The Worst of Online Dating: “Wanna Bang & Have Mutual Meals?” PART DEUX

You may remember a recent post about a particularly brazen gentlemen who recently sent me a message about becoming fuck buddies…  I then sent him a super weird reply.  Well, he wrote back!

He really believed he could turn it around.  Now, that’s confidence.

Original message:

Hello,

I’m a full time student now doing masters, I work 40+ hrs at the Hosptial, and work occasionally in between that. So non-commitment sexual encounters with possible mutual meals is all I ever have time for this semester . As far as in the sheets go, I’m not turned on just by the mundane, gentle sex. I enjoy it time to time as a way to break up the rougher side. I’m definitely turned on the most by knowledge , intelligence and beauty which you seem to have all. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, I’ll answer anything.
Also I promise to keep things discreet .

Thanks,
Gary

My gross response:

Hey Gary,

While I am super-impressed that you have so much going on. I mean, I just have two jobs, two volunteers positions, classes, workshops, and self-respect, I can’t believe you’ve managed to stay awake long enough to write this charming message. I mean, my god, that’s impressive. If I had a job and some classes, I’d only be able to do that and sleep. Look at you, making time to troll the internet for women to screw.

It’s always nice when a complete stranger sends me a message that hints to their sexual proclivities. How unusual that you enjoy both slow and fast sex? I’ve never met a man who enjoyed different kinds of sex. You must be really deep. Personally, I’m only into completely silent, open-eyed, well-lit intercourse. I also enjoy wearing colonial dresses when I fornicate; it makes it more complicated, but it’s totally worth it.

It sounds like you are definitely turned on by intelligence. Sex is the best way for a person to express their intelligence. Before I put on my colonial sex dress, I usually give my potential sex partner a quiz on world history, algebra, and poetic forms. I only proceed with my straight-A students.

Here are some questions:
1. Has this ever worked?
2. How many women have you successfully banged? Please provide numbers for women you met online vs. women you met in person.
3. Why bother making a profile when you could just go to Rick’s or Necto?
4. What about my profile made you think I’d want to be your fuck buddy?
5. What’s your favorite color?
6. Can I call you Gare-Bear?
7. Can I please, please, please have your phone number? I can’t wait to come over!

All my love,
Ryan Gosling

His NEW Response:

At least it got u talking! It does have the scope to develop into something meaningful and I am pretty flexible , at the same time I am not the one to keep flooding your inbox. I can definitely predict that you would make a great writer and wish to apologize for offending you. Following are true answers to your questions:

1. Yes.
2. Met online: 30ish vs. met in person 10ish.
3. favorite color is blue.
4. I found you really pretty and wanted to try my luck, you got to try to succeed , right?
5. phone number: 313-***-****
6. you can call me whatever you want.

Best wishes,
Gary

My NEW Response:

Nope. I’m good.

His final, very annoyed response:

Hey! At you should say it in a way a writer ought to put it. You must not be as good as you think.
Simply saying no is no fun .

Patty and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I felt invigorated this morning; I actually got up and worked out.  I’ve heard that many adults do that in the mornings, and it’s not as fun as eating cheese.  Still, I did work out.  In my adventures, which included a brief and slow run, I went to my car to grab a CD (yes, I still buy them) I bought for a friend.  To my dismay, the door handle was broken.  Until I can find the part, figure out how to take the panel off, and replace it, I’ll be climbing in from the passenger’s side.

After that fun discovery, I took a shower, did my hair, went downstairs to pick out shoes… That’s when I saw a steady stream of water coming down from the ceiling of my closet.  Nearly all my clothing was soaking wet, multiple items were ruined, and it smelled great (just kidding).

I started pulling clothes of the rod, and piling them in the next room.  I ran upstairs to grab pots and pans to catch the drips.  I removed every shoe, shirt, skirt, dress, box, that one stuffed beagle, and my carved wiseman who looks like Jafar.  I exhausted my towel reserves and paper towels while sopping up gallons of questionably-colored water.  I individually cleaned every damn shoe.  I did hours of laundry.  It was so fun… no.

In the midst of the mess, I called my landlord and he assured me that it had “never happened before” which totally helps me in this situation.  I mentioned that it was convenient that the last maintenance they’d done in my apartment had left sawdust all over my closet.  Isn’t it nice that they failed to clean up earlier in preparation of this coming disaster.

