably being seduced by hundreds of emails from guys writing, "I'd love to stick my face in between your funbags and blow" in the subject line. That's not a group I need to be a member of, so I'd get my cheap thrill by looking at the picture, and move on to the next profile.
So when the woman whose number I was given by a friend told me to check out her Facebook page to see a picture, and all she had posted were pictures of herself in bikinis, I started to lose interest. I'll admit that if the pictures were flattering, I'd have probably been into it. This wasn't happening on a dating site, and I didn't have to compete with the parade of funbag blowers. But all 5 pictures of her in her album were of her lying on her back in a bikini, wearing sunglasses and a hat. All I could really make out from the neck up was her red hair. Obviously, she was trying to hide her face, and I'm not all that sure this chick should be wearing a bikini altogether. As I examined the picture closely I realized why she was lying on her back in every picture - because almost everyone has a flat stomach when they're lying on their back.
In the past, I'd have just told her how great her pics were, and gone out on the date. But nowadays, I'm being a bit more discriminating - not that you could tell from some of the women I've gone out with recently. I decided to be bold and ask to see another pic. After all, the one of me that my friend was required to send to her before I was allowed the honor of receiving her number was a clear head shot, without sunglasses, a hat, or me lying on my back in a bikini. I thought it only fair.
"That's all I got," was her response to my request. "Take it or leave it!"
I so wanted to leave it. Oh god, did I want to leave it, but I'm not quite that ballsy yet. Instead, I went the usual passive aggressive route, and gave her the old "Let's touch base next week sometime to schedule a time to get together" routine. I've been doing that a lot lately, but to go on a date just for the sake of going on one no longer appeals to me - not that it ever really did. I know you need to get out there, but I've been out there for a while, and I'd rather sit home than go out with someone who'll only show me a picture of herself in disguise.
I hope for her sake, someone tells her that her pictures aren't doing her justice, if in fact there's any justice to be done. Until then, she'll have to ward off the poets on Jdate emailing her wanting to know if her carpet matches her drapes.
So when the woman whose number I was given by a friend told me to check out her Facebook page to see a picture, and all she had posted were pictures of herself in bikinis, I started to lose interest. I'll admit that if the pictures were flattering, I'd have probably been into it. This wasn't happening on a dating site, and I didn't have to compete with the parade of funbag blowers. But all 5 pictures of her in her album were of her lying on her back in a bikini, wearing sunglasses and a hat. All I could really make out from the neck up was her red hair. Obviously, she was trying to hide her face, and I'm not all that sure this chick should be wearing a bikini altogether. As I examined the picture closely I realized why she was lying on her back in every picture - because almost everyone has a flat stomach when they're lying on their back.
In the past, I'd have just told her how great her pics were, and gone out on the date. But nowadays, I'm being a bit more discriminating - not that you could tell from some of the women I've gone out with recently. I decided to be bold and ask to see another pic. After all, the one of me that my friend was required to send to her before I was allowed the honor of receiving her number was a clear head shot, without sunglasses, a hat, or me lying on my back in a bikini. I thought it only fair.
"That's all I got," was her response to my request. "Take it or leave it!"
I so wanted to leave it. Oh god, did I want to leave it, but I'm not quite that ballsy yet. Instead, I went the usual passive aggressive route, and gave her the old "Let's touch base next week sometime to schedule a time to get together" routine. I've been doing that a lot lately, but to go on a date just for the sake of going on one no longer appeals to me - not that it ever really did. I know you need to get out there, but I've been out there for a while, and I'd rather sit home than go out with someone who'll only show me a picture of herself in disguise.
I hope for her sake, someone tells her that her pictures aren't doing her justice, if in fact there's any justice to be done. Until then, she'll have to ward off the poets on Jdate emailing her wanting to know if her carpet matches her drapes.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Sometimes Lying Is A Good Thing
I've had dates cancel on me many times. Most often the excuses are generic and lame. "My aunt's coming in from out of town," "a friend is giving birth," "it's icky out" are all excuses given to me at the last minute to get out of dates. They've made for some good blog fodder, but I accept them for what they are - little lies told by insecure women who for some reason didn't want to go out on a date with me. Maybe their interest waned, or never existed. Maybe they met someone else they liked. Maybe they got nervous, and couldn't go through with it. And in such circumstances, I understand that you have to lie. You can't tell someone, "The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to go out with you. I was forced into this blind date by my pain in the ass mother, and I'm simply not interested."
Actually, you CAN tell someone that, but that would demonstrate a level of maturity and self confidence that most don't possess - myself included. So we live in a society where we tell each other little white lies to get out of doing shit we don't wanna do. I've done it plenty so I shouldn't be shocked when it gets done to me. In fact, I've grown so accustomed to these lies that are supposed to pass for excuses that I actually prefer them to the truth. That fact became even clearer to me yesterday evening after my conversation with a woman who called to cancel our date for tonight.
"My period is kicking my ass," she explained. "I'm just not gonna be able to do tomorrow night."
"Sorry to hear that, " I said, a bit taken aback by this incredible overshare. "Gimme a call when you're feeling better. I'm free Friday, if you're up to it. Just lemme know."
"We're talking seriously heavy flow here. I ruined the pants I wore to work today. I don't know what my deal is gonna be on Friday."
And I thought the mere mention of her menses was too much of an overshare. Couldn't she just have said her aunt was in from out of town? - which technically wouldn't have even been a lie, if you like menstrual metaphors.
"Okay," I said flustered. "Then just call me whenever. Hope you feel better."
I though that would be enough to end our little discussion of her uterine discharges, but she wanted to continue the conversation.
"God. You ever just have one of those days? It's really a mess."
"No, actually, that's not something I'm familiar with, but I can imagine."
"Oh yeah, right. I forgot who I was talking to for a second. You guys are so lucky."
Not this guy, I thought.
I then ended the conversation rather abruptly by telling her I had another call I had to take, and that we'd be in touch. I figured her openness and candor was so above and beyond that I had to lie twice to restore equilibrium to the universe, so that we can all go on cancelling dates with our little, insecure lies.
Actually, you CAN tell someone that, but that would demonstrate a level of maturity and self confidence that most don't possess - myself included. So we live in a society where we tell each other little white lies to get out of doing shit we don't wanna do. I've done it plenty so I shouldn't be shocked when it gets done to me. In fact, I've grown so accustomed to these lies that are supposed to pass for excuses that I actually prefer them to the truth. That fact became even clearer to me yesterday evening after my conversation with a woman who called to cancel our date for tonight.
"My period is kicking my ass," she explained. "I'm just not gonna be able to do tomorrow night."
"Sorry to hear that, " I said, a bit taken aback by this incredible overshare. "Gimme a call when you're feeling better. I'm free Friday, if you're up to it. Just lemme know."
"We're talking seriously heavy flow here. I ruined the pants I wore to work today. I don't know what my deal is gonna be on Friday."
And I thought the mere mention of her menses was too much of an overshare. Couldn't she just have said her aunt was in from out of town? - which technically wouldn't have even been a lie, if you like menstrual metaphors.
"Okay," I said flustered. "Then just call me whenever. Hope you feel better."
I though that would be enough to end our little discussion of her uterine discharges, but she wanted to continue the conversation.
"God. You ever just have one of those days? It's really a mess."
"No, actually, that's not something I'm familiar with, but I can imagine."
"Oh yeah, right. I forgot who I was talking to for a second. You guys are so lucky."
Not this guy, I thought.
I then ended the conversation rather abruptly by telling her I had another call I had to take, and that we'd be in touch. I figured her openness and candor was so above and beyond that I had to lie twice to restore equilibrium to the universe, so that we can all go on cancelling dates with our little, insecure lies.
