Tattoos: Why Not Just Ask That Guy At The Bus Stop To Give You Herpes Instead?

Today at lunch I sat across the room from a shapely redhead: cute face, nice body, low-cut-top and a tongue-ring. She flashed a look at me over her sunglasses in that way women do. It’s a look that seems to say, “If you can’t impress me from across the room in 4 seconds, I’m mace-ing you next time you make eye-contact.”

I was checking her out…but not because I was attracted to her. See, she had a banging body, a great face, and perhaps the ugliest tattoos in creation covering her arms and shoulders. It started at her elbow and was solid ink all the way up to her collar-bone. The tips of what I assumed to be flowers rose out of her tube-top and ran up to her neck. I’m sure she thought it was the hottest thing in the world, but all I could think of was the red asses on those baboons in the zoo.

I think, if done correctly, tattoos can be really hot. Unfortunately, in the history of the entire world, only eight people have gotten it done right. Here’s the problem with girls who have a hot tattoo: they see it, decide it looks great and then they decide to get another. And then two more. Pretty soon, they’re getting a life-size depiction across their face and chest of Gene Simmons shitting into the mouth of a chimp.

The maximum number of tattoos that a woman can have and still be considered hot is three. After that, you’re a pair of busted leather pants away from blowing bikers behind a truck-stop Denny’s.

I hear so many people say, “It’s art! I’m just expressing myself!” They don’t hang the Mona Lisa an inch from a giant, sweating, ass-crack. And think about this: if you have a Rembrandt, a Picasso, and a Pollack, you wouldn’t cram them all onto one, six-foot wall in your house. While each might be individually pretty, they all conflict with each other in close quarters. It’s too much for the eye to take in.

Also, for something that’s supposed to be a true expression of one’s individuality, I see an awful lot of ugly, generic tattoos floating around. Here’s a tip: getting a flower, star, moon, heart, or unicorn in the small of your back doesn’t really express who you are. Unless, of course, you’re trying to say, “I have no taste.”

I had the urge to get a tattoo once. Then I decided I’d just buy a new T-Shirt instead. Bam, problem solved. No needle, no fat sweaty-guy strung out on crystal meth hunched over me in the back of a store somewhere, and no regrets. Tomorrow, next week, 50 years from now, I can always go out and buy another shirt. I know what you're going to say. “I know what’s cool! I wouldn’t get anything tacky tattooed on my body!” Really? 20 years ago I thought jams and parachute pants were cool. 15 years ago people thought Vanilla Ice was cool. For some reason, people keep going to see Brendan Frasier movies. Seriously, Brendan, give it up. You’ve proven that you’ll do any script that falls in front of you. I heard that you thought your kid's copy of See Spot Run was your next project. Hard Core Porn actresses have done less humiliating things in front of the camera.

My point is, if you’re looking for a way to permanently mark up your body, consider Herpes: it’s cheaper, easier to get, and you can share it with your friends. Plus, in 50 years when your belly sags down over your genitals, it’ll look the same as that lame-ass heart you got on your navel when you were 19.

Why Buy The Milk When You Can Fuck The Cow For Free?

I was thinking today about people who get married before ever having sex, and trying to weigh the pros and cons for both sides. On one hand I admire their commitment, on the other it seems like a weird sort of goal. You wouldn’t buy a car without taking it for a test drive, would you? No, that’s an unfair analogy. Try this: You wouldn’t buy a car when you don’t even have a license.

Maybe I’m missing the whole point of the exercise. Sure these days it speaks volumes for your self-control, given the seemingly limitless supply of sorority girls and date-rape drugs, but the end game is still you rolling off an unsatisfied girl after two strokes on your wedding night. Or, for you ladies, bleeding while holding a traumatized guy and wondering what all the fuss was about.

I guess maybe this comes down to a fundamental difference between how people view sex. I’ve never just viewed sex as recreation…even when it was for no other purpose. I always go into each encounter trying to learn something new. I figure girls are all different, so no one thing is going to work for everyone, but by the time I get married I’ll be able to rock my wife’s world. Have you ever seen the old Kung Fu movie: The Seven Deadly Venoms? Basically, there are a bunch of different martial arts styles. I think of each woman as a master who knows one form of Kung-Fu, and my whole purpose is to learn. When I get married, I’ll be DEADLY in bed. I’ll be a master of all seven styles.

