If you have to ask for a woman’s opinion because you need a “female perspective,” know that the only thing that’s different from my standpoint is that I can look down and see my tits whenever I feel like it.
When compared with John’s view of the world, what makes my position more interesting/special/important than Charles’s?* Nothing. Sure, I’ve birthed humans, and yeah, I’ve been forced by society to wear makeup every day, cross my legs when I sit, wear a bra no matter what, deal with subtle and blatant sexism, wear pantyhose, thank men for holding doors open (even though they only did it so they could check out my rack as well as my ass), curb my sexual appetite so as not to appear unladylike, and be heartily accepting of the “boys will be boys” mentality…
Hold on. If I had a penis, I wouldn’t have to deal with all of that? People wouldn’t tell me that I was good at something for a girl? Maybe there IS something that separates my life experiences from those of men. …Maybe.
But I can stare at my tits all day if I want to. 🙂
Your move, gents.
* Yes, it’s Charles’s (with an apostrophe followed by an s). Don’t try to cross me on this.
Your technology isn’t “disruptive,” your little life workarounds aren’t “hacks,” and–holy shit–you aren’t coming up with “disruptive hacks.”
It’s not a breakfast hack to mix sausage and eggs together. It doesn’t matter if you put the mixture in a muffin pan. That ain’t new, it ain’t particularly innovative, and my grandma has been making breakfast casserole for years. YEARS. And don’t make a three minute video of you putting strawberries and kiwi on top of some cream cheese and act like your ass has just managed to solve the problem we all seem to have when we can’t figure out how the hell we can shove more sugar and calories down our throats.
The mere fact that you’ve cut the bottom off of a 20 oz. water bottle and are now using it as a funnel does not mean that you’ve done a “LIFE HACK ZOMG WATER BOTTLE!!!!1!” and we should all watch your video on YouTube. (The only thing you’ve hacked, you simpleton, is your finger while trying to use a pocketknife to cut the damn bottle.)
“#disruptoutlook” is an inappropriate hashtag to use when you’ve made the SHOCKING discovery that you can use rules to direct emails that contain the subject line “Girl Scout cookies” directly into your Trash folder. …Congratulations. You’ve just pointed out something the rest of humankind has been doing for hundreds of thousands of years.
Somebody else has already come up with the idea to put a plastic bag around the E. coli-covered remote control in the hotel room, so just relax–and maybe Google your amazing revelations before proclaiming yourself a genius.
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 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.
If you have to work in an office for 8+ hours a day, there are certain things you should and should not do in order to maintain a happy and healthy work environment.
- Clean up your messes. No one wants to clean your used coffee mug you put in the sink. Have you seen you? You’re disgusting. No one wants to be exposed to your saliva.
- Keep your voice at an appropriate volume while speaking on the phone. Be quiet enough so people can’t hear every word, but just loud enough so people feel somewhat sneaky when they eavesdrop.
- Hang up enough crap on the walls of your cubicle/office that it looks like someone works there, but not so much clutter that one can’t determine the color of said walls.
- Start another pot of coffee when you finish the one that’s there. …It’s called human decency.
- Heat broccoli in the break room microwave. When the smell of broccoli meets the scent of copiers, it smells like inky, stinky feet. Eat your broccoli cold or keep it out of the office.
- Print every single one of your emails (in color!) to a public printer and then leave them there for hours and then reprint them and then get all mad when I put them in the shred bin. Holy crap, Devin. Show some respect for yourself and others and the printer and trees and the earth and my sanity.
- Talk about childbirth or your gall bladder or your sex life or any of the wonders of your many and varied bodily functions. Not only does no one want to have a conversation with you about it, no one wants to inadvertently overhear any of that shit, either. Not at work, not at home, and not on your personal time. Actually, your so-called “friends” don’t even like you. They tired long ago of hearing about what keeps you regular, Tammy. Keep it to yourself.
- Eat apples at your desk. Ostensibly the most disgusting thing in the world is the crunch-and-slop sound you make when you’re chawing on an apple.
- Use the Reply to All button (unless you’ve earned your certification). Upon completion of the required courses, you can put the letters NAF (Not A Fuckwad) after your name on your business cards! …Imagine… Barry Jones, NAF. (Just kidding. We all know Barry and Lisa can’t resist replying to all 87 times about his damn zucchini bread. Every year.)
If you have to talk about politics, do it in your car. When you’re by yourself. With the windows rolled up.
In general, I don’t talk about politics. In specific, I never fucking talk about politics. Trumpeting your political views is one of the quickest ways to make my eyes glaze over. Really, all you’re doing is telling me about your feelings. I don’t actually have feelings, so hearing about yours irritates me. The overarching problem is that people are too emotional to actually hold a conversation in which there is any discussion about politics.
Political discourse digs at the very core of human nature. To remove the passion and the emotion from the conversation is impossible, so it’s my position that discussing politics should be outlawed because the interpretation of facts is skewed by one’s political leanings.
If you have to be in a relationship with a woman, gents, know that she will never be 100% pleased with you and there’s no magic formula to making her happy.
