English language and the appropriate use of Fuck

[Best of the Web]: The Keys to my Kingdom

"To make matters worse, he had taken my place on the two-person couch, leaving me the distant, third-wheel chair, a full coffee table away from my prize.I wasn’t a math major in college, but I knew enough to be certain that the guy on the couch is 78% more likely to bang the girl than the loser on the chair. "

Read the full story.

[Best of the Web]: Daddy don't hit me

"She had on a glorious SMILF coat, her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing tight spandex pants. I took one last regretful look, thought about how pretty she was, and realized that Lydia probably wasn't going to like me anymore, divorce or no. [...] Reality hit full on. I was a 6'2" 230lbs ogre, covered in wood chips, still trying to catch the rest of my breath, in the middle of a throng of SMILFs who were laughing their asses off at my expense. There were no good-natured insults this time, like when I had told [another] story earlier. Their laughter was too powerful for words. Lydia laughed loudest of all. I opened my eyes, looked down, and sighed deeply."

Read the full story. It is hilarious. Really, Really.

You think I live in a shithole (Durham, NC). Think twice.

I was delighted to find a friend of mine (waves and wires) write a post about what Durham, that godforsaken town in no-man’s land North Carolina, has to offer. Sure thing, we don’t have your Guggenheims, Mets, and other tourist-catchers. Nor do we have a trashy red bridge, a phallic Empire State Building, or one of those shabby State Capitols that adore many American cities. But, and here it comes you fuckin’ geniuses: we have so much more. There are tons of things which make Durham one of the most attractive goddamn places to live. And I’m not talking about the slutty Duke-chicks that hunt the bars on Thursday and Friday nights on Main and 9th (although this can very well constitute a definite plus).

I am talking about the more profound things in life. Food and traffic jams. For the latter, there are practically none of these. Far are my days in the overcrowded subways in Frankfurt, Paris or New York. Far are the days when I got mad at some fat-assed bitch that couldn’t properly handle her car. Whenever you drive around in Durham county, you don't have to surrender your sanity. Okay, granted, there’s hell lot of green around here. Like totally too much. Forests cover certainly up to 95% of the country. But beside being gorgeous (at times – not so much like a hot blonde on the sidewalk, for sure, but not that bad either), it very effectively erases jams.
The second, certainly most important point in favor of ole’ fucking Durham (besides the insane great weather forecast) is the local food. Now for the junk food gourmet that I am, this is heaven. Heaven. I’ve got it all, and more I could ever have asked for. Pulled Pork Vinegar BBQ Sandwiches at my heart’s desire (and stroke, at some point); BBQ Spare Ribs by the Hog; Honey Chicken Wings that drip the sauce right along your fingers onto your pants; the Best Burgers in whole goddamn America with no less than a pound of meat, covered with everything green, yellow and red there is; Mexican food that would even make that other fag, Ricky Martin, blush (he’s not Mexican, is he?).
And you’ve got all of this and more at an average of less than 10 fuckin’ bucks. Yep, you got it right, ten bucks or less. Now, there’s no BBQ joint whatsoever in Boston or DC that could possibly beat that. Plus I got to eat on the terrace under the Carolina sunshine. Plus the chicks start to wear really, really short skirts starting late February. Plus, they are Southern girls – blonde, hot, and tremendously stupid.

Now if you’re not already packing and preparing to move down South, bro, than there’s something seriously wrong with you…

Quotes from an Asshole: Tucker Max on Gentlemen Clubs

"It is an almost universal rule of gentlemen's clubs that the cocktail waitresses are more fun to talk to, and more apt to fuck customers, than the strippers. They are not as pressed for time, so they will banter more. The limp-dicks that overtip the strippers usually don't tip the cocktail waitresses at all, so attention to a cocktail waitress will get you much further than attention to a stripper. [...]
The funniest thing is that they always think they are better than the strippers; in their mind there is a bright line separating them from the women who actually take their clothes off, thus it is usually much easier to get a cocktail waitress to go home with you. Strippers are jaded, abused, used-up; they hate men, and usually for good reason. The cocktail waitresses are far less defensive. They are so used to being ignored or looked through, that when you do pay attention to them, they respond to it. Read and learn fellas. "

Bankers make shit out of money

I’m not yet one more of those pathetic fuckers that come in the aftermath of the financial crisis to promulgate what everybody already knows: We are fucked. Nor am I an economist or a pundit that pokes around in the open wound to tell you just HOW BADLY fucked we really are.
I am not among those cheap folks. I was above that rat pack. I was a fucking banker.

