Thursday, September 23, 2004
DO THE HERKY JERKY!
You know, it amazes me how much of an asswipe I have to be to get anywhere with women. I don't usually feel bad about it, but sometimes the idea of having to treat a woman like crap just to nail her is such a turn off. Oh well...
This blog needs a shot of testosterone. Here's a story about laying down the law for your male readers.
There's this girl I know. One of those real frigid/uptight/scholastic types. I call her up and say "let's go to dinner." She says "where?" I suggest a few places. As with most chicks, she doesn't know where she wants to eat, what time to leave, or anything else. I'll ask once to give her a chance to make a choice. But the minute I get "I don't know" then I step up to the plate. I don't have time for that bullshit. Anyway, I set the time, place and all that. I pick her up. We go out and eat...and both pay our own way... We talk for quite some time and I have her smiling and laughing all night.
I drive back to her place. I tell her I'm coming up...and she gives me this funny look that's like "Well, I didn't ask you, but it's intriguing that you made the assumption, so please come fuck me." We go up to her apartment. I try to kiss her and she pulls this "I've got a boyfriend" shit. I just looked at her like she was an idiot. She apologizes, so I proceed. We kiss. She tries to stop me again from doing anything else. I don't have time for THAT bullshit either, so out the door I go. I get back to my place, pick up the phone...and go back out. I hang out for a while, then return to my place. Sure enough, there's a light blinking away on my machine. "Tyler, I'm sorry about everything. Blah blah blah..." I pick up the phone and call her. She starts trying to apologize. I say "Look. Don't apologize. I don't want to hear apologies. You want to be over here, and I want you to be over here. You know it, and I know it. So spare me the words, and do something about it. Don't talk to me again until you're at my front door. Bye." And who do you think shows up at my door 30 minutes later?
We get to it right off the bat. This girl must've not been laid in YEARS or something, cause she's acting like a psycho. It was like trying to fuck an out of control wind up toy. Plus, she was into being my personal slut. Still is, for that matter. She's about an 8 in my book.
The next morning, I made her breakfast and we went for a walk. That might be a bit lame, I don't know. But my policy is to treat women right until they start bullshit (95% the time). That way they know that they can't get away with anything, but stand to gain everything. I've yet to be dumped from doing this.
Point is guys, you've gotta institute the ZERO-TOLERANCE policy for BULLSHIT. This, of course, is old news. But I just thought I'd share this story as a reminder. WOMEN ARE TESTING YOU EVERY GODDAMNED STEP OF THE WAY TO THE BEDROOM. Don't put up with ANY bullshit. That's how you pass 90% of these tests.
And, try to seduce a real intellectual type. They turn RED FUCKING HOT in the sack. Sweet Jesus...
You devilish cad, you! So sly and suave. It's no wonder you're knee-deep in the poontang 24-7.
Luckily, I have a fail-proof method for weeding out policy wonks like yourself. Listen up, girlies! What I do is, I serve up a heaping plate of bullshit immediately, advertising my flaws, getting real wishy-washy, trotting out deep-seated insecurities, perhaps even launching into a detailed exploration of my psychosocial background and notable emotional El Guapos. Then, I like to turn the tables and snarl a little, make a few surprise attacks, throw out some stinging insults. Sometimes it helps if I do the freak-girl dance while I'm getting mean - it's a little bit confusing to the uninitiated. Finally, I wrap it all up with a self-righteous monologue of my choosing. A few of my favorites:
1. Why Do People Always Say They're Looking For A Mate Who Doesn't Have Any "Issues"? Everyone Worth Their Salt Has Issues.
2. Smart Women Are Dismantled By Their Own Complexity, Because They Feel The World Wants Them to Keep Things Simple and Concise (Which It Does) And They Can't, And Sometimes This Makes Them Cry And Then They're Instantly Known As "Psycho Chicks." But Girls, Don't Waste Time On Anyone Who Isn't Interested In Your Dark Underbelly (That's Most People) Because There Are Men Who Can And Will Listen and Love You (Mostly Theoretical), Or At Least There Are Nice Dogs Who Will Listen, Particularly If You Happen To Be Eating Some Cheezits At The Time.
3. Tell Me To Look On The Bright Side And Feast Upon a Light Lunch of Knuckle Sandwiches. In American Culture, False Cheer Is The Norm So We'll All Keep Gobbling Down Combo Fajita Platters And Shopping At Sizzlin' Summer Sales. No One Wants Us At Home, In Our Five-Year-Old Fashions, Crying Into Our Homemade Soup. But Sadness Is A Big Part of Happiness, Damn It! Hey, Grab Me A Beer While You're Up.