Monday, June 2, 2008
THE POLYGY-DO
I support the court's ruling to return the polygamist offspring to their mothers on one condition - the poor hairstyle choices of the mothers should not be forced upon the daughters. The court should make it obligatory for all of these women to take their daughters to a Supercuts, or a Lemon Tree. I can deal with the homemade smocks, but the "Children of the Corn" hairdos must go:
See what happens when someone makes fun of my haircut? I get all judgmental about other people's dos.
See what happens when someone makes fun of my haircut? I get all judgmental about other people's dos.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY
As if it wasn't obnoxious enough that today's specimen answered her cell phone in the middle of our date last night to talk to her friend, she began to insult me too. She didn't know I knew she was insulting me - until I let her in on my little secret.
I'll elaborate:
We sat in a Cafe on the Upper West Side, and had fairly polite, utterly chemistry free conversation for maybe twenty five minutes before her phone rang. She looked at the phone and said, "Oh, it's my friend. I have to get this." There was no explanation as to why she had to get it. No fake excuse about a grandmother in the hospital, no mention of an urgent work related incident -- nothing. She just had to talk to her friend - like they had so much catching up to do, and it needed to be done in the middle of our date. Her lack of proper dating etiquette aside, I welcomed the distraction. I needed a break from the anemic dialogue.
It was a relatively quick conversation -the topics of which, as I could determine from the side of it that I heard, were (in the following order):
1. The Sex and the City Movie - apparently the friend didn't like it, and was telling my date not to bother seeing it.
2. Some sort of party over the weekend. They were arranging a time to meet for dinner before they headed to the party, and my date asked her friend if she was okay with the fact that "Ronnie" was gonna be there.
And then...
3. Me. -- She told her friend that I wasn't for her, and she was hoping to be done with the date soon. The main reasons for her dissatisfaction with me: I'm not dark enough, and I need a haircut.
Now she's entitled to her tastes. This wasn't the first time I was told I was pale, and the truth is, I do need a haircut. But why would she say this in front of me?, you may be wondering. Well, that's where she fucked up. When she got off the phone, she said, "Sorry. I had to take it."
"Yeah, you mentioned that," I responded.
"My friend is going through a tough time."
"No kidding. Because of Ronnie?"
"How do you know about Ronnie?," she wondered.
"I heard a guy's name mentioned. I just assumed."
"Oh."
"No. I speak Hebrew," I said smugly.
"That's nice," she retorted. She must have thought I meant I knew how to say "Shalom," or something, because her reaction wasn't that of someone who just got busted talking about someone else in another language, not knowing that person understood every word.
"Actually, I'm fluent, you miserable bitch! I understood every mother fucking word you said! It's bad enough you interrupt a date to talk about Sex and the fucking City, and some douchebag named Ronnie, but you insult me too?," I said -- minus everything after the word "fluent."
Maybe she doesn't know what "fluent" means, or maybe she was so embarrassed she didn't know what else to say, but she didn't apologize or so much as stutter. She just stared at me like the bitch in headlights that she was. I actually felt a little bad for her. This was about as awkward a moment she might have ever experienced. But just when you start to feel a little sympathy for someone, they give you a reason to dislike them again.
"Why didn't you tell me you spoke Hebrew? It's kind of rude to let someone go on like that without letting them know you understand," she said.
Now it was my turn to stare. There were so many things I could've said to this asswipe like, "When was I supposed to tell you I understood you? Before or after you insulted me?" Instead, I decided to follow the principle of Occam's razor, and opted for the simplest of solutions to the problem.
I got up, dropped some money on the table, said, "Shalom!" with a big smile, and walked away. As I left the cafe, I caught one last glimpse of her. She was back on the phone - no doubt telling her friend that the pasty faced, messy haired asshole had just walked out on her, but that she was happy the date was over because he was a loser anyway.
This wasn't the first time I had an incident with an obnoxious Israeli chick, but it will likely be my last.
My vow for the future: No more obnoxious Israelis, and to get a haircut.
I'll elaborate:
We sat in a Cafe on the Upper West Side, and had fairly polite, utterly chemistry free conversation for maybe twenty five minutes before her phone rang. She looked at the phone and said, "Oh, it's my friend. I have to get this." There was no explanation as to why she had to get it. No fake excuse about a grandmother in the hospital, no mention of an urgent work related incident -- nothing. She just had to talk to her friend - like they had so much catching up to do, and it needed to be done in the middle of our date. Her lack of proper dating etiquette aside, I welcomed the distraction. I needed a break from the anemic dialogue.
It was a relatively quick conversation -the topics of which, as I could determine from the side of it that I heard, were (in the following order):
1. The Sex and the City Movie - apparently the friend didn't like it, and was telling my date not to bother seeing it.
2. Some sort of party over the weekend. They were arranging a time to meet for dinner before they headed to the party, and my date asked her friend if she was okay with the fact that "Ronnie" was gonna be there.
And then...
3. Me. -- She told her friend that I wasn't for her, and she was hoping to be done with the date soon. The main reasons for her dissatisfaction with me: I'm not dark enough, and I need a haircut.
Now she's entitled to her tastes. This wasn't the first time I was told I was pale, and the truth is, I do need a haircut. But why would she say this in front of me?, you may be wondering. Well, that's where she fucked up. When she got off the phone, she said, "Sorry. I had to take it."
"Yeah, you mentioned that," I responded.
"My friend is going through a tough time."
"No kidding. Because of Ronnie?"
"How do you know about Ronnie?," she wondered.
"I heard a guy's name mentioned. I just assumed."
"Oh."
"No. I speak Hebrew," I said smugly.
"That's nice," she retorted. She must have thought I meant I knew how to say "Shalom," or something, because her reaction wasn't that of someone who just got busted talking about someone else in another language, not knowing that person understood every word.
"Actually, I'm fluent, you miserable bitch! I understood every mother fucking word you said! It's bad enough you interrupt a date to talk about Sex and the fucking City, and some douchebag named Ronnie, but you insult me too?," I said -- minus everything after the word "fluent."
Maybe she doesn't know what "fluent" means, or maybe she was so embarrassed she didn't know what else to say, but she didn't apologize or so much as stutter. She just stared at me like the bitch in headlights that she was. I actually felt a little bad for her. This was about as awkward a moment she might have ever experienced. But just when you start to feel a little sympathy for someone, they give you a reason to dislike them again.
"Why didn't you tell me you spoke Hebrew? It's kind of rude to let someone go on like that without letting them know you understand," she said.
Now it was my turn to stare. There were so many things I could've said to this asswipe like, "When was I supposed to tell you I understood you? Before or after you insulted me?" Instead, I decided to follow the principle of Occam's razor, and opted for the simplest of solutions to the problem.
I got up, dropped some money on the table, said, "Shalom!" with a big smile, and walked away. As I left the cafe, I caught one last glimpse of her. She was back on the phone - no doubt telling her friend that the pasty faced, messy haired asshole had just walked out on her, but that she was happy the date was over because he was a loser anyway.
This wasn't the first time I had an incident with an obnoxious Israeli chick, but it will likely be my last.
My vow for the future: No more obnoxious Israelis, and to get a haircut.
Friday, May 23, 2008
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GUYS WHO SCREW MY SHIT UP
After numerous discussions with single women, it's obvious that my cause is not being helped by a lot of the single guys out there. Their idiotic, childish, self involved behavior has heaped so much baggage upon so many available, desirable women that a dude like me doesn't stand a chance. As such, I feel compelled to address these unintentional cock blockers.
So:
To the guys out there who think "Wanna come over and fuck?" is a great opening line in an IM session, it's not. If it were that easy, nothing in the world would ever get accomplished. The entire infrastructure of our society would collapse. People would be screwing in the streets, instead of doing their jobs. There would be utter chaos, and we'd all wind up living in caves without electricity or plumbing.
To the guys who post pictures of themselves in their profiles without shirts, I've yet to meet a woman who thinks that's a turn on. No one gives a shit how much you can bench press, so put down the steroids and the barbells, walk away from the mirror you flex in front of all day, and pick up a book. Reading is fundamental, and you're probably gay anyway.
