I have two cats.
Plus, I’m single, every so slightly chubby, over 50, and living with two cats (I think I already mentioned that), so I guess I’m that stereotype people are always talking about, which is bullshit.
Jackson Galaxy is the fuckin’ weird cat lady, not me.
I’ve never been a parent (or apparent… snicker, snort) but I do consider my two cats my babies.
You can have great affection for your pets and not be weird, okay? I think it’s weird not to have great affection for them. After all, they love you unconditionally. Dogs… dogs love you unconditionally, cats do not. Cats love you because you feed them and they can take advantage of you. You’ll never gain the respect of a cat because of this.
They can turn on the cute when needed and they’ll let you adore them but you have to earn it and once you do, it’s only temporary because then they’ll shun you like yesterday’s breakfast; they’re hard to get, which is why they’re called pussy… cat, pussycat. Or just pussy. You fellas know what I’m talking about.
I think it’s normal to love one pet more than the other one too, don’t you think? To all you parents out there, you know you love one more than the others. Yeah you do, and if you’re denying it, you’re lying. Don’t worry, it’s natural to feel that way. One of your kids will always have something about them that annoys the fuck out of you because it reminds you of a character trait you have that you don’t like about yourself, so just admit it. The sooner you accept the fact that you have something about you that’s disgusting and not easy to like, the easier your life becomes, trust me.
For instance, the girl kitty… she’s adorable! She’s so pretty, with beautiful green eyes and super soft fur, but she’s a bit chubby. Okay, fat. She’s got that flappy-flap thingy on her belly that waddles when she gallops and it’s kinda gross. Plus, she’s always hungry and crying for more food which is really annoying to me. I’m always hungry and can eat with an astounding amount of gusto so that’s probably why I get annoyed. I don’t have the flappy-flap thingy though, although I can’t say other things don’t waddle when I run.
I don’t run.
Oh sure… when babies smear food all over their faces, eat with dirty fingers and lick the plate clean, it’s considered adorable, but when I do it, I’m considered some sort of a pig… that’s bullshit.
Anyway, the boy kitty is my favorite because he knows how to manipulate the fuck out of me and I guess I just respond to that more. Not that I would put up with that shit from an actual man. I… well I have in the past, but that’s history, I’m a much stronger person today, so now I can look manipulation right in the eye and say “Um, okay but only for a moment”
When the boy kitty comes sauntering in, I immediately shove the girl kitty out of the way with my foot so I can pick him up and give him lots of gentle strokes and kisses and he starts purring right away, which is how a pussy responds if you know what you’re doing. Most of you don’t know this because if you did, you’d be absolutely drowning in pussy.
Am I right, Tomcats?
I was at an appointment the other day and went to use the bathroom, and I noticed the tampon dispensary was broken into. You’re probably getting nervous because I’m only just into my first paragraph and have already used the word tampon, but don’t worry, that’s not the direction I’m heading… so to speak.
Anyway, they keep the bathrooms locked so vagrants can’t enter to use it for whatever vagrants use public bathrooms for (probably something outrageous like peeing and washing up) so I have to remember to get the key from the office waiting room, which is not my point. My point is… my point is… what is my point?
Oh yes… my point is, when I looked at the damage of this tampon dispensary, it exposed the coin drop inside, and I saw two dimes sitting in there, and I’m thinking to myself “It’s been a very long time someone used this machine to buy a tampon, because nowadays tampons from dispensaries cost a quarter; they haven’t cost a dime since at least when Clinton was president. Not only that, whoever was responsible for managing the coins from the tampon dispensary wasn’t doing their job properly, and whoever broke into it didn’t notice they left behind these two dimes.” and all this was occurring to me as I was reaching into the machine to take the two remaining dimes.
Well you don’t expect me to leave money lying around when I see it, do you? A dime is a dime.
And two dimes is twenty cents *snort *snicker
Whoever busted open the dispensary was probably pissed off they went to all the trouble of bending the fuck out of it, only to find dimes and not quarters. I wonder how much money they got… but the more important question is, what is the logic of locking things up in public restrooms, like toilet paper, paper towels and tampons? If you’re gonna say it’s because those goods are expensive, imagine how much it’s gonna cost to fix the busted up tampon dispenser. They probably won’t fix the tampon dispenser, come to think of it, because if they haven’t been collecting the money since the time Clinton made a mess on a nice girl’s dress, it’s probably safe to assume they don’t care.
Can you imagine how old these tampons were? They’d probably disintegrate as soon as you inserted them into your love tunnel, leaving you holding just the cardboard applicator. Yes, tampons at one point in time had cardboard applicators, not plastic, which was stupid because using one was like trying to insert a tree branch through a straw. At one point, we didn’t even have tampons, we had to use sanitary napkins, also known as pads; those big, thick things made out of what I can only assume was mattress pad stuffing.
When I first started my period, my mom promptly took me to the drug store and bought me everything I needed (forethought not being my mother’s strong point, we went the day I got it) and as we were in the feminine products aisle she was explaining to me what I needed: “We need to get you pads and a belt” so I asked her what the belt was for and she told me to hold the pad in place. Astonished, I said “A belt? Jesus Christ, how big are those things?!”
Pretty big, if you were wondering. Also, pads didn’t have the sticky strip to adhere to your underwear to keep it in place, hence requiring the belt contraption. They were much thicker, not like the thin ones we have today. Back then, having your period meant you wore a two by four between your legs while you were bleeding like the friggin’ Virgin Mary. Yeah, virgin… because if you hadn’t stuck anything up inside there, whether it be tampons, zucchini, shampoo bottle, spoon, a stuffed toy, or your neighbor’s finger, you were still a virgin.
Young people probably have difficulty imagining what they were like, since nowadays women mostly don’t even use pads, and today’s tampons are compact little bullets that fit into their equally compact vag. Don’t get too smug about it being that way though Susie Q… once you have your first set of pups, it’ll stretch out like yesterday’s yoga pants. I heard it’s supposed to snap back into place after a while, which I find hard to believe. I mean, c’mon, you can’t expect when something the size of a watermelon squeezes through something the size of a salt shaker it’s going to regain it’s original shape… right? I wouldn’t know, I actually don’t have any kids, so as you can imagine, I can easily accommodate a compact bullet.
Okay, I lied… it was the direction I was heading.
I was checking out one of my favorite designer’s Spring 2019 collection online and I know that sounds posh, but trust me, I can’t afford any of that shit, so don’t think I’m fancy, I just like to look because the clothes are amazing and a girl can dream. It takes a small fortune to be able to dress yourself in beautiful, well made clothing… so just keep that in mind next time you see me wearing whatever it is I’m wearing.
But I have to say, the clothing isn’t the only thing I have a fascination with, it’s the models walking the runway. Have you seen them? Jesus Christ get these people a sandwich. I don’t understand why some people think looking like a skeleton covered in skin is attractive. Maybe they don’t, maybe they’re just weirdly fascinated.
The way models get, and maintain, their horribly thin bodies has got to be incredibly painful, and I don’t think for a second they’re “born that way” because that’s a load of crap. They may be somewhat slender before they became models, but to get that skinny, you have to resort to starvation, and that’s what I don’t understand… how can you go without yummy, delicious food? F-O-O-D! Think of one of your favorite things to eat. Okay, now imagine not being able to ever eat it again. Go ahead, I’ll wait…
I know, terrible right?!
I mean, c’mon… on a scale of 1 – 10, how fucking great are avocados?! Can you imagine never eating guacamole again, or having any on a salad? Okay, maybe you weren’t thinking avocados… but whatever you’re into, imagine not eating it because you need to make yourself look like asshole. Even assholes are meatier than models, and if you’ve ever tossed a salad, you’d know what I was talking about.
These people are hideous too. I guess that’s the look they’re going for these days, so if you’re a hideous skeleton, just go to one of the modeling agencies in New York and you’ll get a contract. Seriously, that’s all the qualifications you’ll need. Well I guess you’d have to know how to read too, since I’m telling you this in writing.
Anyway, I just started to scroll through the photos and this pale, gaunt model with stringy hair and dark circles under her eyes popped up on the screen and I peed a little. Maybe I get scared easily, I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want to run into this poltergeist in a dark alley, let me tell you that. Although, I could probably take her down with one swift swipe upside the head with a Vogue magazine, but still. I couldn’t believe how awful she looked and it didn’t get any better. Each consecutive model was equally frightening, and the guys were no better either.
Actually, I can’t say all models are grotesquely skinny because the big thing with fashion nowadays is “inclusion”. The fashion world is including plus size models now, which is kind of a bitter pill to swallow because I wanted to be a fashion model as a teen (what young girl didn’t?) but I was what you called “big-boned”… fat, essentially. They didn’t have inclusion back then, you had to be skinny or you didn’t get work. But not skinny like today’s standards, which begs the question: Which is more hideous, the malnourished models or the designers that force them to be that way?
I guess this whole inclusion thing is a move in the right direction… but at the end of the day, what’s missing is beauty.
You ever go to those foot massage places? You know the ones where they do the massage while your feet soak in a tub of bleach? I can hardly blame them for doing that by the way, who wants to touch someone’s disgusting feet without bleaching the hell out of ‘em first? I don’t wanna touch someone’s feet, period.
I’m not sure I wanna touch someone’s body unless it’s been bleached first.
Well my friend and I went the other day and… what? Yes, of course I have friends… what a stupid question to ask! Anyway, we went to one of those massage places on the boulevard because we needed some stress reduction, and since both of us are currently single, and not the types to pick up strange men in bars, this was our next best option. Actually, I shouldn’t say that; I really can’t vouch for my friend not being a slutty whore, I’m only assuming she isn’t. There is something about the way she dresses that screams “whore” though, now that I think about it.
Anyway I have mixed feelings about these places; on the one hand, you can’t beat the price, it’s the cheapest thrill in town (it’s the only thrill in town), but on the other hand, you have to tolerate the slightly annoying language barrier; I can’t understand a word anyone says. I try. I try to understand what they’re saying by using my best deciphering skills, but I only understand about 15%… maybe. When I called to make our appointment the owner answered the phone and I had to ask her several times to repeat herself. It was kinda my fault because I went too far; I asked for something specific, when really all I should’ve done was just state what time we wanted our massages. Instead, I asked for a female masseuse since I prefer being touched by a woman over a man.
Hmm, does that sound right?
It’s just that the men I’ve had in the past do it too hard.
Anyway, when she responded, I had to ask her to repeat herself, but I still couldn’t understand her, so I asked her to say it again and she did, but nope… nothing. So then I just pretended to understand her by responding with a “sure”, not being sure at all because I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
Have you ever done that? Pretended to understand what someone was saying, just so you could slowly back yourself out of the awkwardness of the situation? Well that’s what I attempted to do, but noooo… she wouldn’t let me off the hook, the pushy broad. She asked me if I understood what she had just said, and the only reason I understood that part, was because she only used two words: you understand? No, I’m not asking you if you understand, those were the two words she used that I understood. Understand?
Anyway, I gave up and admitted that no, I could not understand her, and then she got really aggressive with me. Yeah, it was amazing! In her irritation and broken English, I got the sense she could bust some serious balls. You don’t have to speak a foreign language to know when someone’s a ball breaker! Admittedly, I got a little scared. I don’t know why, it’s not like I have balls or anything.
When we arrived, all the masseuseseses… ahem, practitioners… were busy, so guess who ended up being my masseuse? Yep, The ball-breaker. She was really nice to me though, which totally threw me off, because when someone’s really nice just after being really irritated, they come off a little crazy, know what I mean? I kept waiting for her to challenge me to a sword fight, which is something I certainly wouldn’t be prepared for, she probably has a huge sword!
I told her I like it really soft… you know, the massage… so when she first started to do it, it felt great, but then out of nowhere, she started digging her fingers deep into my flesh, twisting and turning, so I said “Whoa, Siamese Samurai, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” She leaned into my face, flexed her bicep and touched her muscle, then muttered something about being too strong to do soft massage. At least, that’s what I thought she said. So I told the bone-crusher I needed to have another masseuse because I wouldn’t be able to walk out of there alive if she kept at it. Since no women were available, I ended up getting a male masseuse, and you know what? He was really good. He didn’t do it too hard and he didn’t smell, so I dunno, maybe I need to rethink that whole woman thing.
I live in the suburbs in a place called… well, never mind what it’s called… it’s your typical suburb: bedroom community, family orientated, no culture, nothing exciting to do and everything closes at 9pm. The good thing about it is there’s always plenty of parking and you can run red lights with impunity. We’re a small town that used to be much smaller before all these idiots from other places discovered it, so now we’re a small town crammed with people who have small minds, so it’s boring.
It’s so boring, when something new happens, the whole town buzzes with excitement. I’ll give you an example: The guys and gals from the Recs and Parks built a new park down the street from me. It has a skate park, so it’s a park within a park, if you will. People like moms, dads and the little bastards they gave birth to, have been flocking there ever since it opened, because… what the fuck else is there to do in the suburbs except grab a friggin’ Starbucks latte and take your kid to the new park? Preceding the actual park is a parking lot where everybody parks their cars instead of getting out and walking, which is silly because the whole idea of a neighborhood park is to get people outside.
I used the word park so many times in that paragraph, it probably defies proper grammar, and if people in this town knew about it, it’d probably make their panties wet… that’s how desperate they are for some excitement!
Now this park sits directly across the street from a middle school, and to me, nothing says “Bring on the pedophiles!” more than a park with a parking lot sitting across the street from a middle school, am I right?
We also have our own local rag which covers all the goings on around town, too. What the heck do you write about in a town where the biggest news of the week is a park opening and everyone’s asleep by ten? Well for instance, they have a weekly crime blotter that informs the community of all the horrible crimes that took place for the week, which reads something like: 6pm Wednesday, a car was broken into on First Ave. Sunday, 12 noon, a man was arrested for disorderly conduct, etc., etc.
One edition had an article on how to bake banana bread, that was exciting. The tagline read: “This one will be sure to turn around banana haters” which was such a coincidence because I had been thinking about all those banana haters and how to turn them around too! Why would you want to try to turn a banana hater around anyway, and why would you try to do it with something as benign as banana bread, and not something like, say, a banana daiquiri? Does it really bother you that much that there are people out there who hate bananas? I mean, have you seen the internet? People are hating a lot worse things than bananas.
I happen to love bananas. Think about it: The banana is one of those few foods you can take anywhere because it’s encased in its own packaging. Plus it’s packed with vitamins, doesn’t have a lot of calories, and it’s one of those fruits that when you watch someone eating one, it makes you think sexy thoughts.
BANANA HATERS: DO NOT EMAIL ME
Listen, if you want excitement, don’t move here. Every day I have to go out of my way to do something thrilling to get my heart racing, just so I know I’m still alive and have a pulse… usually involving bananas.
You know that saying “The definition of madness is continually going to the hardware store to buy bread and expecting different results each time.”? Well, that’s a pretty good analogy for my online dating experience, but try this one on for size:
“The definition of madness is continually going to an online dating site looking for a hammer amongst the many loaves of bread, and getting disappointed because I expected different results.”
Okay, maybe it needs a little tweaking.
I know, I know… I said I wouldn’t participate in online dating anymore, but… oops, I did it again. What can I say? I lost all sensibility, which is what happens when my squish-mitten does the talking and not my hard hat. It’s not just men who lose their brains to their genitals, apparently.
I’ve only done this inane activity a handful of times since, well, since the inception of the online dating nonsense, and those were only during short spurts of single-hood. I could only tolerate it for a few weeks, then I would give up and just try to catch a man the usual way: with promises of wild nights in bed and some really great dinners, the whole time really only intending on keeping one of those promises (I’ll let you guess which one).
Now, the bread has gone stale.
I’ve never had a problem getting guys in my entire life (easy to believe with my sparkling personality, I know) but now, I’m in the Sahara desert of the dating world, and I can only attribute it to my age, because everything else about me is totally bitchen. Well okay, there is that one section in the middle… but everything else rocks! Once I entered my fifties, that’s it I guess, I’m no longer desirable. Put me out to pasture, I’m a fucking old cow.
Hang on, I need to sneeze… ah moo!
Excuse me. Okay, where was I? Oh yes, ageism; men want younger women, even those old fuckers who are like, 80! Those are the ones who want me, by the way. To them, I’m a spring chicken.
Wait, gotta sneeze again… buk buk buk buk, bukaw!
Excuse me, wow… I must have allergies.
