Tuesday, May 31, 2011

your self-esteem is too high.

dudes who look like this get to be assholes. this is a dude who could push past me to get on the train first. he could cut in front of me in line. he could slap a waitress on her ass before tipping her a measly 5% and i would look the other way. he's allowed to put his feet on the coffee table and speak without having been spoken to. this dude could fist fight me in the street and still expect that i will wash his feet later, with my hair. i would iron this dude's socks. i would cook this dude complicated dinners every single night. i would pay this dude's car note even though i can't afford to. i would let this dude argue with me even if he was wrong. this dude could use the salad fork during the dessert course. he could text message at the dinner table and let doors slam in my face even when my arms are full. he could sit in an aisle seat while the window seat is empty, and he doesn't have to get up for pregnant ladies or senior citizens. he can wear gym shoes to the club. he can call my sister a bitch. he can sit alone at a four-top in the city's busiest restaurant at the busiest time of the night. dude can point at the handicapped and laugh. he never ever ever has to say "please" or "thank you." he can chew with his mouth open. he can belch without excusing himself. he can walk into walgreens with no shoes and no shirt. i would draw this dude a bath. i would let this dude come inside me. i offer this dude all of the blankets in the winter. this dude doesn't have to open any car doors. he doesn't have to wait his turn to speak. he doesn't have to lay his coat over a puddle or rescue a kitten from a tree. he doesn't have to make sure i get off, too. he doesn't have to share. he doesn't have to ask nicely. this dude can smoke in public, he can take a bitch's seat when she gets up even though she left her coat on it, and he can put his elbows on the table. i might let this dude cuss me out. i might let this dude boss me around. i might tell this dude my ATM pin. this is a dude who can tell you that you look fat in those pants. this is a dude who doesn't give a fuck about writing a goddamned thank you note. this is a dude who can get away with not rsvp-ing for shit. BECAUSE HE IS TOTALLY FUCKING HOT.

want to know how i behave within the majority of my interpersonal relations and interactions with people? i act like a fat person with a pronounced limp, that's how. which means i'm fucking nice. and would you like to know why? because i understand that i am regular. and regular people can't just go around sneezing without covering their mouths and snatching things out of people's hands. we have to patiently wait our turns and smile even if it's killing us; we have to be courteous and polite to people we hate. because people are less likely to take shit off of a person with a lumpy midsection or an average-paying job, bitches have to be fucking nice to get what we want. imagine that.

but lately i've had a number of incidences during which ugly dudes with regular bodies and laughable bank accounts have ACTED the way this hot piece of bacon LOOKS, and that is majorly distressing to me. doesn't it just hurt your fucking feelings when some normal dude with bad skin is rude to you? or when a cockeyed dude shoves you on the bus? i might eat a teaspoon of shit off a handsome slice of brisket, but what in the fuck makes that boiled chicken wing think he can get away with acting FOWL?! (zing!) i never signed up to listen to a regular dude's opinions, nor would i ever let one tell me what the fuck to do. so why are so many of them trying to get away with it?

either 1 women are seriously depressed and willing to settle for whatever they can get with all the slim pickings out here and it has gone to these dudes' misshapen heads or 2 too many overcompensating single moms are turning their husband-sons into insufferable bags of shit who grossly overestimate their value and contributions to modern society. i was scrolling through the text messages sent from a spoiled mama's boy who thinks it's "absolutely ridiculous" that i won't risk catching possible HIV from him before he buys me dinner. imagine that, being expected to pay for a good or service before its receipt. i'm obviously out of my fucking mind. we went out before, a million years ago, but not so long ago that i can't remember that this dude looks perfectly average and has a perfectly commonplace personality. he drives a perfectly standard car to and from his perfectly mediocre job while dressed in his perfectly everyday clothing. and i'm a giant sack of boring, too, which is why i would offer to pay for your movie before demanding you put it in my butt. i know this negative behavior is being reinforced somewhere, i just can't figure out by whom. you girls aren't really giving in to adult male temper tantrums and pouting, ARE YOU?

i thought about contacting some sort of medical professional to lend some credibility to my in-depth psychoanalysis, a psychologist or human behaviorist or something else fancy-sounding, to maybe gain some insight into why a dude who lives with his mother thinks he has the right to demand i return his booty call within a specified period of time. but then i remembered that i only know an animal behaviorist and that this blog is stupid, so i instead consulted my television. MUCH MORE RELIABLE. last friday bill maher had that tiger mom on his show, and that bitch is FASCINATING. she was talking about how american children are taught essentially from birth that WE ARE SPECIAL for doing nothing other than walking and talking and breathing and shitting, and as i listened to her i thought, "eureka! this is why dudes with receding hairlines who breathe with their mouths open think they get to act like denzel goddamned washington!"

how many truly exceptional people do you know? seriously?! count them on your fingers and see if you fill up a whole hand. whatever it is you think makes you so fucking special just makes you extra regular. regular plus. new and improved regular. MYSELF INCLUDED. that's how i stay down to goddamned earth, because i remind myself of everything that sucks about me to keep me humble. and believe me, the list is really fucking long. i'm not exceptional. I AM REGULAR SQUARED. and probably not even that because i refuse to live up to my potential. so i thought i should devise a litmus test for jerkballs to know when they might want to just shut the fuck up and be nice, but i couldn't decide on a single factor that would determine a person's level of assholiness. any one of these would suffice on its own, i'm sure, but they're better together. (refusal to self-edit: one of the things that fucking SUCKS about me.) i will do the quiz so you can see how it should go, plus i'm dangerously close to running out of ways to humiliate myself on the internet.

so here is the "you probably need to sit the fuck down" self-assessment mini quiz. try to answer the shit honestly. better yet, answer the questions and hand them to someone willing to shatter your ego.

question one: what do you know? this seems like an easy one, right? NOT SO FAST. let's say my answer is music. well, that is most certainly true. i own a great deal of music, i listen to thousands of bands, i've been to dozens of shows. but i wouldn't have the first idea how to write a music review. or how to describe that one thing that guy does with the guitar that i like. or the name of that new art rock band all the college kids are listening to. and i can't tell you much about classic rock either. or jazz. or funk. or punk. and i don't know a whole lot about the musicians themselves, except i just read about lady gaga on the cover of us weekly, so does that count? i've never sat front row, i don't know shit about mixing, i can't tell you anything about grizzly bear other than "veckatimest is a really good record," so basically i guess what i'm trying to say is i don't really know that much about music and i should probably SIT THE FUCK DOWN.

question two: what skills do you possess? according to the match.com profile i recently took down, i am a fantastic cook. and i do make a delicious curry chicken and i have a lovely zucchini bread recipe i've been known to make on occasion. and if being a fantastic cook meant having three recipes in your memorized arsenal, than i might qualify. what i really am good at is following printed directions and setting the oven at the right temperature. oh, and i can measure the hell out of some ingredients once i'm told what they are, what quantity is necessary, and in what order they need to be added to the pot. so what i'm really good at is reading, i guess? except i can only read things that aren't complicated, so no phyllo dough or rolling my own pie crusts. and, as a matter of fact, i don't much like cooking large pieces of beef. and i'll only make drop cookies. muffins stress me out. risottos require too much work, souffles too much precision. i don't like touching egg yolks, bone-in meats are distressing, and you can forget about whole chickens or turkeys. BLARF. ground beef grosses me out, i refuse to chop anything that won't fit in the cuisinart because of this stupid arthritis, peeling potatoes is boring, and i will never in life deal with large squash. so what i should probably do is take my bowl of pasta into the corner and SIT THE FUCK DOWN.

question three: what do you own? um...i can tell you what i don't own: a house, a summer house, a condominium, a boat, a car, a pair of shoes that cost more than $70, nice jewelry, a decent watch, high value stock. i have a couple ipods, a computer i need to upgrade that was a gift from charles so i can't even take credit for its purchase, a bed that needed to be replaced two years ago, a bunch of fancy cookware that i could do without since i mostly eat lean cuisines, some t-shirts from old navy, a little piece of shit cat that i hate, some books. should i continue? or are you already on your way to my apartment to steal my granny cart and massive collection of brightly-colored socks? the most expensive thing i own barely even works. fucking sprint and their fucking EVO can eat my poo. bla-arf. i have a kindle, so that's nice, and i get four netflix at a time, which would be something to be proud of if everyone on the planet who isn't living in the technological dark ages wasn't already streaming 100 movies a day through their game consoles. while you're picking out your instant movies, i'll be over here waiting for disc five season three of the wire that won't be here for two days because i sent the last one back on friday and now i have to wait the whole weekend to find out what happens next SITTING THE FUCK DOWN.

question four: how physically attractive are you? i would go out on a limb and say not at all, but i have had sex with a couple of really good-looking people so i'm not sure that's entirely true. marginally is probably a safer answer. i expect this is the answer people are most likely to overinflate, so really look in the mirror at all of your acne scars and brown teeth and stop kidding yourself. keeping in mind that everyone has his type, most people you know aren't ridiculous hot. at least not hot enough to justifying acting as big an asshole as they do. and while a good personality can turn a quasimodo into prince fucking charming, let's leave this in the shallow end of the pool. i'd be set if dudes could stick their dicks in my jokes, but since this flabby crippled body comes with them, my chances hover around the slim to none range when it comes to getting laid with the recurrence and frequency that my ego would like to. barf i'm too exhausted to have sex, but you know what the fuck i mean. the validation you get from being able to turn down a boner connected to a handsome, interesting person is just as good sometimes. especially when the naproxen is too far to reach without getting up from the bed. thank horus i'm sitting down so hard on this one I'M HORIZONTAL.

question five: do people like you? on second thought, THIS might be the one people are the most clueless about. my answer is yes, but only on the internet. just like everybody else on the planet i have, like, six real friends. don't bullshit me, you fakers. facebook friends and bitches you recognize from high school in the grocery store DO NOT COUNT. i'm talking real people that you have actual conversations with on a weekly basis. i'm talking people who will pick you up from the airport or visit you in the hospital; hoes who will spend a saturday afternoon goofing around in target with you or help you move out of one three-story walk-up into another. ON A HOT DAY. oh, there's no one in your life who fits that description? then you don't have any friends, son. sorry to break it to you. but don't feel bad, i spend most of my time alone watching television and cursing the outside world, too. whilst SEATED.

by this point you should probably be humbled to the point of suicide, but if somehow you aren't feel free to ask yourself how much money do i really make? (not enough to be impressive.) and what cool shit am i into that sets me apart from all these other assholes? (absolutely nothing.) there are a lot more, but i'm sure you get my point. and if you don't, console yourself with the knowledge that you are the human manifestation of said point. anyway, i'm not that awesome, and neither are you. so let's rejoice in our regularity.