I quit my job a full year before the financial crisis unfolded. Was I particularly smart? Did I see something others didn’t? Nahh. I was just blessed with infinite luck. I left the house while it just started cracking and smoking, and I left that goddamn house with a fat, fat check.

Now, I am not in the mood for a profound and diligent analysis of all the things that went wrong with the markets and the mortgages. You heard that crap before. I’ll give you a hands-on 101 why the system was rotten from the bottom up, not only from the top down.

What I know for a fact is the following:
* We were paid shitloads of money
* We were really, really paid shitloads of money
* The only way to maintain that flow was to poker.

And poker we did. Right out of business school, after an initial few months spent in various forms of traineeships, we were handed out blank checks and a tap on the butt: “go, get your meat”. We didn’t have years of industry experience, nor did we acquire the wisdom provided by decades of wisely managing rock solid assets such as bonds or treasury notes. We were simply given money and a license to make a killing. In pretty much any asset class. How could you then, possibly, expect the poorest of our class (junior bankers and financiers – still in the six figures) to go for the save assets? We wanted to make money, and we wanted that goddamn money now: That thousand dollar suit. Mine. Those 500 bucks shoes. Mine too. That fucking gorgeous hot blond at the bar. MINE. I tell you only so much: we were hungry, greedy, and horny. A bad, bad mixture.
That, my friends, is the 101 of the bubble. And it won’t stop anytime soon. In a year, two, or maybe even three, when the banks will be salvaged, when the roaring from DC will have vanished, banks will, once more, revert to the business schools to hire their hungry crowds of MBAs. And THE SHOW MUST GO ON.

There are only FOUR categories of people in the whole goddamn universe

Chuck Klosterman is my hero. I love Chuck Klosterman. He had the infinite wisdom to crack down the code of the universe, this whole goddamn fucked-up matter, into four simple categories of people. In his book "Killing yourself to Live", he explains that the world he saw as a 10th grade was one of "only four kinds of people [...]: girls you want to fuck, girls who are unfuckable, guys you want to kill, and guys who are generally okay".

As I reach my 27th year, I realize that the way I see (and categorize) my environment hasn't changed much since then. Indeed, babes are simply hot or not, and dudes are either fucking cool or driving me ape-shit. It isn't much more complex. And that's that.

But let me elaborate a little bit further. I certainly do believe these four broad categories set the framework. But within the brackets, you have the scales. Think for a moment. THE scales. Yep, most notably the Hotness Scale. So, if I have a girl in my "fuckable category", she has to be, to me, at LEAST a solid 7. I ain't screw nothing below a 7. A friend of mine, a road buddy, told me once he'd go as low as a shabby 5 (he said something about personality, but I didn't quite get that one). That's okay, that's his vision of the universe.
But for me, nah, nothing under a 7. Below that, the chick's unfuckable. But that doesn't mean she can't be a friend. Friendship's okay four three categories: girls who are fuckable, who are unfuckable, and cool dudes. The only exclusion, very obviously, are guys you want to smash their faces into the ground. For Dudes, though, there isn't such a thing as scaling. There are simply cool dudes you like more, and cool dudes you like less. And the rest are assholes: they make it right into the "I'd rather kill you". This bracket includes former and present bosses; most politicians; all your elementary, middle school, and most of your high school teachers; science college professors; Brad Pitt; your driving instructor; your girl-griend's ex.

Now what about all the people you just cross in the street? The "random folks"? Well, for them, you very obviously should have a fifth category, labelled "matter". Matter because they are not in your perceived reality: you don't acknowledge them - so they don't exist within your vision of the universe. Sounds annoying? Well, simply think of it as puppets - puppets that make your walk more pleasant. Or the clapping folks in the background of a live-record of Britney. Got it? So, in the end, it's not really a category of people, but it's an element, like air, water, earth, and that... last thing.

French tanks have six gears; they are all reverse

Paradoxically, though, France is "home to Earth's entire population of 62.7 million people, every single one of the planet's 427 cities, and all of its history, culture, and beauty, and France is the only country in the World.

Located directly in the center of the universe around which everything else evolves, the nation of France is the sole beacon of life and civilization in an otherwise empty void. Stretching from the globe's southermost point in Marseille to its northern tip in Paris, and extending all the way to the Far East, or Dijon, France is known troughout France for its streets, buildings, wine, and food, things that simply don't exist anywhere else.

