Thursday, July 12, 2007

Rock the Pants Rant!

Sorry to come back from a long silence with a bitchy, bitter rant but hey, it's busy and I'm hot and cranky. (Besides, this blog needs to earn it's name!) If you'd rather avoid, you can bail now...I won't think any less of you. (I understand the need to self-preserve above all else! LOL) Otherwise, if you have the stomach for a rant, read on, read on...

Dear Boyz:

K. You're driving me crazy. And not in the pleasant Fine Young Cannibals, quasi-sexual kind of way. Sadly, you're not even close to that benchmark. No, you are driving me crazy in a "I totally want to kill you because your cluelessness and capacity for Teh Stupid is at Level Red" kind of way. And that's no good.

(Oh yes, Momma's sharpening her pitchfork for this one. Last chance to bail while you can.)

Men, in recent months, several of you have expressed to me that you will only accept a hot woman as your girlfriend. I understand this. Really, I do. Biological imperative rules your life. Genetics demands that you select only the best. Hormones force you to think about sex every nine seconds on average. (or was that every nine minutes? Nnnaaah! That totally sounds wrong!) You ogle hot women. You lust after them. You weigh and measure and gauge with your eyes...that is, until a perfectly attractive friend (who maybe weighs 100 lbs soaking wet), expresses aloud her need to go on a diet. Well then the horror and confusion and judgment gets marched out. "What?" you cry sanctimoniously, "you don't need to go on a diet. Why are you going on a diet? You're Perfectly Fine the way you are."

And yet, you won't date your Perfectly Fine Friend. Funny that. And your Hawt Girlfriends look nothing at all like your Perfectly Fine Friend. Oh my! What a coinkydink!

::rolls eyes:: Seriously. Lead (densest element known to man) practically floats compared to your heads!

Let me explain human cause and effect to your dumb asses. When you tell the world that you will only date hot women, it's a bad thing. It's not a measure of your virility or your attractiveness or your worthiness. It is the Mark of a Stupid Man. You might as well fly a red flag that reads"I's a Completely Judgmental, Insensitive Clod With NO Social Intelligence. Oh yeh baby, I's a winner!" And, correct me if I'm wrong, but won't this red flag adversely affect your sex life? The one you keep obsessing about every nine seconds or so? Advice to the clueless: Zip! It! Say nothing. We women enjoy honestly but not when it's coming from someone who's completely delusional about his resemblance to any of the cast members of Oceans 11. If the only standard you can measure up to is the Double Standard, you should run, not walk, to the nearest exit.

We women know that we are not all blessed with Teh Hawtness. We know we can't go to Starbucks and order up Teh Hawtness like one would order a latte (tall, skinny, half milk, extra hot). We KNOW this. We don't need you to tell us. Why the hell do you think we deliberately starve ourselves, exercise our bodies to exhaustion and Botox our brows into stiff submission? Because we like it? Hell, no! Because we're vain? Probably. But we're not vain in a vacuum. You're right in the middle of Teh Vain Suckage with us, complicit as can be. Don't! deny! it!!

(BTW, You should know that after a Botox treatment, we actually aren't more amazed than usual at your manhood. The fucking Botox has frozen our faces into a perpetual expression of "wow!" That's what injectable toxic matter does to your face, asshats! Enjoy it while it lasts.)

Being Hawt is a lot of work. And for some of us, putting in the work is no guarantee of attaining Hawtness. So...don't fucking judge us. Zip! It! Or else, karma will bite you in your rather large and overly hairy ass and make you it's bitch one day. And we'll cheer when that happens because nobody loves a loudmouthed SmartyMcNastypants who thinks he's witty (not) and forthright (not!) and deserving (oh, SO the hell NOT!).

You know I'm right. It's already happening...karma has struck insidiously...like a slow, dripping poison. I know you've seen them: the waxed and oiled lithe boy-men with the killer six pack abs in the magazine ads. They're the crest of the slippery slope. Your cash – the once useful enticement for the less discerning woman? Totally useless if you can't Bend it Like Beckham. The sad truth is already here: if you can't rock the pants, you will most assuredly not be rocking the headboards. Yes. You SHOULD be panicking. And doing a ridiculous number of ab crunches. And nibbling delicately on the salad (with dressing on the side) to stave off the hunger. Welcome to our world, bitches. Hope you enjoy your stay.