Posts Tagged ‘Lame dudes’

48 Hours

Monday, August 18th, 2008


Here’s one of my key dating rules: If I give you my number, use it within 48 hours or lose it. Plain and simple. Leave it longer than that and I will have lost interest.

 

A few weeks ago, I met a guy called Greg when I was waiting for the streetcar. He struck up a conversation with me. Ahh, finally, I thought, a man with balls. As we know, men with good testicular action are a rare breed in this here land of Toronto. He was a fine looking man too. I’m talking 6 feet 4 inches of straight out of GQ magazine fineness. And lets face it, a pretty face always holds attention longer. Even though he wasn’t initially going in my direction, he boarded the streetcar with me and rode along Queen street to my destination. He waited with me until my friend came. As we stood outside the bar, conversing, he finally got around to asking for my number. Sure! I said, as I waited for him to pull his phone out. Nothing.

 

‘Do you have a phone?’
‘Yes, just not with me,’ he said.
‘Ooookkkkkk. Do you have a pen?’
‘No.’
‘You really didn’t think this through, did you?’
‘Just tell me your number, I have a really good memory.’

 

This was warning sign number one. There was no way Mr GQ was going to remember my number. I knew there was a catch to him being that fine. I told him it, kissing the numbers goodbye as they left my mouth and drifted into the night air. My friend came and Mr GQ left to go about his original plans for the night. Obviously, I was never going to hear from him again.

 

My standard 48 hours came and went, along with my interest. Then, the following Saturday, a full week after the initial meeting, my phone rang. It was a blocked number. I have major issues with people calling me from blocked numbers, which I won’t go into here, but if you’re the kind of person who does that, you may as well change your name to Shady Shadester from Shadesville. Anyhoo, I answer the phone, already pissed off, to hear some guy with a weird voice saying ‘it’s John!’.

 

‘I don’t know anybody called John,’ I say.
‘John! I met you last week,’ this ‘John’ insists.
‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken because I don’t know a John.’ I’m less interested in this conversation and more intrigued with the notion that I may be the only person on the planet who doesn’t know anyone called John.

 

Then the voice changes. ‘I’m just kidding, it’s Greg,’ he says.

 

I had zero desire to continue this exchange with this psychopath. Who pretends they’re someone else the first time they call you? I’ll tell you who; a jealous freak who wants to know if you gave your number out to anyone else the night you met him. Frankly, I could have given my number to twenty dudes that night (except for the fact that there aren’t 20 dudes in Toronto with balls enough to ask me for it) and it would have been none of GQ’s business.

 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, he tried to get over the awkwardness of that by spending the rest of the conversation asking if many guys hit on me the night he met me.

 

Umm, how about we fast forward a few months and wait till we’re actually in a relationship before you start acting like a jealous, possessive boyfriend?

 

Clearly, in this case, even if he had called in my 48 hour zone, we were never destined to make it to the first date. But one thing is for sure – it is frikkin’ amazing that he remembered my number.

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Oh No He Di-ent!

Sunday, August 10th, 2008


Shocking news folks. John Edwards, the one-time vice presidential hopeful, cheated. And he lied about it. Shocker! So, basically, he’s just a regular dude. (What is shocking, however, is the fact that the National Enquirer wrote a story that wasn’t complete horse shit.)

 

I have a couple of gripes with Edwards though. I’m not even going to focus on the complete pussy maneuver of finally confessing to the affair on Nightline, on the opening day of the olympics, when everyone was either in bed, or watching some sort of first round air rifle contest, that they didn’t even realise was a sport until they tuned in to Beijing.

 

Instead, I think Edwards just needs a little re-education on the English language. And I think this will help out the great many other ‘men’ who cheat on their chicks.

 

John boy – you kept referring to your affair as a ‘mistake’. It was not a mistake. Buying Nacho Cheese flavoured Nachos when you meant to buy Cool Ranch – that’s a mistake. Sticking your penis in a woman other than your wife of 30 years – that’s a calculated decision. At least man-up enough to admit that you were not happy in your marriage, another woman showed you a bit of attention and rather than having an ounce of moral dignity, you chose to be led by your dick into the arms (and various other regions) of another woman. But don’t refer to it as a ‘mistake’.