The French have produced every great achievement in every field of endeavor in the history of mankind, including the sculptures of Michelangelo, the symphonies of Beethoven, and the writings of William Shakespeare. Today, this birthplace of art, aviation, democracy, coffee, man, Buddhism, socialism, raggae, John Wayne, pasta, karate, the American Revolution, arrogance, space exploration, the Nile River, and everything else that has ever come to pass, has earned its place as the finest, greatest, and best nation in all of France." (Source: Can't remember, sorry)

Amen.

Those fuckin' Brits

There’s this thing with British people. They are ugly. Tremendously ugly. And they speak with a funny fucked-up accent. I was blessed with such incredible wisdom while I was on a two hour correspondence at the airport of London Heathrow.

It struck me at the very moment I exited the plane. There were a few samples already at the gate's doors, and I thought “Uh, that’s tough” but as I progressed through the terminal, the occurrence of bad looking people didn’t decrease – at all. Brits are cheesy white people who turn bloody red under the sun. They have crooked or fat noses, small lips, and frog eyes. Female examples of that peculiar people dress like hookers and walk like prisoners. Their really, really fat bodies are squeezed into tiny skirts and too short tops – very much like German blood sausages.
But who could possibly blame them? They live on an island with nothing of interest whatsoever. Their queen is old and stubborn, their food is disgusting, fried to the limit and wrapped into newspaper, their humor is ordinary. They have truly, truly shitty weather. And, once more, they remain the ugliest people I have seen so far.
So why, for God’s sake, would anyone want to live on that fucked-up island? I have to admit, though, that I didn’t exactly cross the British border. The airport is as far as I went into the UK. But who could possibly blame me? After what I’ve seen at the airport, it would take an entire battalion to drag me outta there.

Tucker Max: Quote of an asshole

"Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out."

www.tuckermax.com

In Defence of fuckin' Cursing

The woman who's sitting close by while I'm editing this post is fuckin' bothering me. She keeps on talking and talking about her husband's shitty job at an accounting firm and the bullshit she's doing at the divinity school. Yark. And that jerk who's sitting with her listens quietly while I pull the trigger in my mind and shoot her a goddamn bullet in the head.
But let's not waste our precious time on that gal's trivialities. She's fat and ugly. And she looks like a goddamn horse. The introduction to this post is merely an illustration of the appropriate use of cuss words. I was indeed very touched (to say the least) by a recent article written in defense of cursing.
The troubling thing, according to the author, is that even the hardest hitting magazines draw back to censorship to get rid of such basic words as "fuck" and "shit". Even though they are commonly accepted and understood adjectives of the English language, an increasing number of media stay clear of their use. Talking about Darfur or Tibet, the use of the ford "fuckin'" to underlie the extent of the mess would not be usurpating the language. Nor would a "mothafucker" be inappropriate when one comes to describe Mugabe. Right? So why shall we, for God's fuckin' sake, work around those words when their use is so clearly fuckin' appropriate?
I have another exemple of a current life situation where a nicely placed curse might have releaved much of the tension. Things went a lil' bit sour with my girl yesterday. There, a "fuck, fuck, fuck" would have done a pretty awesome fuckin' job.
The author's "favorite example of prudery has to be when Men's Health — a magazine read entirely by people with penises — quoted Robin Williams explaining how to save a stand-up routine. If all else fails, he said, "go for the d—- joke." Can you believe that? A men's magazine afraid of the word dick." I cannot agree more with that statement. Goddamn it, we are dicks and jerks, so let's be candid about it, for once. I don't want to read an article about my fuckin' dick without the words "fuckin' awesome" used together.
So the author has elaborated a set of rules for the appropriate use of our language's most basic adjectives: "For instance, shit is an all-purpose word [you] should use [...] when failing an exam or watching a favorite team cost you $20 by blowing a huge lead. However, if you use lose more than $20, that's a fuck. If you're dealing with the IRS, that might be a shit or a fuck, depending on who did your taxes; if you're dealing with the FBI or ATF, that's always a fuck. Among other cuss words, asshole is good for the boss or moron coworkers or in-laws, but motherfucker should be reserved for more weighty situations, such as when a mugger shoots you even after you give him your wallet, or you realize you're slipping off the edge of the Grand Canyon as you back up for a family photo. I hear motherfucker invoked for the simplest of transgressions, such as a foul during a basketball game. No, no, no! "Fuck you" will suffice, or maybe "What the hell?" Motherfucker is a fairly serious accusation."


