Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Tell the Truth - I See Through Your Bullshit

To quote "House", everybody lies. Simply put, lying is a truism of our society. That much is obvious. We all lie, every day, to someone, about something. That's not a mystery, not confusing, not even shocking. What is a bit confusing, though, is why people claim not to want something, when actually that something is what they are after. Take women, for example. You know what I love to hear from a woman I just met? Answer: "We're not going to have sex tonight", or "I can't sleep with you tonight", or something along those lines. Never once has that phrase been accurate. There have been plenty of times I have met women, and not ended up sleeping with them that night - or ever - but I can't think of a single time that a woman I just met told me, unsolicited, that she wasn't going to sleep with me, and then I didn't actually get to fuck her that same night. Actually, upon reflection there was ONE time this happened, but we still ended up doing everything except sex, and there were also a couple of other things going on with the girl. But that trainwreck rates a story all of her own, and in any event, she still ended up doing things she claimed not to want. I mean, why not just be honest, or shut the fuck up? Either be up front about wanting to get laid, or don't say anything at all, and let events unfold naturally. Why play games? It's not as if your friends are there to see you, judge you, and think that you're a whore. It's just the two of us. It's not as if most guys are going to judge you - you met them in a bar, you're both getting drunk - do you NOT know how this story ends? Even if you're a honest-to-God-fucking-VIRGIN, you have no excuse.

This was my theory before, and to an extent, still is. What I've learned, though, is that sometimes there's another hidden meaning behind that phrase...

Summer 2008

For a brief month or two in early Summer of 2008, I was quasi-dating - by which I mean fucking with no intention of actually dating - a girl I'd met at a bar. For the first several weeks I knew her, we had no actual dates, unless meeting at a bar to get drunk, followed by going back to her place, counts as a date. But really - she met me at a bar, while we were both drunk, and took me home that same night. Then, she gave me her number the next morning, picked up the phone when I called her, then agreed to meet me at the same bar at which we initially met. Just exactly what did she think was going to happen? Flowers-and-fucking-miniature-golf?

Anyway, after a few weeks of this, she started to bug me about going out on an actual date. Oddly enough, she seemed to actually like me, and I have no idea why. Well, actually I do, and it goes back to the earlier point about women saying they want one thing and actually wanting another, but I digress. In any case, I decided what the hell, if the only practical cost of 5 weeks of sex is one date, I guess I can oblige her. We decided to meet after work downtown at Alamo Drafthouse for a movie, followed by a wine bar. Yeah, yeah, very romantic, very date-ish, blah blah blah - SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I made it downtown a little early - around 4pm or so, intending to hit an early happy hour at Paradise on 6th St. The place is a bit pricey compared to some of the other spots downtown, but the douchebag quotient is usually pretty low, too, which is worth a couple of extra bucks. About an hour later, this girl fucked up. She called me with some excuse to cancel. To this day, I have no idea if she was playing games with me, or if something actually legitimate came up, but I don't care. As some of you know, with my recent date cancellation experience with a girl I met at the pool, I have a policy regarding whores canceling dates. You see, when the sole reason for the date is their incessant whining, it's one strike and they're out. While I might talk to her again, and will certainly, should the opportunity arise, sleep with her again, I'm absolutely, positively, not setting up another date. I didn't want to go on one anyway, and if she cancels, then either she's trying to jerk me around, or the date isn't that important to her. The problem for her is, I make a shitty puppet, and it's not that important to me anyway. So, when she called to cancel, I was done.

Well, done with her. I wasn't done with my night. Dammit, I went all the way downtown, which for the past couple of years I've been kinda burned out on, but now that I was there, I was going to have a good time. I started drinking a little more aggressively, hitting a few more bars. I called couple of friends, who wanted me to meet them later that night at a bar. By this time, it was around 8pm, and I had a couple hours to kill before my friends came out, so I bar-hopped around until I ended up at BD Riley's, an Irish pub near 6th and Brazos. As it turned out, Wednesday night was trivia night at this bar, and there was a cash prize of $100 for the winner. Apparently, this was something of a major crowd draw for the place, because there must have been about 20 teams of people in there, with anywhere between 2-8 people per team. The bar was absolutely fucking packed.

