Dear Irby and Ian: My boyfriend flirts constantly with my mom. And when she gets up to walk out of a room his eyes blatantly follow her ass. My mom is an attractive woman and likes to act like she's 21, which is my boyfriend's age. He's a good guy but I just can't let this mom thing go. Is there anything I can do? What should I say to my boyfriend? Please help.
irby: i can't help but to devil's advocate this shit: ROCK ON HOT MAMA, with your sexy motherfucking ass. shouldn't we as women all hope that twenty years after some mewling ball of rage wreaks havoc upon every single one of our internal organs before clawing its way down our birth canals and ripping our grossly stretched-out and disfigured vaginas to shreds we still look hot enough to pull that ungrateful little slut's virile young boyfriend? isn't that the american goddamned dream, to look good enough in your senior citizenship to bang hot young dudes? maybe i'm a dirtbag, but in my youth i want to bang old dudes and when i get old i want to push my walker up to the side of a bed that still has transformers sheets on it.
seriously, dude, it's the only reason i use night cream. so that one day when whatever man i can trick, humiliate, threaten, and cajole into marrying me in the next few years finally summons the courage to ditch me and my nineteen cats in the house from which i have forbidden his exit, after i've exhaustively searched the moat i had installed specifically to deter him from attempting an escape, i'm going to call off the bloodhounds and take my vagina out to find a young paramour to fuck the pain away. no better replacement for the pair of wrinkled, ankle-grazing testicles than a set of hot young ones as tight and springy as a rubber band. tricking a young dude into helping me peel off my girdle and compression socks is the only reason i would ever consider taking a needle to the face. clothing is miraculous, and by the time i'm fifty there should be all sorts of weight-loss shirts and age-minimizing pants on the market. and i will use those tools of deception to lure the unsuspecting friends of my children into my gingerbread house. candy and cookies are so 1893.
this is why i have to stay au courant with modern technology and the cultural zeitgeist, because nothing screams OLD ASS BITCH like having a flip phone and calling shit "the bomb." i read the shit young people read and listen to the shit young people listen to, then i adapt it for a life that involves orthopedic shoe inserts and frequent visits to the fucking pharmacy. "why yes, i am wearing jones new york. but i'm listening to kid cudi, so i'm still cool, right?!" because a fresh-scrubbed post-teen won't notice the lack of youthful elasticity in my vagina if i'm listening to drake on my latest-generation ipod, will he? OF COURSE HE WON'T. especially if i buy him one, too. i'm not planning on becoming pregnant anytime soon, but i will go halfsies on an adopt-a-baby if any of my lesbian friends is into that. i don't even need it to stay at my house, i just want to buy it gifts and take it out for pizza once a week, then on its eigteenth birthday start banging all the milk-fed testosterone beasts on its basketball team.
your boyfriend deserves a medal, dollface. you know i'm a champion of the unconventionally attractive, and it warms my heart that the barely legal ox who takes you to olive garden and the mall on date night finds your lonely, saddlebagged mother sexy enough to eye-fuck. as much as i am a fan of an old broad helping some young tenderoni find his way around a poise pad, that "acting like she's 21" bit is a total fucking turnoff. old people are only sexy when they embrace being old. i'm not talking about a syringe full of restylane or a spanx stretched from her toes to her clavicle; that kind of shit is necessary maintenance. i'm talking short skirts and high heels and trying to get into clubs with a drivers license that pre-dates color television. the best part of aging is getting to do OLD SHIT: complaining all the time, eating soup for every meal, wearing pants with comfortable waistbands out to the movies. i'm not with this old bitch at the club shit. you need to be sitting your ass down somewhere organzing all 142 coupons for polident that you clipped from the walgreens circular this week. should you be doing that while looking over the top of your reading glasses at a dude so young he might not even need deodorant yet? yes, you should. and that's what the internet is for.
HOLD UP. are you one of these jerks whose mother had to leave school during nap time so she could go deliver birth to a human child?! because if your manfriend is 21 and your momfriend is, like, 34 then i would just concede the victory to her and never introduce your boyfriends to that trollop ever again. i have some, ahem, sexually advanced friends with children old enough to borrow the car and shit, and it's sort of gross to watch them raiding each other's closets and sharing tampons. my own mother had been in menopause for so long by the time i began menstruating that i had to put a clean kitchen towel in my underwear the first time i got my period because that bitch didn't have any pads in the linen closet. so if you have that kind of mom, the kind of mom who wears sensible LL bean turtlenecks and doctor scholls taupe-colored shoes and keeps her glasses on a chain around her neck, and that toddler you sext at all hours of the night wants to holler? YOU SHOULD TOTALLY FUCKING LET HIM.
isn't this the holiday season? what have you given your mother lately other than a hard goddamned time?! she didn't want that last-minute freesia body wash set you picked up next to the christmas m&ms while you were buying condoms at cvs, nor did she think your "gift certificate" for "one week of dishwashing" was the least bit amusing. just like that failure of a macaroni necklace you made for her as a child, she smiled because that's what the fuck you're supposed to do. why not do that bitch a solid and let her get her oil changed and her brakes pumped by your homeboy? listen, this isn't your future husband and you know it. you're seriously considering a future with the type of dude you can't leave alone with your mother for five minutes? that's what i thought. so let her have him, and take up with another dude in your english 101 class. isn't that the beauty of community college?
meanwhile, i'll be over here slaughtering virgins and drinking their blood to keep my skin tight. you don't look this good at 927 years old without making a few, um, sacrifices.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
puttin' it out there.
dear i+i: How can I become more approachable? In my entire adult life, only ONE MAN I'd be willing to consider sleeping with has ever made the first move, and that was on OKCupid. Weird foreign men in inappropriate pants, bros with sports shirts on, and extremely dumb men have hit on me, but that's it. I am moderately attractive, moderately stylish, and have moderately good hygiene. How can I get non-gross dudes to make the first move? - Unwitting Wallflower
ian: First off, and I think we can all agree most importantly: OKCupid® should totally be irby+ian's first-ever corporate sponsor. It is a fucking natural. We cater to similarly desperate people; we both traffic in false hope; we both feed on the shattered dreams of the fallen - smells like fucking synergy to me, bitches. And I know you corporate swine-whores love to throw around words like "synergy" - so it's in the fucking bag, am I right?
Now to you, UW - I think your main trouble in this arena stems from your misinterpretation of signals. The human male is a blessedly uncomplicated creature. There are really only a handful of objectives that we pursue with any vigor or purpose: eating fire-kissed meat; vanquishing our enemies (actual or imagined); and dipping our man-wick into the molten lady wax pot (you getting this, Yankee Candle®? you hitch your stodgy wagon to the i+i rocket sled, and you can capture some non-spinster-in-Beadazzled-sweater-vest-crazy-cat-lady market share). As I addressed in a previous post, which you may find HERE, it is really this latter item that capture's the lion's share of man-mind.
To a far lesser degree, we think about awesome karate moves, spinnin' rims, and hitting the lottery or knocking over a bank to sock away enough fuck you money to walk away from a goddamn job. But these are fleeting. Those studies you've read that assert dudes think about sex every seven seconds? They low-ball it. (Advertisers: come ON - in that one [shimmering, perfect] sentence, there's opportunity for the latest Jet Li release, a Pimp My Ride® pop-up or American Chopper® crawl, the Illinois Lottery's Holiday Gold Instant Game® [which make great stocking stuffers!]. i+i fever - catch it!)
The so-called "content" of what a dude is saying to you is immaterial. The human male has largely been socialized away from the bluntness that comes to us naturally. We want simply what God-fearing and peace-loving people want the world over: that every conversation culminate in a sexual encounter. Yes, every one. Watch for the little nano-pause at the end of every exchange with a dude - the instant where he's assessing the possibility of friction/moisture being applied to his wang by you. Think for a sec. Every time you've had even the most fleeting interaction with a dude, he's scrutinized you for a sec, deliberating about whether it might be go time:
"Ma'am. You forgot your change. [pause/assess]."
"Yeah, Lake Street is up that way, like 2 blocks. [pause/check.]"
"Sorry my son puked in your purse again. [pause/significant look]"
"I know I've been screaming under your window since dusk, but I did two tours in Iraq and my PTSD is quite debilitating. [pause/cocked eyebrow]"
"I regret that you've uncovered my backyard cockfighting ring. I've been a bad neighbor to you. No, I don't. What's PETA? [pause/appraise]"
"Guard! My cellmate hung himself! [pause/check you out]"
"I'm afraid I have some bad news: we weren't able to get all of the tumor, and it's grown quite rapidly. [pause/gauge]"
"I concede you've just witnessed me fishing a mashed and crooked Kool® butt out of the gutter and light it with shaking hands. But you did not see me devouring that skinny pigeon I managed to catch earlier. [pause/reckon]" (RJ Reynolds! Wassup?)
"I concur. Shitting in your pool showed poor judgement. [pause/guesstimate]"
"No, yeah. Good point. But I didn't know she was like married-married. [pause/waggle eyebrows]"
"I am Pope Benedict. You may call me Your Holiness. [pause/nod meaningfully]"
"Look, just cause we're sharing a seat on the bus doesn't give you the right to tell me to quit picking at this thing on my neck. [pause/smolder]"
I could go on. Point is that every time a dude gains even the most cursory awareness of you and has determined you're are not outright disgusted by him, then the game is afoot, Watson. The dudes you cite as undesirables - "inappropriate pants" (AXE Body Spray®! your smelly idiots oughtta love i+i, no?) and the redundancy of "sports bros" and "extremely dumb" guys - these are just the dudes who are clearest on the fact that it's a numbers game and they just gotta keep rackin' up units - they're just tryin' to get on the board. Nothing personal.
As for the rest of us - this is what passes for subtlety. If it turns out that you ever wind up in some form of relationship with one of us, trust me, the day will soon come when you're sorry as shit that this level of decorum is behind us. We are swine. Every last one of us.
