Return From The Dead

So I’ve been gone a while. You may have noticed. You’ve moved on to read the scribbling of other degenerates. I understand. You’re in a different place now. What we had was great, but you’re just a different person. It’s not you, it’s me. That sort of thing.

Who the fuck do I think I am just crawling back into your life?

I’m the motherfucking king, that’s who.

Look, whatever other short-comings I have (and there are a SHITLOAD of them, believe me), I can still throw words on a page with the best of them. And after shedding my girlfriend and 20 pounds, I’m back, vicious and ready to spread my vitriol across the web like a herpes outbreak.

Last you heard about my personal life, I was happily dating and gainfully employed at a new company. Well, I’m 0-2 in those respective departments. I know, it’s stunning that neither a woman or a place of business would want me hanging around for years on end. The profanity, my inability to keep my mouth shut, my degradation of women, religion and the country…really, where did I go wrong?

You know what I blame? Pittsburgh. Fuck that shit-kicking, hick-ridden, inbred-infested, gay-steelworker employing backwater. Seriously, what the shit was I thinking?

Back in NYC (well…within hailing distance, anyway) things are pretty bleak…but at least it’s not Pittsburgh. I think that’s about to be become my new favorite phrase.

“Hey Ehren, that fat chick you’re taking home is balding, covered in acne and sweating like thermal tighty-whitey encased balls in a sauna.”

“Yeah, but at least she’s not Pittsburgh.”

Actually, they have a name for fat, sweaty, balding, acne ridden girls. They call them "Pittsburgh 10s". And by “they” I mean “Me”.

It’s weird as hell being single again. I haven’t seriously flirted with a strange girl in like 3 years. At first I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to remember all my old lines and pick-up routines. Then I remembered that I never had any. Unless you count Rohypnol and astroglide.

In my prime, I could pick up the phone and be guaranteed ass from at least one of 5 or 6 girls. Granted, some where a drive and a half away, but the option was there. In my absence from emotion-free sex (or, since it was a live-in relationship, should I simply say “absence from sex”?) they’ve all found better things to do with their vaginas. What the fuck! They should have been home by the phone with a vibrator on the off-chance I decided to call. One of them has a kid now. It’s depressing to me that a girl I once anger-fucked on the hood of my car is now somebody’s mom.

Fortunately, the real beauty of having a blog like this is that even when shit goes horribly wrong, I can think “well, at least this is going to make a funny fucking post.” My supply of ass has been cut off, forcing me to branch out and meet new people. I like to call this “the recipe for disaster.” You should call it “your lucky day.” Hilarity is the only possible out-come. I’ll be back soon, bitches.

Decision 2008: Fanatics, Old People, Women, and Blacks: Who Does America Hate Less?

I do my best to remain as politically uninvolved as possible. Because as far as I’m concerned, politicians have won: I don’t care. I can’t afford to.

See, there are a few things in life that make me even crazier than my alcoholic, incoherent, foaming-at-the-mouth norm: popped collars. Club music. Paris Hilton. But as far as I’m concerned, politics is well on its way to becoming more retarded than any other item on the above list.

I’ll let you in on an observation of mine: the point of this process is to punish you for knowing anything. This is a bipartisan effort on behalf of the people who run things. For example, let’s take any one of the debates:

Moderator: What would you do to turn around the economic collapse?
Candidate 1: Not be a douchebag like my opponent, who looks like a terrorist and is responsible for fucking up in the first place.
Candidate 2: I would continue not being a whore of big oil, unlike my aging, decrepit opponent who wants to deregulate loan-sharking.

Then for the next two weeks, the news networks have partisan speakers who both claim that their candidate won and made the other guy look like the cock-tampon he really is.

It's times like this that Futurama's Phillip Fry makes the most sense: "If I were registered to vote, I'd send these clowns a message by staying home on Election Day and dressing up like a clown."

Why get involved in that process? Seriously. My blood-pressure and I were better off sitting this one out until Election Day, reading a print-out of the candidates policies, and then showing up in the local high school gym to vote. Nice and easy. No need for a complete mental breakdown involving a high-powered rifle and a book depository. Speaking of which, if Obama wins, let’s just say I don’t think he’ll be parading around Dallis in a convertible anytime soon.