To the guys who tell chicks they "can get lost just staring into their eyes" on first dates, that'll only work if the chick is really into you. But if you're the type of guy who uses lines like that ten minutes after meeting someone, I can't imagine there are any chicks out there that would actually be into you anyway. Just tell her she has really pretty eyes. It's a compliment without being creepy, and you need to learn how not to be creepy.
To the guys who invite women to an event and tell them: "Your ticket is $65. You can pay me when I see you," that's something you tell your guy friend, not someone you hope to see naked. Unless, of course, you wanna see your guy friend naked, in which case, get in touch with the guy who poses shirtless on Jdate.
To the guys who insist on ordering for their dates in restaurants, stop taking your dating cues from movies from the 1930s. "The lady will have the lemon pepper shrimp " is not something you should be saying unless the lady has told you that's what she wants, and has given you the okay to order for her. Otherwise, let them order their own damn food. They're your dates, not your three year old daughters.
To the guys who say they're gonna call after a first date, but only intend on calling if nothing better comes along, stop being selfish douchebags. If you're not motivated enough to call her based on her own merits, just say, "It was nice meeting you," and go home. Odds are she wasn't interested in you anyway, so why not just go your separate ways like mature adults?
To the guys who practically show their dates their pay stubs, and brag about the apartments they just bought, just tell your dates you're insecure little shits with small dicks instead. At least they'll appreciate your honesty.
To the guys who ask women out via barely comprehensible text messages, grow up. You wanna text message people things like "LOL," or "ROFLMAO"? - go hang out in the mall with the other 14 year old girls and their Sidekicks, or pick up a goddamn phone, and ask a woman out like a man.
To the guys who lie in their profiles about their height, weight, or amount of hair on their heads, and then get pissed off when women do the same, the lying women are the ones you should be with. Why?- because you're both fucking liars! Let the herd of truth distorters be thinned so the rest of us who are honest can meet each other.
And finally to the self-proclaimed "players" who secretly video tape their conquests, and show the footage to their friends, as cool and as uber-hetero as you think that is, you too may wanna email the shirtless Jdate guy. You clearly don't respect women, and wanting other dudes to see your hairy balls and ass clearly indicates that your overcompensating by trying to bang as many women as possible.
It is to all these men, and to the others like them that I haven't mentioned in the interest of brevity, that I say:
You are the stinking turds nestled safely at the bottom of the dating pool. When you're discovered, women go running out and never want to jump back in. Remedy your ways, or don't go swimming anymore!
Sincerely,
Marc F.
5/23/08
So:
To the guys out there who think "Wanna come over and fuck?" is a great opening line in an IM session, it's not. If it were that easy, nothing in the world would ever get accomplished. The entire infrastructure of our society would collapse. People would be screwing in the streets, instead of doing their jobs. There would be utter chaos, and we'd all wind up living in caves without electricity or plumbing.
To the guys who post pictures of themselves in their profiles without shirts, I've yet to meet a woman who thinks that's a turn on. No one gives a shit how much you can bench press, so put down the steroids and the barbells, walk away from the mirror you flex in front of all day, and pick up a book. Reading is fundamental, and you're probably gay anyway.
To the guys who tell chicks they "can get lost just staring into their eyes" on first dates, that'll only work if the chick is really into you. But if you're the type of guy who uses lines like that ten minutes after meeting someone, I can't imagine there are any chicks out there that would actually be into you anyway. Just tell her she has really pretty eyes. It's a compliment without being creepy, and you need to learn how not to be creepy.
To the guys who invite women to an event and tell them: "Your ticket is $65. You can pay me when I see you," that's something you tell your guy friend, not someone you hope to see naked. Unless, of course, you wanna see your guy friend naked, in which case, get in touch with the guy who poses shirtless on Jdate.
To the guys who insist on ordering for their dates in restaurants, stop taking your dating cues from movies from the 1930s. "The lady will have the lemon pepper shrimp " is not something you should be saying unless the lady has told you that's what she wants, and has given you the okay to order for her. Otherwise, let them order their own damn food. They're your dates, not your three year old daughters.
To the guys who say they're gonna call after a first date, but only intend on calling if nothing better comes along, stop being selfish douchebags. If you're not motivated enough to call her based on her own merits, just say, "It was nice meeting you," and go home. Odds are she wasn't interested in you anyway, so why not just go your separate ways like mature adults?
To the guys who practically show their dates their pay stubs, and brag about the apartments they just bought, just tell your dates you're insecure little shits with small dicks instead. At least they'll appreciate your honesty.
To the guys who ask women out via barely comprehensible text messages, grow up. You wanna text message people things like "LOL," or "ROFLMAO"? - go hang out in the mall with the other 14 year old girls and their Sidekicks, or pick up a goddamn phone, and ask a woman out like a man.
To the guys who lie in their profiles about their height, weight, or amount of hair on their heads, and then get pissed off when women do the same, the lying women are the ones you should be with. Why?- because you're both fucking liars! Let the herd of truth distorters be thinned so the rest of us who are honest can meet each other.
And finally to the self-proclaimed "players" who secretly video tape their conquests, and show the footage to their friends, as cool and as uber-hetero as you think that is, you too may wanna email the shirtless Jdate guy. You clearly don't respect women, and wanting other dudes to see your hairy balls and ass clearly indicates that your overcompensating by trying to bang as many women as possible.
It is to all these men, and to the others like them that I haven't mentioned in the interest of brevity, that I say:
You are the stinking turds nestled safely at the bottom of the dating pool. When you're discovered, women go running out and never want to jump back in. Remedy your ways, or don't go swimming anymore!
Sincerely,
Marc F.
5/23/08
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Post It Note
You wouldn't know it from reading this blog, but from time to time I actually do fornicate with members of the opposite sex. I choose not to write about it because I'm a gentleman, and because this isn't Penthouse Forum. Being the responsible fornicator that I am, though, I get tested regularly to insure that no one gave me anything that will require a trip to the pharmacy. So a few weeks ago, I paid a visit to my doctor, dealt with his bitchy receptionist, and submitted my fluids for review.
The blood work came back okay within a couple of days, but they told me the results of the urine test had not yet been received. I was told to call back in a few days. I did, and still no results. "What's the holdup?," I asked the woman who answered the phone.
"The lab must be backed up," she told me, attempting to rush me off the phone. "Try back in a day or two."
When I called back two days later, and they still didn't have results for me, I asked to speak to the doctor.
"He's with patients now, but I'll leave a message for him to call," the woman said.
I gave him until the following morning not to return my call - then I called the office again. This time I dealt with a slightly less bitchy receptionist who admitted that my test results should have come in a while ago. "No shit," I thought to myself. "So can you call the lab, and find out what the deal is please?," I asked very politely - my pleasant tone masking my desire to want to scream at her, and every incompetent shithead that worked there.
"Let me get back to you," she responded. "Your number is ***-***-****, right?"
"No. It's ***-***-****," I said. "That number you have for me hasn't been good for like two years. I asked the other receptionist to change it when I came in for the tests."
"Okay. Got it," she said, and I hung up, knowing she didn't get it. If she was in fact going to call, she would call the old number - which she did, causing me to call back the next day. This time I got yet another Mensa candidate on the phone who informed me that someone tried calling me to tell me that the lab lost my urine, but they couldn't get a hold of me. I wonder why. In the meantime, somewhere at the lab, there was a cup of missing piss, and it had taken them almost two weeks to let me know about it.
"Come in again," she said. "We'll take another sample. You don't need an appointment. Just come when you can, and we'll see you right away." Wow. Now I was a VIP. "If we lose your urine, you can come in without an appointment." That's a great slogan for their business cards.