For the next few hours, I watched water leak from the ceiling, then inexplicably and inconceivably coming out of the floor.  Because this is such a high-quality apartment, the floors are uneven and so are the ceilings.  The linoleum seemed to be soaking in the water, then rejected it for being far too natural to live in the horrid floor.  Even the spiders started to run away.

When the landlord and his “boy” arrived, sans plumber, they first decided to paint one of the garage doors brown.  They never use tape around here, it’s all just nearly straight.  Upon sight, he forced me to hug him, called me “sweetheart” and said “oooooooohhhh” about seven times.  I cannot fully capture how intensely I dislike them; all the bitch in me rises up in my throat and begs to be thrust at their puny little minds.  I held back.  I needed to go buy more detergent anyway.

When I returned, they had managed to open the ceiling and promised to go get a real plumber and real parts.  I inspected the whole in the ceiling while they were out – so many spider carcasses!  Yay!

The plumber arrived, with the landlord and his boy, and they proceeded to run up and down the stairs, call me “sweetheart”, and not understand plumbing.  When they finally realized that the issue was an incorrectly installed fixture in the tub.  My landlord, being a creative deflector type, told me it was because I hung a sponge from the faucet.  He said that the water was deflecting there and going into the crack.  If I hadn’t used that sponge, no water would have gotten into the cracks and holes.  Wrong.  Water goes lots of places in showers.  The sponge wasn’t there very frequently.  I use the shower, not the bath, so the water comes out of a different spout – it’s amazing.  That’s not even a sponge, it’s shower puff, dammit.

The plumber explained that the issue was a wrongly-installed part and not the (f’ing) “sponge”.

My landlord literally said, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about this.  We’ve taken care of it.”

I repeated it back in my grown-uppiest voice, and then said, “You know that I’m a grown woman, right?  I’ll be sure to not ‘worry my pretty little head’.  I’d hate for it to get too full with ideas.  That’s for men!”

He stared blankly.  His boy laughed and appreciated the anger I was holding in.

I escaped to my computer where I was clearly working, when my landlord decided to start a very personal conversation with me.  Mostly, he was defending how great he thinks this place is, but he also wanted to push his fun opinions on me.  He asked about the guy I’d been dating when I moved in, I said that we were no longer together.  He then gave me tons of great advice.  He asked what happened, and how, and why, and so much more.  I said, “Yeah… I don’t want to talk about that with you.”  Then, it got weirder.

He said, “That’s too bad.  He seemed really successful.  You should really ask him to reconsider.  A girl would be lucky to have a successful man like that.  He seemed nice too, and he was pretty good-looking.  You should really ask him to get back together with you.  Seriously.”

With big and crazy eyes, I replied, “Wow.  That is so far over the line.  You need to stop talking.”

He said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I just don’t want a nice girl like you to end up alone.”

That’s when I asked him to leave.

In conclusion, I hate this apartment, I hate my landlord, and I hate sexist norms about women needing men.  I just wanted to not have wet clothes.  I just wanted to have the whole in my ceiling plugged.  I just wanted them to pay for dry cleaning.  I just wanted to go to work.

Great.  What a great day.

CREEP Week: The Old Man (with issues)

The Mysterious Old Man

This is a man with experience.  He believes that this experience will show him the way into your pants.  He believes that he can convince you of his skills in the bedroom.  He will tell you how good he is with women, but he will not show you that he is good.  The Old Man believes he is smooth, but spends all his time talking about being smooth, rather than actually being smooth.

When you, inevitably, reject him, he will get angry and dismiss you as a bimbo or just as stupid.  He will tell you that you’re missing out.  And he’s right, you are missing out on getting to see how long it takes for Viagra to kick in.

Have you encountered such a creep?  

We have.

YOU ARE GROSS.

The Negatives: 

His name was Matt, but I called him “Tom.”  Why?  T.O.M. = Tall, Old Matt.  He was 36.  I was 21.  He was a Class A Creep.  This is a dude that was out hunting for younger ladies and came upon me at a book stand.  He claimed to know about the book I was holding, which was later revealed as a farce.  He spent the next few weeks trying to sleep with me or marry me or move to NYC with me or something else altogether.  He was weird.  He slowly revealed that he was a recovering drug addict, working part-time as a line cook, who lived with his mom and step-dad.  Oh, he was also sexist, afraid of strong women, wanted to dress me, and thought I looked like a lesbian when I wore shorts.  Also, he was 36 and he was trying to date a 21-year-old.  That’s borderline illegal.  Speaking of borderline illegal, after I dumped his old and wrinkled ass, he sort of stalked me for a few weeks.  The police were involved.