So far, my Sizzlin' Combo Bullshit Platter is working out just fine: Men looking for some quick, no-hassle take-out poon are immediately turned off, as are men with psycho-chick paranoia, men who prefer dignified ladies, men who recognize that anyone who discusses their issues without provocation is probably trouble, (gentle) men who prefer blondes, men who don't dig women who talk quite so much, men who were with me up until the freak-girl dance, at which point they imagined me doing the same dance in their kitchens at 4 p.m. on a Sunday (as well they should) and it made them feel a little tired and distant, men who don't like women who are complex in an obnoxious way, men who don't like crying or talk of crying, men who don't like the sound of the words "dark underbelly," men who don't like women who talk about dogs too much, men who don't like women who break out into song and dance without provocation, and men who love all of the above but who, sadly, have the tendency to have sex with other men.
See how it works? You dish up the truth, scare them all off, and then you're left to enjoy a cold beer in peace. Week 10: The childless whore continues to thrive, undaunted!
Anyway, best of luck bedding those red-hot frigid types you can't stand!
Friday, September 17, 2004
HOT DAMN, CRACKER-ASS WHITE-ASS HONKY BITCH-ASS BITCHES!
Here's a response from the much-maligned, dying-inside SR. Turns out, he's the guy known around the tri-state area as Fat Man, used in sentences such as, "Rabbit, you and Fat Man would get along well." and "I can see Rabbit and Fat being fast friends, can't you, Frog?" To which I replied, "That's really strange, because I always imagined myself settling down someday with a guy whose nickname is 'Fat'..."
See how it's better not to know anything at all about me, honkies? I agree. I wish I knew less about me myself.
So let's see, Fats. What can I say? First of all, getting drunk and showing people pictures of your dog is no big fucking crime. What you really didn't like was the way she blamed you for everything that was wrong in her life. Ahhh, yeah, you like that, huh? You like how I see right through you, don't you, little rugmunchkin? Ah, well, too bad you can't bask in the glory of my contempt 24-7, Fat Boy.
And speaking of "can't," is "can't" the original c-word, or isn't it? Get as drunk as you like and show people pictures of your sister's dogs, for all I care. I'll look at pictures of dogs or children or hairy a-holes at any time of the day, drunk or not. You got a picture of something? Let's see it, dipshit.
And look, don't talk to me like I'm some cowering tulip. I talk about what I talk about, and then I talk about stuff I should never have mentioned, and then I'm far too honest about fifty million other fucked-up things. That's why I discussed, on this here blog, how I notice that when I talk about certain things, certain people cringe. I was just describing what happens, which I probably shouldn't have, along with the tens of thousands of other things I shouldn't have mentioned. No new news. For example, for some odd reason, people cringe over little bits of evidence that I'm a childless whore. Fact. Did I say I'd been walking around discussing wallpaper patterns instead? Nay, Lil' Fats. I did not.
Enough fighting. I love you, Fat. You're my one true desire. Quit getting falling-down drunk and let's move someplace where they still get big old thunderstorms. We can grow old and crusty together out on the porch, sipping on sweaty beers and eating really good cheese.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
BALLAD OF THE CHILDLESS WHORE
"the thirty-something childless whore who loves her dog a little too dearly"
I hope that's the saddest thing I read this year, I don't know how much more I can take. I've known you were nuts for sometime now, but Jeebus, sister, get it together.
While I won't dispute having lost my Bavarian Creme doughnuts decades ago, the whole point of that little address to my gentle honky friends was that, contrary to popular belief and to my fears spanning the last decade, it feels goddamn good to be a thirty-something childless whore who loves her dog a little too dearly.
I just don't see why the words "thirty-something," "childless," "whore," and "dog lady" would prejudice you so completely that you'd utterly miss the point of the entire passage and instead, paint some sad little picture of a thirty-something childless whore who loves her dog a little too dearly.
Do you really think a thirty-something childless whore who loves her dog a little too dearly and isn't happy would talk about being a thirty-something childless whore who loves her dog a little too dearly? Let me be very clear: She wouldn't. And, shameless as I am, I would never, ever do that. I might talk about being unhappy at some point, but I would never, ever, ever do it in the context of being a thirty-something childless whore. The neatly categorized tend to dislike stigmatizing their unhappiness. Luckily, I'm happy, so I can openly discuss being old and childless and a whore. Yum!
Here's the thing, butt-white maggots: Women over thirty can't talk about the big picture or where they are in their lives with men. I mean, of course we can't talk about marriage or children in the abstract, but we also can't talk about picking out carpeting for the spare room or catching a cold or the color of the sky today or lima beans. We open our mouths for one second about, I don't know, going to the dog park, and the next thing you know the guy's picturing a sad little woman eating pork 'n' beans out of the can on her couch in front of the TV set. You know, her hair's in a knot, she's all hunched over, she's wearing dirty socks, her lower back is propped up by a pillow, and occasionally she stops and picks a bean out and feeds it to her dog?
Let me just set the record straight. First of all, I was really hungry that night. Second, I'm not saying we can't discuss these things with the men we're interested in or wouldn't mind sleeping with. I'm saying we can't talk about anything with any men without making them cringe a little and wonder how desperate and sad we are. Do you have any idea how surreal it is to go from being a little depressed in a relationship to being happy and swingle, but everyone assumes that you must be miserable, since you're an old, swingle woman? Third, most of us thirty-something childless whores want to have kids about as much as we want to regrout our bathtubs. We slide quickly from enthusiasm to indifference to distaste. That said, naturally we're armed with the knowledge that, if we did prefer to give birth to our very own custom-made children, we should probably do it within the next, say, 4 years. This knowledge is enormously inconvenient. Consequently, in order to keep myself from rushing into some compromising domestic picture with Mr. Wrong, I keep a picture of a pretty little Mandarin Chinese girl in my wallet.
No, I don't! See, you totally believed that, you cracker-ass fuckmunches.
Anyway, I don't expect anyone to believe I'm happy, since it's crystal clear to the universe that a thirty-something childless whore could never, ever be happy. I understand that the whole notion of happy thirty-something childless whores threatens the social structure. Who are these happy childless whores? Where are they? Are they marauding and looting in herds? What do their asses look like?
Ah, whatever. I know we thirty-something childless whores aren't so important in the big scheme of things. It just busts my buttons when people don't trust that I'm happy when I say I am. And what if I were sad? What the hell is wrong with being sad? Why should sad people be urged to "get it together"? When I'm really happy, I have the courage to lean into my sadness when it comes up. This is how we experience our existence in full color, instead of settling for black and white, fearfully corralling each unexpected incident into little boxes, summing up complicated emotions up with dogma and cheerful clichés, cloaking ourselves behind pat summaries and stiff drinks, urging each other to "get it together"? To that I say BAH! BAH! to pat summaries and black and white. Open up and let the full range of colors and emotions and chaos into your motherfucking lives for once, before you run out of time and look back and see how you cringed and sank away from every single thing that looked vaguely distasteful or big or scary or sad or larger than life or too good to be true.
This isn't about you, SR, it's just about something small you wrote in passing. Although... now that I reread your letter, I do think I'll go ahead and take a flying leap and suggest that you have a lot of sadness that you're not letting in, and until you do so, you won't really be happy.
Whoop, there it is! Free advice! The doctor is IN! Come to think of it, Lucy from "Peanuts" is the original thirty-something childless whore poster child.
I love you, gentle maggots. Never forget that. Go forth and fail gloriously.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
GEE, OUR OLD LASALLE RAN GREAT!
I have the quietest neighbors in the world. Today, the quietest neighbors in the world are blasting Que Buena!, Spanish radio on KBUA 94.3 FM. It's bringing me back to my days living on 20th and Guerrero in San Francisco. You probably don't remember this, sweet cracker-ass whities, but back then, the Mission was inhabited largely by Mexican immigrants, and about 20 of them lived in the apartment next door to me and played loud Spanish pop radio at all hours of the night. The little kids would sing along to every word. Everyone sounded really relaxed and happy, and even the five-year-olds got to stay up past midnight.
Of course, since I'm a loser who doesn't speak Spanish, I had no fucking idea what the hell they were all laughing and chattering about, and sometimes, when I was in a terrible mood and trying to sleep, I imagined that they were discussing plans to deep-fry the cat. See how ignorance plus a shitty attitude breeds suspicion? Every war ever waged boils down to such trivial misunderstandings and racist confusion. They were really friendly, though, plus I paid $300 a month in rent.