I decided to play, since I do love trivia and am generally pretty good at it. I shit you not, if you don't believe me on this, we can pull out Trivial Pursuit cards and play for shots. After about 20 minutes on my own, a woman walked in by herself, and sat down at the bar right next to me - it was the only open seat. She seemed highly attractive, which in my drunken state meant that she could have ranged from digusting wildebeast to actually fuckable. Thankfully, the latter seemed to be the case, because throughout the night, guys kept checking her out. Obviously, I invited her to join my trivia "team". She claimed to love trivia and was excited about playing, so we started hitting it off between trivia questions. After doing a couple of shots, I established that she was in town by herself, from New York, for a convention, and she had never been to Austin before. After the game ended - which we didn't, unfortunately, win - it was simple to get her to agree to barhop around with me.

She was a little older - in her early 30s, roughly, so the average 6th St bar was not really her scene. Instead, I walked her through the Driskill Hotel and Stephen F Austin Hotel, having a drink at each. Both places have pretty outstanding bars, and I highly recommend checking them out, as long as you don't mind $8 drinks. I didn't mind that night, since she felt that because I was taking her around, she should pay. By the time we left SFA Hotel, she was giving me "I want to fuck you" eyes, hanging all over me, etc. At this point I suggested taking a pedi-cab ride down to the Warehouse District on 4th St. For those of you not from Austin, pedi-cabs are basically little carts that seat three people or so, powered by a bicycle invariably driven by one of the Emo/pot head/pseudo-intellectual/all of the above idiots who inhabit this town. It was on this ride that she leaned over, started kissing me, and then pulled back, uttering the famous line: "I'm sorry, I shouldn't do that, I just can't sleep with you tonight." With a knowing nod, I let her know that it wasn't a big deal, and besides, who said anything about sleeping together? "Let's just have a good time and a couple of drinks, and enjoy the night," I said. Then I steered the conversation away - briefly - from sexually tilted topics. I'm tellin' ya, it works every time. If she didn't want to fuck my brains out, not only would she not be getting drunk with a stranger she just met, but she wouldn't have started making out with, and, for FUCK'S SAKE, she wouldn't have actually brought up the FUCKING TOPIC.

We made it to 4th St around 12-12:30, and decided to finish off the night at Fado's - another Irish pub. Within about 15 minutes, she was sticking her tongue down my throat again. This went on for a little while, until she stopped, and looked around - a bit frantically, it seemed.

Me: "What?"
NewYorkWhore: "We can't do this."
Me: "What are you talking about?"
NYW: "There are people I work with over at that table - they can't catch me doing this."

She had talked around the topic of a significant other all night - I never really asked, but she kept letting little hints slip, and this was the clincher. It was obvious she had, at least, a boyfriend back in New York. But, whores being whores, I knew this wasn't going to get in the way for long.

Me: "Well, do you want to go somewhere else?"
NYW: "Want to walk me to my hotel?"
Me: "Sounds like a plan."

We left Fado's, and started walking to her hotel. As it turned out, she was staying at the Omni, which is a pretty nice hotel in downtown Austin. I definitely recommend checking it out. We got to her hotel, and she told me she had a bottle of wine in her room, and asked if I wanted to come up.

Can't sleep with me, my ass! It never fucking fails, I thought.

She was staying on one of the upper floors of the hotel, which necessitated a trip in the completely glassed in elevator, overlooking the lobby. Of course, I had her pressed up against the glass the whole way up, doing everything but fucking her. Seriously - it was a glassed in elevator, overlooking the lobby of a hotel I wasn't staying at. What the fuck would you have done?

We got up to her room, and she actually had a bottle of wine. I knew where this was headed, so when she was in the bathroom, I called down to the lobby for a 6am wakeup call. I had to be at work by 8am for a meeting, and since I already knew I was going to be showing up drunk, then for damn sure I'd at least show up on time.

However, when she came out of the bathroom, and we started hooking up on the bed, we hit a snag. You see, apparently when she said she couldn't sleep with me that night, she wasn't lying. She actually couldn't, because it was THAT TIME OF THE MONTH. I mean, this was seriously going to be the first time - well, second, but STILL - in my LIFE that a woman who told me she wasn't going to sleep with me in the course of normal conversation, where she didn't actually sleep with me. The blowjob she gave me helped me get over it, of course, and afterwards, I rolled over to go to sleep.

About 15 minutes later, she had other ideas. She nudged me back awake.

NYW: "Hey, wake up. I want you to fuck me."
Me: "Wh-huh? I thought you were on the rag?"
NYW: "Well...yeah....but I still want you to fuck me. Do you think it's OK?"
Me: "I guess that's really up to you."
NYW: "Yeah, we're definitely going to fuck. Hold on, let me get a condom."

