Tuesday, September 30, 2008


For starters. He is short. But he has a ridiculous body. Want to know why? Because he is short. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? So he goes to the gym and lifts and lifts and lifts until you think that vein above his left eyelid is going to explode on the chest press. But then he lifts some more. And as for his penis, who knows you might get lucky, but I doubt it and he knows all those biceps are only going to be covering up for one very important (very tiny) thing….he probably works at gym, eats at a gym, and sleeps in a Gold’s Gym t-shirt. He is fucking fabulous.

He makes money. He says he lives somewhere ‘trendy’..he means ‘Hoboken’. He has a bedroom that has one of this brick walls in it. He drives some sort of car that has leather in it and smells like a briefcase. He thinks he is pretty smart and doesn’t laugh and your corny little jokes…unless of course he is trying to get into your pants and then he laughs and laughs and laughs like his life depended on it. He has a watch that is more expensive than your entire apartment. He drinks stuff ‘on the rocks’ and will be bald by 31.

You ask, “Kim, how is this different from the tall wall street dude?” Well this guy is worse. Always ordering people around, telling them to get him “shit” and drinks and cars. He goes to Ulysses on a a Thursday night bragging to the other SWSD’s that he is going to eat some pussy tonight. Umm, yeah, he will, and her name will be Lucy from accounting who has acne and an overweight cat name Fluffernutter. (Trust me, I’ve seen it happen). He wears expensive cuff links and has his name embroidered on his shirt (hey MT, you’re a jackass). He own an apartment in Manhattan with a view and has a maid named Lucita whom he makes wash his shorts.

You show up for a date with this dude and his jeans are tighter than yours. They are also about 200 dollars more expensive. You tell him you like project runway and surprise surprise, it is his favorite show AS WELL. He can’t comprehend the zebra print pillows you own and makes reference to colors in your apartment as being “opaque”. When you talk to him about prior dates he seems to say that it didn’t work out (because your gay?) and that the last few women were not his style ( because your gay?) and that he doesn’t like to jump into something overly sexual right away (because your gay?) The funny thing is, some girl out there is going to marry him and not even question his interest in Craigslist Causal Encounters. God Bless her.

Now this is my favorite. If you had to pick from any of the following, this would be my pick. But unfortunately the dude’s dude is not normally found in urbane habitats. You normally must explore vast exotic lands, such as “Montana” to find this creature. The dude’s dude, if he does live in a city, lives with about 4 other dude’s dudes (where they can co-habit together) and normally has keggers on weekend nights held in his bathtub that has about 4 inches full of grim. He watches sports, sports center, sports highlights....he finds humor in Family Guy, he burps, farts, scratches his ass and owns two shoes, black ones and brown ones. But owns a hundred sneakers, all with different purposes. The last time he watched Project Runway was because he accidentally passed it on the way to SportsCenter and he caught a model walking runway with half her tit exposed and he paused for like 2.2 seconds to watch…until one of the dude’s dudes caught him and asked him to take the dick out of his ass and turn the channel. The dude’s dude tends to not date a lot of girls, but when he does, it’s all long term relationships, because deep down in every stiletto heeled princess is the need to find a guy who actually enjoys fixing her leaky pipes (and you know what I mean). He has a big dick and doesn’t know it or care about it, unless he is drunk and whips it out at the Freto-lay table at the Christmas Party.
Damn, I love these guys.

Yeah he is from a bor'ugh. Wanna fight about it? Yeah he talks like a lip cancer victim after fight night at the local hospital…wanna fight about it? Yeah he went to 2 years of high school and dropped out to work at the local garage and start a gym in his basement…wanna fight about it? He owns a motorcycle and grunts and farts at the gym and every shirt deserves to be cut off right at the shoulder and ripped. He has a MySpace page where the first picture is a local chick stripping and the second picture is of some shitty car he has a pet name for…wanna fight about it? Girls that date him are named Gina, have 3 inch long nails and 4 babies all from separate daddies. And her kids all wanna fight you.

