Thursday, September 9, 2010

how to be an ASSHOLE and never get laid again.

we're going on safari. pack your fucking lion repellant.

you know how i try as hard as i can to NEVER help a dude? and how i always talk SO MUCH shit about how much i hate them because they're always such garbage-ass pieces of dogshit? well, sometimes i feel bad about that. because those assholes obviously need some help from someone who isn't dumb, or male, and i could probably be of service. most men don't deserve any help, from me or anyone else. they're never grateful for a goddamned thing, and they often spit in the face of positive reinforcement. but i'm feeling generous. and my dudefriends are so cute and nice and keep leaving me moist voicemails whining about how i do a disservice to their worthless asses. oops.

at the end of last week's episode i was telling you how scar and the hyenas played a dirty trick on hapless little nala and snuck their cell number into her phone before she could call that little rat thing and that boar creature to help her out, right? excellent. let's pick it up there. so i was watching that broad beat the shit out of her boyfriend or whatever after the V DUBS show, and while i can't stomach a bloody-ass MMA match on the television, i apparently have no problem AT ALL watching a soft dude get pummeled on the street. in my defense, neither did anyone else, because lawrence and broadway is a busy-ass intersection and everyone else was spectating (is that a real verb?), too. ahahaha, bitches just don't give a FUCK. that's why i try to keep a knife on my person so i have at least a chance of not being killed, because humankind is walking, talking garbage and would only pause to pick through my bag and pockets (vultures!) when passing my rotting corpse in the street.

so i was standing on the train platform watching NO ONE AT ALL come to that raggedy dude's defense when i felt a chill (thank horus it's finally autumn!) and started going through my bag looking for a sweater. i have this raggedy piece of shit turtleneck that i got a million years ago when gap was still making pajamas that you could pretend were clothes because they weren't entirely fucking sheer, and i sleep in it and helen sleeps on it and it's so gross but i still wear it all the time and it's never clean and always covered in cat hair and food smears. of course THAT is the sweater i had with me. but who cares? no one fucking talks to me or hits on me ever, and i don't care what dirty communters think. i also had a book in my bag, and i pulled it out, too, and pretended to be reading when i was really just watching that dude get SERVED. so during all this awkward yanking of sweaters and posturing with books i locked eyes with this dude further down the platform, which i HATE. he smiled and i snarled, hoping that he wouldn't take the fact that i hadn't kept my eyes trained on the platform (zing) as an invitation.

i returned my attention to mini mike tyson below, and i few seconds later caught the looming shadow of a male figure hovering over me in my peripheral vision. i turned to look at him and memorize his face in case i needed to describe it to a police sketch artist later, and when i did he said, very enthusiastically, "HI!" seriously, it was an all-caps kind of greeting. i said, "oh gross hello barf," under my breath and continued counting jabs and uppercuts. then he said THE GREATEST PICKUP LINE IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND. now here's where you dudes can start taking some notes. i'll wait while you get a pencil and paper. everything you are currently saying is PLAYED. trust me. "you look cute" or "what's your sign?" or whatever it is you're hoping will get you in the door is bullshit. and it makes you look wack. so let me help you.

"hello, it's nice to meet you, is it okay if i introduce myself?" is the greatest possible way you could ever try to holler at a bitch's panties, and i'll tell you why: most men operate on the assumption that a woman should fall over herself and die from happiness at the fact that he deigned to speak to her, let alone his showing some interest in checking his penis into the meat hotel, and i'm 100% in favor of a man asking for my permission to bother the shit out of me with his weaksauce ridiculous bullshit instead of assuming i WANT IT. you already know that i'm a big fan of manners (don't let this ranting fool you, in public i am quite possibly the MOST POLITE PERSON YOU HAVE EVER MET), and someone asking if it's okay before he wastes my fucking time is pleasing to me. i want a dude to approach me like a salesman, nervous and talking fast and in desperate need for me to listen to his entire pitch before walking away and choosing the model his competitor is offering.

because that's all this really is, isn't it? some asshole trying to convince you to fuck him? well why on earth shouldn't he have to sell himself and his raggedy penis, infomercial style? i want to hear ten solid minutes of why you're worth my saturday night, testimonials from other satisfied customers, and a side by side demonstration of his product against the next best selling brand. and then when i decided to purchase it, i'd like him to throw in an extra one for the same low price! that's right, folks, TWO simple-minded shit-eating assholes for the price of one! we'll even ship the second one to you for FREE!

i always feel like i'm auditioning, selling my brain, selling my funny, selling my filth, while dudes just kick back and get to be totally fucking stupid while girls heave themselves at them. that's why a dude rarely works for it, because some stupid bitch is just GIVING IT AWAY simply because he walked in the room. BARF.

well i was obviously so thunderstruck by the line that i failed to notice the accent with which it was spoken, because by the time my mouth said "sure" my brain was screaming "hold up...AFRICAN!!!" you africans are smartening up, eh? well i've got to hand it to you, because you almost got me. dude wasn't wearing shockingly bright teal pants or woven sandals or two-thirds of a tuxedo in the middle of the day, nor was he driving a cab or hanging around a storefront church slash restaurant slash prepaid phone card shop.

he also didn't look like a broomstick with a lightbulb on top, and EXCUSE THE SHIT OUT OF ME, but i'm apparently fashionably late to the fat african party. i guess he wasn't big, just healthy. what a novelty! and he was TALL, which gets me every time. i like a man IMMEDIATELY if i have to look up to talk to him. also, he happened to be dressed like a normal black dude: jeans (not too tight), shirt (not too fitted), sweater (not too buttoned), and some sort of understated dress shoe (not too sneakery). which is to say that they weren't shiny or patent leathery, just those long, square-toed boot shoes that one can't comfortably play basketball in.

it was only after he started speaking that i noticed his accent, one of those smooth, polished africa by way of switzerland accents that means "i did a work study in europe for five years." to my advantage (or peril, you decide) these are the ones who seem to find me the most beguiling, the ULTRA-educated, "progressive" african men. progressive gets quotes because they never really ARE, they just pretend to be long enough to convince me to sleep with them (don't worry, africans taste just like black people! only more authentic!) before they pull out the "american women are too INDEPENDENT" speech and force me to delete them from my phone. as with most men, i could tolerate them if they didn't insist on TALKING SO FUCKING MUCH. i mean really, that's what ruins it. because jungle love is BIG FUN; it's like fucking a tiger! all those gnashing teeth and dirty words (AND CLICKS) you don't understand!

he continued his sales pitch on the train and was charming and funny enough that i thought, "maybe you should dust off your loin cloth, you stupid bitch," and let him give me his number. he got off the train before i did and i immediately decided i would never call him. because i'm never going to fuck another african. so let's blame what happened next on rachel and amanda, as the two of them fully supported my texting him monday evening. so i did. which prompted an immediate phone call. i'm no expert at dating, but i AM an expert at being a jerk, and if you respond to a text with a phone call, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. sorry, it's a rule of life and i didn't make it. i hate talking to new dudes on the phone. it's such a fucking time suck, and you can't read or watch television while doing it, so what is the fucking point? i hustled him off the phone after making tentative "drink" plans. no more paying for breakfast for this smartypants, eh? fucking GENIUS.

so we made plans to meet last night (via text, because i DEMAND that things go the way i want them to as much of the time as is humanly possible) at nine. until he called to change them to seven-thirty. another phone call to change it to eight-thirty. one more to go back to nine. another for eight. and, finally, ONE LAST CALL to change it to eight-thirty. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. everybody knows i don't answer my fucking phone, and helen was sitting on my desk with her jaw in her lap at the number of calls i was taking. just kidding, that fat bitch was ASLEEP on my desk, getting dingleberries on my bills and shit. anyway, i was in the most horrible mood ever, but i changed from my pajamas into pants with a zipper AND a button and put on a clean-ish sweater. then he called me THREE TIMES IN A ROW to see if there was a parking lot at the bar, which caught me off guard because i'd fully expected he would show up riding a zebra. he called again to see if i'd left the house, AGAIN to see how long it would take me (ps, I WASN'T FUCKING LATE), and AFUCKINGAIN to tell me he couldn't see me walking down the street (because i sneak through the alley so dudes won't know where i live). later i noticed that he'd texted me at 8:31 saying "i thought we agreed to meet at 8:30? you are obviously unreliable." and YOU obviously don't want to get your DICK SUCKED.

and that, in a shea nutshell, is why I DON'T FUCK WITH AFRICAN DUDES. they are controlling to the nth degree, arrogant in spades (zing), and still expect you to want to get your teeny tiger out after they say shit like, "YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY UNRELIABLE." let's pause here for a moment to talk about how one speaks to a person he might want to eventually come inside. especially before you get to know her. i'm a bitch a lot of the time, but dudes i'm sweet on will never know it, at least not until after i've won them over. if a dude i'm hot for is wearing moist pink homo shoes do you think i point and laugh? NEVER. well, at least not until he's made my booty clap. i don't tell sexy dudes i think they're dumb, i don't tell handsome dudes their grammar is wack, i don't tell delicious dudes that they have shitty taste in music. until i've had a little nibble.

i can't get into the intricacies of our discussion because i will probably cry and maybe even suffocate myself using my own socks or something, but here are a couple highlights:

1 he was wearing shiny white loafers. i should've known that american attire was just a ruse. they can never hide it for too long, can they?

2 he reminded me, more than once, that i'd "kept him waiting."

3 he goaded me into a debate about both the shortcomings of the american newsmedia and the iraq war, ON A FIRST GODDAMNED DATE. let's make something perfectly clear: DEBATES AREN'T SEXY. what the fuck is wrong with dudes?! is it your inherent need to prove your dominating intelligence? it would be one thing if these debates actually proved a man's mental capacity, but regurgitating a bunch of shit you heard on the BBC or read on huffington post doesn't make you a goddamned genius. i watch and read just as much news from a wide variety of sources (including those that aren't necessarily filtered and mainstream), and having a dude blather on authoritatively about things he can't possibly know anything about IS TOTALLY FUCKING BORING. unless you have high-level CIA clearance, NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK POLITICALLY. most regular people's political ideologies are murky, poorly researched, and underwritten by cultural bias, so presenting your OPINION as ABSOLUTE TRUTH is a dangerous, dangerous thing, particularly when you're talking to someone that isn't a fucking moron. what do these dudes DO when out with shrinking violets who don't know shit about presidential mandates? jesus christ, i'd barely answered the "what do you do?" question before he jumped down my throat with his assumptions about my political leanings. there's a reason i'm trying to get LAID and not in a POLITICAL SCIENCE CLASS, you butthole.

4 he sat with his arms crossed the entire time, and when the waitress asked if he wanted anything off the menu his reply was, "i cook my own food. who knows what kind of garbage is in yours?" um...FAIL. my oven hasn't been turned on since last winter, and i'll be DAMNED if i sit at home every night of the week eating puff puff and egusi soup. fuck that noise.

5 HE COULDN'T PAY. after two hours of shouting me down about "dumb americans" and "corporate slavery" (holy fucking shit) the bill came and his response was, "i only had a coke." if you're broke, so the fuck what. but if you're BROKE and you feel like you want to talk to a WOMAN, YOU ARE A FUCKING ASSHOLE. can we make a new life rule? okay, here it is: YOU DON'T GET TO GO OUT WITH PEOPLE IF YOU CAN'T PAY FOR IT. men and women alike. if you don't have any money, try to find bitches on craigslist to fuck your broke ass. WHAT THE FUCK. oberon was on special and i had twelve (not really), and i also had a twenty dollar bill. how on earth do you get to be broke and still fuck people? my job is better than a lot of other ones, and i'm funny AND brilliantly smart, and i don't get to fuck SHIT. where is the justice?

ps, no hate mail from africans, please. unless this post applies directly to you, then i will gladly pick up my elephant tusk and meet you in the nearest clearing for a duel.

nine months and counting, and unless i get RAPED IN THE STREET you can scratch "reading about hot sex sam is having" off your fucking to-do lists. if you're some bitter piece of shit who stole some of my hair and put a curse on me, kindly remove it. whatever i've done to deserve your ire can't possibly be this hilariously bad. unless that bitch i pushed down that flight of stairs at that shitty bar on randolph a few years ago knows voodoo. then i might deserve this heartless torture. :(