The Positives:

We never slept together.  I got rid of him.  No harm.

The Lessons:

  1. Ladies (and gentlemen), never let a man tell you how you can dress.  You wear what you want.  You do what you want.  Creeps don’t rule the world.
  2. Ladies, never let a man lie about his age and get away with it.
  3. Ladies, never let a man stalk you.  

Creep Qualifications:

  1. He lied about his age.
  2. He was seeking someone in the low twenties.
  3. He admitted to dating a 16-year-old.
  4. He wore swim trunks everywhere.
  5. He talked about how hot he was all the time.
  6. He used tanning oil.
  7. He was a straight-up scrub.
  8. “Live at home with your mama?” Oh, yes. Son, I’m talkin’ to you.
  9. “Have a car, but you’re walkin’?” Oh, yes. Son, I’m talkin’ to you.
  10. He had just been released/escaped from rehab.
  11. He ran away from rehab.
  12. He thought I looked like a lesbian when I wore shorts.
  13. He accused me of being misleading because I was wearing a dress when we met, but didn’t always wear dresses.
  14. He really wanted to have butt sex all the time.  NEVER happened, FYI.
  15. He just kept talking about butt sex.
  16. He was paranoid about abortions… with no risk of pregnancy.
  17. He was obsessed with having public… encounters… with strangers.
  18. Did I mention he lived with his mom?

Horrible Realization: I’m Too Old for Cheap Beer

When I was in college, I could drink like a fish.  I put huge douchey dudes to shame with my incredible ability to chug, handle, and hold my cheap liquor and beer.  I preferred nicer beer, even in those days, but I wasn’t about to turn down a few dozen free cans of Natty Light or PBR.  You just don’t do that in college.  You drink what you are given… You know, if it’s not from a very shady source.  Hell, even if it is shady, you might consider it if it’s totally free.  I mean, you’re supposed to be poor in college.  Why not enjoy cheap-ass bear?

College students love beer.

Everyone loves beer.

However, not everyone can drink cheap beer like 20-year-olds.

Once graduation occurs, and you move on graduate school or perhaps a real-life, grown-up job with benefits and a salary and everything, your lifestyle inherently changes.  It just does.  Life is very different after college.  Now, instead of just wanting to get drunk and maybe get a date or two out of some dude/lady, you are actually talking about relationships and even….  MARRIAGE.  Well, maybe just long-term or like… living together or something.  You’re still figuring that part out.  Anyways…

Life after graduation is quite an adjustment.  It takes some g.d. time, y’all.  And that’s okay.

There are many lessons a post-graduate must learn, and one of the first I learned…  Nah, actually the most obvious one I learned, was that I cannot drink the way and the crap I once could.  I’m a grown-up now, and Natty Lite ain’t gonna cut it.

When you start to get old, your body can’t handle the vinegar/acid/gasoline contained in cheap beer.  At least, the body can’t handle it at the same level.  When a body is young and virile, it can fight off the poisons of cheap beer – the pee in Busch Light or the dirt in Natural Ice.  When a body gets older, it starts to give up on dying and it wants to live.  Cheap beer wants to kill you and your body.  Old bodies know better.  They demand good beer.

Older bodies also don’t want you to make them suffer with yucky beer.  I learned this the hard way.

I have now learned, once and for all, that I am now too old to drink a whole bunch of crappy beer.  My body hates it.  My body wants to be a temple instead of a garbage can.  I must obey.

Until very recently, I was entirely immune to hangovers.  I had only once had a hangover, and it was after a week of no-sleep and then heavy, celebratory drinking.  You can read about a lot that night in the post, “When Kate and Patty (Almost) Got in a Bar Fight.”  With that one exception, I have been a total boss.  This has annoyed many people.  Understandably so…  Hangovers suck.  Now that I’m a little older, I’m starting to catch them.

After a night of drinking… we’ll say “some” beers, I have started to feel a little less-than-great the next morning.  Therefore, I must accept that I’m now too old for drinking cheap beer like a college-kid.

Damn.

Bitch’s Guide to New Year’s Eve

New Year’s Eve can be bad or great, but it’s probably going to be bad.  If you are a bitch, or you like bitches, or you think bitches are funny… here are some tips.  Enjoy!

1.  Shoes.  Wear shoes that you feel comfortable in all night.  You have to spend all of the hours up to midnight and beyond in shoes.  People will be drunk and there will be broken glass.  You cannot walk around barefoot.  You cannot walk home barefoot.  You must wear your shoes.  Don’t be “that girl” who spends the whole night whining about her friggin’ feet.  Don’t be the girl who can’t walk in her shoes.  You know the one.  The one who scuttles from place to place and must perch wherever she lands.  The one cannot actually walk without tripping.  The one who topples into the bathroom to re-apply her lipgloss.  Don’t be that girl.

2.  Booze.  Remember, you will be drinking for a long time on this Eve of the New Year.  Your body will be exposed to so much.  You should invest in mid-level liquor – at least.

3.  Shots, specifically.  Keep count.  Even if it means you have to take a sharpie to your arm (a mark for each drink), you must track your drinking.  You are in for a long night, so you gotta have a plan.

4.  Food.  Bitch, you gotta eat!  If you eat nothing, you will pass out.

5.  Cleavage.  This really depends on what kind of bitch you are.  It’s New Year’s Eve, so go nuts.  Show off your boobies.  Get slutty.  Do whatever.  As a really bitchy bitch, I really don’t care what other bitches are wearing on New Year’s Eve.  It’s like Halloween… Free pass.

SO MUCH CLEAVAGE.

6.  Dates.  If you bring a date to a New Year’s Eve party, make sure he/she isn’t a dumbass, can hold his/her liquor, and that your date can dance.  There will be WOO-WOOs.  Make sure they are ready.  Don’t be the girl with a lame-ass date.  Go solo if it comes to that.

7.  Boyfriends.  If you bring your boyfriend or girlfriend, they SHALL NOT GET SHITTY.  They shall bring mints and make out with you at midnight.  They shall bring you drinks.  They shall dance appropriately.  THE BOYFRIENDS SHALL BE FUN.

8.  Dancing.  Please do as little grinding as possible.  Please whip your hair.  Please shake it good.  Please do some work out there.  Sweat it up.  Do yo’ thang.

9.  Tampons.  Someone will need a tampon – it might be you.  Just bring a damn tampon.  You’ll be someone’s hero and it will feel great.  Good for you.

10.  Bi-Curiousness.  You gotta kiss somebody at midnight.  I’m not here to judge that part of you.

11.  Hats.  Party hats are fucking annoying.  Do not make anyone wear one.  If you want to wear one, that’s great… It tells the rest of us that you’re a dumb ass.  Seriously, suck it.  Hats are sucky.

12.  Driving.  You will be drinking.  Just get a cab.  Your only other option is to crash where you are.  The likelihood of someone staying sober enough to be the DD later on is low.

13.  Glitter.  A little glitter goes a long way.  If you’ve got a sparkly dress, maybe cool it on the bling and the white/silver eyeshadow.  Be sparkly, but don’t try to imitate the NYE Times Square ball.  You don’t need 10,000 blinking lights to be beautiful.  Also, if you do happen to over-glitter, it will get on EVERYONE.  I don’t want to wear your damn glitter, so stay the hell away, Ke$ha!

14.  Underpants.  Just wear them.  Underpants are always, always worth a panty-line.  Don’t be the girl without underpants on.  We don’t want to see your hoo-ha.  Anyone interested in your hoo-ha will happily wait to see it.  Seriously, I don’t want to see a single baby-factory on the dance floor or getting out of a cab.  We all have underwear.  Wear yours.

15.  The Midnight Kiss.  Just go for it, bitches.

Stop Calling Mindy Kaling an “Up and Coming Comedienne.” She Has a Show. She’s Up. She’s Come.

If I see one more fucking article or blog post about how Mindy Kaling is “up and coming,” I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

SHE HAS HER OWN SHOW.  IT’S CALLED “THE MINDY [F’ING] PROJECT.”  SHE’S MADE IT.  SHUT UP.  SHUT UP.  SHE IS AS SUCCESSFUL AS ANY MAN COULD HOPE TO BE.

I mean, she has her own show…  Right?

the mindy project

Also, she’s been a head writer and a cast member for The Office for almost 10 years.  They hired her at 24.  She’s established.

young mindy kaling writing for the office

Oh, and she wrote a bestseller.  BEST SELLER.

kaling_211

When dudes get their own shows, do we call them “new” or “up and coming?”  NO.  Now, they’re just famous, rich, and successful.  Mindy Kaling is famous, rich, and successful.  We need to accept that women can be successful, not just nearly successful, not just almost successful.  Women don’t get the same credit.  They have to prove themselves over and over again.  Men, however, only have to prove themselves once – maybe twice.

I mean, really, are we waiting for her to get rid of her boobs and become John Hamm?  By the way, John Hamm is not an up-and-comer, and he doesn’t even have his own show, and his show is on cable.  (I think it’s very good, but you get my point here.)

When Louis C.K. got his own show, people weren’t sitting around saying: “Wow.  He’s almost comparable to other successful comedians.  We should watch him to see if he gets more successful.  What a nice young man.”

Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, and Martha Stewart aren’t the only successful women in the world.  Many, many women have “made it.”  They didn’t “make it” with an asterisk, or any ifs, ands, or buts – they just fucking MADE IT.

When Hilary Clinton wins the 2016 election, are we going to sit around and talk about her like she’s ALMOST there, almost made it.  Having a vagina doesn’t make your success any more or any less temporary.  What else do people think will happen?  Having boobies shouldn’t mean you have to wait to get credit from all the dudes who like touching boobies – who, by the way, are probably way too intimidated by the success of those boobies to feel good about touching them.

It is harder for women to make it in Hollywood as writers.  It is harder for women to make it in politics, business, engineering, and many other fields.  That does not, however, take away the power, the position, or the accomplishments of these women.  It does not make their successes more vulnerable or their power less permanent.  We should be, and perhaps are, even more impressed with their triumphant success over rooms filled with dicks and dick jokes.  Ladies have to work a little harder.  Ladies have to prove themselves continuously.  Ladies have to show that they can be strong without being bitches, and that they can be sexy without being stupid or desperate.  Men can be gross or fat or assholes or hardasses or softies or whatever with so much more ease.  I know that some men will take offense to this – they should.  It’s awful that this is still true in so many offices and writers’ rooms, etc.  Change it.  If you are a man and you don’t like this point of view, challenge it.  Think about the women in your field, the women in your TV.  How many are there?  What are their positions?  What are your opinions of them?  How do the men around you talk about them?  If it’s sexist or unfair, speak up about it.  If it’s not, then YAY!  I’m wrong and happy to be.

mindy kaling sag white dress sexy

My point is that women’s success seems to be compartmentalized into “women’s success” instead of just success.  Mindy Kaling isn’t “one to watch out for.”  She is literally someone you can currently watch on TV– on her show — which she created — which she writes — in which she stars.  

She deserves a little more faith from the media.  She’s a pretty big deal.  Deal with it.

The Many Faces of Willard (Mitt Romney)

I think we’ve all seen Mitt Romney’s face.  It’s creepy.  It’s not always creepy, but it’s usually creepy.  He just seems like he’s plotting something sinister.  You know, besides forced transvaginal ultrasounds, banning civil rights, making millionaires more millionaire-y, and being generally unaware of actual-incomed people’s lives.  (Some of us make less than $50K… like a lot of us.)

FACE TIME

Here’s Mitt Romney freaking out.

 

Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. 00011101010100101111010101011101001010101001011101010101001111

 

Romney likes to get adventurous with his fashion choices from time to time.  After all, he did get pretty darn adventurous with his dog’s travel plans during a family vacation.

 

In case you were wondering, this is what a sad and ponderous Mitt Romney looks like.

 

This is what Mitt Romney looks like when he’s just plain sad.

 

Young Romney looks pretty good.

 

Mitt Romney ate a lemon.

 

Sometimes Mitt Romney farts.  Everyone farts.  It’s okay.

Brown faced and white faced.

He loves binders, and he’s excited.

 

Sometimes Mitt gets mad, gosh darnit.

 

Sometimes, the Romster feels scared and vulnerable and worried and maybe a little angry too.

 

He’s like, “Ermahgerd!” You know, he loves taxes.

 

But, wait.  What would his face look like if it was even tinier?

 

Romney likes to change his mind… a lot.  He’s pretty darn flippity floppity.

 

However, we must mention that there is no Romney face creepier, more disturbing, more intense, more deafeningly intense, and incredibly fierce than the Josh Romney face.