There’s something to be said about the old fashioned way of match-making, where the gentleman was introduced to the lady by relatives or friends. It made sense because these people knew each of the potential love birds, and there was good, solid structure and social expectations, so men behaved themselves. They had to have a certain reputation, good manners and a stable position in society. They would visit with the lady, chaperoned, of course, and during courtship, the two would take the time to get to know one another. They didn’t take too long though, people couldn’t mess around back then because life expectancy was much shorter, so you had to strike while the mitten was hot, so to speak.
*whispering* Just between you ‘n me… my mitten’s pretty hot.
I have lots of things going for me. I haven’t had any kids, so everything’s all tucked up inside nice and tight still. Maybe gravity has had a few visits elsewhere, but I’m no grandma. Plus, I know how to cook up a good, steamy loaf, if you know what I mean!
Hmm, does that sound right?
What I’m trying to say is, if the guy doesn’t have high expectations, he could have a pretty good time. You know what? This would be perfect information to put on my profile. I mean, if I’m gonna do this, I gotta go big or go home… up the ante… compete like a winner, am I right?!
*singing* “Old MacDonald Had a Farm, E-I-E-I-O, and on this farm he had a…. a… a… cow… E-I-E-I-O”
I was on Twitter this morning when I noticed someone’s tweet about manners. This person said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “People should hold themselves to a certain standard, courtesy boils down to having good manners, and just because someone else is acting like a douche, it’s no reason for you to do the same.”
I’d like to address this, and I would venture to say you’re not surprised in least.
Firstly, I’d like to address this guy’s use of the word “douche”, because it means “shower” in French, and I’ve never understood why people think it’s a good word to call someone they’re aggravated with. It’s like screaming “You’re a shower!” at them.
It’s a derivative of the term “douche bag”, which loosely refers to a particular feminine product; one that essentially showers the inside of your banana basket in order to clean it, which is ludicrous it’s even considered something that should be cleaned to begin with when men are constantly trying to get inside of it. And just because there’s an opening down there, doesn’t mean all sorts of things are supposed to go up it. Anyway, the word is now a widely accepted form of insult.
As a young girl, I remember wandering down the feminine products aisle at the supermarket and seeing douches on the shelves, wondering why the hell women needed to do that to themselves (*spoiler alert: they don’t). These were just thoroughly misguided products marketed to women to make them feel badly about their pink panthers, like they’re dirty things that must be constantly “clean”. I’m pretty certain that word was never intended to be culturally hijacked by the lesser gender to be used as a slur towards others, but here we are.
It quickly turned into mockery and used to shame or insult, but why did some dude decide that the word douche (or douche bag, for that matter) would be the best way to cut another dude down? Bitch is another word that comes to mind, but that’s for another day. Right now, I’m focused on the goddamn shower.
When you use that word to insult another guy, it is essentially insulting women, so you’re affecting both genders. Oh, by the way, last time I checked, there were still only two genders, everything else is just stuff confused people made up. Listen, I get it if you’re a woman and you want to become a man, because let’s face it, it’s still a man’s world (just ask those two shower bags Brett Kavanaugh and Donald Trump), but if you’re a man, why on earth you would want to make your life more difficult by becoming a woman?
Secondly, this guy is preaching about having manners and holding oneself to a higher standard, but negates that very proclamation by name calling… with a misnomer on top of it. That shows a lack of manners, amongst other things, like proper education and hypocrisy, am I right? Wait, the doorbell is ringing. In other words, don’t answer that because I don’t give a ding dong whether you agree or not.
*snicker… Get it? Doorbell… don’t answer… ding dong? *snicker *snort
It’s been a while, but the way I remember it, people showing manners meant doing such things as holding the door open for someone, introducing yourself and shaking hands with the person you’re meeting, or using formal language as a sign of respect. Now having manners means you name call in a tweet rather than to someone’s face… or maybe you refrain from running some jerk off the road because he cut you off, like that guy in the Camry this morning…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a shower.
I took a free yoga class this morning. Boy was that stupid.
I know yoga is supposed to be good for you, but honestly, that’s based on a lot of variables. For example, if you have a really good instructor and you’re practicing your yoga in a beautiful, peaceful location, then yeah, it’s good for you. However, if you have a crappy, annoying instructor, and you’re… let’s say, outdoors, at a fucking kid’s park, with no shade and it’s too hot, then no, it’s not good for you.
Case in point: my yoga class this morning.