Oh man, here we go…it’s time to decide whether you want to go get chicken parm at the local Italian place or see Red Die Valley In Flames perform at the local basement gig. When he talks…he THINKS. He is a thinker, an overthinker, a deep thinker, a sympathetic thinker, a dysfunctional thinker. But let it be known. This dude thinks. And not just about his songs, or his art, or his soon to be’s like awww man one day, just one day when he becomes famous it is all going to be worth it. All the late nights, all the torture. Yeah, it’s torture, you got it, and its more painful then your relationship, because his has to focus on his “craft”, his “art”..Damnit woman he has things to THINK ABOUT. Lots of thinking to do! Yeah he doesn’t have time for you tonight, because of his audition, but he wont have time for you the night before either because he will have to spend his time “thinking” about his audition. (WTF?) Yeah , I don’t’ get it either. But he is deep. And if you don’t know that, then just go see his play/musical/band/whatever perform..and maybe you can ‘see’ what he is ‘feeling’…wait…what the fuck is he talking about?

Yeah he's cute. Yeah he has a good job. Yeah he owns an apartment. Yeah he wear khaki’s from LLBean. But umm..wait, did he just make a joke? Was that a joke? Was he trying to be funny? Did he have outward emotion? Umm..probably not, you probably mistook a pepper in his salad for actual emotion. He thinks nothing and feels nothing. He is dead weight. He is all great on paper. Every mom’s dream. And he smiles a lot and probably even has close friends from college…and of course he does, because he is fucking dead weight! All outgoing dudes have dead weight friends…it’s to make them look even MORE interesting! He is good looking enough to bring out with them to the bars and will attract girls..but he is enough of a shy idiot to not get anywhere with anyone and leave all the hooking up to his buddies. The best part about dead weight, is he will marry miss dead weight. She will have brown hair and a degree in accounting and will eat things like “balanced meals” and they will sit and talk about lawnmowers…while the rest of want to shoot ourselves in the fucking mouth.

He is 40-something, thinks he is 20-something. He wears too much cologne and date about 3 different girls. You wonder how he ever got a girl in the first place. He opens the first few buttons of his shirt. And you are always thinking, “Put it away granddaddy!”. He is the dude who will sit next to you at the bar and want to immediately ask you if you are wearing a to which you want to immediately ask him if he signed up for AARP anytime recently. He sweats a lot too. No one knows exactly why, but he does. The odd thing is, half of the girls will actually sleep with him, while the other half will be filing restraining orders and sexual assault cases. I would bet any money that he has overly sweaty balls…just sayin.

Probably Irish. Probably drunk right now. Maybe Italian, maybe half as drunk. But damnit he is a good-time McRonney. He is always the first to hit the bars at 6pm after work and doesn’t leave until last call. He knows every song. What song? EVERY SONG! Oh and he sings them too. He grabs a hold of you, swings you around in the bar and tries to get you to sing them as well. Instead you try and peel yourself off his half-opened shirt, where he has buffalo wing stains and move to another area. But drunk guy is always there, following you around the fucking bar, screaming your name “Karen! KAREN! OUR SONG KAREN!” even though explicitly told him five times your name is Kimberly.

Everytime, yes everytime, you hear it, before dinner, after lunch, before you fuck, after you fuck, at the alter...everywhere. "Well when my mom left me FOR DRUGS and then I started selling ..." Oh for the love of Sweet Jesus when does it end? Dude, WE GET IT, you hated your childhood and it forced you into drugs. You keep mentioning the last time you got high...I am pretty sure it was with some Sesame Street characters. You blame your parents who were 'crack-smoking-hoes-who tried to sell your diapers for drug money' and never cared that you were the lead in the school play, in soccer, you have to bring it up everytime? We get it, half of your siblings are in jail, your dad still asks your for money, your mom still asks you for condoms....We go to purchase angel hair pasta and the store is out you look over at us in your knitted hat, frayed jeans and doc martin shoes and say something like, "Well you know my mom made pasta with left-over crack boxes once...." Oh good sweet sally Christ, here we go again.. go find Grover or Cookie monster and light one up and let me know how it goes.

