Chesterfield Gets Trolled; Hilarity Ensues

I got some feedback from my last story and some was positive. Some was not so positive.

Apparently someone from Women.org said I should be ashamed about the way I talk about women: “not funny you should be ashamed of the way that you talk about women.” Yeah, I probably should be a little ashamed, but I’m not. But not funny? Come the fuck on. I guarantee the broad that wrote that has hairy pits and was wearing combat boots.

Left: woman people actually want to fuck. Right: commentor

I was more intrigued by Anonymous’ comment, which as the name suggests was devoid of a website or email address. I posted this on facebook so there’s a very good chance this is someone that I know. Actually, I hope it is. There’s a very good chance someone is just trolling me, but I’ll take the chance that someone actually cared enough to comment on my shitty site. Here’s the comment:

“I know- maybe if you bitch just a tad bit more about your lack of luck with the ladies, one of them may read this and realize that you’re a great guy that’s just had a run of bad luck with girls, and you aren’t a womanizing dickhead. Try it, I bet it will work.”

Pictured: womanizing dickhead

Here’s my thoughts:

I see you didn’t leave a website or e-mail address, very brave of you. I guess I’ll just have to count on your morally sensitive rage to bring you back to my site so you can read this.

Well Anonymous, maybe if you weren’t such a self righteous prick you’d see that this is clearly over the top and filled with sarcasm and hyperbole. But then again, this story was meant for people with a sense of humor, so clearly it wasn’t for you.

It may surprise an internet nerd like you to find out I actually have quite a few female friends. It may also surprise you to find out that they’ve read these stories and found them funny and insightful.

Also, I’d like to know how I became a “womanizing dickhead.” I know logic is probably not one of your strong points, but still. I was between the ages of 14 and 17, it’s hard to be womanizer when you still live with your parents (I bet you know all about that). I’m not sure how getting shot down, acting oblivious on date and a girl moving makes me a womanizing dickhead. It just makes me a clueless teenager, which is what I was. But that’s the great thing about assumptions, you don’t have to think to make them.

Anonymous, maybe you should think before you write or you know, stop being such an uptight, smug asshole. Try it, I bet it will work. I would love to write more, but I’ll be too busy having sex with your ugly mother and not calling her back (that makes me a womanizing dickhead).

P.S: I plan I “bitching” more. I still have a third part to write.

P.P.S: I hope you get raped by pack of feral dogs.

Girls, Yeah All I Really Want Is Girls (Part 2)

High School: Attention Loser, Where’s Your Girlfriend?

I was 14, had just finished middle school and was about to enter high school. So far the opposite sex was pitching a shutout against me. I was the Chicago Cubs of ass getting. I thought my luck might change once I got to high school, though. This was mostly based on raucous teenage comedies I’d seen like American Pie, Porky’s and Private School. According to these movies everyone got laid in high school, in fact you couldn’t walk out of the locker room with out getting your dick sucked. There were also raging keggers and wacky hijinks to boot. Well, at least in the movies. I didn’t really see much of that.

Before I start my tales of woe, I should explain the fucked up ways that schools operated in my town. Crystal Lake is an average sized suburb of about 45,000-50,000. For some reason the town decided it was necessary to have three middle schools and three high schools. The town I went to college in only had two high schools and its population was double that of Crystal Lake. I suppose three middle schools and three high schools wouldn’t have been a problem if they were organized in a way that made any fucking sense.

I went to an elementary school that was about three blocks from my house. A 10 minute walk at most. There was a middle school, Lundahl, right next to it. I was supposed to go there, but a new middle school, Beardsley, was built and the boundaries changed. Now you would think that I would go to Lundahl, which was a mere three blocks away, but no. The school district decided to fuck with me and send me to Beardsley, which was all the way across town. I think there were three people in my year that went to Beardsley. I lost all of my old friends and basically knew nobody.

Oh you made a lot of great friends in middle school, did you? Well now the school district is going to bend you over again. That’s right, they fucked me again. About 85 % of the people that went to Beardsley went to the newest high school, Prairie Ridge, just outside of town, 10% went to Central, the school I was to attend and an unlucky 5% went to South.

Once again I was thrown into an unfamiliar environment and lost many of my close friends. What made it worse was I just went from the newest school in town to the oldest. It was like going to a Led Zeppelin reunion concert only to be beaten and raped upon leaving and then being forced to listen to the Jonas Brothers non-stop for four years.

The main part of the school was built in the 1920s and additions were added through the years, which meant it was impossible to install central air, which meant I had to sit in ball soup for the first three months of school. Seriously, that place felt like a goddamned brick oven, smelled like a bowling alley and looked like a fucking prison. I mean it when I say it’s a miracle the entire freshman class didn’t enter a mass suicide pact after the first week of school.

That’s enough of my dramatics. On to what you really care about. But first a recap: Girls were shooting me down like I had a target on my back, my school was a shithole and I hardly knew anyone. That’s a recipe for success if I’ve ever heard one.

High school is supposed to be a time when you start to date and try to unravel the mysteries of the opposite sex. It’s also one your first chances to get laid, which is important because as Jonah Hill’s character said in Superbad, when you get to college you don’t want girls thinking “you suck dick at fucking pussy.” Despite all this, I wasn’t too bothered with girls when I entered high school.

I was taking honors classes, playing football and trying to get my video game fix all at the same time. After a day of boring ass classes it was straight to football practice until 6:00 or 6:30 depending on how many unnecessary sprints my dicklicker of a coach decided to tack on at the end of practice. By the time I got home and showered it would be around 7:00. So I would scarf down some dinner and then try to finish my homework. If there were time I would try to play some PS2 or listen to music. For the most part I was asleep by 9:30 or 10:00. Seven or so hours of class and three hours of football was a better sleep aid then a glass of warm milk, two Ambiens and jerking off put together. I don’t think anything short of death would put me out that early nowadays.

This regiment put me in a sort of haze at school. Instead of thinking about boobs and schemes to possibly get a look at a pair, I was thinking about how fucking tired I was and how much time I had before practice. Walking through Central’s corridors, I didn’t stop, or even think to stop, to objectify the girls walking by. It seems absurd now, seeing as most of my friends set aside time in their day to do just that. I swear to god I’ve seen Rigolega write “ogle cans” in his planner. But I just didn’t care.

I would like to think that my schedule and workload were the only reasons for my disinterest, but deep down I know that’s not true. I think I was disappointed that I had to part ways from the female friends I made in middle school. I didn’t want to start the long, agonizing process over again. The fact that I had crashed and burned with every girl I’d been interested in was also in the back of my mind. I thought, why bother?

As the end of October approached the school readied itself for homecoming. For some reason it was a big deal even though Central’s football program was a joke. Before I entered high school, Central had averaged two wins a season for the past 10 years. And I’m pretty sure some of those wins were against a school for the blind and deaf. That particular year it was even more hyped because we were playing Prairie Ridge, an in-town rival. Of course there was a dance after the football games as well. I intended to go but hadn’t intended on asking anyone for obvious reasons, but sometimes plans change.

One October day I was running the track and talking to my friend “Bri” in gym class. She was one of the few people that I knew from Beardsley. Somehow the subject got to homecoming. I mentioned that I wasn’t going with anyone. Bri got really excited and then said, “You should go with Terry!” It wasn’t so much a suggestion as an order. “Yeah I guess I could do that.” The bell rang and I walked to the locker room wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

Terry was mutual friend of Bri’s who went to middle school with us. She, like the majority of the people from our middle school, went to Prairie Ridge. She was about my height with shoulder-length brown hair and an awesome sense of humor. Oh, and she had gigantic knockers, can’t forget those. I always joked around with her in the class and we talked frequently. I realize now that Terry probably liked me but at the time my perception was clouded by my crush on Kate.

My first clue should have been that she actually wanted to hang out with me outside of school. Not many people, much less girls, are willing to do that. During the summer I was hanging out with her at Bri’s house when I should have seen clue number two. I mean, I think it was a sign, but then again I’ve only had eight years to think about it. Anyway, I was sitting on the couch and Terry was sitting to my right. She pulled the legs over lap move or the ole’ L&L as I call it. It’s an innocent way to get close and be intimate with out looking like a skank. I didn’t realize what was going on because I’m what scientists call a “fucking idiot.” And if you’ve read The Kohl’s Incident, Terry was one of the girls Mac and I were supposed to meet at the movies. Of course we were arrested before we made it the movie theater because my life is often the punch line to god’s jokes. I bet JC and Moses were laughing their balls off up there while I was sitting in a squad car instead of chasing tail.

Now I had had to ask Terry to homecoming. The only problem was that I didn’t see her very often on account of her going to a different high school. So I did what any reasonable person would have done, which is to say, I asked her online via AIM like a nerd. I typed out my message but hesitated slightly before hitting enter. I was a bit hesitant because of my previous experiences but after a couple of seconds I hit the enter key. I figured what’s one more rejection and even if I did get rejected it wasn’t face to face. But to my surprise she replied almost immediately. “Yes, Chesterfield. Of course I’ll go.” Holy dicks she said yes! I was the fucking man.

The end of October rolled around and homecoming came with it. After my football game I prepared for the dance. A couple hours later I was on my way to pick up Terry. When I say I was on my way, I mean my mom was driving me to pick her up because I didn’t have a license, and I was that cool. The risk of stealing my mom’s car and driving across town with out a license almost outweighed the embarrassment of my mom driving me around on my date. But I didn’t really feel like getting arrested again so I held off on the grand theft auto.

I walked up to the door with my little gay ass corsage and knocked. Terry’s dad answered and said, “Oh hello, you must be Chesterfield.” But he said it in an Austrian accent. I knew her parents were from Austria, but I was still surprised and a little unsettled. His accent combined with his glasses, meticulously parted hair and sweater vest made him seem more like a Bond villain or a WWII era Nazi scientist than suburban father. I stepped inside the house and took a look around for trap doors, booby traps or any ties to SPECTRE; cursing the fact that I left my garotte wire and laser watch at home.

Her parents talked to my mom, we exchange flowers, and we took pictures. You know, all that happy horseshit. On the way out, Terry’s dad looked at me and said, “Okay, you two have a good time.” But because of the accent all I heard was, “Fuck with my daughter and an Arnold Schwarzenegar looking motherfucker will hunt you down and beat the strudel out of you.”

We got in the car and headed to the restaurant. On the way I realized that I forgot the tickets to the dance. I told my mom and asked her to grab them when she came back to pick us up. It wasn’t a big deal, but it did foreshadow a series of blunders on my part that eventually ruined the night. Goddammit I suck.

We got to the restaurant, I think it was Applebee’s, and sat down. I know that we ate with four or five other people but color me fucked if I can remember who they were. But that’s not the important part about the dinner. The important part is that for some reason my brain just turned off, and I turned into Homer fucking Simpson for a period of time.

We were sitting close to the bar and there were several TVs above it, all of which were playing sports. They were strategically placed to draw your attention and also to screw you on your date by diverting your gaze from her to football. Well, mission accomplished Applebee’s, you assholes. My attention was naturally drawn, like any red blooded American male. When I glanced over to the bar it reminded me that there was a football game on that I wanted to watch. This is where it turned into a fucking farce.

Brain: Oh man, the Illinois game is on and I’m missing it.
Me: “Oh man, the Illinois game is on, and I’m missing it.”
Brain: Are you shitting me? Did you just say that out loud?
Me: Oh shit, I think I did. Maybe she didn’t hear me.
Brain: Look at her! Of course she heard you, you retard!
Me: Uh-oh, yeah she did.
Brain: Quick cover it up. No don’t look at her boobs, you idiot! Fuck this I’m out of here. You’re on your own.

Terry looked at me with a cold stare and said, “Oh you’re missing a football game? Sorry to be such an inconvenience.” At first I thought she was joking around but when I looked at her it was obvious that she wasn’t. Clearly, I’m not good with girls but to let slip something that stupid is unbelievable. At that point I might as well have grabbed her hooters shouted, “Honk!” and then slapped the waitress in the face with my schlong. But don’t worry; I wasn’t content to leave it at that. Somehow it got worse.

I got through the rest of dinner without incident and then the check came. I had plenty of money and fully intended on paying the whole bill myself. I know it’s probably a little outdated and chauvinistic but that’s just the way I was raised. Ladies, all we really want is an offer to split the bill. We’ll refuse your offer but the gesture is what’s important. Usually we’ll go to pay, you’ll offer, we’ll refuse and then you’ll say, “Are you sure?” That should be it, but Terry wouldn’t leave it at that. “God, this is so stupid. I have money just let me pay for my dinner,” she said with a determined look. “No, I have more than enough. I’m paying,” I replied. That’s right, I got in a fight with my date over the bill. Finally, I ended up winning and paid. Soon after my chauffer (Mom) showed up to take us to the dance.

I was relieved that she remembered to bring the tickets. It saved me from looking like more of a buffoon, at least for the time being (obvious foreshadowing). She dropped us off at the entrance of the field house and we went into the gym. It was set up like a typical high school dance: crappy decorations, music so loud you can barely hear the person next to you, lights so dim you can barely see the person next to you and 500 dancing, sweaty teenagers.

I’m not usually one for dancing, unless I’m about six beers in. I wasn’t drinking then, you know, because I was 14, so it’s shocking that I actually danced. And I had fun doing it. I soon learned that: dancing your white ass off + 500 people doing the same thing + cramped gym + dress clothes = swamp crotch and pit stains that would put a fat guy in the desert to shame. I made the mistake of wearing flannel boxers too. My weasel was seriously getting heat stroke. Right as I was contemplating finding a bucket of water and dumping it down my pants, Terry came over and said she was going to go catch up with some friends from middle school. I was cool with that because it gave me a chance to rest.

I went to talk to some of the guys from the football team. After about 15 minutes I started to wonder where Terry was. I wandered around the gym like an asshole looking for her, but with so many people and the lights being so dim it wasn’t exactly easy to find her. After wandering some more I still hadn’t found her. I lost my fucking date, which I’m told is not a good sign. Really, how the fuck do you do that? It’s right up there with forgetting your wallet and playing with your wiener at the dinner table. After a couple more circles around the gym I gave up because, as my Dad constantly likes to remind me, I am a quitter.

Right as I gave up the search, some guys from the football team said they were going outside to chill for a bit. I decided to join them. It felt about 20 degrees cooler outside, and I was happy to get some cool October air on my sweat-covered body. We sat on the steps outside the field house, loosened our ties and bullshitted. To be honest, I was having as good a time outside as I was inside the dance. I must have lost track of time between talking about that day’s game and telling dick jokes because I was probably outside for a good half hour. I didn’t even think about going back inside. But apparently Terry was wondering where the fuck I was. I know this because I saw her storm out of the field house door, and she did not look happy.

I turned around from my spot on the stairs and saw Terry on mission. She had two friends behind her, probably so they could yell at me too if I gave any sass. She marched up to me and said, “Where the hell have you been?” I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, and I wanted to point out that she was the one who ditched me first. But I didn’t voice either thought because I learned my lesson from arguing over the check. Instead, I stuttered like Porky The Pig and said something lame about going outside to cool off. “Uggghh, we missed a slow song,” she said with hurt look on her face. She grabbed my hand before I could respond and dragged me inside.

I wasn’t too bothered about missing a slow song. To me, it was just one less opportunity for her to awkwardly bump into my raging hard-on and get weirded out. Obviously I couldn’t say that, but I still couldn’t comprehend why she was so mad. It was only a fucking dance and we were going as friends. And it wasn’t even my fucking idea; it was Bri’s. Besides that, I went to look for her but I didn’t exactly have fucking night vision. Trying to find a girl of average height, with brown hair in a dark dress in that gym was like trying to find a needle in a goddamn stack of needles. I guess thinking like that makes me an asshole.

You would think that I couldn’t screw up the night any further and you’d be right. Some one else screwed it up. However, I still looked like an asshole. The final slow song played and then the lights went on, which meant it was time to get the fuck out of dodge. I told my mom what time the dance ended and told her to pick us up outside the field house.

It got rather chilly outside by the time the dance ended, so I said I’d sit outside and look for my mom while Terry stayed inside. I sat on a step and waited and waited and waited. All the juniors and seniors left right away and most of the under classmen had disappeared as well. I looked around and there were only a handful of people left outside. Where the hell was my ride? After about 20 minutes Terry came outside and told me she was going to get a ride home with her friend “Liza.” I said that was fine, gave her an awkward ass-out hug and continued to wait. My lovely mother showed up about 40 minutes after the dance ended.

“Where’s Terry? Does she need a ride home?” I looked at my mom pissed off and said, “Well not anymore. The dance ended at 11 and 11:30, Mom.” I told her Terry got a ride home and then she apologized for not listening to me about when the dance ended. I leaned my head against the window and thought that any way I sliced it; I came off looking like a chump that night.

I should have called Terry the next week and apologized for being such a craptacular date. But I didn’t, which isn’t all that surprising because I dropped my moral compass in a sea of sin long before that. I took the easy way out (some would call it the
“cowardly way,” but fuck them): I cut contact with her. Guess what? She didn’t call me either. It’s as if we both agreed never to relive that horrible date. Although, I think we may have taken it to the extreme by never seeing each other again.

You know how you kind of idealize the person you like? Well I’m sure I shattered her idealized image that night. Sometimes I wonder what could have been if I hadn’t acted like such a jackass or realized that she liked me. If a few things went differently I probably could have had a girlfriend. In which case, I probably would have figured out a lot of stuff I’m still figuring out right now. But it’s not all bad. If that happened then I probably wouldn’t be writing these stories, which means I wouldn’t be entertaining you. You should be glad I’m such a fuck up with girls. Ungrateful bastards.

Nothing significant, as far as the opposite sex was concerned, happened until my junior year. Then something happened that hadn’t happened in a long time. I was interested in a girl. Her name was “Dina.” I started to notice her in my gym class toward the end of sophomore year. Goddamn, a pair of shorts looked good on her ass. Dina was extremely athletic (great basketball player and runner) and intelligent. Remember when I said Kate was exotic? Well, next to Dina she was Sarah Plain and Tall. Dina was part Middle Eastern, Lebanese I think, which was a rarity in my mostly white, country club of a town. She had dark reddish, brownish hair, blue eyes (yeah I don’t know how that works either, being part Middle Eastern) and an olive complexion. Her personality, if possible, was more attractive. She was on the most down to earth girls I had ever met. She wasn’t like the stuck up, spoiled princesses that were a dime a dozen in my school. She was so easy to talk to that I wasn’t nervous around her. I started to think: By George, old boy you just might have a shot at this! (My inner monologue adopts a British accent when I’m confident).

God decided to throw me a bone junior year in the form of Dina and me being in the same commons (upperclassmen study hall) and gym class. At least I thought he was throwing me a bone. Turns out that he threw it to me so he could shove it up my ass a couple months later. I was talking to her a lot and I decided sometime in October that I would ask her out. I figured that if we went out once before homecoming and then went to homecoming together I’d be on the fast track to hot girlfriend city. Apparently the powers that be had other plans.

Around the second week of October I committed to asking Dina out on the upcoming Friday. I counted down the days. When the day came I counted down the hours until our commons together. I was so nervous it took all the will power I had not to shit myself every time I saw her in the halls. I noticed something peculiar, though. On that particular day, there were a lot of people stopping to talk to Dina. She was well liked and fairly popular but not that goddamn popular. When commons came around I noticed the same phenomenon. I saw someone teasing her, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know what the fuck was going on. I got up from my table and walked over to her.

“What was that about?” I asked. “Oh he was just teasing me about the mascot for my new school.” New school? What the fuck was she talking about? Dina obviously saw the confused look on my face and started to explain. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you? Today is my last day at Central. My dad got a new job and we’re moving to Hinsdale.” Well, fuck a duck. I know it’s cliché to say, but I was speechless. It was like getting punched in the stomach. I didn’t know what to do or say. I saw my whole plan crash into a fiery mess right before my eyes. It was like the fucking Hindenberg.

Since I didn’t know what to do, I just let her talk about her new school. After a couple of minutes I went to seek counsel from my friend “Topher.” He was surprised about the news as well and assured me that I had the worst luck in the world. I think he was right. Her last day at Central was the day I was going to ask her out? What the fuck? That’s straight out of a motherfucking John Hughes movie not real life.

Topher and our friend “Milly” advised me to ask her to homecoming. They reasoned that she would probably come back anyway, so I might as well ask her. The words were barely out of their mouths when I motioned Dina over. “What’s up?” she said. “Hey, do want to go to homecoming? If you can make it back, that is.” “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it back yet, but if I can that’d be great!” Then we got a picture together on the little disposable camera she was carrying around to document her last day.

There was some hope left, but in reality coming back one night for a dance was a pretty shitty consolation prize. If she came back it would be like winning 100-meter dash because the guy in first’s shorts fell down, and he tripped and scraped his dick up. Sure you win, but is that how you want to do it? I don’t know if the metaphor really works, but I thought it was a funny image.

A week later I got confirmation that god did indeed hate me. Dina’s friend “Krista” came up to me and gave me an envelope and said, “Dina wanted me to give you this.” Somehow I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. I opened the envelope and there was a little note and a copy of the picture we took together. I glanced at the picture and then read the note (which I still have somewhere). It informed me that Dina would not be able to make it to the dance. Although she had pretty legit reasons to miss homecoming, I was still dejected. Apparently she had to take the ACT that Saturday and after that she had to work a youth basketball camp for the girl’s basketball team. Of course for all I knew those could have been bullshit. She could have been taking the ACT on Monday like me, and it’s very possible there was no basketball camp. Knowing Dina, she was telling the truth, but I’ll never know for sure.

After reading and rereading the note during the following days I became even more crestfallen. For once I really thought I had a shot, but out of nowhere it just fell apart. It wasn’t even my fault, or Dina’s for that matter. It was just miserable luck. I think that’s what made it worse. I had no control of the situation. There’s nothing I could have done differently to salvage it.

Needless to say, I was pretty fed up with my bad luck and girls. I just gave up. When homecoming rolled around I did the noble thing and skipped the dance to go egg cars and houses in the rich neighborhoods with my brother and two of our friends. We were going to drive by the field house and egg people going to the dance but when we pulled into the circle drive we saw a cop. So we pulled a U-turn in the middle of the drive, in front of about 50 people and looked like complete douches.

The rest of the year didn’t go much better. I basically just ignored girls, not that my friends and I hung out with many (any?). At the end of the year I didn’t even bother asking anyone to prom. Senior year I got a little better. I had a crush on a girl the whole year but I didn’t so anything about it because I didn’t want to find out what new and inventive way I would get screwed (not literally of course). I didn’t ask her to prom because she went with one of her good friends (who was a huge fuckstick by the way). I thought I should at least ask someone.

I asked three girls: one already had a date and the other two weren’t even going. After that my penis became sort of like bunting or streamers; it was only useful for decorative purposes. Prom night actually turned out to be pretty fun. Instead of wasting $50 on two tickets, dinner and another $50 on a tux rental with no guarantee of a return (sex) on my investment, my friends and I drank beer, went fishing and hit up the local late night diner.

There was hope yet, though. And it was called college. According to everything I’d seen and heard college was basically just one big, drunken orgy. However, I had similar expectations about high school based on what I heard. But in this case there was too much evidence for it not to be true (older friends lying about how much poon they got).

I was pumped to go to college but I failed to take into account my amazing bad luck. Earlier I said I was the Chicago Cubs of ass getting, but upon further review, I think I’m more like the Wile E. Coyote of ass getting. A relationship/date in my hands is like an ACME product in the hands of the Coyote; it’s bound to blow up in my face. Time to strap on the rocket skates and see what happens…

Stay tuned for part 3, College: Pretty Girls Make Graves

Girls, Yeah All I Really Want Is Girls (Part 1)

A couple of my recent articles have dealt with women. Specifically, why women are crazy. This is also a frequent topic of conversation at work, which has led some of my female co-workers to believe that I hate women.

This isn’t exactly true. It’s not that I hate the person per se; it’s more that I hate particular actions or beliefs. Some of my friends weren’t so bold as to say I hate women, but they had no problem pointing out that I’m at least a little bitter. I can’t really argue with that because, well, it’s true.

I have good reason to be bitter, though. Up until this point in my life, my experiences with women haven’t been exactly what you would call “good.” In fact, you’d probably call them “bad.” I’ve compiled a few anecdotes that, I think, partially explain my behavior. What follows are stories of stupidity (on my part), insanity and good ole’ fashioned bad luck.

Elementary School/Middle School: Tripping Out Of The Starting Blocks

I was a pretty normal kid in elementary school. I liked sports, video games and comic books. However, I still hadn’t discovered girls. As far as I was concerned, they still had cooties and just got in the way during recess when we tried to play basketball (those whores).

Now I don’t know what the deal was with my elementary school, but no one “went out.” We heard tell of fifth graders doing this strange thing called “dating” at other schools, but to us it was just a legend. Kind of like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. I guess that’s not entirely accurate. There was one kid, who I’ll call JVM, who was dating in fifth grade. JVM was the exception to the rule, though. By fifth grad he was already about 5’8”, wore Pantera shirts and got suspended from school for setting a bathroom garbage can on fire; in other words he was a badass. Oh, and did I mention the girl he was dating was in seventh grade? Seventh grade! And somehow he got her to pay for their “dates.” Even if I was into girls at that age, how the fuck was I supposed to compete with that? I think I was still wearing tighty whiteys for Christ’s sake.

It’s curious the difference a year’s time makes. When I entered middle school I started to notice girls and interestingly enough, I thought of them as something other than annoyances. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure this new interest happened to coincide with me sprouting a veritable forest in my underpants. I also discovered one of the greatest things an adolescent boy can discover: porn. You mean there are videos and pictures of women taking off their clothes and having sex? Fucking sign me up for that! I didn’t know why, but after sneaking downstairs to watch a few dirty movies, I realized that boobs were awesome and there was little I wouldn’t do to see them. Although it would be couple of years before I discovered possibly the single greatest thing an adolescent boy can discover: masturbation. But that’s neither here nor there, so I digress.

It wasn’t all sunshine, rainbows and skin-a-max, though. There was a downside to puberty. Mainly, the exponential increase of daily boners. Who the fuck am I kidding? The exponential increase of hourly boners. They came out of nowhere without out warning, like ninjas. Very erect, uncomfortable, embarrassing ninjas. As long as you were sitting at your desk it was fine, but as soon as the bell rang you were in no man’s land, with little protection from potential embarrassment. The one thing I did have was a trapper keeper. I kept that thing glued to my crotch like it was lead and Superman was down the hall molesting me with his x-ray vision.

Keeping these facts in mind, it was apparent that I was interested in girls and thankfully it wasn’t “totally gay” anymore. My friends became interested in girls too and I even saw the, until then, mythical practice of “dating.”

In my homeroom class, I found myself sitting across the room from a girl, who we’ll call Cassie. I spent a good portion of my time discretely (or maybe not so discretely, fuck if I know) staring at her when I should have been learning about nouns and verbs or memorizing state capitals or whatever the hell you do in sixth grade; I don’t really remember. I also found myself going out of my way to talk to her, which would have been unthinkable a year prior. It was obvious that I liked I her. I didn’t dare do anything about it or tell anyone, though.

For most of the year I kept my secret crush quiet but inevitably, the cat got out of the bag. My middle school used to host “dances” every couple of months after school on Friday. I use the word “dance,” lightly because there was very little dancing actually going on. Mostly, groups of guys and groups of girls stood around in circles on the dance floor trying to get up enough courage to ask someone to dance. Even if some guy had the cajones to ask a middle school honey to dance, they both stood as far apart as possible while still technically touching each other. Anyway, these dances were usually restricted to seventh and eighth graders but there was one dance a year that sixth graders were allowed to go to.

A couple weeks before the dance some guys started asking girls to go with them. It occurred to me that it could possibly be a good idea to ask Cassie. It seems, at the time I confused the word “good,” with “horrible” for reasons you’ll soon see.

In passing at lunch one day, I mentioned that Cassie was, “You know not that bad and kind of cool and shit. I guess…” I thought I was being smooth, but my friends saw through my subterfuge, and by subterfuge I mean horseshit. I was immediately surrounded by people saying, “Dude, you should totally do it,” and “Come on, ask her out.” There were also a lot of elbow nudges, winks and smart-ass grins.

I was 12; I didn’t even know what the fuck “going out” was, but I did know that I didn’t want to look like a pussy. So I decided that I would ask Cassie out because I’m easily swayed by peer pressure. Our school spent an incredible amount of time and money on DARE to get us to resist peer pressure when it came to drugs and alcohol, which failed miserably. It just taught me about drugs I had no idea existed before the DARE program and where to possibly get them. What the school should have been spending money on was a program that helped me resist peer pressure when it came to my idiot friends giving me advice on girls. I was about to receive my first lesson in Don’t Take Advice From Someone Who Is Getting Less Pussy Than You (You Retard).

I made up my mind to ask Cassie out and while, I succeeded in not looking like a pussy, I failed at not looking like an asshole. I thought the best time to ask her out would be at lunch. Most people would go outside to hangout for a while after they finished eating and that’s where I decided to make my move. I should pause the story for a second to explain a few oversights on my part.

First, being a newcomer to the world of girls and gossip, I failed to realize that news spreads fast, particularly in middle school. By the time I actually got balls to ask her, everyone fucking knew. But I didn’t know everyone fucking knew. I think I was the only one that didn’t fucking know. Second, my choice of location was less than ideal. It would have been better to pull her aside in the hall before or after class. I on the other hand, chose a very open, visible place where everyone in the grade was congregated. This hair-brained scheme was doomed from the start.

One day, I finished eating whatever the cafeteria was passing off as a meal and went outside. I kind of stood around for a while with my friends because in all honesty I was scared, like pants-shittingly scared. I had never done this before and all these thoughts kept popping into my head. What if she says no? Fuck, what if she says yes? What do I do then? I wonder if she knows I like her? What if I embarrass myself?

Finally, I pulled myself together and walked across the blacktop. Before I reached her, a friend of Cassie’s spied me walking over and immediately fucked everything up (not that I wouldn’t have done it myself, but it’s the principle of the thing). I was about ten feet away from Cassie and her friend comes out of nowhere and fucking screams, “Oh my god, are you going to ask her out?” Everyone in the surrounding area (which turned out be almost everyone in the goddamned grade) turned around and looked at me. There have been very few times in my life that I have felt that uncomfortable. And those times usually involved a combination of the words “wet” and “underpants.” Every one of my peer’s eyes were trained on me, practically burning holes in me, just waiting for me to look a horse’s ass.

I kind of felt violated. This was supposed to be a private moment for me and a step into manhood and they were just watching like it was goddamn sideshow. And then I realized she was watching like it was a goddamn sideshow. I hastily mumbled, “Do wannagotothedancewithme?” I don’t remember if she even responded but she didn’t have to. The look on her face said it better than any variation or inflection on the word “no” could have.

Defeated, I walked away with my tail between my legs, knowing everyone that I knew just saw me crash and burn. I felt horrible. I just wanted to crawl into a cave to live out my remaining days away from the judging stares of my peers. Walking away, I distinctly remember thinking for the first time “girls suck.”

Now, I deal with rejection as god intended: getting blackout drunk. But I was 12, so I didn’t really have that option. I just had to keep replaying the scene in my head while trying to suppress a combination of rage and embarrassment and pray that people would forget. It took a couple of weeks but people did.

Eventually I became pretty good friends with Cassie by the end of eighth grade. I even took her to my senior homecoming in high school. So in the end it wasn’t too bad, but thank god no one ever brings up that horribly embarrassing event from my past.

My horrible luck with girls didn’t rear its ugly head again until eighth grade. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing in seventh grade (probably playing video games and downloading porn on Kazaa) but it wasn’t talking to girls. The only event that really stands out in my mind from seventh grade was at one of the aforementioned dances. I asked a girl to dance, who also happened to be a friend, because her friends were dancing and no one had asked her. I thought it was chivalrous; I was just trying to be nice and maybe start to act like I actually had a pair of nads. But I guess I couldn’t even act like a gentleman with out god pantsing me and kicking me in the dick.

I was dancing with her and out of the corner of my eye I could see two of her friends camped out at the edge of the dance floor, looking at us. I’m pretty sure they were pointing too. I stole a quick glance to the side and it appeared that they were giggling as well. I would like to think that they were pointing at “Winny,” because she was actually dancing with a guy. She was kind of bookish, a bit shy and guys weren’t exactly lining up for her, but she was cute. It’s more likely that they were just pointing at the schmuck she was dancing with. We made it about a minute into the slow song (probably “Crash” by the Dave Matthews Band or some similar shitty song) and out of nowhere she says, “I’m sorry I can’t do this.” Goddammit, if I had a nickel for every time a girl said that to me I’d have heavy metal poisoning.

I was taken off guard because I was putting all my mental fortitude and concentration into not getting a boner. I was concentrating so fucking hard I probably could have pulled off the Jedi mind trick. Apparently the only force that a Jedi can’t control is that of his own dong because I pitched a tent that would’ve made an Eagle Scout blush (Star Wars joke and Boy Scouts joke in one sentence; score one for me). Anyway, I was taken off guard and just mumbled, “Yeah, okay…” and proceeded to stand there by myself for a while like a jackass. Little did I know at the time that, that was the first of many times a girl would change her mind for no goddamn reason and leave me confused as shit.

That was seventh grade, but a funny thing happened in eighth grade. I was, dare I say, cool. Well, I was cooler than the fucking Melvins that went to my middle school at least. I started on a championship football team, I got good grades, I listened to punk rock, I skateboarded, I made and edited Jackass videos with my friends, I was a smartass in class and most importantly, I made people laugh. Those things might seem trivial now, but in eighth grade they were the tits.

Girls were actually talking to me on their own accord, which I’m told, is a good a sign. There was one particular girl that I hung out with (in the few classes we had together) that caught my eye. We’ll call her “Kate.” To me, Kate was exotic and I don’t mean she was foreign. She was just different than most of the girls I went to school with. She was Italian or Greek or something Mediterranean, I’m not exactly sure. She was tall and slender with dark wavy hair and an olive complexion, completely different from my Northern European light-haired, light-eyed Wonderbread ass (seriously, my brother looks like a Nazi SS goon). That’s not even the best part. She was smart, like gifted classes smart. She was way more intelligent than I could’ve hoped to be and she had a sense of humor. She responded to my off color comments with laughter instead of disgust and was happy to listen to stories about my (and my friends’) depravity outside school.

I certainly liked her and I was under the impression, or rather the delusion, that Kate might like me too. Of course, at that point I hadn’t kissed a girl or had my penis touched (by someone else that is), so what the fuck did I know? What I took for flirting and clear indications that she liked me were really clear indications that I was a hallucinating loser in the friend zone. Although, I didn’t know it.

I remember being in gym class about half way through the year; we were currently in the “dance unit.” The class was being taught stupid, outdated dances like the square dance and the waltz. You know, just incase we happened across a time machine and got invited to box social or hootenanny. It would have been more useful if they taught us the ass-to-crotch skankery that passes for dancing nowadays. But once we learned those horseshit dances, we got to try swing dancing. Admittedly, my interest was piqued. Swing dancing was actually cool and as I understand it, girls love that shit. The best part was we got to choose our own partners. No more rotating or being paired off by the teachers.

Imagine my simultaneous surprise and excitement when Kate rushed over to me, grabbed my hands and literally pulled me on to the dance floor. It was like I showed up to an ass-kicking contest to find out my only competition was a paraplegic. I did my best Jon Favreau impression from the end of Swingers and tried not to screw anything up. I think I did alright but I was just happy to be close enough to Kate to touch her (shut the fuck up, that’s not as weird as it sounds).

A couple of weeks after that I began my art class (classes like art, music, cooking and sewing rotated each quarter). As luck would have it I was in the class with Kate as well as my buddies “Chuck,” “Cal,” “Les,” and “Dane.” Our teacher, Mrs. M, was pretty cool and let us pick our group tables. Naturally, Chuck, Cal, Les, Dane and I grabbed a table together. However, there was very little art going on. Mostly, we just shot the shit and made fun of the dorks in our class. After a couple of weeks Mrs. M got tired of our assholery and decided to do something.

We came in one day and found our table covered in art supplies and paintings. “Oh, I’m sorry boys I need your table for a bit; I’m doing a demonstration,” said Mrs. M. The old bat wasn’t fooling anyone. We knew she just wanted to break up our little black hole of unproductivity. This left us all without a table, though. “Go ahead and find somewhere else to sit.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when Kate literally got out of her seat and started begging, “Chesterfield over here; we’ll take Chesterfield.” Fuckin’ A. I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I strolled over and sat down with her and her friends.

Mrs. M must have had long-ass demonstrations in every single one of her classes because we didn’t get our table back for about two months. I wasn’t complaining, though. The more time I got to spend with Kate away from my asshole friends, the better. I told jokes, I complimented her and I flirted. I thought I was fucking in. I was sure she liked me at least a little bit. Nope.

The end of the year was approaching, which meant the eighth grade dance was coming up. It was kind of like prom for middle school. Everyone dressed up and the girls got their hair and make up done. I’m not a huge fan of dances, I didn’t even go to prom in high school, but I thought this was my chance because all the chicks at school were freaking out about it. I’m not exactly sure why I thought it was my chance. My two previous experiences with dances went horribly. I guess I thought third time’s a charm or she might take pity on me, either one was fine with me. Then I made a mistake that made the situation 10 times more awkward than it needed to be.

You see, I kept trying to ask Kate out but every time I tried, I felt like I had to hurl. I kept doubting myself and almost called the whole thing off. Clearly I needed help. This is where I took a turn down you just screwed yourself road. I thought, “I need help with a girl, who better to ask than another girl?” Right? Wrong.

There are two things that I’ve learned about girls and relationships. One, never under any circumstances give your significant other naked pictures of yourself. Eventually you will break up and eventually they will end up on the Internet. It’s blackmail waiting to happen. Two, as a guy don’t ask your female friends for advice on girls you’re interested in. In general, I’ve found that girls don’t know what they want. So how is asking a girl who doesn’t know what she wants for advice on another girl who doesn’t know what she wants supposed to help? It’s like going to the guidance counselor in school. You probably shouldn’t take career advice from someone who ended up as a guidance counselor. Besides that, romantic comedies and other garbage like the Notebook have warped girls’ brains, so sometimes they forget how the real world actually works.

Not knowing this at the time, I told my neighbor, “Kate 2” about Kate. She thought asking her to the eighth grade dance was a swell idea. Well that was fucking great. Anyone can say it’s a good idea. A threesome is a great idea but it’s a bit tricky trying to get people to actually agree to it. I was more worried about whether or not she would say yes. Kate 2 assured me that she would be happy to go with me. I still wasn’t sure, so I asked my friend “Kristy” about the situation. She took the same line as Kate 2. “I think she’d go with you, I mean everyone should have someone to go with.”

They thought I had a shot so I decided to go through with it. Except, I put off asking her for a week or two because, if you’ll recall, I’m a pussy. Kate 2 started bugging me and kept asking when I was going to do it. One day I got so sick of it I just told her I was going to do it that day. Now, I assumed that Kate 2 would keep something like that to herself, but I, as usual, was mistaken.

I got to the cafeteria for lunch and noticed that Kate 2 was a huddled at a table with a bunch of girls. This did not bode well. When I got up from the table I was sitting at with Chuck, Les, Cal and Dane I ran into Kate 2. She told me that she was just, “Trying to help me out.” I gathered that what this really meant was she had told a bunch of girls, Kate included, that I liked her and was going to ask her out. Great, no pressure or anything.

A whole table of girls whispering and craning their heads in my direction didn’t escape the notice of my friends. I knew I couldn’t bullshit my way out of it, so I gave in and told them what was up. Surprisingly, they didn’t bust my balls too much. Meals finished, we ventured outside.

I found myself in the same spot that I had been in two years previous, standing outside on the blacktop trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl out. At least this time I was aware that everyone knew what I was up to. I stood in a circle with my friends, and maybe 75 feet away, Kate stood in a circle with her friends. My friends were encouraging in their own way. “Come on, just go over and ask her already, you pussy.” After a couple of suggestions like that my buddy “TC” grabbed me by the arm and pushed me toward Kate’s circle of friends. I responded as any middle school boy would, “Stop it you fucking assholes! Fuck you guys.” I looked over and caught Kate and her friends looking at my friends and me. The look she gave was not one of nervous anticipation or excitement; rather it was one of embarrassment and dread. This did not instill confidence in me. It’s funny how one look from a girl can turn your stomach, whether it’s for better or worse. In my case it was the latter.

Before I knew it the bell rang and it was time to head inside for eighth period. I still hadn’t asked Kate out. In fact, I hadn’t gotten close enough to ask her out. I was starting to wonder whether or not I would actually go through with it. In my mind I wanted to but it was like my body wouldn’t let me. It was brains vs. guts and so far guts was laying a beat down on brains.

I could see Kate walking ahead of me as we were being herded back inside the school like cattle. When I got into the main hallway of the school I could still see her ahead of me. It was now or never. I quickened my pace and tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled around. My stomach lurched and I felt like I was going to shit my pants, but I tightened my sphincter and took a deep breath. I managed to stammer, “Kate would you like to go the eighth grade dance with me?” Looking a bit sheepish she said, “Uhhh… let me think about.” Fuck. Even at 14 I knew that wasn’t good. It was the nice way of saying no.

Kate 2 and Kristy kept telling me that it wasn’t a definite no. They said she probably was really thinking about it. Yeah right, she was thinking about the best way to say no and what an asshole I was. I had my answer a week later but not from Kate. Before first period Winny found me in the hallway and pulled me aside. “Kate’s answer is no.” It wasn’t a big shock. Honestly, it’s what I expected. What bothered me was that Kate handled it. First, I waited a week. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect an answer with in a couple days, especially when the answer is either yes or no. Second, she couldn’t even tell me herself, which in my opinion is just cowardly. I had worked up the nerve to ask her; the least she could’ve done was shatter my dreams in person. Now, I should mention a part of the story that I’ve neglected so far. Kate used to go out with my friend Cal and he broke up with her sometime around the start of the year. I suspect that she wasn’t completely over him and that’s why she said no. But I’m just guessing; an explanation from her would have been nice, though.

I was down but not out. Not wanting to look like a dateless dick, I started exploring my other options. I was thinking about whether to ask someone else or just give up, when I remembered the conversation I had with Kristy. “I mean everyone should have someone to go with.” That was it! Ask Kristy. She was my friend and she was fun. Plus she thought everyone should have a date. It seemed perfect. And besides, two girls couldn’t say no, right?

One day I found Kristy and approached her. I wasn’t nearly as nervous because I wasn’t interested in her, and I was almost certain she would say yes. “Hey Kristy, you wanna go to the dance with me?” Oh man, it looked like she might say yes. “I’m sorry I decided not to go with anyone.” What!?!?! Decided not to go with anyone? What was this fuckery? Two weeks ago she said everyone should go with someone and now she didn’t want to go with anyone. “Oh okay, that’s cool.” I said it but I didn’t really mean. I didn’t understand how someone could say one thing and then completely contradict it so soon. I think it was at that moment that I stopped trying to understand girls.

I struck out again, but I wasn’t too down. Kate saying no had really taken the sting out of Kristy blowing me off. It was like rejection anesthesia. I ended up going to the dance like a dateless dick but so did most of my friends. I had fun at the dance but what little confidence I had with girls was shaken.

Things were a little awkward with Kate for the remainder of school. I basically avoided her because I’m petty and kind of a prick. It didn’t really matter because in a few months we would be going to different high schools. I remember thinking “I’ll probably never see her again.” And I was right. We’re friends on Facebook now, but I haven’t seen her in person since I was 14. I had more important things to worry about, though. I was about to enter high school and if all the movies I had seen about it were accurate, it would fucking rule. Holy shit was I about to be disappointed.

Stay tuned for part 2, High School: Attention Loser, Where’s Your Girlfriend?

The 11 Millionth Nice Guy Article On The Internet

I got a lot more feedback than I was expecting from my nice guy article. I even got several women to read it despite the tremendous amount of sexism (which I like to call “truth”) in it. Some of the women who read it even agreed with my arguments. But as expected, some did not. I soon realized that the hope I expressed at the end of the article was in vain. Even in the face of sound reasoning, some women refuse to even consider nice guys. So even though by this point I’m (what comes after beating and raping a dead horse? Eating a dead horse?) eating a dead horse, I have more to say on the subject.

Although several women conceded points in my article, they ended up shitting all over it as a whole by saying, “Well, assholes are just my type.” That statement is astounding to me. I don’t understand the idea of having a set “type,” especially if said type is douche bag.

As I went over the girls that I’ve been interested in, in my head, I realized that very few of them were similar to one another, physically or otherwise. I’ve been attracted to brunettes, blondes and even one redhead. I’ve been attracted to taller girls and shorter girls. I’ve been attracted to skinny girls and not so skinny girls (but not any wildebeests). I’ve been attracted to extremely outgoing girls, shy girls and girls that were a mix of the two. I’ve been attracted to girly girls and not so girly girls. I’ve been attracted to the girl next door and the high maintenance girl. I’ve been attracted to the artsy type and the bookworm. It’s not that I have no standards or I’m just interested in anything with a vagina; I’m just willing to try new things. I’m not going to automatically ignore or exclude a girl just because she’s not what I’m used to. Different combinations of these attributes leads to an unique experience each time, which is what I’m attracted to. Really, the only trait they’ve all had in common is a sense of humor, which is probably a necessity because no one is going to put up with my shit unless they have a sense of humor.

People are so diverse; I don’t understand why someone would limit himself or herself to a certain type. Personally, I’d like to have as many different experiences as possible. Having a type or “usual” is for a fast food restaurant, not people. When I go to McDonald’s I know I’m either getting a Big Mac or a Quarter Pounder because I have limited choices, that and I think my arteries are a little too clear.

A friend told me that assholes are her type because she knows what she’s getting with them but she doesn’t know what she’s getting with nice guys. Our friend (also a girl) agreed with that and said that most women know what they’re getting into when they get involved with an asshole. After hearing garbage like this, logic may as well be like a credit limit to women; it’s like it doesn’t fucking exist.

Just because you expect to be treated like shit doesn’t make it okay. Plus, that statement is bullshit to begin with. You do know what you’re getting with a nice guy: you’ll be treated decently. When I tried to explain this perfectly logical point to my friends they just dismissed and said, “But you’re more likely to get a creeper or weirdo.” That’s also bullshit, as I pointed out in my last article. If you have any sense of perception you’ll be able to discern that fact before you get involved with a goddamn creeper. But logic be damned, I guess.

Let me put it like this: Say I go to buy a car and the salesman (yeah that’s right, salesman not salesperson) says, “This car is actually a piece of shit. It’ll probably break down in a little while and it will cause you a lot of grief and trouble.” Now what do I do? I don’t buy that fucking car because I’m not a mouth-breathing ignoramus. In fact it’s the last thing I would do, which falls behind sticking my dick in a fire ant mound and watching soccer on TV. I would go and find a reliable car. My friend Mike put a different way. He said it’s like women would rather go to a casino, gamble and most assuredly lose than accept a check for a guaranteed sum of money. But that analogy really isn’t fair because I’m pretty sure women can’t do cool things (like gamble), and I’m also pretty sure there’s some sort of law against women handling their own finances.

It goes back to a point I mentioned in my last article. For some reason girls want the challenge or excitement of getting an asshole. One of the friends above, mentioned that her roommate doesn’t like dating nice guys because it’s too easy for her, which is just shithouse rat insane. Basically it comes down to: is the thrill of chase at the beginning worth the pain or mistreatment at the end? I don’t think so, but apparently lots of women disagree with me.

The disappointing part is that a lot of women keep dating jerks and keep making the same mistakes. It’s just incomprehensible to me. Once when I was kid my Dad was grilling out back, and he had the cover on the grill. I went to lean on it and my Dad said, “don’t do that it’s hot.” Well, I leaned on it any way because like most little kids I was a fucking retard. I ended up burning my hand and hurting my self pretty bad. You know what I didn’t do after that? TOUCH A BLAZING HOT GRILL. I learned my lesson. After that, I never once thought, “Hmmm, that was an unpleasant experience I better do that again.” But that’s exactly what women do. They keep making the same mistake and refuse to change their behavior. I think expecting different results but continuing the same behavior is a mark of more than one mental disorder.

I think there’s another explanation for this behavior, though. For some women, liking assholes or saying they like the challenge of getting an asshole is really just a way of saying they’re horny or they want a hot guy. But will a woman ever admit that? Fuck no. If they did their whole, “men are pigs” argument goes out the window. That and they don’t want to be perceived as a slut. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that women always want the moral higher ground. But they lose that advantage if they admit to being a little bit shallow.

On the other hand, it might be a good thing that women don’t admit to being as horny as we are. Really, in this society, one of the few things women control is sex. Men get paid more, hold higher positions and face less discrimination. It’s a patriarchal society. If women admitted they wanted sex just as much as us, society would fall the fuck apart. Everyone would just be screwing like wild baboons. It would be like Escape From New York or the Road Warrior, only with more boning.

Well I can’t write anymore about this subject at the moment or else I’m going to go into a blind rage and wake up in a holding cell. So I’m going to end this with lyrics from a song by the Descendents who made a career out of songs bitching about girls.

I’m The One:

I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
nice guys finish last
no one knows as good as me
we’re just good friends
and you come to me for sympathy
you tell me that I’m not your type
still you call me late at night
every time he picks a fight
after all he’s said and all he’s done
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
he’s a total dick
that’s the truth and you know I’m right
from everything you say
there’s no way he’ll ever do you right
you love a man who treats you wrong
you think you’ll change him
but you’re wrong
he’ll use you he’ll say so long
after all he’s said and all he’s done
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
I’m the one who wants you more than anything
you don’t feel the same way you made it clear to me
but I’ll stand my ground and maybe
you’ll hear what I’ve been sayin
after all I’ve said and all I’ve done
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
I’m the one
I’ve been here for you all along
I’m the one
who’s shoulder you’ve been cryin on
I’m the one

Just A Thought: The Most Overated Things In The World

So I had this thought today and I really feel like people need to hear it. I think this sort of thing is what Twitter is for I but I’m not really sold on Twitter. Sounds kind of fruity to me.

Anyway, here it is: the two most overrated things in the world are hand jobs and the Beatles and don’t even get me started on getting a handy while listening to the Beatles. I bet you never thought you’d read hand job and the Beatles in the same sentence, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

HJs are so overrated. Women are terrible at them. They have no rhythm and because of that it takes forever to release your man juice. If I wanted a chaffed sore penis I’d just have sex with a mail box. They just don’t get the subtleties of dick whacking.

So, I don’t know why you’d have someone do something that you could do much better yourself. I mean, by this point I’ve had almost a decade of practice. If jerking off was an Olympic event I would win a gold medal. Wait, why isn’t it an Olympic event?

The Beatles. Completely overrated. When everyone talks about what geniuses they were they only mention their later albums. Everyone just fucking skips over the part where they started of doing teenage pop love songs. And their mythology only grew after Lennon died because after that they couldn’t stick around and start releasing horseshit albums in the 80s and 90s.

I’m not saying they’re bad. They’re a great band, just not as great as everyone thinks. But can you say that to anyone? No, because they’ll have a fucking seizure, which pisses me off because those kind of people probably never heard a Beatles song until they got to college and they usually know next to nothing about music.

Fuck the Beatles, I’ll take the Rolling Stones or The Kinks over them any day.

The Best Journalist In The World

Once again I found myself sitting in Jeff’s office. Jeff was my editor at the shitty mid-circulation community newspaper I worked at. I hadn’t worked there long, but I was already making a name for myself.

Suddenly, the door slammed, and Jeff walked in. He looked happy, or maybe he looked angry. I’ve never really been good at reading people. Happy people mutter “goddammit” and “fucking retard” under their breath right? If that’s the case, then I make lots of people happy.

“What’s up chief,” I said with a smug smile. I knew he called me into his office to congratulate me on my latest article.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that,” he said happily.

“Okeydokey, sillynuts.” Sillynuts was my little nickname for Jeff. He fucking loved it.

“God-fucking-dammit, don’t call me sillynuts!” For a supposedly religious person, Jeff took the lord’s name in vain a lot. Especially when he was around me. I guess that’s okay now.

Note to self: say “goddammit,” around religious people from now on, but stop masturbating in churches.

Jeff started talking again but I wasn’t really paying attention. I just assumed he was praising my brilliant article on the new sales tax in town. However, I was paying attention to the pictures that adorned his desk and bookcase. This was some hardcore smut. I mean, kinky shit. There were kids and animals. And I was into to it.

I interrupted Jeff, “Say Jeff, I didn’t know you were into to kinky porno.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Come on man you can be straight with me. Look at all these pictures,” I said motioning to his desk and bookcase. “But if you think this stuff is good you should see my hard drive; I’ve got a video of this girl and a llama that….” Jeff stopped me.

“These are pictures of my family and our pets, not smut you pervert.”

“Oh right, gotcha,” I said winking. “Have to keep it on the down low because of all the squares in the office.” I winked again for emphasis and also because I’m not really sure how winks are supposed to work.

“No really, these are just pictures of my family,” Jeff insisted. Regardless of what they were, I knew I would be masturbating to them later.

“Look, I need you to do something for me,” Jeff said in a serious tone. I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. My belt was unbuckled and my pants were unzipped before he could say “Rudolph red pecker.”

“Of course I’ll bang the bejesus out of your wife,” I said with enthusiasm. “She won’t be able to see straight when I’m done with her!” Jeff was so excited that I accepted his offer he couldn’t talk. He just kept mumbling under his breath and his face turned a deep shade of crimson. The vein in his forehead became engorged with blood, just like the wiener in my underpants.

“ARRRGGHHH! NO! I don’t want you to have sex with my wife,” Jeff said, well actually he kind of screamed it. “If you keep making sexual advances on my wife, we’re going to have to press charges.” Jeff complained a lot. It was always something with him, quit making sexual advances on my wife; you have to work with pants on; quit libeling the mayor.

“I need you t– no, goddammit we just went over this, put your pants back on–to rewrite your article on the sales tax.”

“Why? I thought you loved it?”

“No, quite the opposite. I hated it.” I was crushed. I thought for sure that article was gold.

“What was wrong with it?” I asked slightly hurt while giving my best “aw shucks” look.

“Well for starters, under the byline you wrote Richard Q. Gayballs….in crayon”

“And…”

“And? AND? And that’s not your fucking name!” Jeff opened his top desk drawer and took out his medicine, which was really just a pint of Congress Vodka. He took a deep gulp, “If I get another article written by ‘Richard Q. Gayballs’ or ‘Herbert M. Nerdlinger’ it’s your ass”

My ass? What did that mean? Was he going to rape me? No, I think he was coming on to me. I just played it cool and gave him the “of course I’ll fuck you and your wife eyes.”  As thoughts of Eiffel Towers and double stuffs swirled in my head, Jeff took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“I’m trying to run a newspaper,” Jeff got up and started to pace, “which is extremely difficult when my reporters don’t use facts.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying to say, I am saying I don’t think there was one goddamn fact in your whole article.”

“Well I don’t think that’s entirely true I-”

“Really? Because you interviewed Dick-Fuck Jones, Jerk-Off Johnson and Whack-Off Jackson.” Jeff was now standing in front of me looking directly into my eyes. He was so close I could smell the gas station Vodka and Funions.

“Are you trying to tell me that they are real people?”

“Define real.”

“They actually fucking exist. They have social security numbers. They have addresses and contact information. They have a physical body.”

“Well then, no. But to be fair, I was really swamped and I had some stuff to deal with. You start one brawl at a drag show and the police want to ask all sorts of ‘questions.’ You know how it goes.”