When I came in that very day, and announced to the receptionist who I was, she immediately had Holly the nurse take me to a room near the bathroom. I didn't have to say a word. She knew exactly why I was there, and handed me a cup with a bit of a smirk. It was as if I was the talk of the office - the annoying pain in the ass who keeps calling about his piss. I wasn't at all appreciating the vibe I was getting from Holly, and then when I turned around on my way to the bathroom, cup in hand, I noticed a "post it" note hanging on a bare wall in plain view for everyone to see.
The note read:
Marc (my last name) and the word "Gonorrhea" written under it.
This "post it" wasn't hanging on a bulletin board in a private room amongst other "post its" with names of patients and their ailments. It was being showcased in a part of the office where every doctor, nurse, receptionist, drug company rep, patient, and plumber could see it. I was surprised there wasn't a spotlight flashing on it. I bit my tongue, and simply said to Holly, "That's great. Now everyone thinks I have gonorrhea."
She laughed - not with me, but at me, and said, "Don't worry. Nobody comes back here. I just put it up there to remind me what to test for when you came in."
Nobody comes back here?!, I thought. I'M fuckin' back here, aren't I? This "post it" is hanging inches away from the bathroom so everyone who has to give you a urine sample, or take a dump comes back here!
I walked into the bathroom, came out, gave Holly a nice warm sample, and went on my way. This time the lab managed to do what they were supposed to, and eventually billed me $88 for it, which as a side note, I ain't paying. "Lose my piss and make me anxious for weeks, wondering what STD I may have, and you don't get paid." - That's the slogan on MY business card.
Anyway, the results were good, and I'm free to go about and fornicate as usual - responsibly, of course.
However, I can not let Holly get away with publicly embarrassing me like that. How many people out there now think I have gonorrhea? What if a potential date goes to that doctor, and right before we're about to get intimate, she says in a disgusted tone, "Wait a second. Do you go to Dr. Seidman? I thought your name sounded familiar. You're the gonorrhea guy. I'm not fucking you!"
So, Holly, here's where I exact my revenge. Maybe more people saw your "post it" than will see mine, but you never know what can happen on these crazy internets. This shit could go viral...pun intended:
The blood work came back okay within a couple of days, but they told me the results of the urine test had not yet been received. I was told to call back in a few days. I did, and still no results. "What's the holdup?," I asked the woman who answered the phone.
"The lab must be backed up," she told me, attempting to rush me off the phone. "Try back in a day or two."
When I called back two days later, and they still didn't have results for me, I asked to speak to the doctor.
"He's with patients now, but I'll leave a message for him to call," the woman said.
I gave him until the following morning not to return my call - then I called the office again. This time I dealt with a slightly less bitchy receptionist who admitted that my test results should have come in a while ago. "No shit," I thought to myself. "So can you call the lab, and find out what the deal is please?," I asked very politely - my pleasant tone masking my desire to want to scream at her, and every incompetent shithead that worked there.
"Let me get back to you," she responded. "Your number is ***-***-****, right?"
"No. It's ***-***-****," I said. "That number you have for me hasn't been good for like two years. I asked the other receptionist to change it when I came in for the tests."
"Okay. Got it," she said, and I hung up, knowing she didn't get it. If she was in fact going to call, she would call the old number - which she did, causing me to call back the next day. This time I got yet another Mensa candidate on the phone who informed me that someone tried calling me to tell me that the lab lost my urine, but they couldn't get a hold of me. I wonder why. In the meantime, somewhere at the lab, there was a cup of missing piss, and it had taken them almost two weeks to let me know about it.
"Come in again," she said. "We'll take another sample. You don't need an appointment. Just come when you can, and we'll see you right away." Wow. Now I was a VIP. "If we lose your urine, you can come in without an appointment." That's a great slogan for their business cards.
When I came in that very day, and announced to the receptionist who I was, she immediately had Holly the nurse take me to a room near the bathroom. I didn't have to say a word. She knew exactly why I was there, and handed me a cup with a bit of a smirk. It was as if I was the talk of the office - the annoying pain in the ass who keeps calling about his piss. I wasn't at all appreciating the vibe I was getting from Holly, and then when I turned around on my way to the bathroom, cup in hand, I noticed a "post it" note hanging on a bare wall in plain view for everyone to see.
The note read:
Marc (my last name) and the word "Gonorrhea" written under it.
This "post it" wasn't hanging on a bulletin board in a private room amongst other "post its" with names of patients and their ailments. It was being showcased in a part of the office where every doctor, nurse, receptionist, drug company rep, patient, and plumber could see it. I was surprised there wasn't a spotlight flashing on it. I bit my tongue, and simply said to Holly, "That's great. Now everyone thinks I have gonorrhea."
She laughed - not with me, but at me, and said, "Don't worry. Nobody comes back here. I just put it up there to remind me what to test for when you came in."
Nobody comes back here?!, I thought. I'M fuckin' back here, aren't I? This "post it" is hanging inches away from the bathroom so everyone who has to give you a urine sample, or take a dump comes back here!
I walked into the bathroom, came out, gave Holly a nice warm sample, and went on my way. This time the lab managed to do what they were supposed to, and eventually billed me $88 for it, which as a side note, I ain't paying. "Lose my piss and make me anxious for weeks, wondering what STD I may have, and you don't get paid." - That's the slogan on MY business card.
Anyway, the results were good, and I'm free to go about and fornicate as usual - responsibly, of course.
However, I can not let Holly get away with publicly embarrassing me like that. How many people out there now think I have gonorrhea? What if a potential date goes to that doctor, and right before we're about to get intimate, she says in a disgusted tone, "Wait a second. Do you go to Dr. Seidman? I thought your name sounded familiar. You're the gonorrhea guy. I'm not fucking you!"
So, Holly, here's where I exact my revenge. Maybe more people saw your "post it" than will see mine, but you never know what can happen on these crazy internets. This shit could go viral...pun intended:
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
MOTHERS AGAINST DRUNK DATING
Thanks to Saul, a loyal reader of the blog, I'm one step closer to achieving my goal of helping those who date drunk. Our logo has been created, and barring any legal action from Mothers Against Drunk Driving, the process of healing bitter, bitchy, alcoholic daters can begin.
All donations are tax deductible, so please help make the dating world a safer place for all of us.
All donations are tax deductible, so please help make the dating world a safer place for all of us.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Drunk Chick
I'm very uncomfortable being around drunk people. One fear of mine is that when a person gets piss drunk, they're gonna tell me how they really feel about me. My main concern, though, is being vomited on. I always try and maintain a vomit free buffer zone between myself and the drunk in question. I'd say six feet at the absolute minimum. If I can smell or taste the booze on them, they're too close.
So when I showed up on Saturday night for my date with this chick I met through work, and she was fall down, speech slurring, shit faced drunk, I tried to maintain my distance. We sat across the table from each other, as this 12 step program candidate explained to me how she'd met her friends earlier that evening for A drink - "A," as in one. Either someone dropped a roofie and some PCP into that one drink, or this chick had more than A drink. I'm leaning towards the latter.
Maybe two minutes into our conversation, she verped - and I smelled and tasted it. We were way too close to each other, and in clear violation of my six foot buffer zone requirement. I needed to escape before the salami sandwich that was clearly somewhere inside of her wound up on me.
"EXCUSE ME!," she said, chuckling.
At least she's a polite drunk, I thought - that is until I tried to end the date.
"I'm gonna go. Can I get you a cab?," I asked her, as I got up.
"What's the rush? Sit down," she slurred.
"I'd rather go. Let me get you a cab."
What followed was the realization of my first fear of being around drunk people. The words "pussy," and "loser" were used a few times, as she turned into everyone's favorite type of alcoholic - the angry drunk. I wasn't about to stand there and be insulted, while waiting for the second fear to come to fruition. The angrier she got, the more she looked like she was gonna blow - and not in a good way. Sure, some guys might have taken advantage of the situation to satisfy their libidinous desires, but I'm both a gentleman, and someone who REALLY does not like to be thrown up on.
