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So I had a brilliant idea for a book. I've started about a dozen different books but always get stuck after the first few chapters, or I get busy with something else and completely forget that I even started one and it just falls away. My latest genius idea (and do NOT steal this, cause I still may do it!) is a book designed to certify men on how to talk to women so as not to be celibate for the rest of their lives and/or how not to get stabbed repeatedly in the EYE.
Here is where the seed of my idea began to grow....
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Men are dumb. We all know this. Usually it's an endearing sort of dumb…they simply don't know how to talk to women. They lack that inherent compassion…the gene that assists in thinking before speaking. Luckily they've also accepted their need for training and tend to receive said training rather willingly (though by tacit agreement that none of us will acknowledge that they are, in fact, being schooled).
However, this training cannot occur if the man is so imbued with foot-in-mouth-itis that he can't GET the woman in the first place. And that is why I am here; to save you; your love life; your future marriage; your unborn children.
I am of the firm belief that men should not be allowed to speak to women without having been certified in how NOT to talk to women. I have a unique perspective on this as I was once thin, blonde, and beautiful. Then I got married and had a baby and became heavy, lost the pretty sheen to my hair and got ...old; invisible; became the Un-Pretty. I have seen how you are treated when you're hot...I have seen how you are treated when you are...not. And while the 'pretty' conversations are certainly less ego-destroying, I can assure you that men say very dumb things on both ends, though they will certainly exert a minor smidgeon more effort in sparing your feelings if you are gorgeous and may be worthy of them bragging about you to their friends in the next 24-36 hours. If you are not hot? They are almost offended and speak to you as such.
The straw that broke my camel's back, however, occurred in the elevator at work recently. About a year ago I decided to color my hair. I've been blonde since birth and always envied the deep brunette hair that was the opposite of what I had. 'The grass is greener' sort of mentality. I wanted to see what it was like to have that color, to see what I would look like, to experiment with different, darker makeup and to just...feel different. And I loved it. Loved the difference; the ability to wear certain colors and shades that had previously appeared garish with my pale, blonde features. I loved feeling somewhat exotic and as though I blended in with society for once. I didn't realize how much blonde hair stuck out, though, and my husband helped drive the point home when we'd go shopping and I'd wander off in a different direction and, 30 minutes later, he would breathlessly find me again and -while hunched over, tending to the stitch in his side, would say "you have GOT to change your hair back! I can't FIND you anymore!" which pleased me very much.
The root touch-ups, however, became increasingly annoying. Especially since the roots were so light in color, causing me to look -at least from a distance- as though I was going bald. Not so much what I was hoping for. When you have dark hair and go lighter, the time between touch-ups is longer, as the darker roots can give depth to the hair (up to a point...after which you just look dirty.)
So it had been a year since I began coloring my hair. I was becoming tired of the work involved in keeping it up, despite truly loving my new look. Due to said tiredness, I was getting lazy in my weekly touch-ups and this ...incident... happened at the end of a particularly long time period between colorings (read: 3).
From the very beginning, a male coworker seemed particularly interested in my new color, for reasons unknown. He wasn't a very friendly person before; in fact, he seemed to go out of his way to be rude and argumentative with me in the several years prior on the rare instances that we had any dealings with each other. This was particularly disappointing to me as I thought we'd be good friends for the simple (and asinine) reason that he looked like someone I used to know; someone I used to be very close with. Clearly that was doomed to fail.
And it did.
Suddenly one day, however, I stopped being someone whose hair he had to pull like a bully on the playground. That was the day I walked into the office with long, dark brown hair. He did a double-take and stuttered. He complimented the look. Frequently. In fact, he commented on it nearly every time we saw each other thereafter. It was awfully unnerving. I was used to hating him and it's difficult to despise someone who is speaking so loudly to your ego.
I soon learned, though, that he apparently has a phobia of fair hair. I like to imagine that he was savagely beaten (however justifiably) by a blonde nanny in his youth and has harbored an unnatural disgust for anything fair ever since. This is the only thing I can come up with to explain his next personality shift.
I was waiting for the elevator and he happened along. The elevator, along with another man, arrived and the three of us hopped aboard for the Ride O' Depression. Former-Jackass-Turned-Weird-Hair-Guy turns to me and says "Still brunette, eh?" and I prepared myself for the feeling of discomfort that always accompanies his compliments. Ahhh, how I wish that was all I got. I replied in the affirmative and made the fatal error of lamenting my roots. He had the audacity to ask what color they were. I blinked a few times, giving him ample opportunity to laugh and proclaim his rudeness a total joke, recovering nicely, with no acknowledgement on MY part and no apology necessary on his.
He silently declined.
I -somewhat huffily- informed him that my natural color was blonde. He gave me the "No, really. Tell me the truth. Come on! Admit it!" look that is detested by any and all who've ever been on the receiving end of it. I narrowed my eyes a bit and found myself tilting my head in his direction, pulling the hair on top of my head flat and actually pointed at my roots and was thrilled that I finally had proof of my truth, since you can't deny physical evidence. Clearly nobody would trouble themselves by having brunette hair and only dabbing the roots with blonde, just to further what he obviously felt was a lie, right?