 

You also made reference to the fact that ‘being 99% honest was no longer good enough’ and that’s why you finally told the truth. Alright, clearly, we need a little work on percentages here too. For months on end you have categorically denied this affair. So, you weren’t being anywhere close to honest, never mind 99%. You were, however, telling 100% lies. There are no degrees of honesty. Either you tell the truth, or you don’t. You didn’t and over here in the real world, we call that ‘lying’.

 

To the wife – saying you’re ‘proud of the courage he’s shown in the face of shame’? Bitch, please! Are you kidding me? There is nothing courageous about a man who cheats. It’s the least courageous thing anyone can do. Please don’t give him a pat on the back for being such a good boy when he is completely backed into a corner and has no choice but to admit that he fucked up. Kudos to you for being so ladylike about this whole thing, but I hope to hell you put his nuts in a vice and tightened it behind closed doors.

 

As for the whole, who-fathered-the-child situation, I think we all know there’s only one man who can settle this: Maury Povich. Maury has found countless babydaddies. Edwards, his wife and the mistress should all go on there. When they put the pictures of the baby and Edwards side by side, Edwards can bitch about how the baby looks nothing like him (because, according to the Maury Povich guest book of logic, all babies must look like their fathers). When Edwards is told he IS the father, the mistress can get all up in his face, screaming how she told him she was right all along. Or if Maury says he IS NOT the father, he can get up, do a dance and a back flip, like the classy guy he is and bitch the mistress out about how he told her so.

 

Either way, Mr Edwards, you should be counting your lucky stars that your wife, has chosen to spend her remaining time on earth (however long that may be, due to her inoperable breast cancer) sticking by your low life side.

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Things Which Must Stop – The Men's Hairstyle Edition

Wednesday, August 6th, 2008

 

The Faux Hawk


When I see a guy with this hairstyle, it’s kind of like seeing a dude who still shaves lines in his eyebrow: they still do that?
This style has become the international symbol for ‘wanker’ at this point. You know what’s hard about being a British person abroad? It’s that any trend that’s in North America now, we did in England five years ago. When it originated, this style was called the ‘Hoxton Fin’ because a bunch of dudes from the Hoxton region of East London thought they were hot shit while rocking it. From then, you couldn’t escape it. Every second dude had it; grown men, teens, kids, babies, even David Beckham. But you know what? It’s over now bitches. Retire it asap. Just shave your head already. I’ll even lend you my bikini trim ‘n’ shape to do it if you like.

 

 

The Ponytail


If you’re a young guy and you have a ponytail, here’s what you’re putting out to the world: I’m young, I’m (registered) in school (but rarely attend classes) studying botony (abusing my student discount left, right and centre). I spend my weekends (and the rest of my week) drinking excessively, playing Nintendo, avoiding showers and untying and retying my straggly mane in this dumb ass ponytail. I smoke a whole lot of weed and have no goals or aspirations in life. I will only cut this ponytail off when either a) my mother forces me to because I’m an usher at my sister’s wedding or b) my girlfriend, who I met at a comic convention, is threatening to leave me and I don’t want to die alone.

 

If you’re an old guy and you have a ponytail, here’s what you’re putting out to the world: I’m having a midlife crisis. My red convertible corvette is parked around the corner. I may be balding on top, but there’s still a party going on in the back. I have erectile dysfunction, but hark at my marvelous head of hair!

 

Either way, chop it off. It looks gross.

 

 

The Peroxide Blonde Crop


Fellas, lets face it; dyed peroxide blonde hair can really only be pulled off by gay go go dancers. In fact, any kind of dye, be it highlights, lowlights, semi-demi permanent, rinse out after 10 washes, should really be left to the gays. No chick likes a guy who spends longer than her to get ready and if I ever hear any man I’m with utter the words ‘sorry baby, I can’t meet up today. I have a two o’clock with Fabio to touch up my lowlights’, it might just send me over the edge.

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Canadian Men Have No Balls

Tuesday, August 5th, 2008


Having lived in various countries, I observe the behaviours of this curious species called ‘men’ and have concluded that the gonads of the Canadian male have shriveled up and cease to exist.

 

What happened to a man seeing a girl he likes, taking the initiative, approaching her, chit chatting for a while and asking for her number? And then actually engaging their index finger, dialing the number and asking for a date?

 

With the men in London, all of the above has been completed in a swift ten minute transaction. With men in New York, all of the above has been completed in a swift 15 second transaction. Alright, so 9.5 times out of ten, they don’t get the number or the date, but at least they have stones enough to bloody ask.

 

Canadian dudes don’t seem to be able to get it together enough to do that.

 

I was at a club on friday night, looking hot and shaking my groove thing on the dance floor (at least, I was trying to, without getting knocked the hell out by some rhythmless white folk). I spotted some guy checking me out across the room. I checked back a few seconds later and he was still giving me the eye fuck. Then I checked back a couple of minutes later and he was just doing the creepy stare. In London or New York, we woulda already been doing the hustle on the dance floor.

 

Eventually, I saw the guy coming in my direction. ‘Here we go’, I thought. But I forgot for a second that I was dealing with a gonad-deficient Canadian. Rather than come and grab me in a manly way and sway with me to the beat, he just lurked awkwardly in my vicinity, watching me. He did a whole lap around me, the entire time trying to pretend that he wasn’t really there because of me. I could see the cogs turning in his head about what he was going to say to me. And then the big moment came. He two- stepped closer to me, leaned in and said:

 

‘Do you come here often?’

 

In my mind, the DJ scratched the record and everything stopped. Seriously? That was his conversation opener? But not to be outdone by the corniness of his first line, he followed it up with:

 

‘Are you from around here?’

 

I smiled as politely as I could. Clearly, this was difficult for him. He introduced himself. His name was Andrew, a fitting name considering Andrew is probably the most boring male name there ever was. (No offense to all the Andrews out there. Well, actually, yes, extreme offense to all the Andrews out there. It’s a boring name. Deal with it.)

 

Andrew swiftly ran out of things to say and awkwardly two-stepped away from me, merging back into a crowd of flailing limbs.

 

He came back a couple of times and tried out a few other lines, which all made time stand still and made me question the very validity of the English language. Then, just when I thought I was safe, he came with the one-two punch:

 

‘Well, I think we’re leaving now. You should call me sometime.’

 

Oh really? I should call you? Yeah, I’ll get right on it, but how about you just try my vagina on for size first – I think it’ll be a good fit on you.

 

Bitch please! Of all the bitch ass moves to pull. He had embarrassed himself numerous times that night with his lame chat up lines. How much more embarrassing would asking for my number be?

 

Ball-less men of Canada, I appeal to you – GROW A SET!

 

Even if you do get rejected, so frikkin’ what? Who cares? I appreciate it’s not easy to approach women and we send confusing signals, we all want different things, blah, blah, blah. But seriously, live a little. Take the risk. And if you do actually bite the bullet, the object of your desire will relate to her friends what huge balls you have for doing so. And every girl likes a guy with huge balls.

 

Viva la balls!

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Wanted: Gentlemen

Tuesday, July 15th, 2008


I’m tired of having doors slammed in my face. No, I’m not talking about my search for the perfect job. I’m talking about men not holding doors open for women anymore. What the hell happened to chivalry? That motherbitch has died a cruel, cruel death.

 

There have been many occasions recently where men had the opportunity to step up and actually behave properly and they have failed on each count.

 

Has it really become too much for them to hold a door open, or help us to carry something that is clearly too heavy? And I can’t stand their excuse that feminism has killed the whole thing and the last time they held a door open, the woman chewed them out because she could do it for herself. Bitch please! I’ve never heard of a woman who doesn’t like a bit of door holding. And either way, you should take the chance. You’re a man, for God’s sake – you were put here to get chewed out by women, deal with it!

 

A few days ago, I (because I have good manners) held a door open for a man who was older than me (and I only point that out because he wasn’t part of my generation who have no clue what manners or chivalry are, he was well into his 50s ie. old enough to know better). This wasn’t me going through the door and him coming right after. He was actually a way behind me, but I could see he was headed for the exit so I waited and held the door open. Did I get so much as a thank you? Did he even acknowledge my presence? Hell no. Cheeky bastard. ‘You’re welcome’ I said, as he strode right past me. (I added ‘you wanker’ under my breath).

 

A couple of days after that, I had to go to pick up some boxes that had been shipped to me. Four large, heavy boxes of my belongings. The guy at the depot got them from the back and plunked them on the counter, then got right back to his conversation with his coworker. I hung around for a good 30 seconds to see if he could figure out the equation of 1 me + 4 large boxes + lifting = never gonna happen. Apparently not. I lugged each box, one at a time, out to the cab (to a cab driver, who also didn’t offer to help). When it got to the last box, which was far too heavy for me to lift, I asked the guy behind the counter if he could kindly lend a hand and he got right on it. And even though I was pretty pissed that he’d watched me carry the first three without offering assistance, I made sure to fall over myself heaping praise on him and his oh, so manly muscles (because he seemed like a simpleton who’d appreciate that shit), just so that he’d realize how much some box lifting means to us ladies. Hopefully next time he’ll actually offer rather than waiting to be asked.

 

So for any guys reading this, lets just take a moment to reeducate you:

 

Holding the door open for a lady = good

 

Letting a door slam in a lady’s face, smashing her face to smithereens and not even offering to drive her to the hospital = bad

 

Lifting boxes that are clearly too heavy for a lady = good

 

Letting a lady permanently damage her back struggling to lift a box = bad

 

Giving your seat on the bus up for a pregnant lady = good

 

Being a complete asshole, playing your Game Boy and ignoring a pregnant woman in need of a sit down = bad

 

See, it’s not that hard right? Believe me, we actually do appreciate it when you act like gentlemen. So try do it a little more often.

 

Thank you please!

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The 10 Guys You'll Meet in a Club

Monday, June 23rd, 2008


It’s rare that I go out clubbing these days. I got all that out of my system when I was 18. But every now and then, I have an uncontrollable urge to go out and back my thang up. Invariably, these occasions only serve to remind me why I stopped going to clubs in the first place. Saturday night, I went out and it occurred to me, that every time I go out, I meet a variation of the guys below. You may even recognize some yourself.

 

The ‘I’m not going to hit on you’ guy


He opens the conversation with that disclaimer and then proceeds to hit on you, roughly every 30 seconds. He doesn’t realize that his weak line didn’t lure you into that false sense of security he was hoping for. The jedi mind trick didn’t work. You are onto him. And you will not be fooled. You are aware that he is totally hitting on you.

 

The ugly good looking guy


Somehow he didn’t get the memo that nature was not too kind to him. He has all the arrogance of a good looking guy and a face like a cobbler’s thumb. He’s quite the enigma. While you spend your time trying to figure out how this smurf even got the balls to talk to a diva like yourself, he hits on you so hard, it’s like a UFC championship.

 

The newly single guy


He seemed to have mistaken the club for his psychiatrists office. You have no idea why he singled you out to vent on, but he does it nonetheless. ‘I’ve been single a month and a half now’, he starts by saying. You may as well get comfy, because he’s not going to shut up for quite some time. Around the five minute mark, expect the picture of the kids to be pulled from his pocket. Try not to roll your eyes.

 

The dancer guy


He’s taking up the most room on the dance floor, only to showcase his movement repertoire of crip walking and the butterfly – which would be fine, if it was still 1997. The crowd that has formed around him is more in morbid disbelief, but he thinks he’s a member of the Rock Steady Crew in Beat Street.

 

The completely egocentric wanker guy


His ego knows no bounds. You are repulsed by him, but only stay in his presence because it’s like some sort of nature wildlife show. You study him to figure out exactly why he thinks he’s the shit. You put some of his sweat in a petri dish and send it off to the lab. The results come back and conclude, 100%, that he is part of an ever growing society of males known as ‘wankers’.

 

The grinder guy


His reasoning for doing this is far beyond comprehension, but this guy will grab your waist from behind (often times without taking the time to introduce himself) and start grinding himself against you. While he gets aroused, you get disgusted and spend 30 uncontrollable seconds trying to pry yourself from his vice-like grip. If all else fails, your wing girl steps in and sucker punches him.

 

The short guy


The fact that you are at least 7 inches taller than him doesn’t deter the short guy. He’s quite content to maintain a conversation with your breasts, apparently completely unaware that they don’t talk back.

 

The racially confused guy


This guy outright refuses to believe that he’s white. He wears baggy jeans, a new era cap and some sort of LRG sweatshirt. He’s most likely a budding rapper/producer/nightclub promoter that you’ve never heard of, but he thinks he’s the hottest thing in town. He’ll refer to you as ‘ma’ throughout your conversation. You spend your time being embarrassed for him.

 

The Rastafarian guy


Any club you go to, there’s always one rastafarian in the corner, usually by himself. He nurses a few drinks throughout the night and says ‘ay gyal’ to anything with breasts that walks by. He’s cool, calm and collected until the ‘ragga’ portion of the evening, when he lets loose and hits the dance floor. Beware of flying dreads.

 

The ‘shoulda left the club hours ago’ guy


This guy isn’t just drunk. He’s verging on being in a coma. He’ll try to talk to you but the combination of loud music and his slurring makes you question if he’s even speaking English. He’s sweaty, he spits, he sways – he’s all around gross. He should have called it a day after two drinks, but he stuck around to give everyone the pleasure of seeing exactly how drunk he can get. By the time the night’s over, he’ll have violated at least two girls, gotten in a fight and puked all over himself.

 

So with this wealth of beauties to choose from, is it any wonder I don’t hit up the clubs that much any more?

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Oh Please

Friday, December 14th, 2007

Back in June, I went to New York to see my good friend, The Koom, for a weekend of good times.

 

The night I arrived we went out to shake a leg at a couple of parties. We met up with a friend of hers. He promptly introduced me to a friend of his, who we’ll call Beef Cake.

 

Beef Cake was easy on the eye, tall and muscular. We chatted, He seemed nice enough, though a little too touchy feely (he virtually had me in a choke hold all night to make sure no other guys talked to me). We exchanged numbers, which all seemed a little pointless since I was only in town for the weekend, but there was talk of the group of us going out again at some point during my stay.

 

For one reason or another, we didn’t meet up again. When I got back to Toronto, we exchanged a few emails, just pleasantries really, nothing deep and meaningful. Then, sooner rather than later, I lost interest and couldn’t be bothered with the upkeep. It seemed the feeling was mutual, as I didn’t hear from him either.

 

Then a few weeks ago, I received this email:

 

Hey sexy. Do you remember me? Beef Cake that you met in NY? [Redacted’s] boy? So how have you been? I know it has been a while since we spoke. To be honest with you, I was dating someone when we met. I thought you were attractive and wanted to get to know you better, but I stopped to be faithful and do the right thing by my girl at the time.

Now I am single though, and I have been thinking about you and was wondering if I could see you some time soon. Are you still making regular trips to NYC?

Well I hope that all is well with you and I look forward to hearing from you soon. Have a wonderful day!!!

Beef Cake


Oh, where to begin?

 

I didn’t bother to respond because the whole thing is way too deep in the realm of douche for me to continue the dialogue, but these were my thoughts:

 

- Thanks for being so honest with me, months after the fact, that you had a girlfriend. Shame you didn’t think to mention it when your hand was on my ass, uninvited.

- The extremely delayed nature of this email leads me to believe that you’ve been through your entire Rolodex attempting to get laid with no luck. So you resorted to someone who lives across the border. Yikes, times must really be hard. (Oh and if you actually own a Rolodex, you’re too old for me anyway).

- Umm, yeah, I live in Canada. It’s a pretty long distance booty call you’re attempting to pull off here.

- Did you call me ‘Sexy’ because you can’t remember my name? That’s how much time has passed.

- If I was going to New York soon, you really wouldn’t be anywhere near my agenda.

- If I’m not good enough to leave your girlfriend for – screw you! I play second fiddle to no one my friend – I AM the band

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