“Actually I don’t, and what you do at the Ramrod is your own business. Anyway, I gave you a two day extension.”

Jeff walked back around to his desk and slumped into his chair. He took another healthy dose of his “medicine” and pulled out the draft of my article. He examined it for a minute or two and then said, “And if I’m reading this correctly, which unfortunately I believe I am, you interviewed a cat?”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Boots.” At that point I started to get nervous. Maybe I had been prejudiced. I knew that I should have interviewed a dog too. “It was hard to get him to talk but eventually he did.”

“I could see that, seeing as he’s a goddamned cat,” Jeff responded curtly. Then he started massaging his temples slowly and methodically. It hit me that Jeff was really upset about me interviewing a cat. I guess he was a dog person.

Note to self: Interview more dogs.

“So you’re saying you want me to interview more dogs?”

“No, I’m saying I want you to stop interviewing cats and dogs or any other animal because they can’t fucking talk!”

Note to self: Disregard last note to self. Stop interviewing dogs.

Jeff picked up my draft again and examined it once more. “There’s also a problem with your ending.” Jeff peered over the pages of the draft and looked at me as if to say, “Do you think there might be a problem with your ending?” But I remained silent because I knew my ending fucking ruled. “Well, I’ll take your silence as a sign that you don’t think there’s a problem or as a sign of ignorance, but probably both. Anyway the last paragraph is only one sentence and it just says, ‘Sales taxes are totally gay.’” Jeff held up a hand to stifle any further protest from me and continued, “I want you to work on this with Alex because he’s a good reporter and you seem to be functionally retarded.”

“But I hate that guy; he’s such a wiener.”

“I know you don’t like him, in fact the whole newsroom knows you don’t like him after last week. Do remember last week?” Jeff didn’t give me a chance to respond he just continued his verbal lashing. “You took a dump on Alex’s desk, wiped you exceptionally filthy ass with his latest article and started shouting ‘WHO’S THE BIG SHOT JOURNALIST NOW, HUH!?!?! MR. PULITZER.’ After that you told the fax machine to ‘quit looking at you funny,’ gave the finger to the computer monitor and passed out.”

I didn’t really recall what Jeff was talking about, but then again you forget a lot of things when you have Irish coffee, minus the coffee, for breakfast. Besides, who hasn’t taken a dump on a coworker’s desk? Some people are too sensitive. Jeff started talking again, right as I was contemplating taking an epic brontosaurus dump on his desk.

“You know, I don’t know why you weren’t fired after that. In fact, I don’t know why we hired you at all. When we asked for references you just gave us a list of women that you’ve had sex with. Ah fuck it, you know what? You’re fired! Get the fuck out of my office!”

“Really that’s how it’s going to end you’re just going to fire me? That seems like a cop out.”

“Well yeah, but like most of your articles, you didn’t really have an ending.”

“That’s true. But I mean what am I going to do? Just let perfectly good dick jokes go to waste?”

“Well if you feel guilty about it you just slap on a to be continued and come up with the rest of the story later. Even though you probably won’t.”

“Brilliant!”

TO BE CONTINUED… MAYBE… ACTUALLY PROBABLY NOT…

*Editors Note: I wrote this in pieces in varying states of consciousness. Some parts were written sober, some were written buzzed, some were written drunk and some were written sleep deprived. I don’t know if it’s awesome or problematic that I can’t tell/remember which parts were written in which state of mind. They all seem similar. Also for you mouthbreathing idiots out there who didn’t get it, the last four sentences are breaking down the 4^th wall between characters and author/audience.

The 10 Millionth Nice Guy Article On The Internet

The subject of “nice guys” and “nice guys finishing last” has been beaten to death. There are literally hundreds of articles about the subject on the Internet and I’m about to add to that number. I know I’m beating a dead horse, actually by this point it’s probably more like raping a dead horse, but I still feel like I need to voice my thoughts.

Women: The Fairer Sex And By Fairer I Mean Crazier

Are women crazy? Well, does the bear shit in the woods? Of course women are crazy. Women and crazy go together like porn and the Internet. It might not be immediately apparent in all women, but trust me, it’s there somewhere. The crazy usually manifests itself through paranoia, jealousy, insecurity, irrationality and an astounding lack of reason, and nice guys are ground zero for this crazy.

Women make so many rationalizations for dating complete asshats it makes my brain hurt. The most common reason I’ve heard is: “he’s not really like that. I can change him.”

You see nice guys are already nice. They treat pretty much everybody with decency and respect. They don’t really need to change. But this is where women’s logic gets shit-housed drunk, gets lost on the way to the party and ends up face down in a pile of vomit in a strange alley.

If a guy is nice to everyone how are you, as a women, supposed to feel special? How do you know he’s being genuine? How dare he treat everyone with same level of respect? On top of that, there’s no challenge because there’s nothing to change. But a complete A-hole, now that’s a challenge.

Women like nothing more than trying to emasculate men, and there’s no greater achievement than putting your nuts under lock and key. They get off on the idea of someone changing for them. He must love you because he acts different around you. He changed just for you; you tamed the beast with nothing but passionate love. Well, that might be case if you live in a fucking romantic comedy but that’s not how things work in the real world.

It’s more likely that an A-hole just wants to get in your pants and he knows exactly what he has to do to get there. Or he’s just using you to get your way hotter, way cooler sister. Or your mom’s hot cougar tits. But once he gets what he wants it’s back to the same old jackassery. The point is people rarely change, especially assholes. So you might feel special for a while but when he’s done using you or you’re in an abusive relationship you’ll probably feel differently.

The funny thing is, situations like this are responsible for women saying, “all men are pigs, “men are assholes” or “why can’t I find a decent guy?” However, it was women who decided they wanted a challenge or a little thrill and ignored the guy that would have treated them decently the whole time. But no one ever said women were smart. Well, no one ever said it AND meant it.

I wish that was the only stupid reason I’ve heard for women ignoring decent guys but alas, it’s not. The previous statement tried to rationalize dating assholes but most often I hear reasons that try to rationalize not dating nice guys. They’re no less ridiculous, though.

Trust me I’ve heard all the classics from the I don’t want to fuck you but I still want to say it politely play book. Some good ones include, “he’s too nice,” “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” “you’re great boyfriend material, but you’re just not for me” and the dreaded “you’re like a brother to me.” Socrates would shit his pants if he heard statements so illogical.

Too nice? What the fuck does that mean? I guess I could see that, if the guy was some kind of Ned Flanders churchy goody-good type (I’m looking at you Mormons) or if he was a spineless doormat, but I’ll get to that later. You know what, maybe there is something to that batshit-crazy logic. The other day I was walking downtown when I tripped and fell.  A complete stranger came up to me, offered his hand and said, “Are you alright?” Naturally, I thought he was being too nice. He clearly just wanted something from me. So I punched him in the dick, pushed him to the ground and while he was crying like a little girl, I told him I had filthy prostitute sex with his wife. That’s a perfectly reasonable assessment of the situation right? Oh, wait it’s not. It’s just insane, kind of like not dating a guy because he’s too nice.

The other reasons are just bullshit. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” That’s kind of a pessimistic view. How the fuck do you know it’s going to be ruined? It could go well and change your life. “You’re great boyfriend material, but you’re just not for me.” So you’re saying I have good qualities, qualities you yourself like but somehow you’re not interested in me. That makes sense, I guess? “You’re like a brother to me.” So pretty much, there’s no way I’m going to touch your lady-parts. In fact, in most states (depending on how far north you live) it’s actually illegal. Basically, these phrases are just a round about way of telling you something. Either:

1. She already has a guy with a wang of donkey-like proportions who satisfies her in ways sexually you could never know and she just wants to dump her emotional baggage on you.
2. Your dream girl is shallower than you thought.
3. You’re freakshow ugly.
4. She’s a bitch.
5. She’s a lesbian (hang in there, just keep telling yourself that).
6. And if god hates you, which is likely, all of the above (Yeah, I know 1 and 5 creates a paradox, but it’s a fucking joke).

Women Are Easily Confused

The problem with the term nice guy is that it’s pretty general. It covers a broad range of people. You might consider yourself a nice guy and it might be true. But you know who else considers himself a nice guy? The fat kid in the Battle Star Galactica shirt who spends all night downloading Japanese tentacle-rape porn considers himself a nice guy. That kid in your class with greasy hair and beady eyes who knows a suspicious amount of personal information about everyone in class considers himself a nice guy. The list goes on.

I think a lot women have the perception that “nice guys” are socially awkward, weird or stalkers and don’t get me wrong, some are. The problem is that guys like my friend, Mike, or me who are nice, at least mildly interesting and most importantly, NOT fucking weirdoes get lumped in with these dildos.

When a guy takes you to a family wedding on a first date and introduces you as “the one,” or if you find a guy on your lawn with a pair of binoculars and his pants unzipped, it’s safe to say at that point he’s more creepy weirdo than nice guy. So if that’s the case, call a spade a spade and refer to him as a weird bastard. Don’t feed into his self-deprecation and notion of being a hopeless romantic. Maybe if someone confronts these guys they’ll stop being so fucking awkward. If you’re saying, “But I didn’t know he was like that,” that’s bullshit. If you have any sense of perception you can tell if a guy is off after spending a little bit of time with him.

And just because a guy labels himself as a nice guy doesn’t mean it’s accurate and it doesn’t mean you have to label him a nice guy. Often I tell people my name is Baron Von Longdonger and that I’m the king of Luxembourg but that doesn’t make it true. A more accurate label would hack humor writer or porn fiend. You know, which ever.

Women, I know it’s tough for you but please use some common sense. If a guy is an over zealous stalker don’t refer to in any way as a nice guy. If a guy says that he is a nice guy, use some judgment and decide for yourself before throwing that term around. Please do this so I can describe myself as a nice guy with out people associating me with socially retarded loners, whiny little bitches or doofuses. However, if you do happen to come across a guy who is nice, respectful, funny and talented in some way, go ahead and call him a nice guy. And then have sex with him.

Doormats And Pussies

So far I’ve been pretty one-sided. Some people might call it being “sexist” but those people are probably women, so it doesn’t really matter. But believe it or not the blame doesn’t rest solely on women. Some men are also responsible.

There’s a certain type of nice guy that I’m sure you’re familiar with. He constantly laments the fact that he’s a nice guy. He spends hours on message boards pouring his heart out about how it “didn’t work out.” He creates self-fulfilling prophecies of defeat. He stays in on Friday nights and masturbates using his tears as lubricant. These nice guys are generally known as “fucking pussies,” which is ironic because that’s exactly what they’re not doing.

These guys use the nice guy persona as an excuse. They hide behind it and blame it for their relationship troubles instead of figuring out what went wrong. If one girl says, “no” they think it’s the end of the goddamn world. Well, it fucking isn’t. The odds are you’re going to get rejected at some point, but you can’t let that stop you from trying. But that’s exactly what these nancy boys do. They dwell on it and convince themselves that they won’t be successful with women. And guess what? They’re not. If these dorks put as much time into attracting women as they put into crying like little bitches they might end up with a girlfriend.

The “spineless doormat” is another variety of nice guy but don’t get confused, spineless doormats are still pussies. Although, they usually manage to land a chick before they fuck it up, unlike the fucking pussies. These guys are goddamn neurotic messes. They’re the type of guys that constantly say things like: “Are you mad at me?,” “What’s the matter?,” “Did I do something wrong?,” or “I don’t care, I’ll do whatever you want to.” These assholes never take charge. They couldn’t make a decision if their dicks (which are probably more important than their lives) depended on it.