 

 

 

Mitt Romney Is a Robot-Alien, and other things I sort of believe.

Mitt Romney is a weird guy.  I think we can all agree on that much.  He doesn’t really seem to understand what’s happening around him.  As any politician must, he bravely ventures into diners filled with Middle America’s most middle-ish of people.  Romney is a 1%er, in fact, he’s probably in the 0.005%.  Dude is rich.  Dude is so rich.  Dude doesn’t even know what a clearance rack is.  Dude probably doesn’t even like Target.  If you don’t regularly shop at Target, I have doubts that you understand “middle class.”

Romney’s absurd wealth makes him so out of touch and seemingly odd that he seems like an alien/robot, or a robot alien.  I just don’t think he can wrap his beautifully gold-plated brain around the milieu of normal life.  *By the way, I mean real gold; I’m not calling him a blond.

Are you wondering why I think he’s both a robot and an alien?  

I’m just pretty sure he’s a robot alien.  As in, I think he is a robot who was likely designed by aliens far away in space, then maybe the robots rebelled and started to produce more of themselves, and now they are infiltrating other cultures and planets, and Romney is one of their best machines… His bid for the presidency is one of the final steps in their plan.

Anyways………….  Here are some reasons.

REASON:  He’s bad at talking like a human person.

Imagined Mitt dialogue: “Hello there, Average Joe.  I am Candidate Stone Hair.  I would like you to vote for me.  I will do anything, literally.  Also, what is a ‘flannel’ and why is everyone in plaid?”

“TERRIFIC!”

“Oh, boy! It sure is sunny!”  “Haha!”  “Yes!”

“I like Michigan.  I like trees.  All the trees are the right height.”

“Tall women are dangerous.”

“Hello there, waitress at diner.  I would like two poached eggs with truffle oil, on a bed of fresh mint, with a piece of Wonder Bread, toasted, and spread with pumpkin butter on one side and Belgian chocolate on the side.”  And then the waitress is like…  “?”

REASON: He just might be too rich.  I don’t think this is a “punishment for success” as Fox News might think it is; I just think someone that far out of the normal American experience won’t be able to understand what people need or want.  I don’t feel comfortable being represented by this person – just like I wouldn’t want the King of France leading our country.  That would be weird.

REASON:  His richness leads to thinking that the middle class stops at $250,000 per year.  Um, if you’re making a quarter of a million dollars, you’re upper class.  I bet that he cannot even imagine that a middle class family might make less than $100,000 per year.

The poverty line must be so astounding to him.

REASON: Well, it’s because he’s so robotic and awkward.  He doesn’t seem to understand humans.  I imagine that life in general is very confusing for him.  In this campaign, he’s had to sludge to such awful, lowly places (by his standards) and it’s hard.

He just doesn’t get it.

REASON: He tells stories like this: “I met a guy yesterday, seven feet tall. Yeah, handsome, great big guy, seven feet tall! Name is Rick Miller—Portland, Oregon. And he started a business. Of course you know it was in basketball. But it wasn’t in basketball! I mean, I, figured he had to be in sport, but he wasn’t in sport.”

REASON: His face doesn’t make sense.

REASON:  Romney doesn’t seem able to agree with himself for any substantial amount of time.  I’m not sure if he’s sure if he’s real or not.  Is moderate Romney the real one?  Is super conservative Romney the real one?

watch?v=bxch-yi14BE&feature=related

REASON:  I’m confused.  Isn’t this guy just the leftovers?  No one was excited about him a few months ago.

Mitt Romney is crazy-crazy.  He just confuses me.  What do you want?  What is your deal?  Why do you want all this power?  You don’t really have any views or thoughts that stay steady.  Ugh.

Yes, this is a real commercial.

After seeing this on TV for the second time, I felt compelled to share it with all of you. At least, I figure, I won’t be alone in my rage against this company and whatever marketing “genius” came up with it.

The first time I saw this, I thought, “Oh awesome! This guy built a mousetrap-style machine that refills his drink! This should be cool.” Alas, I was disappointed, aghast, angered, etc. to find that instead, the solution to the empty drink glass is the girlfriend (wife?). What the fuck. How is this on television? Why isn’t the whole world pissed about this? I mean, the Miller Lite commercials they used to have on TV promoting the “manliness” of drinking Miller Lite (e.g. don’t be a sissy, girls’-pants-wearing light beer drinker!) seem tame and almost endearing compared to the outright misogyny of this gem. I mean, really? We haven’t moved beyond “women belong in the kitchen and/or serving my every need including thirst”? It’s 2012 for godsakes.