To read the article on Chiprowe: http://www.chiprowe.com/articles/swear.html

Homer Simpson and the embarrassing truth about Education

"How is education supposed to make me feel smarter? Besides, every time I learn something new, it pushes some old stuff out of my brain. Remember when I took that home winemaking course, and I forgot how to drive?" Homer Simpson

Love in the time of Darwinism

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The Great Sexual Divide

There's no common language whatsoever between men and women. And there's no dictionnary out there. No translator that could do the work. We are, and will always be, misunderstood. Both men and women. There's no way to bridge the gap, no miracle solution to this eternal conundrum. From the time we lived in caves men have been pondering the question of WTF women want. And no one ever found an answer. Sadly. Oddly. Or maybe luckily.

Because, let's be honest, do we really want to know what in hell women want? Do we really want to go inside their heads and try to figure out what the fuzz is all about? No, the puzzle is better with its pieces wildly apart, because what we might find in there could very well get us nuts. Literally. While "female insecurity [is] the gift that keeps on giving,” (Tucker Max), men ignorance seems to be the bone of the new age, with men dating more women than ever before. The unexpected colleterals, however, are considerable with more women ending up single, feeling the urge to pump up their boops with silicon the way princess Barby does.

Nonetheless, in an infinite effort to find a framework men and women could work on, American's have divised a pretty suffocating idea of courtship: the dating path. It's some sort of raw patchwork of rules and procedures on how to ask a woman out. Here's an exhaustive (and non chronological) list of precepts:

* The guy needs to call for a date - there's no such thing as a goddamn equal footing
* He should give another call within three days, but not before 48 hours have past, if he has any interest for another date
* He should pick her up - which seriously sucks with the increasing gas prices
* He will bring her to (a) a movie (cheap, insecure guy), (b) a bar (if you just can't find a conversation and might want to get a back-up in case your date backfires), or (c) a restaurant (for more confident brainiacs)
* He's supposed to know where to bring the girl - and he's supposed to know WTF he's supposed to do with the next 40 years of his life
* He's supposed to know WTF she wants
* Dude, you got to pick up the fuckin' check on the first date

As Kay S. Hymowitz nicely stated, as "the old dating and courting regime fell, it left a cultural vacuum with no rules for taming or shaming the boors, jerks, and assholes."

What do men want: for the slutty, the lonely, the ugly.

Ever wondered who the guys are, and what they want? Well, it's not all that complicate. If you go to the zoo and watch apes playing (or mating), you will soon understand what's behind our behavior. Nothing. We don't have such a thing as schemes or strategies. We don't make plans for dinner, let alone for life. We like boops and would say anything to spend the night with them... except confessing how we really feel. Because if we look inside, deep inside ourselves, we never find much. And this is fuckin' scary.
But let me just throw down a few characteristics of the modern ape... I meant man. He's a fast-food eating jerk. Basically. And that pretty much says it all. He's goddamn horny and sex-driven, and uses alcohol to fight his inhibitions. His neanderthal-like manners just hide his absolute and insane fear of commitment. Like something that might be, to you girls, like a very big and infinitely deep hole. You don't want to jump in there, 'cause you never know whether there are not a bunch of really hungry chacals down there. That's how relationships feel to us.
Another thing is that "you're cool because you don't give a shit". That's our motto, that's the way we behave when our bro's are around. So never, ever - you hear me - ever argue with a guy in public. He'll get nasty just to make a point - even if he doesn't mean it.
And on dates, girls, if you are not anything above a solid 8 on the hotness scale, you cannot afford to drive him ape-shit asking stupid questions. Keep them for yourself. A man will only go as far as he's sure to get decent sex. The better the sex, the merrier your questions. It's simple, basic arithmetics. Score high on his bedtime chart, and you can ask him pretty much anything, even to tender the fuckin' garbage. And as RelationShit nicely puts it: "PMS gives women carte blanche to act like bitches from hell, and yet nobody makes them over-ride their hormonal bullshit."

Excessive use of the words "goddamn" and "fuckin'", please beware sensible souls out there

I haven't elected to talk solely about girls on my goddamn blog. But as life goes, the things that eat up all my brainpower simply gets down to chicken-business. I purposely used the word chicken, not solely because my dead-like-brain couldn't spit out any more appropriate term, but more so because I'm in a shitty bad mood and would love to just throw chickenshit at anyone that dares to glance at me with a silly look.

