October 4, 2009

A friend of mine recently became a divorced, single mom.  She’s back in the dating game and is really having a hard time finding, well, a guy who isn’t a total pig.  Sure, she expects some piggish behavior.  I mean, hello?  But come on, have some manners… (no offense to men, I like men, a lot, and no this is not about any men I know either IRL or Online, so don’t panic you’re all cool and nice and polite).  But honestly, when you have absolutely zero redeeming qualities, as some of the whackjobs my friend has dated lately?  God.  Might as well punch yourself in the nutsack and call it a day.  Just sayin’.  And some of the men my friend has described to me?  Oh, dear Lord.

I decided I’d help my friend by making a list of things she can show her prospective dates.  So maybe they can get a clue and have a second date with her or any other person they might be interested in.  Perhaps, even get laid at some point.  Or at the very least not get slapped or punched in the neck.  I told her to print this off and send it to them before their date.  Sure, that might be slightly difficult to do, but hey, its worth a try.

Some basic rules to possibly snag a second date and/or even get laid:

1. Try not to be a douche.  Simple, it really is.  Don’t talk about your ex (or if you’re still married, um, fuck off and why are you on a date?).  Don’t tell your date that you think the waitress is “bangable,” and then proceed to wink (last guy she went on a date with, totally did this).  If you’d like to screw the waitress, do it on your own time, not on our date.  See?  Simple.  But know, if you bang the bangable waitress, there will be no second date with me.  Take note.

2. Pay for some of the shit.  Please.  If you make me take out my wallet every single time, yeah, there will be no second date and sure as hell no sex.  No, and not even a handjob.  Get lost.

3. Picking.  Don’t do it.  If you must retrieve something out of somewhere, leave the room, table, dance floor, what the hell ever, just don’t show me.  Don’t tell me about it either.  Don’t care.

4. If you excuse yourself from our date to use the bathroom, don’t come back and tell me about it.  Yeah, don’t want to hear about it.  At. all.  Don’t care what you did, how big it was, how long it took, if it resembled an old classmate, Don’t care.  See # 3.  DON’T CARE.  And you’d better wash your fucking hands.

5. Avoid scratching your balls.  Sure, all guys apparently do that, but on our first date OR EVER, resist the urge.  A slight discreet adjustment, fine, but all out finger-digging scratching?  Um, yeah, not attractive.  And if you then think that I’ll be laying a finger/hand/face on those balls you’ve been rubbing through your pants all night?  Not frigging likely.  Take care of the major rash/itch on your own time.  Is that asking too much?  Or if you’re scratching/digging because your balls are sweaty?  Yeah, read on to # 6.

6. Come groomed.  Honestly, do you own a mirror?  If you have nose hair longer than your pit hair, trim it.  It’s easy.  There’s even nose hair trimmer thingies!  For realz.  Get one. 

Brush your fangs.  If you’ve been eating garlic and pizza and drinking beer for the past week, yeah, you need to sterilize your cakehole (love the word cakehole by the way).  If I can name what you’ve eaten in the last 48 hours by the smell of your breath, I’ll vomit in your shoes.  That’s a promise.  Not even kidding.

Do not smell like BO.  It’s 2009.  No one should smell like sweat and/or shit.  Seriously.  No excuse for it.

7. Don’t brag about your money (’cause dude, if you’ve made me pay for everything thus far, I’ll know you’re a) a lying sack of shit or b) a douche or 3) a lying sack of douchebaggery-asswipe-ish-ness.  Yeah, don’t care what you make – at least not on our first date.  Total turn off.  Also money related?  Telling me you forgot your wallet… lame.  See # 2.  Yeah, my friend’s recent date pulled this stunt.  And then never paid her back or called her again.  Classy.

8. I don’t want to know how many chicks you’ve bagged or how many names you have in your little black book.  Take that book out and I’ll cut you.  I’ll just assume you’ve been laid before and know that I have and we’re good.  Do not need to compare notes.  Don’t care what you did with Sally, Darla, or Brenda or how Kathy could “take it all.” <–Yeah, that might impress your guy friends, but your current date?  Not so fucking much.  However, on the note of sex, if we’re going to have it, I’d like to know if you anything that I may not want.  Actually, I don’t fucking want it, so fess up.  That shit you need to disclose.  Not on the first date, of course, but also don’t wait until we’re in the “moment” to drop a bombshell.  See # 1.

9. Yeah, burping the alphabet, while does require effort, is not sexy.  If we were 10, maybe it would be fun and/or funny.  However, if we’re over 12, then it’s not.  And I’m pretty sure we are over 12.  And saying things like, “You’d better stand 10 feet from me, wheeeeewwwww weeeeeeeee, those nachos are doing a number on me,” is not going to make me want to jump your bones later.  Keep that shit (uh, no pun) to yourself.  Which brings me to # 1o.

10. I don’t care about your bodily functions.  At all.  Not even a little bit.  I don’t care to know what you do in the bathroom… yes, I have an idea, but I prefer to keep that stuff “fuzzily” in my brain.  Please never discuss any of it with me.  Not on our first date, second or 10 years into the marriage.  I will never care about what you do once you close the bathroom door.  See # 3, 4, and 9. 

My friend’s date with “Tom” sort of went to the bathroom talk, as in, “Tom” telling her about his explosive diarrhea that he experienced the day before and how his “bottom” (Yes, because saying “bottom” instead of “ass” makes it less disgusting) was still “raw.”  Needless to say she didn’t sleep with him and she was going to up until that point because she thought he was hot and she hadn’t had it in a while.  So, to “Tom,” dude, you could have gotten laid had you not disclosed the information about your shitty, raw ass.  *sad face*

Honestly, it’s easy to get a girl to go out with you a second time.  Know what the secret is?  Bring out your feminine side… act like a guy but with some sensitivity (I know, what fantasy world am I living in?).  Or, hell, just don’t burp, fart, tell me about the dump you took, or pick your nose, and we’ll be good to go.