I left Lindsay Lohan's older, less attractive sister at the table, and informed the waiter that he might want to get the cleaning staff on alert before this chick ruined their table clothes.
Being the philanthropist that I am, however, the date left me undaunted, and with an idea for a charitable organization: MOTHERS AGAINST DRUNK DATING. I already stole the logo from Mothers Against Drunk Driving:
I just need to replace the key in the image with a picture of a slobbering, vomit covered, 32 year old chick who's likely to be single for some time to come. Too bad I don't know how to use Photoshop.
So when I showed up on Saturday night for my date with this chick I met through work, and she was fall down, speech slurring, shit faced drunk, I tried to maintain my distance. We sat across the table from each other, as this 12 step program candidate explained to me how she'd met her friends earlier that evening for A drink - "A," as in one. Either someone dropped a roofie and some PCP into that one drink, or this chick had more than A drink. I'm leaning towards the latter.
Maybe two minutes into our conversation, she verped - and I smelled and tasted it. We were way too close to each other, and in clear violation of my six foot buffer zone requirement. I needed to escape before the salami sandwich that was clearly somewhere inside of her wound up on me.
"EXCUSE ME!," she said, chuckling.
At least she's a polite drunk, I thought - that is until I tried to end the date.
"I'm gonna go. Can I get you a cab?," I asked her, as I got up.
"What's the rush? Sit down," she slurred.
"I'd rather go. Let me get you a cab."
What followed was the realization of my first fear of being around drunk people. The words "pussy," and "loser" were used a few times, as she turned into everyone's favorite type of alcoholic - the angry drunk. I wasn't about to stand there and be insulted, while waiting for the second fear to come to fruition. The angrier she got, the more she looked like she was gonna blow - and not in a good way. Sure, some guys might have taken advantage of the situation to satisfy their libidinous desires, but I'm both a gentleman, and someone who REALLY does not like to be thrown up on.
I left Lindsay Lohan's older, less attractive sister at the table, and informed the waiter that he might want to get the cleaning staff on alert before this chick ruined their table clothes.
Being the philanthropist that I am, however, the date left me undaunted, and with an idea for a charitable organization: MOTHERS AGAINST DRUNK DATING. I already stole the logo from Mothers Against Drunk Driving:
I just need to replace the key in the image with a picture of a slobbering, vomit covered, 32 year old chick who's likely to be single for some time to come. Too bad I don't know how to use Photoshop.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Going Halfsies
As I've written in the past, I always pay on the first date. In fact, I always pay during the courting process - you know, the part where I'm trying to impress the woman enough so she'll want to see me naked. So when I went on date #3 with today's blog specimen, I had every intention of paying. I asked her out, I picked the place, and I actually liked her...so I was paying. But then the check came, and she grabbed it before I could.
"I insist," she said.
"Please. It's my pleasure," I responded.
"You paid the first two dates. Let me get this one."
I took the check holder from her. "I asked you out, I picked the place, (and I want you to want to see me naked)," I said and thought.
"Come on. Let me," she persisted, trying to pull the check holder like we were playing tug of war.
I grabbed her hand, smiled devilishly, and said, "Next time. I promise."
"No!," she said, as she forcefully yanked the check over to her side.
No to next time, or no to me paying?, I thought. Was she fighting so hard because she wanted to make it clear she wasn't interested, or did she want to pay because she actually wanted to treat me? The back and forth started to make me uncomfortable, and the couple sitting next to us had heard enough of our conversation. I had to give up.
"Okay. Thank you. But I'm definitely treating next time....How do you feel about Gray's Papaya," I said, trying to get at least a smirk, and a fourth date.
But she zoned me out. She was completely focused on the check. In fact, she looked shocked. I knew it wasn't gonna be cheap, but her's was the look of an angry old lady being charged twenty cents too much for something at the corner grocery store. As she studiously examined every item on the bill, I was expecting her to blurt out: "$1.49 a pound for apples?! For $1.49 I don't need them. Some nerve these Koreans have!"
Instead, she looked up at me, and said, "Why don't we split it?"
I put an end to the insanity right then and there. I placed my American Express card in the check holder, and handed it to the waiter. But not before I caught a glimpse of the total. It was $68.42.
I wondered what her limit was when it came to picking up the check, and how much she thought dinner for two at a Manhattan restaurant costs? There were no arches in the front, or a "Try Our Popcorn Chicken" sign on the building. Was she only willing to pay, if the bill was like $8? I gladly signed the credit card receipt when it was handed to me because like I said - I asked her out, I picked the place...only now I didn't know how much I liked her. Now lest you think she couldn't afford it, keep in mind that this chick owns her own apartment in the city, and has been working at the prestigious law firm of Jew, Jew, Token Wasp, and Jew for at least seven years. She graduated from NYU law school, a school from which I was rejected, and started making six figures right after graduation. I'm not a lawyer, but I have friends who live that fancy law firm life, and I know what they make. $68.42 is what they bill for farting in the direction of a client...and that's only if it doesn't smell. Now this chick wanted to go halfsies with me?
Maybe she's in debt, and lives way beyond her means, but if that's the case, what's another $68.42 to add to the heap, especially after she was so insistent on paying? Her Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Fendi, or whatever the hell it was handbag alone cost 20 times that amount. Was she just selfish, or was I not worth $68.42 in her eyes? The question troubled me as I walked her back to her luxury building. I got my answer when I asked her out again, and she began to hem and haw.
I'll now have a charge on next month's Amex statement for $68.42 (plus tip), and a reminder that there's yet another woman out there who doesn't want to see me naked.
"I insist," she said.
"Please. It's my pleasure," I responded.
"You paid the first two dates. Let me get this one."
I took the check holder from her. "I asked you out, I picked the place, (and I want you to want to see me naked)," I said and thought.
"Come on. Let me," she persisted, trying to pull the check holder like we were playing tug of war.
I grabbed her hand, smiled devilishly, and said, "Next time. I promise."
"No!," she said, as she forcefully yanked the check over to her side.
No to next time, or no to me paying?, I thought. Was she fighting so hard because she wanted to make it clear she wasn't interested, or did she want to pay because she actually wanted to treat me? The back and forth started to make me uncomfortable, and the couple sitting next to us had heard enough of our conversation. I had to give up.
"Okay. Thank you. But I'm definitely treating next time....How do you feel about Gray's Papaya," I said, trying to get at least a smirk, and a fourth date.
But she zoned me out. She was completely focused on the check. In fact, she looked shocked. I knew it wasn't gonna be cheap, but her's was the look of an angry old lady being charged twenty cents too much for something at the corner grocery store. As she studiously examined every item on the bill, I was expecting her to blurt out: "$1.49 a pound for apples?! For $1.49 I don't need them. Some nerve these Koreans have!"
Instead, she looked up at me, and said, "Why don't we split it?"
I put an end to the insanity right then and there. I placed my American Express card in the check holder, and handed it to the waiter. But not before I caught a glimpse of the total. It was $68.42.
I wondered what her limit was when it came to picking up the check, and how much she thought dinner for two at a Manhattan restaurant costs? There were no arches in the front, or a "Try Our Popcorn Chicken" sign on the building. Was she only willing to pay, if the bill was like $8? I gladly signed the credit card receipt when it was handed to me because like I said - I asked her out, I picked the place...only now I didn't know how much I liked her. Now lest you think she couldn't afford it, keep in mind that this chick owns her own apartment in the city, and has been working at the prestigious law firm of Jew, Jew, Token Wasp, and Jew for at least seven years. She graduated from NYU law school, a school from which I was rejected, and started making six figures right after graduation. I'm not a lawyer, but I have friends who live that fancy law firm life, and I know what they make. $68.42 is what they bill for farting in the direction of a client...and that's only if it doesn't smell. Now this chick wanted to go halfsies with me?