Now, the absurdity of this didn't hit me until later. We fucked, went to sleep, woke up when my wake up call went off, fucked again, and then I went to work. It was only later, when I thought about it, that I realized the following:

1)I fucked a woman on her period. That's not highly remarkable, just not something I do every day.
2)Much more importantly, this fucking whore had a boyfriend at the very least, yet came to Austin for a convention, knowing she was on her period, picked up a guy on 6th St, and BROUGHT CONDOMS FUCKING WITH HER FROM NEW YORK! I mean, it's not as if she just got drunk and made a mistake. No, this one came to town with a fucking plan, and come hell or high water - or, apparently, her menstrual period - she was going to get laid. I mean, there are two ways of looking at this. First of all, what kind of a whore does that? Apparently, the kind I manage to run into. Secondly, what kind of a douchebag was she dating/married to? And this got me thinking a bit - what if my original date canceled on me because she got a better offer? It's certainly possible. I've been that "other guy" before, too, so I know it happens. From a certain perspective, I was that other guy on this particular night. I mean, why should the women I am "dating" be any different than the women I run into? This line of thinking only further reinforced my existing policy of the One Strike Rule.

In the end, all of this bothered me for about 5 seconds. Now, I just think it's funny, and a pretty good case in point for what I'm talking about. Women - and men - lie all the damn time. She was lying to her significant other (hiding the fact she was fucking around), lying to herself (by being with a guy she obviously couldn't stand), and lying to me (implying she had no intention of sleeping with me). It also validates the point, guys, that if a woman actually tells you she doesn't plan on fucking you, then unless you royally fuck things up, you are getting laid that night, because no matter the situation, she is damn sure going to find a way.

Oh, and needless to say, I never met my friends that night. When I told them why, they understood.

But seriously, I'd like to get some feedback on this. Am I unreasonable for thinking that all of the lying is ridiculous? If you read this, do me a favor. Take a hard look in the mirror. If you're female, ask yourself if you play games (canceling dates in favor of a better offer, canceling in order to get the guy to like you more, telling guys you want to sleep with that you won't sleep with them, etc.), and if you're male, ask yourself if you lie to women to get them to sleep with you. This little piece was focused on the absurdity of what women do, but guys are just as bad. I try not to be, and generally I'm pretty honest about what I'm after (although certainly there have been exceptions). My question to you is, why aren't YOU?

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Why Strip Clubs Suck

I have a confession to make. I can't stand strip clubs. Yes, I know, this seems to be at cross-purposes with what I normally pursue. I mean, I love women, right? And naked women are even better! How could I possibly hate strip clubs, the Super Bowl of carnal pleasures?

Allow me to break this down. If, in the process of this, I manage to dissuade you from going to strip clubs ever again, and if, as a consequence, you never see another naked tit in your life, then consider my job well done. And by the way, fuck you - I just proved my first point.

Y'see, strip clubs are only good for losers who can't otherwise see tits in real life. Arguably, looking at tits on the Internet beats going to a strip club, but since that is for different reasons, let's just stipulate that looking at tits = a good thing. However, what kind of loser isn't able to see naked women without paying for it?? I mean, go to a popular bar with a friend or two, preferably having done a little pre-drinking beforehand, and walk up to a girl. If it becomes apparent after 5 minutes you won't be seeing her naked anytime soon, then move on (note to the slow: moving on to one of her friends probably will NOT be effective). Unless you are a complete douche, ugly, and possessing no ability to interact with anyone, much less women, then I promise you, you will see naked women.

There are so many misconceptions surrounding strip clubs and strippers that I felt the need to put together my Stripper Survival FAQ:

Q: But David, how can you be against seeing naked women??
A: See above, dumbass.

Q: But David, strippers will dance all over you! And you get to feel them up!
A: See above, dumbass. Additionally, it's not as if they are dancing for free - they are dancing for money! And that brings up one of my major points, the economics of strip clubs. This topic bears a quick break from my Stripper Survival FAQ, in order to cover the vital topic of Stripper Economics.

To get into a strip club, it will cost you between $5-$10. At that point, you will receive the privilege of ordering $6 beers and $10 shots and mixed drinks - and those are the domestics and wells! God forbid you want a real drink, because at this point, you probably can't afford it and in fact have to save every penny in order to correct the anal bleeding from the ass-fucking you are getting from some self-important strip club manager, dressed in a cheap-yet-expensive-looking suit.