Dude, did you see that play? Did you hear about that team? Did you get the seats? Who did you buy the seats from? What was the score? What was last week's score? Who can I email today at work about the score? What chick can I make fun of for mispronouncing the catcher's last name? How come girls don't want to suck my penis?

He is normally surrounded by a bunch of other dude's (see also Dude's Dude and Dead Weight Dude)...they are all laughing at the Asshole's joke. He is picking up women at the bar, slapping them on the ass...but it's ok, it's not harassment, I mean, can't you take A JOKE?! His buddies love him because he gets his pregnant wife a body pillow and then complains that she wont let him rest his balls on it...HIL-AR-IOUS .

See above, minus the hilarious part. And instead of his friends wanting to buy him drinks, they want to punch him in the fucking face. but they still stay friends with him...why? who knows. Girls date him. Why? Who knows. You only know one thing for sure, he is angry and he isn't going to take it anymore....wait, take what? Who knows.

So he reads GQ, he reads Details, he thinks he is Men's Health. He organizes his apartment, buys the new cologne in the ads. Uses the new types of shavers, talks to girls from paragraphs he reads, basis his workout on a fitness pull-out. Drinks health shakes. Tries cannoning, hiking, manicures/pedicures..whatever...did you see it in GQ? He's done it. He wants to be tough. Yet sensitive. Yet manly. Yet emotional. He actually knows what jeans are in style. AND he knows that team won last week's playoffs. He volunteers at children's hospitals (seriously?). He has the new gray sweater from Banana or Gucci, or who cares. but he has it. He smiles on the train, holds doors and goes spear fishing. Not because he wants to...but because Men's Vogue told him to! For the love of Christ can't you see how close he is to being perfect! So close that if you look extra hard that gray-nicely-worn-sweater has tear stains on it. Big ones. And soon enough he will be smoking crack with a woman named 'Honeyfied' telling her about water-polo.

(I feel like I am going to bu updating this all day because I keep thinkin of more dudes I date....sad? Maybe.)

Hey babe, I think it's so great that you decided to come crash on my futon that still has old sex stains on it and I mean I will definitely change out of these corduroys pretty soon but I was thinking that....mmmm burrito..have you ever had one of Harry's Burritos with that red stuff, that chunky stuff, it's kinda spicy...salsa? yeah, salsa babe...but...wait, what are we talkin about? ....I forget babe, but seriously I have to fly to LA to meet my friend Goose...he is going to let me write a play for him..or mow his lawn or something, I'm not sure..but babe how do you think I could get high before I get on the plane? I don't know...yeah babe I did my laundry...last month, whatever....come, let's just lay down for a bit on the futon...just lay right here next to me....and we should really...ummm...mmm babe lay right here.....and we, um, we, um......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

He cried. Three times already in front of you. It has been four months and you haven't even cried once. There is a picture of his mom on his nightstand, his work desk, on the fridge. Every sentence starts with, "Well my Mom was saying that..." Dude, we get it, you love your mom. You want to marry your mom and frankly she comes over every weekend to iron your bedsheets and bring you homemade lasagna, it would be a sweet deal for anyone! Well these nancy-boys have a hard fucking time having relationships with girls. Wanna know why? Because we aren't your mama. And most of us aren't about to cook you string bean casserole and light your damn potpourri on fire. Mama's boys live alone and their apartment is spotless...not because they know how to clean, but because ol' Mama McGee is on her way over right now to shampoo their rugs.He tends to not be overly sexual or good in could he be with Mama McGee's high-waisted denim flashing through his mind every two seconds? And as you sit down to dinner with him all you can think is, "If you bring up your mom one more damn time..."