Okay first of all, the instructor was from Minnesota and if you’re from Minnesota, you should never teach yoga because your accent sounds awful teaching yoga (amongst other things, like having sex and ordering food), it’s not meant to utter sentences such as “Now gently lower your body onto the mat.” It’s more suited to saying short, clipped phrases like “cheddar cheese” and “Boy, that was a lot of snow.” It’s like having the Swedish Chef from the Muppets teach the class, and frankly, I’d rather hear tires screeching. This instructor also ended her sentences on an up note, so it sounded like she was asking a question rather than making a statement, and her voice was annoyingly high and sing-songy. I kept waiting for pink heart emojis to come flying out of her mouth.
You really should prepare ahead of time how you’re gonna phrase things when you’re instructing a class also. During one particular pose, our hands reaching towards the sky, she asked us to pay attention to where our middle fingers were (is it inappropriate to burst out into laughter during yoga?) and it took all my will to keep my mouth shut, as you can imagine. You might also want to check in with your students before you begin the class to see what level they are and not expect them to turn themselves into a pretzel while you show off your chaturangas, or whatever the hell they’re called.
It’s September here in Southern California (it’s September worldwide, but never mind that) and although it’s a beautiful time of year, it can still get hot, so doing something outdoors is hit or miss. Well, it was hot today! (please imagine me saying that in an annoying, sing-songy Minnesotan accent). The sun was trying to burn a hole into my yoga pants while I was attempting a downward dog and that was the end of it for me. I added up all the reasons why I would want to stay to finish the class, which took all of a split second, and all the reasons I should leave and go have breakfast (no-brainer), so I rolled up my mat and left, with absolutely zero guilt whatsoever.
On the way out, I noticed the kid’s playground. Not in a creepy, pedophile sort of way, I mean the actual playground area, where the swings are and stuff. I noticed that most of the… the… whaddya call ‘em, the things they play on? The playground things. Have you ever noticed the playground things they design for kids always spin? Why? That got me thinking about amusement parks, because all amusement parks have rides that sp… wait, that’s it, that’s the word I was looking for… RIDES! Look, I get stumped from time to time, shoot me. Anyway, I noticed the rides they have at all these places always spin the fuck out of little kids, and personally, I don’t think that’s a good combination: kids and spinning.
Kinda like accents and yoga.
I work at a soul-sucking dead-end job solely for the purpose of making money to pay my bills and support the three most important things in my life: my two cats and my stand up comedy career. Two of those things are absolutely thriving, can guess which two? Here, I’ll give you a hint: they have sharp teeth.
Actually, stand up comedy has sharp teeth, so that’s not a very good hint.
By the way, it costs a lot of money to feed two fat fur balls. Make that three (I’m on the chubby side… and I may or may not be a little furry). Okay, I’m not furry everywhere, only in specific places.
I’m not really fat either, only very slightly chubby, so let’s get that straight. I like to eat, so what? It’s one of the few pleasures in life. Well, that, and watching people trip or fall. I don’t know why, but that just always makes me bust out laughing. Not if they’re old people and fall though, that’s not funny. Welll… yeah it is. I mean, as long as they don’t hurt themselves.
Otherwise, it’s friggin’ hilarious.
When we trip and fall, we’re in our most human moment and there’s no redemption from it. No amount of money or fame can ease the embarrassment of tripping or falling down, we look stupid doing it, and there’s no getting around it. Have you ever watched someone go down, arms flailing? Not the most graceful thing, is it? It’s slapstick comedy in its purest form. That’s how a comedic mind works anyway. You’d probably understand if you were a comedian.
Don’t tell me you’ve already thought of doing stand up comedy? You mean you’ve pictured yourself as a famous comic on the lighted stage, thrilled at your ability to make people laugh, making tons of money? Ha! My suggestion: dump an ice cold bucket of water over your head, take a good look in the mirror and call yourself a fool, then move on with your life.
In other words, don’t bother.
It’s insanity; a wacky endeavor that should be reserved only for the very special ones; ones who possess questionable mental issues, and who harbor excessive amounts of anger and frustration, which renders them the ability to take the extraordinarily shitty in life, find the humor, and make jokes out of them. We turn life’s lemons into sugarless lemonade and make you believe it tastes good. That’s our job. We have a love/hate relationship with the mundane; we yearn for a life so simple, but we make fun of it instead because we’re not destined for that kind of life.