Main reason for my tremendously inappropriate and drama-queen-like-craptitude is that I feel like I haven't learned anything with any of the women I have dated and mated in the past 27 years. Nothing whatsoever. Did you ever try to draw certitudes out of personal experience with the aim to become a fuckin' wise dude? I did. And it backfired. Assuming that any woman is like another is the first erroneous assumption. Like DNA, they are all different, and what's insane about them is that they might want the EXACT fucking opposite of what the preceding one expected. And if you don't deliver, you're an ass. So I got used to be an ass, but I thought there was nothing really wrong about it.
We all know of the stoneage old saying that women crave bad boys. Well, they do. But once they come to date the badass, they want him to become a goddamn sweetheart. They all the sudden hate your bike and expect you to take out the garbage. And that you don't forget about the flowers on goddamn Valentines (and don't ever, you hear me, EVER, try to tell a woman it's just a marketing gag).
So here's the thing. If you are a sweetie (a pussy, a sissy, your calling), you don't stand a chance against the dude that walks right up to her in a bar and braces himself with craptitude. Not a SINGLE ounce of chance. That's why I became an asshole myself. Did I have any other goddamn option? Certainly I did, but daaah, I wouldn't write that blog today, and I'd probably be a 27 year old virgin.
So I braced myself in craptitude, too. But hoho, the girls all thought that by kissing the frog, they'd find herself in presence of a prince. But the badass was now what society wanted him to be. A badass. You can't have it both ways, girls.

But then, again, I met that "crazy-shit-that-girl-rocks" kind of woman. And then again, I thought "fuck you society", I gone be the prince, not the frog.

Theory of the 9: Systemic risk undermines Courtship

My "Theory of the 9" (see previous posts) is very much like the financial crisis. What we refer to as a systemic risk in finance is what would result out of the failure of one major institution. If a bank came to collapse, it would certainly - like in a domino effect - drag down several other banks, leading to the potential collapse of the entire market. This is due to interlinkages of market participants: one bank has enormous deposits or collaterals with another institution, and thus, when one fails to reimburse, it seriously undermines the capital base of its counterparts.

Anyway, so the basic idea is that the failure of a single entity could potentially bring down the entire system. The same happens to my theory: when one assumption is invalidated, the others collapse under pressure.
Before I move on, though, lets quickly summarize what we know:
* The "Theory of the 9" basically says that a girl we would consider to be particularly desirable (thus, a 9 on a scale of 10) can't be dated the traditional way - she has to be courted. The first assumption is that if you are anything less than a 9 yourself, lets say a 7, then you can't expect her to go on a date with you if you haven't created an initial interest. She simply will see no reason in wasting her time, and she'll most certainly turn you down.
* A recent update of the theory added the assumption that a 9 never hits the market (i.e. she always is in a relationship.) Before she even breaks up, any guy who has sufficient insider information on the upcoming event will prepare to make a move on that girl, and grab her as soon as she gave her boy the "good bye". The second fundamental assumption of the Theory thus states that if you want to get a 9, you certainly have to court her pretty hardly, and in doing so obliterate the fact that she has a boyfriend (and hope that she eventually kisses the guy good-bye to date your very self).

Well, my very own experience in putting my theory at work has backshot - and this in a considerable fashion - thus leading me to question its validity. Of course, my experience is not statistically significant, but it raises some serious concerns.
The first blow came with mine realizing that, when I engaged in courtship, my very own feelings got involved, and thus undermined the machiavellity of the potential undertaking. Machiavellian because, as a friend would say, I went in there with an agenda, which compromises the very idea of friendship (in the initial stage) and love (at a later stage). Undermining, in turn, because feelings grew and lead to that very consideration of her interest taking precedence over mine. So I could not possibly push for her dating me while I am not sure whether this is the best possible alternative for her.
The second failure resulted of mine realizing that I could not possibly betray her trust. She came to entrust me with her secrets and desires, her aspirations and her dreams. How could I, then, possibly make a move on her while she trustes me as a friend? I can't. I'm not machiavellian enough - to be honest, I'm not machiavellian at all. Call me a sissy, but I simply won't do it. When I have her eyes resting on me, and all that trust that exists between the two of us being palpable, there is no escape then to give in.

The first failure - not being able to maintain the machiavellism of courtship - resulted in a trusting relationship (the second risk), and simply made the theory implode.

My "Theory of the 9s" is very obviously not flawless

I don't quite know what I should write about. I have nothing witty, nothing funny, nothing smart to say, just the urge to write SOMETHING, whatever that might be. It's like being hit by a bus, but it feels so much nicer... Whenever there's a really - I mean TREMENDOUSLY - great girl, I go completely nuts. I become unproductive, lack the most rudimentary attention, and am like totally unwilling to commit to anything else than maximizing the time I spend with her.