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

An Open Letter to the Dude

An Open Letter to the Dude Who Yelled at the Old Lady in Rite Aid:

Dear Dude,

I could see it coming from a mile away. As I stood there, foot cream and Tampax in hand, you raced your way in front of me just to make sure you were in line to purchase your full-calorie grape soda (people still buy that shit?) and Hallmark card. There was an old lady who happened to wander over your way and suddenly it was like watching Britney at the VMAs, where you just kept hoping some serious shit was about to go down, drugs or no drugs...Federline or no Federline, white trash was about to rear its ugly head.

And she just sort of wobbled over with her brown cane and took her spot, conveniently right in front of you with her thick plastic wedge shoes. And I stood there, tapping the Tampax box against my right leg, wishing I had popcorn and fucking 3D glasses for this show. You began yelling at the 107 year old woman, that she was "cutting the line", while she tried to comprehend your screaming and spitting. The old lady probably was having fucking flashbacks to the Civil War.... as you berated her in front of four other drug store attendees.

Now granted, you did have a point, as she cut about five waiting people, but you know what, for all we know this may be her last drug store visit…ever…so why can't she go pay for her FiberOne ten minutes before the rest of us? She is about to meet Jesus in eleven minutes! And I need all the good-press I can get!

What is your hurry to pay for you items for anyway? Is there some big Grape Soda Convention you are rushing off to?

And even better was when she started to argue back with you, mentioning something about being in line first, you kept yelling at her to get to the end of the line. Wow, I have never met such a chivalrous man such as yourself. How the women behind me didn’t faint upon the briskness of your voice is beyond me. All I could think looking at your left hand was…single?! Sweet Pumpernickel and Rye that just CAN’T BE! A man of your strength? It takes a lot to yell at a 4 ft 2 woman in brown shoes, but round of applause you did it man.

Friday, September 19, 2008


Kim esta incapacitada de escribir dado por ser una tia cualquiera. A ella le gustaria entretener a vosotros con sus escrituras divertidas, pero desafortundamente esta muy liada. Liada con cosas comunes, gastando la pasta que no tiene, llorando en una copa de vino, y ofrenciendo darle un frances a cualquier tio que se le cruze en su camino.

Sin importar lo que vuestras opiniones tengan que decir, os dire una cosa... regresara

el proximo lunes como es de costumbre para daros otra columna y esperemos que para ese entonces ya Kim este un poco mas tranquilizada.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

But you are

Sometimes being a writer is not so galmourous…the late nights alone on a laptop... the spilling of Doritos crumbs on a keyboard…the prostitution...

But sometimes, being a writer can be fabulous…such as seeing people in magazine stores reading your column…getting invited to celebrity events…. prostitution...

Monday happened to be one of those fabulous days, a day wherein a picture was taken of me for my column. And the picture was taken by a real photographer... with a real camera ...and a set and a little person who got them water. It was all very futuristic.

But I realized, that beyond my 5ft 2 demeanor…there are actually other reasons why I could and would not ever be a model.

Now I know what you are thinking, “But Kim…models get free coke!”…and dear sweet children, I know I know. In fact when the photographer asked me about photoshopping after I asked if he could get rid of my track marks. He seemed to laugh…slightly..but maybe it was more of a nervous laugh. Although I figured he must be used to getting rid of track marks all the time.

Let me get into the grit; the problem with modeling. The problem with modeling is that people tell you you are beautiful, even when you are not.

It aint all Tyra Banks screaming in your face , "I said, smile with your eyes...with YOUR EYES!..."

I was standing there, water in hand, the makeup artist staring at me. “You like, yes?” she said.

I stared at my face in the mirror, close to naked. “Umm..maybe I need a bit more shadow? I don’t really have on a lot of makeup…”

Makeup Girl- “No no, you are beautiful, you look great, you don’t need anymore, you are beautiful.”

Me – “Um ok…Well, maybe my hair should be a bit more straightened in the back and not parted directly across my face.”

Hair Girl- “No no, you look great, you look beautiful. Leave your hair as is!”

Me- “Umm ok…well maybe I shouldn’t be posing next to this 15 foot reptile covered in peanut butter ...”