Hope this helps, “T” honey.  I love ya, but I’m glad it’s not me in the dating pool.

September 20, 2009

And other lies I might tell you.  (The whole I got a boob job got you here, didn’t it?… Might as well pull up a chair and read the rest… providing you’re bored to tears and don’t have a life on Saturday night).  And, now, technically, it’s Sunday.  Oh.My.God.  I might finish this post by Monday.  Maybe.

I didn’t really get a boob job, but I’m not ruling it out.  Just so you know.  I have a very strong desire to tell you random crap that I’m thinking and/or feeling and since I believe in following strong desires, I’m just gonna do it.  If I bore you, you’re obviously reading this wrong and really, that’s not my problem.  Get help.  That’s all I’m sayin’.

So, random stuff:

I bought this new necklace last night and it’s gorgeous.  I wore it today yesterday two days ago and it’s all shiny and sparkly and all kinds of awesomeness, except, now that it’s almost midnight, I’d like to remove it from around my neck.  Only one problem: I can’t get the sucker off.  The clasp is nailed shut apparently.  Not opening.  I guess I’ll just have to look fabulous in bed. (Yeah, PS. It’s not almost midnight, because um, I’m lame-o and started this on Thursday night and it’s now Saturday evening .  It’s now Sunday.  And me?  I suck).

TGIF.  It’s now 12:01 as I type this and could be 2:05 p.m. before I finish it.  Just depends on what the hell my brain will allow. (And um, PS again… it’s not Friday, it’s Saturday as I’ve already mentioned.  And?  I suck, again). <—Nope, not Saturday now either, it’s Sunday, at nearly 3 a.m. Scratch that.  It’s now Sunday at 5 pm.  Holy fuck.  Monday is looking good right about now.

Pictured: My daughter and her best friend (not the birthday girl), who is the daughter of one of my best friends.

Went to a roller rink today for my girlfriend’s daughter’s party and the kids all looked so cute skating around, disco lights flashing and music booming.  Did I skate?  Um no.  That would have been horrifying.  Not for me, but for the people watching.  I could not do that to another human being.  People were laughing, having fun, being joyous  and seeing me on roller skates?  Would have definitely ruined the happy atmosphere.  I was not going to be responsible for that pain.  OK, sure, I may have looked cute, but as far as performance?  That shit would have been awful.

If I had a brownie right now, I’d lick it and then eat it.  Some dude on Twitter (won’t mention any names) was – I won’t say torturing me (but he totally was) – teasing me STRONGLY with his, Oh I have brownies with fudge and they’re so good, blah blah blah.  Is that not cruel?  Sure, I could make brownies (even though I suck in the kitchen… correction: suck at cooking in the kitchen) and hell, I could even buy them but that’s not the point.  What is my point?  Oh, yeah, I want someone to MAKE them for me.  Or buy them for me.  Whatever works.  Sad fact is, I have no brownies.  And I want one.  Or eight.

I might watch a movie tonight.  Not sure what movie, yet, but I’m in the mood to watch something scary and be, um, scared.  I like being scared – to a point.  You throw spiders at me, and I’ll be so scared, I’ll drop dead.  I don’t mean that much scariness, just some.  Like sitting on the edge of your seat kind of scary.  Nail-biting scary (I don’t bite my nails though).  That’s the kind of scary I want.  I also want to fall asleep listening to Pink.  I’m so bloody tired, and I love Pink’s voice, and can’t think of a better way to drift off.  Well, sure, there are probably a few better ways to fall asleep, but right now?  That one sounds like heaven.  Since this is also an update post because I sucked at getting this finished in a timely manner (because yeah, it’s riveting), I didn’t watch a movie BUT I did fall asleep last night listening to Pink.  Had some good dreams.

It’s windy here.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  And since it’s now Sunday at suppertime, it’s not windy.  Why didn’t I just scrap this post all together?  Because that would mean starting over.  And?  I’m much too lazy and tired for that shit.

I gambled for the first time last weekend.  Went to Yuk Yuks comedy club (the three comedians were so flippin’ funny, which is a plus seeing as they’re comedians and people paid good money to see them, be funny), which is upstairs from the casino and we had an hour to kill before the show, decided to play the slot machines.  We each took a $20 bill which gives you 80 credits.  Well, after 25 minutes or so of pushing a button (MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, HOW CAN PEOPLE SIT THERE FOR HOURS AND PLAY THOSE THINGS?) and winning 10 credits here and there, I was getting down to my last 30, so went big and bet 3 credits at a time.  Well, things were getting down to the wire, and with the next push of that button, I won two hundred credits which was equal to $55.25.  Not quite the jackpot but hey, it was more than I had come with.  I’m a winner!  Winner!

I went shopping today and made a few purchases.  Bought some shirts, which I might model for you later, depending on my mood and if I’m still wanting to wear clothes.  I might be walking around nudish.  Sure, my kids hate that shit, but so what.  It’s my house and I”ll do what I want.  Gah. I’m such a rebel.  Hey, if Lady Gaga – or as I like to call her Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta (’cause we be tight) - can walk around pantless, I can walk around topless.

OK, listen, I’ve bored you long enough.  If you stayed to read this far, you are either really desperate for something to read, just released from a mental institution and don’t know any better, high and/or drunk or love me enough to put up with this shit.  Whatever the case, thank you: