If you have to be vegan, well… there’s really no excuse for it. Just stfu about it. We (and I’m speaking for the entire world here) do not care. Quit trying to sell us your bullshit vegan propaganda.
You can call it vegan leather all you want to, but it’s plastic. And that vegan burger? Honey, that’s a black bean patty. And since we’re being honest, that whole “vegan” thing you’re clinging to so desperately? Yeah, you’re just a vegetarian with weird entitlement issues. And we all know you’re quietly hoping someone will give you some ground chuck in place of that slimy bean situation you’ve got going on over there.
If you have to deal with women, know that there are varying levels of what I’ll call #girlbrain.
Almost all women operate in 100% girlbrain mode, so you need to be really damn careful with what you say to them. Allow me to provide examples to elucidate my point…
- Guy says: “You look pretty today.” Girl thinks: If he’s saying I ‘look’ pretty, he must think I’m not actually pretty; I just appear pretty at the moment. And why do I only look pretty TODAY? Do I normally look bad? And wtf is ‘pretty’ anyway? I’m not sexy? I’m not hot? I’m just pretty??
- Guy texts: “Luv u” Girl thinks: Why didn’t he say ‘I love you’?? Can he not commit to owning his ‘luv’ by adding an ‘I’ to the beginning of that? Does he not actually LOVE me? Was he typing in a hurry BECAUSE THERE’S ANOTHER GIRL THERE?!?!?!!!
- Guy says: “[Female celebrity name] is attractive.” Girl thinks: He’s obsessed with Sandra Bullock. Why the fuck is he obsessed with Sandra Bullock? She’s brunette. I’m blonde! She has brown eyes. Mine are blue! She never shows her teeth when she smiles. I grin and show my teeth! Oh no! He thinks I’m ugly!
- Guy texts: “You’re fun.” Girl thinks: I’m fun?? Does he not take me seriously? Do I need to be more serious? Oh no… he thinks I’m stupid. No guy wants to be with a girl long-term who’s just ‘fun’ and nothing else. He thinks I don’t have any depth. OH NO! He caught me watching ‘Keeping Up With the Kardashians’! How can I recover from this?!?!
Gentlemen, let me tell you… Girls will give themselves complexes about this shit. Want to give a girl a compliment? You have to be unambiguous. More than that, you have to be insanely, specifically, ridiculously clear. Don’t mistake brevity for clarity, but at the same time, you have to know your girl.
A select few ladies can take things as they were obviously intended, like, 97.2% of the time… but sometimes… even the best of us slip. We hear that we’re “fun,” and we go into full-on girlbrain, drawing spurious conclusions and mildly flipping the fuck out for no reason whatsoever.
For the love of all things holy, gents, have a bit of patience. Tell her something she can’t misinterpret. I’m going to stop short of telling you exactly what to say–because every woman is a special snowflake (*eye roll*) and responds differently to certain words.
Oh yeah, and watch out for those 100% girlbrain broads. They cray (and they’re also 99.4% of the women out there, so good luck, I guess).
If you have to talk about how you got “friendzoned” by a girl, realize that you’re speaking about something that doesn’t exist–and it makes you sound like a desperate, sad whiner who has probably never been with a girl anyway.
Gents, I hate to break it to you, but girls have made the irrevocable decision of whether or not they would EVER EVEN CONSIDER sleeping with you within approximately 32 seconds of meeting you for the first time. Literally. Introduce yourself, wait a minute, and then ask her if she’d ever even possibly think about sleeping with you.* She’ll either say “hell no” or she’ll blush. There’s your answer. You’re welcome.
If you claim there’s such a thing as the “friendzone,” then you’re assuming that thing is an aberration from the norm… namely, you are assuming that most girls want to sleep with you.
Allow me to offer the dissenting and most likely uncomfortable opinion: almost no girls want you. If you happen to find one who does, THAT’S the aberration. When this rare occurrence happens, say you’ve been “bangzoned.” Makes a lot more sense, and I bet you’ll find more people will want to celebrate with you about that compared with the low attendance you’ll find at your little friendzone pity party.
* Omg, please let me know if you try this. I want to know every detail about what happens, including how much you cried when she kicked you in the balls.
If you have to get advice, get it from a credible source. Want to know about the weather? Ask a meteorologist. Want advice on meat? Don’t get it from a vegan.
