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.

Friday, May 20, 2011

rock star shit.

tomorrow is my lawyer's wedding, and i am RIDICULOUS excited. so excited, in fact, that i haven't purchased a gift, i haven't decided what i'm going to wear or how much leg shaving is going to be required, nor have i figured out where it is or how best to get there. obviously, i win at being a good friend. i suspect that i am going to be the only black person in attendance, which is great because i hate competition and i don't want to fuck up my good clothes fighting for all the chicken wings at the buffet. and if that plus the addition of these raggedy biker tattoos didn't draw enough goddamned attention, i'm taking a LESBIAN as my date. i like to watch people in forced-polite situations try to figure out who you are and whether or not the bitch sitting next to you is strapping one on in your butthole every night. they think they're being slick, asking how long you've been "roommates" or whatever. bitch, just ask if we have joint custody of a lawnmower and move out of my goddamned way. i'm trying to holler at the savory cupcakes and the macaroni and cheese bar. SHIT.

i hate going to a broke motherfucker's wedding. it's hard not to feel guilty eating nineteen petit fours and guzzling half a dozen splits of champagne when the bride told you three weeks ago that she had to sell her car to pay the caterer. GODDAMN, gurl, i'm trying to enjoy this shit at the fondue station! get out of here with all that boring student loan drama blah blah blah. i want to unbutton my fancy pants and dodge the photographer (candid shots = fat shots of my mouth open with food in it and 137 pictures of my jowly skin beard, FUCK THAT) without thinking about how you're going to ask me to buy your dinner the next time we go out because you nearly bankrupted yourself financing this wedding. sitting in your mom's backyard is a bummer. and so is pretending i don't know that dress is secondhand. your husband's ipod is a shitty DJ. i hate that i had to bring my own silverware. i mean i'll do it and everything, but don't expect me to like it. i want to be where dudes own the tuxedos they're wearing and you know that every envelope on the gift tree has $500 in it. MINIMUM. at my sister's wedding there was something called a "cash bar" (whut) at which you could purchase watered-down cocktails with "drink tickets" (WHUT), and i remember pulling a roll of blue tickets out of my purse and thinking to myself, "is this a goddamned carnival? what the fuck is next, skee ball?!"

the only problem with these fancy weddings is: what do you get people who already have everything? especially when you're friends with the GROOM?! is this girl really trying to get a colander or a set of soup spoons or some shit? whatever i come up with, even if it's totally expensive and nicely wrapped, will look like a fucking turd when compared to the all-inclusive trips to tahiti and miniature giraffes their rich friends are giving them. i really want to give dude a card that says "gas is $4.42 a gallon and i had to pay this broad to drive me here," but that shit's tacky. would it be too low class to photocopy a couple of my medical bills and draw some hearts on it surrounding the words "my presence should be enough?" bitches with no money are happy with $15 target gift cards and the promise to buy them a cheeseburger when they get back from their honeymoon at the wisconsin dells, but these ballers don't even know what the fuck target IS. if i got married my dress would be made of goddamned target gift cards. used ones, with thirty-six cents left on them and shit. GOD, WHY ARE ONLY BROKE DUDES ATTRACTED TO ME?! fml.

my gurl claire zulkey is a super-talented writer who hosts a bunch of literary shit, writes for the LA times and the onion's AV club, has a killer website that you can check out at zulkey.com, and published a YA novel called "an off year" a couple years ago. in other words, i am totally fucking jealous of her. i mean that shit for real. you know how sometimes bitches say, "omg, i'm totally jealous!" and you know they're mocking you and shit? NOT ME. i'm jealous of everything, writer-y stuff in particular. the minute someone starts telling me about her personal success i start dreaming up ways to murder her and try to assume her identity without getting caught. i almost felt guilty when she asked to interview me because i'd already been in contact with a couple hitmen willing to take her ass OUT for a couple bootleg dvds and a lackluster blowjob, but i called them off so i could piggyback her fame and feel like a celebrity for five goddamned minutes. MAN, remember last summer when i was the chicago sun-times crush of the month?! and remember two years ago when that dude who reads my blog but hadn't met me in real life flew across the country just to have sex with me?! i'm fucking famous. omg now i know what to get lawyerface: MY AUTOGRAPH.


a while ago claire interviewed deb from smittenkitchen.com which is my main internet recipe jam, GO READ THAT SHIT I DON'T KNOW HOW TO HYPERLINK COPY AND PASTE INTO YOUR BROWSER IS THAT SO HARD?!, so i'm kind of on cloud nine and really feeling myself and my internet celebrity. pretty soon i'll be trashing hotel rooms and banging groupies on my tour bus. what do you think literary groupies look like? thick glasses and moth-eaten grandpa librarian sweaters? I CAN'T WAIT.



The Samantha Irby Interview


If you'd like to know my thoughts on last night's Idol, go here.
I've known today's interviewee for a while now. We attended the same high school, although I didn't really start hanging out with her until the last few years, thanks in part to the miracle of Facebook but also because I realized that she's one of Chicago's funniest, most honest bloggers and if I'm smart I'll stay on her radar so she'll let me carry her dry cleaning or something when she gets ultra-famous (it also helps that she's just a generally awesome person.) By day she works at an animal hospital and will give you a talking-to if your cat is too obese, but in her free time she runs the searingly open blog bitchesgottaeat, performs at readings around town (including the upcoming Literary Death Match, which I am co-juding), and hosts the weekly radio show Sunday Sermon on WNUR.

So you've been settling in as host of your own radio show. What have you learned along the way thus far in your experience in terms of what works and what doesn't?
Well I am 100% averse to criticism of any kind, so the only feedback I've had so far has been positive. Probably because most people already know I'm a raging egomaniac who refuses to listen to suggestion, especially if it isn't from a credible source. I'm sensitive and totally conceited, which pretty much means I'm an insufferable primadonna. I approach writing the show the same way I do my blog: I try to make myself laugh. I write down things that irritate me or experiences that I've had, the more excruciatingly painful and embarrassing the better, and I write about them in a way that makes them hilarious to me. The radio is weird because there's no audience to feed off of, so I really do just read it to myself and hope people are laughing along.

Do you have any radio shows or podcasts that you use as inspiration? I'm pretty insecure and threatened by other people's talent, so I avoid listening to anything that might make me feel bad about myself. The only podcasts I listen to are ESPN's pardon the interruption and NPR's the moth, but neither of them ever talks about vomiting during intercourse or trying to set up a date with a midget, so I guess I just reaffirmed that I have a big old giant head full of ARROGANT.

How'd you get the gig?
Casting couch, basically. Producer Kate, the hot little nymph who fiddles the knobs during my show, is a senior at Northwestern and the general manager of WNUR, the radio station. And she also happens to be friends with some friends of mine. Our eyes met across a crowded room during a New Year's Eve party this past December and it was totally love at first sight. I told her about my blog, she Facebooked me and told me she'd spent the week following the party obsessively reading it, and we became BFFs. A couple months later she told me to pitch a show. I did, they fell into my sexy trap, and now I rule the airwaves. (for 1/2 an hour on Sunday nights on a pretty obscure station no one really listens to. Pffft.)

What have been some of your favorite live reading experiences? I loved doing your show, Funny Ha-Ha, despite the fact that I was terrified I was going to fall off that stupid stage when I was done. But that old lady laughing at my dick jokes made it all worth it. And I love love LOVE reading at the Sunday Night Sex Show. It's home to me and has the best literary hipster crowd on the planet. So great.

What's your first book going to be about? Did you know I wrote a novel? Well, I never quite finished it, but it's mostly written. I'm too chickenshit to show it to anyone, though. It follows the adolescence and adulthood of a set of female twins, one of whom is a genius at math and terrible at everything else. It's funny and it's kind of anti-chick lit. It's a shame I'll never show it to anyone with a valid opinion.

What are you reading right now, book-wise? I feel the same way about books as I do about interpersonal romantic relationships: the more I can keep going at one time, the better. And since I haven't had real sex in sixteen months, I have been reading a TON. Right now I'm reading the new one by the dude who wrote Devil in the White City. It's about Hitler's Germany. I'm also reading the second book in the Stieg Larsson trilogy, The Great Perhaps by Joe Meno (LOVE HIM), and I just finished a Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. OOH and I've been reading this book of people's totally eff'd up love letters. That shit is brilliant.

Aside from Facebook, where do you waste most of your time online? GOSSIP BLOGS. Dlisted.com, idontlikeyouinthatway.com, crunktastical.net, and gofugyourself.com are my main jams. And I love a good relationship blog, currently obsessed with blackgirlsareeasy.blogspot.com and shmittenkitten.com. And I could live on televisionwithoutpity.com; what a dummy, watching TV then reading about those same TV shows on the internet. LAME.

Has there ever been anything you've put about yourself on your blog that you wished you'd hadn't? NOTHING. I write constantly about really painful things: dead parents, horrible rejection, being depressed, drinking too much, wearing adult diapers in public, and I wouldn't take any of it back. That's why people like it so much, because I don't keep anything to myself. Sharing is caring.

On that note, you get a lot of interesting reader interaction. Have you altered the way at all in which you interact with your fans from when you first started? Nope. Every week on the show and on Facebook I invite people to wherever I'm going to be. I tell total strangers to meet me out for tacos and shit. No one ever shows up, but I still extend the invitation. I encourage emails, phone calls, WHATEVS. What, I can't turn off my Internet porn for five minutes to answer an email from some little lover who takes the time to read my stupid blog? Of course I can!

For readers tempted to stalk you, what's something they should know about real-life Sam that's different from BGE Sam? Despite the negative connotation of the word, I love that I might have blog stalkers. I am in love with the idea that someone would like the silly shit I write enough to show up on my doorstep, but only if he was incredibly handsome and bearing flowers. He doesn't even really have to be all that handsome, just bring me a present and don't make me late for work. I'm nicer in real life than most people expect. And a lot more SAD. Somehow people come away with the idea that I'm some sort of comedy robot, and when they meet me in real life they're caught off guard when I'm depressed or having a bad day. I don't just walk around all day with one-liners shooting out of my asshole. Okay okay okay. Ninety percent of the time I DO. But sometimes I need a goddamned break.

Are you able to pinpoint when or why you went from just blogging to being aware people were really reading what you write? The first time I read at the sex show I read a piece called "Fat Fuck" about this personal trainer I used to hang out with who used to beat off while force-feeding me. I posted it in my blog, which had been up for several months at that point, and things just exploded. I started doing more readings, getting more readers, I started a Facebook fanpage, and it's just been growing from there. Although I am still neither wealthy or getting regularly laid, so there's obviously some work left to be done.

Let's get some girl power up in here: who are some women whose work (or just general being) you're into right now? The girl who writes Shmitten Kitten is a goddamned GENIUS. Anna something-or-other. I adore her. I'm also really digging Tune-Yards, this British woman who makes quirky music that I like to jam to. And while I find Chelsea Handler irritating as shit on television, her books are hilaaaaaaarious. But I mostly like regular broads. Robyn Pennacchia who hosts the sex show, Mary Hamilton and Lindsay Hunter who host the Quickies reading series, YOU. I like local women who are doing smart and funny stuff. Those are my real heroes.

Dayjob question: based on your experiences, what are some breeds of dogs you'd advise people never to purchase? First off, broke people shouldn't get dogs, no matter WHAT the breed. You're not doing that poor dog any favors by bringing it home to a person who can't afford to care for it. Dogs cost money, even the free ones. That said, I'm going to remain on my high horse for a minute and say that if you require a specific breed, unless you are a professional dog fancier who plans to show that dog, you should probably try to get one through a rescue organization. There are so many homeless dogs, help your shitty karma and adopt one. THAT SAID, steer clear of: all smushed-face breeds, so many health issues; all bulldog breeds, SO MANY HEALTH ISSUES; pointers, vizslas, border collies, salukis, and weimaraners if you're lazy; labs if you're a slob who doesn't put anything away; chows, shiba inus, schipperkes, malinois, shar peis, chihuahuas, and akitas if you don't want your fucking face unexpectedly ripped off; shepherds if you hate cleaning up incessant diarrhea; dachsunds if you can't afford multiple back surgeries; toy breeds if you're clumsy and might accidentally step on your dog and crush it. As a matter of fact, just don't get a fucking dog.

How formed do you feel by where you're from? Do you think you'd be the same Sam Irby if you'd been raised in Westchester NY or San Francisco or Portland? If, in San Francisco, I grew up fat and poor and miserable, the answer is 100% YES. I'm not sure that I've been shaped by my community surroundings as much as I've become who I am because my childhood was terrible and I wore a size 18 in the third goddamned grade. I'm exaggerating, but not by much. Growing up in Evanston is ridiculous amazing, even for the broke kids in the free lunch program, because we had really good public schools with access to art and music. But I'm funny because I'm miserable, so throw a two parent household above the poverty line and a normal waistband into the equation and the answer would probably be no.

The next few questions come from friends/fans of yours. "How do you keep from being locked into hampering group labels without alienating the groups to which you refused to conform?" So the subtext of this question is "How can you talk like a white girl and still make black people laugh," right? OKAY THEN. I've never really thought about it before, but I think the reason I don't paint myself into a corner is because most of my main themes are pretty universal: being terrible at sex, trying to date shitty assholes who are mean to me, what I like on television, getting drunk all the time, and crapping my pants occasionally. People of all races have desperately tried to win the affections of someone who hated them the minute he pulled out or have been cheated on. I always find it more surprising that men relate to my work, as all I do is write about how stupid they are and how the world would be better if we eliminated 99% of them. Seriously though, isn't comedy one of the few things that could truly be post-racial?

"Does she have any tips for kids (or adults) who, like herself, find themselves too smart for their comical equivalents and yet too comical for their intellectual equivalents?" GET USED TO BEING ANGRY ALL THE TIME. God, I think everyone is so dumb. Mostly because they open their mouths to confirm it CONSTANTLY. Bitches are always saying the stupidest shit. OUT LOUD. It's astounding. I try to listen more than I speak, talk trash about everyone in my head, laugh at them when their backs are turned, and console my desperately lonely heart with the excuse that the real reason I'm alone is because my towering intellect and superior comedic timing eliminates most humans from being deserving of my company. Um...so try that.

"Mr. P wants to know, what former White Sox catcher would she most want to see in a Playgirl pictorial and why?" First of all, I love that goddamned Mr. P. Second, baseball players are pretty fruity to me, so let's pretend he asked which basketball player I would most like to see in my bed tonight and why. The answer is Dwight Howard, because that dude has arms like honeybaked hams and I would like to chew on them. Make it happen, universe.

How does it feel to be the 283rd person interviewed for Zulkey.com? Super exciting, because I don't think I could find 283 people to give free drugs away to, let alone interview them on my blog. You're doing big thangs, lovergrrrrrrrrl. Proud of your hot ass. Feel free to change anything that sounds dumb. SERIOUSLY.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

standardized testing.

"all of the single men are gay, right?" that was the query ginger posed to me one night after a dude on the internet solicited her to join him and his wife in an ongoing sexual relationship. an arrangement his wife sanctioned, according to him. a few weeks prior i received a swooning email from some married fanboy who reads my blog and thinks i'm awesome, and in the correspondence that began subsequent to all that invigorating hero worship (i am a raging egomaniac, NOT KIDDING) i soon discovered that he was unhappily married and looking for a sexy and irreverent distraction from his life at home. a distraction that involved boring me with his marital problems and regrets while NOT buying me dinner. wait, WHAT? why would my single, childless, fabulous ass want any part of that?!
i wonder if people ever really think about what they're asking of another person. because that dude's thought process should've gone a little something like this: "goddamn, this bitch is hilarious. i'd like to get to know her as a person. maybe i should engage her in a conversation that will go absolutely nowhere because i'd like to honor my vows? it's selfish to waste a person's time when i've read two years' worth of entries about how she has neither the time nor patience to listen to some stupid dude. and my wife would probably bristle at my incessant texting and email pursuit of my new female BFF before proceeding to spend a saturday night calling and hanging up on said innocent woman's voicemail who didn't ask for any of this drama and never sent me a single dirty message. sam really does seem awesome, though. i guess i'll just wait for the next post."

OMG, FRIENDS. i knew it the minute my phone rang more than once in a matter of minutes. very few people call me because i refuse to ever answer the phone, and i was in the bathroom last saturday night gilding the lily before my lady date with my sister and i heard the little bells twinkling in the other room and thought, "fuck that shit. it's probably just some asshole," and continued with my mascara. then i heard it again and i paused mid-swipe. who would dare to call me twice in a row?! the number i failed to recognize was calling again ten minutes later, and this time i answered, "who the fuck are you looking for?" click. the calling continued sporadically over the course of the evening, so i saved her in my phone as "stalker face" and chuckled over my mojitos at the bar with carmen. then when i was good and drunk at three in the morning i called back so many times that she finally stopped sending me to voicemail and turned her phone off. we live in a reverse lookup kind of world, bitch. *67 YOUR SHIT.

ginger and i wound up at a swingers party on the south side this weekend, an event whose sole purpose for existence is either "i'm tired of fucking my wife and she's okay watching me fuck you" or "i'm tired of fucking my husband and he's cool jerking off while i love up another woman." this is where it's at now, huh? secret internet friends and random partner swappage? remember that whole you're obviously jealous of my relationship thing? yeah, NEITHER DO I.

i was talking to elisse the other day about a bunch of dumb girl shit, and once the conversation steered around toward hot sex with other humans (doesn't it always?) she made this stunning proclamation, "i'm happy in a relationship as long as whomever i'm with meets at least 7 of my 10 requirements." i was shocked. she has a LIST? and there are TEN THINGS ON IT?! seriousface, that is just so coordinated and grown up. i was in awe. i can't even be bothered to make a proper grocery list, let alone have the wherewithall to sit down and think about what i really and truly need from another person. i'm such a fucking kid that i had to stop myself from demanding to know what was on it, if for no other reason than to use it as an outline and style guide for coming up with one of my own. she seemed equally surprised that i have no such document, no carefully thought out assessment of myself and my interpersonal goals.

how does one implement that into her sex life, i wonder? do you just show up at dinner and pull it out of your purse after the salad course? (DUDES WHO EAT SALAD are most certainly not on my list.) or is there a less obvious way, like asking leading questions and making mental note of the answers? let's say "nurturing and emotionally available" (big time gross) is one of your requirements: how would you go about finding that out? walk around licking light posts and see if he takes the day off work to bring you soup when you come down with the flu? (or hepatitis?) tell him about your dog dying to see if he sheds some sympathy tears? i also need to know if some things should carry more weight than others, like what if i meet a person who can put ikea furniture together (on my list FOR SURE) but he or she has terrible taste in music? i could live without a JINDRALBORSK dining table and GRAFLAKHAMM dish rack (omg, could i?!), but can i really spend the rest of my goddamned life LISTENING TO MAROON 5?!

and i'm the kind of person for whom the little things DEFINITELY matter. i don't care about a person's ambition, but i simply COULD NOT fuck someone who doesn't know how to drive a car. i met a dude years ago who admitted that at thirty-seven he had never learned to drive a goddamned car, and i immediately shook his hand and migrated to the other side of the bar. what the fuck are you, amish? you seriously can't drive a car?! so that's pretty fucking stupid, and no i wouldn't turn down the sexiest slab of independently wealthy grade A beef i'd ever seen just because he doesn't know how to operate a gearshift, but i would have serious reservations. SERIOUSLY. that kind of little shit is for real. people in relationships start hating each other over unwashed dishes and maxed out credit cards, not existentialist debates. how often do you hear a broad say "i broke up with tom because his views on hierarchical binaries and the gendered structure of capitalism are in direct opposition to mine." goddamned never. bitches is all, "i dumped tom because he never put his shoes away and he was always texting some other bitch late at night. and he could never pay for his own fucking beer."

but people will look at you crazy if you say, "can buy his own alcohol" is on your list. (it's on my fucking list.) whooooooooooo cares about your politics as long as you shut up about them, i just don't want to have to hang out with your parents. sounds trivial, but "won't make me hang out with the family" is pretty high on the goddamned list. i need to stop fucking around and get some interweb architect to help me found iwanttobanganorphan.com, but people are DISGUSTING and i'm sure i'd end up on some sort of predator list. the minute some dude starts telling me about his mom i immediately tell him that mine is dead, because for some dumb reason people with living parents feel crazy guilty and they spare me all the small talk about mom's latest book club selection and how dad shot 9 under par today. boring. and i'm not trying to hear that shit.

so i pretended to be a fully functioning adult for five minutes and thoughtfully wrote an outline of my ideal person the other night during the commercials of WWE monday night raw. it's neither age- nor gender-specific, because at this point i don't care what package it comes in, i just need someone around who remembers that i like cadbury mini eggs who will feed the cat for me for free when i'm out of town. and i really committed, i promise i did. i wore my glasses and everything.

1 smart, but not too smart. i don't like explaining elemental things to grown people, so i am loathe to date anyone i can tell is a moron if i can help it. this is where online dating is a total win, as a message that reads "your interesting i thot ur profile was hilariyes" is a dead giveaway of a lack of intelligence and you can just block that asshole and go on about your internet business. conversely, if i need a thesaurus to translate your introductory email i'm on high alert because a you might be smarter than i am and i feel threatened by that or b you typed every other word into thesaurus.com to make yourself sound smarter or c you are from africa. i like dudes who read books and can make conversation with my friends who went to college. i'm not a genius, but i supplement my lack of conventional knowledge with a healthy dose of humor, so people rarely notice that i don't know the meaning of the word "propaganda." yes, i do.

2 funny, but not too funny. "funny couples" are goddamned exhausting to be around. totally the fucking WORST. you know the ones, always trying to one-up the other and see who can get more laughs. meanwhile neither of them is succeeding nearly as much as he thinks he is. even if they're both naturally hilarious individually, when you're out to dinner with them you just want them to SHUT THE FUCK UP so you can enjoy your scalloped potatoes. dudes are the worst at this, as every one i've dated with the tiniest amount of comedy marrow in his funny bone always tried to prove to anyone within earshot that he could make people laugh harder than i could. well maybe, NOT REALLY, but i've completely lost the desire to fuck you, so who's laughing now?!

3 fair to middling looks. it's hard to keep super hot people fully engaged, and everyone else on the planet is trying to get at them the minute your back is turned. and competition is weak. i can't be sitting up all night praying you wore a bag over your head to the club so no one would notice you. plus, legitimately attractive people rarely work at becoming well-rounded and interesting, and i ain't got patience for that. it's enough for me just not to be repulsed. i don't need no beauty queens, i'm perfectly happy with the tenth of twelfth runners up.

4 laid-back and easygoing. in the cyber dating world i'm pretty sure this is a euphemism for "stoner" when people are too chickenshit to write "420-friendly," but in my case it means i would like to be the only one privy to panic attacks and fits of hysteria. i don't really ever freak out, but i am most certainly not a caregiver; i'll pay someone to soothe you and bring you soup because i'm too busy over here trying to find someone to do that shit for ME. calm, steady people are ridiculously attractive; high-strung freaking out is moist.

5 gross animal person. i totally understand that some people like clean white pants. i could never be one of those people, because i live with a smelly black cat who sleeps on every fancy outfit i ever lay out. and i use feline pine, which makes your house smell like the forest hansel and gretel got lost in.

6 killer taste in music. this goes without saying, but if you want to bang me you've gotta go to rock shows. and you don't have to come by your good music taste organically; i am totally willing to make you some mixes. but if you like freeform modern jazz and freeform modern jazz ONLY, let's stop talking to one another. and i'm not so close-minded that i won't begrudgingly listen to suggestion, but i am super judgmental and will disqualify your expertise the minute i see something questionable on your ipod. i would fist fight over a shitty pop song. just saying.