Maybe she's in debt, and lives way beyond her means, but if that's the case, what's another $68.42 to add to the heap, especially after she was so insistent on paying? Her Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Fendi, or whatever the hell it was handbag alone cost 20 times that amount. Was she just selfish, or was I not worth $68.42 in her eyes? The question troubled me as I walked her back to her luxury building. I got my answer when I asked her out again, and she began to hem and haw.
I'll now have a charge on next month's Amex statement for $68.42 (plus tip), and a reminder that there's yet another woman out there who doesn't want to see me naked.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
WITNESS TO A DISASTER
I used to wonder what was more excruciating? - Being on a bad date or witnessing one. I got my answer late Sunday afternoon, as I sat on a bench in Central Park trying to read a book. There were maybe five other available benches, but the couple in question decided to sit on mine. The woman parked her oversized ass less than a foot from me, and her date sat to her left. I was initially annoyed to have my space invaded like that, but when I started to realize they were on a first date, I took the opportunity to observe. Never before had I been this close to someone else's dating disaster. It was like getting floor seats to a Knick game - but better. I was sitting on the damn bench - literally. You'd think someone who's been on so many bad dates would be indifferent. But there's something special about watching it happen in front of you like a movie that's so bad it's good. I actually wanted to throw popcorn at these two.
It all started with the guy awkwardly suggesting that they sit. She said "sure" with the enthusiasm of someone who was asked if they'd like to get a free rectal exam. Then there was a good two minutes of complete silence. It was long and uncomfortable. I imagined what I might say to get a conversation going with this chick, if I were on the date with her. Maybe I'd comment on the nice flowers nearby, at which numerous amateur photographers were snapping their digital cameras.
"Beautiful flowers, huh,?" is what I might have said.
"Yes. Those flowers are quite beautiful. They're Epidendrum Orchids," she might respond.
"No kidding? Are you some sort of horticulturist?," I'd ask.
Smiling, she'd respond modestly, "Well, I dabble a bit. Do you like flowers?"
"Sure," I'd say enthusiastically. And a conversation might have been sparked.
Or perhaps I'd offer to buy her a $9 bottle of water from one of the park vendors.
"Can I get you something to drink?," I'd ask, pointing to the guy selling food and beverages from a cart at a 7,000% markup.
"Water would be great," she might respond.
"One water coming up," I'd say.
"That's so sweet. Thank you," she'd reply. And maybe she'd warm up to me when I came back with her drink.
But while I was having my gay imaginary conversations with this woman, she and her date were staring blankly ahead into the field in front of us. No one was saying a word. They were two monks awkwardly maintaining their vows of silence. Then suddenly, he spoke.
"It's so nice out today."
Weather talk?, I thought. It's probably the lowest form of date communication, but at least it's something.
"Yeah, it was kind of cloudy this morning, but it got nice when the sun came out," she responded.
Not exactly dialogue David Mamet would write, but they were talking. Now it was his turn again to speak. But he choked. I could tell he wanted to say something, but didn't know what to say. I wanted to help him. I began mentally sending him things to say. I was his telepathic Cyrano de Bergerac.
"Tell her it's supposed to be really nice the rest of the week, and you're planning on taking a day off to go hiking, or something," I sent him through our extrasensory connection. "Maybe she likes to hike, and you can talk about that....Or tell her how much you can't wait for summer to start so you can go to your home in the Hamptons on the weekends. Who cares if you're lying at this point? You're dying, dude. Say SOMETHING!"
But he couldn't hear me. The Vulcan mind meld thing wasn't happening. And I sat there pretending to read my book, as these two said nothing for an additional six minutes. I timed it on my cell phone.
Finally, the poor bastard said, "You wanna grab something to eat?," and I thought there may be hope.
"Nah. That's okay," she replied, and then continued in a whiny, nasally tone: "I'm gonna go home and make some pasta and Matzah Meal."
I felt so bad for the guy. To be blown off for pasta and matzah meal by Fran Drescher's big assed sister. And by someone who should probably take it easy on the pasta and matzah meal to begin with.
"Well, nice meeting you. I'm parked that way," he said, pointing.
"Take care," she responded.
And we all went our separate ways. Her to her food, him to his car, and me to Subway - where they sell neither pasta nor matzah meal.
It all started with the guy awkwardly suggesting that they sit. She said "sure" with the enthusiasm of someone who was asked if they'd like to get a free rectal exam. Then there was a good two minutes of complete silence. It was long and uncomfortable. I imagined what I might say to get a conversation going with this chick, if I were on the date with her. Maybe I'd comment on the nice flowers nearby, at which numerous amateur photographers were snapping their digital cameras.
"Beautiful flowers, huh,?" is what I might have said.
"Yes. Those flowers are quite beautiful. They're Epidendrum Orchids," she might respond.
"No kidding? Are you some sort of horticulturist?," I'd ask.
Smiling, she'd respond modestly, "Well, I dabble a bit. Do you like flowers?"
"Sure," I'd say enthusiastically. And a conversation might have been sparked.
Or perhaps I'd offer to buy her a $9 bottle of water from one of the park vendors.
"Can I get you something to drink?," I'd ask, pointing to the guy selling food and beverages from a cart at a 7,000% markup.
"Water would be great," she might respond.
"One water coming up," I'd say.
"That's so sweet. Thank you," she'd reply. And maybe she'd warm up to me when I came back with her drink.
But while I was having my gay imaginary conversations with this woman, she and her date were staring blankly ahead into the field in front of us. No one was saying a word. They were two monks awkwardly maintaining their vows of silence. Then suddenly, he spoke.
"It's so nice out today."
Weather talk?, I thought. It's probably the lowest form of date communication, but at least it's something.
"Yeah, it was kind of cloudy this morning, but it got nice when the sun came out," she responded.
Not exactly dialogue David Mamet would write, but they were talking. Now it was his turn again to speak. But he choked. I could tell he wanted to say something, but didn't know what to say. I wanted to help him. I began mentally sending him things to say. I was his telepathic Cyrano de Bergerac.
"Tell her it's supposed to be really nice the rest of the week, and you're planning on taking a day off to go hiking, or something," I sent him through our extrasensory connection. "Maybe she likes to hike, and you can talk about that....Or tell her how much you can't wait for summer to start so you can go to your home in the Hamptons on the weekends. Who cares if you're lying at this point? You're dying, dude. Say SOMETHING!"
But he couldn't hear me. The Vulcan mind meld thing wasn't happening. And I sat there pretending to read my book, as these two said nothing for an additional six minutes. I timed it on my cell phone.
Finally, the poor bastard said, "You wanna grab something to eat?," and I thought there may be hope.
"Nah. That's okay," she replied, and then continued in a whiny, nasally tone: "I'm gonna go home and make some pasta and Matzah Meal."
I felt so bad for the guy. To be blown off for pasta and matzah meal by Fran Drescher's big assed sister. And by someone who should probably take it easy on the pasta and matzah meal to begin with.
"Well, nice meeting you. I'm parked that way," he said, pointing.
"Take care," she responded.
And we all went our separate ways. Her to her food, him to his car, and me to Subway - where they sell neither pasta nor matzah meal.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Nee How...
That's all I know how to say in Chinese, and I want to learn more. When I shared this desire with last night's date - a pretty, yet flighty resident of the Upper West Side - she seemed puzzled.
"Of all the languages you could learn, why waste your time on Chinese? Why not learn something useful like Spanish, or French, or something?"
"Because China is on its way to becoming the world's largest economy. If you wanna take advantage of that, you need to speak the language."
Her eyes lit up for a moment - like she hit the jackpot.
"So like, you're into finance and stuff?," she asked in such an excited tone that if she were a guy, she would have had a boner.
"Not really," I said. "I just wanna be able to have an actual conversation with the Chinese guy I buy my bootleg DVDs from. Right now our exchanges involve me asking him if it's a good copy, and him nodding, and saying, 'Beddy good. Beddy good copy.'...I've been buying movies from him for over a year, and I'd like our relationship to move on to the next level. And somehow I don't think he's gonna learn English."