Like everyone else wasn’t thinking that, too.

Unfortunately, my plan has gone to shit because of Sarah Palin. Sound-bites that fucking dumb simply cannot be ignored, no matter how hard I try. So here are some observations that have come to me after my reluctant reawakening to politics as usual:

1. Conservatives keep referring to Sarah Palin as attractive as if saying it will make it true. She’s not. She’s just hot for an insane, hate-mongering, barely-self-cognizant cultist. Exactly like Ann Coulter.
   
2. At first, I thought she and McCain were insane for constantly referring to themselves as “Mavericks.” They’re part of the Republican system that went completely mad with power following 9/11. They are “mavericks” in the same sense that Charles Manson is a “beltway insider.” Then I looked up the definition of the word: “Maverick, noun: an unbranded calf, cow, or steer, esp. an unbranded calf that is separated from its mother.” And I realized, yes. Palin is a fat cow.
   
3. Palin = Dan Quayle + tits.
   
4. Every two days, Republicans come out with a new buzz-word, and fly-over states go completely crazy with adoration:
1. Main Street
2. Gotcha Journalism
3. Liberal Elitism
4. Hockey Mom
5. Joe Six-Pack
   
5. I resent being referred to as “Joe Six-Pack.” I’m really more of a “Johnny Vodka” or “Crandall Schlitz” myself.
   
6. No one else mentioned it, but during the debate, Palin said that she “was opposed to another holocaust.” Way to take a stand. Anything else you want to come out against? Maybe child molestation? How about the prostitution of the mentally handicapped? Seriously, though, I’m relieved. When someone thinks that dinosaurs and carbon dating are part of “God’s Tricks” to test our faith, you can’t take opposition to killing off Jews for granted.
   
7. Joe Biden is kind of scary. Why does he always refer to himself in the third person? Unless…he’s not the REAL Joe Biden.
   
8. No matter who is elected, we’re completely fucked. The difference is that Obama might be able to buy us another 10-15 years. McCain, probably gets us 5. And, God forbid, Palin immediately signals the apocalypse. On a completely unrelated topic, how difficult is it to become a legal citizen of Canada?
   
9. Some people have been asking whether America is ready for a black President. I think we are. Except Idaho. I know. You were probably expecting a joke about the south here, but according to CNN, the state that supports Obama least is Idaho. What the fuck, Idaho? Apparently, McCain’s message resonates most strongly with inbred potato farmers, explaining why he’s currently behind in the polls.
   
10. McCain looks like a muppet. Nothing north of his overbite moves, other than his eyes, which blink way too frequently. It’s as if he’s consciously over-blinking in an attempt to convince voters that he’s alive.

Now, in truth, I’m not really happy with either party. I think they’re both fuck-ups pandering to special interests. Republicans are hate-mongering oil-whores, and Democrats are spineless spendthrifts. But in the end, I have to go with the party currently owned by slightly less scary lobbyists and corporations, and a few percentage points less likely to completely destroy the country, world and life as we know it.

And after all, isn’t that what politics in America is all about?

Ratboy

My girlfriend, Scientist, kills mice for a living. In theory, she has the kind of job that can only be described as a budding sociopath’s wet dream: Each day, she is responsible for the death of 250 mice.

Before the little furry vermin are sent to their death, they get shot up with illegal drugs, including Heroin, cocaine, and PCP.

It’s weird to think that she got a degree to shoot mice up with H.

Because of the staggering amount of mouse deaths in her lab, my friends and I have come to call her office “Maushwitz.” And yes, we’re aware that we’re probably going to hell for that.

Ironically, one of the reasons Scientist hates her job is not because of the mouse, but a rat. Allow me to explain.

One of her co-workers bears an uncanny resemblance to the offspring of Edward Norton and a rat: the beady eyes, pointy noise, and huge incisors have all contributed to his nickname: Ratboy.