7 okay with separate living arrangements. geno is convinced that i will never make this a reality with another sentient being, but i am 100% sure that i am just ahead of the curve and that couples in 2037 will totally be married yet live on opposite sides of town. i really think it's worth the experiment at the very least. i said life's about the little things, right? well what if you could remove some of those little things from the equation? imagine, how much more would i love you if i never ever EVER had to pull your hairs out of the clogged drain? if your alarm wasn't waking me up three whole hours before i have to start my day? if i never tripped over your cell phone charger? if the amount of orange juice i left in the carton WAS AT THE EXACT SAME LEVEL AS IT WAS THE LAST TIME I USED IT?! in most cases people don't really change so drastically that the person you woke up next to this morning is unrecognizable in comparison to the one you married, but this incarnation certainly does nag you about the messy garage a fuck of a lot more. don't you think if we could eliminate the bulk of life's teeny tiny little irritants that we'd all be so much happier? i am determined to find out, right after i wipe this toothpaste residue and beard stubble out of the bathroom sink.

8 not too athletic and not super amazing at sex. this should go without saying, but people who push the boundaries in bed are people who are going to be bored shitless fucking you after a few years. and i don't need that kind of stress and anxiety; life is hard ENOUGH. you mean i have to work and think of new ways to get you off?! no, thank you, i have television programs to watch. and active people always want you to scale that rock wall and run that 5k with them, and i'm not doing any of that. i'm good for 1/2 an hour on the treadmill at a relaxed pace and maybe some circuit training followed by ten minutes of free weights (MAYBE, i said), so if you need more than that you gotta go fuck an american gladiator and leave me to my ice cream and fried chickens.

9 interesting hobbies. not because i want to join in, BLARF, but because i need someone who can entertain herself. leave me alone for a goddamned minute.
10 good liar. too much honesty is hurtful and boring, especially when we arrive at the truth because of a TERRIBLY UNCONVINCING LIE. i'm a fantastic liar, and that spares the hurt feelings of all of my loverfriends. bad liars fuck shit up. make it believeable so i don't have to cry so much, dudes. you live and you learn, right? and basically all this living has taught me is how to appreciate a person who can say, "no, i was at the LAUNDROMAT" with a straight face when i suspect he's been softening some other bitch's sheets.

11 stable. so i don't really care about jobs, so long as you have one and it is enough to provide your basic needs. if it isn't, you should get a second one. i know women who say they need to be with doctors or corporate lawyers or whatever, and good luck with that. i just don't believe in sharing, and i don't want to hear about how you can't pay your phone bill. but money doesn't really matter when you have your own bank account and live in the building across the street from mine, just don't ask me to pick up the check more than twice in a row. i mean, COME ON. this girl has standards!

12 mute. DUH.


13 orphaned. now i wouldn't wish death on anyone's family outright, so i'd be willing to accept "poor relationship with mother" or "moved here from texas and hates going back to visit. i got an okcupid message the other day from a dude who said he was looking for someone "family-oriented," and i know it's against the vagina laws to admit it, but that is NOT ME. i would feed a kid a steady diet of oreos and cheap beer and bacon just to shut it up, and there are only so many minutes of the day that i can make polite small talk with your mother. i'm charming as shit, just ask any of my friends' parents, but that runs out FAST. and then it's all testicles and cursing and talking shit about people we pass on the street. in other words, i won't be invited back. and i could never return that particular favor, which irritates me. i want my mom to criticize your shitty tattoos, too! hmph.


Thursday, May 5, 2011

the myth of the sports bar.

it's NBA playoffs time again and that can only mean one thing: hooray for testicles. but first, here's the action i've gotten thusfar from the internet: 1 a fairly good-looking dude who sent me a million billion emails about my killer taste in music, 2 a dude who said he wanted to "write poetry together," and 3 an african social worker, which to me sounds like a little bit of an oxymoron, no? oh i'm just kidding. (if you agreed with that, though, you are a racist.) 1 was pretty smart and awesome, and his initial correspondence began with a congratulations on having tune-yards and frank ocean in my list of favorite music to get banged to. (that's what you're supposed to list, right?) he went on to say how refreshing and honest my profile is (whut) and how rare it is to encounter diverse, interesting women on the internet (WHUT). i try not to get excited about anything anymore because the letdown is totally pointless and demoralizing, but my interest was piqued. a handful of messages later and he was still talking about music; what bands have i seen lately? where do i find new music? what is my favorite place to see a show? do i have a bootleg leak of the new clams casino? do i read fader and urb? how do i pick songs for my radio show? don't i think kid cudi is underrated? would i please dropbox him a playlist of amazing new music?! in other words, want to be BFFs and help me bang other women? and as tempting as that offer might be, NO I DO NOT.

