Memo to short chicks: stop dating tall guys.
Seriously, the whole dating-tall-guys strategy is not doing you any favors. You don’t look like his girlfriend, you look like his pet. Or his kid. Wait…do you have daddy issues? Are you trying to relive your childhood? Creepy.
Plus, it is not anatomically convenient. Your head is barely chest height. To kiss you, he has to stoop, while you lean backward in an uncomfortable and ergonomically questionable position.
Stop overcompensating, short girls. No matter how tall your boyfriend is, you’re still short. And there are plenty of guys in your height bracket. Pick one, breed, have short babies.
Some guys like big girls, and hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. A little meat on the bones is always welcome. In fact, even the mainstream media is finally realizing that rib cages are creepy.
But most guys prefer a girl with a BMI hovering safely in the low double digits. And yet, time and time again reasonable men will toss aside their convictions for some quick horizontal with the kind of girl who describes herself as “fluffy.”
Why? Because of breasts.
Large women tend to have correspondingly large breasts. They know it. They use it. Every man has at times developed breast-related tunnel vision. Fixating on cleavage has resulted in many a late-night mistake.
Huge breasts on huge women are like those glowing fishing-pole appendages dangling from the heads of deepwater carnivorous fish. They dazzle you, they suck you in. We’re powerless to resist. Add alcohol into the mix and…yeah. You get the picture. Well played, big girls. Well played.
I have the coolest phone in the world, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. The iPhone is the most brilliant consumer device that I have ever considered crushing underfoot while singing joyous songs of freedom.
Love my phone, can’t stand Apple. Steve Jobs is a smug bitch. If you don’t agree, you should exit this website immediately. Do not pass GO, do not collect a half-decaf caramel latte, just haul your pansy ass off that slate-grey Ikea couch and drive your Prius off the closest pier.
How is it that a man survives the horrible and life-changing ordeal that is cancer, only to reemerge as an even bigger corporate asshole than before? It’s as if Steve Jobs said to himself, “I’m not going to let this disease beat me. I’ll triumph over this illness with the sole purpose of locking my customers into a nightmare of subscription services and digital rights management. I’ll prosecute journalists for my own corporation’s ineptitude. Oh, and btw, I’m sticking with iTunes. Yeah, I realize it’s one of the most reviled software programs in the world….so what? We’re Apple, bitches. Our army of geek-drones will snark you into submission.”
Gotta admire that dedication. If nothing else, Steve Jobs is 100% committed to being an unrepentant dick.
I’m glad he survived cancer. I’d never wish death on anyone, even a worthless prick like S.J. But I’m going to love my first Android phone SO much…
You can purchase all of the ingredients for high-quality sushi at a grocery store: fresh fish, rice, those crispy strips of dried seaweed…so why can’t the store combine these items into anything resembling an edible California roll? It defies logic.
Grocery store sushi is aggressively bad, almost deliberately offensive…it’s as if someone went out of his/her way to suck out every last molecule of sushi goodness and then painstakingly airbrushed each piece to make it look like real food. It’s a mystery of modern technology, how supermarkets manage to thoroughly extract every ounce of flavor and still maintain the illusion of deliciousness.
Why do they hate us? What’s their motive for subjecting the public to this culinary travesty? And the even bigger mystery: why do we keep buying this crap? There’s no excuse.
He has his own name tattooed across the back of his neck. He’s doing that knuckle-tap “pound” thing to everyone in the bar. He uses more styling products than most women, and he spent the better part of an hour sculpting his hair into lemon-meringue peaks with frosted tips. The smell of his Axe Body Spray is making your eyes water; he’s checking out every other girl in the room; he hits on your sister every time your back is turned. And yes, you’re actually dating this douchebag.
Guys hear it all the time, the classic female lament: why do I date douchebags?
We have no idea. But you always do, and you always will. The douchebag-dating compulsion is undeniable, global, unstoppable.
It’s pointless to even complain about it, because there isn’t much of an alternative. Every girl claims that she wants to date a nice guy, but I’m officially calling bullshit. Nice guys are boring. Even nice guys are disgusted by nice guys. Plus, nice guys don’t have time for dating. They’re busy attending Star Wars conventions and writing heinous poetry.
There are three types of men in this world: Boring Nice Guys, Douchebags, and Taken. Accept it. Deal. Learn to tolerate the knuckle-tap, and try to keep your douchebag bf away from your sister.