Yeah, you get to look at naked chicks, "for free", as long as you stay. The problem is, you will put up with a constant stream of whore-ramble, from strippers who walk by and ask you if you want blue-balls. Oops, I mean a dance. Should you accept, this dreg of society will proceed to wiggle in your lap, and perhaps let you feel her tits, for the paltry sum of $20 USD. Of course, if you go "too far", she will get offended, as if it's OK for her to spend your $20 USD on cocaine but it isn't OK for you to pinch her nipples and call her a whore. Who knew? Moving along, if you happen to particularly click with said stripper (and for the perils of this, see below), she might invite you somewhere for a raging case of herpes, or, as they call it in The Biz, a private dance. Depending on the club, you will get to do anything, ranging from slapping her tits around to straight-up, full-on fucking, for the small price of around $200, although this can vary up or down, depending upon your looks, negotiating skills, and overall doucebaggery.

I mentioned the perils of actually talking to strippers. This, indeed, is one of the worst parts about going to a strip club. In fact, to adequately address this point, it's time to move back to the FAQ.

Q: But David, you don't have to pay for a dance! You can just watch the strippers and sit there and talk to them!
A: Hey dipshit, the smartest thing to ever come out of a stripper's mouth was a donkey's cock in Mexico. Talk to a stripper? What the fuck? What're you going to talk about? Are you going to compare and contrast cocaine dealers? Are you going to listen to her bitch about her "landlord" (pimp), threatening to kick her out of her "apartment" (whorehouse)?

Q: But David, not all strippers are like that! Some of them don't do coke or whore themselves out! Some of them are just trying to make a living, maybe put themselves through school!
A: MWHAHHAHAAHAHAHA Shut the FUCK UP! The stripper who doesn't do coke and is going to school on a more than theoretical basis is about as real as the Easter Bunny - in other words, she doesn't fucking exist. If you want to get lied to, by all means, talk to strippers.

Q: But David, you're right, but sometimes these whores are easy to sleep with and you don't even have to pay them!
A: Yep, that's true. The same is true of most women you are likely to meet in a bar, but the difference is, women you meet in a bar are much less likely to have a)Sexually Transmitted Diseases, b)cocaine habits, c)fucked up childhoods resulting from Uncle Tommy buggering them, and d)black ex-con ex-boyfriends who have nothing to lose, if they catch you and kick the shit out of you.

Q: But David, that isn't true of ALL strippers!
A: OK, I sorta agree. Except that even if none of the other things are true, strippers are emotionally fucked, otherwise they wouldn't be stripping. If you want to sort out that train wreck in the morning, be my guest. I did it once, and I'm not at all interested in a repeat performance.

Q: But David, I just have fun at strip clubs!
A: Good point, rich douchebag. If you have so much money you don't care about blowing hundreds of dollars on drinks and women who either hate you or don't even know where they are, and who are more likely to give you syphilis than the average urinal in a bisexual bar in the Netherlands, and you are so insecure you would rather throw your money at strippers than spend a fraction of your money getting laid at a bar, with a woman who, while probably still classless, is at least free of STDs and doesn't have a history of familial sexual abuse, then be my guest. Dumbass. This does lead me to my final point, though.

The final point is, the economics of strip clubs just plain suck. I have alluded to this several times, however, it bears repeating. $10 to get into the club, plus an average of $7 per drink, $20 per dance, $1 per table dance, $6 per ATM fee, and your dignity ends up totaling somewhere in the neighborhood of an average strip club visit expense in excess of $724. In return, you get as drunk as you can afford, along with anything ranging from a bad case of blue balls to a bad case of AIDs in the event you end up fucking a stripper, as well as a never-ending stream of whore-ramble in your general direction. Contrast this with an average night in downtown Austin: $0 to get into the bar, an average of $2.50 per drink, $0 to watch scantily clad women rub up against each other on the dance floor, $3 per ATM fee, $0 to cleverly propose drunk sex to the first girl who strikes your fancy + an extra $2.50 per drink per girl who seems into this, for a total average downtown cost of somewhere in the neighborhood of $22.50. In return, you get in the worst case approximately the same amount of fun, combined with the possibility of drunk sex with a relatively STD-free pool of women, as well as being allowed to keep the vast majority of your dignity, which otherwise would be sitting in the cash register of your local strip club.

Strip clubs are the blackjack of the bar scene - everyone thinks it's fun, but in the end, everyone loses. Don't believe me? Then I propose the following challenge. We each take no more than $25 out with us. On the first night, we can go to a strip club, and see how much fun we have, and whether or not you get laid. On the second night, we can go downtown, see how much fun we have, and whether or not I get laid. If you want to take me up on this challenge, by all means, email me on this.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

David Runs Game on a Shrink

A couple of days ago, I was out drinking with a friend of mine - we'll call her "Alice". She's one of my Applebees drinking buddies, we've never hooked up, and even though she's attractive and I wouldn't turn it down, I'm not going to try, either. I ran into her randomly after getting my hair cut, and we decided to go have a quick beer, which turned into getting completely shithoused at 3:00 in the afternoon. Predictable, I know.