I’d be interested to know what percentage of people who saved themselves for marriage end up having affairs. One might think that it would be low because people who avoided temptation in the past can probably continue to stay the course. But maybe it would be higher due to the greater chance they’re having bad sex in marriage. Sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship, but it’s a real good indicator of how a couple is doing. Because bad sex means (barring medical problems) there’s no communication, bad sex leads to no sex, no sex leads to resentment, resentment leads to temptation, and temptation leads to cheating. And we all know what cheating leads to…other than herpes, I mean: shattered trust. And when the trust is gone so is whatever relationship you had.

On the other, I’ve noticed that people who have a lot of bad sex tend to completely forget that good sex exists. This number’s probably dramatically increased with those who’ve only ever slept with one person. Like I knew a girl who said that oral sex was disgusting. And she meant receiving! THAT’S the kind of thing that worries me about people who save themselves for marriage. You don’t even have a clue about what’s good and what’s bad.

Sometimes I think that’s why religious types tend to marry much earlier: they have to save themselves for marriage, while every fiber in their body is telling them to go fuck like rabbits. Something’s got to give. If I were saving myself, I would have been married at 20. I have no idea how anyone waits longer.

I don’t mean to knock the people who do it. The fundamental rule about sex should be: don’t do it unless you’re comfortable and sure. And I’m sure it’s going to make the person you end up with feel extra special that you saved yourself for them. But in the end, I’d rather do a job right then do it first.

Sexlexia

I was reading the headline news today and it appears that illegal immigrants are holding some sort of protest rally. I don’t really want to get into a debate about the politics of the matter, but doesn’t it seem like a monumentally stupid thing to do? If you’re living in this country illegally, why exactly would you want to draw attention to yourself? If INS was smart they’d be waiting with helicopters, nets, and about 50,000 trucks. That’ll teach you to stand up for your rights, Pedro! FYI, rights are for people who pay taxes. I wonder how patriotic these people will be the first time they have to go to jury duty.

I’d be more politically correct, but I doubt anyone who’d be offended can actually read English.

OK, now on to good stuff:

I had a little while to look back over my scribblings here, and I have to say I’m pretty shocked about the sheer number of words I’ve put down inside of 5 months. Who knew I had that much going through my head? I was thinking of compiling a “Best Of” list for people who are new, so if anyone has any suggestions or any favorite posts, please let me know.

Also, it was a landmark month for me in terms of traffic. I’ve never had a blog or website before, but for the first time I had over 1,000 hits in a month. A super huge thanks to everyone who visited…Also an incentive: I vowed if I ever got over 1,500 in a month I’d actually spend some money on the site and make it attractive. So congratulations, bitches! You’re two thirds of the way to making me spend precious beer money.

It’s been a while since I wrote, and I’m sure people have been wondering where I disappeared to. I wish it was something dramatic like, “kidnapped by a futuristic species of alien women who need an earth man to teach them how to love” or “engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse with pirates of the Volcanic Rim” or “hunting the deadliest prey of all: machete-wielding gorillas.” Unfortunately, it’s nothing nearly that cool. I’ve been dealing with writer’s block. When I first started my angry rants here, I hadn’t written a creative thing in about two years. I had plenty bottled up. Now, I guess the ideas are a little harder to come by. At any rate, I intend to keep up with the blog more reliably from here on out. The temporary plan is to write once a day, Monday-Friday.

What’s behind my writer’s block? Simple: I’m DYING for ass. I’ve gone from pathetic to desperate to just looking to penetrate something with a pulse other than my hand. I know, as sexy as Ms. Right is (and, sometimes, her Swedish half-sister, Ms. Left), things are looking bleak. I’d like to tell you I couldn’t write in my blog because I was solving world hunger or curing cancer. Unfortunately, it’s been nothing so selfless or noble.

Whatever else masturbation is, there are two things it’s not: productive or deeply satisfying.