as much as i don't want to be some dude's personal pitchfork (god, asshole, have you ever heard of the INTERNET?!), i'd much rather drop some music knowledge on a dude than receive artificial greeting card romance. 2 sent a message that made my eyes bleed; it was absolutely terrible. mostly because he said, "let's drink wine and write poetry together" and "i simply can't wait to bask in the glow of your humor" or something equally moist. BLARF. i write self-deprecating dick jokes, and i can't think of anything on earth worse than sitting down and trying to pen a sonnet with some stupid, horrible dude, especially if he has a boner the entire time. plus i hate wine. i gave him my number, though, because this court is always in need of a jester and sometimes i run short of comedic material. but the joke is on you, dear reader of mine/that young man turned out to be lame/for after he texted and i sent my reply/he texted me back that he'd forgotten my name.

call me a cynic, but i can ALWAYS TELL when google translate has written me a love letter. these dudes really think they're fooling me with those profile pictures, what with their normal denim jeans and plain white dress shirts and closed-toe shoes, but all i have to do is open the message to know that "well-traveled" really means "swam to this country seeking political asylum." i couldn't paraphrase this shit if i wanted to, so here is one of the messages i received from 3 in its entirety: "
Hello Dear, how are you tonight? I do hope all is well with you. I am so sorry for my late response, I made frantic effort to drop you a note but it proved abortive sequel to my inability to be here constant. Nevertheless, I will always keep in touch early. How was your day and how is your weekend going on? I hope you are enjoying it fully. I must assure you that I really appreciate the opportunity give to me to write to you and would always uphold it with much respect. I do hope we would find time to share more about each other because I would love to get to know you better. Do have a blissful night. This is Chris."

i'll wait here if you want to go back and read it again. "it proved abortive sequel to my inability to be here constant?" oh, you mean "i couldn't because i can't be online much?" OMG dudes. this is why i'm complaining all the time, because i have to have the united nations intercept all of my email traffic so that it's somewhat readable once it gets to me, and even then i need a phd in linguistics to even come close to deciphering that mangled english. i speak fluent spanish, and one of the things that was really important to me when i was learning was that i come as close to sounding like a native as is possible for an american born north of the mason dixon. and i totally do. my written spanish is 100% textbook, but it isn't awkward and contrived, i just don't have an extensive spanish vocabulary. there's a gulf of difference between "would you like to meet for a beer?" and "i would very much be enjoying of your presence if it would not bother you to accompany me to an establishment that serves spirits and refreshments" or whatever, and that's why i'm not in mexico trying to get laid on the interwebs. blarf.

amy was telling me last week that the key to her blissful new relationship is the fact that her girlfriend speaks very little english, and if that's really where we're at that makes me mucho sad. i can understand the appeal of having someone around who doesn't really understand what a heartless cunt i can sometimes be, but i am impatient and easily aggravated and i don't do a very good job of teaching and/or explaining things to people. which is why i have stopped pretending that i'd ever be open to raising a child. most dating profiles are full of lies and bullshit anyway, but against jeff's advice i stopped checking the "undecided" box months ago. i mean, eventually we'll all be forty-five and that shit won't matter anyway, but i have to stop giving people false hope while i'm in the midst of my breeding years. the crohn's took away any chance of organic babies, and the seething rage i feel when in the presence of a rambunctious child erased all other consideration. and "chris" (yeah, right) loves jesus and wants a woman who'll give birth to a soccer team, and i can't even have a dog. so much goddamned NOISE. so that's over.

cara finally scared old salt and pepper off for good, and thank horus because it's about to be summer and i like to go out every night and shake my coconuts and i need a bitch to go with me. and i apologize white friends, but i simply cannot spend another season hanging out in a bar in which not a single occupant would be willing to put it in my butt. no one in wicker park or ukrainian village or logan square is trying to fuck me, and i'm okay with that because skinny jeans are moist and PBR is gross, but i refuse to spend another goddamned dollar standing around feeling bad for being the only one in the entire building who grew up without a father in the home. i'm sorry that i have no working idea of what a play date is and why brussels sprouts are delicious, so i'm going to start hanging out where dudes rotted their baby teeth out with kool-aid and still beat off to fat broads.

every year when the playoffs roll around i flirt with the idea of going to a bar to watch the games and eat 137 wings in a sitting, but then common sense usually reminds me that that's a stupid idea and i would be much happier at home in my pajamas falling asleep before the end of the first fucking quarter, where at least i won't take it personally when some uninterested party spends the entire night ignoring me. cara calls me every april and every april i shut that bitch down, reminding her that neither of us has never in the history of ever taken a man home after spending a couple hours watching a ball game, and i always get diarrhea because bar food is just reconstituted garbage shaped like a nacho.
BONUS. she is convinced that our future husbands have their chests pressed to a bar, one hand on a coors and the other in a plate of cheese fries, and that all we have to do to meet them is push our tits up and pretend to give a shit about dirk nowitzki.