But at least we don't hate foreigners the way you seem to.
irby: i don't know shit about karate moves. or spinning rims. apparently i'm destined to die alone.
my okcupid profile is totally fucking amazing. after re-writing it a couple of times and sending it to my smart and attractive friend kristen to review, i decided that it is the perfect blend of smart and funny without being obnoxious and false. and it presents a pretty clear picture of how great i am, but i tried not to sound like a braggy fucking asshole. it's fresh and brutally honest and in one of my pictures you can clearly see how amazing my tits are. i have not received a single inquiry from an interested human male party to date.
man, i don't know how hilarious i can be about this. my silly, sensitive ass. let's be serious for a minute: i have absolutely no idea how to properly solicit internet penis. especially not from someone other than a drooling old goat or weirdo in inappropriate pants. i don't know who the fuck these bitches in the commercials are. you know the ones, the happy women with all the big smiling teeth who are just so thrilled to announce that both she and her cousin and her sister and her neighbor and her mother all met the loves of their lives on bigdickboyfriend.com and adulteringhusband.org or whatever the fuck. and maybe you can't really tell through the old television box, but they don't seem any smarter or more awesome than anyone else i've ever met, so where the fuck did they find these normal dudes? AND HOW ON EARTH DID THEY GET THEM OFF THE COUCH AND OUT ON A DATE IN THE REAL WORLD?!
the idea that this is "a numbers game," as uncle dad so gently put it, is thoroughly depressing to me. i've never understood the appeal of collecting ladyfriends or whatever. and if women tried that shit we'd be labeled trollops and whores. having a vagina is totally the worst.
my grownup friends all say that "you can't find someone good on sites that don't charge money," as if the ability to scrape together $35.99 confirms your standing as a hot piece of brisket worthy of taking off that high-waisted spanx stomach-smoothing panty thing i've been wearing under all my clothes lately. but i'm desperate and weak, so i made a match.com, too. might as well see what the world of dudes with prepaid visa cards has to offer, AM I RIGHT? where the ballers at?!
thirty seconds into filling the fucking profile out and i was in a pickle. there are 1,937 options to select from when it comes to body type alone. and none of those options is "proportionally saddlebagged" or "deceptively slender ankles." how many double bacon chili cheeseburgers constitutes the difference between curvy and full-figured? how do you even know which of the two is larger? am i inadvertantly lying to potential online suitors?! THIS SHIT IS EXHAUSTING. i give up.
men have become lazy. and women have, as a response, grown more aggressive, thus conditioning them to believe that if they just sit around waiting long enough, some hot bitch will come sniffing around and decide to take him as her own. it's the fucking end of romance, sister. i can't remember the last dude i didn't have to hunt down and shoot with a tranquilizer dart before dragging him back to my apartment and demanding that he put it in my butt. and that's okay, i guess. the trick is not to get depressed about it. instead of feeling like a man-repelling loser, ask out every single young man you see who makes you wet in the pants. what's the harm in it? aren't you already feeling rejected and unloved? at least this way you can feel bold and empowered and shit. start a goddamned numbers game of your own. every time a dude shows up in the possible matches my internet yenta collects for me who is the least bit attractive and whose profile is written in complete sentences and properly punctuated i send that motherfucker an email. a form email that i send to every other dude like him. i don't even think about it, i just copy and past that shit 137 times and click send before my low self-esteem gets the better of me.
and if he doesn't write back, SO THE FUCK WHAT? who cares?! he doesn't know me and he obviously doesn't want to. his goddamned loss. but you'd be surprised at the number of gentlemen who do. and how impressed they are that a strong, confident woman such as yourself took the time to read their profiles (i skim that shit) and send them such a lovely message (he doesn't have to know i sent the same one to forty-seven dudes in the metro chicago area). so get to soliciting, GURL. and then one or two or twelve of those dudes is going to ask you out. and even if that dude doesn't wind up your husband, you might get to bang him. or he might buy you a steak. or silently watch you drink a gin and tonic you've paid for with your own money because he's a broke college student slash bike messenger and he used his last two dollars to take the bus and meet you at this bar because it's pretty far to walk from the apartment he shares with his nine roommates so he's also going to need a ride home or cab fare if you can spare it and oh by the way could you spot him five bucks for this ice cold colt 45? [pause/doe-eyed stare]
colt 45: it works every time®.
ian: First off, and I think we can all agree most importantly: OKCupid® should totally be irby+ian's first-ever corporate sponsor. It is a fucking natural. We cater to similarly desperate people; we both traffic in false hope; we both feed on the shattered dreams of the fallen - smells like fucking synergy to me, bitches. And I know you corporate swine-whores love to throw around words like "synergy" - so it's in the fucking bag, am I right?
Now to you, UW - I think your main trouble in this arena stems from your misinterpretation of signals. The human male is a blessedly uncomplicated creature. There are really only a handful of objectives that we pursue with any vigor or purpose: eating fire-kissed meat; vanquishing our enemies (actual or imagined); and dipping our man-wick into the molten lady wax pot (you getting this, Yankee Candle®? you hitch your stodgy wagon to the i+i rocket sled, and you can capture some non-spinster-in-Beadazzled-sweater-vest-crazy-cat-lady market share). As I addressed in a previous post, which you may find HERE, it is really this latter item that capture's the lion's share of man-mind.
To a far lesser degree, we think about awesome karate moves, spinnin' rims, and hitting the lottery or knocking over a bank to sock away enough fuck you money to walk away from a goddamn job. But these are fleeting. Those studies you've read that assert dudes think about sex every seven seconds? They low-ball it. (Advertisers: come ON - in that one [shimmering, perfect] sentence, there's opportunity for the latest Jet Li release, a Pimp My Ride® pop-up or American Chopper® crawl, the Illinois Lottery's Holiday Gold Instant Game® [which make great stocking stuffers!]. i+i fever - catch it!)
The so-called "content" of what a dude is saying to you is immaterial. The human male has largely been socialized away from the bluntness that comes to us naturally. We want simply what God-fearing and peace-loving people want the world over: that every conversation culminate in a sexual encounter. Yes, every one. Watch for the little nano-pause at the end of every exchange with a dude - the instant where he's assessing the possibility of friction/moisture being applied to his wang by you. Think for a sec. Every time you've had even the most fleeting interaction with a dude, he's scrutinized you for a sec, deliberating about whether it might be go time:
"Ma'am. You forgot your change. [pause/assess]."
"Yeah, Lake Street is up that way, like 2 blocks. [pause/check.]"
"Sorry my son puked in your purse again. [pause/significant look]"
"I know I've been screaming under your window since dusk, but I did two tours in Iraq and my PTSD is quite debilitating. [pause/cocked eyebrow]"
"I regret that you've uncovered my backyard cockfighting ring. I've been a bad neighbor to you. No, I don't. What's PETA? [pause/appraise]"
"Guard! My cellmate hung himself! [pause/check you out]"
"I'm afraid I have some bad news: we weren't able to get all of the tumor, and it's grown quite rapidly. [pause/gauge]"
"I concede you've just witnessed me fishing a mashed and crooked Kool® butt out of the gutter and light it with shaking hands. But you did not see me devouring that skinny pigeon I managed to catch earlier. [pause/reckon]" (RJ Reynolds! Wassup?)
"I concur. Shitting in your pool showed poor judgement. [pause/guesstimate]"
"No, yeah. Good point. But I didn't know she was like married-married. [pause/waggle eyebrows]"
"I am Pope Benedict. You may call me Your Holiness. [pause/nod meaningfully]"
"Look, just cause we're sharing a seat on the bus doesn't give you the right to tell me to quit picking at this thing on my neck. [pause/smolder]"
I could go on. Point is that every time a dude gains even the most cursory awareness of you and has determined you're are not outright disgusted by him, then the game is afoot, Watson. The dudes you cite as undesirables - "inappropriate pants" (AXE Body Spray®! your smelly idiots oughtta love i+i, no?) and the redundancy of "sports bros" and "extremely dumb" guys - these are just the dudes who are clearest on the fact that it's a numbers game and they just gotta keep rackin' up units - they're just tryin' to get on the board. Nothing personal.
As for the rest of us - this is what passes for subtlety. If it turns out that you ever wind up in some form of relationship with one of us, trust me, the day will soon come when you're sorry as shit that this level of decorum is behind us. We are swine. Every last one of us.
But at least we don't hate foreigners the way you seem to.
irby: i don't know shit about karate moves. or spinning rims. apparently i'm destined to die alone.
my okcupid profile is totally fucking amazing. after re-writing it a couple of times and sending it to my smart and attractive friend kristen to review, i decided that it is the perfect blend of smart and funny without being obnoxious and false. and it presents a pretty clear picture of how great i am, but i tried not to sound like a braggy fucking asshole. it's fresh and brutally honest and in one of my pictures you can clearly see how amazing my tits are. i have not received a single inquiry from an interested human male party to date.
man, i don't know how hilarious i can be about this. my silly, sensitive ass. let's be serious for a minute: i have absolutely no idea how to properly solicit internet penis. especially not from someone other than a drooling old goat or weirdo in inappropriate pants. i don't know who the fuck these bitches in the commercials are. you know the ones, the happy women with all the big smiling teeth who are just so thrilled to announce that both she and her cousin and her sister and her neighbor and her mother all met the loves of their lives on bigdickboyfriend.com and adulteringhusband.org or whatever the fuck. and maybe you can't really tell through the old television box, but they don't seem any smarter or more awesome than anyone else i've ever met, so where the fuck did they find these normal dudes? AND HOW ON EARTH DID THEY GET THEM OFF THE COUCH AND OUT ON A DATE IN THE REAL WORLD?!
the idea that this is "a numbers game," as uncle dad so gently put it, is thoroughly depressing to me. i've never understood the appeal of collecting ladyfriends or whatever. and if women tried that shit we'd be labeled trollops and whores. having a vagina is totally the worst.
my grownup friends all say that "you can't find someone good on sites that don't charge money," as if the ability to scrape together $35.99 confirms your standing as a hot piece of brisket worthy of taking off that high-waisted spanx stomach-smoothing panty thing i've been wearing under all my clothes lately. but i'm desperate and weak, so i made a match.com, too. might as well see what the world of dudes with prepaid visa cards has to offer, AM I RIGHT? where the ballers at?!
thirty seconds into filling the fucking profile out and i was in a pickle. there are 1,937 options to select from when it comes to body type alone. and none of those options is "proportionally saddlebagged" or "deceptively slender ankles." how many double bacon chili cheeseburgers constitutes the difference between curvy and full-figured? how do you even know which of the two is larger? am i inadvertantly lying to potential online suitors?! THIS SHIT IS EXHAUSTING. i give up.
men have become lazy. and women have, as a response, grown more aggressive, thus conditioning them to believe that if they just sit around waiting long enough, some hot bitch will come sniffing around and decide to take him as her own. it's the fucking end of romance, sister. i can't remember the last dude i didn't have to hunt down and shoot with a tranquilizer dart before dragging him back to my apartment and demanding that he put it in my butt. and that's okay, i guess. the trick is not to get depressed about it. instead of feeling like a man-repelling loser, ask out every single young man you see who makes you wet in the pants. what's the harm in it? aren't you already feeling rejected and unloved? at least this way you can feel bold and empowered and shit. start a goddamned numbers game of your own. every time a dude shows up in the possible matches my internet yenta collects for me who is the least bit attractive and whose profile is written in complete sentences and properly punctuated i send that motherfucker an email. a form email that i send to every other dude like him. i don't even think about it, i just copy and past that shit 137 times and click send before my low self-esteem gets the better of me.
and if he doesn't write back, SO THE FUCK WHAT? who cares?! he doesn't know me and he obviously doesn't want to. his goddamned loss. but you'd be surprised at the number of gentlemen who do. and how impressed they are that a strong, confident woman such as yourself took the time to read their profiles (i skim that shit) and send them such a lovely message (he doesn't have to know i sent the same one to forty-seven dudes in the metro chicago area). so get to soliciting, GURL. and then one or two or twelve of those dudes is going to ask you out. and even if that dude doesn't wind up your husband, you might get to bang him. or he might buy you a steak. or silently watch you drink a gin and tonic you've paid for with your own money because he's a broke college student slash bike messenger and he used his last two dollars to take the bus and meet you at this bar because it's pretty far to walk from the apartment he shares with his nine roommates so he's also going to need a ride home or cab fare if you can spare it and oh by the way could you spot him five bucks for this ice cold colt 45? [pause/doe-eyed stare]
colt 45: it works every time®.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
how to go down on a lady.
dear irby and ian:
why won't my girlfriend let me go down on her? women are supposed to love that. is something wrong with her?