Ah, $300 in rent! The luxury of that! I lived with two really funny guys who smoked lots of pot and made really good snacks and watched "Law and Order" marathons a lot. Thooose were the days!
God, do I miss Truly Mediterranean, home of the only really delicious, perfect falafel in the universe. OK, theoretically some delicious falafels exist in the actual Mediterranean, but I know nothing of such things, and don't care to speculate. We're talking about the known universe, i.e. the universe known to me.
You know, that's really all we ever talk about around here, huh? MY known universe. After spending the weekend with a crazy French girl who's also an international journalist, her hilarious journalist/rocker husband (who, thankfully, still needs help styling his hair), a swaggering war photographer/speech writer, plus about 100 other human beings with equally inquisitive minds and hauntingly impressive, weird jobs, I've come to believe that my little cavewoman existence needs to change. Half of those fuckers met in Prague and Budapest, and they all seem to have their own quirky little rock bands.
What's wrong with me? I have to stop dredging up the contents of my tiny head and start seeing the world. Maybe I could do an "I Like To Watch" tour of international television... I hear Hungarian reality TV is really something to write home about.
But something tells me a world tour might topple my current bionic schedule, which I'm not sticking to anyway. You knew that I wouldn't, right? Good, I'm glad we're beginning to really understand each other.
What? I don't understand you? I don't have time to understand you, OK? I'm incredibly busy and important and I've got lots of... TV to watch.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
I just started a brand new bionic (what does that mean?) schedule that involves awaking at 4 am and writing all of the fine Rabbit-branded literature you've come to know and love until noon, at which point I'll probably feel idle and slightly depressed. A good time for a nap, no? Then we walk the dog, then we paint something in the house, like the kitchen cabinets maybe, then we go back to work for a few hours, which in my case means watching three or four hours of television. Jealous? Yeah, I thought you'd probably be jealous, you sad little cracker bitches.
Then, at around 8 pm, I start my nightly ablutions (I love that goddamn word), let the dog out, and climb into bed with a nice book. That's right, I'm going to read! What? Don't give me that look, I do too read. Or I will be reading, thanks to my brand new bionic schedule. Then, after my dog finally stops glaring at me for making her go to sleep at such a pussy hour, we sleep, maybe by around 9 pm.
Then I awake at 4 am, totally rested and refreshed and ready to write more of the fine Rabbit-branded literature you crave!
Now, I know what you're thinking. "That won't fucking work." "To bed by 9 pm? What about 'America's Next Top Model'?" "When did she get a dog? Just how out of the loop are we?" "As long as she updates the goddamn blog occasionally, I don't care if she paints herself bright green and plays in traffic."
See how I read your motherfucking minds, crackers?
And I'll admit, my plan is a little bit ambitious, particularly since it entails going to bed at 9 pm, which I don't do, and sleeping only 7 hours, even though I whine like a hungry dog when I don't get a full 8. But in my experience, as long as you're asleep by 10:30 pm, you don't actually need more than 7 hours of sleep. For a brief time, I managed a 10 pm-5 am sleep schedule, and it rocked. That was back in February of 2002, also known as the Golden Era of Rabbitblogdom among blog scholars. Coinkydinker? Nay, my friend.
The other added benefit of my new schedule is that it will completely obliterate my ability to sink into another semi-long-term relationship. That's right, gentle honkies, I'm swingle again! Back on the open market, where my value seems to be skyrocketing, at least after a few drinks when I appear to the assembled vultures to have lost my ability to make rational decisions. No matter! I intend to stay swingle indefinitely. I've abandoned my 10-year obsession with domesticity for the thriving, productive life of the dog lady! That's right, lil' crackers, I've been dreading this fate for 10 long years, the thirty-something childless whore who loves her dog a little too dearly. But now I'm here and goddamn it, it's good! Why didn't I abandon myself to this doomed state a decade ago? Think of the hours I wasted in couples therapy, chewing on complicated reactive states, when I could've been writing circular bullshit for you lily-white vermin! I may have wasted time on the desolate landscape of serial monogamy, but at least I've arrived in the lush paradise of singularity at last. Mmm, it smells nice here! A little musky, maybe. We swingles don't shower much.
Anyway, wish me luck with my new overachieving schedule, fair honkies, for if I succeed, the rabbit blog will once again be a thing of great beauty - as opposed to, say, a lonely, featureless nowhereland populated by sentimental losers.