His grotesque, rodent-like appearance is not the only reason for the moniker, however. Ratboy might be one of the most irritating people I’ve ever met. There’s just something about a rat-like idiot with a superiority complex and an inability to keep his mouth shut that just rubs me the wrong way. Call me crazy.

Ratboy was talking to Scientist when he said, “So I’m thinking about leasing a car.”

Scientist: OK. Why don’t you just buy one?
Ratboy: Because I’m not an idiot like you.
Scientist: What?
Ratboy: Well, look: in three years you’ll be done pay for your car and you’ll be stuck with a cheap piece of shit. In three years, I’ll just be able to start over fresh with no commitment.
Scientist: I really like my car. And in three years I’ll OWN my car, which will be worth about 15 grand. I can use that TOWARDS a new car, if I want one. You, however, will have flushed about 20 grand down the toilet and will have to start over.
Ratboy: You’re so shortsighted. Leasing is the best possible long-term investment you can make.

This is exactly the kind of fiscal savvy that can only be seen in companies like Enron. I wonder if there’s someplace he can go to lease a set of teeth that don’t look like they were just gnawing drywall.

As the conversation above clearly illustrates, Ratboy is not what you would consider “smart.” But it’s not because he doesn’t read. As my girlfriend discovered in a separate instance:

Ratboy: Hey Scientist, I have a site you should join.
Scientist: Oh yeah?
Ratboy: Yeah, it’s like the greatest idea ever: booksfree.com
Scientist: OK, what is it?
Ratboy: Well you know Netflix? It’s like that, except for books. I pay $30 a month, and they send me any book I want, with no late fees.
Scientist: So…it’s not really “free.”
Ratboy: But I can borrow any book ever made!
Scientist: You mean like the library, which is actually “free.”
Ratboy: No, this is cool because it’s online. And this is unlimited.
Scientist: …Like the library?
Ratboy: But there are no late fees!
Scientist: Late fees at the library are like a nickel. You could keep your books for 2 years and not owe $30…which you pay every month.
Ratboy: But they have EVERY BOOK. Not just some old research material.
Scientist: Have you ever heard of interlibrary loan? Libraries can borrow books from other libraries. So you can get any book every printed.
Ratboy: You’re so shortsighted, Scientist! I can’t believe you don’t understand why this is the best site ever.

While I was writing this post, I decided to do a quick image search of the web. Apparently, before he committed crimes against common-sense in a Westchester laboratory, he spent his evenings in the Gotham City gutter trying to thwart Batman.

The resemblance is eerie.

Reece's Peanut Butter Crotch

A couple months ago I got a puppy. A few observations:

1. Why is “don’t shit inside” such a difficult concept to grasp? He seems to understand, “fridge = food,” “sitting = treats” and “Spray bottle means stop chewing on Ehren’s face.” He can’t pick this one up? I’d trade the rest of his knowledge for learning that the carpet is not his own private shitter. 
2. The dog may be possessed by Satan. I say this because he sleeps with eyes open and rolled back in his head. Combine this with a fondness for dozing off in the weirdest positions and the demonic barking and growling he does and it would be truly frightening if he were any larger than a ham.
3. The amount of ass that would be available to me if I were single is truly astounding.

Now, I’m aware that I’m a little late on that last subject. I knew that this was a technique that had been used for time out of mind by the men who brought you such famous hits as “crabs” “anal” and the donkey punch, but seriously…after walking around with my puppy for a week, I suddenly realized what he was: no-game-necessary card.

EVERYONE had a reaction to me. Virtually every person on the street suddenly made eye-contact and stopped to chat with me. I’m not sure why it is that people automatically assume that because you retrieved a dog carcass from the nearest dumpster, you never lured children into a van or sport-fucked the mentally ill.

Seriously, Jack Saddle is going to get a ridiculous amount of ass simply by borrowing my dog. AND he doesn’t have to scrub shit stains out of a rug at 11:30 on a Wednesday. I hate you, Jack.

