holy shitface, kittens, your girl had a little below the belt activity this weekend. and i have the soiled underpants to prove it. hallelujah! glory be! don't all rush the pulpit at once, but i'm glad whatever dieties you've been asking to scrounge up some new trade for me to talk shit about have been listening. thank fucking horus. now don't worry, this little bite of treats isn't going to change my typical sardonic assholiness. i'm not one of THOSE. i would consult goddamned helen prior to making a major life decision before i'd let my stupid vagina get in on the vote. so no need to fear a bunch of swoony rhapsodizing over some dirtbag with a quick wit who's got me fooled for the moment. i am still, and will always be, your most favorite venerable piece of shit. now let's get into it.
how did anyone find people to fuck on before the internets existed? i'd never go on another date ever again if i had to rely on the number of times i've been approached in a bar or on the street. and not that the internet isn't full of raggedy shitholes who lie about everything from their height to their hair color to their favorite recreational activites. (i'm looking at you, mister i-like-to-climb-mountains.) and i understand that your dating profile persona is supposed to be all of the awesome things about yourself amplified just enough to get some hot slab of beef to want to stick his t-bone in you, but COME ON, dudes! you do realize that if you ever make a date with lustybustybrowneyes69 (not my interweb alias, although it totally should be), she is going to find out, don't you?! stupid asshole. 5'6" isn't 6'0", you pieces of garbage! and i'm gonna know! because this bitch is 5'9", and that's absolutely what her shit says.
internet sam is the same as real life sam, at least as far as my dating profiles are concerned. i used to take my time answering the questions and coming up with a playful yet witty with a sprinkle of charming essay. i should have been the superstar of fuckinghotdudes.com! freals, i should be peeling dudes off my vagina like leeches. but that shit got me NOWHERE. no one reads your carefully thought-out introductory paragraph; they scan your pictures, make note of how many kids you have and which income box you checked, then a fine young gentleman screen name bigblkdong sends you shit like, "hey sexy. my names bryan. we shold get togetherr for drinks sometimes. i look forward 2 getting to know u. holla back at me soon. my subcription expires in 2 days. bye, gogeous." smiley face.
that shit just melted your panties right off. QUIT PLAYING. it's a wonder that bryan and i aren't happily married parents of two right now, especially since a click on his profile revealed that he is the father of multiple children who "do not live in the home," hates any sort of animal except ones he can cook and eat, and is posing either with a woman or a handful of money in every single one of his pictures. now how the fuck is HE still single?! what a catch! i also love dudes who take shirtless camera phone pictures, especially when their chests aren't anything worth writing home about. what the fuck about the internet breeds such delusion? because listen, i have a glorious stomach roll that i could photograph and upload to desperatefor sausage.com, but that's something i need to try to disguise beneath a spanx until you're smitten enough with me to pretend not to notice it as i demand to have sex for the first time in pitch blackness.
dudes are so dumb and gross. put your tits away, at least until you've bought me a few steaks. and i promise to hide my giant red birthmark until after the first couple handjobs. dealsies? seriously. I JUST DON'T GET IT. all of my pictures are of 1 my gorgeous face 2 my amazing rack. why no pictures of my hairy legs or my dirty hippie feet, you ask? oh, that's easy: BECAUSE I WOULD LIKE SOMEONE TO BUY ME DINNER, AND NO ONE WILL DO THAT IF HE FIRST SEES MY GROSS FEET. the point, men, is that if you want a girl to fuck you, maybe you should gild the lily a little bit. and i know, facebook fucked my shit all the way up, too, with bitches tagging unflattering pictures of your ass left and right, always at two in the goddamned morning when you aren't going to see that shit for another seven hours and proving your total ugliness to any- and everyone who bothers to click on your shit or scroll through their feed. TRUST ME, i know. happens to me all the time. but here's the thing about your dating picture: it can be any one of your choosing. isn't that so special and nice?! so why is it, my future loves, that you picked THAT one? you know, the one where your teeth look weird and your face is half-shadowed. or the other one, with you and that bitch wearing lingerie. or the one next to that boat that doesn't belong to you. also, maybe you could put the beer down. or put on clean pants. take the sunglasses off. AND PUT ON A MOTHERFUCKING SHIRT.