game 1, bulls v pacers: i decided to go because i wasn't doing shit anyway, plus sometimes you just have to prove a point in person. i'd promised cara that i would do my part by wearing actual clothes that another human being might find attractive and "trying not to be so sarcastic," which basically means she wanted me to buy some new threads and stay stone sober while adopting someone else's goddamned personality. jerkballs. but i did it, i bought some tight jeans and took my dressy blazers to the dry cleaners and found some bejeweled ballet flats. crazy, right?! i mean, i really committed to the role: i put makeup on, i drank club soda with a lime, and when some smug asshole said, "i bet you don't know what a triple-double is" i refrained from reached down his neck and snatching his heart right out of his chest. you know who goes to sports bars? married dudes who want to watch the game without the wife bitching at them to take out the garbage. we went to a relatively upscale black place in the south loop, and there was literally a collective cringe the minute we walked in, either because some men just hate the sight of a well-tailored business casual blazer or THEY WERE AFRAID WE WERE GOING TO ANNOY THE SHIT OUT OF THEM DURING THE GAME. i understand the rules to pretty much every popular sport, and thus am in no danger of irritating a dude with my incessant whining and questions like, "how many points do you get for a free throw?" but they don't know that. all they see is ovaries, and they want them the fuck out of their bar. all men know that women can't sit in silence for longer than five minutes without bringing up tampons or new shampoos, so every single one of them immediately focused their eyes intently on one of the 8 giant screens until we sat in a booth in the back. i actually wanted to watch the goddamned game, and midway through the third quarter cara was pouting and sighing and eating her way through her fourth order of potato skins. no one said a word to us other than the waitress, whose only kind words of the evening were "you can get that with extra bacon, if you want." sam 1, cara 0.

game 5, heat vs 76ers: this time we went to a super-popular place with a mixed crowd of drunks and way better food. i wore black pants and a black shirt that is essentially MISSING A PANEL IN THE FRONT. veritable tits on toast. but i took a sweater, because cara said we didn't want to be "too obvious." speak for yourself, gurl. you know who goes to sports bars? frat boys who want to scream in each others' faces and chest-bump in public. we sat in two prominent seats at the bar, and i ordered a shot and a fancy beer, much to the delight of the gentleman sitting on my left. he actes like he had never seen an alcoholic before, and i don't like being self-conscious about my drinking. i'd prefer to destroy my liver in peace. but not before he bought me another. i knew he wasn't trying to bang me, so i told a handful of jokes and put a handful of drinks on his tab while cara pretended she didn't know how the time clocked worked as his stupid friend tried to explain it to her. i get bored easily, so when i was done hustling i asked the host for a table so we could eat without having to balance on a fucking bike seat. damn, i hate stools. anyway, cara's shameless dumbed-down flirting was marginally successful, so i got a table by myself and ordered a pizza with no cheese because god hates me, remember? then i got out my kindle and read 30% of the corrections before cara texted me that some lincoln park dude was taking her home and she would be cockblocking herself is she asked him to drop me off. cara 1, sam 1. (minus $22 for the cab home I AM SUCH A FUCKING SUCKER.)

game 1, bulls vs hawks: cara is still sleeping with that pi sigma douche, for reals?!, so i went to a local restaurant slash sports bar with some lesbians. true to my promise i busted that blazer out again and wore a ruffled thing underneath to counteract the gay. the bitches i was with were wearing sweatshirts and cargo shorts and puffy vests, so i looked like a goddamned bouquet of peonies by default. you know who goes to sports bars? families with small children and dudes who can't afford basic cable. i have never seen so many people under the age of three in my LIFE. everywhere i turned some toddler was yelling, "FUCK YOU, BOOZER! D THAT BITCHASS MOTHERFUCKER UP!" in my ear while waving a sippy cup of hard cider in my face. my vagina closed up the minute i saw a baby in a carseat balanced on an overturned high chair next to a dude in a michael jordan jersey and wearing a baseball cap inside, so i threw caution to the wind and ordered some garlic wings. i was obviously not going to do any close-talking. which meant there was also no need to get drunk. i don't need liquid courage to make a couple hot girls laugh; broads fucking LOVE me. and i love them right back, because i spent all of last weekend with girls who like girls, and lesbians are insane in the absolute best way. did you know that they have the same kinds of fights heteros have?! i really did think that two women loving on each other is sexy times full of unicorn tears and mewling kittens, but that is NOT SO. they yell at each other and call each other too much and irritate the shit out of each other, all while i watch from the front row. which is why i'm going to set my sights on television and restaurant week, things i am almost certain won't aggravate me to within an inch of my goddamned life. my ex-boyfriend's cousin was at the bar-staurant, wearing a suit and sipping a bud light, and i remember how that dude used to scam girls out of free dinners and it occurred to me that he was probably there because he couldn't watch the game at home. sad face. and UNDATEABLE. sam 2, cara 1.

there is no moral to the story other than 1 getting laid is nearly impossible and 2 basketball is boring as shit until the fourth fucking quarter. ooh, and that garlic wings are never a good idea, no matter whom you won't be talking to. ouch.