These jellyfish are so worried about pleasing other people that they don’t have time to relax and be themselves or think about what they want. They’re so worried about ruining the relationship that they don’t realize that’s exactly what they’re doing. Apparently, they don’t seem to grasp the fact that constantly asking “what’s wrong?” or is “everything okay?” is annoying to women.

Some women take advantage of this to get gifts or have a personal errand boy, but a lot of women get fed up with dating a nervous little girl and dump the spineless dipshit. After getting dumped, the spineless doormat completes the circle of not-getting-puss and turns into the fucking pussy. In which case, he’ll probably never talk to another women again. It’s a sad, sad cycle.

Listen guys, confidence is the name of the game. Women like guys who are confident. They don’t like neurotic wussbags who can’t even pick where to go for dinner. It might cute for a little while like when you ask her out or on the first date but after that it’s just pathetic. Women want a guy who knows what he wants. They want a guy who can take charge. If they wanted to date someone who’s submissive and can’t make decisions they’d date a woman.

One of the reasons that some women like assholes is because they’re usually outgoing and confident (even if it’s usually unwarranted). The two don’t necessarily go together, though. If you’re on the shy side you can still be confident, just work with what you have. If you’re not so confident, fake it. Women fake it all the time, although “it” in their case is an orgasm. If you’re knowledgeable about a certain subject steer the conversation that way so you’re more comfortable. If you have some anecdotes that always make your friends laugh, try to work one into the conversation. If you make her laugh you’re in like Flynn.

But you can’t be afraid to be rejected. I know it sucks but get over it you mama’s boy. Did you ever wonder why douche bag bros get so many girls? It’s because they don’t care if they get denied. They just move on. It’s as simple as that. Sometimes you just have to take a chance.

How many times have you been at a party, bar or show and seen a cute girl you wanted to say something to but didn’t because you were scared or intimidated? Well guess what? There were probably 10 other guys thinking the same fucking thing. So while you were all fingering your vaginas, one of two things happened. One, no one went up and talked to her and she left alone because you were all pussies. Two, some cocky A-hole decided to take a shot and talk to her, and she left with him because she didn’t have any other options. You could have left with her if you just acted like you had a pair of marbles.

Manclusion

Women are crazy and I can’t change that. It would be easier for me to change the weather than to get women to think rationally. But hopefully this silly little essay will make some women reevaluate their decisions. Hopefully some women will finally see that a great guy has been right in front of their eyes the whole time. Hopefully some women will realize that dating an asshole isn’t worth it. I’m not getting my hopes up, though. Also, in the interest of making me sound less gay on account of the previous four sentences, I would also like to say: nice guys quit being such fucking pussies.

Harry Palmer and The Sorcerer’s Bone

Last weekend there was a Harry Potter marathon on TV and I watched it. As I watched the first four Harry Potter movies in succession something started to bother me. It wasn’t the fact that I just wasted a day watching four movies that are meant for kids and teens or quidditch, which is fucking ridiculous even in a magical context. What bothers me about the movies and the books is the lack of sex/sex education.

I accept that in the Harry Potter universe classes such as potions, charms, defense against the dark arts, etc… are far more useful than physics and micro economic and are needed for a careers in the magic world. But it doesn’t change the fact that Hogwarts is full of horny pubescent witches and wizards. So where’s the goddamn magical sex ed class?

Surely STDs and teen pregnancy aren’t restricted to the muggle world. Or are they? JK leaves so many questions unanswered. Is there a spell to get rid of herpes or a potion to get rid of the clap? Or do witches and wizards have to put on a hat and sunglasses and go down the free clinic to get penicillin like the rest of us? Are there magical condoms made out hippogriff intestines? Wizards seem to be fucking awkward and weird to begin with, so a trip to Diagon Alley to buy magical condoms must be a hundred times more awkward than it is in real life. It’s like that time you stopped by the convenience store to get condoms and you ran into your calculus teacher buying six bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 and the local priest buying candy to “reward” the altar boys, only worse. If that’s possible. But that’s neither here nor there.

Sure, sex ed is usually taught by a doofus who has probably never seen a vagina in his sad life and most of the kids already know the basics of sex, but it can be useful for the naïve or sheltered kids. I would go so far as to say, a sex ed class is particularly important in the magic world. Not only would the staff have to deal with sex and the questions that come with it, but it would also have to deal with guys trying to use engorgement charms on their junks. I don’t think I have to elaborate on what could go wrong there, but the term dick melting comes to mind. And that’s only one of the possible catastrophes that could happen involving the crotchal region and magic. I mean you don’t want adolescent wizard flailing their wands around with out knowing how to use them right? But if you’ve read or watched the Harry Potter series you know there’s no need for concern. Why? Because based on the books and films wizards and witches only seem to kiss or “snog.”

Sexuality in the Harry Potter universe seems to consist of little more than some canoodling here or there, and it’s usually out of scene or briefly mentioned. I’m not asking for gratuitous nudity but come on. JK has no problems depicting brutal murders but god forbid Harry touch Ginny’s blouse bunnies. Even the literary abortion that is Twilight had some banging in it. Not only that, JK basically blue balls Ron for the entire series, except for a short time when he was dating some slut named Lavender. He and Hermione kiss for the first time at the ass end of the seventh book. Are you fucking kidding me? Ron probably beat his wand raw by that point. But the wizarding community continues to proliferate so it would seem as if people are having sex. That and the Weasley family has like seven goddamn kids. Maybe I’m way off and there’s some complicated spell for pregnancy and the Weasleys aren’t banging like a screen door in a hurricane.

Seriously, we can't get more of this

Look, I can see that JK is trying to keep it somewhat tame for her younger audience, but sex can be implied with out being graphic. How about Harry walks out of Ginny’s room in the morning wearing her pink robe while Ron’s face becomes beet red and he tries not to kick Harry in his morning wood? No? Okay I’ve got this. How about Harry and Ron walk into the dorm and Neville shouts “HEY! I’m busy get out of here,” while he pulls up a blanket to cover himself and knocks a box of tissues off the bed? Okay how about…. What? Just Stop? It’s never going to happen? Well fuck you guys and your sexless Harry Potter series. I guess I’ll just keep it in my head. It’s better there anyway.

A recent survey shows that 9 out of 10 witches and wizards below the age of 20 have no idea what a hand job is.

The Kohl’s Incident

When I was 14 I was stupid. I’m still stupid but I was exceptionally stupid at that age. The following is an account of one of my more embarrassing adolescent moments.

To say that my friends and I were obnoxious is the understatement of the fucking century. We got bored easily, real easily and that combined with our collective lack of shame, dignity and pride led to many shenanigans.

We were those loud, immature, teenage douche bags that you see in public (especially at movie theaters and fast food restaurants) and want to beat the shit out of. Actually, most of my friends are still douche bags.

So one summer day my friend, who we’ll call “Mac,” called me and said some girls we knew from school wanted to go to a movie. I don’t remember what movie they wanted to see, but I do know that it sucked and I really didn’t want to see it. But Mac being one of the horniest kids I’ve ever known wasn’t going to pass up a chance to hang out with puss. So I went along. I mean, what the fuck else did I have to do? I was 14 and it was summer. My days consisted of playing baseball and watching soft-core pornography on Cinemax.

For some reason the girls insisted on seeing the movie during the middle of the afternoon. Normally (read after the age of 16) this wouldn’t be a problem but seeing as neither of us had a driver’s license and our parents were at work, we had to ride our bikes like dorks.

Mac and I decided to take my brother “Balls” along with us. On a side note, Balls is my brothers’ actual nickname. People call him that on a daily basis. It’s not like I decided to give him some asinine name for this story. He hardly knows what to do when someone calls him his given name. Anyway, The three of us set off from my house about two or three hours (this is an approximation, I can’t remember exactly) before the movie was supposed to start.

We decided to eat lunch and fuck around at some of the stores that were on the way to the theater. Mac said he wanted to stop at Play It Again Sports. I thought that it was kind of a weird request, but at the time I didn’t know what he had planned.

The three of us walked in and started looking around, pretending that we were going to buy something. Mac was looking at baseball gloves, a very expensive one in particular, and he told me to stand in front of him. At that point I realized what Mac was up to and why he wanted to go there. So I stood in front of him blocking the view of the employee at the counter, not that it mattered. He was picking his ass contemplating how bad his life sucked and the only other employee in the store was nowhere to be seen, probably jerking off in the stock room. Mac unzipped his backpack quickly stuffed the glove in, and then we calmly left the store. Then we got the fuck out of Dodge.

Riding on a wave of adrenaline, we decided to cram our gullets full of fried fast food goodness. Thank God there was a Wendy’s near. After purchasing the right side of the menu with a mere $5 we sat down to eat. I have no idea what we talked about, but there was one thing I remember from Wendy’s: we saw an obscene amount of cop cars. I think we saw three or four go by while we were eating plus one or two on the way to Play It Again Sports. I remember someone said something along the lines of: “Holy shit, we’ve seen a lot cops, I wonder if it’s a sign?” Apparently, it was a big fucking sign and it didn’t stop us from acting like assholes. God pushed the obvious foreshadowing button and we said, “Fuck that.”

After inhaling a shit-load of $1 cheeseburgers, chicken nuggets and frosties we headed toward the movie theater. We were going to be way too early for the movie. I guess it took less time to shoplift than Mac had anticipated, so we decided to kill time in some stores on the way to the theater.

For some reason we ended up in Kohl’s. Again, we pretended like we were going to buy something because let’s face it, we weren’t about to buy a new pair of slacks. Eventually we got bored and decided to leave.

On our way out, we passed a display with various wallets at the end of an aisle. Mac grabbed one and slipped it in his cargo pocket. I almost missed it because it was so smooth. We walked out like nothing happened, and to my surprise nothing did happen; no alarms went off, no security guards stopped us, no cashiers yelled at us. We walked out scot-free.

At this point I wondered what the hell my friends were doing with their free time. I knew Mac (and most of my friends for that matter) had questionable morals, but Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ I didn’t know he was klepto. Despite my queries about my friend’s character, I still felt like a pussy compared to Mac. He shoplifted over $150 worth of leather to my zilch. My thoughts were interrupted when Mac tossed me the wallet, “here you go.” I had mentioned earlier that I needed a new wallet seeing as I was still using a velcro wallet like a card-carrying doofus. I changed wallets but couldn’t get rid of the card.

We moved on to Barnes and Noble and repeated the “we’re going to buy something” act. Once again we got bored and decided to leave. But we still had time to kill. This is where pride and fate conspired to bend me over and butt-fuck me. Normal people would happy with a free wallet and decide not to tempt fate, but I’m not very normal. I seem to tempt fate on a weekly basis and usually get my ass kicked, which makes me wonder why I keep doing it. In this particular instance I decided I was going to have a big swinging dick and steal something too.

“Let’s go back into Kohl’s,” I said.

“Why? Let’s just go to the movie theater,” Mac replied.

“No, I want to try to steal something too.”

“Alright, whatever.”

We started walking back toward Kohl’s. I don’t remember too many details from this next part, most likely because I was traumatized shortly afterward. We walked back into Kohl’s, which I realize now looked suspicious as hell. We didn’t buy anything the first time, why would we buy anything the second time?