irby: two reasons, homie. 1 we live in a country that hates women so goddamned much that you can hear a "fish pussy" joke on the motherfucking evening news. and that's, of course, right after your eyes have been assaulted by no fewer than 137 feminine hygiene and maintenance advertisements that, while purporting to be pro-lady and supportive of our reproductive health, actually do little more than to reinforce the idea that your vagina is wrong. it looks wrong, it smells wrong, and without every single one of these waxes and wipes and depilatories and creams, no man worth any salt at all is going to want to put his handsome and clean-shaven face near that wretched cavern of gross. because keeping your vagina squeaky clean isn't about a dude's penis, IT'S ABOUT HIS FUCKING FACE. men will stick their dicks in anything: corpses, livestock, fleshlights, kathy griffin. but it's where this motherfucker is willing to put his mouth that presents the real challenge, as stupid women have allowed lazy, selfish assholes to use "icky hair" and "funny smell" to get out of spending any quality time with their ostrich heads buried in our ladysand.
and 2 YOU'RE PROBABLY DOING IT WRONG. i have met every cunnilingus expert and orgasm specialist in the goddamned city of chicago. maybe it's this new "men wearing skinny jeans" sensitive era in which we currently live, but apropos of nothing dudes always want to tell you on the first goddamned date how good they are at mouth-to-lips resuscitation. and i'm all about getting naked with a progressive and forward-thinking hot piece of beef, but i went out with a dude once who simulated oral sex at the motherfucking dinner table, and what part of the game is THAT? because sure, it's nice to know that you have a tongue in your head, sir, and your ability to lick the outside of a wine glass really knocked my goddamned socks off (BARF), but my vagina looks more like a roast beef sandwich with no mustard on rye bread. so if you're going to effectively simulate, we're going to need to close this bar tab and holler at a deli.
have you ever watched a dude eat a goddamned sandwich? meat chomping lettuce shoveling mayonnaise slurping crumbs in his beard grossness? THAT SHIT IS DISGUSTING. if you saw me attacking a banana or an ice cream cone like a wild goddamned animal, teeth gnashing and sending little bits of chewed banana spewing every which way, would you invite me to have a go at a blowjob? no, you wouldn't. you would muzzle me and insist on putting your dick in my butthole. that's the real reason i try to get menfolk to go on food dates, because i can watch how that motherfucker handles a pork belly taco and decide whether or not he can take a bite of mine.
i had a dude bite my vagina once. like, on the inside. and i'm rude in bed, quel surprise i fucking know, so i smacked the side of his head pretty hard and asked what lying-ass bitch had told him women like that shit. i have suffered a handful of sex injuries to date, the most notable being 1 the time a dude broke my nose while i was blowing him and 2 the time this wannabe vampire bit my inner labia with his dirty fucking mouth. i steered him out of there and told him he could jerk off in the sink, and two days later my shit was swollen and radiating nuclear heat. i went to the doctor and he was like, "who the fuck are you having sex with, dracula?!" i had to be on antibiotics for three goddamned weeks, all because this asshole tried to reinvent the cunnilingus wheel. IDIOT. and i'm not saying that no one does it right; i had a very successful experience a couple weeks ago. but that was some four-leaf clover head. one in a million, not even kidding.
getting eaten out is boring. sorry, dudes, it just is. we only make you do it because you want your dicks sucked all the time and this is pretty much the only thing we can ask of you that doesn't get you off at the same time. everything you jerks hate about blowjobs is multiplied by a factor of ten when you're wasting our fucking time with your heads between our legs. what's the worst thing about getting your dick sucked? inconsistency and pace interruption? WE HAVE THE SAME FUCKING PROBLEM. just think of our shit as an inside out penis. if i tell you exactly what to do, and i will because i am bossy, just keep doing it. right there, the same way i just taught you. wait, why are you getting creative? RIGHT THERE, that same motherfucking spot, over and over at that same pace until i'm finished. don't take a break, if you JUST KEEP DOING THAT I'LL BE DONE IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, I SWEAR TO GOD.
and now, without further ado, HOW TO EAT OUT A HOT LADY. or, more specifically, HOW TO EAT OUT SAMANTHA IRBY. because i don't know what these other bitches are into, and while i assume i speak for women as a gender sometimes these broads are stupid and dissent just for the fuck of it. dummies.
1 you have to pretend that whatever i smell like is exactly what you fucking expected. our body chemistry changes and shit. today's uncooked bacon and body wash is tomorrow's hint of soap with a touch of old meatloaf. we have to stop being cute: everyone's vagina smells like meat or fish or tampon residue, and we need to stop lying about that shit. no real human woman has a pussy that smells like the produce section at whole foods. vaginas are moist, damp, covered in hair, kept in the dark, and packed to overflowing with bacterial flora and fauna; and it also happens to be spitting distance from my butthole, where diarrhea comes from. that shit is not supposed to smell like a spring day. can i clean it up? YES. will i still smell like a sexually-aroused human female? ALSO, YES. pussy stinks. deal with that shit.
2 put your tongue RIGHT THERE. i've known talking apes who fuck up the punchline of a knock-knock joke yet feel totally comfortable improvising in bed. stop that right this minute. i can show you where exactly you need to be and what exactly you need to be doing if you don't want it to take all goddamned night. you want a crick in your neck? you want to drown down there? fine, keep doing it your way. keep ignoring my corrections to instead trace the alphabet or sing happy birthday or whatever some dumb men's magazine told you to do. every time some dude wants me on me knees this is how it goes, "look homie, this floor is uncomfortable as fuck. please tell me the quickest way to get this done. do i have to rub your balls or what?" then i listen, follow instruction, and my jaw remains located.
3 stop trying to peer over my belly to see what my face looks like. contorted in ecstasy? HARDLY. all you're doing is fucking up the momentum and making your challenge that much more difficult. oh, i know. you want to see the pleasure written across my face. and i appreciate that, but when you stop and try to get a mental picture of just how awesome you are at getting my rocks off you actually cease to GET MY GODDAMNED ROCKS OFF. i hate fucking dudes, because they can't just be fair-to-middling at sex and make a mental note to use while masturbating later, they always have to stop and admire their handiwork. listen, i'm making this noise because i heard a porn star do it. don't stop to revel in how good you are, thereby ruining this orgasm i've been working on since we finished the salad course at dinner. those pauses don't help me. so quit that shit. and keep doing that stabbing thing i mimed a minute ago. i like that.
4 move your ass out of the way so i can roll over and go to the fuck sleep. good for you, i came in your mouth. isn't that nice? i'm awfully proud of you, pumpkin. now put that boner away. oh, you thought i was going to want to have sex after two and a half hours of you trying to find my clitoris with your tongue and mostly failing? yeah fucking right. you better move out of that cool spot, i have to work in the morning. as a matter of fact, you don't live here, so why don't you just go home? i kicked your shoes over by the front door so they'd be easier to find. do you remember where you parked? would you mind throwing that bag in the dumpster? please don't let the cat out when you go. i'll call you in the morning, i promise.
if that doesn't work there's only one possible solution: the problem is you. AND YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.
why won't my girlfriend let me go down on her? women are supposed to love that. is something wrong with her?
irby: two reasons, homie. 1 we live in a country that hates women so goddamned much that you can hear a "fish pussy" joke on the motherfucking evening news. and that's, of course, right after your eyes have been assaulted by no fewer than 137 feminine hygiene and maintenance advertisements that, while purporting to be pro-lady and supportive of our reproductive health, actually do little more than to reinforce the idea that your vagina is wrong. it looks wrong, it smells wrong, and without every single one of these waxes and wipes and depilatories and creams, no man worth any salt at all is going to want to put his handsome and clean-shaven face near that wretched cavern of gross. because keeping your vagina squeaky clean isn't about a dude's penis, IT'S ABOUT HIS FUCKING FACE. men will stick their dicks in anything: corpses, livestock, fleshlights, kathy griffin. but it's where this motherfucker is willing to put his mouth that presents the real challenge, as stupid women have allowed lazy, selfish assholes to use "icky hair" and "funny smell" to get out of spending any quality time with their ostrich heads buried in our ladysand.
and 2 YOU'RE PROBABLY DOING IT WRONG. i have met every cunnilingus expert and orgasm specialist in the goddamned city of chicago. maybe it's this new "men wearing skinny jeans" sensitive era in which we currently live, but apropos of nothing dudes always want to tell you on the first goddamned date how good they are at mouth-to-lips resuscitation. and i'm all about getting naked with a progressive and forward-thinking hot piece of beef, but i went out with a dude once who simulated oral sex at the motherfucking dinner table, and what part of the game is THAT? because sure, it's nice to know that you have a tongue in your head, sir, and your ability to lick the outside of a wine glass really knocked my goddamned socks off (BARF), but my vagina looks more like a roast beef sandwich with no mustard on rye bread. so if you're going to effectively simulate, we're going to need to close this bar tab and holler at a deli.
have you ever watched a dude eat a goddamned sandwich? meat chomping lettuce shoveling mayonnaise slurping crumbs in his beard grossness? THAT SHIT IS DISGUSTING. if you saw me attacking a banana or an ice cream cone like a wild goddamned animal, teeth gnashing and sending little bits of chewed banana spewing every which way, would you invite me to have a go at a blowjob? no, you wouldn't. you would muzzle me and insist on putting your dick in my butthole. that's the real reason i try to get menfolk to go on food dates, because i can watch how that motherfucker handles a pork belly taco and decide whether or not he can take a bite of mine.
i had a dude bite my vagina once. like, on the inside. and i'm rude in bed, quel surprise i fucking know, so i smacked the side of his head pretty hard and asked what lying-ass bitch had told him women like that shit. i have suffered a handful of sex injuries to date, the most notable being 1 the time a dude broke my nose while i was blowing him and 2 the time this wannabe vampire bit my inner labia with his dirty fucking mouth. i steered him out of there and told him he could jerk off in the sink, and two days later my shit was swollen and radiating nuclear heat. i went to the doctor and he was like, "who the fuck are you having sex with, dracula?!" i had to be on antibiotics for three goddamned weeks, all because this asshole tried to reinvent the cunnilingus wheel. IDIOT. and i'm not saying that no one does it right; i had a very successful experience a couple weeks ago. but that was some four-leaf clover head. one in a million, not even kidding.
getting eaten out is boring. sorry, dudes, it just is. we only make you do it because you want your dicks sucked all the time and this is pretty much the only thing we can ask of you that doesn't get you off at the same time. everything you jerks hate about blowjobs is multiplied by a factor of ten when you're wasting our fucking time with your heads between our legs. what's the worst thing about getting your dick sucked? inconsistency and pace interruption? WE HAVE THE SAME FUCKING PROBLEM. just think of our shit as an inside out penis. if i tell you exactly what to do, and i will because i am bossy, just keep doing it. right there, the same way i just taught you. wait, why are you getting creative? RIGHT THERE, that same motherfucking spot, over and over at that same pace until i'm finished. don't take a break, if you JUST KEEP DOING THAT I'LL BE DONE IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, I SWEAR TO GOD.
and now, without further ado, HOW TO EAT OUT A HOT LADY. or, more specifically, HOW TO EAT OUT SAMANTHA IRBY. because i don't know what these other bitches are into, and while i assume i speak for women as a gender sometimes these broads are stupid and dissent just for the fuck of it. dummies.