Photographer -“No no you are beautiful, just stand there in the lizard’s mouth and smile…”

Well ok, so maybe there wasn't EXACTLY a lizard in the shoot…but seriously, when did people ignoring my concerns become ok as long as I was complimented?

It doesn’t work like this in reality!

Me- “Well maybe my we should double check that lump in my breast because I think that…”

Doc –“No no, you are beautiful! Who needs tests? You look great!”

This must be the problem with all models and actors. They are being lied to on a consistent basis. I enjoy being lied to as much as the next woman, but this was a little much, sometimes when I need more damn eyeshadow all I am really asking for…is more damn eyeshadow.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Manly Bike for Sale

Manly Bike for Sale
Reply to:
Date: 2008-07-22, 10:18AM

Bike for sale

What kind of bike? I don't know, I'm not a bike scientist. What I am though is a manly guy looking to sell his bike. This bike is made out of metal and kick ass spokes. The back reflector was taken off, but if you think that deters me from riding at night, you're way wrong. I practiced ninja training in Japan's mount Fuji for 5 years and the first rule they teach about ninja biking is that back reflectors let the enemy know where you are. Not having a rear reflector is like saying "FUCK YOU CAR, JUST TRY AND FIND ME".

The bike says Giant on the side because it's referring to my junk, but rest assured even if you have tiny junk that Giant advertisement is going to remain right where it is. I bought this bike for 300 dollars from a retired mercenary that fought in both World War 1 and World War 2 and had his right arm bitten off by a shark in the Phillipines while stationed there as a shark handler. When he sold it to me I had to arm wrestle him for the honor to buy it. I broke his arm in 7 places when I did.

He was so impressed with me he offered me to be his son but I thought that was sissy shit so I said no way.

The bike has some rusted screws, but that just shows how much of a bad ass you are. Everyone knows rusted screws on a bike means that you probably drove it underwater and that's bad ass in itself.

Those screws can be replaced with shiny new ones, but if you're going to go to that trouble why not just punch yourself in the balls since you're probably a dickless lizard who doesn't like to look intimidating.

The bike is for men because the seat is flat or some shit and not shaped like a dildo. If you like flat seated bikes you're going to love this thing because it doesn't try to penetrate your ass or anything.

I've topped out at 75 miles per hour on this uphill but if you're just a regular man you'll probably top it out at 10 miles per hour. This thing is listed as a street bike which is man-code for bike tank. The bike has 7 speeds in total:

Gear 1 - Sissy Gear
Gear 2 - Less Sissy Gear
Gear 3 - Least Sissy Gear
Gear 4 - Boy Gear
Gear 5 - Pre-teen Boy Gear
Gear 6 - Manly Gear
Gear 7 - Big Muscles Gear

I only like gear 6 and 7 to be honest.

Additionally, this tool of all immense men comes with a gigantic lock to keep it secure. The lock is the size of a bull's testicles and tells people you don't fuck around with locking up your bike tank. It tells would-be-thieves "Hey asshole, touch this bike and I'll appear from the bushes ready to club you with a two-by-four".

Bike is for 150 OBO (and don't give me no panzy prices)

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial

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Monday, September 8, 2008

Baby Mama Drama

There was a time, not too long ago, before Jamie Lynn Spears, before Massachusetts High Schools and before Miss Palin’s baby mama drama, when kids having kids was reserved for what many considered to be, the less fortunate. There was a time when a 16 year got pregnant that she either went to “boarding school” for nine months and came back childless with huge tits… or came back from another place childless …and I will not refer to this place by name, except to say that it might rhyme with “shmashmorshion”.

But in 2008 it seems as though we have either become devout sinless Christians, or unable to afford shmashmorshions. And in both Jamie Lynn’s and Miss Palin’s case, one would have to question both. (I mean when you name your kid Jamie Lynn, what else do you expect?)

The first time I ever assumed I was pregnant I called my friend Jay I could panic of course. I reasoned calling a guy would be better as I had enough estrogen coursing through me to steer a train right into Ovary-Ville, and the less estrogen-induced advice, the better.