Maybe I'm a really good actor, or maybe I don't convey sarcasm well, but for some reason, she didn't get it. I'm guessing it's because she's a moron.
"So, what? You're into Chinese men?," she asked in a disgusted tone - her "she-boner" now subsiding.
"No. I just think it would be really cool to be able to speak Chinese."
"I see," she responded, disappointed that I wasn't the rich international man of finance she was hoping to land.
"I'm sure you do, " I responded, disappointed that she turned out to be a potential candidate for the Real Housewives of NYC's second season.
The date wasn't a total loss, though. Because of her, I learned how to write "bitch" in Chinese when I got home:
What can't you find with google?
"Of all the languages you could learn, why waste your time on Chinese? Why not learn something useful like Spanish, or French, or something?"
"Because China is on its way to becoming the world's largest economy. If you wanna take advantage of that, you need to speak the language."
Her eyes lit up for a moment - like she hit the jackpot.
"So like, you're into finance and stuff?," she asked in such an excited tone that if she were a guy, she would have had a boner.
"Not really," I said. "I just wanna be able to have an actual conversation with the Chinese guy I buy my bootleg DVDs from. Right now our exchanges involve me asking him if it's a good copy, and him nodding, and saying, 'Beddy good. Beddy good copy.'...I've been buying movies from him for over a year, and I'd like our relationship to move on to the next level. And somehow I don't think he's gonna learn English."
Maybe I'm a really good actor, or maybe I don't convey sarcasm well, but for some reason, she didn't get it. I'm guessing it's because she's a moron.
"So, what? You're into Chinese men?," she asked in a disgusted tone - her "she-boner" now subsiding.
"No. I just think it would be really cool to be able to speak Chinese."
"I see," she responded, disappointed that I wasn't the rich international man of finance she was hoping to land.
"I'm sure you do, " I responded, disappointed that she turned out to be a potential candidate for the Real Housewives of NYC's second season.
The date wasn't a total loss, though. Because of her, I learned how to write "bitch" in Chinese when I got home:
What can't you find with google?
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Bad Boys
For all you chicks out there who dig the "bad boy" type, this kid certainly fits the bill....literally. He's a bad BOY. At a mere 7 years of age, you'll have to wait a while, though, until you can exchange letters, eventually fall in love, and marry him while he's doing a stretch at Leavenworth.
Grand Theft Auto 7 Year Old - Watch more free videos
Grand Theft Auto 7 Year Old - Watch more free videos
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
CHICKS DON'T FART...
That's what every guy would like to believe, but the folks at Beano are actively seeking to dispel that myth, per below.
It seems from their site that they're marketing this almost exclusively to women. Yes, I realize, of course, that women are human just like men, but why market such a product so aggressively to women? Guys fart too. Is there something about women I don't know? Are they producing proportionally more gas than men? Hard to believe with the guys I know.
Have I finally discovered the mystery of why women go to the bathroom in groups? To play a quick round of "pull my finger?"
It seems from their site that they're marketing this almost exclusively to women. Yes, I realize, of course, that women are human just like men, but why market such a product so aggressively to women? Guys fart too. Is there something about women I don't know? Are they producing proportionally more gas than men? Hard to believe with the guys I know.
Have I finally discovered the mystery of why women go to the bathroom in groups? To play a quick round of "pull my finger?"
Monday, April 28, 2008
CITIZEN KUNT
Last night, I had a very insightful conversation with a young lady taking a film class. I was introduced to this student of the cinema at a get together at a friend's place. She was cute in a "I have nothing better going on in my life right now" kind of way, so we spoke for a bit. When she mentioned she was taking some sort of film class, I politely asked how she was enjoying it.
"It's amazing," she said. "The instructor won a BAFTA."
"Cool," I responded.
"You know what a BAFTA is right?," she asked condescendingly.
"A British Oscar."
"Yeah," she responded, having trouble understanding how a mere peasant l like me could possibly know what BAFTA was. "Anyway, I just find the use of visual imagery in film so expressive. I especially like film makers who are able to tap into the zeitgeists of their eras," she continued.
Zeitgeist? Who the fuck uses the word "zeitgeist" in conversation?, I wondered. I felt like Woody Allen in "Annie Hall." I wanted to step aside, look directly into the camera and ask the audience, "Do you believe how pretentious this chick is?...'ZEITGEIST?'... What are you fucking kidding me?" Instead I just nodded, as I listened to her babble on about Kurosawa and Bergman, as if I was supposed to be impressed by the fact that she memorized the names of a couple of famous film makers.
"They were such innovators," she continued.
Her self-indulgent babbling was hitting about a 9 on the 1 to 10 scale of pomposity, so I tried changing the subject when there was a brief lull in the conversation.
"You know what I hate? When you get a bagel with cream cheese and they don't cut the bagel all the way through so that just the top is cut, and you have to rip the bottom part of the bagel with your hands. That happened to me this morning."
She gave me a "what the hell are you talking about, you moron?" look, and continued onto the question and answer portion of the program.
"What's your favorite film?," she asked.
"I can't really narrow it down to one, but Porky's is a definite contender."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously," I responded with a straight face.
"Oh. Yeah, funny," she said facetiously. "For me it has to be Citizen Kane. The use of visual imagery is just astounding."
Christ! Again with the fuckin visual imagery? Didn't the BAFTA winner teach her any other catch phrases to use at parties?, I thought. At least she didn't say "zeitgeist" this time.
"Have you ever seen it?," she asked in a tone that implied I was too stupid to even have heard of Citizen Kane, let alone have seen it.
"Yes, I have, " I said politely, as I realized she was no longer cute in a "I have nothing better going on in my life right now" kind of way. Now she was just sort of there in a "I have no one else to talk to, and it's too early to leave right now" kind of way.
"And what'd you think?"
"Of Citizen Kane? Wasn't that enamored with it."
"How could you say that? It's a classic," she protested.
"Why is it a classic? Because a bunch of film critics said so?"
"It just is."
"But why specifically? The visual imagery? That's not enough for me. The story has to be interesting too. I had to sit through two hours to find out Rosebud was his sled. Who cares?"
"You completely missed the symbolism."
"That he yearned for the innocence of his childhood? I got it. My five year old niece could have gotten it. It's not that groundbreaking."
Then she looked at me like I insulted HER film...or I told her she was fat, or something. She then rolled her eyes, and walked away.
Almost immediately, my friend came over to me to ask what I could have said to her to piss her off so much.
"We were talking about Citizen Kane. I said I didn't like it, and she acted like Orson Welles is her goddamn grandfather."
"Yeah, she can be a little annoying with that stuff," he said. "Too bad. I thought she might be interested in you. That's why I introduced you."
"If extreme condescension is her way of showing interest, then we should be engaged by next week."
"Yeah, well, doesn't matter. She thinks you're stupid now."
"She called me stupid?"
"Yep."
"Like a 6 year old calls someone a stupid doodie head for disagreeing with them, or stupid as in unintelligent?"
"Choice B."
"Why do you invite me to these things? More importantly, why do I come?"
"Because you have nothing better going on in your life right now."
"Oh yeah."
"It's amazing," she said. "The instructor won a BAFTA."
"Cool," I responded.
"You know what a BAFTA is right?," she asked condescendingly.
"A British Oscar."
"Yeah," she responded, having trouble understanding how a mere peasant l like me could possibly know what BAFTA was. "Anyway, I just find the use of visual imagery in film so expressive. I especially like film makers who are able to tap into the zeitgeists of their eras," she continued.
Zeitgeist? Who the fuck uses the word "zeitgeist" in conversation?, I wondered. I felt like Woody Allen in "Annie Hall." I wanted to step aside, look directly into the camera and ask the audience, "Do you believe how pretentious this chick is?...'ZEITGEIST?'... What are you fucking kidding me?" Instead I just nodded, as I listened to her babble on about Kurosawa and Bergman, as if I was supposed to be impressed by the fact that she memorized the names of a couple of famous film makers.