Don’t get me wrong, there are nights when I just want to finish up so I can get some sleep…but generally, the difference between my hand and a woman is like hitting a homerun in batting practice compared to game seven of the World Series.

I’m not sure if anyone else is like this, but my sex drive varies based on the season. Basically, I have two levels of sexual frustration: Ultra and “Rabbit-on-angel-dust-and-Xtasy.” I wish I knew why I go through months where recovering senior citizens, burn victims, and amputees suddenly seem “kinda hot.”

What sucks is that I never know when the urge to spread my seed goes from life-damaging to “criminal.” If I did, I could at least plan to take that week of from work and do nothing but masturbate till I got calluses. I know, I know, things would be much easier if I lived with a steady girl. But what you’re missing is that when I’m like this I go from “moderately entertaining and occasionally charming” to “deranged lunatic.” I go CRAZY. My usually weak game deteriorates until I’m about as witty, personable, and fun as a lobotomy patient. When I get like this, I suddenly remember what it was like to be a teenager living in a perpetual catch-22 of sex: I want sex because I can’t get it and I can’t get sex because I want it.

That’s right my friends, I’m afraid I’ve been struck by the deadly illness I call “Sexlexia.” Symptoms include inability to function, maintain conversation, or do anything productive because of a lack of ass. The cure: half a bottle of Jack Daniels, whipped cream, fuzzy hand-cuffs and two bi-curious airline stewardesses.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: as soon as they make a patch-substitute for sex, I’m there. In the meantime, it looks like I have a date with two girls tonight: Ms. Grabby and Ms. Squeezy. And they’ve both been VERY naughty.

What The Hell Is Going On In Japan?

The time has come for me to admit I have no fucking clue what they’re up to over in Japan: The music, the TV shows, the women…they might as well be an alien species. Have you sat down and tried to watch one of those Anime Cartoons? If you’ve really no better way to waste thirty minutes of your life, I have a suggestion: Buy a cork screw and heat it to approximately 400 degrees. Then jam it in your eye socket until you hit bone. Because you’re better off hunting through the discount bin in Davy Jones’ Locker looking for an eye-patch that’s really “you.”

On a side note, one of my friends came up with an idea for a can’t-miss concept band: Pirate Metal. They’d play shows up and down the wharfs, rocking out with super up-beat metal versions of Sea-Shanties. Can’t you just imagine a lead singer with a mic looped through his hook? I even typed up a Wanted Ad:

Wanted: recovering amputee to front Sailor-Metal Band. Peg leg and prosthetic arm a plus. Extra consideration will go towards candidates who “lost their eye in a grog-house fight with a Turk.” Must be willing to work with Parrot.

Sorry, I’m easily distracted. What was I talking about? Oh yeah! The Japanese! Ordinarily, I love Adult Swim on Cartoon Network. But between those Anime shows, Tom Visits the Mayor, and those reruns of Saved by the Bell that they’re running, I’m seriously considering switching to Comedy Central. Anime is unwatchable.

I dated a girl who was into Anime. I even went as far as downloading a bunch of the X-Rated stuff for her. She was enthralled. I have no clue why. Here’s a typical moment from a Japanese Cartoon:

A girl is trying to break into prison. So she whistles and a squirrel the size of an autistic kid’s head jumps out of the tree and attacks the guards.

“What the fuck is that?” I demanded
“Oh…that’s sort of her pet squirrel.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that? That thing’s never been on screen before. And who keeps squirrels as pets? Squirrels that are trained to attack people? If you’re looking at beefing up the home security, why would you want an attack squirrel? Wouldn’t a dog make more sense?”
“I don’t know…they never really explain it.”

And by the way…what’d the deal with every woman in Japanese Cartoons wearing bras that are, conservatively, quadruple G? They are, in the words of Celia Hodes of Weeds, “Freak show big. So large that smaller breast want to orbit them.” I’ve never seen a Japanese girl larger than a B. David Spade has bigger tits, ok? Trade in your training bras and give up the dream.