Anyway, by 8 we had moved on to another bar, and the topic of conversation moved to relationships and sex. This is the upside to having female friends you aren't trying to sleep with - you can drink with them, consequence free, and they're (usually) completely honest with you. I turned the conversation to myself, and started bitching about not having gotten laid in the past week - otherwise known as a dry spell, in my world. Alice commiserated, being in the midst of her own dry spell of a similar length.

Being a drunk, sarcastic asshole, I found a crude way to suggest that we could solve each other's problem out in the parking lot behind the bar, referencing back to stories we had told each other about various parking lot hookup antics. Alice laughed, declined, and then tried to turn serious for a moment:

Alice: "You know, you should try not being such a smart-ass, and just be a nice guy. Women like that, and you'd probably get laid tonight."
Me: "Oh really, Cupid? Since you brought it up, when was the last time YOU went for the nice guy routine?"
Alice: "...well, I usually go for "bad boys"."
Me: "Uh-huh. Tell me again about your advice?"

QED, bitch.

Let's file that quick story under "I", for "Impending Irony".

Additionally, as we move into the "main event" of this story, let me take this moment to warn you, the discerning reader, who may harbor some lingering respect for me.

If you have a positive opinion of me, are in any way interested in dating me, or in any other way think highly enough of me that you don't want to change your opinion, then STOP READING NOW.

I'm serious. I did something that was not very nice, and if you keep reading, you're going to hear about it.

Ready? OK...

Well, my dry spell continued through the past couple of days. Yesterday morning, by which I mean yesterday afternoon, I woke up with a plan. Not a plan to get laid, mind you, just an agenda for the day. I was scheduled to meet some friends for Monday Night Football, ostensibly to watch the Cowboys, but more realistically to have a reason to make outrageous nickel-and-dime bets and just generally talk shit to each other. This was at 7:00pm, so I decided that the most reasonable course of action was to pre-drink at BJ's for a while. After a healthy, well-balanced breakfast of chips and salsa, Fanta, and leftover pasta from the night before, I headed out to the bar.

I walked in, grabbed the paper, and ordered my new favorite drink - Ketel One and grapefruit juice. This heavenly concoction, while seemingly girly and kinda gay, was introduced to me in the Belagio card room, in Las Vegas, by a couple of the resident pros who preyed on tourists at the tables. The tried that schtick with me, and realized I was a little better at cards than the average sales convention douchebags they regularly fleeced out of their hard-earned cash. At that point, we started drinking together, with that drink - Ketel One and grapefruit juice - being the drink of choice. After a day and a half straight of gambling and vodka, interspersed with some vodka and gambling, I was sold. Incidentally, my 2 day Vegas experience merits a story to itself, which I may get to writing at some point, but for now, let's just stipulate that I was hooked on this drink like it was crack.

As I started drinking and doing the crossword puzzle, I noticed a woman several seats down at the bar, drinking alone. She was about 30, had gigantic tits, and was clearly upset about something. This seemed promising, so even though it appeared that I was ignoring her to do the crossword puzzle, I was in reality just letting things simmer for a moment before I made my move.

This woman, who for reasons that will become apparent, we will henceforth refer to as "TheShrink", kept taking phone calls at the bar. She was rather loud about it, so while I wasn't trying to listen in, she wasn't being subtle. Apparently, her problems were as follows: she was depressed because she had no friends in Austin, and in fact knew no one here other than her parents, who had convinced her to move here and then ignored her. Judging by the amount of crying going on, this must have been pretty upsetting to her. This confused me, because she had clearly mastered my approach to problems - drinking alone at 2:30pm - she had not taken this approach to it's logical conclusion. Obviously, this wasn't healthy - I mean, if you're going to drink alone at 2:30pm, you probably shouldn't be so emotionally fragile that you are crying in front of strangers at a bar.

I hadn't yet even spoken to her, and I already figured this one was in the bag. When she hung up from her 3rd or 4th phone call - that I had witnessed, anyway - I leaned over to her.

Me: "Hey, I'm not trying to pry, but it looks like you need a shot."
TheShrink: "Well, maybe...."