While I am sitting right next to her, I can't stop wondering what the hell took me so long to ask her out. Because now I am pretty much the stupid shithead, running out of time, counting the hours until mine having to leave the country. But hey, to my defense, I did at last ask her out... just a few fuckin' months too late: 'cause now, she gots another boy.
My fellow readers would certainly point to my theory about girls being in relationships and not really being so (see post "A 9 does never hit the market"). I have, however, in all my infinite wisdom, obliterated the role of friendship in that sickingly complex fuckin' conundrum (another fancy word). Because, indeed, when you are friends, you start to think about what is best for her, and not only how your own little person might maximize his interest. You think you don't want to hurt her (1) by having her make a decision, and (2) by having to decide between a relationship and, basically, a catastrophe resulting of mine feeling rejected. So I remain foolishly quiet, exasperated by my own inability.

So, to conclude, my "Theory of the 9s" has some serious flows I need to work out...

A 9 does never hit the market

I have no clue what the fuck she's talking about, but I just crave to share my space with that wonderful little person. She is hot, for one. (ii) She smells good. (iii) She laughs in a wonderful awkward way. (iv) I'd really love to get her into the sack.

But first things come first. Like so many other girls I'd more than willingly do a shitload of wild things with, she's in a relationship. It is not that I have a fixation on beautiful women that are in some kind of randomly fortituous relationship. The simple truth is that the good ones are taken. It's like for cars: Ferrari's are sold before they even get to the market, while on the other hand anyone can at any time find a nice little Chevy in a dealership. And don't give me the shit about market-equilibrium and supply-and-demand - there's just more supply than there is demand for normal-market-products, but the inverse is true for truly exceptional girls.

So if you want to get one, you have to amend the rules. I hear ya, I hear ya: You can't break up a relationship, dude, you'd be an arsehole all the way. Well, lemme give you my argument, and if you don't buy into it, you can still call me whatever way pleases you (including "sweet lil' honeyboy" if you are an 8 and up on the hottness scale).
The girl has the say. All the way and all the time - that's a universal truth. This is my argument. Stop bitching. If we hit on you, be pleased and say thank you. At any time, you can get rid of us with a nice lil "fuck you". But if the nana decides to break off and head out with another guy, it's all her decision. And why shouldn't she have the God-given right to decide what's better for her - you can't possibly deprive her of the wonderful little person that you are!

Sex is 15% real and 85% illusion

Just stumbled upon that quote in that insane book by Chuck Klosterman. And I thought about it. And I though about it. And... well, you'd guess, this was running 'round in my head like chickens with their fuckin' heads cut off.
This blows my fuckin' mind off. I mean, think about it: it would mean that sex is a big deception. No, wait, sex is THE big deception - something like the scam of the century. Everyone believes it to be awesome, like THE shit, but it's nothing more than "yeeeaaaahhhh, it was kinda okay".
I wouldn't pretend sex is crap - believe me, it is NOT, and I highly enjoy the meatly pleasures. But when you first spot that really hot chick that waggles her boobies all over your face, you think: "man, that ought to be a great mambo-mambo". And then you build up all those fantasies about her on top of yours, and you go insane with all those wild and censored images of her. And then, finally, after weeks and weeks of hard labor and of wearing her defenses down (see post about a "if you are a 7 looking for a solid 9"), you get her into the sack, well, right then, the 85% illusion jumps in. Because, even though it is great, it is just not THAT great.
You've build it up all the way in your head, bullshitting yourself about the perfection of her body and the awesomeness of the act - just to find out that reality is cruel, and cold, and bloodily shitty.

The Thing about Girls not Returning your Calls

She didn't call me yesterday. Nor did she call me today. Maybe she's been hit by a bus. Mybe she's been kidnapped by Aliens. Maybe she has some acute form of Amnesia. Those things happen.

I could throw that little piece of plastic one refers to as a phone right into the wall. Shit happens, too. But lets face it, she probably isn't worth it anyways (except if she's really been kidnapped by green monsters with one yellow eye right into their face). That's at least what I'm trying to convince myself of when I crawl the bars in search for a new soul mate - be it for a night (and I don't mean the ONE thing, but the other - you are smart enough, aren't you). Anyways. And it worked. Fuck, there's no such thing as a girl to forget a girl. It works miracle - at least for some sort of temporary cure. I think there's some form of Chinese medicine that works that way: if you have a pain somewhere, let's hit you really hard at some other place, and you'll forget about the former. Awesome, huh? Didn't try it on myself, though, but if anyone of my fellow readers is open-minded enough to serve as gimmi-pig, let me know.
World Peace.

[As seen on the Net]: Letter of the Year

This is an actual letter sent to the then DFAT Minster, The Hon Alexander Downer and the then Immigration, The Hon Minister Amanda Vanstone. The Government tried in desperation to censure the author, but got nowhere because every legal person who read it nearly wet themselves laughing! Please excuse the language contained within, but I suspect the author was somewhat upset? I'll let you decide!