I remember asking him what I would do, if I could have a child, if I could even afford a child. And of course, this is when Jay suggested the A-word. “Are girls still doing that?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He said. “It’s like cocaine. Everyone is doing it, but no one is talking about it.”

And it’s the truth. I couldn’t name a single friend of mine who had one. But maybe they have had one and I simply do not know about it? Maybe there is some secret society for these women and they are going to underground meetings where they discuss these kind of issues all the time and then watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants afterword, while chomping Midol. I could picture them all, sitting around in some basement, the walls covered in Anne Geddes posters and yaffa blocks.

When did pregnancy or the lack thereof become a non-discussable topic? Was Jay right? Was everyone having them, but no one was talking about it?

I did not end up pregnant that year. Nor have I ever ended up pregnant. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t scoured CVS before searching for the every kind of pregnancy test imaginable. The Red test. The Blue test. The ‘Are You Having the Next Jesus Christ’ test. Believe me, I have peed on them all. But I have never had to make that decision.

The hardest decision I normally have to make is whether or not to get whipped cream on my iced coffee in the mornings...because then all the Starbucks people look at you like your crazy for wanting whipped cream on an iced coffee , as well as the people behind you, clearly all now judging you and staring at your ass and thinking to themselves how your ass certainly could do without the whipped cream and then when they yell out your drink order they always forget it on top and you have to try and discreetly them AGAIN for whipped cream, as to which this time they turn to the other fucking Starbucks employees and have some kind of ‘SBucks’ fight wherein there is a whipped cream discussion all directed at me, all the while the other customers waiting for drinks are cursing out me and my stupid un-needed fat assed whip cream request…

But I digress.

Having never had to make that decision, I am not sure where the coin would fall for me. I am not sure any of us could say what we would do if put in a position like that because as they say, you don't know about the hen hole until you are directly in the hen hole...or whatever the fuck that saying is.

Unless of course you happen to be really really attractive... then I say - have the kid and give it to Janice Dickson so she can model the shit outta that baby and turn it into the first ever baby-supermodel complete with implants and tummy tuck.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

When I Grow Up

Saturday night I am sitting at one of those tables where you are not sure if you have a waitress or not to get you drinks, or if you have to go up to the bar to get your own drinks, or if you go to the bar to get your own drinks if the waitress will finally come by and scold you for having gone to the bar when clearly she is right there…it is one of my top dilemmas in life, the kind of quandary only some great Buddha sitting in a pile of leaves could possibly provide the answer to.

I choose the safest bet for getting my alcohol on time and decided to hit the bar. The blonde haired bartender stared at me from across the way. Was she going to take my drink order or what? What am I part of the 8 legged circus right now? Let’s get on it Miss Vodka Maker, go make me some vodka! But she was just standing there, staring. She finally walked over and said definitively, “I know you.”

Me: “Ah, you do?”

Starey McStare: “Yes I do.”

Me: “Ummm, I’m sorry?”

Starey McStare : “No no, you went to camp right? Camp Huckins?”

Me: "Ohh yes! Why yes I did, ahh some good memories…but what division were you? I don’t recognize you..”

Starey McStare: “Oh , I was your division… but you didn’t hang out with me.”

I just sorted nodded. Figures. All I want to get is some friggen vodka sodas and I couldn’t be bothered to hang out with McStare over here. I was probably 8 and more fascinated by how tampons worked.

She just smiled though and took my order.

One year ago prior, I had a similar experience. I was in midtown when some 5ft 11 blonde chic stopped me on the street wearing this red checkered bustier top.

Checkers: “Hey, I know you!”

Me: “No, I am not Ginger Spice from the Spice Girls…now if you will excuse me...”

Checkers: “No no no… you went to Camp Huckins right?”

Me: “Oh, um, yes, yes I did.”

Checkers: “You were a CIT when I was there.”

Me: “Oh well it was nice seeing you, I have to go get back to...”