so i used to do the sites that you pay a million dollars for, because I LOVE LEGALIZED PROSTITUTION, duh, but now i fucking DON'T. a few idiots have said to me "only serious people pay," and about that i call BULLSHIT. horseshit and dogshit, too. you know who i met on dating sites that i paid for? THE SAME ONES I'M MEETING NOW. like it takes a master's degree and an interesting personality to put $34.95 on a mastercard! man, fuck that shit. it would be one thing if eharmony required a black amex, because then you'd know what a motherfucker is working with. EXCEPT your ass could never sign up for that shit, because you're broke! i know baseheads that can come up with forty bucks. pssssshaw. and now with those russell simmons debit cards (shut up! i watch channel 26!) any old raggedy piece of shit can ball out with his prepaid secured direct deposit wannabe credit card, EVEN ME.
NOW i don't pay for SHIT. and it's yielding the same damn results. 99.8% worthless pieces of garbage trying to stick their dicks in my ass. but now it stings less, because i haven't wasted any money on it. in the past, when eharmony was ass-raping me to the tune of $60 a month, it chapped my fucking BALLS OFF when they couldn't hand pick and deliver the man of my dreams into my gmail. you know how many tacos sixty bucks can buy you? a lot! and i was willing to pay that exorbitant fee in exchange for a crack at someone matched with me on 1,326, 724 compatibility levels. it took me SIX WEEKS (not really) to answer their goddamned questionnaire, but i DID IT. i did it because i didn't think i had a snowball's chance in hell of finding someone who wouldn't mind if i brought an entire box of cereal to bed on a sunday morning and poured little bits of soymilk into the bag while eating it with a spoon. from the bag. in bed.
isn't that what all that hullabaloo is about? finding someone who would love the nastiest, crustiest, dirtiest parts of me without question or explanation? i'm tired of telling dudes what sucks about me and waiting to see if they can deal with it. i thought eharmony was going to tell them about my snoring and misanthropy, or at least screen them for tolerance. but OH NO. all that old dude did was fill my email with a shit ton of dudes who had no interest in me WHATSOEVER. the suckiest thing about eharmony? they don't tell you what someone is working with physically. and let's be serious here. bitches have types. and (strategically selected) pictures LIE. i need to be around a dude with a little height and some meat on his bones, lest he risk disappearing into my thigh cheese in the middle of the night while i haplessly toss and turn. for cereal, i might just ENVELOP some dude one day. how am i expected to deal with that?! and i sometimes can't tell proportions from a fucking picture. i close up of your pockmarked face does not, in fact, tell me whether or not you could comfortably hide behind me. and nothing feels less sexy than a dude with tiny, delicate hands trying to undo a bra clasp with four hooks. FUCK.
i know you assholes are all worried about the fat chick who checked the "average" box, and rest assured that while i never falsely advertise in that way, "pockets of unevenly distributed fat" DOES NOT equal "muscular." lying ass bastards. because, like i said, I AM GOING TO MEET YOU. maybe. and I WILL SEE WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. the more honest a dude is, the better. because even if i hate your guts, i appreciate that you are suffering from alopecia in real life AND in your pictures. i might even rub your bald spot after dinner. but if the headshot you posted from when you wanted to be an actor ten years ago is sporting a full head of hair, i will wish death on you and your entire family. all my old pictures look like shit. so do my new ones. because i don't give a fuck.
which you will quickly learn after a glimpse at my current profiles. i don't even advertise myself anymore. "i'm funny, i'm smart, i don't give a fuck about dudes, and my taste in music DOMINATES yours. wanna fuck?" and, surprisingly, they do. but most of them also want to TALK, and many of them seem to have the communication skills of your average orangutan. i am so tired of talking to idiots. and believe you me i have searched for idontwantadumbasstoputhispenisinme.com and nomoresuckingilliteratedicks.org. alas, they do not exist. i need to learn how to make websites, because i'd be giving out IQ tests all fucking day. and a feature that helps me discern africans from african american.