1 you have to pretend that whatever i smell like is exactly what you fucking expected. our body chemistry changes and shit. today's uncooked bacon and body wash is tomorrow's hint of soap with a touch of old meatloaf. we have to stop being cute: everyone's vagina smells like meat or fish or tampon residue, and we need to stop lying about that shit. no real human woman has a pussy that smells like the produce section at whole foods. vaginas are moist, damp, covered in hair, kept in the dark, and packed to overflowing with bacterial flora and fauna; and it also happens to be spitting distance from my butthole, where diarrhea comes from. that shit is not supposed to smell like a spring day. can i clean it up? YES. will i still smell like a sexually-aroused human female? ALSO, YES. pussy stinks. deal with that shit.
2 put your tongue RIGHT THERE. i've known talking apes who fuck up the punchline of a knock-knock joke yet feel totally comfortable improvising in bed. stop that right this minute. i can show you where exactly you need to be and what exactly you need to be doing if you don't want it to take all goddamned night. you want a crick in your neck? you want to drown down there? fine, keep doing it your way. keep ignoring my corrections to instead trace the alphabet or sing happy birthday or whatever some dumb men's magazine told you to do. every time some dude wants me on me knees this is how it goes, "look homie, this floor is uncomfortable as fuck. please tell me the quickest way to get this done. do i have to rub your balls or what?" then i listen, follow instruction, and my jaw remains located.
3 stop trying to peer over my belly to see what my face looks like. contorted in ecstasy? HARDLY. all you're doing is fucking up the momentum and making your challenge that much more difficult. oh, i know. you want to see the pleasure written across my face. and i appreciate that, but when you stop and try to get a mental picture of just how awesome you are at getting my rocks off you actually cease to GET MY GODDAMNED ROCKS OFF. i hate fucking dudes, because they can't just be fair-to-middling at sex and make a mental note to use while masturbating later, they always have to stop and admire their handiwork. listen, i'm making this noise because i heard a porn star do it. don't stop to revel in how good you are, thereby ruining this orgasm i've been working on since we finished the salad course at dinner. those pauses don't help me. so quit that shit. and keep doing that stabbing thing i mimed a minute ago. i like that.
4 move your ass out of the way so i can roll over and go to the fuck sleep. good for you, i came in your mouth. isn't that nice? i'm awfully proud of you, pumpkin. now put that boner away. oh, you thought i was going to want to have sex after two and a half hours of you trying to find my clitoris with your tongue and mostly failing? yeah fucking right. you better move out of that cool spot, i have to work in the morning. as a matter of fact, you don't live here, so why don't you just go home? i kicked your shoes over by the front door so they'd be easier to find. do you remember where you parked? would you mind throwing that bag in the dumpster? please don't let the cat out when you go. i'll call you in the morning, i promise.
if that doesn't work there's only one possible solution: the problem is you. AND YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.
Monday, December 19, 2011
the line separating stalking and courtship? razor thin, man.
Dear i+i: I've fallen for a woman I had a one-night stand with. To her it was just a fling. How can I change her mind? - DEEP FEELINGS FAST
ian: Well, DFF, you're obviously a guy with a lot to offer. "A lot" here referring to your unbalanced and obsessive tendencies. If I were to conduct a quick poll of what friends you've managed to retain, I'd be willing to bet I'd get a lot of "he's… KIND of intense," or "he falls in love with any chick that will talk to him," or "his glove box is stuffed full of restraining orders."
Lucky for you, this one's easy. Call her. Like fifty times. Now. Right now. She might be with somebody else.
I bet she is. I bet she's with him right now.
I bet she's having mind-blowing sex on his boat right now. Or his private jet. Or his dirigible. I bet they're having nasty steam-punk dirigible sex as I type this. He's all dashing in this Rocketeer-style uniform with his jodhpurs around his ankles as she's bent over a control panel with all these awesome-looking brass fittings and shit.
I bet she is. I bet she's with him right now.
I bet she's having mind-blowing sex on his boat right now. Or his private jet. Or his dirigible. I bet they're having nasty steam-punk dirigible sex as I type this. He's all dashing in this Rocketeer-style uniform with his jodhpurs around his ankles as she's bent over a control panel with all these awesome-looking brass fittings and shit.
After like the first six or so successive calls, she's likely to let it go straight to voicemail. The tone of each message is critical. I CANNOT stress to you the importance of sounding super-relaxed and casual each and every time you leave her a "thinkin' 'boutcha" message.
Go for breezy. It's CRITICAL that you sound breezy and unconcerned. If you don't, it will be disastrous.
Here - rehearse it a couple times. No. Do it again. Nope. Again. WRONG. Just sound NATURAL, man - don't over-fucking think it, or she'll recognize you for the hopeless lonesome weirdo you are. Rehearse it in the mirror. With a ghost story flashlight shining under your chin. And your face streaked with the dried salt of your tears. Rehearse it till each of the words is drained of individual meaning, and they're reduced to a baffling collection of noises falling out of your face. Rehearse it till it's like The King's Speech and Candyman had a baby in your mind. And remember: super-casual.
And quit blinking so much. No - don't THINK about blinking, cause that'll make you self-conscious. You don't wanna sound self-conscious, do you? Or wretched. Don't sound wretched or self-conscious. Take a deep breath. DEEPER! Good. Now clear your mind. QUIT FLINCHING AND CLEAR YOUR FUCKING MIND!!! RIGHT NOW!!! OR SO HELP ME CHRIST I WILL SLAP EVERY THOUGHT OUT OF IT.
Now try it again. Oh. God. No. Jesus. You sound like fucking Voldemort. Are you actively trying to repel her? She's a human female, son - she does not need you on her voicemail sounding like your nuts are in a tourniquet.
You know what? You're not a phone guy. That's all it is. Why'choo send her a text? Yeah. Better. Send her a text.
Every six minutes for the next four days.
"Hey, Boo. Where you at?"
"Hey. It's me. Wasn't sure if you been getting my texts or not."
"Hey. My car still smells like you. Which is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo awesome. Hit me back."
"Where ARE you?"
"Not sure if your phone's dead or whatever. Call me, OK? I'm worried about you."
"omg. did you lose your phone?"
"STOPIGNORINGME!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"sorry. sorry. r u mad @ me?"
"wy u gotta be a bitch?"
"fml"
"u 'member I pikt u up @ yr place, yah? u know i know whr u liv"
If she doesn't block you, it's love for sure.
If she does block you, it's not you, man. It's her. You're being totally sweet and attentive. She's got daddy issues or whatever, cause she just can't handle your intimacy. She's probably freaked out cause she's never had a dude treat her THIS well before.
Go for breezy. It's CRITICAL that you sound breezy and unconcerned. If you don't, it will be disastrous.
Here - rehearse it a couple times. No. Do it again. Nope. Again. WRONG. Just sound NATURAL, man - don't over-fucking think it, or she'll recognize you for the hopeless lonesome weirdo you are. Rehearse it in the mirror. With a ghost story flashlight shining under your chin. And your face streaked with the dried salt of your tears. Rehearse it till each of the words is drained of individual meaning, and they're reduced to a baffling collection of noises falling out of your face. Rehearse it till it's like The King's Speech and Candyman had a baby in your mind. And remember: super-casual.
And quit blinking so much. No - don't THINK about blinking, cause that'll make you self-conscious. You don't wanna sound self-conscious, do you? Or wretched. Don't sound wretched or self-conscious. Take a deep breath. DEEPER! Good. Now clear your mind. QUIT FLINCHING AND CLEAR YOUR FUCKING MIND!!! RIGHT NOW!!! OR SO HELP ME CHRIST I WILL SLAP EVERY THOUGHT OUT OF IT.
Now try it again. Oh. God. No. Jesus. You sound like fucking Voldemort. Are you actively trying to repel her? She's a human female, son - she does not need you on her voicemail sounding like your nuts are in a tourniquet.
You know what? You're not a phone guy. That's all it is. Why'choo send her a text? Yeah. Better. Send her a text.
Every six minutes for the next four days.
"Hey, Boo. Where you at?"
"Hey. It's me. Wasn't sure if you been getting my texts or not."
"Hey. My car still smells like you. Which is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo awesome. Hit me back."
"Where ARE you?"
"Not sure if your phone's dead or whatever. Call me, OK? I'm worried about you."
"omg. did you lose your phone?"
"STOPIGNORINGME!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"sorry. sorry. r u mad @ me?"
"wy u gotta be a bitch?"
"fml"
"u 'member I pikt u up @ yr place, yah? u know i know whr u liv"
If she doesn't block you, it's love for sure.
If she does block you, it's not you, man. It's her. You're being totally sweet and attentive. She's got daddy issues or whatever, cause she just can't handle your intimacy. She's probably freaked out cause she's never had a dude treat her THIS well before.
Time to escalate.
Swing by her place. Ring the bell. For a long-ass time. Really lean on it. All right. She's gonna play it that way. Ignore you some more. Leave her that Beanie Baby® on her stoop. But first rip its fucking head off.
And the next time leave her flowers. Dead ones.
Then leave that pic you took of you two with your phone. Don't tear it in half or anything. That's cliché, man. Burn her eyes out with a cigarette.
Then leave the upskirt pic you took under the table at dinner.
Then leave a pic of your junk. With the ball-strangling ribbon wrapped around the whole business. Because it's a present. For her. That demonstrates your burning and furious love.
And if none of that works, take a dump on her stoop.
On the off chance that you don't see where I'm leading you here:
You're out of your fucking mind. There's no such thing as falling for somebody after one night. You're a deluded and defective need-monkey. You're a vial of poison for anybody else. You're chronically afraid of actual connection (which takes time and work), so you construct these fabulations that only demonstrate your catastrophic failure to understand interpersonal dynamics and the life cycle of romance. Dr. Drew would kick you to the curb, you hapless piece of shit.
You got your dick wet - this is veering toward the miraculous. Why can you not be made happy by this? I been married 14 years. My sex life is packed in one of those crates at the end of Indiana Jones, dude.
Maybe if you dial down your fucking crazy a little bit, you'll get laid again. Then you could describe the experience to my mummified ghost penis to see if it remembers anything. It won't, obviously, but I'm keen to try. Text me, buddy.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
how to turn on your man.
dear irby and ian,
my boyfriend keeps asking me to talk dirty to him during sex, but i have no idea what to say. do you have any suggestions?
"why are you such a loser?"
"ear hair? seriously?"
"do any of your underwear not have holes?"
"when is the last time you read a book?"
"stop kissing me like that."
"i know you're cheating on me, i just have to catch you."
"i can't believe you graduated high school."
"my ex-boyfriend is so much hotter than you."
"do you even know what g-spot means?"
"only losers play world of warcraft."
"pick up the dry cleaning after work."
"sex with you is always SO unsatisfying."
"why didn't you take the garbage out?"
"my sister's boyfriend is so much smarter than you are."
"when are you going to get a better job?"
"your penis is small."
"you have terrible taste in clothes."
"how long has it been since you last had a haircut?"
"your apartment is dirty."
"clip your toenails."
"that restaurant you picked was terrible."
"why don't you ever bring me flowers?"
"you smell weird."
"have your balls always looked this gross?"
"my father still disapproves of you."
"when are we moving in together?"
"i think your best friend hates me."
"why don't you cuddle with me anymore?"