By far the weirdest thing produced by the Japanese, however, is the Porn. Look, I’m a guy with the normal appetites. Sometimes I like my videos a little raunchy. It’s not like I’m running home to download videos of choir practices. Go ahead and slap that ass! Give her a Pearl Necklace! It's all a fantasy, anyway.

A man can only go so far, however. That's why I’ve stopped downloading Japanese porn. Because no matter how kinky the porn you’re looking for, anything made by our rice-eating brethren to the east is assured of being 900% filthier. I think they’ve given up any straight fucking. Anytime you download a Japanese clip you’re guaranteed to see a video involving 12 live eels, penis warts, and a bathtub full of feces. Or a ten year-old girl getting skull-fucked by a 600 pound ape with Herpes. Or...well, you get the idea.

In college I knew this girl who desperately wanted to be Japanese. She spoke it, she read about the culture, she gave herself a Japanese name...she even refused to date guys who weren’t from there! And she was a skinny white girl from Upstate New York! Apple Pie and Hotdogs are more exotic than her. At any rate, I was out in the hall chatting with a bunch of our mutual friends and her when she slammed on me about something. I nodded laughed and made a mental note to get revenge. A few minutes later she said something that I asked her to repeat.

“I said, ‘I’m an egg.’ You know, white on the outside, yellow on the inside.”
“Oh.” I replied. “I thought it was because I’d get salmonella if I ate you raw.”

Hard Work And The Secret To Drinking

I think hard work, as a practice, is falling out of fashion. Think about it: job performance, movie quality, musical ability, and oral sex are all at all-time lows. Kids are all emulating rap-stars and pop-sluts. For some reason, people actually care what Paula Abdul thinks about talent. Paula, you are to “talent” what Tom Cruise is to “not fucking psychotic.” I’ve seen more watchable performances on re-runs of “The Gong Show.” True story: when I was in kindergarten, a bunch of kids told me that she was a transvestite. I’m still waiting on some glimmer of evidence to convince me otherwise.

I was auditioning people for a band I was putting together and dealing with all sorts of people who just assume that they’re going to be rock stars. This type of thing really pisses me off.

One girl wouldn’t come in unless she was promised full creative freedom and was allowed to play bass and sing. Small problem: she could neither sing NOR play bass. One kid talked to me on the phone for a week before telling me the night before, “OK, small problem: I don’t technically own an instrument.” News flash: if you don’t own an instrument, you’re not a musician: you’re a homeless guy without a sign. You don’t see your mom going to work without her snatch, do you? How else would she score crack?

The story that really takes the cake, though, is a guy who emailed me a few times, missed two auditioned and disappeared for three months. Then, when he finally resurfaced called me to find out if I could “help score amphetamines.” At what other job would that seem even sort of ok? “Hey, I know I skipped my job interview, professor, but do you know a guy for H?”

Judging from continued success of the penis pill companies and the general insecurity of women everywhere, it seems like people want to be good in bed, but aren’t willing to put in any effort. Not long ago I wrote a post about why some men aren’t big on giving head. Ladies, if you want to get, you’ve got to give and seriously step up the effort.

I was with a fantastic woman over the weekend who knows how to treat a man right. But before that, I have to go back a long way to find anyone who was even ok at it. One of my best friends still believes that good head is a myth. Ladies, that should be an embarrassment to all of you. If any of you had an ounce of respect for your gender, you’d knock out your teeth, fly down here and prove him wrong.

Effort, ladies and gentleman, goes a long way. If you want something, you have to work at it. Try to enjoy whatever task you’re doing, or at least imagine it’s something you like. For example, I was out with one of my friends who had never done a shot before. She kept coughing and choking each time she took one down. Being the good pal that I am, I broke it down into an action I knew she’d done plenty of times before.

“There’s nothing to it.” I said. “Just close your eyes, open wide, and aim for the back of your throat.”

REALLY fake breasts

It’s not often that I eye-rape inanimate objects. I mean, I’m just not the “blow-up” doll type. I figure if you’re going to be attracted to fake anatomical parts, you’re better off dating a transvestite.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not slamming on fake boobs…at least not the kind you’re thinking of. I was walking through the mall over the weekend, when, for possibly the first time ever, I noticed the breasts of the mannequins in the stores. Yes, they were all perfect plastic sweater-cows, the likes of which can only be seen in virtually any porno movie, but there was something else: they all had nipples. Each mannequin was sporting what appeared to be 2” nipples poking through the shirt, dress or sweater that they were wearing. It was enough to make me stop mid-stride.