Wrong. He nodded his head, waited 2 beats and, as the elevator doors opened and I began to exit, called out after me: "...you know it's really gray right??" and the doors slid shut.
I stopped mid-step, whipped around to give him a piece of my (naturally blonde!) mind, but he was gone.
ass. HOLE.
And that is when this idea began to take shape. I was so deeply offended not only by his comments, but in the fact that he had no qualms in sharing them with me...that it either didn't occur to him that I would be insulted or, worse, simply didn't care. I began ranting to my friends, family, and spouse that I was tired of people (usually men, but certainly not ONLY... *cough-ERB-cough*) being so rude to me. I further proclaimed that men (at least men like this ass-clown) should NOT be allowed to speak to women without having first been certified... without having taken (and showing PROOF, preferably by being branded on the forehead, of passing) a certification class in How to Talk to Women 101 (a.k.a., What Not to Say if You Ever Want to Get Laid and/or How Not to Get Your Car Keyed Repeatedly)
Below are my notes and the beginnings of the book outline. I foolishly asked George for help in drafting said outline, as he's wonderful at breaking things down. I'm quite sure you will be able to pick out the parts where George 'offered help'.
CHAPTERS:
Her appearance
Her weight
Your past
Other women
Other women compared to her
Her prowess
Her unmade-up, at-home self
Cooking skills
Her resemblance to her mother* (*read twice and never audibly compare the two)
Her resemblance to YOUR mother
PMS and why it's not her fault and/or why it's not really PMS;
PMS, Part II: George Offers insight as to why what you HEARD is SO not what he SAID. (And why men should lock themselves in a room for 2 days and ask you to just not yell at me! You don't have to recognize it; you don't have to admit it; just don't involve me in it!)
Her age
YOUR age
Valentines day and other romantic dates that you see no point in recognizing
The art of subtlety (e.g., bouncing boobs running up the stairs and not even TRYING to hide your drool to the point that you get flicked in the eye by your date and, subsequently, banned from her bed for the next 2 weeks)
Movie selections (and why yours are always wrong)
Driving (also known as "Your Penis Won't Shrink if You Stop for Directions and/or GAS!", "Speed Is Not Your Friend", "Merging: A Two-Way Street", "Hang Up and Frigging DRIVE", and "Why Everyone Else is a Big Mean Jerk!")
Driving, Part II: Make-up + Rear-View Mirror Primping ÷ Accident x Insurance Claim = D-i-v-o-r-c-e.
Sports
Television
Venting (cattiness, judgment against others, especially if they're prettier)
Venting, Part II: How to Just LISTEN
3-hour-long Couch Talks (differing goals and why these hours-long talks don't actually suck, aka: Women Want to Vent and Share and Men Want to Know "How Can I Fix This in 2 Minutes and 2 Seconds So I Can Get Back to the Game?")
Restaurants (flouncing-boobs, nuts-on-floor, the dirtier the better vs. nice, clean, non-bar, and contains more than one fork per setting) / aka: Date Night
- First date (and how to get a second)
Second and subsequent dates (aka: How Long Before I Can Fart in Front of Her)
- Blind Dates and Pre-Date Phone calls (aka: Why You May Not Want to Display Subtle Dark Humor Just Yet By Offering to Arrive Wearing Red Dress and Carrying Ketchup-Laden AXE. ...Hi, George!!)
The Relationship Progresses... (How NOT to describe your gratitude over the budding relationship by saying "WELP! 'Least WE'RE not together cause we're HOT!")
Part II: How NOT to act stunned when you are then flicked -hard- on one of your Man Nipples
Learning how to self-medicate to escape your utter inability to ever win, no matter WHAT. YOU. DO!
George's observation of what women want (insert shrill voice that he insists on using when imitating a woman ...namely GRACIE): "Your job is to provide money, listen to me, and kill bugs!" He feels that this is a pretty accurate interpretation of what MOST women (oh, but not YOU, Gracie!) want. Please send hate-mail and letter-bombs to George@idiot.com.
Epilogue: how NOT to help you wife write a book.
I've no DOUBT that it'll sell MILLIONS.
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Someone Arrived Here Searching For....
"nude disco" pics
"my sister's boobs are" [Off limits, ya sick bastard!]
jolly riders
volkswagen existentialism
free american girls shitting [Awwww, too bad. I only have non-free, prison women shitting. Sucks to be you, eh??]
american dip pussy
shiny pantyhose shorts
i don't give a fuck...sayings
welcome back kotter females
"stop screaming" ow
urinal_shitting
shit poop licker
co-worker revenge
funny poems about bathroom etiquette
are
ireland where is my inheritance
ding fries are done
what happen to bic perfume
pms men
sweet tits
enod era seirf gnid [Backwards...WHY? The fact that they still arrived at my site is pretty cool. But...again...WHY?!]
burger king ding fries are dont
american girl dream closet
"girl pee in my mouth" [boy get some help]
american girls like monster dick [Hardly. And especially if you don't know what to DO with it.]
"wish you were a girl"
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