Friday, June 18, 2010

i'm in love with a frat boy.

he's every sorority girl's dream
he's god's gift to games involving nerf

dudes love 'em, too
that's what you call a dudebro's worth.

see, i love all the fratboys
because they show me love
they know i never pay a fee
when i go to see the cubs.


but i can't even lie
their khaki shorts look so damn fly
the way they wear them polo shirts just got me mesmerized.

samantha don't ever trick
but goddamn i want his prick
i can't lie or be too coy
i'm in love with a frat boy.

he drinkin' he shoutin' he cussin'
he barfs on the bus and
i'm in love with a fratboy...

he yellin' he sweatin' he playin'
i'm not goin' nowhere boy, i'm stayin'
i'm in love with a fratboy.
sorry, but i LOVED that t-pain song. couldn't help myself.

holy amstel light, what is up with all of these friendly and adorable white dudes all of a sudden?
how did you fall out of that abercrombie and fitch catalog and into my lap? the other night my gorgeous ginger met me at dmk for fried pickles, newfangled cheeseburgers (more on that in a second), and fancy beers before we met rachel at the vic to kidnap (i mean see) aziz ansari. i might have to move to fucking wrigleyville. my neighborhood is full of wannabe thugs, old dirty-ass hippies, and young hipsters too poor to live in logan square or wherever it's cool to be starved half to death and have angular hair.

and I KNOW, i was just talking shit last week, but the more time i spend around those clean, gorgeous walk-ups and adorable brunch spots and happening little bars the more i want to sacrifice a left lung to be surrounded by them all the fucking time. i can learn to love shortened pants and white ball caps, can't i? every time i get off the brown line at armitage i die a little inside from the inexplicable jealousy surging through my veins. it's all just so painfully damn CUTE over there. and i want in. every single time i get off the train next to my building after burning up my paycheck at art effect and lush (followed soon after by a pitcher of white sangria at ba-ba-ree-ba, of course), i want to torch my own neighborhood to the ground. now i'm happy over here and everything, but i'd trade a couple of these taquerias for another starbucks or an artsy boutique or something. and you know i must mean it, because I LOVE TACOS.

i blame msnbc for all of this, because that is what i have on the telly 95% of the time that i am home, and listening to all these handsome, ridiculously smart, left-leaning dudes all night while i eat my lean cuisine or chips and salsa or cheese and crackers or apple butter on toast or unheated soup straight from the can over the sink is making me want a little vanilla dipped in this sexual chocolate. chris hayes? andrew ross sorkin? YES PLEASE. those dudes get me all hot and bothered with their smartypants political anal-ysis and impassioned rants against dick armey (most hilarious name of all time) and that british petroleum dude. this oil spill business is terrifying. i mean, what if it doesn't stop? for real? like, WHAT THE FUCK do we do if it doesn't stop?!

i have a huge beef with the media these days, by the way. (skip this if my leftist ranting chaps your ass. also? fuck you.) i understand that old president tar baby hasn't yet parted the ocean in the gulf and stuck his magic finger in the hole to stop the leak, and shame on him for holding out for this long, but i would like to see that dumb moose bitch watching herself shrill "drill, baby, drill!" on a continuous loop until she kills herself. i mean, shouldn't she really be hiding under a rock somewhere right about now rather than out on the stump for supposed "tea party" candidates? that shit is just a front for small-time militia dudes and undercover racists.

anylibertarian, let's get back to white dudes who make me want to take my pants off. dmk. i beat amanda there, so i was presented with the unsettling conundrum of "at the bar" versus "wait for a table." let's be serious. ordinarily i would wait in line for six hours rather than sit in an uncomfortable high chair eating food that is dangerously close to my face off of a sticky wet surface covered in filthy money and germy towels (for cereal, why wipe off the bar only to throw the dirty, un-rinsed towel right back on the fucking bar? WHY?) and purses and shit. bitches put everything on the bar. how do i know? BECAUSE I DO THAT SHIT, TOO. if you don't know me for real, i carry a huge black bag. seriously. ridiculous big. like a sack of fabulous testicles. because i need to carry a lot of shit around all the time.

dudes who are rolling their eyes (and i know you are) can go get bent, because i want you to think about all of the random shit you have rolling around in your trunk or backseat and then come talk to me about what's in my bag. my public transportation bitches know what's up. you need a small makeup bag. and one for pills. (that might be a sam only kind of thing.) a gigantic wallet. case for enormous sunglasses. a book. the new issue of glamour. cell phone. keys. two bottles of kiehls musk oil. seventeen black pilot G2s. okay okay okay. that all might just be me. but so what? i need that shit!

and of course every time i roll in the club and post up at the bar, all my money and cards and shit are at the bottom of that blackness, and the first thing i do is toss my bag (my bag that rides the train floor, my bag that sits on sidewalks, my bag that fell in the alley, my bag that helen slept on, my bag that might have touched the seat of a public toilet) RIGHT ON TOP OF THE BAR. because that tab isn't going to open itself, and i need to find my fucking bank card and get the liquor flowing.