I was watching my new puppy, Capone, eat peanut butter the other day from a hollowed out toy called a Kong. What I noticed was that in between slurps of Jiffy, he’d take time off to wash his genitals. Naturally, this got me to thinking: what if Reece’s got it all wrong?

Those would have been some disturbing commercials:

• “Nothing goes with smooth, rich peanut butter like the tangy, nutty taste of crotch.”
• “Hey, your cock fell in my peanut butter!” “No, your peanut butter fell onto my cock!”

Or, my favorite:

• A peanut butter truck veers out of control and crashes into…a truck full of dildos on the way to an all girl porno shoot.

Good times. And you know, I might have been more open to sampling this novel appetizer if I saw an ad for it. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to consent.

Capone has the unnerving habit of sitting on the couch next to people, watching them carefully until they are otherwise occupied, then launching himself at their face, to lick them vigorously. If you’re unlucky enough to be talking, eating, or have any open orifices, then you’re treated to a generous helping of puppy tongue.

This is regrettable because his favorite past time (when not eating shoes, shitting in weird places, or attacking your face) is going down on himself with an enthusiasm that frankly puts most women to shame. So when I happened to be tongue-raped while eating a peanut butter sandwich, I got to sample the questionable “peanut butter and dog crotch” flavor that had been sweeping my living room to rave reviews. It was under-whelming at best. Let’s just say that as much as I’d love to watch commercial actors biting Peter Pan smeared dog wang on national television, I wouldn’t be waiting for this to appear at a candy stand near you in the foreseeable future.

Me Protest Pretty Someday

“Retards protest use of word ‘retard’” should be the headline for this news item. Apparently, mentally challenged supporters of the mentally challanged are up in arms because the film “Tropic Thunder” uses “the liberal usage of a disparaging term used to describe the mentally disabled.”

A couple things here:

1. For those of you not familiar with the film, it features Robert Downey Jr. in blackface. It warms my heart that a movie that brings back the most racist film device of all time is being attacked for completely unrelated reasons.
   
2. Although you wouldn’t know from their cause, there is little proof that the protestors are actually retarded. I find it insulting that these protestors would attempt to pass themselves off as retards to the unsuspecting public. I demand to see some I.Q. tests before I trust that you have the best intents for the retard-community.
   
3. The film is directed by Ben Stiller. You do realize that this blog represents the largest publicity campaign the movie is likely to generate, don’t you? Your public out-cry represents the answer to the question, “if you demean mentally challenged people in the woods in a Ben Stiller film, will anyone except retards pay $12 to see it?”
   
4. The film co-stars Ben Stiller. Asking him to play mentally retarded is like asking Ian McKellan to play queer.
   
5. From what I gather, the uproar regarding this word is that it implies that being mentally challenged is a bad thing. Umm…do I really even need to address this? Let me be the one to break it to you: even if you changed the condition to “Super-happy-funtime–brain-relax” pregnant mothers won’t be lining up to chug pints of Everclear. Now please, put down the signs, pick up your helmets and drool-cups, and return to the basement.

OK, that was wrong of me. But I guess I have an issue with people protesting and getting up in arms over a word. I side squarely with George Carlin who said, “There are no bad words. There are bad thoughts, bad intentions, but there are no bad words.”

So if you’re pro-retard, I’d have to ask you, “Really? There’s nothing better you can be doing to improve the life of a mentally handicapped person right now?” I’m assuming you took time off from work. It wouldn’t be better to just mail your day’s check to a center that trains functionally retarded people to become valued members of society?

I guess the whole point is that we, as a society of haters, need to be FOR more things. And by the way, I’m aware that this whole post, as a protest of a protest, lumps me squarely in a group with those I just denounced. Which, I guess, makes me retarded.

William Zabka: Office Manager

I meant to write another post on my last day. I really did. But then at 2:00, my boss insisted that I leave and start drinking. Technically, I was still his employee for another three hours, so I had no choice but to obey.

