Enough is Enough Ladies
Ok, after years and years of trying to be nice and courteous to the female race. I've finally had enough and in search of a long term relationship. Here's what I want.
1.) You have to have the following, Car, Job, and of at least graduated high school. If your a dropout, then please do us a favor, kill yourself.
2.) Smoking Hot - Yes I said it, i'm not the best looking guy, but i'm sick and tired of going after less than what I deserve.
3.) Shitty personality - If you look down on others, then piss off and move on. Find a man who does not give a shit about you and uses you for what your worth, that sweet little honey pot between your legs.
4.) Indecisiveness - Any shred of "I don't know what I want" after you state that someone is everything you ever wanted, will result in a team of women known as my psychotic sisters will hunt you down and leave you wherever they find you
5.) Three Input Girls - if you are then my prayers are answered because I need something to slide something fat, long and ready to go inside of where I wanna put it.
6.) No emotional friends - I've put people in jail and in the ground for this one. You have been warned.
7.) Dedication- you will be with me or report to me on your whereabouts when I ask, and sleep in my bed at all times. You don't need to go on vacations by yourself nor do you feel the need for girl nights outs .
8.) Availability- You should go to work no more than half an hour before you shift starts and you must return home in a timely manner after your shift ends. If you would like to go out with your work "friends" you will go out with me and your "work" friends
9.) Self-Control - I really dislike a woman who tries to show her ass offin public, especially one who goes to night clubs and grinds her ass on every dick in the place. This pisses me off greatly.
10.) Lead on's - If you lead me on, instead of attempting to make a commitment toward a relationship will only lead yourself into getting the biggest dosage of karma you ever received.
11.) Ex'es - If you still have a running contact with a ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, ex-lover or ex-fling. Then I will not tolerate that. I have friends in U.S., U.K., CIA, DEA, FBI, NSA, SIS, GSG-9 (I get around).
And if I have the slightest doubt, you know that feeling that your being followed? You are.
Me, workaholic, running a successful business, and highly family oriented that doesn't give a shit, or takes any shit. Must have a preference for big men who are more muscular than fat.
I look forward to talking with all of you women out there and hopefully one of you can be my potential soulmate and make beautiful babies.
I acquired my first girlfriend sometime during the tenth grade, an attractive and kittenish girl named Tracy with a puzzling affinity for both Jesus Christ and mini-skirts. Fond of histrionics and obsessed with her cat, she wasn't exactly the type of girl I was usually interested in. But I was 16 at the time, she was pretty, and my testicles churned out far more sperm than they could handle, much like those comical pastry factories in sitcoms where a conveyor belt of pies ultimately overwhelms its workers, leaving the floor covered in a slick, frothy cream. Only in my case, it was either a gym sock or my bedsheets, which often achieved a level of unpleasant crustiness one might expect from a cut-rate pizza.
Aloof and shy in the beginning, it took me several weeks to figure out she actually had a romantic interest in me. She would call frequently, slinging loaded questions which I initially dismissed as casual conversation. "If I took you out to dinner, what kind of tasty surprise do you think I'd get for dessert?" she'd coo in a sultry voice dripping with sexual innuendo. "Um, probably carrot cake," I'd reply naively, an inexperienced yet fluid sexual matador deftly sidestepping her raging bull of a vagina. You could practically hear her eyes rolling over the telephone.
I hadn't quite taken to her until she approached me at a keg party one evening, her eyes glassy and her breath reeking of boxed wine. "I want to show you something that will blow your mind." Familiar with her tendency to exaggerate, I reluctantly followed her to the bathroom, fully expecting her to "blow my mind" with a Victorian pillow catalog or yet another photo montage of her unfortunate cat dressed up as a coal miner or carefree surfer.
Rather, she shoved me against the sink and began furiously unbuckling my belt. Apparently carrot cake was off the menu, but I didn't protest.
Suddenly, I had a new girlfriend.
Prior to Tracy, I had clung to girls like a nursing koala, my hands tightly clutching at their arms in a desperate attempt to prevent them from straying towards boys with a spine or a car worth more than a postage stamp. But with Tracy, our roles reversed. She hovered over me like a mid-day shadow, a prim and proper fish awkwardly trying to swim in the pond scum of my social circle. With Tracy I never experienced the desperate neediness I had felt with so many other girls. In turn, I realized the dearth of my own hollow desperation exponentially increased her interest in pursuing me.
Tracy was initially attracted to my sense of humor and my wholly fictitious role as a rebellious outcast, but once we started dating she insisted on an increasing level of interactivity with her popular friends, a detestable collection of monied athletic boys with names like Bradford and Parsnips. Sitting in their fancy homes drinking their fancy beers, I longed to sit in a public park with my own friends, siphoning a flat keg of swill into our stomach lining as we exchanged blatant lies about the unconquered vaginas that had repeatedly eluded us like frightened squirrels.
She began to aggressively shoosh my efforts at the off-color humor she once so professed to love, preferring politically correct conversations at dinner with her parents, where we might "enjoy" upscale yet unfulfilling dishes such as twice-baked chicken ears or bristled duck knees in a telephone sauce. "That's not proper," she would say as I initiated another expletive-laden line of questionable humor targeting someone else's unfortunate injury or untimely death. A month prior, she would have found it an absolute scream.
My lack of financial resources annoyed her to no end, not comprehending I was one of those kids forced to toil at a job rather than simply exposing my bare palm to a love-starved parent. She wanted me to take her to the type of restaurants that served meals with multiple forks, despite the fact that I had just lightly sprinkled 17 copper coins into the grimy hand of a gas station attendant in order to pacify my gas tank. If I was to use a second fork for anything, I'd use it to stab holes of financial reality into her delusional dining fantasies. To me, "upscale" meant tartar sauce on my french fries.
If things didn't go her way in our developing card-game of a relationship, she always played the Queen of Tears, a masters move of female manipulation for which, at the time, I had absolutely no defense. The moisture welling up on her cheeks, I would jump off a cliff or rob a bank if I only knew it would make her stop. "Push that elderly woman in front of a bus," she might say as tears trickled down her face. "What route?" I'd reply. She knew my weakness and plucked it as she would the wings off a defenseless fly.
After a few months I began to entertain a previously unfathomable thought; maybe I should consider ending the relationship. It was a shocking revelation I could barely qualify in my own mind. Here I was a meek and shy teenager interminably desperate for the affection of girls, and now I was contemplating biting the hand that fed me. I was a starving Ethiopian, about to throw away my only morsel of food.
Her parents left town one weekend and I reluctantly agreed to shack up with her. We had engaged in a particularly vicious fight the previous evening over the misconduct of my peer group, and the next morning I awoke resenting our relationship. It wasn't her fault; I wasn't a rat she had cornered and beaten with a stick. Rather, I was a rat willingly residing in her cage and tired of performing tricks for cheese.
As I stared at the ceiling, Tracy rolled over in an effort to cuddle with me. Perhaps she was asleep or perhaps she had contorted herself in just the right manner, but nevertheless I heard a abrupt noise emanate from behind her as if someone had just drop-kicked a small goat. The sound was unmistakable; she had farted.
Previously I had lived in a delusional world where women didn't have this issue, and even if they did it sprung from their bodies in the form of festive, shimmering maypole ribbons that might smell like fresh pie. This was not the case as evidenced by the reaction of her cat, who immediately contracted his ears, stood up, and exited the room as if late for a pharmaceutical conference.
Tracy's eyes shot open and met mine, and all I could do was explode into laughter. I had never heard a girl fart before, and haven't heard it since. She was mortified. "It's not funny," she said, "I don't feel good." It was funny and she knew it. She started laughing for a moment, but then began to pretend like she was crying over her laughter in an attempt to toss a little guilt my way.
It was a brilliant show, her puppy sobs countered with her crocodile tears. After about ten minutes and some considerable effort, she was finally able to muster a tear, but I was nonplussed. No one cries because of a fart, and from that point forward I accepted her tears for what they were worth; a tired effort to further manipulate my behavior.
We broke up soon after, and the last I heard she started dating a boy much worse than I. He had a criminal record, a bad attitude and a drug habit. In effect, just three small steps away from Mahatma Gandhi, but nothing a nice bag of chicken ears couldn't cure.
My relationship with Tracy was my first foray into understanding the concept of control in a relationship, my first grand adventure in analyzing the subtle behaviors we use to elicit the desired behaviors out of our mates.
Sure, women may use a little sex or emotion to wrest control in a relationship now and then, but their efforts pale in comparison to the legions of personal ads WWHM receives every week from guys like Hugh, the author of today's featured ad.
Like many men, he takes the concept of control to whole new level.
Let's critique ...
I've never personally attempted to lord over my girlfriends with the grip of an iron fist. I always figured I could find easier subjects to control; the weather, tides, or perhaps the rotation of purely theoretical planets. If I truly want to control something, I'll rent a forklift.
But sometimes we find jack-offs like Hugh, an impotent circus monkey perched upon his tiny apple cart, demanding your attention by aggressively clasping his little monkey cymbals and hurling stale clumps of digital feces in the form of an online personal ad. He wants access to that "sweet honeypot" between your legs, which might help explain why women currently find themselves stuffing their vaginas with bees. You're an asshole, Hugh; if death threats were orgasms, I'd be passing out cigarettes.
Most men can acknowledge the inherent irony of trying to control a woman; the more you try to control her behavior, the more you encourage the exact behavior you're trying to control. It's like trying to control an advancing shark by threatening it with a sack full of plump, delicious kittens; you think you're gaining control of the situation, but in reality you're only making it worse. Hugh, however, is one of those guys who at least acknowledges up front his desire to rule over his sexual partner with an iron fist. Ironic, considering his main sexual partner will be the exact iron fist with which he plans to rule.
Hugh complains he spent the past few years perfecting the "nice and courteous" approach in an attempt to attract a woman. During his unsuccessful campaign for a girlfriend, I'm sure Hugh would assure us he was always on his best behavior; he only boiled their pets in bottled water, he used wholly biodegradable explosives to detonate their cars, and he even showed his softer side by folding their restraining orders into a variety of thoughtful, decorative origami swans.
Yet strangely, Hugh found himself running into the same excuses every time he asked for a second date. "I'm doing my hair," or "I'm having dinner with my parents" or "I'm tied to a brick at the bottom of a remote lake." Hugh might know a lot of guys in the CIA, but looking at his personal ad I'm pretty sure this online assassination of his penis was an inside job. Hopefully he has room to maneuver a one-inch coffin inside his toughypants.
Failing at the nice approach, our resident lardass wants to put his foot down, and it sounds like it's going to end up on your neck. Hugh demands, of all things, a woman who "doesn't look down on others", a woman who has no contact with any men or emotional friends, and most importantly, he wants a hot "three input girl" so he can slide something "fat and long" into any hole he wants. So apparently, Hugh plans to pull his head out of his own ass and shove it into yours.
Let's face the facts about controlling assclowns: No matter what you do, you will never appease them.
You may have been a virgin when you met, but as you soon as you start dating a controlling guy, he'll convince himself you're a common strumpet, fucking every co-worker, bartender, barge-operator and gay hairdresser you come into contact with. The minute he loses sight of you, he thinks your vagina swings open like a Price Is Right prize door, revealing a red carpet and a rotating spotlight to illuminate the clouds, enticing all available men inside with flashy fliers promising free toasters and a 20 oz. fountain drink.
You could install a Lo-Jack on your clit, a Viper alarm in your fallopian tubes, and allow him move into your uterus with nothing but a periscope, a breathing straw and a cellphone, and he'd still spend his entire day suckling your ovaries, sending email death threats to your vibrator, and hiring hitmen to pump bullets into your dildos.
And despite all this, he still wouldn't trust you.
And to think, this guy wants your hand in marriage.
Funny, I've never been to a wedding where the bride wears cement shoes and a wedding ring on her toe with a tag attached for her name, address and date of expiration.
Edit From WWHM:
This post originally contained a third anecdote which I initially thought somewhat related to my post. After getting relentlessly and completely blasted by people in my personal life (and I hear I'm currently getting blasted in the comments as well) for posting it, I realized I stray way too far from the purpose of WWHM sometimes.
If I want to keep a fucking dear diary, I need to visit the Barbie section of my local Target and buy myself a nice little ruffled number with a fucking duck on it.
I guess my original intention was just to show I'm not perfect and we all get what's due us. Unfortunately it wasn't funny and that's what you guys are here for, not my pathetic hypothesizing about shit. From now on, I'll leave the personal shit out of WWHM, and stick to the meat and potatoes of why you're here. Bad personal ads. Comedy. Or at least an attempt at comedy.
Originally I had owned up to cheating and getting cheated on, and invited readers to share their stories of catching their significant others cheating, so that's what you'll read in the comments aside from the apparent bashing of myself.
I'll leave it where I left off ....
In the comments today, we'd like you to follow suit and tell us exactly how you found out about a cheating partner. Feel free to include the nasty details.
Let 'er rip!