so i don't eat at the fucking bar. i know everything everywhere is filthy and disgusting, but if i can try to limit the filth and disgust that makes me feel a little bit better. BUT. dmk is cute inside. i mean, REALLY CUTE. and it's all modern and new, which i love. BUT. they do that communal dining thing, where people who don't know each other share tables. while they eat. and talk. if you've never hung out with me you totally fucking should, but it doesn't take much imagination to guess that my dinner conversation often sounds like "so, he got a boner in the car and i was totally grossed out and he expected me to, like, touch it or something when we got back to my place. i mean, while we were still in the car! plus i heard that he gave monica gonorrhea in her butthole."

or whatever i fucking talk about. who even knows. i'm so dumb. pffft. whatever it is, it's always 100% raunchy and mired in gross. which makes for a hilariously fun dinner, but i'm not trying to let brad in the purple polo in on the adventures of my snatch. and i hate listening to stupid people talk about nothing, especially when there are carmelized balsamic onions and lemon aioli on my tongue. idiots fuck up my good time. so i opted for the bar.

and thank horus i did. drew, the bartender closest to my end of the bar, is ADORABLE. where are my skinny blond white chicago girls at? you bitches need to holler at that dude, for reals. then send me a transcript of every sexual encounter you have with him. holy lord was he cute. so cute, as a matter of fact, that i ignored both his khaki shorts AND his upturned collar and let him wink and sparkle at me across the bar. i don't know very much (really, i hate history and science is boring and chemistry is hard and zzZZZzzZzz), but one thing i DO know is what i want to drink. all the time. the selection was listed on a huge board above the bar, listed first by brewery then by type of alcohol, and i skimmed it for approximately an eighth of a second before deciding in my mind that i was going to have whatever three floyds option they had available.

that was, of course, before this little cherub (strike me dead if he is even a DAY over twenty-two and a half) turned around and smiled at me and asked if i needed help deciding. i should have said no, because i am too old and too salty to engage in pointless flirting with an embryo who probably says "bro" in real life without even the slightest hint of irony, but goddamn he was easy on the eyes. and so eager to talk to me. which i appreciate from any man, unless he is 1 homeless or 2 wearing a mesh shirt as his real clothes. i let him tell me about every single goddamned beer on the menu. and he did so while looking right into my eyes and leaning suggestively across the bar, talking in his "aw, come on, baby just let me put the tip in" tone of voice.

are you kittens finally trying to sink your teeth into some dark meat? is that what's happening here? because in the olden days (ie, six months ago) all the white men in my life ever wanted from me was to use me as a beard so that they could unself-consciously go to underground rap shows and to buy 40s at the liquor store without suffering a raised eyebrow from the clerk. better a secret alcoholic than a public wigger, i guess. pshaw. i've said a million times before that i've never seen a pink penis in person (peter piper pumped his pickled pecker), so i intend to find out what one looks like. then WRITE ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET.

that place was busy as shit, so when ginger flew in on her strappy red platform shoes (so sexxxy i almost died) he quickly suggested a couple of IPAs, got her one, and went to help some other bastard. i stared at that dude all night. at his big baby blue eyes and his tufts of blond leg hair. i could barely be bothered to eat way too much and viciously gossip with my ginge. 3/4 of what i said sounded like, "that guy is so cute." gush. and he was nice. and he kept apologizing that he couldn't spend more time with us. i was sorry, too, and i told him so. hot damn. he was so hot i didn't even care that i had grease on my face and beef crumbs in the corners of my mouth. and you know how i feel about THAT.

i guess you dudes must be tired of catching fire as you bump all those hardwood knees and legs and elbows together with these skinny mannequins you hump on. trying to get in bed with something that is warm and squishy instead of making a hollow thunk when you're stroking away on it, eh? well that's grand. let's get something going. i really almost wrote my number on my credit card slip, but then i remembered that dudes like him exist on tips and that phony charm is the best insurance to get a good one. i think i tipped him 47%, i was so goddamned smitten. and maybe even trying to get a little tip of my own.


but the gulf between twenty-two, white, and male and fifty-three, black, and female (you are how old you feel, right? FUCK) is a big one, and even if he were good at drilling for oil what would we even talk about once i recovered and contained the spill? i hate the cubs, i really can't stand looking at a dude in short pants for very long, flip flops and visors on grown men are totally moist, and i'm too afraid of serious injury to let a dude head butt me. that's how they say hello, right? head butting? he really was cute as shit, though. like, that was two days ago and i'm still wondering where he likes to go for fun and what kind of music is on his ipod. le sigh. i should get over that toddler. big, big mistake. that's right. i'm over him. for good. done with it. i mean it. DONE.

anyone want to go out for cheeseburgers next week?