"i caught you looking at amanda's ass the other night at dinner."
"are you still in love with me?"
"what are you getting me for my birthday?"
"you DO remember when my birthday is, don't you?"
"want to come to my office party tomorrow?"
"i hate your friend greg."
"can you take my car in?"
"why do you snore so loud?"
"you've put some weight on."
"does any part of your body have muscle definition?"
"that cd you bought me totally sucks."
"is your family ever going to accept me?"
"when are you getting a haircut, again?"
"stop doing it so rough!"
"i feel like i might be falling out of love with you."
"where did you get those ugly shoes?"
"your half of the rent is overdue."
"does this nightie make me look fat?"
"you forgot toilet paper at the grocery store again, idiot."
"your mom is a bitch."
"come on, mcdonalds again?"
"when did you give up on life?"
"cartoons are for children."
"i think you're stupid."
"you make me sick."
"you ruined my life."
"i fucking hate you."
"WHY HAVEN'T YOU PROPOSED TO ME YET? I TOLD YOU I EXPECTED TO BE MARRIED BY NOW!"
my boyfriend keeps asking me to talk dirty to him during sex, but i have no idea what to say. do you have any suggestions?
"why are you such a loser?"
"ear hair? seriously?"
"do any of your underwear not have holes?"
"when is the last time you read a book?"
"stop kissing me like that."
"i know you're cheating on me, i just have to catch you."
"i can't believe you graduated high school."
"my ex-boyfriend is so much hotter than you."
"do you even know what g-spot means?"
"only losers play world of warcraft."
"pick up the dry cleaning after work."
"sex with you is always SO unsatisfying."
"why didn't you take the garbage out?"
"my sister's boyfriend is so much smarter than you are."
"when are you going to get a better job?"
"your penis is small."
"you have terrible taste in clothes."
"how long has it been since you last had a haircut?"
"your apartment is dirty."
"clip your toenails."
"that restaurant you picked was terrible."
"why don't you ever bring me flowers?"
"you smell weird."
"have your balls always looked this gross?"
"my father still disapproves of you."
"when are we moving in together?"
"i think your best friend hates me."
"why don't you cuddle with me anymore?"
"i caught you looking at amanda's ass the other night at dinner."
"are you still in love with me?"
"what are you getting me for my birthday?"
"you DO remember when my birthday is, don't you?"
"want to come to my office party tomorrow?"
"i hate your friend greg."
"can you take my car in?"
"why do you snore so loud?"
"you've put some weight on."
"does any part of your body have muscle definition?"
"that cd you bought me totally sucks."
"is your family ever going to accept me?"
"when are you getting a haircut, again?"
"stop doing it so rough!"
"i feel like i might be falling out of love with you."
"where did you get those ugly shoes?"
"your half of the rent is overdue."
"does this nightie make me look fat?"
"you forgot toilet paper at the grocery store again, idiot."
"your mom is a bitch."
"come on, mcdonalds again?"
"when did you give up on life?"
"cartoons are for children."
"i think you're stupid."
"you make me sick."
"you ruined my life."
"i fucking hate you."
"WHY HAVEN'T YOU PROPOSED TO ME YET? I TOLD YOU I EXPECTED TO BE MARRIED BY NOW!"
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
papa was a rollin' stone. made of shit.
Dear i+i: I found out my 12-year-old is not my biological son. His mother and I have been divorced for two years, but I never questioned the paternity even when I caught her cheating on me four years ago. My mother urged me to get a DNA test since my “son” was young because he didn’t resemble me. I’ve been paying child support and seeing him every other weekend so far. Since finding out, my ex has offered to pay me back for most of the child support since our divorce. I won’t be taking further legal action because I just want to move on with my life. I’ve also decided to stop seeing him because I am not his father. I’ve already spent more than a decade parenting (financially and emotionally) a child that isn’t mine, and I don’t want to do it anymore. Most of my family has been critical about my decisions—they insist that I should make my ex suffer more and sue her for all she’s worth, but then they say I should keep being a father figure so an innocent child doesn’t lose his dad. What am I to do? - Manhandled
ian: Well, first off: you're not alone. Every parent ever since the dawn of the species has fantasized about being freed of the spine-cracking obligations of parenthood. So, to set you mind at ease on that score: we've all had that impulse. It's perfectly natural.
Heck, my own dad took off when I was nine. Then killed himself later on. And it didn't do me a bit of harm. Unless you count my lack of trust. Or my robotic and dispassionate lack of response to the human emotion that is just shy of Asberger's. Or my fits of rage over the tiniest non-event. Or the bleak certainty that overshadows my every move of a crushing and inescapable sense of futility that governs all human activity, rendering every exertion and aspiration of every man, woman, and child on the planet a pointless joke for now and all time.
But no biggie. Right? My dad had his OWN thing going. And that's what matters. Right?
Here's where I think you cross over from "we've all been there" to "sweet god above, what a selfish cunt" is in the following:
ian: Well, first off: you're not alone. Every parent ever since the dawn of the species has fantasized about being freed of the spine-cracking obligations of parenthood. So, to set you mind at ease on that score: we've all had that impulse. It's perfectly natural.
Heck, my own dad took off when I was nine. Then killed himself later on. And it didn't do me a bit of harm. Unless you count my lack of trust. Or my robotic and dispassionate lack of response to the human emotion that is just shy of Asberger's. Or my fits of rage over the tiniest non-event. Or the bleak certainty that overshadows my every move of a crushing and inescapable sense of futility that governs all human activity, rendering every exertion and aspiration of every man, woman, and child on the planet a pointless joke for now and all time.
But no biggie. Right? My dad had his OWN thing going. And that's what matters. Right?
Here's where I think you cross over from "we've all been there" to "sweet god above, what a selfish cunt" is in the following:
- The quotation marks you put around the word son. You're pissed at your ex. You're hurt. The child you've been raising as your own - you're right. Fuck him. Sorry: "him."
- The order in which you itemize your "parenting" of this Thing Unrelated to You: "financially and emotionally." Your priorities are straight as an arrow. An arrow pointed at a target of Being a Giant Shit-Punk in a Cunt Wig. Oh. Yay. Bullseye again. You fucking fuckwad.
- Your legitimate desire to move on with your life. Because, as you correctly surmise, it is all about you. You Tepid Thimble Full of Cock Snot.
- Your fucking family, which is clearly a nest of asshole vipers. They raised that fucking monster in the mirror, then taught it to see a hero. Your only correct feelings, the only ones you should heed, at all, ever, are your well-earned and richly deserved feelings of self-loathing, you Stunted Little Swinecock.
- Your ex. A sex-addicted and approval-seeking cess pit of need whose dad (or uncle, or coach or pastor or whatever) diddled her when she was little. She's conflated her feelings about her depressing sexual past with how she defines affection in all her subsequent relationships with men. You somehow qualify as a man, apparently.
- Fucking YOU, you piece of shit. You're obviously predatory enough to have sought out somebody this fucking damaged, and persecuted enough to claim you're shocked when it fucking backfires. You sub-moron.
- Your inability to peel apart your family's viper asshole advice regarding the vindictive fuckstick approach to your ex, which would only succeed in maximizing damage to your "son," and the the uncharacteristically sane and compassionate advice they give about continuing to pretend you're a father. You Soulless Deadbeat Slurry of Gutless Self-Interest and Entitled Shitheadery.
What are you to do?
Simple. Make an incision in your nutsack; insert a melon baller; scoop out the loveless man cherries that are just taking up space in there. Burn them. You are a chronically deficient and epically selfish Leaning Tower of Shit. No breeding for you. This is paramount. Fuck everything else up all you want. It's a fair bet your nut custard is completely inert and useless, but better to have a fail safe built into Operation Terminate Your Bloodline.
Next: execute your family. They are perfectly horrible. Hack them up and douse the chunks in acid.
Finally: never see the boy again.
Lest you misunderstand - this has NOTHING WHATEVER TO DO WITH YOU STINGY LITTLE FEELINGS ABOUT THE MATTER, YOU WITLESS FUCKING HUMP. It is for him. His life will be improved immeasurably by your disappearance. While your ex is without question a total fucking mess, there exists the possibility that she might have at some point had a thought for the boy, however fleeting and probably damaging to him it will ultimately prove to be. But she may have expended some effort on his behalf. This minimal expectation continues, obviously, to elude you. So go fuck yourself. Go permanently fuck yourself.
Epilogue: die alone. Under a threadbare blanket. That pilled-up institutional polyester kind in a shade of yellow once cheery, but now like a sun-baked duckling corpse. Die alone in a room with flickering fluorescents and cracked linoleum that smells of bleach and panic and neglect. Die in a broken hospital bed that reeks of your piss. Die with terror in your eyes as your stroke-swollen tongue long robbed of speech lolls in your dry mouth. Die seeking the compassion of the Estonian nurse who looks blankly at your demise from the hallway while snapping her gum and checking her watch. Die knowing that the only worthwhile thing you ever did in your misspent little life was to leave that fucking kid alone. You brutish little jerkwad anus-faced prick.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
twitter is fucking stupid.
dear irby and ian: is it appropriate for my boyfriend of over two years to be following a porn star on twitter?
irby: twitter is for twats. i hate motherfucking twitter. okay, let's first get the obvious out of the way: as a self-described EGOMANIACAL MACROBLOGGER, i am wholly resistant to the idea that i might have to limit my genius to a mere 140 characters of space and text. really? you expect this limitless hilarious to be contained? what's next, writing my shit to fit in a fortune cookie?! i have a lot of words, man. and i kind of want to say all of them. and you deserve to read all of them. plus, abbreviation makes me catatonic with rage. bitches on the twitter machine rarely tweet using complete sentences. it's maddening.
second, if you follow more than three goddamned people, TWITTER IS CONFUSING AS A MOTHERFUCKER. i'm not nineteen and i don't play video games, so i can hardly see the value in trying to scroll through the 372 rapid-fire tweets twittered out by the twats i follow in the last minute and a half. i can't keep up with that shit, homie. first i gotta click that link you tweeted, then i gotta find my place in the newsfeed after i finish reading that that boring-ass article you thought was important enough to send a link to, then i gotta see if anyone messaged me. or retweeted one of my tweets. bitches gotta check the book of faces, bitches gotta see what dlisted is talking about, bitches gotta skim 60 new emails, bitches gotta read some news on the daily beast, bitches gotta scan the new york times, bitches gotta holler at gawker and jezebel, bitches gotta check my facebooks AGAIN, bitches gotta macroblog, bitches gotta beg hoes to do my show, bitches gotta sort through invites to do other hoes' shows, bitches gotta sext this hot tall dude, bitches gotta find shows to go to, bitches gotta see what movies are coming out, bitches gotta maintain seven separate gchat conversations and not lose my place in any of them, bitches gotta internet stalk, bitches gotta holler at tumblr porn, bitches gotta call friends back, bitches gotta pick up meds from the pharmacy, bitches gotta download that new eugenides novel on the kindle, bitches gotta cut shit out of magazines, bitches gotta write, bitches gotta work, bitches gotta nap, oh my fucking god BITCHES GOTTA EAT.
and then, when i finally finish doing all of that, i come back to my newsfeed only to find that there are 4,976 more updates. and it's only been five goddamned minutes.
not to mention, twitter is like one big conversation between a bunch of motherfuckers who DON'T KNOW SHIT. it's the fucking manifestation of the phrase "opinions are like assholes," and there's nothing like a well-placed hashtag to make some dumbfuck think he's the king of the goddamned interwebs. god, it's like a collection of brain farts from every stupid person you've ever met in your entire fucking life, UNFILTERED. even if, like me, you carefully craft the list of people you follow so as to spare your bleeding eyeballs from the misspelled mini-rants from morons who would better serve this earth by being buried at its core, sometimes bullshit filters through. or someone you thought was awesome retweets some shit a teenager wrote. i used to be polite and follow people who, apropos of nothing, followed me. but fuck that. if your shit isn't protected and i can scroll through and ensure that your tweets sounds as though you might walk upright and be able to operate heavy machinery then i might follow you back. but i usually don't, because i think most people are dumb.
following celebrities is the wackest move, because even the smart and funny ones NEVER TWEET ANYTHING WORTH A DAMN. never. everytime i read a celebrity tweet i think, "this asshole is obviously retarded." or, more accurately, "this asshole's assistant who cyrano's this bitch's tweets is obviously retarded." have you heard beyonce speak before? she sounds like a kindergartner with a mouth full of crayons! why on earth would i ever be interested in anything that woman has to say on the internet?! imma need b to keep gyrating her half-nekkid ass and singing songs about jay-z's lips (that's all i picture every time i hear a love song by her, OMG; jay-z and beyonce fucking on a pile of money, it's gross), not tweeting "have a good day, y'all" or whatever the fuck.
following a stripper makes even less motherfucking sense, as i imagine all their tweets look like something like this:
"oh oh ohhhhh, right there! fuck me harder! oh yes oh yes!"
"wax my pussy today, it's totaly redy for you, big boy."
@lonelyballs202 "your cock is so big, ooohhh yes! fuck me! put your big cock in me!"
barf.
seriously, aren't we all watching the same goddamned porn? when is the last time you watched eva angelina let a dude creampie her asshole before she shit the come into some other broad's waiting mouth and thought to yourself, "self, i wonder what this bitch thinks about the crisis in darfur? i wonder if her tweets could give me insight into who she really is as a person?" QUIT PLAYING WITH ME, ASSHOLE. you don't think that. no, you think "why is there so much lotion on this goddamned mouse? fuck, i need to watch that last part again!"
are bitches really getting laid off twitter like that? i mean, i've heard of a couple @messages that resulted in some uglies getting bumped, but those were REGULAR GODDAMNED PEOPLE. are porn stars and celebrities really trying to fuck dudes who tweet at them while they jerk off in your family room? okay, i understand. i understand why you'd worry, initially. a few years ago i had this terrible unrequited crush on a dude who used twitter as his primary form of communication (seriously, he TWEETED more than he TEXTED), and i spent more time than i should publicly admit scrolling through his feed and trying to figure out whom all of the women he was having conversations with were. it is EXHAUSTING because, unlike having access to someone's email, tweets are short little out-of-context bursts of nothingness. i couldn't tell if he was fucking them or if they were his sisters, and believe me, I TRIED. which is why this shit is dumb, because it will have a bitch who has no idea what "trending" means scrolling through nine hours of irrelevant posts trying to figure out if some dude really likes her or not.
i think the real problem here is trying to fuck dudes in the age of the internets, and i have no consolation other than "pretend that shit doesn't exist." seriously, girls, you have to unfollow that dude's twat and make him limited profile your ass on facebook if you're just going to make yourself nuts. the internet is a total crazymaker, and even the nicest, sweetest, most loyal person can look like a scumbag if you read his comment threads too closely. anonymous flirting is the currency of the times in which we live, and no better example of that is these goddamned tweets and shit. if i'm interested in a man, i try my best not to click on any of his internet shit, because once you do the rabbit hole goes so far down you might never come back.
so don't worry. that bitch makes ten grand per boner or some shit, and i highly doubt she's going to give it up to climb through the computer screen and bang that broke-ass piece of shit you've been fucking for two whole years. relax, ho. it's just twitter!
you can follow samantha irby's uproarious tweets @wordscience. she often twitters in complete sentences, and is obviously a total goddamned hypocrite.
irby: twitter is for twats. i hate motherfucking twitter. okay, let's first get the obvious out of the way: as a self-described EGOMANIACAL MACROBLOGGER, i am wholly resistant to the idea that i might have to limit my genius to a mere 140 characters of space and text. really? you expect this limitless hilarious to be contained? what's next, writing my shit to fit in a fortune cookie?! i have a lot of words, man. and i kind of want to say all of them. and you deserve to read all of them. plus, abbreviation makes me catatonic with rage. bitches on the twitter machine rarely tweet using complete sentences. it's maddening.
second, if you follow more than three goddamned people, TWITTER IS CONFUSING AS A MOTHERFUCKER. i'm not nineteen and i don't play video games, so i can hardly see the value in trying to scroll through the 372 rapid-fire tweets twittered out by the twats i follow in the last minute and a half. i can't keep up with that shit, homie. first i gotta click that link you tweeted, then i gotta find my place in the newsfeed after i finish reading that that boring-ass article you thought was important enough to send a link to, then i gotta see if anyone messaged me. or retweeted one of my tweets. bitches gotta check the book of faces, bitches gotta see what dlisted is talking about, bitches gotta skim 60 new emails, bitches gotta read some news on the daily beast, bitches gotta scan the new york times, bitches gotta holler at gawker and jezebel, bitches gotta check my facebooks AGAIN, bitches gotta macroblog, bitches gotta beg hoes to do my show, bitches gotta sort through invites to do other hoes' shows, bitches gotta sext this hot tall dude, bitches gotta find shows to go to, bitches gotta see what movies are coming out, bitches gotta maintain seven separate gchat conversations and not lose my place in any of them, bitches gotta internet stalk, bitches gotta holler at tumblr porn, bitches gotta call friends back, bitches gotta pick up meds from the pharmacy, bitches gotta download that new eugenides novel on the kindle, bitches gotta cut shit out of magazines, bitches gotta write, bitches gotta work, bitches gotta nap, oh my fucking god BITCHES GOTTA EAT.
and then, when i finally finish doing all of that, i come back to my newsfeed only to find that there are 4,976 more updates. and it's only been five goddamned minutes.
not to mention, twitter is like one big conversation between a bunch of motherfuckers who DON'T KNOW SHIT. it's the fucking manifestation of the phrase "opinions are like assholes," and there's nothing like a well-placed hashtag to make some dumbfuck think he's the king of the goddamned interwebs. god, it's like a collection of brain farts from every stupid person you've ever met in your entire fucking life, UNFILTERED. even if, like me, you carefully craft the list of people you follow so as to spare your bleeding eyeballs from the misspelled mini-rants from morons who would better serve this earth by being buried at its core, sometimes bullshit filters through. or someone you thought was awesome retweets some shit a teenager wrote. i used to be polite and follow people who, apropos of nothing, followed me. but fuck that. if your shit isn't protected and i can scroll through and ensure that your tweets sounds as though you might walk upright and be able to operate heavy machinery then i might follow you back. but i usually don't, because i think most people are dumb.
following celebrities is the wackest move, because even the smart and funny ones NEVER TWEET ANYTHING WORTH A DAMN. never. everytime i read a celebrity tweet i think, "this asshole is obviously retarded." or, more accurately, "this asshole's assistant who cyrano's this bitch's tweets is obviously retarded." have you heard beyonce speak before? she sounds like a kindergartner with a mouth full of crayons! why on earth would i ever be interested in anything that woman has to say on the internet?! imma need b to keep gyrating her half-nekkid ass and singing songs about jay-z's lips (that's all i picture every time i hear a love song by her, OMG; jay-z and beyonce fucking on a pile of money, it's gross), not tweeting "have a good day, y'all" or whatever the fuck.
following a stripper makes even less motherfucking sense, as i imagine all their tweets look like something like this:
"oh oh ohhhhh, right there! fuck me harder! oh yes oh yes!"
"wax my pussy today, it's totaly redy for you, big boy."
@lonelyballs202 "your cock is so big, ooohhh yes! fuck me! put your big cock in me!"
barf.
seriously, aren't we all watching the same goddamned porn? when is the last time you watched eva angelina let a dude creampie her asshole before she shit the come into some other broad's waiting mouth and thought to yourself, "self, i wonder what this bitch thinks about the crisis in darfur? i wonder if her tweets could give me insight into who she really is as a person?" QUIT PLAYING WITH ME, ASSHOLE. you don't think that. no, you think "why is there so much lotion on this goddamned mouse? fuck, i need to watch that last part again!"
are bitches really getting laid off twitter like that? i mean, i've heard of a couple @messages that resulted in some uglies getting bumped, but those were REGULAR GODDAMNED PEOPLE. are porn stars and celebrities really trying to fuck dudes who tweet at them while they jerk off in your family room? okay, i understand. i understand why you'd worry, initially. a few years ago i had this terrible unrequited crush on a dude who used twitter as his primary form of communication (seriously, he TWEETED more than he TEXTED), and i spent more time than i should publicly admit scrolling through his feed and trying to figure out whom all of the women he was having conversations with were. it is EXHAUSTING because, unlike having access to someone's email, tweets are short little out-of-context bursts of nothingness. i couldn't tell if he was fucking them or if they were his sisters, and believe me, I TRIED. which is why this shit is dumb, because it will have a bitch who has no idea what "trending" means scrolling through nine hours of irrelevant posts trying to figure out if some dude really likes her or not.
i think the real problem here is trying to fuck dudes in the age of the internets, and i have no consolation other than "pretend that shit doesn't exist." seriously, girls, you have to unfollow that dude's twat and make him limited profile your ass on facebook if you're just going to make yourself nuts. the internet is a total crazymaker, and even the nicest, sweetest, most loyal person can look like a scumbag if you read his comment threads too closely. anonymous flirting is the currency of the times in which we live, and no better example of that is these goddamned tweets and shit. if i'm interested in a man, i try my best not to click on any of his internet shit, because once you do the rabbit hole goes so far down you might never come back.
so don't worry. that bitch makes ten grand per boner or some shit, and i highly doubt she's going to give it up to climb through the computer screen and bang that broke-ass piece of shit you've been fucking for two whole years. relax, ho. it's just twitter!
you can follow samantha irby's uproarious tweets @wordscience. she often twitters in complete sentences, and is obviously a total goddamned hypocrite.
generation gap.
Dear i+i: I'm in my 20s, and am politically pretty progressive. My stepfather is an arch conservative. This would be fine, if he would shut up about it. Every time the family gets together, you can rely on him to swill scotch and get more vehement and in-my-face. It's a giant bummer. What can I do?
ian: Well let's define our terms, here. When you say "pretty progressive," what're we talking about here? Are you occupying anyplace? Or do you post links to Think Progress stories on your the facebook wall? [I don't give a fuck what Justin Timberlake tells me - it'll always be THE facebook to me] Cause if it's the latter, if you're just one of these one-click slacktivists, go fuck yourself.
Likewise, if you have any kind of beads or other adornment in your beard, go fuck yourself.
And if you piss your time away photoshopping the V For Vendetta Guy Fawkes mask on people in the mistaken belief that you're actually doing anything, go fuck yourself.
And if you are known to wear a Guy Fawkes mask, go fuck yourself. This is a transparent and desperate ploy to attract the attention of Natalie Portman and cannot possibly work.
And if you appear shirtless in any context other than a shower or a sexual encounter, go fuck yourself.
And if you think those greasy ropes of dropout failface Burning Man hair of yours are legitimate dreadlocks, you think again. And look up "cultural imperialism" while you're at it.
But if you're a no-foolin' occupier, and you've had your ass dragged out of a park, and if you've gotten a snout full of pepper spray from a lard-assed cop, you oughtta be able to shout down a hammered stepdad, no?
If you need help, head down to the mall with him and do that live microphone thing the occupiers do:
You: MIC CHECK!
Those assembled in food court: MIC CHECK!
You: I feel disrespected when you dismiss my views.
Those assembled in food court: HE FEELS DISRESPECTED WHEN YOU DISMISS HIS VIEWS.
Stepfather: What in the damn hell?
You: You make me feel marginalized and more than a little oppressed when you call my earnestly held convictions 'the product of too goddamn much college and not enough goddamn experience with how things really are'.
Those assembled in food court: YOU HURT HIS LITTLE FEELINGS WHEN YOU SAY DOUCHEY THINGS!
You: What? Wait. No. That's not what I–
Those assembled in food court: WE'RE PARAPHRASING!
You: I appreciate that, but I feel like you're not fully conveying the intent of what I–
Those assembled in food court: LOOK, MAN - THE LEFT HAS GOT TO LEARN HOW TO BULLET POINT SHIT, OTHERWISE FOLKS JUST GLAZE OVER.
You: I respectfully disagree. I think a big part of the erosion in tenor of our civic discourse is attributable to precisely this brand of over simpli–
Those assembled in food court: SEE? YOU'RE FUCKING LOSING US, DUDE. AND WE DON'T EVEN DISAGREE WITH YOU, NECESSARILY. I MEAN, FUCK, DUDE: GROW A PAIR.
You: No, but don't you see what you're doing? You're adopting the paradigm of the oppress–
Those assembled in food court: WHITE BOY, YOU ARE NOT ABOUT TO TALK ABOUT YOUR OPPRESSORS.
You: What? No. I was… How come you're talking like Nell Carter all of a sudden?
Those assembled in food court: BECAUSE OF YOUR BARELY SUBMERGED RACISM!
Stepfather: I'll be in the car.
Those assembled in food court: GOOD CALL! WE'RE GONNA GO TRY THOSE MASSAGE CHAIRS OVER AT RELAX THE BACK! THOSE THINGS LOOK PRETTY BADASS. LATER, HIPPIE.
Look. Kid. If you think you're gonna get civil debate out of your Cheney-cock stepfather, you can forget it. The precedent for that went up the "starve-the-beast-lick-Grover-Norquist's-taint-vote-against-your-own-goddamn-interests-as-long's-they-don't-take-your-guns-and-them-gay-fellers-still-can't-get-hitched" chimney 40 years ago. You can't out-yell him. He probably spends half his waking life hollering at the callers on sports talk radio in his LeSabre. Your facts don't matter - facts are mutable to the GOP. Your ideas don't mean dick. Ideas that fall outside the bounds of "cut taxes" and "crush/cock-block/humiliate Obama" fall on deaf fucking ears. The BEST you can hope for is not to change his mind about anything - you won't. EVER; but to compel him to shut that collection of burst blood vessels he calls a face.
Only way to do that? Get good with a gun. Seriously. And get a thousand hours of practice under your belt.
I know that the thought of using a firearm causes you to make a piping hot seitan scramble in your pants. But hear me out. If the next time your florid-faced stepdad goes "Anybody needs me, I'll be at the firing range," you say "Can I tag along?" Then you gotta be like the bastard son of Buffalo Bill Cody and the chick from Resident Evil - you gotta hit everything. Dead center. If he sees you drilling moving targets at 100 yards, he'll think a-fucking-gain before he gets all up in your political grill. Anything short of your plugging headshot after headshot on the targets with a Desert Eagle, and you'll be hearing his shit forever. And if that doesn't win you his respect, shoot him in leg. Discussion over. Bullet is the best fucking punctuation mark there is, Hippie.
irby: i feel like the only way to really get a leg up on this asshole is to soon-yi that scumbag neocon motherfucker. seriously, dollface, you might just have to show this dickface what trickle-down really fucking means. because here's the thing about arguing with most conservatives: they refuse to listen, therefore your debate quickly devolves into a pointless exercise in futility. dogma versus dogma, tenet versus tenet, credo versus credo, YAWN. because you can't be wrong, either, so the two of you will continue to circle around one another spewing propaganda while making zero inroads into the other person's convictions in perpetuity. we liberals can be just as mouthy and pious as our fox news-watching counterparts, and listening to some earnest vegan dude in earth shoes trying to shout down a snooty bureaucrat is just as painful as sitting through 30 seconds of rush limbaugh's radio show.
so reasoning with the other side isn't going to goddamned happen. look, if i'm all "supply side economics" and you're all "the rich need to be taxed at a higher rate" then we are never going to see eye to eye. you want abortions and i want christ nailed to a cross in your third grade classroom, YOU AND I ARE NEVER GOING TO BE FRIENDS. but we could totally have sex with one another.
hate sex is the best, especially when fueled by contradicting political ideologies. because you might not really hate that dude, you just want everyone he's supporting in the primary to GO AWAY AND DIE. now, this is advice i could never take. why, you ask? because it might be morally reprehensible to get the upper hand on one's boorish stepfather by seducing him after one-too-many tumblers of twelve year old glenlivet? WRONG. i don't have any morals, which is why i'm a goddamned liberal in the first fucking place. irby could never take this advice because so resolute am i in my belief in abundant welfare and hot lunch programs and free teenage abortions and evolution that i don't even think i could convince my vagina to open herself up for a grand ol' elephant to insert his trunk.
i have no interest whatsoever in a carville-matalin romantic situation, mostly because HOW COULD YOU EAT BREAKFAST ACROSS FROM A PERSON WHO OBVIOUSLY DESPISES MANKIND? reaganomics fucks poor people, fiscal conservatism fucks poor people, this hierarchical society fucks poor people, and most organized religion is just a big, exclusive tent bitches hide under while fucking poor people. except not in the ass, because that might make them gay. my anti-elite populist ass could never blow a dude who doesn't believe that global warming isn't real. i mean, come on. you'd need the jaws of life to pry my fucking lips apart.
but you, little one, obviously should take one for the goddamned team. i'm sure that dude is kind of sexy, right? in an alec baldwin as jack donaghy way? or, at the very least, he's rich. and fucking a rich dude is probably pretty hot, even if he looks like the reanimated corpse of john wayne. so here's what you do: dress up in your best ann coulter costume (a skeleton and blonde wig should suffice), get hannity on the old television machine, tape a couple tea bags to a hat, then parade around in your panties with a loaded pistol in each hand. once he takes advantage of you, oops i mean "once you consent to sex because rape is only an imaginary thing that happens to women who dress provocatively and can't deal with the consequences that stem from showing a bare ankle in public and only cry rape because they don't want to appear slutty," tell your goddamned mother. and she will kick him the fuck out. because if there's one thing that bitch won't tolerate, it is a stalwart paleoconservative who happens to also be a bolshevik with his dick.
if you don't bang him, the terrorists win. remember that shit.
ian: Well let's define our terms, here. When you say "pretty progressive," what're we talking about here? Are you occupying anyplace? Or do you post links to Think Progress stories on your the facebook wall? [I don't give a fuck what Justin Timberlake tells me - it'll always be THE facebook to me] Cause if it's the latter, if you're just one of these one-click slacktivists, go fuck yourself.
Likewise, if you have any kind of beads or other adornment in your beard, go fuck yourself.
And if you piss your time away photoshopping the V For Vendetta Guy Fawkes mask on people in the mistaken belief that you're actually doing anything, go fuck yourself.
And if you are known to wear a Guy Fawkes mask, go fuck yourself. This is a transparent and desperate ploy to attract the attention of Natalie Portman and cannot possibly work.
And if you appear shirtless in any context other than a shower or a sexual encounter, go fuck yourself.
And if you think those greasy ropes of dropout failface Burning Man hair of yours are legitimate dreadlocks, you think again. And look up "cultural imperialism" while you're at it.
But if you're a no-foolin' occupier, and you've had your ass dragged out of a park, and if you've gotten a snout full of pepper spray from a lard-assed cop, you oughtta be able to shout down a hammered stepdad, no?
If you need help, head down to the mall with him and do that live microphone thing the occupiers do:
You: MIC CHECK!
Those assembled in food court: MIC CHECK!
You: I feel disrespected when you dismiss my views.
Those assembled in food court: HE FEELS DISRESPECTED WHEN YOU DISMISS HIS VIEWS.
Stepfather: What in the damn hell?
You: You make me feel marginalized and more than a little oppressed when you call my earnestly held convictions 'the product of too goddamn much college and not enough goddamn experience with how things really are'.
Those assembled in food court: YOU HURT HIS LITTLE FEELINGS WHEN YOU SAY DOUCHEY THINGS!
You: What? Wait. No. That's not what I–
Those assembled in food court: WE'RE PARAPHRASING!
You: I appreciate that, but I feel like you're not fully conveying the intent of what I–
Those assembled in food court: LOOK, MAN - THE LEFT HAS GOT TO LEARN HOW TO BULLET POINT SHIT, OTHERWISE FOLKS JUST GLAZE OVER.
You: I respectfully disagree. I think a big part of the erosion in tenor of our civic discourse is attributable to precisely this brand of over simpli–
Those assembled in food court: SEE? YOU'RE FUCKING LOSING US, DUDE. AND WE DON'T EVEN DISAGREE WITH YOU, NECESSARILY. I MEAN, FUCK, DUDE: GROW A PAIR.
You: No, but don't you see what you're doing? You're adopting the paradigm of the oppress–
Those assembled in food court: WHITE BOY, YOU ARE NOT ABOUT TO TALK ABOUT YOUR OPPRESSORS.
You: What? No. I was… How come you're talking like Nell Carter all of a sudden?
Those assembled in food court: BECAUSE OF YOUR BARELY SUBMERGED RACISM!
Stepfather: I'll be in the car.
Those assembled in food court: GOOD CALL! WE'RE GONNA GO TRY THOSE MASSAGE CHAIRS OVER AT RELAX THE BACK! THOSE THINGS LOOK PRETTY BADASS. LATER, HIPPIE.
Look. Kid. If you think you're gonna get civil debate out of your Cheney-cock stepfather, you can forget it. The precedent for that went up the "starve-the-beast-lick-Grover-Norquist's-taint-vote-against-your-own-goddamn-interests-as-long's-they-don't-take-your-guns-and-them-gay-fellers-still-can't-get-hitched" chimney 40 years ago. You can't out-yell him. He probably spends half his waking life hollering at the callers on sports talk radio in his LeSabre. Your facts don't matter - facts are mutable to the GOP. Your ideas don't mean dick. Ideas that fall outside the bounds of "cut taxes" and "crush/cock-block/humiliate Obama" fall on deaf fucking ears. The BEST you can hope for is not to change his mind about anything - you won't. EVER; but to compel him to shut that collection of burst blood vessels he calls a face.
Only way to do that? Get good with a gun. Seriously. And get a thousand hours of practice under your belt.
I know that the thought of using a firearm causes you to make a piping hot seitan scramble in your pants. But hear me out. If the next time your florid-faced stepdad goes "Anybody needs me, I'll be at the firing range," you say "Can I tag along?" Then you gotta be like the bastard son of Buffalo Bill Cody and the chick from Resident Evil - you gotta hit everything. Dead center. If he sees you drilling moving targets at 100 yards, he'll think a-fucking-gain before he gets all up in your political grill. Anything short of your plugging headshot after headshot on the targets with a Desert Eagle, and you'll be hearing his shit forever. And if that doesn't win you his respect, shoot him in leg. Discussion over. Bullet is the best fucking punctuation mark there is, Hippie.
irby: i feel like the only way to really get a leg up on this asshole is to soon-yi that scumbag neocon motherfucker. seriously, dollface, you might just have to show this dickface what trickle-down really fucking means. because here's the thing about arguing with most conservatives: they refuse to listen, therefore your debate quickly devolves into a pointless exercise in futility. dogma versus dogma, tenet versus tenet, credo versus credo, YAWN. because you can't be wrong, either, so the two of you will continue to circle around one another spewing propaganda while making zero inroads into the other person's convictions in perpetuity. we liberals can be just as mouthy and pious as our fox news-watching counterparts, and listening to some earnest vegan dude in earth shoes trying to shout down a snooty bureaucrat is just as painful as sitting through 30 seconds of rush limbaugh's radio show.
so reasoning with the other side isn't going to goddamned happen. look, if i'm all "supply side economics" and you're all "the rich need to be taxed at a higher rate" then we are never going to see eye to eye. you want abortions and i want christ nailed to a cross in your third grade classroom, YOU AND I ARE NEVER GOING TO BE FRIENDS. but we could totally have sex with one another.
hate sex is the best, especially when fueled by contradicting political ideologies. because you might not really hate that dude, you just want everyone he's supporting in the primary to GO AWAY AND DIE. now, this is advice i could never take. why, you ask? because it might be morally reprehensible to get the upper hand on one's boorish stepfather by seducing him after one-too-many tumblers of twelve year old glenlivet? WRONG. i don't have any morals, which is why i'm a goddamned liberal in the first fucking place. irby could never take this advice because so resolute am i in my belief in abundant welfare and hot lunch programs and free teenage abortions and evolution that i don't even think i could convince my vagina to open herself up for a grand ol' elephant to insert his trunk.
i have no interest whatsoever in a carville-matalin romantic situation, mostly because HOW COULD YOU EAT BREAKFAST ACROSS FROM A PERSON WHO OBVIOUSLY DESPISES MANKIND? reaganomics fucks poor people, fiscal conservatism fucks poor people, this hierarchical society fucks poor people, and most organized religion is just a big, exclusive tent bitches hide under while fucking poor people. except not in the ass, because that might make them gay. my anti-elite populist ass could never blow a dude who doesn't believe that global warming isn't real. i mean, come on. you'd need the jaws of life to pry my fucking lips apart.
but you, little one, obviously should take one for the goddamned team. i'm sure that dude is kind of sexy, right? in an alec baldwin as jack donaghy way? or, at the very least, he's rich. and fucking a rich dude is probably pretty hot, even if he looks like the reanimated corpse of john wayne. so here's what you do: dress up in your best ann coulter costume (a skeleton and blonde wig should suffice), get hannity on the old television machine, tape a couple tea bags to a hat, then parade around in your panties with a loaded pistol in each hand. once he takes advantage of you, oops i mean "once you consent to sex because rape is only an imaginary thing that happens to women who dress provocatively and can't deal with the consequences that stem from showing a bare ankle in public and only cry rape because they don't want to appear slutty," tell your goddamned mother. and she will kick him the fuck out. because if there's one thing that bitch won't tolerate, it is a stalwart paleoconservative who happens to also be a bolshevik with his dick.
if you don't bang him, the terrorists win. remember that shit.
Monday, December 5, 2011
love and marriage. go together like a horse and carriage.
dear i+i: I love my wife. I swear I do. But she is a worrier. Like all the time. Like she's always fixated on some new disaster or calamity or peeve - the level of anxiety never changes. She's always on Threat Level Orange - it's just a moving target. Always something new. I could understand it, I guess, if it was like about overpopulation or greenhouse gases or the fact that we'll be going to war over water in 15 years instead of oil. But it's never that shit. It's always whether or not the cable bill has been mailed in. Or if the cat's been fed. I swear to god she's gonna get in a wreck someday looking at the goddamn odometer for the 13,000th time to see if we need an oil change. How can I deal with this? - Sick With Worry
ian: Gosh, SWW, I'm stumped, buddy. I've been married to a wonderful woman for 14 years, and sure we've had our ups and downs, but I can't recall a time she's ever been sick with worry like this. I'm inclined to recommend that you seek some counseling for your…
maybe give a foot massage…
surprise her with flowers…
OK. She's gone. The wife is gone, and I'm free to speak frankly.
How do I know? She skims the first few lines of each post, so she can claim she's reading them. So she has ammunition for later claims that she supports me, and I never support her. Welcome to the battle of wills/lifelong balance sheet of marriage.
Here's how it goes in our house:
ian: Gosh, SWW, I'm stumped, buddy. I've been married to a wonderful woman for 14 years, and sure we've had our ups and downs, but I can't recall a time she's ever been sick with worry like this. I'm inclined to recommend that you seek some counseling for your…
maybe give a foot massage…
surprise her with flowers…
OK. She's gone. The wife is gone, and I'm free to speak frankly.
How do I know? She skims the first few lines of each post, so she can claim she's reading them. So she has ammunition for later claims that she supports me, and I never support her. Welcome to the battle of wills/lifelong balance sheet of marriage.
Here's how it goes in our house:
- The cable bill arrives.
- This fact registers with myself: "Fuck those blood suckers. Make 'em wait." This fact registers with my wife: "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. We only have eleven days to get this in. We're gonna be late. Our credit rating will go up in flames. We're going to lose the house. This might as well be our eviction notice right here."
- I think about it once more when writing a check to the blood suckers like a week later.
- She thinks with escalating anxiety about it ever six seconds after for the three days after the check has been mailed. During those days, she'll have a tab open to our bank account on her desktop at work. She will hit "refresh" every 3-5 seconds until she verifies that, YES, the check has cleared. Then hit "refresh" every 3-5 seconds to verify that some glitch does not occur. Repeat monthly. With every bill that arrives. Ever.
Or this one:
- We get a reminder postcard from the kids' dentist that it's time to schedule a check-up/cleaning.
- I stick it on the fridge and remember it only when fetching late night sad-pants ice cream thusly: "Fuck. Gotta make that appointment." Think of it no further. Become more of a fat-ass with sad-pants ice cream.
- She sees the postcard and goes: "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. We are so neglectful. I be they have some kind of abscess or something horrible. They're gonna lose their teeth. We're gonna be found out. They'll take our kids away. DCFS is gonna kick in our door and take them away in the dead of night." Every time she sees it. For the nine weeks it's on the fridge - the three weeks before the appointment is made/kept without incident AND the six weeks that the postcard stays on the fridge before we remember to recycle it. Repeat biweekly for every little ailment that sets one or both kids complaining. Until they move away.
Or this:
- Weather turns colder. Time for our annual furnace cleaning/maintenance.
- This fact occurs to me once every week or ten days till we get the guy to come out.
- This fact plagues my wife like so: "This place is gonna erupt in a fireball ANY SECOND if we don't get the heating guy here LIKE YESTERDAY."
- The guys comes out, does a cleaning/tune up/filter change. I don't think about our furnace till next October. The wife's Panic-ometer is recalibrated to start redlining about it in March.
Welcome. To the Perpetual State of Shemergency.
Lemme be clear on something, here: I'm not one of these dickface dudes who define the world in terms of gender difference. Like this wet fart. I don't think this way.
But on the question of anxiety accumulation, I have observed this distinction. Between myself as an individual human, and my wife - also an individual human. I'm not generalizing. If you extrapolate from these two individual humans and create some broader commentary on humans overall, that's on you, friend.
My world view accommodates the following responses to worrisome situations:
- Fuck it.
- Fuck this.
- Fuck all this.
- Fuck that.
- Fuck you.
- Fuck him.
- Fuck them.
- Fuck off.
- Fuck no.
- You fucking kidding me?
- You cannot be fucking serious.
- Get the fuck outta here.
- Jesus fucking Christ.
- I swear to fucking Christ, I will skin that [bank teller/James Franco/GOP Senate Minority Leader] alive.
- etc.
And that's the fucking end of it. Till my next fucking aneurysm about the next fucking thing.
In wife-brain, the introduction of a worrisome piece of information lights one of those trails of gunpowder that goes hissing and crackling after Yosemite Sam - it never kills the varmint you're after and you cannot escape it. Which would be fine. She would detonate the powder, her face would be all cartoon-blackened, she would reset in the next scene and start over.
But, no.
Because each new bit of worrisome input sets off a line of chatter inside her skull. And each line of chatter must be tracked and catalogued, cross-referenced and prioritized in a constant onrush of data that makes the NSA's command center look like a fucking lemonade stand on a desolate and windswept Siberian tundra. The sheer amount of data that gets pushed through this system is a testament to the limitless vistas of human potential currently squandered on exasperating horse shit.
Each new thread of Threat Level Orange that gets fed into the system sends a pulse of Wig Out to into her consciousness. She is able to hear and understand each of these impulses with an appalling clarity. She can retrieve any single one of them, can provide exhaustive analysis of their interrelatedness, and can track the constantly shifting level of priority assigned to each impulse. Inside her head, it's like a constant Inception-style landscape where reality is degrading and folding in on itself with that crazy tuba music.
The fucked up impact on ME, though: I CANNOT HEAR these important, important impulses as it travels through the system. To her, they have the insistent quality of a broadcast interrupted by Homeland Security. To me, they are thoughts in her head. That don't actually exist in any way, take any form, or have the capacity to intrude upon the reality I share with her. Said reality, I have come to recognize, is completely eclipsed by the howling round of Gollum-fights the prize of which is to feast on the meager scraps on what future is left to us and our children that is constantly taking place in her mind.
And SINCE I CANNOT HEAR the unceasing chatter in her head, I am POWERLESS TO RESPOND TO IT. But because these fears are her constant companions, and feel so urgent and real to her, she fully expects me to TAKE ACTION.
So no, I did not pay the cable bill yet. Because the 86,000 requests to do so took place non-verbally inside her head.
This naturally increases exponentially the level of anxiety that attends each impulse, BECAUSE NOTHING IS BEING DONE. Her intra-cranial entreaties have fallen once more on deaf ears. EVEN THOUGH THE BANSHEE SHRIEKING IN HER BRAIN GROWS LOUDER BY THE SECOND, WHICH JESUS GOD IS SURELY WORTH A FULL-ON FREAKOUT, AM I RIGHT?!?
I have tried. I have tried to explain that just because there is an Olivier from Marathon Man ruthlessly and insistently extracting her sanity in there, does not mean I can see him or know what he's asking.
And it just makes things worse when I tell her to relax. Because for me to do so is code for "you're fucking crazy." Which introduces a new impulse of Threat Level Orange into an already overtaxed system.
So you know what? Fuck this.
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