I was just watching a presentation on tv in which an impeccably dressed woman in heels used the term “marathon gaming sessions” to describe some aspect of some computer. I don’t buy it. That chick has never been on an energy drink and Twizzler-fueled bender, playing some MMORPG until 5 AM and passing out in a pile of Corn Nuts. It’s just not believable. Get some fat guy named Kevin whose Star Wars t-shirt is just a little too tight and who speaks in internet slang to tell me about the gaming-ness of this computer, and I’ll believe whatever he has to say. He comes off as a credible source.
Want to know why I’ve never read/seen Fifty Shades of Grey? …Well, first of all, I’m not a sad, desperate yoga mom. But also, have you seen how gosh darn fugly the author is?! She is not a source for sexy, credible, plausible-sounding
banging stories! Want a good story? I guarantee that a hot person will have better quality (and more believable) sex stories.
In summation… talk to a plumber about your pipes, see a doctor about your medical issues, and don’t read sex books by ugly women.
If you have to complain about your relationship, make sure you’re complaining about something that makes sense. (This is gonna get hella metaphorical, so strap in, kids.)
Imagine that you have fantasized for years about owning a Lamborghini (or a Lotus, or a Tesla, or a damned Prius–if that’s the type of thing that tickles your fancy). All of the sudden, you are given the car of your DREAMS.
However… now you are the owner of a Lamborghini. You have to step up your game. You can’t bum around in sweatpants anymore. You need to look and act the part of Lamborghini Owner. It’s a lot of work. In addition to making yourself a fitting owner for that fine automobile, you need to wash it, park it further out in the parking lot than you used to park your Taurus, and go to the luxury car dealership when it needs work.
Does that sound like too much work for you, Sweatpants Man?? Don’t be mad at the Lamborghini for being fabulous. THAT’S WHAT YOU WANTED, REMEMBER?!
Lost on that one? Try this: If you buy a candle, you should light it and experience it with all your senses. Enjoy its heat, its glow, its scent, and its spark. (Maybe don’t lick it, but you know what I mean.) Don’t buy it and stick it in a cabinet just to be able to say that you have a candle. Who cares if you have a candle if it’s just shoved in the back of your sock drawer?
Still not with me? Okay. Don’t be mad at your hot significant other because they’re hot. You wanted a hot person, you somehow managed to score one, and now you’re all pissy because they haven’t fallen into the same pit of self-loathing and sloth that you swim in? Hmm… maybe lower your expectations… for next time. 🙂
If you have to leave your house, try dressing in a way that shows that you respect yourself and that you are cognizant of your body size and shape. I’m not saying you need to blow a few grand at Saks in order to go to CVS for some cold medicine, but you know… when you’re going to a restaurant (you know, one of the ones without a drive-thru) or to the office, dress for the body you have.
If you have a shirt that fit you 50 pounds ago or one that you think will fit you in 50 pounds:
- Stop measuring time in pounds, you weirdo
- Don’t effing wear the shirt
If you’re a large person, wear large clothes. If you’re a small person, wear small clothes. If you’re an XXL, wear XXL clothes. AND PLEASE NOTE THAT BUYING A PAIR OF SIZE 6 PANTS DOES NOT MAKE YOU A SIZE 6.
If you have to give a gift at work because it’s the fucking holidays and you’re one of those stupid-ass bitches who buys gifts for everyone in the whole office, don’t expect for one fleeting second that you’ll get one back from me. I DON’T EVEN LIKE YOU, SHARON. DON’T BUY ME A STUPID PRESENT. Also, Barbara–fuck you. Fuck you and your fucking jelly beans. Jelly beans are not seasonally appropriate!
…And Jessica, I do not appreciate that you got me a thoughtful present that I actually like. I now have to expend the tiny amount of time and sanity and money I have left on buying you something nice and that clearly demonstrates that I give approximately one-half of an actual fuck about you. Stop being awesome, Jessica. It’s too much for me to handle during this ridiculous season.
Can we all just not? I mean, Tina needs to bring in her amazing cookies, and Brian can buy us all drinks after work on Tuesday, but that’s it. Let’s just say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘happy holidays’ or ‘pleasant winter’ or ‘seems like it’s getting a bit cold outside, huh Jeff?’ or whatever the hell we’re allowed to say these days. No presents.
If you have to hate someone, I’ve always said that you should do it for a legitimate (but completely arbitrary) reason. The following examples are groups of people who do not get enough seething rage, discrimination, and hatred from society, though they probably deserve it:
- Stilettoism: hatred for women who lack the necessary ankle strength and/or balancing ability, but insist on wearing high heels anyway.