It took me a while to decide how I should quit, mostly because I’m still harboring quite a bit of rage. I’m sure that’s shocking to my readers. It’s not like I’d written every day for two solid years about shit I hate…oh wait…

The guy who was responsible for me leaving has the same name as a comedian who had a very shitty sit-com. I guess something about that name just inspires mediocrity and douchebaggery. So, for the purposes of this blog, (and to avoid the “slander” charges the retarded HR rep threatened me with) I’ll be referring to him as “Sinbad” going forward.

Now, I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t contemplate getting even with Sinbad. Among the possibilities I considered for payback were:

1. Cracking a bunch of windshields on random cars in the area and placing his business card under the wiper.
2. Lacquering porn to every available surface in his office.
3. Distributing T-Shirts to the office that read, “I hate Sinbad.”
4. Hiring a private investigator to take revealing pictures of him and then sending them to the entire company.
5. Slipping acid into his coffee before one his “all hands” presentations.

However, I finally decided that the revenge that made the most sense would be to skewer him right here. After all, I know he reads it. This blog got me into trouble so it’s only fitting that it should be my weapon for returning fire. Now, no matter how hard I slam him here it won’t be equal to the damage he did me. I realize that no matter what I write here, it won’t hurt his employment status like he did to me. But hey, I’m not a gutless, coward suck-up and I don’t believe in fucking with someone’s livelihood. So here goes:

Sinbad is a tall guy, with blond hair and a shit-eating grin vaguely reminiscent of the villain from the Karate Kid (Oh, William Zabka. How were there ever villains in 80’s films before you?). He’s oozed his way up like a fresh genital wart on the cock of a 75 year-old transvestite. And with roughly the same aesthetic effect.

Sinbad’s greatest ability is to commandeer credit for the work and ideas of others, followed closely by his talent for laying the blame for his many shortcomings at the feet of anyone who works under him. In my years experience working with him, I’d say that he’s driven almost completely by his insecurities. If I had to compare him to any historical figure, it would have to be “Insane-living-in-a-bunker-era” Hitler, minus the charisma and with less empathy for the suffering of others.

There are a few of instances I feel really outline what kind of leader and man he is:

• He was managing a large project that called for some complex interactions between a number of departments. Because he is completely ineffectual in describing what he wants done, discerning what works and what doesn’t, and perhaps the worst motivator I’ve ever known, the project soon hit the skids. When people higher up the chain asked why the job hadn’t been completed, the heads of department under Sinbad scheduled a meeting to explain the problems. According to office scuttlebutt, Sinbad found out, canceled the meeting, screamed and pouted to his boss that everyone else was gossiping about him, and threatened the department heads if they actually held the get-together.
  
• He once sent me an email forbidding me from discussing his projects with the legal department.
  
• I come from a background where the only thing that matters is your ability to do the job. The work is the most important thing. So if I come up with an idea and you can logically persuade me that I’m wrong, I’ll agree with you…even if you’re a complete douchbag. Sitting down at a table with Sinbad was the first time in my professional life where I could logically prove that an idea was poorly conceived and receive the response, “Well this is what I want, so we’re doing it anyway.”
  
• I’ve actually heard him say, “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll tell [company president name here] on you.”

But enough about his complete failure as a manager. There are plenty people in the world who are simply not cut out for leading who have none-the-less weaseled their way into positions they are disastrously unqualified for. What really sets Sinbad apart is his complete failure as a human being.

I didn’t have much of a personal relationship with Sinbad. But what always set my teeth on edge was the depth of his hypocracy. As you can guess, Sinbad has what some would call an irregular personal life. Yet he had absolutely no problem blackballing me over my blog, something that has no bearing on my professional life.

Recently, someone close to him died and he decided to use the opportunity to give a speech to the company. He spoke about a number of things, mostly about how his dearly departed friend “loved everyone and trusted us to save the world.” Honestly, I had difficulty following the speech because Sinbad loves the sound of his own voice more than Andy Dick loves cock. But the gist of the speech was definitely about how everyone in the office should love each other more. Lovely from a man who goes out of his way to fuck over the people he works with.

