ring-a-ding-ding

At a mind-numbingly dull work event last week, I stood behind a table trying to imagine myself elsewhere - at the DMV, in a jazzercise class, on a date with a cat-o-nine-tails - anywhere but facing more hours upon end of standing up in heels and pretending to be genial.

So I suppose it's conceivable that my features weren't in a well-composed fake smile while a prematurely balding middle-aged prick chatted up my associate by telling her how lovely and charming her smile was. And it's conceivable that when he turned to me, that the expression on my face was rather bland. What is not conceivable is that he actually said to me, "You know, that look on your face is why you don't have a ring on your finger." And though I held my composure, I imagined a throat-punch with this kind of ring would be rather satisfying.

How bout this diamond ring, asshat?

the wanker of weinergate

I wonder how any man with the last name "Weiner" could ever imagine that taking a picture of his man parts of the same name (in slanguage, anyway) would be a good idea. Weren't there enough cruel children in his past that had turned his last name into a form of torment to put his conscious in check when he had the impulse to text his tallywacker? And not just once, but multiple times. I heard the other day that the 5th Woman of Weinergate had come forward - it sounds like an unfortunate knighted title, doesn't it?

Let's get to the (man)root of Weinergate. Men are fascinated with their junk. They want to talk about it, compare it, measure it, name it, joke about it, touch it in that infamous "rearranging" gesture. There's a host of euphemisms for it, and an incessant need to find innuendo for it in the course of completely non-sexual everyday conversation. It's an obsession to the nth degree. That's why they take pictures of it - I'm looking at you, Favre - and send it to women. Although, I can't imagine a more repulsive text.

But they think it's something that you want to see. Maybe because it's what they use to think. After all, for years, they bought cigarettes because they identified with a dick-faced camel.

Why the schlong face?

they crash economies and ruin lives

Look, I can't possibly comprehend all the ins and outs of how and why exactly the world's economy crashed back in 2008 and never recovered. But I strongly suspect boys are to blame. Were any girls ever mentioned in news articles highlighting the greed, corruption and bad decision-making that led to said crash. No. It was boys. Always boys.

Here is what I do know. In 2005, I bought a house. I now look back at that decision with derision, regret and a sense of whathefuck-was-I-thinking. But then I remember that in 2005, purchasing a house was an actual investment. Renting felt a lot like shoving a wad of bills down the commode with a ceremonious wave and flush. Buying seemed like the smart thing to do. It did not seem at all like what it actually was, i.e. adopting an albatross to take up permanent residence on my back.

Now I'm stuck with a house I couldn't sell - couldn't give away. Turned into a rental property occupied by mentally questionable family members who were, like, number 2 on the list entitled Reasons to Move the Fuck Out of Here. And the albatross is now digging his claws in super-deep with issues like outdated-everything and no-long-term-investment-potential-whatsoever and fucking-broken-air-conditioning.

So thanks a lot, corrupted, greedy and stupid boys. For fucking up the economy and killing any and all hopes for economic prosperity - no, stability - for the rest of my life. Asshats.

A boy flirting with an albatross. FFS. Why am I not surprised.

photo cred: Chantal Steyn

captain horndog, resident corndog

Every relationship I've ever (and I do mean ever) been in has eventually devolved into an endless stream of corndog innuendo. Romance and sexy (actually sexy) flirtation - so I know you're capable of it, boys - wears away over the weeks, months and years and suddenly I can't even talk about my day without an idiotically suggestive response.

Here's a tip: If, for instance, I've just confessed that my children/coworker/neighbor/asshole Walmart cashier make me want to scream, it is not a good idea to chuckle and say, "Baby, I got something to make you scream later..."

And if I say I have a tip, don't tell me you've "got a tip for me," followed by a creepers eyebrow jiggle. 'Cuz I know that's what you're thinking.

For cripe's sake, it's what you're always thinking.

Try this instead. Zip your lips, listen to what I'm saying, act like you give a damn and go jiggle something else later. Lotion's in the cabinet by the sink.

This might be the response you want,

but it is so not the response you're going to get.

photo cred: Erin Z

dear pompous-ass professor:

The enormity of your ego is eclipsed only slightly by the amount of audacity you have to continually email 7-years-gone alumni about your blog posts. It's almost sad to me that you, a published author, pander to us with your look-at-me emails every time you have a drunken thought about birds. Fucking birds. Here's a post worth sharing with everyone: we don't fucking care. We don't give a shit about your birds and your beer and your close encounters with b-list celebrities.

And you know what? Here's something else for you to consider in your mighty Nor'eastern brain - the one that's so far superior to my Southern drawl. DO NOT send me a friend request on Facebook directly following your blog post about shameless self-promotion that you - you guessed it - e-mailed out to the entire listserv.

I mean, really. You're a grown man. So do us all a favor and stop telling us every time you open a Yuengling and shit out some sort of craptastic half-witted essay about preserving bird habitats. Put that fucking feather in your cap.

You did write the book on this.

we all fall down

Boys make you fall in love. And then they tell you they just want to be friends. In an email.

the douchinator

So Ahnold and Maria broke up and shockingly, the Governator was soon after implicated in extreme douchiness for Classic Boy Shit. An affair. A love child. And supposedly said love child was born within days of Maria's youngest child?

Vom.

I've had this conversation with girlfriends before, regarding elected officials: no one's a saint, right? Just because a guy's an absolute dog in his real life doesn't mean he won't do a good job in office. We shouldn't hold it against him.

But I kind of do.

Because, hello. It's gross. If a guy can't respect his own wife with fidelity, are we to believe he'll do the honorable thing on behalf of his constituents?

Why do boys, especially famous ones, think it's okay to disregard human decency? Not that Mrs. Garish behaved any better in this scenario. But it's like they think their penises are extra-special by association with power and fame. The Governator, John Edwards, Jesse James. Jude Law (why, Jude, why?). Countless examples. Even, dareIsay, Dr. King. Yeah. The same one we all quote, seek to emulate and otherwise revere for his humanitarian ideals? Apparently he couldn't keep it in his pants out of love and respect for his marriage, either.

But we worship them anyway. And everyone knows in spite of this recent fiasco, Ahnold will be back. In the spotlight soon enough for his latest movie featuring blown-up shit.

Whatever, dude. It ain't that big.

photo cred: edjane obama