- Nicknameism: discriminating against those people who make their nicknames hard to spell. (Like, I get that your parents named you Mikaylah–and I hate them for that, but I hate you because you nicknamed yourself “Mikkiyee.”)
- Stretchism: disgust for people who stretch any time and every time they’re standing still. (Get your leg off the back of the couch, Anna, and stop bending over.)
- Unintentional BJ-ism: hating on people who, during business meetings, drink water from bottles that are, like, big sippy cups with the fat straws that you have to compress to suck. (No one can concentrate on strategic planning while Tim is performing oral on his water bottle. Especially when he hasn’t broken eye contact with Ron for twenty seconds.)
- Garbagehumanism: discriminating against people who listen to country music.
- Doggy bag at the table eater-ism: anger toward people who, before the meal, ask for half their dinner to be boxed as leftovers, and then open the box and start picking at it while the rest of us eat from our plates like normal people, Janet.
- Non sequiturism*: hating those people who have to jump into EVERY SINGLE CONVERSATION with some off-the-wall, ridiculous bullshit. (“Did you know that the Brazil nut is not, in fact, a nut?” Shut the fuck up, Chad!)
*Fun fact: my phone tried to autocorrect that to “non sequin urinalysis,” which obviously makes more sense. (I blame Chad.)
If you have to hang out with me (okay, that makes it sound like it’s a bad thing, but IRL, I’m actually not the bitch I purport myself to be in this blog), know that I get bored very, VERY easily.
Here’s this thing I’ve discovered about people as of late… when it comes to activity, there are the following types of people:
- Gets bored very easily and lacks the coping mechanisms to deal with it, and therefore seeks out any and all ways to escape the vacuous hellhole otherwise known as just sitting there with nothing to do. This is me. When I go into a situation (social or otherwise), I always try to find an out. Whether that’s finding the actual door to exit the place, figuring out how I can talk to the most interesting person in the room, or planning to get one more drink to force the fun, I find a way to make the situation less boring.
- Gets kinda bored sometimes, but can deal with it though various methods–thinking, being creative, going on Facebook, etc. Good for you people, really. While I’m tapping my foot at the doctor’s office while fantasizing about punching the nurse who I swear keeps moving my name to the bottom of the list, you people are posting endlessly fascinating little tidbits on your wall. (That’s what it’s called on Facebook, right? Sounds fucking thrilling.)
- Rarely gets bored because they take joy in solitude. They actually enjoy sitting at a coffee shop. Alone. And they ponder shit while they sit there. By themselves. Alone. And they like it. Because they’re strange.
- Is never bored because these weirdos clearly have the IQ of dirt and are actually entertained by the minutiae of everyday life. Like, they are jazzed to literally watch paint dry and/or drool on themselves and/or watch other people play golf.
So I’m bored now. Bye.
(Exit is this-a way.) —->
If you have to write a blog post with the above title, you should probably have something nice to say about yoga moms… but fuck that.
Yoga moms piss me off.
These women don’t work, they don’t do anything for themselves, and THEY DON’T ACTUALLY DO YOGA. These bitches mooch off of their hard-working husbands to support their lives of leisure and… wait. What do they actually do? They drink champagne at 11 AM, they go out with the other yoga moms, and they bag on women like me who actually contribute to society. They hire people to clean their houses and watch their children for them, they’re addicted to whatever pill that is in the amber-colored bottle, and (sorry, hard-working husbands) they’re sleeping with the “life coach” guy who lives three houses down. They put on yoga pants in the morning, they hit the salon, and then they overperfume themselves before heading out for a tough day of shopping and sitting on the patio at the bistro with some other stupid yoga bitches. Oh yeah, and then they bang Sven or Marco (or whatever his name is) before their kids get home from school.
These ladies are the worst, but tbh, their husbands aren’t that much better. Did they really go into marriage hoping to just have a trophy wife? And what about the fugly yoga moms… did these guys REALLY sign up for paying for some ugly bitch to just sit around (and I mean arouuuund) the house that they bought for her? Why? WHY? Why do they let their wives spend $90 on mascara, rack up 10 hours at the spa every week, pay $300 for a haircut, and watch all the soap operas? What are they getting out of it? Maybe it’s some crazy sex move known only to yoga moms. (Maybe THAT’S what they’re learning from that “life coach” guy!)
I’d venture to guess that maybe–just MAYBE–women who have an education and a job and actually pull their own weight probably have a little more to offer than those awful, horrible, throatpunchable yoga moms.