If you’re reading this, Sinbad, I’d like to say that irony of this whole thing is that I suppose you were right for trying to fuck me over. Because if I had to work with you any more closely, I probably would have eventually snapped and tried to kill you with a hammer. But I guess it all worked out in the end. After all, I’m happy and content knowing that I'm no longer near you in any capacity. Which is why we shouldn’t feel badly for your poor, departed friend.

Guess Who's Back?

I guess I should find it ironic that after years of joking that my company would “get wise and fire me” they almost did. Sadly, I think it’s one of those things that will only become amusing years later.

Basically what happened is that I got into a dispute with a douche-bag of a co-worker and when I complained to HR, he sent my blog to the company president.

The funniest part of this was that I then had to go into a meeting and defend my job to an HR woman who may actually be functionally retarded.

Alleged HR Retard: Well, we're concerned about how your slanderous writing reflects on the company.
Me: You shouldn’t be. When it’s in print, it’s called “Libel.”
Alleged HR Retard: Well, still…When you get sued…
Me: The only person in my blog who isn’t anonymous is me. I’m crazy, but I don’t think I’m crazy enough to set a president of trying to sue myself for defamation. Also, it’s not actionable if the “libel” actually happened.
Alleged HR Retard: FINE. But the point is that you’re representing the company when you blog.
Me: You mean my anonymous blog represents the company? The one where I never post a last name or mention where I work?
Alleged HR Retard: But your picture is up there.
Me: So your theory is that someone will see a picture of me and somehow know the name of the horrible company that employs me?

We went round and round like this for a while but the end result was this:

1. I was put on probation and forbidden from blogging again under threat of termination.
2. A black mark went on my “permanent record.” I can only assume it appears next to the incident in 3rd grade when I was sent home for swearing.

The bottom line of all this was, “Your time here is up. We want you gone, but don’t want to get sued.”

So what have I been doing since then? Well the person who started this whole shit-storm is very high up. So it’s given me immense pleasure to stick around and rub his nose in the fact that he’s such a lightweight he couldn’t even get me fired.

That’s been the fun part. The sucky part has been trying to find another job, because as much as I bitch about how giant and evil this company is, I’ve generally enjoyed working here.

Monday, I’m off to a new (and better) job. Where, instead of being the bottom step of the company, I’ll be carpet on the bottom step. Ah, sweet progress!

Will I return again? Of course! Check back later today when I dedicate an entire post to the light-weight, incompetent, douche-bag who started all this!

Ehren Writes A Romance Column

Ah, the internet: supplier of porn, haven of child-molesters, and purveyor of useless information. Clearly, the fact that I work for an internet company has done little to improve my opinion of the online world.

Among the more worthless features provided by my company is a “Romantic Tip of the Day” section. Said tip isn’t actually written by anyone in company. In fact, no one seems to know WHO wrote this mind-numbing schlock, because it’s set on a constant, year-long loop that first appeared 6 years ago. That’s right. It’s only a “daily tip” if you’re permanently living in the year 1974.

Some of you might wonder why I said 1974 instead of 2001. All my entries were actually penned in the ‘70s and have been repeated ever since. Hey, like Travolta, I know my career will never die.

Anyway, a sample of this daily load of shit is:

My boyfriend and I have been going out for 2 years now and sometimes it is hard to find a new fun ways to surprise each other. So, I decided that instead of waiting for the next holiday to spoil him, I would create my own holiday--in his honor. I called it Appreciation Day. The entire day was filled with fun surprises to let him know that I truly appreciate his love and friendship! Needless to say, by the end of the day, I think I eventually got my point across!

I hope God strikes their genitals with warts the size of basketball.

At any rate, there was recently a panic because the feature wasn’t updating. And some of my co-workers joked that I should take up the mantle of supplying romance to fat people in Ohio. Hey, that’s what they make duct-tape and blindfolds for. Here’s a taste of what an “Ehren’s Romance Tip” column would look like:

• Take a day to finally fulfill her rape-fantasy! Or better yet, hire a friend, co-worker, or felon and make it a day she’ll never forget!
• Nothing says “I love you” like a swarm of locusts. In his car.
• Above all, women value commitment from the men in their lives. Make a statement by getting closer to her family. Have sex with her sister. Her 6th grade classmates will think she’s “sophisticated.”
• Some men find prostate-stimulation arousing. Surprise your lover tonight with chloroform and a 12 inch black rubber dildo!
• Spice things up in the bedroom tonight with a little adventure and competition: last one to orgasm has to fuck that crazy, knife-wielding hobo that lives under the over-pass.

I really missed my true calling in life. Of course, maybe it’s for the best. People who get romantic tips online should never breed anyway.

The Other Other White Meat

I was thinking today that should my current employers wise-up and fire me, I have the perfect fallback career. In the event of my inevitable termination I’ll pack up my things, move to New Guinea, and start a Human Ranch.

Now, if you’re a member of the local cannibalistic tribes, why settle for the same old fair of lost tourists when you can have Handsome Ehren’s Corn-fed Free Range Human? Nothing toughens up a cut of meat like stress and there are few things in the world more stressful than wandering through Cannibal-infested jungle.

Of course, I imagine that competition would eventually be inevitable once people see the kind of dough I’m raking in. Fortunately, I have an idea to keep me one step ahead of the competition: Human Veal.

Yes, nothing warms the heart like the thought of 10,000 babies being force-fed through little, tiny cages.

Your Girlfriend Has AIDS...Metaphorically

People like to say that there’s a distinction between women and bitches. There is, but it lies only in the probing mind of the beholder. Much in the same way they can give you AIDS without you realizing it was them, those girls you consider to be non-bitches are really just women careful enough to cover their open sores with make-up.

That’s right, I just compared bitchiness to full blown AIDS. Both are non-treatable. The only difference is that I didn’t give bitchiness to your mom. She was a bitch even before the unprotected anal play.

Over the years, I’ve gotten used to the general pettiness of women. Not that men can’t be petty…but women seem to have the innate ability to transform a mild incompatibility into a full-blown Israel - Palestine level of hostilities in a way that is just stupefying to me. For example, Jane cuts in front of Darla in the line at the office cafeteria. So Darla, having no other possible recourse, spreads the rumor around the office Jane is an unreliable drunk. Jane, acting in accordance with female etiquette, has Darla’s children crippled by hiring a deranged hobo to jump them in the parking lot at school with a hubcap. So Darla neuters Jane’s husband with a bolt-cutter and injects radiator fluid into Jane’s spine with a syringe in the elevator.

I know, I know. It’s the oldest story in the book.

The thing is that I have this weird tendency to forget that this viciousness continues to exist, lurking just below that thin layer of mascara, blush, and lace.

I was at a bar last weekend, when two of the girls in my group began discussing a girl at the bar.

“What’s going on now?” I asked in my typical on-the-ball manner. “You hate who because of what?”

“That cow in the pink shirt over there.” One of them hissed. “She’s such a cunt.”

I don’t know a lot about women. I do know, however, that when they use the word “cunt” to describe someone, it’s not because they want to dyke out with them. Believe me: I’ve tried to push the issue.

No, if there were two men involved in an altercation who happened to run into each other in a bar, there would have been one of two courses of action:

1 ) They would head out to the parking lot and beat each other senseless like decent human beings.

Or

2) They would actively ignore each other and nothing would happen.

Neither of these options were acceptable for the females. Instead, they launched themselves over to the offending woman, and struck up a lively conversation. They chatted for about 20 minutes, before inviting her over to join our table.

The evening marched onward with the casual banter and mirth of a knife fight.

“So Martha, I heard your husband was recently laid off. Don’t feel bad, we’re all amazed he lasted this long. He isn’t drinking again, is he?”

“Nancy, I just love that shirt on you. I didn’t know that JC Penny carried plus-plus sizes.”

But in case, if there was really any question about who is more evil men or women, the final point was driven home by the rounds of drinks and cigarettes that the ladies kept forcing on their foe from the bar. Cocktail after cocktail followed countless blazing butts down her throat. One of the girls even got up to buy a new pack of cigarettes.

“And why is that evil?” you ask. To be honest, I didn’t understand it either…until the girl started discussing baby names with the group.

Evil.