"They were such innovators," she continued.
Her self-indulgent babbling was hitting about a 9 on the 1 to 10 scale of pomposity, so I tried changing the subject when there was a brief lull in the conversation.
"You know what I hate? When you get a bagel with cream cheese and they don't cut the bagel all the way through so that just the top is cut, and you have to rip the bottom part of the bagel with your hands. That happened to me this morning."
She gave me a "what the hell are you talking about, you moron?" look, and continued onto the question and answer portion of the program.
"What's your favorite film?," she asked.
"I can't really narrow it down to one, but Porky's is a definite contender."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously," I responded with a straight face.
"Oh. Yeah, funny," she said facetiously. "For me it has to be Citizen Kane. The use of visual imagery is just astounding."
Christ! Again with the fuckin visual imagery? Didn't the BAFTA winner teach her any other catch phrases to use at parties?, I thought. At least she didn't say "zeitgeist" this time.
"Have you ever seen it?," she asked in a tone that implied I was too stupid to even have heard of Citizen Kane, let alone have seen it.
"Yes, I have, " I said politely, as I realized she was no longer cute in a "I have nothing better going on in my life right now" kind of way. Now she was just sort of there in a "I have no one else to talk to, and it's too early to leave right now" kind of way.
"And what'd you think?"
"Of Citizen Kane? Wasn't that enamored with it."
"How could you say that? It's a classic," she protested.
"Why is it a classic? Because a bunch of film critics said so?"
"It just is."
"But why specifically? The visual imagery? That's not enough for me. The story has to be interesting too. I had to sit through two hours to find out Rosebud was his sled. Who cares?"
"You completely missed the symbolism."
"That he yearned for the innocence of his childhood? I got it. My five year old niece could have gotten it. It's not that groundbreaking."
Then she looked at me like I insulted HER film...or I told her she was fat, or something. She then rolled her eyes, and walked away.
Almost immediately, my friend came over to me to ask what I could have said to her to piss her off so much.
"We were talking about Citizen Kane. I said I didn't like it, and she acted like Orson Welles is her goddamn grandfather."
"Yeah, she can be a little annoying with that stuff," he said. "Too bad. I thought she might be interested in you. That's why I introduced you."
"If extreme condescension is her way of showing interest, then we should be engaged by next week."
"Yeah, well, doesn't matter. She thinks you're stupid now."
"She called me stupid?"
"Yep."
"Like a 6 year old calls someone a stupid doodie head for disagreeing with them, or stupid as in unintelligent?"
"Choice B."
"Why do you invite me to these things? More importantly, why do I come?"
"Because you have nothing better going on in your life right now."
"Oh yeah."
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The Ass Licker
I don't really like dogs. Actually, let me rephrase that - I REALLY don't like dogs. If you're a dog person, please don't be offended. I don't like cats, or birds, or hamsters, or any other animal that people feel the need to keep in their homes either. I understand the desire for the unconditional love dog people claim to receive from their pets. I know how when you've had a rough day, there's nothing like coming home to Duke, or Buddy, or Bobo - he or she won't yell at you like your boss, or act like an asshole on a date, or be obnoxious to you at Duane Reade when all you wanna know is where the goddamn shampoo is. I get all that. But to me, dogs are just dirty. I've given the canines their fair chance by dating women with dogs, all of whom used my living room as their own personal toilets...the dogs, that is. Not the women. So when a friend called during last night's San Antonio/Phoenix game, offering to set me up with a dog owner, I hesitated.
"She's really pretty, and smart, and funny. So what if she has a dog?," she asked.
"If it works out, at some point she's gonna wanna bring the dog to my apartment, and I don't want it here. Is she cool with that?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Who cares? Why are you refusing to meet someone because they have a dog. This woman is perfect for you."
"If she were perfect for me, she wouldn't have a dog."
"Get over it. What's the big deal to have a dog in your apartment?"
"When I come over to your place, you make me take my shoes off, right?"
"Yeah."
"Because my shoes have been walking around the filthy, urine soaked streets of the city, right?"
"So?"
"Dogs don't have shoes to take off. All the shit they walk on winds up all over the house."
"You're sick."
"I never claimed to be otherwise."
"Just call her. She's really cool. I'll bet she'd even be okay with the fact that you're not a dog lover. Just don't discuss that on the first date."
I was about to give in before I asked, "Does she kiss the dog?"
"Huh?"
"Have you ever seen her kiss her dog?"
"I think so. I told you. She's a dog lover. That's what they do."
"Not all dog lovers kiss their dogs. Forget it."
"Oh my god. You need help."
"I can't kiss a chick whose mouth touched a dog's mouth after the dog stuck it's face up another dog's unwiped ass."
"You know what?," she said, "forget this girl. I'm getting you the number of a good therapist."
"Forget the girl or the therapist. Just get me a dog whose ass I can lick. It'll be the same as me kissing the girl. We can just avoid the middleman."
"Uch!," she said. "Go back to your basketball game. Hope you don't get too lonely sitting on that sofa by yourself for the rest of your life."
Her departing words stung a bit. I really don't want to sit on the sofa by myself for the rest of my life. But I also don't want to lick a dog's ass by association.
End result: San Antonio: 102 Phoenix: 96...My breath: minty fresh, and smells nothing like an unwiped dog's ass.
"She's really pretty, and smart, and funny. So what if she has a dog?," she asked.
"If it works out, at some point she's gonna wanna bring the dog to my apartment, and I don't want it here. Is she cool with that?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Who cares? Why are you refusing to meet someone because they have a dog. This woman is perfect for you."
"If she were perfect for me, she wouldn't have a dog."
"Get over it. What's the big deal to have a dog in your apartment?"
"When I come over to your place, you make me take my shoes off, right?"
"Yeah."
"Because my shoes have been walking around the filthy, urine soaked streets of the city, right?"
"So?"
"Dogs don't have shoes to take off. All the shit they walk on winds up all over the house."
"You're sick."
"I never claimed to be otherwise."
"Just call her. She's really cool. I'll bet she'd even be okay with the fact that you're not a dog lover. Just don't discuss that on the first date."
I was about to give in before I asked, "Does she kiss the dog?"
"Huh?"
"Have you ever seen her kiss her dog?"
"I think so. I told you. She's a dog lover. That's what they do."
"Not all dog lovers kiss their dogs. Forget it."
"Oh my god. You need help."
"I can't kiss a chick whose mouth touched a dog's mouth after the dog stuck it's face up another dog's unwiped ass."
"You know what?," she said, "forget this girl. I'm getting you the number of a good therapist."
"Forget the girl or the therapist. Just get me a dog whose ass I can lick. It'll be the same as me kissing the girl. We can just avoid the middleman."
"Uch!," she said. "Go back to your basketball game. Hope you don't get too lonely sitting on that sofa by yourself for the rest of your life."
Her departing words stung a bit. I really don't want to sit on the sofa by myself for the rest of my life. But I also don't want to lick a dog's ass by association.
End result: San Antonio: 102 Phoenix: 96...My breath: minty fresh, and smells nothing like an unwiped dog's ass.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
THE GORGEOUS LADIES OF POLYGY-DATE
After an overwhelming response from potential investors, and obtaining the necessary capital, the Polygy-date website is officially under construction, and we hope to be up and running before the next compound is raided. Just to whet the appetites of those interested in meeting a bride, or two...or ten, here are some early member submissions:
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Matzah Nazi
Just as I was finishing the remains of a bag of garlic flavored pita chips on Sunday afternoon, I got a call from this chick with whom I was set up by an acquaintance. I've specifically used the word "acquaintance" because this matchmaker is no friend...not because I have anything against her, I just barely know her. She's the friend of the daughter of a friend's business partner. I met her once for about 10 seconds somewhere at some point in time. It might have been at a wedding, at a funeral, or at one of those