You don’t want this life, trust me. You’ll be forced to go to open mics in the dumpiest and filthiest of bars and clubs every single night of the week to practice your routine in front of the most jaded people on the planet: other comics. They won’t laugh. The apathy will be so palpable, you’ll wonder if you’re back at your dead-end job with your co-workers instead of on stage performing. If you do get a laugh, it’ll be because you fucked up, not because you said something funny. It’ll be like tripping and falling every single day of your life. You’ll be wracked with self-loathing and self-doubt and you’ll be broke, exhausted, and undateable, because who the hell wants to date a broke, exhausted comic? You’ll have nights (many) where you question whether you should be doing it at all and you’ll…
…on second thought, go ahead.
Women generally have three sets of clothing.
We have our nice set of clothes that we wear for work or going out, we have our weekend clothes, the semi casual stuff for running errands or lazing around the house, and then, we have our secret set of clothes. These are the clothes we hide in the closet next to the tennis rackets, the free weights, and the cowboy boots we only wore one time when we went two-stepping back in the early 2000s. They’re thrown in a pile in the darkest recesses of the closet because we don’t want anybody knowing we dress like that.
They’re stained, they have holes, and they’re two sizes too big from being stretched out. They’re butt ugly, but we don’t get rid of them because we need a set of old clothes to put on when we feel like crap or have given up. You know what I’m talking about ladies… these are your “shame clothes”, the ones you don’t wanna get caught wearing in public, the ones you wear when you know you’ll be totally isolated from society, the ones you’ll put on when you’ve decided that the only redemption you’ll have is to shove your face into a pint of frozen yogurt or a bag of those disgusting Oreo’s (frankly, my refined tastes prefer something imported).
You wear these clothes when you’re fed up and don’t care. They make a statement and that statement says “I don’t give a shit about myself or the world anymore today.”
I know when I’m in that kinda mood, I make the worst fashion choices ever. I’m amazed at how horrible my perception is when in that state of mind. I’ve matched a maroon t-shirt with bright red sweatpants before… maroon and red? That’s a horrible color combination! I wouldn’t even wanna be buried in that color combination, that’s how horrible it is. Okay, I know most of you men are color blind and are having a hard time visualizing those two colors, so let me put it to you this way: wearing those two colors together, is like watching porn at your grandmother’s house.
We have secret underwear to match our secret clothes too; underwear that should’ve been thrown out months ago… no, years ago… but have not because the elastic has been nicely stretched out and no longer digs into our groins, and comfort supersedes sexy any goddamn day of the week! Every girl needs six or seven pairs of these gigantic swaths of punani fabric.
Listen, I have the sexy, lacy kind of underwear too, I’m not a librarian… I mean, barbarian! I keep those up in the attic, preserved under glass, and I go up there from time to time, wipe away the cobwebs and gaze upon them longingly.
What about the guys? Let me tell you single ladies out there: the clothes the guy is wearing will tell you exactly what they’re maturity level is. If they’re wearing clothes that look like something a tenth grader could also wear, that’s the maturity level you can expect from that guy. If he’s wearing his favorite basketball player’s shirt with baggy shorts that come down to below his knees with a pair of dirty tennis shoes, the only thing this guy will ever do on Sundays is watch sports and eat shitty food that’ll give him the bed farts. He’ll never go to the mall with you, he’ll never take you to brunch by the lake… it’s only sports and shitty fried food all day long, and the only conversation you’ll be able to have with this guy, will be in monosyllabic sentences.
You ever look at a guys shoes? Well you should, because whatever kind of shoes a guy is wearing says everything about what he stands for (no pun intended).
Some guys will wear shoes until they’re so old, they’re no longer flexible, they’ve hardened. Those guys are cheap and will never buy you anything. I used to date a guy who had a pair of Sperry Topsiders, you remember those hideous shoes from the early 90s? His were so old and worn, they just sort of hardened into a mid-stride shape, so when he took them off, they remained slightly bent. They were fossilized. When the guy dies, a thousand years from now, anthropologists are going to dig him up and display his shoes in a museum. These were his only pair of shoes by the way. Ladies, pay attention, learn from my mistake: do not ever date a guy who only has one pair of shoes…
…because he’s an asshole.