When you’ve been in a relationship long enough, the sex is bound to grow stale. Eventually you will resort to roleplay. And you’ll regret it.
Why? Because pretending to be kinky only highlights how vanilla you actually are. If you were a kinky type of person, you would’ve already done this crazy stuff instead of just acting it out. You can always tell when an otherwise conservative couple has recently engaged in some weird-ass dirty sexual shenanigans for the first time. They won’t look each other in the eye, they won’t touch their own children. They’re using hand-sanitizer like nobody’s business.
Roleplay is a desperation move. Face it: your wife isn’t sixteen anymore. Convincing her to squeeze into her old high school cheerleading outfit is just going to be depressing for the both of you. She’ll look like a stuffed sausage with pom-poms.
The really insidious thing about roleplay is that it develops its own momentum. Once you’ve decided on, say, the cop/hooker scenario, you’re stuck with that horrible farce to the bitter end. You’re sweating in a cheap polyesther policemen’s uniform, staring down at your wife/girlfriend and facing the painful realization that you would never, ever pay to have sex with this woman. No one would.
At this point you know you should call it off, but it’s become a matter of pride. Neither of you is willing to admit what an utter failure this has turned out to be. Your only hope of avoiding the impending catastrophe is the abject humiliation of erectile dysfunction, which is becoming more and more likely as this fiasco unfolds. And so, cheeks burning with shame, you joylessly work yourself to the most humiliating orgasm of your life.
It’s a disaster. And yet, eventually you’ll try again. So the cop/hooker thing didn’t work out…maybe a daddy/daughter scenario will be the ticket. Yeah. Best of luck with that.
Other people, why can’t I quit you?
I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself, “It’s over. I’m done with other people.” But I always come back for more. It’s an addiction.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m partially to blame for my issues with other people…but then I realize, no. Other people are selfish. They always want to listen to music that they like. They want to spend at least half the time talking about their lives. They stubbornly insist on having their own opinions, even if I’ve made it clear that those opinions conflict with mine.
I try, you know? I give other people so many chances. But no matter how clearly or loudly I explain my expectations, other people frequently let me down.
One day, other people, you’ll see. One day I’ll leave for good. Somewhere there’s a cave and a shaggy beard with my name on it.
You probably won’t miss me, other people, but that’s fine. The feeling’s mutual.
God I hate pregnant women. I hate them so fucking much. I don’t know if it’s possible to quantify the amount of my hatred that is reserved for pregnant women, but I’ll try.
If my total capacity for hatred were illustrated by a pie chart, and my hatred for pregnant women were represented by the color red, the non-red portion of the pie chart would be just a miniscule slice.
Ironically, that left-over slice would be equal in size to the actual slice that would survive if you left a pie in front of a pregnant woman for five minutes, because pregnant women will eat all your fucking pie. True story.
And btw, a pregnant woman will tell you she’s “eating for two,” which is bullshit. She is not eating for two. She does not have another grown woman inside her. She’s eating for one and a fetus. That’s like 1 and 1/5th at most. And yet this tiny parasite that she’s carrying gives her an excuse to shovel food down her gullet like a Yeti. Sure, keep telling yourself that you had to eat a whole tub of ice cream because the baby wanted it.
Anyway. Gluttony isn’t my real beef with pregnant women. It’s not even in the top five. What really drives me nuts is the conceit. The assumption that everyone cares what’s happening in your stomach. I don’t want to know that the baby just kicked, or that your pants don’t fit anymore, or the oh-so-wacky combination of foods you’re craving. And for the love of god, stop comparing your baby to fruits and vegetables. “Today it’s as big an eggplant! Next week it’ll be a watermelon!” You’re putting me off my lunch. I don’t want to visualize fetus when I’m trying to enjoy delicious watermelon.
You are not an earth mother. You are not a fertility goddess. You’re just some chick who can’t be trusted with birth control.
I should be congratulated for NOT reproducing. Do you know how hard it is to not reproduce? I have the sex drive of a bull on viagra, yet I’ve successfully not reproduced for my entire life, and plan to continue not reproducing for the foreseeable future. So hey, kudos to me.
Pregnant women. Hate.
In theory, a good thing. In practice…
Try telling your boss how you really feel about him. Tell your doctor you don’t need that medical marijuana for chronic pain, but you do enjoy recreational narcotics. Tell your boyfriend your ACTUAL number (and yes, BJs count).
In real life, honesty is overrated. But on the web…well, that’s a different story. We can dish. We can be honest. And we can prove that the truth hurts.