Another happy customer of the Federal government. A fabulous characteristic of Australians is that we are far more direct and outspoken than others when dealing with the sort of elected wanker who wouldn't otherwise get the full drift of what they were trying to communicate. Below is one such wonderful communication...

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Dear Mr. Minister,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this. How is it that K-Mart has my address and telephone number, and knows that I bought a Television Set and Golf Clubs from them back in 1997, and yet, the Federal Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date. For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand?

My birth date you have in my Medicare information, and it is on all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 40 years. It is on my driver's licence, on the last eight passports I've ever had, on all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out before being allowed off the planes over the last 30 years, and all those insufferable census forms that I've filled out every 5 years since 1966. Also..would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name is Audrey, my Father's name is Jack, and I'd be absolutely fucking astounded if that ever changed between now and when I drop dead!!!...

SHIT!

I apologize, Mr. Minister. But I'm really p*ssed off this morning. Between you an' me, I've had enough of all this bullshit! You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my fucking address!! What the hell is going on with your mob? Have you got a gang of mindless Neanderthal arseholes workin' there!

And another thing, look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin Laden? I can't even grow a beard for God's sakes. I just want to go to New Zealand and see my new granddaughter. (Yes, my son interbred with a Kiwi girl). And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shit whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a sheep or a horse, believe you me, I'd sure as hell not want to tell anyone!

Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of the city, and get another fucking copy of my birth certificate, and to part with another $80 for the privilege of accessing MY OWN INFORMATION! Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot, to assist in the issuance of a new passport on the same day?? Nooooo... that'd be too fucking easy and makes far too much sense. You would much prefer to have us running all over the place like chickens with our fucking heads cut off, and then having to find some high society w**ker to confirm that it's really me in the goddamn photo! You know the photo..the one where we're not allowed to smile?! ...you fucking morons,

Signed - An Irate Australian Citizen.

P.S Remember what I said above about the picture, and getting someone in high-society to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in this country since before 1850! In 1856, one of my forefathers took up arms with Peter Lalor. (You do remember the Eureka Stockade!!)

I have also served in both the CMF and regular Army something over 30 years (I went to Vietnam in 1967), and still have high security clearances.I'm also a personal friend of the president of the RSL.. and Lt General Peter Cosgrove sends me a Christmas card each year.

However, your rules require that I have to get someone 'important' to verify who I am; You know.. someone like my doctor; WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN PAKISTAN!!!......a country where they either assassinate or hang their ex-Prime Ministers, and are suspended from the Commonwealth for not having the 'right sort of government.'

If you are a 7 looking for a solid 9, take that advice from a Frenchman

American's simply don't get the art of courtship. It isn't simply "a waste of time" as some see it, or "an outdated model" as others consider this peculiar art. Courtship, to put it into jargon that even the most culturally-ignorant dude will understand, is to get a solid 9 or 9.5 when you are nothing more than a basic 7.
Women, the ones you dream of but wouldn't dare to ask out, have no interest for a 7. None whatsoever. Forget about the girl next door, it is as much an Urban Legend as Diet Coke. It doesn't exist/doesn't work. If you want to shoot for a 9, for that really, really hot and smart and funny and sophisticated girl, you'll have to create an interest. And you'll most certainly have to start from scratch: it will take time and a tremendous amount of effort and creativity. Because let's be honest, she's not only way better looking than you are (i.e. she's two points higher on the hottness scale), but she also got tons of offers for dates - and turns them down in 95% of cases.

To increase your chances, you'll have to engage in subtle seduction. And please, the emphasis here is on "subtle". No "baby you are so hot tonight" (she knows that) or "I'm your man" (she knows it's just not that). You'll have to draw back on the good old clichés, from small attentions to bigger ones. It's all about showing her that you are really into her, that she's got all your attention, nothing less, and that you are willing to go to hell and back just to get a shot at her. It's all about creating a sparkle of interest, a certain "hmm, that guy must have something others don't". If you don't prove her she's worth your time and efforts, she'll turn you down in a second. And, as my grand'pa proudly did when he courted my grand'ma: you'll have her only by wearing her defenses down, little by little. That's how a seven shoots for an eleven.

We only get judged by what we do...

Well, fortunately, I'm not going to judge some of my friends on what they do, 'cause they mostly and miserably fail. I guess this is not a socially correct way of putting things, but hey, this is the way it is. I guess we can throw most people into the same basket labeled "way out", and cut the crap out of our facebook lists. True, I've got myself over 300 buddies on facebook, but for a Whooper, I should consider throwing many of them out. It's like firing them. We should have such a thing as to "fire friends". Something like a quick notice: you're defriended, you ass, and you should do so face to face, not book to book.