I mean, the idea of businesses like SportsClips thrive on the idea that women are meant to serve men both in deed and as eye candy (see also America’s favorite place to get buffalo wings and glimpses of boobies, Hooters). The problem isn’t only the proliferation of antiquated notions of what it means to be a Woman–that is, buxom, always sexy, kitchen- or service-centered, adorably dumb… the list goes on–but antiquated notions of what it means to be a Man. Commercials like this imply that part of being a man means treating all women like glorified servants and exclusively doing “manly” things like watching sports–and being unable to drag oneself away from such manly activities in order to groom oneself, because that’s for pussies. It’s not only women that should be outraged at commercials like this that appeal to undeniably sexist notions of male/female relations, likely located somewhere in the irrational amygdala.

I don’t want to suggest that we should be better than this. We are better than this and it’s about time we show it.

Christina Aguilera as a Hot, Scary, Brightly-Colored Serial Killer in “Your Body” (and she’s still not fat)

I know, I know… I write too many blog posts about Christina Aguilera.  I’m sorry, but I absolutely idolized her when I was a little girl.  I would sit in my room and stare at my stereo while I tried to figure out if I could ever get that good at singing.  Answer: nope.  I just want other people to realize that she’s pretty much the most talented singer to ever exist, and that she’s really gorgeous and not at all fat.  Once again, NOT FAT.  I also really want to like her.  I want her to be more likable.  I want to fall back in love with my idol.

Ugh.  Okay, now that I’ve done that part, let’s get on with the post.

“Your Body” is Christina Aguilera’s latest release.  It’ fun and cool.  It’s crazy and vulgar.  It’s probably just what her career needed.  Our popular culture machine is all about vulgar these days.  I mean, have you heard that damn song about “whistling” (goes something like: “Can you blow my whistle?  …  Just put your lips together and come real close…”)?  It’s terrible and it’s obviously about blow jobs.  We get it, Flo Rida, you like blow jobs.

Pop music these days is all about sex and drinking and drunk sex…  It’s not a new trend, but the crazy bright colors, upsetting patterns, and overly intense cartoon themes are all new to me.  I hate them.  That said, this video is kind of awesome.  I’m surprised I think that, but I do.  It’s like a candy-porn snuff film.

Even though I find the whole video questionable, I feel like it’s a not-sad comeback for her.  She looks sexy in a scary, trashy, dirty (maybe dirrrrty), scented-marker kind of way.  I should hate this video, but I don’t.

She’s a Crayola serial killer out to get men who’ve done her no wrong.  She’s just randomly killing.  I think it actually might be a satire of current culture’s acceptance, encouragement, and of sleeping around.  It might actually be an intellectual argument.  This could be a real, live satire.

The song itself is about screwing random people.  As she says, “So, don’t even tell me your name.  All I need to know is: who’s place?  And let’s get walking…”  She doesn’t even want to know your name, she just wants to love your body.  The song is about random sex and how great/wonderful it is.  Basically, “All [she] want[s] to do is love your body.”

But, maybe…  Just maybe…  This video is kind of making fun of that.  Christina Aguilera has always made pretty average pop music with a way-above-average voice; maybe she knows that.  Maybe she knows that she’s better than all of this.  She should be singing amazing ballads and jazz and more stuff that sounds like, “Beautiful,” instead of “Dirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrty.”  I think that this video might know that.

Why?  Well, because instead of loving all these bodies of men, she’s killing them.  Then, there exploding with glitter and blue goo.  Maybe singing that you want to love someone’s body, and then visually showing that you actually want to kill them randomly and viciously, maybe that is a joke.  Maybe it’s an acknowledgement of the absurdity of today’s pop music.

Perhaps more interestingly, Ms. Aguilera sings, “Fuck your body…” in the explicit version of the song.  Maybe she really means that she wants to “fuck up” their bodies rather than “love them sweetly.”

Okay, it’s probably just a crazy video for a crazy song.  I just really want to believe in my idol, a former “Genie in a Bottle,” and a forever bottle-blond.  She’s probably just a dirrrrrty girl.

Oh, and here’s some bonus goo: