Why are so many men AFRAID of commitment? Um... because so many women are ADDICTED to commitment? For every man who irrationally runs away from even the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection there’s a woman who grabs the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection and loves it and hugs it and squeezes it and chains it to an engine block in her basement and feeds it scraps through a hole in the floor.
"Why won't you give me just a little commitment!?" Well, for the same reason I wouldn't give an alcoholic "just a little taste" of my beer. Feed a table scrap to a puppy, it wags its tail. Feed a table scrap to a lion, it eats your arm.
I set my standards high, because I’ve learned that the alternative risks me falling into emotional slavery - in my 20s I was all about "ooooo, how can I get into her pants" but now I realize that it's usually a lot easier to get into someone's pants than to get back out. You have to have an exit strategy...
That’s what women's underwear have in common with Middle Eastern wars – you have to have an exit strategy. Otherwise you find yourself 5 years later going "What the hell am I still doing here?!?! I thought this was going to be a weekend thing, get in-get out. I did not sign up for all this… this shit is costing me a fortune. I so should have pulled-out before I surged – now I’m committed."
I realize this phenomenon is not gender specific, there are plenty of lost men out there who have a HOWLING emptiness that they think can only be filled by feeling needed - they want to be your saviour, without noticing you don't need a fucking saviour. The kind of man whose idea of a great second date is type-matching his organs so he can offer you a kidney if you ever need one. The “too-much, too-soon” creepy guys. “Hey, it’s Dave, just wanted to say hi and tell you I really enjoyed our first date. Not sure when you’ll get this voice mail so I’ll also text you. And e-mail. And send you a message on MySpace and Facebook. And leave a note on your car. And in the bottom of your favorite cereal bowl. Oh, and I’ll tell your mom you said hi.”
The worst is when the needy, neurotic man starts to date an equally needy, neurotic woman. That’s the kind of relationship where the “I love you more – no, I love you more” argument ends in a fist-fight and a knifing. “If you really loved me you would not be bleeding on me right now!”
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
MySpace interpreted
“I hate drama!” = I am a self-centered, inconsiderate person with a habit of screwing over my friends. When they choose to confront me about this, I choose to call that “drama”. The reason I’m so sick and tired of drama is because I create so damn much of it.
“Life is not measured by the breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away.” = Not only am I wholly unoriginal, but chances are I’ll make you read my bad poetry.
“love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one is watching” = Not only am I wholly unoriginal (again) but by the third date I’m usually occupying one of his dresser drawers and two of his bathroom shelves.
“Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll – I was born to party!” = Proud Parent
“Love me or hate me, either way you’re going to be thinking about me!” = You will hate me. Most people do.
“I like all kinds of music”= I like all kinds of shitty, derivative music.
A Marilyn Monroe quote= I’ve never actually seen a Marilyn Monroe movie
A Paris Hilton quote = I’m just like Paris Hilton, but unfortunately I have yet to realize that being a proudly ignorant whorebag is only a workable lifestyle when you have your family’s billions to fall back on.
“I ain’t lookin for no playaz!!” = I have always been tricked by players. I will always be tricked by players.
“Some people don’t get my sarcasm” = I don’t realize there’s a difference between being sarcastic, and being a bitch.
“I’m the coolest mom on the block!” = “Why doesn’t Jenny’s mommy sleep fully clothed in a puddle of her own urine like you do three nights a week mommy?”
“I want to meet one man who can prove that all men aren’t the same” = The reason I think all men are assholes is because I keep dating assholes. Men don’t suck – my taste in men sucks.
“Life is not measured by the breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away.” = Not only am I wholly unoriginal, but chances are I’ll make you read my bad poetry.
“love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one is watching” = Not only am I wholly unoriginal (again) but by the third date I’m usually occupying one of his dresser drawers and two of his bathroom shelves.
“Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll – I was born to party!” = Proud Parent
“Love me or hate me, either way you’re going to be thinking about me!” = You will hate me. Most people do.
“I like all kinds of music”= I like all kinds of shitty, derivative music.
A Marilyn Monroe quote= I’ve never actually seen a Marilyn Monroe movie
A Paris Hilton quote = I’m just like Paris Hilton, but unfortunately I have yet to realize that being a proudly ignorant whorebag is only a workable lifestyle when you have your family’s billions to fall back on.
“I ain’t lookin for no playaz!!” = I have always been tricked by players. I will always be tricked by players.
“Some people don’t get my sarcasm” = I don’t realize there’s a difference between being sarcastic, and being a bitch.
“I’m the coolest mom on the block!” = “Why doesn’t Jenny’s mommy sleep fully clothed in a puddle of her own urine like you do three nights a week mommy?”
“I want to meet one man who can prove that all men aren’t the same” = The reason I think all men are assholes is because I keep dating assholes. Men don’t suck – my taste in men sucks.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Guess what...they did die for nothing...
THEY DIDN'T DIE FOR NOTHING!!! – it's an emotional hammer they beat us with if we dare question the value of this war– "Are you going to tell those soldier's families that their loved ones died for nothing!?"
No, I won't have to , because they'll figure it out for themselves.
Guess what? EVERYONE dies for nothing – killed in war, killed by a drunk driver, killed by cancer – all death is ugly and petty and shabby. Death is not noble, it's not heroic, it doesn't serve a greater purpose. We all die for nothing – the question is what do we live for. Laying down your life for a cause is not the ultimate sacrifice… dedicating your life to a cause is the ultimate sacrifice.
If you glorify the death then it cheapens the life, and lessens the realization of the tragedy.
No, I won't have to , because they'll figure it out for themselves.
Guess what? EVERYONE dies for nothing – killed in war, killed by a drunk driver, killed by cancer – all death is ugly and petty and shabby. Death is not noble, it's not heroic, it doesn't serve a greater purpose. We all die for nothing – the question is what do we live for. Laying down your life for a cause is not the ultimate sacrifice… dedicating your life to a cause is the ultimate sacrifice.
If you glorify the death then it cheapens the life, and lessens the realization of the tragedy.
Monday, April 7, 2008
A woman isn't smart enough to be president
It’s an opinion he shares with anyone who’ll listen, although that indicates no special status since he shares all his opinions with anyone who’ll listen. It’s a simple belief, stated in simple terms:
“Women aren’t smart enough to be president.”
He’s half right, because what he’s really saying is that the women he’s met aren’t smart enough to be president.
“All the women who’ve dated me are stupid!” Well…you got me there.
You have to realize that in this man’s world there are only two kinds of women: idiots, and women who won’t talk to him. You wear acid wash jeans, reek of Marlboro Reds and spend your leisure time shooting rats at the city dump, you’re not going to be meeting a lot of self-actualized women. Not a lot of poly-sci chicks standing in line behind you at the Ratt concert.
He doesn’t tend to think of women as “smart”, “successful”, “accomplished”… he tends to think of women more in terms of “hot”, “sexy”, “babe”… basically his descriptive vocabulary is limited to adjectives that these women have embroidered on the ass of their sweat pants.
In larger terms, he lumps women into two general categories: drunk or sober. Or more accurately – drunk or pre-drunk. This of course corresponds directly with the categories “worth talking to” and “bartender, I’d like to buy the lady a shot.”
He doesn’t have any interest in women who engage in reading, education, self-discovery, or other lesbian activities.
It’s not that he feels threatened by intelligent women – that would take a level of self-awareness that a man with a mullet clearly does not posses. It’s just that intelligent women are so alien to his experience that they seem mythical, like electing a unicorn. Ironically this should appeal to him, as unicorns are his fourth favorite subject of black-light posters and shelf-statues (after wizards, dragons, and some chick with a sword)
And since when does this guy even care about intelligence? When in his blindered, narrow existence has intelligence ever been valued? He makes his career choices out of necessity, his mating choices out of desperation, and his spiritual choices out of superstition. Politically he’s a bumper sticker, artistically he’s a tattoo, and emotionally he’s a port-a-john that overflows in bad weather.
Yes, I just questioned the artistic integrity of a tattoos. Walk it off, you pussy.
Yes, I just used the term “pussy” as a gender-insensitive insult. Walk it off, you pussy pussy.
“Women aren’t smart enough to be president.”
He’s half right, because what he’s really saying is that the women he’s met aren’t smart enough to be president.
“All the women who’ve dated me are stupid!” Well…you got me there.
You have to realize that in this man’s world there are only two kinds of women: idiots, and women who won’t talk to him. You wear acid wash jeans, reek of Marlboro Reds and spend your leisure time shooting rats at the city dump, you’re not going to be meeting a lot of self-actualized women. Not a lot of poly-sci chicks standing in line behind you at the Ratt concert.
He doesn’t tend to think of women as “smart”, “successful”, “accomplished”… he tends to think of women more in terms of “hot”, “sexy”, “babe”… basically his descriptive vocabulary is limited to adjectives that these women have embroidered on the ass of their sweat pants.
In larger terms, he lumps women into two general categories: drunk or sober. Or more accurately – drunk or pre-drunk. This of course corresponds directly with the categories “worth talking to” and “bartender, I’d like to buy the lady a shot.”
He doesn’t have any interest in women who engage in reading, education, self-discovery, or other lesbian activities.
It’s not that he feels threatened by intelligent women – that would take a level of self-awareness that a man with a mullet clearly does not posses. It’s just that intelligent women are so alien to his experience that they seem mythical, like electing a unicorn. Ironically this should appeal to him, as unicorns are his fourth favorite subject of black-light posters and shelf-statues (after wizards, dragons, and some chick with a sword)
And since when does this guy even care about intelligence? When in his blindered, narrow existence has intelligence ever been valued? He makes his career choices out of necessity, his mating choices out of desperation, and his spiritual choices out of superstition. Politically he’s a bumper sticker, artistically he’s a tattoo, and emotionally he’s a port-a-john that overflows in bad weather.
Yes, I just questioned the artistic integrity of a tattoos. Walk it off, you pussy.
Yes, I just used the term “pussy” as a gender-insensitive insult. Walk it off, you pussy pussy.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Gays. The Irish.
I love that every year in NYCity (home to the world's largest St. Patricks parade) there's a big stink because the Irish catholics in charge of the parade don't want Irish homosexuals marching in the parade -- ya, wouldn't want something to hurt the high moral standing of a St Pats celebration-
"Excuse me, officer, I was minding my own business - puking on a cat and trying to date rape a passed out college chick -when these two guys walked by holding hands! I was so offended I dropped my beer - fortunately I had another one in the other hand. And another one built into my hat."
One of the organziers, definding the exclusion of homosexuals, explained it this way: "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?"
Which makes sense - the Nazis killed 6 million Jews, the KKK lynched thousands of African-Americans, and the gay men compete with Irish priests for the intimate affection of young boys. Damn you, gays!!!! (the preceding was an inexcusable stereotype. Gay men do not go after children. And Irish priests do not... um... nevermind)
Now, that said, the idea of a gay leprachaun really sorta freaks me out a little. I realize i do have a certain amount of prejudice - gay men who are extraordinarily small creep my shit out. Which really makes no sense, because if I had to have sex with a gay man (like, to save the life of a hostage or something) I would want him to be as small as possible.
And by the way- Boondocks Saints is the gayest movie EVER. Oh, quit your whining, you know it's true.
"Excuse me, officer, I was minding my own business - puking on a cat and trying to date rape a passed out college chick -when these two guys walked by holding hands! I was so offended I dropped my beer - fortunately I had another one in the other hand. And another one built into my hat."
One of the organziers, definding the exclusion of homosexuals, explained it this way: "If an Israeli group wants to march in New York, do you allow neo-Nazis into their parade? If African-Americans are marching in Harlem, do they have to let the Ku Klux Klan into their parade?"
Which makes sense - the Nazis killed 6 million Jews, the KKK lynched thousands of African-Americans, and the gay men compete with Irish priests for the intimate affection of young boys. Damn you, gays!!!! (the preceding was an inexcusable stereotype. Gay men do not go after children. And Irish priests do not... um... nevermind)
Now, that said, the idea of a gay leprachaun really sorta freaks me out a little. I realize i do have a certain amount of prejudice - gay men who are extraordinarily small creep my shit out. Which really makes no sense, because if I had to have sex with a gay man (like, to save the life of a hostage or something) I would want him to be as small as possible.
And by the way- Boondocks Saints is the gayest movie EVER. Oh, quit your whining, you know it's true.
Sex Scandal
Regarding the late governor of New York, why is it legal for two consenting adults to climb into a ring and attempt to batter each other into permanent brain damage for money, but illegal for two consenting adults to climb into a bed and have sex for money? What if I just have a naked cage match with a hooker, and when she dives onto me from the turnbuckle to power-drive my skull into the canvas (her signature move) my penis happens to enter her? Godless immorality or daring display of athletic prowess?
His client evaluation said that he was very polite and tipped well – am I the only person who thinks that makes it all OK? I have more respect for a good tipper who uses a hooker than for a shitty tipper who doesn’t. I don’t care if a governor likes to dry-hump cheerleaders while sitting on top of the lottery machine and letting numbered ping-pong balls shoot in his ass, as long as he rounds up on his bill and isn’t rude to the maid.
Beyond the particulars of this case (he did break the law, a law he was over-enthusiastic in enforcing on others) I think the larger problem is the fact that this fake-Puritanical culture is still so damn hung up over the issue of sex.
Sex is the one area of our lives where we get to have free reign – food makes us fat, alcohol makes us annoying, marijuana makes us boring, and love makes us needy. Only sex, with minor precautions, allows as to explore as deeply as we please, and to only scratch its surface is to nibble at a buffet. He cheated on his wife, but that’s a matter between them – the act itself is neither corrupting nor corrupt.
If I ever become famous and they uncover my private sex life, I HOPE it’s scandalous. I hope it’s twisted and shocking and depraved enough to make R. Kelly blush (shut up! Black people blush, it’s just harder to tell)
Last thing I want is some woman on the stand:
“Can you describe sex with Mark.”
“Oh…well…um…he was very polite…tidy…certainly didn’t take up much of my time…”
NO! I want her trembling with after-shocks, chain-smoking cigarettes, still not able to form sentences or hold a pencil. I want her knees shaking, her voice quivering, and her
innocence shattered. I want tales of high priced hookers, barnyard animals, and 220 volt sex toys.
If anyone ever describes sex with me as moral or respectable I will exile myself to a glory hole in a Filipino bar until the last scraps of my decency lie writhing on the indescribably repulsive floor.
Be proud of your sexual peculiarities – it’s you at your most essential, the ultimate manifestation of your most basic psychological needs. Twisted tales of sexual debauchery should not be hidden in the closest as a scandal; they should be listed on your resume as a reference.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Love your hate...
Think of someone you hate. No, not someone you dislike, or someone you don't care for... think of someone you hate.
Feel the hatred grind into your soul.
Feel it turn your glowing heart dark and cold.
Feel the hatred howling inside you, feel it hurl itself against the walls of tolrance and compassion, straining to be free.
Let it free. Hate.
Simple, all consuming, oblivion promising hate.
Now go vote the opposite of what that person will vote. Revel in the glorious knowledge that you have just canceled out their vote. Think of them, all smug with their little "I voted!" sticker, secure in the knowledge that they voted just how Baby Jesus wanted them to vote. Cackle to yourself knowing that you have denieed them their pathetic little voice in the world.
yyyeesssss... now go online and steal some movies, preferably some with full frontal nudity. You've earned it.
Hey, if you wanted to vote for yourself you already would have. this is just for those who need a darker motivation.
Feel the hatred grind into your soul.
Feel it turn your glowing heart dark and cold.
Feel the hatred howling inside you, feel it hurl itself against the walls of tolrance and compassion, straining to be free.
Let it free. Hate.
Simple, all consuming, oblivion promising hate.
Now go vote the opposite of what that person will vote. Revel in the glorious knowledge that you have just canceled out their vote. Think of them, all smug with their little "I voted!" sticker, secure in the knowledge that they voted just how Baby Jesus wanted them to vote. Cackle to yourself knowing that you have denieed them their pathetic little voice in the world.
yyyeesssss... now go online and steal some movies, preferably some with full frontal nudity. You've earned it.
Hey, if you wanted to vote for yourself you already would have. this is just for those who need a darker motivation.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Do men fear commitment?
Why do some men fear commitment? Because some women are ADDICTED to commitment. For every man who irrationally runs away from even the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection there's a woman who grabs the slightest-chance-of-emotional-connection and loves it and hugs it and squeezes it and chains it to an engine block in her basement and feeds it scraps through a hole in the floor.
"Why won't you give me just a little commitment!?" Well, for the same reason I wouldn't give an alcoholic "just a little taste" of my beer. Feed a table scrap to a puppy, it wags its tail. Feed a table scrap to a lion, it eats your arm.
I set my standards high, because I've learned that the alternative risks me falling into emotional slavery - in my 20s I was all about "ooooo, how can I get into her pants" but now I realize that it's usually a lot easier to get into someone's pants than to get back out. You have to have an exit strategy...
That's what women's underwear have in common with Middle Eastern wars – you have to have an exit strategy. Otherwise you find yourself 5 years later going "What the hell am I still doing here?!?! I thought this was going to be a weekend thing, get in-get out. I did not sign up for all this… this shit is costing me a fortune. I so should have pulled-out before I surged – now I'm committed."
I realize this phenomenon is not gender specific, there are plenty of lost men out there who have a HOWLING emptiness that they think can only be filled by feeling needed - they want to be your saviour, without noticing you don't need a fucking saviour. The kind of man whose idea of a great second date is type-matching his organs so he can offer you a kidney if you ever need one. The "too-much, too-soon" creepy guys. "Hey, it's Dave, just wanted to say hi and tell you I really enjoyed our first date. Not sure when you'll get this voice mail so I'll also text you. And e-mail. And send you a message on MySpace and Facebook. And leave a note on your car. And in the bottom of your favorite cereal bowl. Oh, and I'll tell your mom you said hi."
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