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Odd Goods, Warcraft Edition

May 19, 2010

I once had a boyfriend cancel a date with me because he wanted to go on a raid with his hoarde. “But… we planned that. And I have tickets to this show,” I said.

“But I bought a bunch of Diet Mountain Dew and Doritos,” he said. And I continued to have sex with him for at least four more months. Obviously, the men are not the only ones here who are crazy.

This is the problem with dating very smart men. The Venn diagram overlap between the very smart and the very asocial is thick, and we’re left with a pool of men who are brilliant, and yet apply that brilliance to some fucked up 12-sided-die LARPer gaming bullshit. They could be curing things. Making things. Developing new things that will change the lives of everyone in the world, close the economic disparity between sub-Saharan Africa and North America, clean up that goddamned oil spill or even get their fellow dorky brethren laid.

They don’t, though. And I don’t get it. You sit at your desk in a climate-controlled interior room (because you’re a database administrator, and you gotta keep an eye on the servers, right?), and you bitch and moan about how you have to put up with everyone else’s stupidity and bullshit and perform these totally meaningless, repetitive tasks, and then you come home, nuke a Hot Pocket, log onto your WoW server and then, you know… put up with everyone else’s stupidity and bullshit and perform some totally meaningless, repetitive tasks, and pay real American dollars for the pleasure of doing so.

There are girls who dig Warcraft. I know. But I’m pretty sure there are more dudes who pretend to be girl night elf mage wizard what-have-yous, and I hate telling you this, fellas, but you’re totally kinda somewhat unfuckable. Like, you don’t even deserve a pity fuck on this one, boys. Let’s examine:

Awesome shirt, dude. That’s sure to bag the ladies. And if it didn’t, the FIVE times you mentioned WoW will totally make the magic happen.

Awww, punkin. You’re depressing the FUCK out of me right now. Not just the whole “quiet evenings alone” thing, but only one functioning nostril? BRB gonna go cut my wrists KTHNXBAI.

Okay, actually, the Warcraft thing is the least of your worries here, hoss. I’m busy being confused as to how “Olympian” is the only word in the whole fucking profile that you spelled correctly. (And good luck on your marriage and whatnot.)

I don’t have anything to add here, except that I admire your forthright honesty. And yours, too, Dude Who’s Got All He Wants.

You are the foxiest samurai I’ve ever met, and that +1 armor shirt is completely drenching my panties right now.

And then… there’s this: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

Guys– seriously. This isn’t how you land a girl. I’m not suggesting you lie about who you are (because if there’s one place that doesn’t tolerate dishonesty, it’s the internet, amirite?), but I do suggest that you think for just a minute and ask yourself if you look like you got dressed in the dark, if your essays indicate that your life is the sort of thing that a special lady friend might want to share, if you’ve made room in your world for such a lovely creature, and if YOU would actually let you into your pants. Then make the appropriate changes.

Oh. You’re THAT Guy.

May 18, 2010

I know that we met on eHarmony, which means that I assumed that you’d been sort of pre-screened for aberrant behavior, and you assumed that we were going to get married sometime in the next fifteen minutes, but see, we were both wrong, and  we need to clear some things up before this gets any worse.

1.  There’s no need to tell me how much money you make before we even meet. I don’t need to know that. In fact, that’s one of those things that I don’t ever really want to know until it’s completely necessary. What qualifies as necessary? Filing joint tax returns. If your salary is the best thing you’ve got going for you, then we’re probably already done here.

2. Stop yelling. Really. I know (because you told me like four bajilliondy times) that you’re deaf in your right ear, but don’t punish me for it. I do not need to be deaf in my right ear as well, and now everyone in this whole restaurant knows how little sleep you just got and how much you like Farscape BECAUSE YOU JUST YELLED IT LIKE THE TOWN CRIER.

3. I do not understand why you took a picture of all the things on your coffee table and sent it to me, and then an hour later sent me a description of each one of those items. I can’t tell what they are. Your cell phone takes crappy pictures. Also, I do not give a shit, not even a little.

4. Speaking of phones, don’t touch mine. It creeped me out when you asked me via email what kind of phone I have, but I assumed it was just because you’re one of those evangelical iPhone types (who are, by the way, the only reason I don’t have an iPhone myself). But look, man, when we’re sitting at a table over drinks and you actually reach over and use your hands and pick my phone up to look at it, I’m gonna have to call it a night. I know it’s a device, but it’s MY device. It’s my solitary means of communication with the whole world and it sleeps next to me in the bed and it’s the last thing I touch at night and the first thing I touch when I wake up. Touching it is NOT okay. In fact, it’s so far past okay that I need opera glasses to see the line of where okay was. I would feel less molested of you’d petted my hair or put your finger in my nose.

5. I really appreciate your enthusiasm for a job well done, and hey, it’s swell that you’ve got a solid work ethic or whatever, but I am inclined to believe that you’re exaggerating just a wee tiny bit when you claim that everyone you work with is a shit-stabbing retard with their heads on backwards. I’m pretty sure all the glaciers aren’t going to melt if you’re not on that conference call, Mr. Self-Aggrandizement, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks you’re a big giant superhero. Okay, so maybe the glaciers are going to melt anyway, but you’re not so important as to be responsible for anything THAT vital. You’re the guy who knows everything, listens to nothing and the dude everyone makes fun of at work. Why does this matter to me? Let’s examine in #6.

6. You run roughshod over me in conversation. I thought for a minute it was because you’re half-deaf (though woefully NOT half-mute). It’s not that you can’t hear me talking, though. It’s that you like the sound of yourownself talking more. And that’s fine, because you live by yourself, which means that everyone you live with totally loves what you have to say, but me? I’m not that interested. You don’t listen. And if you don’t listen to me when I’m talking, how are you ever going to take direction and be a decent lover in bed? Do you see the correlation? See how these things are related? The more you run your mouth, the less I want to have sex with you.

7. I told you what I did for a living and then you asked where I worked. I said I’d rather not say. You took it as a challenge. I said no, look, my job is to protect the brand and I don’t want anyone to associate my own behavior with the company whose public relations and marketing I am responsible for. You pushed again and assured me you weren’t going to stalk me (which was kind of when I knew you would). I finally closed the conversation by telling you that it was Friday night and I was just done talking about work for the week. So later that night, after you’ve googled me with the frenzy of a masturbating zoo monkey, texting me at 4:00 in the morning to tell me that you figured out where I work and now have my direct line to my desk was probably NOT the wisest idea. I wasn’t challenging you to a personal information scavenger hunt. I was letting you know where my boundary was. Not respecting boundaries, however, is apparently something you’re really good at.

And finally, 8. There are a few things that are never okay with me. We like to call them “a hard no,” which means there’s no room for negotiation, they’re not up for discussion and we don’t even joke about them. These are boundaries that have got to be respected, and it’s an automatic disqualification to even look like you’re headed in that direction. Seriously, powderkeg, dude. No touchy. These things include: cruelty to animals of any kind, cuteness irrelevant; stating, either explicitly or implied, that the city of Boston is less than a fairytale Emerald City for of magic and wonderment; trying to sneak it in my ass; homophobia; fat jokes or movies about fat jokes (I’m lookin’ at you, Shallow Hal), making the hand gesture commonly known as “the shocker;” and most importantly, racism. Of any sort, against any people. Now, there is a difference (though it’s subtle, and you’re not, clearly) between making racist statements and actually examining cultural differences through economic, educational and healthcare disparities, but before we can have the conversation about GOP leader Michael Steele, I need to be satisfied in the knowledge that you’re not an idiot. So when we’re talking about teen pregnancy and dropout rates (because it affects my job) and you say, “Yeah, every Shanequah’s squeezing out baby after baby for her food stamps,” we are done here.

No, really. DONE. Seacrest OUT. There is not a context where that phrase is okay. I honestly have no idea how you even fixed your lips to make those words to me.

“Oh. You’re THAT guy,” I said, and told you to have a good night and hung up. Which was evidently your cue to text me at least once an hour for the next seven hours, all through the night, alternately making excuses, cajoling, begging and then insulting me. I responded only once, stating why I wouldn’t be spending any more time on this or on you. And to that, you sent another 15 or 20 text messages disputing the definition of the word “boorish.”

I stand by my claim. You are THAT guy. You are the loud guy, the arsy guy, the racist guy and more alarmingly, you are the stalker guy.

But you are also the single guy, and the dying-alone-by-himself guy, and the hiring-hookers guy, and for that I’m grateful.

Odd Goods, Pervert Edition

May 16, 2010

Last night I was having dinner with a friend of mine (who, bless his heart, is kind of a dating disaster himself), and I explained to him that by this age, everyone single is single for a reason, and the most common reason is that they are fucked up. Asocial, maladjusted, a little crazy, pervy, not that bright, daddy issues, mommy issues, anger issues, legal issues, what have you. “The odds are good,” I explained, “but the good are very, very odd.”

To illustrate my point, here then is a collection of just what I’m talking about.

No, I do not want to hang out in your hot tub. In fact, there are not enough American dollars to get me into a hot tub with you.

So, if the picture with the Cosby sweater and the teddy bear wasn’t enough, you scanned your driver’s license, And then told us you’re polyamorously cuddly. This is some Megan’s Law shit, son.

Thanks for giving my your number (“Ask for Carl,” you said) but I really think I would rather shoot myself in the head than let you “kiss me all over.”

Sorry about your wheelchair, dude. Thanks for telling us all that you can TOTES satisfy a lady in every possible way.

Hideous Chats, Redacted: Vol. I

May 12, 2010

Backstory: When I first moved to this city, I found this man through an online dating website. Not an online easy cheap sport fuck website, mind you. A dating website. I was shopping for boyfriends, not stunt cocks.

Turns out, I got neither. In this instance, what I got was a roundish, sallow and pale Jewish boy with a bad bend toward the nebbishy. He is originally from Savannah. He went to the University of Georgia and, by the decor in his apartment, believes that the University of Georgia is in fact the only place where one might purchase pictures for the walls of their home.

Sometime in 2007, I agreed to meet up with this young man at his apartment for what I presumed would be a get-to-know-you date and possibly (because I am not stupid) a hot makeout session. Again, I got neither.

Now, in May of 2010, he has approached me again, with apparently no memory of the event. Observe:

Redacted: hi i’m [redacted]. i must say i really loved your profile

Me: We’ve slept together.

Redacted: i dont think so. when was this?

Me: We’ve slept together, and it was really bad. So bad, in fact, that you’ve obviously purged it from your memory.

Redacted: ummm.. really? when?

Me: Oh, about three years ago.

Redacted: sure it was me?

Me: Yes. You had two of three bags of kitchen garbage propped by your front door and you had to move them to let me in or out. You had furniture made of coolers, cinder blocks and wooden boards. Your hands shook. You kissed miserably. You couldn’t stay erect long enough to keep a condom on. I still kind of feel like you owe me some money.

Redacted: why?

Me: Because I was in and out like a call girl. Because you were an ass. Because I deserve hazard pay.

Redacted: i’m sorry for the bad memory… and i’m sorry it wasn’t good

Me: Just do me the simple human kindness of leaving me the fuck alone, huh?