The days back in highschool

I've got a new friend. And she used to be a cheerleader. Now, we had no such thing in France: no football or basketball teams, and, unfortunately, no cheerleaders. I know this sounds terribly trivial - I might actually sound like a moron - that a 27 year old guy is all fascinated by the whole thing about hers being a cheerleader, but I can't do anything about it (and, as you'd guess, I don't fuckin' care what my fellow readers might think)...

Anyway, so she used to be a cheerleader. And everytime I see her, I can't do anything about it but imagine her in a tight red and gold outfit with pompoms and all and stretching her leg way up there and doing all the things cheerleaders do. Now, she's not only pretty (although that's very obviously what this is all about), but she'd kick your butt anytime, too. ANYWAY, the whole cheerleader thing is just insane!

In high school, we had pretty girls in little girly gangs that were hot and all (and they would RULE and all), but by no means did they had any tacit recognition as being THE crowd. From the little I know about American education, there's pretty much such a thing as THE crowd. So, when cheerleaders are in, then I'd guess that the pinnacle- the paroxysm, to use a fancy word - would be to date one. I was fortunate to date a really social girl back in '98 - but she didn't have the damn pompoms. Now I feel my education to be incomplete just because of that...

This makes me thing of Jennifer, which was THE girl back in HS. Legends were circulating on her account, and if we'd transpose our French highschool into an American version of it, I'd be pretty damn sure she would be the head-cheerleader (if such a thing exists). And all the guys would (and did) want to date her. I was looking her all the time way then in math class and imagining the wildest stuff - but hey, she was way up there, and as Wheatus would put it, I wouldn't have dared to ask her out for a Iron Maiden concert. After the Josephine disaster (see previous post, feb. 13), this is the second time that my fomer cowardly attitude led to a scandalous regret...

The friendship zone - How much myth?

How dangerous or treacherous is it really, the legend of the so-called "friendship zone". Is a thing called "love" lost, whenever you got too close to a person. Or can this very friendship blossom into nothing less than, well, a big red heart on a bed of roses.

Maybe I am using an overdose of bad-old-clichés, but, let's be candid, this is a recurring question all of us have been pondering for years. How to get through to a person - and discover whatever might be beneath layers and layers of social customs - if not become good and close friends. But then, if you hit upon something you really like, is there still time to pull back your friendship card and to court the one? Because she probably has become the only one, and no other distraction, no matter how attractive, can be any good substitute.

I use a lot of maybe's and other metaphers - but all I mean to say is: God damn it, would I have known before that she seems to be the one - I'd never, ever, would have played the friendship game. There's nothing like good old courting - but I guess it's too late, and now I have to use the subtle path of gauging how much I can or should put a friendship at risk to conquer her.

For now, there's absolutely no way I will go down another path, for I'm lacking courage to do so. The friendship seems to be too valuable - and I'm nothing less than lightyears away of a good "hey, how you doin', babe".

Why have a heart when a heart can be broken?

Josephine... Long, waivy dark hair, light blue eyes, blood red lips, and a shy smile that would make any one man loose his confidence. And I did have none whenever I crossed her path back then, in the good old days in high school.

Josephine, her very name still inspires the most compromising feelings. My first big love. An artist, a true one, with soul and body. And a body, she had one that would make me daydream whenever I would sit in a chemistry or math class, longing for her soft white skin. Okay, I'm getting dangerously off-track.

But hey, I was in love for nothing less than two years and dared to ask her out once - and once only - and all I got in return was a "maybe". My self-confidence back then was by no means sufficient to pull it through. So I backed off. And God knows how much I do regret it. Ten years later...

One evening, I went to a friend's party, and she would sit all by herself on a couch. I went to sit next to her, and without a word, took her hand into mine, and just smiled. Unfortunately, my then girlfriend would stop by, and I would head off with her. Probably the biggest mistake I ever made. I should have held her hand for the rest of my life, and things would have gone differently... maybe...

As life passes by...

What was incredibly depressing in my former life as an investment banker is that I could literally watch my life and my best years pass by, but as if enclosed in a golden cage, I couldn’t do anything about it. Quitting my job was like freeing myself from the chains of mercantile slavery, and finding my way back to the things that really matter in life. And those aren’t really complicated. I didn’t have to take a difficult path leading to a rewarding new career. All that was necessary was to walk into a bar and find a girl.