Checkers: "Boy was I scared of you…”

Now I was the one stopping and staring.

Me: “Excuse me.. scared of me?”

Checkers: “Oh yeah…you were always the lead in every lip sync!”

The. Lead. In. Every. Lip. Sync.

Was I really hearing this correctly?

Me: “Oh, um, I was? I guess, maybe I don’t remember.”

Checkers: “Oh yeah, and you used to be in the middle of the circle in every dance party!”

The Middle. Of the Circle. In Every. Dance Party.

It was as though someone had just punched me right in my 10 year old stomach.

I tried to swallow back the vomit that was creeping up the back of my throat.

It was just getting worse and worse. In my head I was begging for Checkers to stop.

Checkers: “Oh yeah and in windsailing you used to jump off the boat to try and hit on guys on the neighboring island…”

Oh sweet chutney Lord in Heaven. Make it stop. Just make it stop.

Me: "Ok ok, you are going to have to stop… I didn’t know that I made anyone , um, scared of me, per say. I don’t remember being that way, but um, I don’t sing in leads anymore and um, I wouldn’t be scared of me now, that is for sure..”

Checkers just stood there, all 5ft 11 of her, her perfect body and bouncy blonde hair, staring at all 5ft 2 of me. I had nothing on this girl. Nor do I think I ever did. But apparently, in her mind, I was 6ft 9.

In your childhood, how do you remember if you were mean? If you were nice? If you were the lead circle dancing girl?

Do you grow up to be the exact same person you were? If you played Sandy in Grease once, will you forever be Sandy? Will you ever just get to be some lousy back-up singer, or Stage Dancer#3?

I am going to come to accept my days at Camp Huckins as days when I apparently used my formable personality to bully over girls who would later on turn into models. Funny how life works, huh? If Checkers and I had seen each other in some bar, her and her beautiful leggy blondeness would be my biggest fear.

But apparently, even after all those years, I was hers.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Judgy Wudgy Was A Bear

“He is a party-boy.” She said, staring at me from across the couch, running her blonde hair through her fingers.

“How do you know that?” I asked. “You just met him last night… he seemed fairly normal at the bar.”

Blondie: “Because I facebook’d him. I saw his pictures.”

Me: “Why did you have to do that, it just ruins it.”

Blondie: “I know, but when I saw the pictures, he was just drunk in every one of them.”

But isn’t that what Facebook photos are all about? If not to make people think we have better lives then we actually do, then what?

I was hoping that this “fake online life” craze had ended when MySpace started to go downhill. As one of my good friends put it, not switching to Facebook and staying with MySpace was like, “being the last one at that late night bar, where you are mid-dancing with your drink up in the air and suddenly you look around and realize that everyone has left.”

I know that whatever you put in your online Facebook or MySpace profile, is not the real you, but more an exaggerated, better looking version of you. If we all judged each other based on our online profiles you would think most of us had taken up residence at some Cancun foam party.

It is not as though Facebook or MySpace captures the “real” moments of my life. Moments when I am sitting at home reading- “Single Women Who Cry Every Night” -while clipping my snaggle-toe nail.

In fact I am fairly certain this boy’s drunken photos are simply a cover up for some kind of childhood abuse (I like to think positively). ..Or, as I assertively told her, to make up for, “his small penis”.

She claimed she hadn’t seen to yet to judge. That is rubbish.

Drunk frat photos are code for an alcoholic mother.

Similarly, drunk sorority photos imply abusive daddy issues.

I told her not to judge a book by its cover. And I meant it too, because this kid is hot, and who needs personality when your cover looks like Dean McDermott? No one. Not one damn person.

If she could eliminate boys now based on facebook, what is next? People eliminating each other based on some type of online “dating” site where they are forced to post pictures, bio information and whether they're single or divorced or what not? …. That sounds like crazy year 3000 talk. We are not that advanced here.

I myself, don’t go for all that online stuff. I like to judge people the old fashioned way. …by how much money they have.