I don’t know why, but we ended up in the area with the sunglasses and necklaces and all that other horseshit. It is easily one of the most open and visible areas of the store and that’s where we decided to shoplift. Holy shit we were stupid. Neither of us took anything that valuable or useful either. I think I swiped some sunglasses, and I think Mac took some necklaces and maybe some sunglasses too. Balls was the smart one, for once, and decided not to take anything. The whole time I got the overwhelming feeling that we took too long (we did) and I started to get nervous.

We made for the door while acting cool and collected. Inside I was far from cool and collected. About the time we got to the cash registers I wanted to turn around, and I almost did but almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. I should have; I knew that we took too long, and the employees were eyeing us suspiciously. I ignored my intuition, common sense and better judgment thus screwing myself.

We passed through the first set of doors. Nothing happened. We passed through the second set of doors. Nothing happened… at first. Then an ape looking motherfucker in a bad jacket with an even worse haircut stopped Mac and me. He put his hands out stopping our progress and said, “Step back inside gentlemen.” My blood felt like ice water, and I just froze. I was paralyzed. I saw my brother standing behind that gorilla, “Gordon,” and he was motioning to our bikes. They weren’t locked and Gordon didn’t actually grab us so we could have easily gotten around his monkey-ass and rode off to freedom. But we didn’t. We froze. I came to the realization that we were fucked. We were going to get arrested. Mac and I surrendered and started walking back into the store. Gordon the ape followed behind and Balls was left confused and scared outside.

Inside, Mac and I started to get desperate. We turned around and pleaded with Gordon, but he kept walking, so we started backpedaling and pleading. We were saying things like, “I have money I can pay for it” and “sorry, I forgot I put those in my pocket.” It just made Gordon angry. When Mac reached for his pocket to show he had money to pay for the items that mongoloid ape just lost it. He started yelling, “Hey, keep your hands out of your pockets! Keep them where I can see them!” When Mac persisted and I tried to back him up, Gordon started again. He yelled “Don’t play games with me!” Followed by something like, “I’ll use force!” At that point I wanted to shit my pants laughing, but I was too busy pissing them in fear. I’m not a very good multi-tasker. What grown-ass man threatens physical force on two 14 year-olds? I guess a loss prevention agent with an outdated bomber jacket, a God complex and a missing chromosome.

After the shouting Mac and I decided to shut it and we were ushered to a room at the front of the store. One wall was filled with numerous TVs all displaying different camera angles. Two of them were replaying our less than smooth shoplifting attempts. Other than the TVs there was just a desk and some chairs. And a smug asshole, “SA,” sitting at the desk.

At that point I wondered if they were going to beat or rape us first, but thank god neither happened. They sat Mac and I down in some chairs and we had give up what we stole. Then Gordon took individual pictures of all the items, while making condescending comments toward us. As this was going on SA and Gordon got a call over their walkie talkies saying another kid stole something and was running out the doors. Gordon just yelled, “Goddammit” and ran out the door. I thought that was fucking hilarious. I looked over at Mac and apparently he thought the same. We looked away from each other and did our best not to burst out in laughter. Then SA decided to chitchat with us.

This dicknose was trying to make small talk with us when we were one the verge of being sent to jail. I don’t know why he didn’t just keep his pie-hole shut. The mindless small talk was enough but then he started in on how cheaters never beat the system, blah, blah, blah. Then he told us people like us were the reason prices had to be raised at department stores. Maybe he was trying to guilt us, but as I mentioned before we had no shame or dignity so it didn’t really work.

Gordon returned and he did not look happy. Apparently, the young rapscallion he was chasing got away. He produced a phone and ordered us to call our parents. I guess, since we were minors, if our parents came down to Kohl’s to get us and paid for what we stole then we would be released into their custody. I didn’t know what was worse going to the police station or my dad kicking my ass. Mac and I both called, but only got answering machines. We kept trying but got nowhere. Eventually we accepted that our parents weren’t home. Gordon accepted that fact too and promptly called the Crystal Lake Police Department.

Mac and I waited nervously for a while and then there was a knock at the door. Two cops walked in the room. It was just my miserable fucking luck that one of the cops they sent was the security officer at the high school I was about to attend. My high school career was off to a great start. The cops took our information and talked to Gordon for a little bit. Then it was time to leave.

The cops decided that we weren’t dangerous so they didn’t cuff us. It made me feel like a little less of a criminal but of course god had to humiliate us even more. It was probably less than a hundred feet from the front of Kohl’s to the squad car. A hundred goddamn feet and what happens? Mac and I see a couple of dipshits we knew from school. “What’s going on guys?” Dipshit #1 said. What kind of fucking question is that? Perhaps he thought the nice policemen were helping us get our kitten out of tree. Most people with an IQ higher than a dead weasel can deduce that two police officers walking two people to a squad car usually means they’re getting arrested.

After an unnecessary embarrassment, I found myself in the back of a squad card. I probably should have been thinking about how I was going to avoid getting shenked by the drunk hobos in the holding cell, but all I thought about was my surprise that the back seats were plastic. The muddy boot prints on the side windows also caught my attention. Mac asked about them and “Officer Newman” (he looked like the retarded cousin of Newman from Seinfeld) said they arrested some drunk the night before and he tried to kick out the windows. We started talking about that and talked pretty much the whole way to the station. During that time I didn’t feel anxious at all. It was kind of like when you’re taking a test, and you know you’re fucked but once you get to a certain point you’re just happy that it’s almost over. That momentary feeling of calmness disappeared when I stepped inside the police station. Once again it was time for me to drop a load in my pantaloons.

Mac and I were taken to an office/secret room for beatings and told to wait. Well, we waited for a long ass time. Apparently, even police stations in upper-middle class suburbs are models of inefficiency. Eventually, two cops came and took our information for paper work. The cop doing most of the talking, “Sarge,” was a loud obnoxious asshole and a grade A blowhard. He was pretty much what I expected. He talked about doughnuts a lot. Actually that’s probably not true; it’s most likely a false memory my brain created because of my distaste for most cops. He might not have talked about doughnuts, but he was certainly eating them judging by the stress his belt was under. Sarge was basically a walking caricature of a police officer. A mustache is the only thing he was missing. After Sarge was done with his questions he informed us that our parents were being contacted.

For the second time that day, our parents were called, and for the second time that day, our parents didn’t answer. Sarge seemed displeased. “I don’t know what’s going on but you guys better get a hold of someone soon,” he said. “You don’t want to be around on a Friday night when we start bringing in all the drunks.” Thanks Sarge, you dick. Apparently, it was my fault my parents were still at work. I don’t know what he wanted me to do. Maybe he thought I was Harry fucking Potter, and I could summon my Dad via patronus (yeah that’s right I used a Harry Potter reference, deal with it assholes). And what the fuck was with grown men trying to scare 14-year-olds? That was the second time with in two hours. You would think that carrying a gun is enough feel manly, but I guess not. After Sarge finished with his paperwork he led us outside to another officer who happened to be very intimidating. We’ll call him “Chuckles.”

Chuckles was not fucking around. This dude could have made Stalin piss his pants with a simple glare. I doubt that he ever looked happy but he was really unhappy when he took a look at us. Chuckles was in charge of fingerprinting us and taking our mug shots. He fingerprinted Mac first.

“Have you ever done this before?” Chuckles asked.

“Yeah, once when I was a little kid in elementary school,” Mac replied.

“You think this is a joke? This is not the same thing! This is serious!”

“No… I was just answering your question.”

Mac wasn’t being a smart ass on purpose. To be fair, we really did have to get our fingerprints taken in elementary school. The school said it was to help find us if we ever got lost. I think they just wanted our prints on file because they knew the public school system would eventually turn us to deviants and miscreants. They were right. Still, Chuckles reaction seemed a bit over the top (for those of you keeping score at home this is the third adult that yelled/threatened/scared two teenagers). Mac answered his question honestly and Chuckles reacted as if Mac Dirty Sanchezed his wife. When it was my turn I decided not to say anything for fear of being knight-sticked in the package.

Next, Chuckles took our mug shots. Contrary to what movies and TV would have you think, mug shots in the real world are taken with a shitty Polaroid camera against a wall three feet from where you were fingerprinted. I did feel like a badass while the picture was being taken, but then I realized I was in jail and pretty much fucked. A second later when Sarge came over to tell us our parents were here, I realized that I was fucked beyond comprehension.

Mac and I walked back into the office, and my dad and Mac’s dad were sitting there looking disappointed. I was a little surprised that my dad just looked disappointed; I thought he’d also look irate. I assumed it was just an act for the cops, and he’d beat me with a sack of apples when we got home. My dad and Mr. Mac gave the whole we’re really disappointed in you speech, while Mac and I sat there looking at the ground. Apparently our dads told Sarge what good students we were (no they weren’t lying) and how this was extremely unexpected. Sarge told us that since we were minors and we seemed like “good guys” we weren’t being charged with anything. Instead, we were given an 8 p.m. curfew for the rest of the summer that our parents were supposed to enforce. I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t even like a slap on the wrist; it was more like a tickle on the wrist. We went virtually unpunished.

On the way home my dad seemed more confused than angry. He didn’t yell at me like I expected and thankfully he didn’t beat me with a sack full of Granny Smiths. My mom reacted the same way. They just beat the “disappointed” horse to death. I think I would have preferred to take a few lashes from the belt rather than the mental punishment I received.

It seems that Gordon had one more trick up his sleeve, though. I was banned from Kohl’s (all Kohl’s not just the one in Crystal Lake) for life according to a message Gordon left on our answering machine. That fact hasn’t stopped me from shopping at Kohl’s and to this date I haven’t been thrown off the premises. We’ll see what happens if I apply for a Kohl’s charge card someday.

All in all it wasn’t too bad. Pretty soon football training camp and two-a-days started so I didn’t really feel like going out anyway. I just wanted to stay in the air-conditioned house and play video games. In fact, after a couple of weeks my parents didn’t even bring it up anymore. After a month or so it was like it didn’t even happen.

I think the moral of this story is shoplift while you’re young. You’ll get off scot-free with a joke of a punishment. The store you shoplifted from will ban you but it won’t enforce the ban and your parents probably won’t beat your ass.

I’m Back Bitches

Holy shit I’m back! Sorry for the hiatus but I was at the North Pole bare-knuckle boxing polar bears (I was 16-0 with 5 knockouts and 3 kills) and ding-dong ditching Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.

There will be updates posted soon, including why Tumblr sucks ass and an epic tale of my adolescent depravity. Before you navigate away from my sight to a porn site, to most assuredly break your lent promise not to pull your pork, I’d like to leave you with this short story.

I was walking to class on Thursday, and as I was nearing Speakers Circle (a place on campus where any jackass can spout nonsense anytime of day) when I heard something peculiar. I thought my mind was playing tricks, “surely people aren’t shouting ‘vagina’ this time of day.” But people were shouting “vagina.” I picked up my pace assuming that free vaginas were being handed out. It turned out that it was just a bunch of dykes advertising for the Vagina Monologues. So I did what any mature person would do; I started yelling “penis” every time the dykes yelled “vagina.” I thought it was comical, and it made it like a sexy game of Marco Polo. Apparently, others found it in poor taste. I was asked to leave and not to attend the Vagina Monologues.