I summoned the bartender and ordered two shots of Southern Comfort. He gave me an odd look, and while it probably had to do with me hitting on an emotionally fragile woman, I'm going to choose to believe it's because he had never seen me drink SoCo before. We did our shots - which, to the eventual detriment of his tip, the bartender forgot to chill - and she started talking to me. While I had to first resist the urge to vomit - warm liquor repulses me - I started to settle into my basic early-game strategy: Let her talk, don't make too many subtle smart-ass comments, encourage more drinking - you know, the ABCs of random hookups. While I fully intended to be nice, verbally speaking, she dropped the following bombshell on me - she had a Master's Degree in Psychology. Not only that, she stopped practicing psychology to become a nurse. This floored me, because I fail to understand how someone with a Master's Degree in Psych, and who therefore probably has some experience in counseling people, would be getting bombed in the early afternoon alone, getting teary-eyed every time a friend called her. I mean, talk about being both physically and emotionally self-destructive - it's the kind of thing I would do. With that in mind, you can understand my response.

TheShrink: *tells me she has a Master's in Psych and is a nurse*
Me: "Really? Did you get your degree from Liberty University?"
TheShrink: "Huh? No, I went to UT."

To sidebar briefly, Liberty U is a "university" headed up by Jerry Falwell (of the gay telly-tubby controversy, also the guy who damns gay people and Catholics to hell on a regular basis), which I can only assume is accredited due to massive bribes or lots of fellatio and sodomy. Given the hypocrisy inherent in people like Falwell, I can only assume the accreditation of that "school" is due to fellatio and sodomy.

Needless to say, she didn't get the joke. For a supposed recipient of a Master's degree from a real school, she wasn't very quick on the uptake. The conversation continued:

Me: "Never mind, I'm just kidding. Actually, I use psychology all the time in poker and in life."
TheShrink: "How so?"
Me: "Well, in poker I use it to induce bets and folds, and in life, to manipulate people to do what I want."

OK, if she didn't pick that one up, she wasn't a very good psychologist. Looks like she failed my StupidWhore test: If I'm being blatantly offensive, misogynistic, or just obnoxious in general, then either a)she doesn't get it, and is thus a StupidWhore, or b)does get it, and if she continues talking to me, is either a StupidWhore, thinks I'm funny, or wants to sleep with me. Note that of the possibilities in Option B, none of them are mutually exclusive. It's sort of a win-win for me, unless she leaves, but that's still sort of a win, because I wasn't expected anything when I walked in, and at least this way I won't waste 4 hours with her and not get laid.

Well, TheShrink either didn't get the fact that I was implying I was going to get her to sleep with me, or she just didn't care. Either way, this called for another round of shots, which I got her to buy, by informing her it was her turn to buy shots. Sometimes the direct approach is best, folks.

After the shots, she basically gave me my "in" to close the deal, by moving two seats closer, so that we were sitting next to each other, and by telling me her favorite show, "Lie to Me", was on that night and she couldn't wait to go watch it. At this point, she got up to use the restroom.

While she was gone, the bartender came over and told me that I had a moral dilemma on my hands. I was confused.

David: "What do you mean, moral dilemma?"
Bartender: "Well, I'm sure you could sleep with her, but she seems a little fragile"
David: "I don't understand. Where's the dilemma?"

The bartender apparently thought I was kidding, because he kind of chuckled and let it pass. I knew what he was getting at, but I didn't see the problem. TheShrink was old enough to know what men in bars are looking for, and experienced enough to know what doing shots and flirting with a random guy would lead to. Also, being a Psychologist, she had to be aware of whether or not she was going to have a problem with hooking up.

Also, I wasn't being subtle. I had earlier dropped a comment about sometimes just needing to have random sex with a stranger, to get it out of your system, to which she agreed, but said that she hadn't done that in a while.

I'm not trying to JUSTIFY myself; my point is entirely different. People get into the trouble they put themselves into. You're not going to tell me that a college-educated adult is incapable of making decisions for herself, and that anything she does, or any future regrets she may have, are all of a sudden my fault. Yes, I was well aware that if I slept with her, she wouldn't feel great about herself the next day, but it's not as if I was slipping roofies into her wine while she wasn't looking, nor was I even getting her obnoxiously drunk.

This brings up another rule of thumb of mine: If it's legal for the bartender to keep serving her, she can legally consent to sex. It isn't even close to date rape, unless she is cut off by the bartender, and even then, it's only date rape if she didn't want to go home with the guy PRIOR to getting cut off. But you're not going to convince me that someone who can be legally served by a bartender CANNOT be legally fucked. It doesn't make any sense, and is yet another example of people trying to pass their regrets and mistakes on to other people. This...policy, if you will...doesn't make me a great person, or prime dating material (sorry, ladies, but in the unlikely case any of you think I am dating material, allow me to disabuse you of that notion - I'm not), but given that I'll readily admit to both of those "offenses" means that I don't really care.