Women are fickle, mercurial, and will tergiversate without a moment’s notice. They’re whiny, emotional, and petty–and they are easily annoyed by you, other women, the world, that blade of grass over there, and perceived injustice.
If you want a woman, and I mean really want a woman, you’ve got to be willing to fight… for her, for yourself, and for your relationship. Women need champions.
However, because all women are snowflakes, there’s no one way to keep any or all of them happy. Naturally, however, I’ve got a list of some general guidelines for you that will help keep you in your woman’s good graces:
- Remember that whole chivalry thing? Don’t let it die, whether it’s you’re first date or you’ve been together since before AOL. Open doors for her, offer your hand or your arm when you cross the street together, carry her heavy-ass suitcase for her, and let her order her dinner–or her supper (that’s a whole other blog post)–first.
- Be [semi-]predictable. It throws women when you do something out of character. Do that very often, and she’ll become very wary of you. Wary women get jealous. Jealous women get suspicious. Suspicious women get paranoid. And paranoid women murder you in your sleep. You probably don’t want that.
- Have a skill. A hobby. Be good at something. It doesn’t matter if it’s playing basketball, creating beautiful spreadsheets, or making the perfect cheese dip–just do something exceptionally well. She’ll respect you for it.
- Don’t look at other women when they walk by. As sly as you think you’re being when you leer at other women, we always see it. And we hate it. And we hate you a little bit for doing it. So fucking stop it. Don’t say it’s instinctual. Nut up and fight your natural urges, caveman boy.
- Tell her you love her. She needs to hear it. Yes, you just told her yesterday, but she needs to hear it again. And again. But just telling her isn’t enough…
- SHOW her you love her. You have to be a little bit thoughtful. Chivalry shows her. Making a pot of coffee and pouring her some when she walks in the room shows her. Tucking her hair behind her ear so that you can see both of her eyes while she’s talking will floor her and score you like a bajillion points.
- Tell her things. I don’t mean that she needs to know how much you paid for gas this morning or anything about gas in general. Give her a 30 second recap of your day. Tell her what you had for lunch. An informed woman is a trusting woman, and you don’t want her to get wary. See #2. Don’t wake up dead.
- Be respectful. Hang up your towel instead of throwing it on the floor, put your dishes in the sink, keep the temperature a little warmer in the car so she doesn’t freeze after having gone through the trouble of wearing something revealing for you, and slow your pace a tiny bit when you’re walking together. And when it’s her time of the month, just do your best to not be an asshole.
- Though it flies in the face of what I believe in regular social interaction (and of course it’s not actually true, but you are allowed to lie here), tell her she’s beautiful. Listen up. This is important. Your woman lives in a world where she’s expected to look perfect all the time. She’s constantly comparing herself to other women, always trying to fall on the correct side of the attractive/getting-the-wrong-kind-of-attention line, and she keeps getting those creepy, leering looks from men (see #4) who haven’t read this list. Tell her she’s beautiful. She needs to hear it.
- This one’s a little out there, but it’s ridiculously effective. Pay attention when she’s talking. I don’t mean you have to listen to everything (because women talk all the damn time), but make an effort to remember just one thing she said. Bring it up later in conversation. (“Oh yeah, I meant to ask earlier… When you and your dad picked lilacs in Illinois, was it in a garden or out in the wild?“) Boom. The conversation turns from mind-numbing drivel into how sweet you are for asking a thoughtful question. Win-win.
If you have to tell someone (in an obligatory fashion or as a compliment) that they’re an adjective, don’t make it one that’s some sort of superlative.
Saying that everyone is beautiful is the participation trophy of the spoken word. You’re robbing the term of its definition, rendering it meaningless.
Sandy isn’t beautiful, Jonah isn’t the best, Theresa isn’t incredible, and Tim is, in no way, amazeballs.
It might sound insincere and a bit robotic to say that Jeff is a carbon-based life form with exemplary skill in alphabetizing soup cans in his kitchen pantry. Awkward? Sure, but it’s a hell of a lot more accurate than saying that Jeff is phenomenally brilliant. (Jeff fucking drooled on the couch pillow last night after passing out there, having consumed a bit too much Bud Light.) He ain’t special or gifted, but he can sure as hell put the cream of mushroom soup to the left of the tomato.
I can’t. I just can’t join Facebook. I can’t care about all the stupid minutiae of your everyday life. I can’t dedicate a large fraction of my day to reading things I don’t even want to know. I can’t become invested in the lives of people I hated in high school.
My unwillingness to join that wretched social media time suck has caused me to miss out on a few things, but it’s totally worth it.
- I don’t want to see pictures of your uterus or your dinner or your family reunion.
- I don’t want to learn that you’ve “liked” a particular brand of insect repellent or edible underwear or paper towel.
- I don’t want to know that you belong to groups called Creative Kale Recipes, Horny4Mullets, and Intravenous Coffee Drips.
- I couldn’t be paid enough to care about mommy politics, your fucking Netflix queue, or your new dishwasher.
They should invent a Facebook for apathetic people with short attention spans who are really only there for news and/or a laugh. It should have a 140-character limit for posts…