It wasn’t as if this was a lingerie store, either. They were selling blouses and generic women clothing, which has definitely gotten racier over the years, but still…nipples? Why would anyone need to see that? It’s not like men were going to be buying the clothing because they thought the mannequins were hot. And why would women want to wear stuff that showed off their nipples? I mean, if they wanted to do that, they’d be better off sporting body paint.

What scares me most about the nipple development is not that I know that eventually 12 year old girls are going to assume that flashing is trendy. What concerns me is that I know that it will never stop here. Mark my words, three years from now I’ll be walking by a men’s department where a mannequin is sporting a full, 12” hard on. It’ll be dressed in a pink button-down shirt, halfway open, to show off enough golden chest-hair to weave a hut for a village of freezing Eskimos. Beige khakis will spill down into sandals and one hand will be casually holding a tennis racquet. But there, unmistakably, unavoidably, undeniably will be a giant, foot-long erection.

I imagine that even through the pants, it would be obviously circumcised. I only hope that by that time, they’ll have the technology to make the throbbing of it’s many noticeably veins fully realistic. Otherwise, what would be the point of dressing up a giant cock in dress pants?

Clothes are meant to cover your body. If you’re THAT into flashing your breasts to the entire world, give it up and just start going topless. Selling clothes using a mannequin that has blatantly obvious nipples is the equivalent of making cereal boxes with a fat dude taking an enormous shit right on the cover.

The fact that they have anatomically-correct mannequins doesn’t freak me out. What I’m really curious about, however, was the first mannequin manufacturer who said, “Damn it, Rupert! We need to make our mannequins with nipples. HUGE nipples. Think ‘porn star drowning in ice-water’ big.” What was the first company that didn’t immediately tell that guy to pack his shit up and get the fuck out?

I guess what the whole thing has taught me is that by the time my daughter (provided I ever ever have one) is 15, she’ll be hurrying off to school wearing nipple-tassels and a thong to show off her clit-piercing.

And people wonder why parents flip out and kill officials at little league games…

My Boycott Of Good Taste

I think that technology has peaked. It appears that there are no possible advancements left to make. At least that’s what razor advertisements have led me to believe.

About six years ago, there became a distinct new trend in the way they try to sell razors to men. It went from “if you shave, you’ll be swimming in pussy” to “Never in the history of mankind has any invention EVER been as revolutionary as this.” Essentially, razor companies are telling you that before their latest product, man was squatting in caves, masturbating furiously and eating bugs.

The change coincided with the release of the first shaving implement that had three blades. I sort of tune out when these commercials come on now, but from what I gather, they’re now up to 79 blades.

“The first 12 trim hair, the next 23 smooth cartilage and ligaments, the next 21 cut bone, while the remaining 23 manicure brain and spinal chords for the closest shave in history. Gentlemen, welcome to ‘The Guillotine.’”

I don’t mind that people are innovating, but come on. I think we’re overselling the evils of facial hair. I remember when I first saw advertisements for the “Mach 3.” The actual line that they used in the commercial was, “Our team of scientists has completed a breakthrough.” THEY ADDED ANOTHER BLADE TO AN EXISTING PRODUCT. It’s the equivalent of adding soap to a rope. Under what conditions do you imagine they’d need a “team” of “scientists”? I can see it now: 20 scientists in lab coats huddled around a blackboard.

“Now I know we should add something to the razor, but what?”

“Sandpaper!”
“Herpes!”
“Tapeworm!”
“Rotting cod!”

The commercials would ordinarily be enough to launch me into a boycott of the entire shaving industry. If I had the capabilities, I’d be walking around like the fourth member of Z.Z. Top. Unfortunately, I have the misfortune of being facial-hair retarded. I’m 26 and I STILL don’t have to shave anything from my bottom lip to my neck. Basically, when it comes to facial hair I can grow bitchin’ Mutton Chops or nothing at all. I may have no chance of understanding fashion, but I’m not ready to completely give-up and start dressing like a Dickens’ character…yet. On the other hand, the four bladed razors have been in stores for a good year and a half now. When they release the fifth blade, I may have to take my anger out on myself and the general public. I’ll just resign myself to having strangers come up to me on the street asking for more gruel.

Men are all blind to how bad their facial hair looks. A man could have the skankiest, ugliest, scraggliest child-molester mustache in the world and he’d still think he looked good. Come on, you KNOW Hitler thought he looked like a pimp.

For example, I was walking through the mall with two of my friends. We’d been ambling around for a while before one of them commented, “You know, we’ve been hanging out all afternoon and neither of you guys said anything about my mustache!”

I replied, “You mean you’re doing that on purpose? I just assumed you were letting yourself go!”

Hey, what are friends for?

Very Bad Things

The subject of “bad sex” recently came up in a conversation with my friends. Bad sex does exist for men, believe it or not and it can be caused by any number of factors. I guess I’ve been pretty lucky in my choices of women to only have had one absolute dud.

Generally, I pride myself on being able to read a woman’s sexuality. Somehow, I can look through a room full of women and pick the girls who genuinely LOVE sex. Sort of like Christopher Walken’s character from The Dead Zone.

“Wait…Tomorrow…you will get up…put on garters…black ones…and have the overwhelming urge for…REVERSE COWGIRL.”

It’s a gift that I try to use for good and not evil. Generally, I fail miserably.

At any rate, my ability to follow the old “divining rod” had steered me right in the past. Alas, every streak comes to an end.

As I stated in my “Dating Resume” I don’t discriminate based on religion or skin color. I’m an equal opportunity lover. So the girl I was seeing seemed fair enough. She wasn’t the shapeliest of individuals, but she had a cute face and a good sense of humor. Both of those things go a long way in my book. Essentially, she was a solid 6 in appearance with great personality.

I was ok with everything, until things started to get heated between us. I read somewhere that women have special garments that “lift and separate.” Apparently, I had no idea exactly how much lifting and separating was possible these days. When I saw her naked she had slipped from a 6 to a 3. It was a horror scene. Her stockings and panties must have been sown from reinforced steel. I'd seen better definition and muscle tone in waterbeds.

Despite that, I’m nothing if not determined. I’d already gotten this far and I decided that the least I could do was suck it up and take one for the team. “Do some charity work” as the kids say. If I had known what I know now, I would have cut and run right there.

I separate pubic hair in three distinct categories:

• Shaved
• Trimmed
• Julius Irving, Circa 1975

What I got, however, was totally unexpected. The only way I can really describe it is as a sort of pubic mullet. Generally, when you come across a girl who’s got a horrible 70s bush, you can sort of let it go saying to yourself, “Well, she doesn’t know any better. She’s not trying to do anything fancy down there.” But this…how could you NOT notice that. It looked as if a sweaty Cory Feldman was lying on her lower thighs and trying to eat her stomach.


I knew it was time to cut my losses when I had to grab her back-fat to pull her ass up high enough for doggy style. Let’s just say that the tread on her tires was completely gone. I’ve been down slip and slides with better grip.

Eventually, I decided that enough was enough and I took the easy way out: I faked an orgasm.

This alone should give you an idea about the level of desperation I had reached. Women, I now understand your pain. There was no way I was going to get off and all I wanted was the opportunity to pack up what was left of my self-respect and die in a hole somewhere.

I drove home in dead silence. I couldn’t even stand to have the radio on. Every now and then I would realize that I was chanting something: “Not clean! NOT CLEAN!” 40 minutes of hot shower did little to scrub away the horror of it. For months afterward, I woke up sitting bolt upright with icy sweat dripping down my body.

Basically, I no longer fear death.

I guess what I’m saying here is that the key element in choosing a partner, much like in drinking, is to know your limit. Eventually, you have to realize that the dream is dead and there are just some horrors out there that man is not meant to face. I know, I know. There are nights when you just want to get ripped and only have money for Avocado Schnapps. But sometimes, it’s just better to keep your self-respect.

Girls Who Want Me...Dead

I’ve decided that the main difference between how men and women view relationships is optimism and pessimism. Allow me to elaborate.

Men tend to assume that there are limitless possibilities in the dating pool. A while ago I said that if a guy brings a great girl over to meet his buddies, the buddies say to themselves, “I got to get me a girl like that.” The key word here is LIKE. In a man’s world, there’s always the possibility that someone better might come along. I think secretly all men are assuming that eventually something better will come along. This might be why some men are loath to commit. Deep down, we know that the world is a big place and there will always be women who don’t know better than to date us.

Women on the other hand think that the dating pool is more like a dating puddle. In a woman’s eyes there are, at any given time, no more than 78 datable men in the entire continental U.S. In the event that one is encountered, they must be pounced on and locked down at all costs. It doesn’t matter if he’s dating someone else. Employers, life-long friends, family members: they’re all are nothing more than obstacles standing between what should rightfully be yours.

I’m endlessly amused by women who accuse men of being mean-spirited. When a guy has a problem with another dude, they fight. They knock each other’s teeth out then buy a round for the loser. End of fight.

When women have problems, the whole thing becomes an entirely new level of nasty. A spat between females means spending the remainder of your existence into grinding your opponent into the dust. The idea is to smile to their face, but work behind the scenes to destroy their self-esteem, friendships, employment opportunities, and credit record. When a woman makes enemies, she won’t rest until her opponent dies broken, fat, miserable and alone.

Some people might think I’m over-reacting. Turns out I have a story.

A girl I dated (Let’s call her “Jill”) and I had some problems that led to me ending things. “What kind of problems?” you ask. Well other than decking my friend’s fiancé, being incapable of telling the truth, and having the sex drive of a rock, she was fine, I guess. At any rate, I broke up with her. All would have been ok, except she insisted on remaining friends. I tried to tell her, “Listen, if you want to stay friends that’s great. I’m all for that. But don’t just say you want to be friends and then do nothing but plot about getting back together.”

Of course, that’s exactly what she did. Regardless of what you ladies think, breaking up with someone is NO fun. What I soon discovered was that hanging out with Jill meant that each time I saw her I had to break up with her AGAIN. After the fourth time I completely flipped out.

In my defense, it was right towards the end of finals week. For some reason, I had decided that finals week was also the perfect time to start in with a new girl, who Jill knew nothing about. The result of these two activities was that I had gotten a total of about 6 hours sleep in the past week. I was in the middle of writing a 20 page thesis on “Post-Structuralist Theory and Modern Belief Systems” when I got an Instant Message from Jill.

“Hey. Don’t you think we were the cutest couple ever? Don’t you think that we could get back together maybe in a year or something after you’ve had a little space?”

I snapped. I’d told her a number of times that things were through and she just wasn’t getting it. So proceeded to point the obvious facts that she was:

1. Psychotic
2. Pathological
3. Terrible in bed
4. Had roughly the same build and beauty of a plank of wood.
5. In no way capable of emotion, love, honesty, improvement or understanding
6. Lacked a soul

I went medieval on her. I was wrong to do so.

Once a week later and then again a few months following, I sent her emails to apologize. I received no reply.

That had been my final semester at school, but when the year started up again I started hearing stories from my friends who still attended the university. Apparently, this girl had begun spreading the story to my old friends and professors that I had beaten her and given her an STD. Needless to say both stories were completely false.

I flipped out and called her. While it didn’t go well, I told her that I was sorry for the things I said at the end of our relationship and if she had any problems she could take them up with me directly.

I would have thought that the story would end here. Alas, it doesn’t. 5 years later, I found out from a friend that she (yes this is a direct quote) “prays and plots nightly for my pain, torture and lingering torment.”

I’ve had a lot of bad break-ups and arguments with people. But you know what? There are only a handful that I still keep grudges against. Of those few, there are none that I wouldn’t forgive if they came to me and said the right thing.

Fights, Feedback, and Fellatio...Well, Cunnilingus, Actually. But I Dig Alliteration!

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