So, back to the story.

TheShrink gets back, and within 5 minutes we are making out at the bar. I use my personal favorite line of all time:

David: "Want to get out of here?"
TheShrink: "Yes. Let's go to my place."

For those of you who know what movie immortalized that line, kudos. For the ignorant philistines of movie greatness, the line comes from "Out of Sight", and is said by George Clooney to Jennifer Lopez. I don't know why I like this movie so much - but it's consistently hilarious.

As luck would have it, TheShrink lived at the same apartment complex as a coworker of mine, so my intention was to ride with her back to her place, get a few hours of sleep after a few hours of sex, and then get my friend to drop me off at home on her way to work. While that was a great plan, on paper, I failed to set my cell phone alarm after we finished hooking up. This, of course, meant that I had to wake up with TheShrink, and endure the "morning after" awkwardness that almost always ensues after what we both knew was a one night stand. I extricated myself thusly:

David: "Well, I'm sure you'd like to get your morning routine going, so I'll get out of your hair."

To TheShrink's credit, she didn't try to give me her number, ask if we were going to go out again, or get me to stay for breakfast. In spite of her other flaws, she knew a one night stand when she saw one.

Ultimately, then, my dry spell ended last night, so mission accomplished. But you know what? I think a random hook up is exactly what TheShrink needed, too. Despite her obvious emotional fragility at the bar, she seemed to move past most of that bullshit as soon as it became obvious we were going home together. I'm just going to conclude that she knew exactly what was going to make her feel better, and then went and did it. Kudos. In related news, apparently, sometimes my actions DO help others, after all.

Oh, and if I have to explain it, the irony in this is that two days after being advised that I could easily end my dry spell if I tried to be "the nice guy", I ended my dry spell by doing my usual. I love being right.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Why the South Lost the Civil War

This is not about history. You can wake up now. With that said, you can look at five main points that absolutely and without a doubt tell us the story of why the South lost the Civil War.

1)The Jerry Springer Show

OK, who here has watched Springer? Yeah, we all have. Now, think a little deeper, and tell me how many of the worthless idiots on Springer were from the South?

The answer, of course, is 100% of the white people, and most of the black people. If a certain region of the country has that many idiots today, when there is free public education, readily available government services, and no reasonable possibility of starving to death, then just exactly how many idiots do you imagine that same region of the country had 145 years ago?

Enough said on this point. My argument wins.

2)Southern accents.

Let's be honest, we generally judge how intelligent people are by how they speak. I know I do, anyway, and since this is my blog, my opinion is what counts. With that said, have you ever HEARD a Southern accent? These people sound STUPID! The average Southern drawl is roughly equivalent to taking a cheese grater to my brain.

Let's recap some of the Southern lingo:

-Com-poo-ter. Yeah, like your dumbass knows what this thing does. In fact, I'm not even worried about getting my ass kicked over this, because if what I'm saying offends you, you can't even figure out how to get here anyway. This is sort of like a self-authorizing cipher - if you can figure out how to read this, you win. If you can't, it's irrelevant.
-Nuculer. Most recently popularized by Dubya, but unfortantely a very commonly used "word". This shouldn't be shocking to anyone, but I can't think of one Southerner who contributed to the Manhatten Project.
-Fixin' to. What the FUCK does this mean? You can fix your car, but you can't fix your dumbass vocabulary, can you?

Additionally, while we are talking about Southern lingo, why do Southerners seem to have such a disdain for things they don't understand? For example, part of my job involves working with computers (com-poo-ters), and customers who are buying computers. On any given day, invariably, some idiot Southerner will come up to me, announce loudly that they don't know anything about com-poo-ters, but that they just want something that will get them on the "Innurnet" and that will let them do some "werd processin'". Really, fool? Really?

Which reminds me of this idiot I talked to the other day. Y'see, she was upset because the "Innurnet" didn't come installed on her "com-poo-ter" when she bought it. Yeah, and unfortunately her delivery room didn't come equipped with coat hangers, as a last ditch measure for preserving intellectual adequacy.

3)The fact that hunting, fishing, and NASCAR are sports in South.

Let me get this straight. Your ass is so stupid, that you think stalking deer with a shotgun is a sport? You're a fucking idiot. If you do it with a knife, I'll give you some respect. But let's recap here: You, armed with a shotgun, vs. a deer. Some sport, asshole. I'm not a fucking liberal, either. I don't care about the deer. But all you are doing is playing Duck Hunter in real life. Exciting, it is not.