NICE TRY, NIGERIANS. thinking i wouldn't figure it out, eh? sneaky SOBs. but i've got my african translation system DOWN PAT. here is how african-americans contact me: hey girl! how you doin? you have a pretty smile. can i talk to you, sweetheart? peace and blessings, sista. michael. AFRICANS: hello miss. you are having the most wonderful profile. i am humble man, looking for the most loving relationship with woman such as yourself. how are you doing today? i am believing you and i are meant to know one another. might you permit me to telephone you sometime? anthony. ahahahahahahahafrican, please. i can tell when rosetta stone wrote some shit on your behalf. i am a seasoned pro, and while my national geographic tits might scream otherwise, i will NOT be carrying a basket on my head or a baby strapped to my back anytime soon. EVEN THOUGH YOUR NAME IS ANTHONY.
you can always tell when some asshole used the internet to translate a bunch of consonants and clicks into something resembling a letter in english, and i'm not falling for that shit. and even if the letter doesn't give it away, the PICTURES always fucking do. purple lips, woven sandals, and linen goddamned shorts? YEAH FUCKING RIGHT.
i don't typically like to go out with a dude after work because these bitches chip away at my fucking soul for twelve hours a day and i need the time afterward to try to recoup some of my goddamned sanity, but friday worked best for him, and what the fuck am i if not totally amenable? first dates make me nervous, because pictures and emails and hilarious texts don't really tell a dude that you're going to spend the entire evening with steak sauce dribbled down your shirt, and i'm not good under pressure. plus, this dude is NICE. like, REALLY NICE. i mean, SUPER DUPER NICE. so nice, in fact, that if any of you whores tell him about this blog i will gut you like a trout.
he's smart, too, and he didn't bore me half to fucking death. and he said "i like your hips," which is right up there with "here is a thousand dollars, tax free" in my book of things that make my panties moist when uttered by a man. so i'm not going to talk shit about him, especially since i don't have anything nasty to say. he was funny. and SMART. did i already say that? well, i'm goddamned sorry. but INTELLIGENT trumps everything except LARGE BALLS, and i'll probably be able to tell you within the next couple of weeks if that applies, too. holy fucking shit.
i don't even want to give him a nickname, as my pseudonyms are usually pulled out of the stinky part of my ass, and this dude doesn't deserve a mean one. so he picked me up at my house, and even though i showered i was sweaty and gross because i walked in the door twenty minutes before he was supposed to get there and unfortunately i am one of those people who needs to get dressed in front of the air conditioner when it's balls humid, and i didn't have any fucking TIME. this lack of precious time also led me to make an unfortunate clothing choice, and the shirt i wore refuses to stay buttoned and let's just say i left very little to the imagination. which might be awkward for someone less sexy (pfffft), but i managed to make re-buttoning my blouse 900 times look smooth and effortless. no, i did not. i looked like an asshole. hopefully he's a boob man.
we had a nice dinner and a hilarious conversation, a huge chunk of which took place parked at clark and oak while we watched drunk ass douchebags and bitches with shitty dye jobs teetering and tottering all over while i tried to keep my bra from showing. then i let him get to second base. i think. there was a little dispute between my friends and i about what constitutes the various bases, but i let that dude touch my boobs. wait a second, that might be shortstop. i'd been worried that my vagina wouldn't work due to inactivity, riding the bench for EIGHT FUCKING MONTHS, but she swelled right up and put her uniform on just like the old days. anyway, here's hoping he has a big metal bat.
who's on first?