Now for fishing. I like to eat fish as much as the next person, and I would never disparage fishermen. No, I'm talking about the idiots who go on vacation for the express purpose of sitting in the middle of a lake, drinking beer, with a fishing pole. I'm not saying this isn't relaxing, but how lazy is your dumbass that you consider this a sport?

And finally, NASCAR. If you think watching people drive in circles for 3 hours straight is a sport, then you should just kill yourself. The only cool part about NASCAR is when there's a crash, and the only reason that's cool is that there is the possibility for one less Southerner in the world.


If you think about it, the South is easily the most religious area of the US. What's the problem with this, you ask? Well, if you're not from the South, you already know the answer. For those of my readers who are from the South - not that you are still reading - allow me to explain.

The whole purpose of religion - or at least a good chunk of it - is to turn you into a mindless automaton, incapable of independent thought.

What's my point, you ask?

Well, this IS a blog about why the South lost the Civil War, after all. I will happily trash religion in future posts, but for now, let's just stipulate that "automoton incapable of thought" = "incapable of winning Civil War".

5)Home Schooling

If there is one thing I hate more than government regulations, it is home schooling. This is the most fucking retarding institution, ever. Home schooling is more retarded than doing smack. Yes, it's true that I'm not a fan of government-run public education, nor am I a fan of privately-run religious education. But home schooling is the worst of all them. Think about it - the reason you homeschool your child is one of the following: 1)You are a religious nutter. See the above point. I win. 2)You live too far away from public school. If this is the case, I win, because everyone knows that recluses like you are anti-social idiots who send anthrax to Congressmen. 3)You don't think public education provides a solid academic foundation, and you can't afford a private school. You have a decent point here, except for this minor fact: Unless you are in the top 1% of the population - strike that, we're talking about the South, so the top .1% of the population - your dumbass is even more unqualified than the unionized football coach doubling as the math teacher. I still win.

Let's recap. The South lost the Civil War because today, Southerners are exclusively featured on the Jerry Springer Show, have stupid sounding accents and shun teknoligy they don't understand, engage in stupid ass "sports", embrace religion, and home school their children. And if you are this stupid today, how stupid were you in 1861?


Martial Arts Kids Are a Bucketfull of Fail

You know what really bugs me? People who don't change clothes after their martial arts class, and go out in public trying to look like Bruce Lee.

Now let me back up for a second. I took various martial arts for years. I have no problem with that. But think back to the last person you saw out in public after their Karate class. Got the picture?

Odds are, your mental image involves an ugly 14 year old fat ass kid wearing a black belt. First of all, is that supposed to intimidate anyone? A 14 year old with a black belt is about as scary as a pothead talking philosophy. Like, man, as Sartre said, dude, that's just not very, y'know, frightening. The kid probably got the black belt in the first place by blowing his instructor - or at least, by paying him $1200 per year for 3 years, which amounts to about the same thing considering the bullshit he is learning.

Speaking of what actually gets taught in your average martial arts class, chances are good that this 14 year old is taking his martial arts class because he gets picked on at school. I've been in the types of martial arts classes that this kid is taking, and I can tell you from experience that the only thing you learn is a sure-fire way to get your ass kicked and laughed at, at the same time. A bunch of fancy hand waving and pussy-ass slap kicks aren't gonna stop Billy from pounding you at the bus stop.

Actually, these classes do teach one useful skill, and that's how to fall down. I recommend practicing this technique a lot.

Martial arts instructors must have it pretty good. Most of them are glorified dance instructors who get fellated by a bunch of loser kids on a nightly basis, in the form of taking hundreds of dollars per month, teaching Matrix-level philosophy, and forcing everyone to call them Master Wang.

Does it get any better than that?

Actually it does. I can't imagine anything more satisfying than being the bully kicking the shit out of the martial-arts student/dancer/dipshit for wearing his stupid looking uniform out in public.

But I've got some real advice for the kid who takes Tae Kwon Do in a futile effort to stop getting beaten up at school - stop being a know it all douchebag, douchebag! You're parents were wrong - they aren't picking on you because they're jealous, they're picking on you because a)you're an easy target, and b)you deserve it. Stop acting like you deserve an ass-kicking, and you'll stop getting one. Don't flush money down the toilet at your local McDojo and then go out in public looking like Douche McBaggerson.

And for those of you who are already thinking it - YES, I AM a know it all doucebag. That's why I mock people smaller and weaker than me, and sleep with women who have less self-respect than I do. Assholes.